Uncanny

by Sarah Fine

  Rafiq’s voice comes closer. He’s next to me now. “If you were a canny, we could transmit information wirelessly or through a port. You wouldn’t have to say anything at all. But you are not a canny.”

  I lift my head, an animal peeking out of a burrow to see if the coast is clear. “I don’t want to talk.”

  He’s right there, warm and calm and not hating me, not freaked out by me, not grossed out by me. He’s smiling at me, gentle and careful. His hand is on my back. “I won’t make you talk, Cora. I can’t. But I think that, if you gave it a try, you would find that you have a lot to say.”

  Right.

  That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

  Chapter Eight

  Data review.

  Internal narrative: on.

  7:07 a.m., April 21, 2069

  Cora’s face fills Hannah’s perspective. Cora’s teeth are exposed; her lips are drawn back. Her platysma muscle is fully contracted, creating vertical strain lines on either side of her neck, drawing the edge of her jaw downward. This emotion can be unambiguously coded as rage. Her shouts are unintelligible and guttural, loud enough to briefly garble the Cerepin’s auditory input. Saliva flies from Cora’s mouth.

  Hannah’s perspective shakes, possibly because Cora is shaking her, and her hands, long nails lavender with clear gemstones at the center of each, clutch at Cora’s shoulders and push at her face.

  “Cora, stop, please,” she shrieks. “Franka, help!”

  “Don’t say that ever again!” shouts Cora.

  Hannah’s perspective abruptly arcs along the ceiling, and when it steadies itself, Hannah is on her bed. The door to her bedroom slams. Hannah looks around again, including at the wall screen that depicts a mirror view, showing Hannah sprawled on her comforter, her eyes wide. She pulls her knees to her chest, lowers her head so that the visual feed goes dark, and emits sounds that indicate she is most likely crying.

  End of vid capture, 7:08 a.m., April 21, 2069

  Supplemental vid evidence acquired: Franka surveillance feed 7:12 p.m., April 24, 2069, 4th floor, Room 2, informal designation: “Gallery”

  Cora’s fingers wrap around the doorframe as she stands looking into the room. After 8 seconds, she enters. The walls are decorated with 16 oil paintings of various sizes, all in the same style. The furniture is antique, 19th century, 2 sofas with walnut stain, carved, upholstered with velvet. In one corner of the room there is an easel, upon which a 60 cm by 100 cm canvas has been placed. Someone has painted on this canvas (search of Franka’s surveillance database indicates it was Hannah), but 46% of its surface remains bare.

  Cora approaches the painting, her steps stilted and abrupt. Her focus is on the canvas. She stops in front of it and looks down at the basket of oil paint that sits next to the left front leg of the easel. She kneels, facing the painting. She reaches for a tube marked “umber.” She holds it in the palm of her hand for 14 seconds and appears to be examining it. She raises her head. “Franka,” she says. “Privacy.”

  End of vid section analysis, 7:15 p.m., April 24, 2069

  4:57 p.m., April 29, 2069

  Hannah looks through painting supplies contained in a tiered box. Her fingernails click as they skim lightly over tubes of oil paint, a bottle of turpentine and another of linseed oil, charcoal pencils, and 2 small opaque plastic containers that rattle when jostled. She pauses and focuses on one of them, fiddling briefly with the catch, but does not open it. She picks up that container and carries it to her closet, where she tucks it between 2 folded sweaters on a narrow shelf. She pulls the closet door mostly closed. Then she returns to a stool and continues to look through the supply box. After 3 seconds, her fingers close around a filbert brush.

  She focuses on the canvas in front of her, 60 cm by 100 cm, positioned on an easel that sits on an expanse of cloth. There is a dark shadow of pigment beneath the white primer that has been painted over the central area of the canvas, and it appears Hannah has already drawn a sketch over it of what she intends to create: 2 female-looking figures. They face each other. The figure on the left has her arms wrapped around the other’s waist. The figure on the right has her hands wrapped around her companion’s throat. Wavy lines emanate from behind this figure’s back and curve around her body, spiraling up the other’s legs.

