by Sarah Fine
“Because you’re loaded up with therapy scripts. They told me.”
“They’re not scripts, but yes, I have extensive knowledge of therapeutic protocols deemed successful in clinical trials.”
“Is this conversation a protocol?”
He smiles at me, and unbidden, it makes my heart beat a little faster. “We’re developing rapport. It is one of the key factors in therapeutic efficacy.”
“How about using normal words? Is that one of the key factors, too?”
His laugh is so real sounding. “Thank you for this feedback!”
He’s such a weird combination of normal and robotic, sexy and yet childlike. I can’t decide what kind of chills he gives me. “Anytime. So, therapeutic rapport. You do that by being a nice guy?”
“It’s something we do together.”
More chills. God, there is something wrong with me. “Okay, so it’s about the back-and-forth. We can just talk about nothing?”
“Should I have a more specific goal, do you think?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure you already do.”
The little pebbles of the path crunch beneath our shoes as we walk. “I’d like to hear more about things you like,” he says, “and things you don’t like.”
I decide to play his game. Harmless enough. “I like this river. I like the fall. I like . . . toast with real honey and synth butter. I like tea. I like rain and comfortable shoes and the moment my individual learning sessions with Aristotle end each day. I like old trip-hop music and the smell of wood fires. I like it when people are nice to me. I like my friend Neda. I like Christmas and . . . I can’t think of anything else right now.”
“Do you like painting?”
I flinch. “No.”
“Oh.”
“Why did you ask me that?”
“Your father suggested to me that you enjoy it.” Rafiq’s brown eyes focus on my hands. I realize my fingers are clasped and twisting.
I pull my hands apart and wipe them on my pant legs. “Gary said . . . ? No, that was Hannah’s thing. Not mine.”
“Art can be quite freeing. An opportunity to express oneself without words. Do you agree?”
I think of that painting in the hallway. “Absolutely.” I walk a little faster.
“You’re upset.”
“Wow, Rafiq, you’re a real pro.”
He keeps pace with me easily and gracefully, even though I’m almost jogging. “When we discuss your sister, your heart rate rises dramatically.”
“Now you’re getting creepy.”
“You are surely aware that I am equipped with biostat sensors that can—”
“Yeah, I know. Just don’t remind me.”
“You don’t want to be reminded that I know things humans cannot know without the aid of technology.”
“Ignorance is bliss.” And oblivion is heaven.
“Sometimes, when you avoid something, your fear of it grows.”
I slow down. He’s going to keep up with me no matter how fast I run. “Maybe because it’s something you should actually be scared of.”
He frowns. “What are you scared of, Cora?”
“Are you serious?”
“I am.” He gestures toward a bench on the riverbank.
I sit down, breathing hard. “This isn’t fair. None of this is fair.”
He sits next to me, looking out across the water to the trees on the other side. We’ve walked almost to the edge of the property, and I can see the grand house of my multi-trillionaire adoptive father hulking on its hill, casting its red-brown reflection in the dark water. It wavers and shakes, shifting in and out of focus. “I never thought I would live in a place like this,” I murmur. “Have you ever seen a house like that one?”
He shakes his head. “You’ve been here for approximately one year?”
“A little over. We lived in Brooklyn before.”
“Just you and your mother?”
“Since I was about five.”
“And before that?”
My eyes close. “My dad lived with us.”
“I am inferring that you do not have happy memories of that time.”
“Infer all you want.” I have a few. Just not many. “He used to take care of me while Mom traveled for work. Then she kicked him out. I think he lives in Cascadia now. I don’t think he ever wanted to have a kid, and I’m pretty sure I was an accident. Anyway. Mom used to give me Christmas presents and pretend they were from him so I would think he actually cared about me, but I knew. I always knew it was just her.”
“How do you feel about her attempted deception?”
“She did it because she didn’t want me to feel unwanted.” Oh, god. My heart is like a clenched fist. I clutch the edge of the bench and force myself not to rock. “She tries to protect me as much as she can.” It’s just that sometimes she fails.
“You know your mother well.”
“We were best friends,” I blurt out, but I stop when I hear the tremble in my voice.
“You feel like you’ve lost that connection.”
More like it was one-sided, but that’s embarrassing. “No, I just got older, and she found Gary. We’re still good, just . . . it’s not the same, obviously. But not in a bad way. I’m glad she’s happy. She really deserves to be happy.” And now she’s worried and grieving and scared, and what I did this morning made it worse. I’m a walking disease.
And if she and Gary see that vid Finn sent me? They’ll see how it was that night. They’ll see how I slapped my sister only a few hours before she died.
Gary would probably give it to the police.
Rafiq is watching me try to hold it together. He can hear my heartbeat. “Do you deserve to be happy, Cora?”
I laugh nervously. “How is this conversation supposed to be helping, again?”
“It seems you think it is not helping.” He places his hands on his thighs, his fingers splayed out.
“Don’t take it personally. You just sound very therapisty.”
“Therapisty.” He looks bemused.
I chuckle. “It sounds a little like a bad word.”
He gives me a sly smile. “Maybe it is a bad word.”
