The code danced in front of me on the screen. I typed a few more lines and hit enter.

-Select donor recipient.

I typed.

-Gabor Kovacs.

The computer thought to itself. The screen asked for another input.

-Input language code.

I had done this one often enough I knew it by heart. I typed.

-Gallo-Romance. Gaul. Frankish. 386.

The computer hummed for a moment. I glanced through the window to the operating room. Mr. Kovacs was under. Various wires and sensors dangled over his body. A scanning device clicked into place, ready for my final input. I typed my name and program authorization code:

-Sara Gresz, 23451

I looked back at the screen. I typed the final line.

-Upload voice.

The scanner revolved on its telescoping arm and slowly advanced toward Mr. Kovacs’s body. A moment later and it was hovering over his head. The screen steadily kicked back data. I had seen this often enough to know roughly what was happening, but much of it was above my pay level. Although it couldn’t be seen with the naked eye, the monitors showed me the extra verbal sheen that was being added to Mr. Kovacs’s vocal cords. It was a delicate covering, one hundredth of the width of a human hair wide. The sections of his brain that lit up when he produced words and sentences were being microscopically augmented with extra attachments. It was what our company, Voice Capture, specialized in. A vocal upgrade, all on a molecular level.

A few more moments of humming and the scanner retreated into its resting cradle. The lights in the operating room clicked from red to white and two nurses entered. One of them checked Mr. Kovacs’s pulse. The other went to work on his blood pressure.

I checked the screen.

-Transfer complete.

I flipped the microphone switch.

“Once he’s awake please bring him in to see me.”

The nurse looked at me through the window and nodded. I stood up and exited the operating theatre.

*     *     *
Mr. Kovacs sat across from me. He kept touching his throat as though he was expecting there to be a scar or an incision.

“It’s remarkable,” he said. “I don’t feel anything.”

I smiled. “Yes, the tech has advanced quite a bit since the clinical trials a few years ago. Back then there was a brief operation involved with x-rays and scopes, but it isn’t necessary anymore. It all happens now on a subatomic level.”

He shook his head in amazement, twisting his neck from side to side.

“Let’s run through a couple of tests,” I said.

He nodded and sat back.

I typed a few commands on my desk monitor. A moment later and I could see the rotating image of Mr. Kovacs’s brain with another image of his vocal cords revolving next to it.

“Take a look at the screen on that wall,” I said.

He looked over at the blank screen and waited.

“I want you to read the text as it appears.”

A moment later and the screen flickered to life.

“The rabbit hopped out of its hutch,” Mr. Kovacs read.

“Good,” I said. “Now try this one.”

The screen flickered again. New text appeared.

He cleared his throat and spoke again. This time a woman’s voice appeared in the air as his mouth moved.

“Le lapin a sauté de son clapier.”

He gasped and clapped his hand against his mouth. I chuckled. He had a panicked look on his face. I held up my hands.

“Easy,” I said. “Hold on. Look back at the screen and read the English again.”

He slowly looked back at the screen. He cleared his throat and the sound of the air moving through his vocal cords adjusted through a noticeable shift from female to male. A second later and his regular, deeper voice said in English, “The rabbit hopped out of its hutch.”

He sat transfixed for a moment, massaging his throat. When he looked back at me his composure had returned, but he was still a bit shaken.

“The nurses told me it would be weird, but that was astonishing,” he said.

I nodded. “It will take some practice but soon you won’t need the text prompt. You’ll be able to switch back and forth automatically. The brain makes those adjustments quite quickly.”

“This probably is a stupid question, but why is the voice still female?”

“It’s not a stupid question,” I said. “The donor was female. You now have her voice. You received everything from her related to her speaking and language ability. That means when you received the upload your body began using her vocal patterns exactly as she used them. So, you aren’t just speaking her language knowledge. You are literally using her voice.”

He nodded, but I could tell he still didn’t fully understand.

I smiled at him. “That’s all for now,” I said. “You can come back in a week for a checkup, but as of…” I checked the clock on my computer. “…3:13PM Budapest time, that voice is now officially yours.”

