by Cassie James
Copyright © 2019 by Cassie James & Christine Kelsey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
1. Piper
2. Tyler
3. Piper
4. Piper
5. Jude
6. Piper
7. Brennan
8. Piper
9. Piper
10. Jude
11. Piper
12. Piper
13. Tyler
14. Piper
15. Brennan
16. Piper
17. Piper
18. Piper
19. Jude
20. Piper
21. Tyler
22. Piper
23. Jude
24. Brennan
25. Piper
26. Piper
1
Piper
I blink for the first time. There’s a harsh brightness over my head. I blink again, trying to catch my bearings. Everything feels off center for a nanosecond, but something seems to snap into place. The world suddenly feels right; I suddenly feel right. I still don’t understand what’s happening to my body. I try to flex my fingers, but they don’t curl all the way into my palms the way I meant for them to.
My head lolls to the side, the movement sluggish as my body slowly wakes up. Steely gray eyes meet mine. They’re not real. A photo? She’s laughing with full, pink lips. Dark hair flows over her shoulders in long waves. There’s something… familiar about her. Maybe I’ve met her before? Have I met her before? The unfamiliar voice startles me from inside my own head. No—that’s not right. The voice is familiar. It’s mine, but also, it isn’t.
The photo starts to blur, and I close my eyes.
“Piper?” a soft voice calls, quivering around the name with shaky, labored breaths. I force my eyes open again, blinking against the blurriness marring the faces looming above mine. A woman’s face is the closest, familiar gray eyes peering down at me. Her skin is splotchy. She reaches a shaking hand toward my face, but pauses. “Roman, did it work?”
There’s a man that she looks at. A man with the same chestnut colored hair as the photo. He stares down at me, holding his breath. I blink again and refocus on curling my fingers. A little better. The man turns towards another man. This one is wrinkled, with tired eyes and a scruffy gray beard.
The woman finally touches my face.
“Mom?” The word bursts out of me, and she jerks back. The brown haired man wraps an arm around her shoulders as they both take a step back. I push myself up, arms shaking with the effort, and fix my gaze on the man.
“Dad?” He sucks his breath through his teeth. They turn their heads toward the older man.
My voice sounds exactly the way it did in my head, but still, there’s something unfamiliar about the quality of it as it pushes through my lips. I consider the words I said. Mom and Dad. Are these my parents? It feels right, but they’re not looking at me like parents should.
I lean back against the headboard behind me as images flash through my mind quicker than I can process them. Birthdays with the woman smiling next to me as I blow out candles. A shaky video of Roman—no, Dad—teaching me how to ride my first bicycle. Christmas morning surrounded by my parents and a heaping pile of gifts. A stream of photos from our family vacation to Greece last summer.
The silent older man catches my eye. He’s staring at me, an emotion in his eyes that I don’t immediately recognize. Pride. I’m not sure what he has to be proud of. He feels the most familiar, but his face doesn’t appear in any of my images.
Mom, Dad, and The Stranger share significant looks, but none of them speak. Mom raises her fingers to touch her lips, and I focus my attention on trying to curl mine again. Still not quite all the way there. Mom takes another shaky breath before a sob bubbles in her throat. She turns into Dad’s embrace as she mutters my name over and over again. He stares at me over her head. He doesn’t think I’m real.
My fingertips graze my palms. I glance down, glad my body is finally working the way I want it to. The view when I look down is enough to make my hands fall away, curled fists forgotten.
For the first time, I realize the cool air of the room is caressing the exposed skin on my back. I shiver, but the action feels forced. It’s an involuntary reaction, but it somehow feels like I only did it because I was supposed to. I chew the inside of my cheek as I run my hands over the gaping mint green material that’s covering me. My fingers shake as I stretch to reach behind my neck and pull the ties together, closing the back as best as I can.
“Am I okay?” I finally ask as my hands settle back in my lap. Why am I in a hospital gown?
The last thing I remember is wearing the navy dress with the full skirt. Flashes of strobing lights and loud music pound through my head, and I picture myself surrounded by my friends. We’re dancing and laughing, smiling into each other’s cameras and singing along to the pop anthems playing around us.
“Jackie, Roman, would you mind stepping out for a moment? I’d like to do one last check and a quick briefing,” The Stranger explains, pulling me back to the present moment. Mom had finally pulled herself away from Dad, but her eyes are a little on the crazy side as she stares at me. Tears are still running down her face, and she keeps whispering my name as she sobs. Dad shares a tight smile with The Stranger before passing me a glassy-eyed stare. He shakes his head, though I’m not sure why, before pulling Mom from the room.
The cool air makes me shiver again, so I wrap my arms around my middle as The Stranger settles on the foot of the bed. He smiles warmly at me, and that same sense of familiarity floods my senses. “How are you feeling?” he asks. The smoky baritone of his voice stirs something sentimental deep within me.
