by Sarah Fine
Insane? She was probably going to say “insane.”
“Unacceptable,” Gary continues for her. His fingers are interlaced, his elbows on his knees, his eyes so intense. “We lost one of our daughters not even two weeks ago, and the other one seems determined to self-destruct!”
“Gary!”
He holds up his hand. “It has to be said. Because if I don’t, I’m going to say worse, okay?” His eyes are shiny and bloodshot.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice shredded by the screaming and the puking and the crying and the knowing that this is all my fault.
“If you’re sorry, just tell us what happened,” he says, and it comes out of him in one rapid stream. “Help us understand. Be honest. You’re going to have to explain at some point.”
“She’s doing her best,” Mom says. “The doctor said to give it time.”
“But she’s avoiding the whole thing!” He says to me, “Look at you. Look at what you did this morning.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We don’t want your apologies, goddammit!” snaps Gary. “We want to know why!”
I put my hands over my ears, but it does little to shut out the noise. If my Cerepin were on, I’d turn my music up to eleven. “I told you before. I’ve told you a thousand times. I don’t remember.”
“Because you’re trying not to,” Gary replies. “Franka notified us of the pills in your room. Where did you get them?”
I press my face to Leika’s window. “I needed to sleep. The other pills weren’t working.”
“Hard for them to work if you don’t take them,” Gary says.
“I found the bottle in your bathroom cabinet this morning,” Mom adds. “I counted them. You haven’t taken a single one.”
I wrap my arms around myself, as if that could keep me from flying apart. I turn to my mom. “I don’t want to go to the hospital again. Please.”
“Maybe you do need more time and space from the house,” she says, stroking my arm as she contradicts herself. “Like Gary said, it hasn’t even been two weeks.”
I jerk away, but then I see the hurt on her face. “Please,” I say again. “I’ve only been home for a few days. The hospital is so . . . cold.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as I remember. That nurse with the sad face. I was looking at her over Mom’s shoulder as Mom told me Hannah was dead, while Gary sobbed out in the hallway for his lost baby girl.
“You’re asking us to trust you, CC,” says Gary. “And I’m wondering why you think we should.”
Suddenly, I am so, so tired. “I won’t turn off my Cerepin tracking again. I was upset.”
Finn will blame himself. But I hope he holds off now. I hope he understands there’s no need to send the vid to Mom and Gary.
“Things have to change,” Gary is saying. “I can’t live like this. We can’t live like this.” He puts his hand on Mom’s knee, and she scoots a few inches closer to him. “We’re grieving, too, you know.”
Is he kidding?
“Things will change,” I tell him. “I’ll change.”
“We don’t want you to change!” says Mom. She’s either a great liar or she’s living in an alternate reality, with a different Cora.
“We want you to get better,” Gary adds. “And you’re not going to until you really deal with what happened—and come clean, if you need to.”
My stomach lurches. “I don’t have any secrets, but I’ll try to get better. I’m working on it. I promise.”
“Empty promises aren’t good enough, not after this morning,” Gary says.
Mom sighs. “He’s right. We have certain conditions, and if you don’t accept them, we have no choice but to take you to the hospital. I want you home, Cora, but I won’t do it if it means risking your life.”
“Franka’s always right there,” I say. “And my Cerepin—”
Gary’s jaw clenches. “Do I need to remind you,” he says slowly, “of what you did that night?”
I know what he’s thinking: if Franka’s settings hadn’t been changed, if our Cerepin trackers hadn’t been turned off, Hannah might still be alive.
“No,” I say, so loudly that my voice cracks. “I remember that part.”
Gary mutters something under his breath, then grips his jaw as if to hold the words in. The muscles of his forearm are taut. After a few seconds, he lets go and takes Mom’s hand. “And we won’t even get into this morning, when you did it again,” he continues. “We can’t trust you not to mess with the tech meant to protect and supervise you, and we can’t be awake twenty-four seven.”
“Please,” I say, “I’ll do anything you want as long as you don’t take me to the hospital. I can’t go back there. I just want to go home.” I want to be in my room, in my bed, in the dark, the closest I can get to being nothing, thinking nothing. I want to take one of those pills Hannah had stashed away, the ones that crush dreams into blackness.