“Feel free to tag it that way, or however you manage language learning.”
He smiles. “I have done that. We have invented a new profanity.”
“So this wasn’t a total waste of time.” I’m not on the verge of crying now, at least.
“Time spent getting to know you could never be a waste,” he says. “I would like to know even more.”
“Yeah? What about you?” I ask quickly. “Does this work both ways? How am I supposed to feel comfortable with you if all we ever do is talk about me?”
“I will tell you whatever I can, if it would make you more comfortable.”
“Okay. Do you sleep?”
“I do have a rest period during which I process data and analyze patterns to enhance my performance. It’s like dreaming, I think.”
“Does it involve you showing up naked to school or being able to fly, only really badly, like you can’t quite get off the ground?”
He sits back a little. “No.”
“Not so much like dreaming, then. Got it. Do you eat?”
He shakes his head.
“That’s too bad. You’re missing out.” As soon as I say it, it feels mean. “But I guess it’s convenient. No mustard on your face, no chocolate on your fingers. How old are you? How long have you been around? How do cannies measure that, anyway?”
“My consciousness was brought online on August 23.”
I turn my face away from him. My feet are sliding back and forth over the grass, stripping it out of the dirt. “So basically, you’re a baby.” Who was born the day that Hannah died.
“If I were human, that would be true.”
I look over at him, his perfect face, his perfect body. If he were human, I would be stumbling over my words and possibly drooling. “If you’re a therapist, how come you’re not . . .
I don’t know. Aristotle, the AI teacher? He’s an old guy. He’s nothing like—” I flail my arm toward Rafiq’s chest.
“You think I should be an old guy?”
I shrug.
He looks down at himself. “I am a prototype being, but this body . . .” For a moment, I swear, he looks so human. Thoughtful. Maybe a little lost. “It was in use, before.”
“For what?”
He clears his throat.
“Does that mean you don’t know, or you do know and you’re not allowed to say?”
He clears his throat again. This time, it almost looks like it hurts. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?” he asks softly.
“Say one thing that’s not a canned therapeutic response.” I’m on the verge of stepping out onto the high wire, and I need him to pull me forward. But I can’t unless . . . “Say one thing that’s just Rafiq, something you came up with all on your own. Can you do that?”
He is quiet, and I look over at him. The wind has blown his hair into a funny pyramid on the top of his head, and on impulse, I reach over and smooth it down. He blinks at me. “I liked that.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling a little breathless. “I guess that counts.”
Chapter Six
Data review.
Internal narrative: on.
3:30 p.m., January 20, 2069
Hannah stands in the hallway, looking toward the foyer. Her message light is blinking in the top right corner of her visual field, and she focuses on it. Messaging indicates it is from Finn Cuellar.
When are you coming over?
“When I feel like it. Send. Close message space.”
The hallway becomes visible again, and Hannah turns toward a closed door. She knocks. Her fingernails are red, and there are holographic decals depicting a male who might be yelling or singing.
No discernible sound comes from inside the room. Hannah opens the door 10 seconds after knocking. “Hey,” she says. Her gaze takes in a prone figure, Cora, who is lying in her bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. She is on her side, knees drawn up in what is colloquially referred to as a fetal position.
“I watched the inauguration with Dad,” Hannah says. “We’re all doomed, according to him. He told me that his boss thinks the new pres is going to target Parnassus because that stupid little head case, Marguerite Singer, thinks Aristotle killed her dad or whatever.”
“Her father committed suicide after he lost his job, Hannah. Have you seen her vids?”
“Why would I? It’s all crybaby stuff. It has nothing to do with reality.”
Only Cora’s eyes move, snapping up to meet Hannah’s. “It’s probably very real to her.”
“Would you have voted for sleazy Sallese, then? You realize he’s a total corrupt criminal who’s just been handed the White House?”
Cora’s eyes close. “I was taking a nap.”
“Yeah, and it’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’m bored, and I thought we could hang out! Franka, have Gretchen bring us two hot chocolates with cinnamon.”
“Yes, Hannah.”
“Any chance you’ll leave me alone?” Cora asks.
“What do you think?”
Hannah climbs onto the bed, heaving herself over Cora’s body. Cora does not move. Hannah ends up sitting on the other side of Cora, staring at her back. “Should I ask Franka to have Gretchen make us cookies, too?”
Cora grunts.
“What?” asks Hannah.
“You don’t even realize how easy you have it.”
“Um, don’t you have it just as easy? You do live here, last I checked.”
Cora looks over her shoulder at Hannah, possibly because Hannah’s tone shifted and is unambiguously irritated. “Now I do, but I didn’t always.”
“But you like it, CC. Be honest,” says Hannah. “I’ve seen Gretchen bringing you snacks more than once. You’ve gained weight since you got here, too.”
Cora turns away quickly. “Gee, thanks.”
“It was a factual observation,” says Hannah, “not a criticism. I was just saying, this is a really great place to live, right? A total upgrade for you. You have everything you want.”
“No I don’t.”
“What do you want that you don’t have?”
“I don’t know,” Cora mumbles into her pillow.
“How could you not know what you want?”