Mr. Kovacs massaged his neck for a few moments. “Thank you, Ms. Gresz.” He said. He stood to leave. Then he said, “By the way, who is the donor?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “For legal reasons the donors are handled by a different department. I never met her. You’ll never meet her.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “She’ll never use her voice again, will she?”

I shook my head. “The donated voice is permanently yours. When she sold it to the company the process also involved the complete deactivation of the voice on her end. No redundancies. It is necessary for things like vocal identification programs.”

“How does she speak?” he asked.

I held up my hands. “Sometimes people who donate choose to go without a voice. Sometimes they just use a computer for communication. But you don’t need to worry about that. She sold it, and now it’s yours.”

Mr. Kovacs paused in thought. “That seems remarkable,” he said. “I’m obviously benefiting from her choice. But why would someone sell their voice?”

“It’s become a huge market,” I said with a smile. “It must be, otherwise I wouldn’t have a job.”

“Why do you think they sell?” he said.

I shrugged. “Lots of reasons. If they have a native language that is more expensive they can make a bit of money and then still buy themselves a cheaper language to replace it with. That’s what our company says happens most often. But sometimes, I expect, people just need the money, and they choose to be voiceless for the cash benefit.”

Mr. Kovacs nodded. He stood and extended his hand. I shook it.

“It’s been a pleasure,” I said. “Enjoy your new French.”

*     *     *
My father crept into the kitchen while I was putting the milk away. He moved so slowly I didn’t hear him. I turned just as he was about to stumble and quickly moved to his side. He was momentarily wracked with a coughing fit.

“Stop moving around!” I said. “Whatever you need, let me get it for you.” I took his arm and slowly helped him turn back around. We headed back to the living room window where his chair was.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Nothing to it.”

“Not true, and you know that. What did Dr. Greiner say?”

My father waved his hand at me and looked out the window. “What does she know?” he said. “Isn’t she Austrian?”

I chuckled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Their physique is different. Who knows whether she’s telling me things that don’t apply?”

“Even if that were true,” I said, “Which it isn’t…she’s lived in Hungary for twenty years now. And it doesn’t help any matters for you to be going on and on about physique and nonsense like that. She cares about you. How long has she been your doctor? Fifteen years?”

I pulled out my phone and dialed Dr. Greiner’s number. A moment later she picked up. I hit her with a couple of questions about my father’s recent checkup.

“Yes,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “We had quite a discussion when I was over there earlier.” I shook my head at my father and mouthed, “You are so rude.”

“The point is,” Dr. Greiner said, “He needs to not overexert himself. The new medicine he’s been given should start to attack the trouble cells. If it’s going to work he will feel it in the next few days. Lots of rest is what is best at this point.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll tell him. He’s convinced himself not to listen to you because of your dangerous Habsburg heritage.”

There was a laugh on the other end. “Take care of him,” she said. “Call me if you need anything.”

I hung up and then tucked in his blanket while he continued to stare out the window. “There is a difference,” he said with a jerk of his head. “What’s wrong with Hungarian doctors?”

Usually I let his words drift past me, but this time I was angry. “Stop it!” I said. “Do you know how many Hungarian workers from my company were just transferred to the England branch?” I gestured out the window. “It’s normal now. People live and work wherever they want. Why do you think so many people want to buy voices?”

I had touched a nerve. Father lapsed into silence and looked out the window. Then he reached for the photo on the shelf behind him but couldn’t quite reach it.

I put the framed picture in his hands. He looked down at the wedding couple in the faded paper.

“Where’s the other one?” he said.

I handed him the other photo from the shelf. He compared the two.

“She looks quite the same, doesn’t she?” he said.

I tapped Mother’s face in the newer photo. Her hair was grey, but her face was still youthful. “Do you remember this day?” I said. “This was just after I was hired.”

He nodded. “She worked too hard at the end,” he said.

I knelt down next to him. “Look at me,” I said. He finally did. “All of Mother’s work. All of what she earned. All of it put me at Voice Capture. It’s because of her I have this job. You forget that sometimes.”