I want to take all of them at once.
Mom and Gary are quiet. They’re looking at each other, intent. The green lights on their Cerepins blink—they have the newest version, with thought control. They can communicate without saying a word. Finally, Mom nods.
“All right,” says Gary. “So, CC, I’ve been doing a lot of research, and I think I’ve found something that could help. If you cooperate, we’ll take the hospital off the table for now, but only if you really give this a chance. Deal?”
“A lot of research?” Not sure he could make it sound more ominous if he tried.
“We only want the best for you,” Mom says.
“What is it?”
“I have a friend who has developed an amazing program that might be exactly what we need. Really cutting edge.”
“Yeah.” I draw the word out. “I hope you don’t mean that literally. I don’t want a neurostim or anything like that.”
That’s what they’d do to me at the hospital. Cure me with a wire threaded into my brain. They still use them for depression even though they’ve just been banned for everything else.
“This isn’t that kind of treatment. It’s something different. More of a . . . service,” says Gary. He leans forward. “Up to you, CC. It’s that or Bethesda Medical.”
Mom’s eyes are pleading. Gary looks hopeful but haggard. He’s aged ten years since that night.
I shudder as memory draws its sharp nails along the locked door again, leaving deep, ragged grooves. Whatever this “service” is, I don’t know if I want it, but I’m certain I don’t want to be in a cage, unable to decide my own fate. “Okay,” I tell them. “I’ll try.”
Chapter Two
Data review.
Internal narrative: on.
Hannah Dietrich’s Cerepin, installed and activated 11:49 a.m., June 1, 2068, manually deactivated for the 9th and final time at 10:32 p.m., August 22, 2069, contained 1,734 hours, 17 minutes, and 51 seconds of vid documentation, 1,092 hours, 4 minutes, and 25 seconds of which were not publicly available on her Mainstream channel. Due to several epochs of manual deactivation, GPS tracking and biostat data is irretrievable. The first manual deactivation occurred December 15, 2068. Total time of deactivation in the first 8 epochs was 30 hours, 31 minutes, and 2 seconds. Precise duration of the final deactivation epoch is undetermined; subject was pronounced dead at 5:23 a.m., August 23, 2069. The paramedic on scene noted her body temperature to be 36 degrees Celsius, suggesting she may have expired approximately 1 hour prior, ± 30 minutes. Rigor mortis had not yet set in. Given this evidence, the final deactivation is estimated to be 6 hours and 21 minutes, ± 30 minutes, in duration.
During much of that time, it appears that Hannah was dying. This is based on the postmortem evidence of catastrophic fractures to her right pelvis, right humerus, mandible, and right temporal bones. She was most likely conscious for at least part of that time, though the exact duration and extent of lucidity is unknown. Evidence at the scene, including the presence and pattern of bodily fluids on the marble flooring and on the palms of her hands, indicates she crawle
d 2.72 m from the final impact point at the base of the staircase.
No house data is available to clarify the sequence or timing of events. The house AI, “Franka” (manufacturer: Synthkortex, model number 27925, installed March 10, 2065, and last updated by admin Gary Dietrich August 4, 2069), was manually deactivated by user Cora Dietrich at 10:46 p.m., August 22, 2069, leaving only 14 minutes of vid surveillance and biostat information after Hannah Dietrich deactivated her Cerepin. Franka was reactivated by user Cora Dietrich at 4:59 a.m. August 23, 2069. No additional information is available for that epoch.
Cora Dietrich, reportedly inside the home for all or most of that time, also stated that she performed a manual deactivation on her own Cerepin in order to avoid online tracking and external monitoring from Gary Dietrich and Maeve Dietrich (née Jenkins). The biological and legal guardians of both adolescent subjects reported being in Saumane de Vaucluse, France, when the incident occurred.
Study of data from Cora Dietrich has not been possible. By law, her consent is necessary in order to remotely access data from her device. Consent has not been obtained.
Removal of Hannah Dietrich’s Cerepin was complicated by the extensive damage to the nodule casing and to the subject’s temporal bone, as well as Gary Dietrich’s request to preserve the appearance of the cadaver as much as possible to enable an open-casket memorial. The damaged storage drive was recovered on August 28, 2069, and submitted for analysis. Retrieval programs were partially successful; the visual and audio data were available but scrambled. The documentation has now been loaded and prepared for analysis through specialized scaffolding programs.
Commencing review of vid documentation.
2:41 p.m., June 6, 2068
“God, this still feels so weird,” Hannah Dietrich (henceforth referred to as “Hannah”) says. Her visual focus is on her hands, fingernails painted blue and partially covered in holographic decals depicting bouquets of flowers with petals that appear to flutter as the air moves. There is a black smudge on the back of her right hand. “I think I’m recording? Yeah.”
She laughs. The sound can be coded as bemusement. She looks around the room. A king-size bed, purple coverlet in disarray, six pillows in an asymmetrical pile, a yellow bathrobe draped across one corner. A wall screen, projecting an image of a waterfall, the illusion of water spilling across the carpeted floor. Clothing and shoes are dispersed in piles between the bed and the open closet door, where more clothes are hung. In the corner of the room, there is an easel, upon which is a canvas, 1 m square.
In front of the canvas is a stool, and on that stool are a palette and what appear to be deposits of oil paint. Beside the stool is a trunk, composite metal, approximately .5 m long with an extrapolated depth of 26 cm, lid open, containing tubes of oil paint and additional brushes.
Hannah approaches the painting. “My latest thing, obviously. It’s just the underpainting, but I’m totally into this one. I’ve already given it a name. Big Day.”
The canvas is striped with red and black curving lines. Not recognizable as a representation of any specific object.
She walks away from the painting until she is in front of the wall screen. “Let me see if I can—and there it is.” She issues another bemused laugh. Now the wall screen shows Hannah looking at herself. Short brown hair, wide-set eyes, iris color hazel. Highly symmetrical features. Objectively pleasing. Subject wears close-fitting black fabric pants colloquially known as “leggings” and a pale-blue short-sleeved tunic with three smears of what appears to be red paint on the left hip. Her feet are bare. “This is going to be fine,” she says as she regards herself. “You’re going to be okay.” She stares at her image for 6 seconds and then adds, “You’re going to make it okay.”
A female voice becomes audible in the room. “Hannah, your father requests that I unlock your door so he can enter.”
“Franka, wait,” Hannah says. Her tone indicates apprehension or anxiety. She approaches the painting and turns it around on the easel, revealing the plastic frame and a blank back. “Okay. Go ahead.”
There is the sound of the door sliding open, and Dr. Gary Dietrich (referred to hereafter as “Dr. Dietrich”) enters the room. He is neatly groomed, with a short, trimmed beard and short, dark hair. His eyes are lighter than his daughter’s but would still be coded as hazel. He is smiling, a full Duchenne smile, genuine, teeth showing. “They’re almost here. ETA seven minutes. Ready?”
“Sure,” says Hannah. She giggles. “Dad, you look sort of goofy.”
“Maeve is used to my goofiness. Cora is, too.” Dr. Dietrich’s expression is soft, loving, as he looks at his daughter. “That was really nice, how you decorated her room. I think she’s going to love that painting.”
“I wanted her to feel at home,” Hannah says. “We vid-chatted once, and I saw the New York skyline on one of her screens. We kind of bonded over it.”
“I know she’s not always the easiest person to talk to . . .”
“We got along fine. We both like Cynical Revolution and real coffee, and we both want to travel someday, and we both hate when Aristotle leans forward and raises his eyebrows when we take too long to answer a question.”
Dr. Dietrich snorts. “I’ll have my development team back off on his nonverbal prompts. I don’t want a full-scale student rebellion on my hands. The government just re-upped the subsidy on that program, and we’ll be in all fifty-two states by next year, nearly ninety percent market saturation.”
“Yeah, you’re not boring at all.”
Dr. Dietrich chuckles as he glances at the canvas. “What’s going on here?”
“None of your business.”
“Yeah?” He smiles. “Will it be my business at some point?”
“No comment! Stop asking me! You know I can’t lie to you.”
He strokes her arm, his brow furrowing. Coded as low-intensity sadness. “You really have your mother’s talent.”
Hannah steps away from him and looks at herself and her father, depicted in the wall screen. They share a family resemblance in the configuration of the eyes and nose, the shape and prominence of the ears. When Hannah taps her Cerepin nodule, the mirror image changes back to a waterfall. She is looking at her hands again when her father says, “I know you miss her. Maeve understands that, too.”
“It’s okay,” Hannah says. “I really like Maeve.”
“This’ll be an adjustment, though. We get that. You’re allowed to have feelings. I just hope you’ll talk to me about them.”
“Of course I will.” Hannah’s voice is quiet.
“I’m the luckiest dad,” Dr. Dietrich says. He pulls Hannah into a hug, and for 4 seconds all that is visible is the white fabric of his sleeve. “Hey—there’s something I wanted to talk to—”
“Sir, the car has landed, and your guests are disembarking.”
Dr. Dietrich releases Hannah, his abrupt movements suggesting minor emotional agitation. “Thank you, Franka. Are the attendants ready to unload their stuff?”
“Yes, sir. They will take them to the designated rooms. I also have the interactive preference forms ready for their completion.”
“Perfect—I want them to feel at home. Want to help me welcome them?”
When Hannah looks down, he has taken her hand. She lets out an unsteady breath.
“Sure,” she says. She follows him out the door, into a hallway with warm ambient light. At the end of the corridor is a foyer with a 10-m ceiling, partially open to the 2nd floor, with the front entrance to the house on 1 side, a wide, curved staircase on the other, and an ebony table in the approximate center, upon which sits a decorative arrangement of calla lilies. The walls are covered in blue damask. The staircase and floor are composed of brecciated marble.
The front door swings open. Dr. Dietrich walks forward as 2 people enter the home. He has released his daughter’s hand. A woman with medium-length auburn hair and blue eyes smiles widely as he approaches. Cross-reference with the facial-recognition database ident
ifies the woman as Maeve Jenkins, now known as Maeve Dietrich (hereafter referred to as “Maeve”). She opens her arms. He laughs and enfolds her in a hug, pressing his mouth to her hair. “God, it’s good to see you. Welcome home.”
“This is surreal,” Maeve says. She turns to the adolescent girl who has entered behind her. The girl is blond and blue-eyed. She is frowning.
“Hi, Cora,” says Dr. Dietrich. Cross-reference with the facial-recognition database identifies the adolescent girl as Cora Jenkins, biological daughter of Maeve Jenkins, now known as Cora Dietrich (hereafter referred to as “Cora”).
Hannah uses her vision implant to focus on Cora’s face. The girl’s cheeks are wet, and her eyes appear swollen. It can be surmised she has been crying.
“Hey,” says Cora.
Maeve gives her daughter a look that can be coded as concerned, though the situational cues are not specific enough to identify what exactly bothers her. She then turns to Hannah, and her smile returns. “You got your hair cut!”
Hannah’s left hand skims past her periphery. Most likely touching her hair. “Do you like it?”
“You’re a picture,” Maeve says, laughter in her voice. “Come here and give me a hug.”
Hannah hugs Maeve, but as she swings her gaze to the right, she captures Cora watching. The newly arrived girl’s jaw is clenched. Hannah steps away from Maeve. “Hey, Cora,” she says, tone indicating caution. “How was the flight?”
“Short,” says Cora. Tonal analysis suggests irritation, possibly anger.
Maeve is frowning when Hannah looks at her again. Dr. Dietrich puts his arm around the woman. “Well, we have a surprise for you girls, but maybe, Hannah, you could show Cora her room first?”
“Fine with me,” says Cora.
Hannah turns and starts to walk up the hallway, looking over her shoulder twice to view Cora. A canny strides out of a room 1 door down from Hannah’s. Hannah mutters a “thank you” to him as he passes, and he inclines his head.
“Here it is,” says Hannah, walking into a room of the same dimensions as her own. There is a neatly made bed with a white coverlet and matching shams on the pillows, a wall screen, and a closet, empty save for 2 stacked boxes. Cora stands in front of a framed painting, 1 m by 1.5 m, that hangs on the wall. It depicts the skyline of Washington, DC, the mirrored facades of skyscrapers reflecting the sun and the Capitol, the Washington Monument in the foreground, smaller than the buildings but drawing the eye. “Do you like it?”