“Are you serious? Do you always know what you want?”
“Of course I do,” says Hannah. Her voice is clipped. Brisk. “I always have.”
“You remind me of your dad.”
“Isn’t he our dad now?”
Cora is quiet for 22 seconds, then sits up, keeping her back to Hannah. “Are you going over to Finn’s?”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “You usually do on Sunday afternoons.”
“We’ll see how I feel.” Hannah’s tone is cool. “I’m getting bored of him.”
“I thought you guys had a good thing going.”
“We did.”
Cora begins to rock back and forth, a low-intensity oscillation. “But you don’t now?”
Hannah climbs off the bed and begins walking around Cora’s room. There are garments draped over chairs and the end of the bed. There is a desk in the corner, projecting a hologram of a woman playing a cello. The painting of the DC skyline is no longer hanging on her wall.
“Relationships are complicated,” Hannah says. “You know how it is.”
“Not really.”
“Liar,” Hannah whispers. Her red fingernails scrape along the door of Cora’s closet. She quickly slides it open as Cora says, “Hey!”
“Just looking,” Hannah says. Cora’s footsteps are audible. It can be inferred she has risen from the bed. Hannah focuses on the floor of the closet and then on something white protruding from beneath a black sweater.
“Hannah, stop it! That’s my stuff!”
“Really?” Hannah reaches into the closet, and her fingers close over the black sweater. Her gaze skims up the closet and then the ceiling as the view bounces. “Ow, CC!”
It can be inferred that Cora has forcefully pulled Hannah away from her possessions.
“Hannah and Cora, are you in need of assistance?” asks Franka.
“No, Franka,” Hannah says, her breathing heavy. She looks down at her hands, which are clutching a small canvas, 30 cm by 30 cm. She then looks back at the closet, where she can now see 3 tubes of oil paint and a paintbrush. “You took this stuff from my room.”
“I have no idea how that stuff got in there,” Cora replies.
Hannah turns to her. “Why would you steal this stuff?”
“I didn’t!” Cora’s hands are up. “Probably you left it out and one of the cleaning cannies just put it in the wrong room.”
“Why can’t you just admit it?”
“I didn’t steal!” shouts Cora. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hands have formed claws and are shaking.
Hannah takes a few steps back. “Calm down. You’re kind of scaring me.”
Cora tucks her hands into her armpits. “I didn’t take your stuff.”
For 9 seconds, Hannah stares at her adoptive sister. Then she holds out the canvas. “You can have it,” she says.
Cora is looking away, shaking her head vigorously. Her hands are still tucked under her arms.
“CC, it’s really okay. All you had to do was ask.”
When Cora doesn’t turn around, Hannah sighs. “It’s really okay.” She walks over to Cora’s desk and sets the canvas next to the hologram.
A sound from the closet brings Hannah’s gaze around. Cora is scrounging on the floor, and she comes up with the painting supplies in her hands. “Take it,” she says. She walks quickly over to the desk, drops the supplies on the canvas, and then shoves the canvas toward Hannah.
Hannah looks down at the corner of the canvas pressed to her belly. “Ow.”
“Oh, c’mon. I didn’t hurt you.”
“God, CC, yeah, you
did.” Hannah’s fingers curl over her canvas and supplies, and she walks toward the door. “You always do,” she whispers in a tight voice as she walks into the hall.
A canny is walking through the foyer with 2 mugs on a tray.
End of vid capture, 3:39 p.m., January 20, 2069
Supplemental vid evidence acquired: Franka surveillance feed 9:37 p.m., February 5, 2069, 1st floor, Room 9, informal designation: “Den”
The room contains a large fireplace, with 2 sofas facing each other and a rug between them. On either side of the fireplace are floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the front lawn, but currently the curtains are drawn. A vid is playing, with its holographic projection occupying the space in front of the fireplace. It shows a view looking up at a ceiling, capturing from below the images of 2 individuals. One, an adolescent female, is revealed by facial-recognition-database cross-reference to be Marguerite Singer. The other, an older man with graying auburn hair who is aiming a handgun (US government Department of Defense designation “Yanata YK8,” lens sighting with trajectory-matching radically invasive projectiles) at Marguerite’s face, is indicated to be Wynn Sallese, the 50th president of the United States.
Marguerite says, “You should know something before you have me executed, though.”
“And what’s that?” asks the president.
“I’ve been livestreaming from El’s comband for the last several minutes.”
The president’s eyes widen. His masseter muscle contracts, and his face flushes as he bends and reaches for the screen that is capturing the vid. After a wavering view of the ceiling appears again, the sole of the president’s shoe descends rapidly toward the device. The screen darkens, and then the vid ends.
On 1 of the sofas, Cora is lying on her side. She has a blanket pulled up to her chin, and her head rests on a square pillow. She stares at the area where the vid was projected. On the sofa across from hers, Hannah and Finn Cuellar lie, embracing. Hannah chuckles. “That was some seriously cool thinking under pressure.”
Finn kisses Hannah’s forehead as his hand clutches her hip. “Did you actually say something nice about her?”
“I never said she was a coward. I just said she was a whiny bitch.”