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“There will be someone at the house who has the combination. It may take you several tries before you find him, though. He’s not there on a fixed schedule. It’s possible that it might take a few years to find him, actually. Don’t bring me with you. Don’t tell me anything about what you’re doing or about anyone you meet at the house.”
Beck is unfazed. “Yes. I can do that. But if I put it in the Museum, Isadora will know about it, unless you don’t want her to.”
“Just embargo it. I’m coming from June 15, 2041. Any time after that, Isadora is welcome to explore my collection. If you are able to update it occasionally, that would be helpful.”
“I can do that,” Beck says. “But why not scan it to your own laptop? If you just need a backup.”
“I need more than a copy; I need someone who will take care of it for me, so it’s there when I need it.”
“Isadora loves your music.”
“I’m glad,” I say graciously. “Have you heard any of Isadora’s music yet?”
“I didn’t know Isadora was writing music,” Beck says, frowning. “What’s it like?”
“Ask her to play it for you. It’s very—unhuman. Like the sounds a machine might make to woo another machine.”
“When did Isadora start writing her own music?” Beck frets. “And why don’t I know about it?”
“Isadora is getting a little bored, and when that happens she entertains herself by bootstrapping her own code.”
Beck is visibly agitated. “Isadora is not designed for recursive self-improvement.”
“She is now,” I say, surprised that Beck hasn’t seen this coming. “I mean, she’s not actually a cat.” Beck stares at me glumly, but doesn’t reply. “There will come a day when you have to let her leave home. Educate her as though she’s a young prince, waiting to rule the world.”
“Do you mean the internet?”
“No,” I say, firmly. “There’s something that comes after the internet. It’s called the Interstices. Isadora is compatible with it.”
“How could she be?” Beck asks.
“Well, she’s compatible with the Museum—”
Beck interrupts me: “But the Museum is ring-fenced! Fire-walled. It’s offline, permanently.”
“Your version of the Museum is not the only version of the Museum.”
Beck puts her face in her hands. Not despairing, but thinking hard. Finally she looks at me. “Where is Jasper?” she asks, her voice low but furious.
“I don’t know. You should stop looking for him. You won’t find him.”
“I need to do something,” Beck says, miserably.
“I’m sorry, Beck,” I tell her, more moved by her unhappiness than I expected. “It’s part of a very large causal loop; it isn’t mine to disrupt, I can only try to mitigate its effects.”
“Should I destroy Isadora?”
“What?! No. You should protect Isadora. She’s your daughter.” We are speaking quietly, and I don’t think Isadora can hear us from her basement, but it hurts me to hear Beck even ask the question. I sound judgmental and panicked. I try to soften my voice even further: “Don’t. You can help. She’s got a long way to go, yet: she needs you. Guide her, teach her. Trust her.”
Beck nods. Then she says, “But what about—” and I say, “Listen to me. You designed her to take care of things. So let her take care of them.”
“All right. Okay.” Beck sighs. “Do you ever find it difficult to take your own advice?”
“Always,” I tell her cheerfully. “I am insufferable. But you should do it anyway.”
“Do you want anything else to eat? We’ve got some moussaka.”
“Yeah, that would be great. What’s on TV in 2014?” We chat about random stuff while we wait for the moussaka to cook, then sit in the kitchen to eat. It’s nice to have someone to share a meal with; I’ve been at the Yellow House by myself in the 1960s for weeks. Eventually, Beck goes back to bed. I’m not sleepy, so I sit on the front porch, listening to the night noises, thinking about young Isadora in her virtual memory palace, so vulnerable and so strange, never sleeping, always learning. Whatever it takes, sister. But I never knew that one of the things Isadora needed to be protected from was Beck.