He grumbled and waved the photos away. I replaced them on the shelf behind him. He stared out the window for a moment.

“Foreign companies,” he said with a grumble.

I stood. “That foreign company is paying for your medical bills.” I turned and went to the kitchen to make dinner, leaving him in silence.

*     *     *
I found a seat in the conference room and quickly reread the email from Dr. Greiner. She wasn’t optimistic about how Father was responding to the new medicine. He had been on it for two weeks. She mentioned a new medicine that was experimental but very expensive. I gave a silent sigh and had dialed up my bank account on my tablet when Mr. Levai came into the room.

He clapped his hands. The conference room grew silent. Everyone on staff was assembled for an announcement. “It must be a big one,” I thought. Usually it was just sales who were brought in for these sessions. Not this time. The entire workforce was here.

Mr. Levai ran through a few preliminary briefs related to his role as the company CEO. Then he rubbed his hands together with a smile and turned to the screen behind him showing a Power Point stack with several new line items. My attention perked up. When the company introduced new pricing structures it often presented a chance for advancement or at least for bonuses. I glanced again at Dr. Greiner’s email…and at my account balance.

“This is the latest from New York,” Mr. Levai said. “They’re introducing something new. They’re calling it ‘Dialect Choice’.”

“What is it?” someone asked.

Mr. Levai pointed at the screen and a new promotional video started to play. The narrator’s voice was personable and soothing.

“The latest twist in Voice Capture, authentic dialect transmission.”

The screen showed an image of the earth revolving in space. The narrator continued.

“With more than 6500 languages, the opportunity for growth is already sky-high, but our latest technology has provided an unexpected sales breakthrough.”

The camera zoomed in on the rotating globe and centered in on the coast of Greece. Soon images of refugee camps filled the screen. People arrived in droves and were met by United Nations helpers. There were rows and rows of desks with doctors and nurses running this way and that. The refugee families were helped from one location to another. The narrator’s voice gave way to a cacophony of different voices and languages, all being spoken at once.

The narrator continued, “Psychiatrists and human rights experts agree that when someone hears words spoken in their native language their hearts respond. This benefit is compounded when the voice is pitched to reflect their specific dialect or accent. For example, it is one thing to hear Mandarin. It is quite different to hear the Fujian dialect.”

The screen now showed an orphanage in China. A care worker spoke to the baby in her arms and the tiny face broke into a shining smile.

“Voice Capture is rolling out a new, premiere package, priced to reflect the market standard for humanitarian aid items. We believe we can expect governments worldwide to seek out our services for a number of different career needs. Diplomats, aid workers, refugee care, and so on.”

The screen flicked through several more places on the globe. One of them was the refugee camps in eastern Hungary and Romania. The camera zoomed out and showed the revolving earth again with the Voice Capture logo.

“There is no software to translate the human heart. Voice Capture: Real Voices. Real Change.”

When the presentation was over I approached Mr. Levai. He snapped his laptop shut and smiled at me.

“What is it, Sara?” he said.

“Very inspiring presentation, sir,” I said. “I would like to put my name forward to learn the protocols for the new dialect option.”

“I assumed you would,” he said, putting his laptop in his briefcase. “You’re one of our best transfer technicians. I’m surprised you haven’t received any offers from abroad.”

“Well, truthfully, I have, sir. But I’m partial to staying in Budapest. It’s just my father and me now since last year.”

He stopped fidgeting with his case and looked at me. “I’ll have the paperwork sent over to you. Your training can begin tomorrow if you are ready.”

I smiled. “Thank you, sir. I am.”

*     *     *
When I came home I heard my father in his bedroom. After putting away a few groceries I wandered in and found him surrounded by letters and photo albums.

“What’s all this?” I said. “You aren’t in your chair. We talked about this, Apa.”

“It’s Mrs. Bocskai from next door.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the front door. “Her daughter needed something for a high school presentation. Photographs and newspaper clippings.” He twisted his mouth into a cynical smile. “Something old she said. They are covering the twentieth century.”