  “God, this is so messed up,” Hannah whispers.

  Humming softly and tunelessly to herself, she begins to paint. There are no hesitations in her movements. For 29 minutes, 54 seconds, she covers over the sketch, some lines corresponding, others in contrast. She begins using only black, but then she layers in other colors, highlighting muscles and the planes of each face, as well as the curving lines that wind around one of the figure’s legs. Hannah appears to have an accurate sense of proportion and dimension, and a clear vision for what she wants to depict. The fingers of her right hand manipulate the brush in a practiced way, suggesting complete comfort.

  “Hannah—”

  Hannah yelps at the sound of Franka’s voice, then curses. “Yeah?”

  “Cora is requesting entrance.”

  Hannah groans. “Why?”

  “She says she’s looking for something.”

  “She’s always looking for something, and she always thinks I have it.”

  “Please let me know if I can open your door.”

  “Go ahead, Franka.”

  Cora enters 2 seconds later. Her blond hair is pulled up in a lopsided ponytail. “Have you seen my green sweater?” Her eyes narrow as she glances toward Hannah’s closet.

  Hannah also looks at her closet. “Nope.”

  “Did you borrow it?”

  “You think I’d wear something of yours? Very funny.”

  “Come on, Hannah. I just genned it a few weeks ago.”

  “And you’ve barely taken it off since.” Hannah says this at a low volume, and it appears Cora does not hear her. “Gretchen probably found it,” Hannah says, louder this time. “She has olfactory sensors and a dedication to keeping this place’s smell within acceptable human parameters.” The last few words are recited in a monotone, as if to imitate a primitive mechanical voice. Hannah laughs as she turns to Cora in time to see her sister glance down at her armpits and press her elbows against her sides. “You should look in the laundry, CC.”

  “I already did.”

  “Gretchen sorts and folds in that back room with the long tables. Did you look there?”

  Cora does not answer. Her focus has shifted, and Hannah follows the direction of her gaze back to the canvas. “What’s that?”

  Hannah refocuses on her painting. “I’m correcting a mistake.”

  She looks over at her sister, who is still looking at the canvas. The painting has changed slightly from the sketch. Now one figure’s hands are on the other’s waist, and the other’s arms are around her companion’s neck, as if in an embrace. The curving lines that appeared to emanate from that figure’s back are thicker now, taking up most of that side of the painting, with streaks in many different colors. Part of this mass of color still spirals up the companion’s right leg. The area behind that figure is gray and beige with smudges of black, and the contrast gives the impression of imbalance.

  Cora says after 9 seconds of silence, “It’s scary.”

  “You’re scared of everything, CC.”

  Cora looks down at her feet. “It’s good. You’re really talented.”

  “Wow. You actually said something nice to me.”

  Cora is swaying, and she has her arms wrapped over her middle. “Is that a gift for someone?”

  “I’m giving it to Dad for his birthday.”

  “But it’s not him and Mom.”

  “How do you know?”

  Cora waves an arm at the canvas. “They both have boobs.”

  “You’re so observant. Maybe it’s you and Maeve.”

  Cora’s brow furrows as she raises her head and peers at the painting again. “Really?”

  “You don’t think it looks like you two?
”

  For 18 seconds, Cora stares at the painting. The figures do not appear to have hair, and neither bears a direct likeness to Cora or Maeve. Neither has distinctive features that might indicate whom Hannah is attempting to depict. “I can’t tell if they’re hugging or fighting.”

  “Yeah,” Hannah says quietly. “I know.”

  “I can’t tell if they want to be closer or if they’re trying to get away from each other.”

  “Exactly.” Hannah’s tone suggests sadness.

  “It’s not me and Mom.”

  “So?”

  “I think it’s me and you.”

  “You’re not full of yourself or anything. What makes you think you’re in this painting at all?”

  Cora lets out an impatient grunt. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

  “I’m enjoying your speculation.”

  “I can’t ever tell if you’re being nice or if you’re making fun of me.”