I study him. The way his hands rest in his lap and his smile pulls his beard a little higher on his face. He looks rather like a skinny version of Father Christmas, I decide as I twist the hem of the hospital gown between my fingers.
“Strange,” I admit. He nods as if he understands but I’m not so sure he does.
I feel a war raging deep down inside of my body. Part of me is reaching out for this place like it’s home, but another, smaller part of me is warning me that something is off. My hands are fidgeting again, I stare at them as I ask again, “Am I okay?”
“What do you remember, Piper?” Father Christmas watches me intently as I shrug. Everything. Nothing. Something in the middle of those two extremes?
There are memories, but they feel disjointed and choppy. I remember bits and pieces, photos and scenes, short ten second snaps of video, shaky memories as if I’m watching them through an old camcorder video. I can feel who I’m supposed to be right there, as if I’m only seeing it through my peripheral. That version of me, the more I try to study it, the more it feels like reading the answers to a questionnaire answered by a hundred different people.
What’s Piper’s favorite pastime?
Spending time with her family.
Shopping.
Creating stuff for social media.
Hanging out with friends.
Caring more about herself than literally anything else.
I close my eyes and press my fingertips against my eyelids, trying to stop the overwhelming influx of information. It just keeps coming. I press
harder and hear Father Christmas take a deep breath before his weight leaves the bed. The rustling he makes as he moves closer makes my chest clench. I jump when his hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “It’s okay to take your time,” he says, and my shoulders tense as I double-down on trying to remember who he is. He lifts his hand away. “It’s normal that you feel this way, Piper. This is the first time you’ve woken in this state.”
“Woken?” I pull my fingers away so I can turn my head up to face the blue eyes twinkling down at me. What a curious thing to say. I’m eighteen years old, I’ve woken up several times. First time? An uneasiness churns through me. “I don’t understand.” His smile softens again.
“Piper, the couple that was in here with us, Roman and Jacqueline Hawthorne—”
“My parents.” I interrupt, making him sigh. For the first time, I read frustration in his expression, though I’m not at all sure why.
His brows furrow and a frown quirks over his lips. He runs a hand down his face, pulling his wrinkled skin tight for one moment before it sags back into place. Are Roman and Jacqueline not my parents? There’s something practically screaming inside of me, telling me that they are. Before I can ask, Father Christmas lets out a long sigh and props his hip against my bedside table, knocking over Piper’s picture thoughtlessly. My picture. He knocks over my picture thoughtlessly.
“Yes and no,” he confirms, but there’s more. “Roman and Jackie lost their daughter in a horrible accident late last spring.” My head shakes from one side to the other. No, that’s not right. I’m an only child, aren’t I? He can’t be talking about me, because clearly I’m sitting right here. Alive. “I created you, Piper. My name is Stanley Hyde, but you can call me Stan.”
What is Piper’s favorite color?
Millennial Pink
Gold
Blush
Rose Gold
Black like her heart.
I shake the onslaught of information away and stare at Stan with wide eyes. “Creator?” I whisper as the truth of his words tickles in the back of my mind. How can he be my creator? My parents are standing in the hall.
I reach for the blanket lying over my tingling legs and pull it close. I clutch the blush striped comforter to my chest as my world turns upside down. The familiarity of his voice strikes me again. I think I might be going crazy. I wrack my mind for a single memory with this man, but come up with nothing. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that what he’s saying seems real. Too real.
“You’re a companion, Piper. An artificially intelligent companion,” he explains. Understanding starts to wash over me in a harsh wave.
What is Piper’s favorite food?
Sushi
Wedge salad
White Truffle pasta from The Cellar Bistro
The souls of her enemies.
Gluten-free, non-fat artesian smoothies.
“You’re the product of years of tech innovation and hard work.” My head tilts further to the side as my eyes narrow at Stan. My mind is spinning, and he seems to understand, or at the very least anticipate that. He smiles as he continues, “Your purpose is to comfort the families and friends of the person who was lost—in this case, Piper Hawthorne. You’re a learning AI, which means you’ll adapt to new experiences and hopefully grow with each of them.”
His wrinkled hand falls to rest on my shoulder. It’s supposed to be comforting, but the weight of it feels heavy. I think my brain is imploding from all this new information. Stan’s eyes look sad as he continues, “You’re the first of your kind. A prototype. I would have liked to test you myself, but the Hawthornes are good people, and they’re still hurting from the loss of their daughter. You are going to be so very good for them.”
“How do I have her memories?”
“Your memories,” he corrects, and I shrug his hand from my shoulder. I can feel them now, all the tiny things that make me different from a real human. What I conceptualize as thinking is actually processing, and it’s clear I’m hooked to the web like some kind of machine. Something in my gut twists and squeezes, but I don’t allow myself be distracted by the thought of the reaction.
All I can focus on is an internal, repeating phrase. I am a machine. I am a machine. I am a machine. My purpose is to comfort the friends and family of Piper Hawthorne, a dead girl.