I sat down next to him on his bed and picked up a few of the faded photographs. I smiled in spite of myself.

“Who’s this?” I said, holding one up.

He peered at it through his bifocals. “That is me and your mother. Before you were born.”

I looked at the couple in the photo. They looked impossibly young. The smile on my father’s face was unlike anything I had seen in him recently.

I held it before him and pointed at his younger face. “What happened to him?” I said. “What happened to this eager young man?”

He waved me away. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “Since the funeral nothing has been the same.”

He stopped shuffling through the photos for a moment and held up a finger in my face. “I’m tired,” he said. “There’s nothing to be happy about. You saw what happened to her in the hospital. Nothing. And she just dried up and blew away.”

I sighed, but by now he was on a roll.

“Look at this!” he said, holding up another faded photo. “Do you know who that is?”

I squinted at the young man on the black-and-white paper. “No,” I said. “Who is it?”

“Him?” my father said. “Your great grandfather. That was the 60s. He was the only one from that generation of our family who received a government job. There was no work for Roma citizens in Transylvania.” He shook his head as he looked at the old picture. “Over a century ago. It was his salary that allowed us to eventually move to Budapest.”

He dropped the photograph and continued rummaging in the box. Finally, he piled the photos back into an uneasy stack. “Give this to Mrs. Bocskai, will you?” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

I picked up the box and closed his bedroom door. A moment later and I could hear his record player click on, and the familiar sounds of gypsy music drifted through the thin wall. He was very proud of his record collection and wouldn’t hear of it when I told him all of those songs could be accessed easily now online.

I carried the box across the hall and knocked on our neighbor’s door. A moment later and Mrs. Bocskai opened it with a smile.

“Well, that is quite a haul,” she said, looking at the overflowing photo box. “My daughter will be overjoyed. She’s preparing a presentation on the twentieth century for class and needed visual aids.”

“I hope it’s helpful,” I said.

“Oh, here,” she said, turning back into her kitchen. A moment later and she was pressing a plate of homemade palacsinta into my hands. “For you and your father.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but father can’t eat it. Dr. Greiner said he needs to be confined to liquids.”

Mrs. Bocskai’s face grew solemn. “I’m sorry,” she said. “There’s not much time left, is there?”

I shook my head.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Do you have gypsy music? He is always looking for new sounds from his homeland.”

“Where exactly was his hometown?” she said.

“Brassó,” I said. “Well, Brassov in Romanian on the maps. Actually, just outside of the city. A small village called Bácsfalu. Not so small anymore, actually. There is a refugee camp that just opened near there recently.”

She shook her head. “So much conflict. It never seems to end, does it? What does your father say when he hears the news?”

I shrugged. “He mostly ignores it. All he wants to do is remember what it used to be like. That’s why he likes the music so much.”

Mrs. Bocskai had a dreamy look on her face. “Oh, I can imagine what the music from there must have been like long ago. What was their dialect like? Don’t you know about these things with your work?”

“Completely unique,” I said. “Very few people speak it anymore.”

I thanked her for the palacsinta and went back to the apartment. I could hear the needle from the record player scratching at the end of the groove. Quietly I went into my father’s bedroom and put away the record. I stood at the foot of his bed and watched him for a moment. He was very thin. His breath raised and lowered his bony chest under the blanket.

After a long moment I left his room and shut the door.

*     *     *
My dialect transfer training began the next morning. Most of it was routine software training. But near the end of the first session there was an extended lecture on language theory. The lecture was specially included for our branch in Budapest.

It was mostly because of Hungarian. Hungarian was one of the harder languages to learn. We were given current learning estimates at the start of every month. Some languages had become easier to learn as the world became more connected; languages like English and Mandarin. But some were still difficult and Hungarian just about topped the list. The only languages that routinely beat Hungarian in difficulty level were Basque and Navajo, but those were not usually needed for international work. Hungarian was still highly in demand.