  Hannah rises from her stool. “That’s not fair, CC. I never make fun of you. I mean, when you come at me, it’s hard not to push back, but jeez, who wouldn’t? You’re always accusing me of stuff. Like now. I mean, first you come in here basically implying that I stole your sweater, and now you’re standing here saying I make fun of you. All I was doing was painting. In my own room. This is supposed to be my space.”

  Cora blinks rapidly. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  A pause of 16 seconds. Then Cora whispers, “I’m just sorry.” She glances at the painting again.

  “Maeve told me the other day that you’ve always had trouble reading people. It made a lot of sense.”

  “She told you that?” Cora’s brows are low and downturned, with a wrinkle of skin between them. A scowl.

  “She loves you,” Hannah replies. “And she cares about me, too. She wanted to help me understand you, especially after the past week.”

  Cora is still scowling. Her fingers are balled into fists in her black tunic. She appears tense. “That was all because you didn’t understand me?”

  “I’ve already said sorry, haven’t I? And it’s not like you haven’t paid me back, right?”

  Cora remains silent, tense.

  Hannah moves closer to her. “Right?”

  Cora looks back at the painting. “So it is us.”

  “I won’t argue with you, if that’s what you want to believe.”

  “What’s all that stuff coming out of the one on the left? Is that me?”

  “CC, I can’t explain my painting to you before it’s even done. God, this is just the underpainting anyway. Things can change a lot.”

  “But it looks . . .”

  “Ugh. What.”

  Cora’s lip trembles. “It looks like that one is trying to hurt the other one. And I don’t know which one is me.”

  “You don’t know?” Hannah asks, and her tone is clipped. Sharp. Significantly higher in volume than before. “You’re thicker than I thought.”

  Cora’s mouth has fallen partially open as she stares at her sister. Her eyes appear glazed—with tears, it can be inferred. Hannah moves toward her quickly and wraps her arms around her sister. From the cam perspective, it appears her chin is resting on Cora’s shoulder.

  “Shhh. CC. I’m sorry. I was just really into this, doing my thing, and you caught me at a bad time.”

  Cora lets out a high-pitched sound. A whimper.

  “Come on. Don’t cry. I didn’t mean it.”

  Cora shudders, and it shakes Hannah’s cam view. “Let me go, Hannah.”

  “Not until you forgive me.” Hannah is rubbing Cora’s back in rapid circular motions, filling the auditory feed with white noise. It is so loud that what Hannah says next is inaudible.

  Hannah stumbles back, her arms reeling. “Ow!”

  Cora draws her clawed fingers down her own sleeves, repeating the motion several times. “I told you to let me go!”

  “CC, get out of my room!” Hannah is breathing hard. “I’m so tired of you bullying me.”

  “You’re the bully!” Cora stomps her feet as she leaves Hannah’s room, and Hannah’s gaze streaks to the floor, revealing that Cora has stepped in Hannah’s paint palette. It is not clear whether this action was intentional. Dark partial footprints mark Cora’s path across the carpet to the door, but it appears Franka has already begun her self-cleaning process, as they are fading rapidly.

  Hannah walks slowly over to her palette. Gobs of paint and random smears of mixed color cover its surface. Hannah’s breathing steadies as she moves toward her closet. She opens the door and looks down at the floor.

  Her gaze focuses on a green fold of fabric.

  End of vid capture, 5:42 p.m., April 29, 2069

  Chapter Nine

  This morning, I spend some time trying to make myself look good. I wash my hair, and even though the feel of bristles on my scalp sets my teeth on edge, I brush it out. It’s short now, much shorter than before.

  The morning I got home from the hospital, I swiped a pair of kitchen scissors, sat down on the floor under the table, and cut it. I’m totally aware now it was a weird thing to do, but at the time, my hair tickled my cheeks like insect feet and wouldn’t stay tucked behind my ears. I also hated the way I looked, and if I hadn’t chopped it all off, I might have poked my eyes out with those scissors instead.

  I remember spending a solid few minutes, crouched under that table in the breakfast nook, considering it.

  But this morning, I’m determined to stay calm. I do my yoga breathing because it actually helps. “Franka, where’s my mom?”

  “She is in the breakfast room, Cora. Would you like to join her?”

  “Yeah. Can I have toast with honey and butter? And tea.”

  “Drake is aware of your menu preferences.”

  I smile. I want her to note it, however she keeps track of stuff like that, so she has me on her surveillance looking grateful and happy and normal. “You guys are awesome. Could you also tell Rafiq that I won’t need him this morning?”

  “Perhaps you should communicate that to him directly, as he is standing outside your door.”

  Ugh. “Fine.” I spend a few more minutes smoothing my hair down, then head out. Just as Franka said, Rafiq is in the hallway, once again staring at that horrible painting Gary hung up across from my room. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been tempted to tear it from the wall and break it over my knee. I keep my eyes off it as I turn toward him. “Hey. I’m going to—”

  “Eat breakfast with your mother.”

  “Don’t be creepy.”

  He smiles. “Shall we do yoga afterward? Or walk?”

  I shake my head. “I’m busy today.” I scoot past him and head for the breakfast room, and when I get there, I realize he hasn’t followed me. I feel like I won.

  My mom is sitting at the table, the same one under which I crouched with my scissors, surrounded by piles of my own hair, only a week or so ago. Behind her is the big bay window that looks out on the river beyond the patio. “Good morning,” she says, rising to hug me. “You smell good!”

  I can’t tell if she’s surprised or not. “I’m feeling a lot better.” I take a seat across from her as Drake, the chef canny, walks over and sets a plate of toast in front of me, complete with a little pot of honey and another of butter he might have churned himself, because that is how Gary likes things done, and he has enough money to make sure it happens that way. “Thanks,” I say to Drake as he places a mug of tea next to my right hand.

  He inclines his head and walks back toward the kitchen.

  Mom is dressed for work, a sheath dress with a high collar, earrings, her hair in neat waves. Even though her eyes are red and that makes me wonder if she’s been crying, she’s so pretty. I look like someone else’s daughter. My dad’s, maybe.

  She takes a sip from her own mug. “What’s on your agenda today?”

  “I want to go back to school.”

  She puts her mug down quickly. Little wisps
of steam rise from its depths. “It’s a little soon, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve already missed three days.”

  “We haven’t gotten approval for you to go back.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “You have to be interviewed by someone qualified to say that you’re cleared to return.”

  She sounds calm. If I want this to work, I should sound calm, too. But my skin is hot. “I’m doing so much better. I haven’t tried anything since Monday.”

  She leans forward on her elbows. “I’m glad, Cora, but you’ve also been supervised constantly. The school setup isn’t quite as tight.”

  Yeah. I know. It’s what I’m counting on.

  “They seemed pretty on top of things,” I say with a weak chuckle.

  “I had to call them to start looking for you,” she replies in a flat voice. She takes another sip from her drink and then says, “How’s your time with Rafiq?”

  I slump back in my chair. “It’s fine. I guess it’s helping?”

  She frowns. “You guess?”

  “What did you expect?”

  Her eyes flick to the side. She’s probably receiving a message.

  “Where’s Gary?” I ask.

  “He’s been in Silicon Valley since yesterday morning, but he’ll be flying back tomorrow night. He’s been checking in with me a lot, though. He was really hoping this treatment would help you.”

  “And it is. Rafiq has been great. But I don’t need him anymore.”

  Her eyes narrow. “What would Rafiq say?”

  “He’s a canny, Mom.”

  “I think we both know that’s an oversimplification.”

  “I need to go be with my friends!” Neda, really. I’m not sure any of Hannah’s friends were ever mine. I think they were something else.

  “And before you do that, we need to make sure you won’t try to harm yourself.”

  “How is this healthy?” I ask, knowing my voice is too loud but unable to quiet down. “Who says I have to be with my robot therapist babysitter all day every day?”

  “We think, for now, it’s the best thing for you.” She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket. After dabbing her nose, she says, “Gary feels strongly that you need to face your memories of what happened that night, and—”