“Well... the memories are the interesting part. We’ve uploaded media from several sources—your parents, your social media accounts, and your school records. We had several family members and some classmates fill out an extensive questionnaire that we used to help program your personality as well. You are every bit Piper Hawthorne as you are anything else, and you will continue to learn to be her as you move through her day-to-day life.”
What is your favorite memory with Piper?
The beauty pageants we did when she was a little girl. She was such a beautiful girl, much prettier than the other children.
The time we went to Santa Monica pier, just the two of us, and secretly ate chocolate cake out of to-go boxes at the end of the pier.
Playing truth or dare at Arden Harshaw’s sweet sixteen.
Sneaking into the JoHansons’ pool the last time they were on vacation.
Junior Prom.
I nod numbly as I try to process Stan’s words. Information assaults my senses from every angle. Memories are flickering through my mind again like a broken film reel, and I can’t quite figure how to shove them back into their files so I can process them at a later time. There is a need deep inside of me to view each piece of data separately, to treat them with more care. If I am meant to be a comfort to these people, I need to know the girl—no, myself—better.
“Now, Piper, I’d like to give you one last quick physical check, if that’s okay?” I nod, and stare straight ahead as Stan runs his hands over my arms, flexing them and asking me how each movement feels. I answer on autopilot, my eyes seeking out the photo on the nightstand. Piper. Me. I guess I’m thankful I have no memories of her accident, but it feels like I’m missing a chunk of myself. How can I comfort her loved ones if I don’t know how she died? Stan tucks my hair behind my ears, and his fingers prod at the back of my neck for a short moment before cupping my face in his hands.
That look is back in his eyes. Pride. Stan made me, brought me to life, programmed me to be what this family needed, and he is proud of himself. I understand. He called me a prototype. That means I’m cutting edge. Nothing else like me exists on the market. I’m sure to make waves if his experiment with me, my time with the Hawthornes, is a success.
Stan pulls away from me and takes a few steps back from the bed. “Can you stand?” he asks, and I flex my toes and roll my ankles experimentally. My legs tense, and I’m amazed by how real the muscles bunching beneath the skin feel. I get lost in the wonder of my body for a short moment. I’m synthetic, but it’s more than that.
My files tell me I’m cutting edge, as close to a real human as I can possibly be—the materials that make up my body are a mix of synthetic and lab grown, and I’ll function in nearly the same ways as all humans do. It’s amazing what he’s done with me, and I’m in awe of his genius as my legs swing over the edge of the bed and my arms push me into a standing position. It seems, as I stand in front of Stan on steady legs, as if my body has finally awoken with me.
He nods, that same small smile on his lips before walking toward the door. “I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself. We’ll be waiting for you just outside the door when you’re ready.”
My answering nod is automatic, and I find myself marveling over how intuitive my body is. The action was a fluid motion, one that I barely thought before my body executed it. Stan leaves the room, shutting the door behind him quietly, and I stare after him, wondering what exactly is waiting for me on the other side of the door.
I can’t resist moving through the room, my fingers tracing over Piper’s things, reveling in the sensation of really feeling them. There’s a pin-board displaying photos over the desk. They give me pa
use, but too many memories rush to the forefront of my mind as I stare at them, and I struggle to push them away. I make a mental note to come back to those memories, to shuffle through them slowly, and continue my short trek through the room.
I stop in front of the doors to the closet, pausing as an idiom rushes through my mind. Everyone has skeletons in their closet. I freeze. I don’t know where that came from. Why would anyone keep skeletons in their closet? My fingers shake as I reach for the handle, and a flood of relief rushes through me when a walk-in closet filled with clothing and accessories meets my eyes. No skeletons here. I run my hands over the material of the clothing, pausing over the plaid skirts of a school uniform.
Rosewood Academy. The name pops into my head suddenly, and I find myself wondering whether the Hawthornes plan to send me to the school in Piper’s place. I’m an artificial intelligence, surely there’s no actual need for a formal education, not when I’m remotely connected to the web. But you’re a companion AI, the voice in my head reminds me. That voice, it’s Piper’s voice, I recognize now. Just like the voice that comes out of me. Piper’s voice is inside my head.
I drag myself out of the closet and find myself wandering back toward the desk and the pictures. I study the faces, memories assaulting me in rapid-fire succession. I trace my finger over the faces. Every single one of them is beautiful, smiling at the camera like they know something the rest of the world doesn’t, and I’m filled with emotion that I know is artificial, but that feels so real.
These people, they’re Piper’s friends. They don’t quite feel like mine, nothing in this room does, but I think I’d like for them to be. They’re my purpose. They need me. Emotion that I don’t quite understand pushes at me, but I shake my head trying desperately to dislodge whatever it is. It pushes back, and I turn from the pictures and move toward the door from my room to the rest of the house... to the rest of my life.