The current conditions across the border to the east were the main reason why dialect transfer was such a lucrative option for Voice Capture. Hungarian was already the highest priced item we sold. But once Hungarian was coupled with a local dialect the price was prohibitively expensive for most private citizens. Usually only well-funded government NGOs had that kind of cash. And because of the ongoing military conflict to the east, there were always refugees streaming across the borders, and that meant more need for relief workers who could genuinely communicate with refugees in their heart languages. Software translation could make concepts clear, but the hearts could only truly be understood when someone spoke the native language.

The instructor finished up the session and asked for questions. I raised my hand.

“How soon will these dialects be available for purchase?

“They are up and running already,” he said. “You’ll probably be uploading them for clients this week.”

As the class packed up the instructor came over to my desk. “Your numbers for this session were very good. Did you come to Voice Capture through one of the advancement scholarships?”

“No, sir,” I said. “There were no scholarships available for Roma citizens. My path was paid for.”

His eyebrows went up. “Paid?! That’s an expensive way to advance. Few do that.”

I shrugged. “I had no alternatives. My mother worked for one of the government agencies that did linguistic work. She specialized in language revitalization cataloging. It’s a very painstaking process where smaller languages that face potential extinction are preserved. When some of the cataloging was computerized about twenty years ago, one of the brighter technicians realized there might be a way to merge it in the form of an upload into the human mind. This led to the creation of Voice Capture. My mother was well-positioned to be an influential voice before her department became obsolete when Voice Capture eventually absorbed it. She put in a few good words, but most of my advancement came through her overtime work.”

He nodded. “She must be a remarkable woman.”

I smiled. “She was. She died two years ago.”

The instructor looked at me. “I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you,” I said. “She would have been happy to see me here.”

*     *     *
When I arrived home, Father was back in his chair. The window was spotted with rain drops. He looked up at me.

“I just got off the phone with Dr. Greiner,” he said.

I sat down next to him. “What did she say?”

He didn’t answer. I pulled out my phone and pressed her number. A moment later she answered.

“I’m so sorry, Sara,” she said. “What he has is very vicious. We could try the new medicine, but as you know…” Her voice trailed off.

“…it’s very expensive,” I said, finishing her thought.

There was a pause on her end. Finally, she said, “Just let me know what you’d like to do. I can get you an advance on the dose if you want to try it. You can pay for it later.”

“Let me talk with him,” I said. I thanked her and hung up.

I looked at Father. His cheeks were more sunken than usual. There was a slight shake in his frame as he breathed.

I stood up. “Well,” I said. “Let’s try it. What can it hurt?”

He looked up at me. “How much is it?”

“Who cares?” I said. “Besides. I got a promotion.” I playfully nudged his shoulder. “Soon we’ll be swimming in money.”

“What is your promotion?” he said. I told him about the new dialect transfer system. He listened with more interest than he usually showed toward my work.

Later in the evening as I was tucking him into bed he said, “Why do you want to stay here, Sari? Isn’t there more for you somewhere else?”

I smiled down at him. “I like being here. It’s where you are.” He looked at me a moment longer and then turned toward the wall.

I kissed his temple and turned out the light.

*     *     *
A week had passed since my training. This was my first use of the dialect transfer system. I typed the last few lines.

-Select Donor Recipient.

I glanced through the glass at the young lady beneath the sheet in the operating room. I typed again.

-Dora Anderson

There was a hum from the system. This took longer than usual because the dialect transfer was going to happen simultaneously with the voice upload. I was excited in spite of myself. This donor dialect was brand new. It had just been uploaded an hour ago. I glanced at the screen.

-Input dialect code.

I wasn’t used to this part yet. I looked up the corresponding code in the manual on my right. I typed.

-Uralic. Ugric. Csángó. 445.

The computer accepted the code. A moment later and the sensor was extending from its cradle toward Ms. Anderson on the table. The machine did its usual round of computations. A moment later and it was finished. I tapped on the glass and pointed in the direction of my office. The nurse nodded at me.

An hour later Ms. Anderson was escorted into my office. She sat down, her eyes still hazy from the anesthesia.

“How do you feel?” I said.

She blinked a few times. “Good. Still getting used to being awake.”

I smiled. “Let’s run through a few tests.” I typed a few words and pointed to the screen. “Please read what you see.”

She looked up at the screen and read, “The fox ran through the pasture.”

“Good,” I said. I typed a couple of notes. “Now try this one.”

She cleared her throat and read. An elderly man’s rasp appeared in the air as she read, “A róka átfutott a füvön.”

I stared at her. My mouth dropped open. I leapt out of my chair and grabbed her shoulders. “Again!” I said. “Say that again!” A nurse appeared at the door with a look of alarm on her face.

Ms. Anderson cried out. “Ez fáj! Stop! Állj meg!” Her voice alternated between the rasp and her normal voice. The nurse ran in. My hands were pulled away from her. The room went black as I fainted.

*     *     *
I stared out the window. It was raining again. The window was covered with a thin sheen of water. I turned my head back into the room and looked at Dr. Greiner. She smiled at me with a look of sympathy. “I’m truly sorry,” she said. “He was a caring man.”

“No, he wasn’t,” I said. “You can be honest. I know you took plenty of grief from him.”

She chuckled. “It’s true, perhaps,” she said. “But I can take it. I am from Austria.” She winked at me.

I gave a tired smile. “He didn’t like anybody,” I said.

“He adored you,” she said. “Every checkup I had with him he went on and on about how his daughter was working for an international company. Making real money.”

I looked down at my lap. “It sounds weak to say it. But I wish he had told me. He wasn’t sentimental. He never said ‘I love you.’ It would have been nice to hear just once before he was gone. And I wish he had told me he was going to do this.”

“Wouldn’t you have tried to stop him?” she said.

“Of course.”

“Well,” she said. “There’s your answer. He obviously knew what his chances for survival were. And he wanted to leave you with something going forward.”

I shook my head. “A lot. Do you know how much his dialect was worth? Hardly anyone can speak Csángó anymore. If I didn’t want to I’d never have to work again.”

“That reminds me,” she said. “I understand you’ve been promoted. Something about a new job in the Singapore branch? Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“It was certainly a magnificent gift he gave you,” she said. “And that was just before he died, right?”

“The same day,” I said. “I discovered later that he had worked it out for a voice extraction technician to pay him a house visit. Father must have made the call after I left for work that morning. I found out about it at work because…” I didn’t finish the thought. “Anyway, I rushed home and found him on his bed. I had to hold my breath to get in. He must have turned the gas on just after the technician left the house. I didn’t find out that the money had been credited to my account until a few days later.”

She pursed her lips. “May I tell you something?” she said.

I looked at her.

“Doctors aren’t usually supposed to say this, but you and your father feel like family so I can tell you. If he hadn’t ended his life, it would have likely happened in the next weeks anyway. And it would have been painful for him.”

I looked out the window. The rain was stopping. A tiny slant of sunlight touched the glass and gave it a glow.

“I wish I could have said goodbye,” I said.

*     *     *
The plane was pulling back from the terminal. The safety announcements had just ended for my flight to Singapore.

I reread the email on my phone from Ms. Anderson:

No need to thank me, Ms. Gresz. I understand it is not protocol for Voice Capture to reach out to customers with personal requests. In your case, however, I understand why you asked for this recording. I can sincerely tell you it was a pleasure to make it. Best wishes. Dora Anderson.

I leaned back in the chair. The plane slowly made its turn onto the runway. On my phone I scrolled to the voice recordings. I selected the one from the top of the list. It pulled up Ms. Anderson’s profile.

Dora Anderson, UN relief worker. Location: Transylvania. Aiding relief efforts for displaced Roma citizens.

The plane accelerated and was airborne a moment later. Trails of cloud skimmed past the wings as we climbed. I clicked the play button on my phone. I leaned back and listened to Dora Anderson’s new voice, with the familiar rasp. A tear strayed down my face. I heard for the first time in my life, “Sara, you have made me so proud. Apa loves you.”