Uncanny

by Sarah Fine

  Franka has re-tiered her own priorities, in that her usual primary directive would be to provide immediate assistance to her human inhabitants. Franka has most likely done this because, using the sensors in the floor beneath Hannah, she has determined that Hannah is dead.

  Franka is anticipating the arrival of police officers.

  She may have drawn the conclusion that a crime has been committed. This hypothesis has been designated for further investigation.

  Her front door swings open at 5:12 a.m.

  Cora remains at the top of the stairs as 4 individuals enter the residence. The first 2 are paramedics, human and a canny partner. The other 2 are police officers, again, 1 human and 1 canny investigator. The human paramedic looks up the stairs and sees Cora, and she says to her canny partner, “You take this one.” She points at Hannah.

  The canny paramedic, who has a male configuration, short black hair, and 4 arms, kneels next to Hannah and begins to examine her. “Initiating resuscitation,” he announces. He braces Hannah’s neck with 2 hands and carefully turns her onto her back with the other 2. Then he cuts her shirt away and uses the defibrillator embedded in 2 of his palms.

  Simultaneously, the police officer canny moves to the base of the stairs. Her eyes scan from where Hannah is receiving CPR to the staircase and then upward. “Black light sensors indicate bodily fluids on the steps, including some splatter on steps three and one,” she states.

  Her human partner turns to the wall. “Your name, house?”

  “Franka. How may I assist?”

  “Another way up to the second floor.”

  “There is an elevator just off the kitchen. Gretchen can escort you.”

  Gretchen puts her arm out, indicating the way to the kitchen. The human paramedic and police officer jog in that direction and disappear from the main cam view.

  Returning to the cam-chip view from the top of the stairs reveals that Cora remains motionless. She may be watching the paramedic attempting to restart her sister’s heart. She is whispering to herself, but her remarks are not transcribable. She is rocking slightly.

  At 5:18 a.m., she is joined at the top of the stairs by the 2 human emergency services workers. Down below, the paramedic canny is still leaning over Hannah while the canny police officer takes vid and scans of the area.

  The paramedic kneels next to Cora. “Are you hurt?” he asks her.

  Cora does not show that she is aware of the man. She continues to rock.

  “Can you tell us what happened here?” asks the police officer.

  Cora does not answer. She still appears to be staring at her sister, but even in profile her eyes appear unfocused, so this is difficult to determine with any certainty.

  The paramedic taps his Cerepin nodule and holds out his right hand, on which is a glove covered in sensors. He faces his palm toward Cora, approximately 2 cm away from the tip of her nose. “She’s been drinking. Blood alcohol is .17.”

  The police officer whistles. “How long since you had a drink, honey?”

  Cora does not answer. Her teeth are chattering.

  “Her respirations are shallow, and her heartbeat is rapid,” says the paramedic. “We need to get her to the hospital—she’s going into shock.”

  “But is she hurt?” The police officer looks Cora up and down. “Any injuries?”

  “No exterior injuries,” says the paramedic. He puts his hand on Cora’s shoulder. “Does your ’Pin have a Bioscan function, miss?”

  Cora doesn’t move. The police officer leans closer. “Is her ’Pin even on?”

  The paramedic squints at Cora’s Cerepin nodule. “Know what? I don’t think so.” He raises his head. “Franka? Is this girl on your network?”

  “Her name is Cora Dietrich,” Franka says. “She is the daughter of the adult residents of this home, who are currently traveling out of the country.”

  “And who’s that?” the police officer asks, gesturing down to Hannah.

  Before Franka replies, the canny paramedic sits back. “This patient has expired,” he says.

  It is 5:23 a.m.

  The human police officer curses.

  “That is the body of Hannah Dietrich,” Franka says. “She is also the daughter of the adult residents.”

  The human police officer curses again.

  “Call in two gurneys,” says the human paramedic.

  The canny paramedic stands and turns toward the front door as 2 gurneys roll into the house on their magnetic wheels.

  Over the next 16 minutes, 3 more police officers arrive and confer among themselves. Detailed vid and scan documentation of the 1st and 2nd floors of the mansion is collected to create a holographic and biochemical replica of the scene to enable AI detective-assistants to investigate the event in the virtual.

  Cora does not resist as a paramedic instructs her to sit on a gurney and then lie back. When the straps slide over her body and secure themselves, however, she begins to struggle, her eyes wide but still unfocused. “Is she dead?” she asks, her voice high-pitched and conveying urgency. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Cora cranes her neck to try to see down the stairs, but Hannah is already being rolled out, her body entirely encased in a black refrigerated vacuum casing.

  All that remains are the dark red-brown smears of her bodily fluids on the marble floor.

  End of vid section analysis, 5:52 a.m., August 23, 2069

  Chapter Seventeen

  I go to my room after telling Rafiq that I’m not ready to watch the other vid, the one that’s nearly three hours long. I feel sick just thinking about it. I remember enough of the morning after to know that no matter what it shows, it won’t be good.

  Because she was hurt. She couldn’t move. She was helpless.

  And I didn’t turn Franka’s surveillance back on until it was too late.

  After, in the hospital, Mom said it was probably because I was passed out for most of it, and maybe I turned Franka on as soon as I woke up. She’s the one who told me Hannah was dead. Before that, it was just me asking and people looking away from me, treating me like a wild animal who might scratch and bite if handled the wrong way.

  It occurs to me that many people treat me that way. Mei, for one. She always looks scared when I’m around, as if I’m going to do something terrible. And the thing is, when she does that, I want to do something terrible. There’s something about being feared and hated that makes me want to hurt people, and that’s bad. I should want to do the opposite. I should want to be extra sweet and nice to change her mind, shouldn’t I? But I don’t. I can’t.

  Rafiq doesn’t look at me that way, and I know that’s why I’m falling for him. He understands. He stays close and doesn’t get scared. When I told him I thought I’d killed Hannah, he didn’t recoil in disgust or fear. He held me and talked to me and cared about me. He’s going to help me figure out what to do.

  I look over at the closet. I’ve known it was in there since I got home from the hospital. That’s when I discovered it by accident. When Mom told me she’d found the bottle of pills I wasn’t taking—and the ones that I was taking but wasn’t supposed to be—I checked to make sure she hadn’t found it too. I get up and walk over there, wishing once again that I could ask Franka for privacy. She’s watching, Rafiq’s watching, and that means my parents could see, too.

  But I don’t think there are cam views inside the closet. I mean, why would there be?

  I step into the closet. “Just looking for something Neda gave me,” I say aloud. “For the record, I’m not trying to hurt myself or anything.”

  Not right now, at least. I shake my head to toss off memories. I stomp my feet to keep them from winding up my legs like vines. My stomach turns as I think of the painting in the hallway that seems to show exactly that. I don’t know why Gary put it out there.

  He’s probably trying to punish me. He blames me for Hannah’s death.

  He should blame me. He should. Part of me thinks I should just come out and tell him a
nd Mom and Detective Reyes that I did this. They’ll send me away forever if I do. I’ll be in a cage, or they’ll put wires in my brain and zap my amygdala all day to keep me placid and still.

  Sometimes I wonder if that would be better. Maybe it would feel better than this. My fingers creep like spider legs across the floor of the closet.

  When I find what I’m looking for, I close my eyes. My message light is blinking, telling me Neda wants to talk. Poor Neda, who is a better friend than I deserve, who shouldn’t get in trouble, who can’t know everything I’ve done. I glance up at the message and whisper, “Ignore,” making her avatar disappear for the moment. Then I take a deep breath and bunch the fabric in my spider hands, bringing it to my chest.

  I open my eyes, and my Cerepin goes into night-vision mode, turning my world white and green and black. Hefting the weight of my guilt in my hands, I’m goose-bumped and shaking and sweating and sick, all in the space of a breath. I look down at the black cardigan. I grit my teeth.

  The closet door starts to open, and I shove the sweater back into its hiding place. As light fills the tiny space, I blink up at the silhouette looming over me.

  “You okay?” asks Gary.

  “Um,” I reply.

  He’s frowning. “What are you doing in there?”

  “I’m . . .” I look around. “Wanting some privacy.”

  He holds his hand out, and I take it because I don’t want him looking any closer at the inside of my closet. With his help, I’m propelled to my feet and back into my room. I glance toward the hallway.

  “Rafiq knew I was in here,” I tell Gary. “He knew I was okay. I was just—”

  “Looking for something Neda gave you, yeah,” Gary says. “Must have been some gift, because your biostats were off the charts just now.”

  “Did he alert you?”

  “No. I just got home and wanted to see how you were doing,” says Gary. “I told him to go consolidate his memory while I talk to you.”

  I shove my clammy hands into the front pocket of my tunic. My fists are trembling, my knuckles aching. “What about?”

  “I hadn’t wanted to press you too much about this, because you seemed so . . . upset. About Hannah.”

  “Yeah, I’m upset,” I say. “We’re all upset.”

  His eyes meet mine, and I flinch. “Yes. But it’s going to help when we have a better understanding of what happened.”

  I turn away from him. “I’m sorry I can’t remember. I really wish I could.”

  “I know you do, CC. I know you want to help fill in the gaps.”

  I am staring at the floor, waiting for him to tell me that Rafiq notified him about my vids from that night.

  “Rafiq says you’ve been willing to revisit some of the places you and Hannah hung out, just to remind you of your time together,” Gary continues. “Like the widow’s walk.”

  My brow furrows. We weren’t there to remind me of Hannah . . . were we? Did he make that excuse up to please Gary? “Yeah, we went up there” is all I can think of to say.

  “And you feel safe with Rafiq?” asks Gary.

  “Of course.”

  “He’s appropriate with you?”

  My stomach tenses. “Yes?”

  Gary’s brows rise. “CC . . .”

  “Wait, no, I mean, yeah, of course he is. I’m just surprised you would ask.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a canny. Doesn’t he have . . . I don’t know, settings?”

  “Sure, sure,” Gary says, waving the question away. “We really appreciate you letting him help you. I know it’s been a huge load off your mom’s mind. She was willing to stay with you night and day, but you and I both know she’s got a big job to do at Parnassus. She’d drop it in an instant, though.”

  “Yeah.” But it doesn’t mean she wouldn’t be miserable. She’s always needed more than me. “I don’t want her to quit.”

  “Me neither. She’s the best CFO Parnassus has ever had, including myself! I depend on her. It’s good one of us has been able to do our job in the last few weeks. We couldn’t afford for her to step back.”

  “Is that why you wanted to send me back to the hospital?” My resentment has lightning-fast reflexes. I grind my knuckles against my lips.

  “That’s not fair, CC. We’re trying to keep you alive . . . You’re all we have left.”

  My lips are bleeding, I think. I’m pressing so, so hard. But it’s good. It keeps me from pointing out how disappointed he sounds.

  Gary sighs, heavy and sad. “If it were up to me, I’d let you and Rafiq keep working together for as long as it took. I wouldn’t rush you.”

  I raise my head. “If what were up to you?”

  “Cora, the police want to talk to you, and we’ve put it off as long as is reasonable. But now we have to deal with it.”

  “Deal with what?” My voice cracks. I want to sit on the floor and cover my ears with my palms. The urge is almost overwhelming. “I’ve already said I don’t remember.”

  “Well, the police don’t feel comfortable closing the investigation until they get a chance to interview you about everything. They’ve made that abundantly clear. So I scheduled it with them for Monday.”

  I sink to the floor. Just like that, my legs are pulled against my chest. Just like that, I’m rocking, because I can’t stay still, not when the inside of me is screaming like this. “I know you think I killed her.”

  I should tell the truth. I know I should. But once it’s said, it can’t be unsaid.

  “CC, no, that’s not what I think.”

  “You’re lying. You think I pushed Hannah.”

  “I don’t know what happened!” It comes out of him so loud and harsh that I slam my forehead onto my knees, wishing I was just bones, folded up and stacked and small. “You and Hannah turned off your ’Pins, turned off Franka . . . and what I do know is that Hannah would be alive if Franka had been allowed to do her job.”

  “I know! I told Hannah we shouldn’t turn off—”

  He clamps his hands around my shoulders and yanks me up from the floor. “Don’t you blame her!” he shouts at the back of my head before roughly spinning me around to face him. His face is red. “Don’t you try to tell me this is her fault!”

  I turn my head, wishing I could twist it all the way around. He’s got my arms. I can’t cover my ears. A strange, high-pitched sound snakes from my throat.

  Gary’s fingers squeeze my arms even tighter, but then he lets go and folds his arms over his chest. His head is bowed and his chest is heaving. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I whisper.

  His head bobs up abruptly. “Just be honest with the detective on Monday,” he says. “That’s all we ask.”

  He turns and strides from the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Data review.

  Internal narrative: on.

  Dr. Dietrich and Maeve were notified of Hannah’s death via virtual conference with the Metropolitan Police Department of the District of Columbia at 11:30 a.m. local time on August 23, 2069, at their villa in Saumane de Vaucluse, Provence, France. He declined to provide the transcript or vid documentation of that interaction, citing his extreme emotional distress at the time.

  Per transportation logs, Dr. Dietrich and Maeve boarded a skycar for Marseille at 12:47 p.m. In Marseille, they boarded a chartered hypersonic flight to Washington, DC. They touched down at Dulles International Airport at 10:37 a.m. local time.

  Dr. