Inklings 2022

the holographic representation of her, at least. “I’ve missed you,” she says, and I can tell— even with her beauti- ful face reduced to pale blue light— that she’s been crying. “We spoke just three days ago!” I exclaim, always miffed at the differential between time passage between my world and theirs. “I suppose so,” she says, “It feels like ages ago— so much has happened!” She rushes into an account of her life, my imagining of her words the closest I’ll ever come to being with her. “We had divisional competitions for hydro-racing. I got fourth. Top eight go on to region- als, so I made it. I made some mistakes on my fourth and ninth turn, so there’s room for improvement. I think if I can clean that up I might be able to eke my way into planetaries. And then at that level, it’s just who’s having a better day…” Pride shines through, the hologram advanced enough to show her breathless excitement. “That’s great honey,” I say. And, as the doting, supportive mother I am: “The people that beat you probably tweaked the system so their hydroplane went faster or gravity was looser for them.” She looked at me, a little hurt, and said, “Mom, that’s not pos- sible. The rules during competition here are the same as out there. No one can turn off gravity or even nudge it any different than you could out there. If I want to win I just have to be better,” she says, shrugging, then pauses, her mind visibly shifting gears. “Mom, I admire your… deter- mination, for hanging onto the old ways for so long.” Her tone tells me otherwise, but I hold my tongue. “Really, I do. But I wish you would join me and the rest of the family…” “Honey, we’ve talked about this.” My voice is as firm as I can force it. This conversation is always heavy, and while I understand why she keeps bringing it up, she must know by now that my answer will stay the same. It has, for the last nine years and twenty-eight days. My daughter is having none of it. “I know, I know. But things change. Every visit you get frailer. You miss out on so many experiences with us. We’re going to use the interstellar digital waypoint system to take a trip soon. Betelguese is about to go supernova and we’re going to watch. And then we’ve all signed up for an expedition to explore and catalog life on Trappist-1e. Doing any of these things, even alone, would be amazing. We get to do it as a family.” A pause. “But we’re missing you. Your husband, your children— we all want you to come with us. But it’s only possible with digital life.” Holographic tears plead with me to finally give in. Maybe age has made me weak, or maybe I can’t bear being apart from my family any longer … After a long pause I say, “Alright, give me a minute.” So on September 28, 3008, I thought my final human thought. My name is Marguerite, and I was the last human. 6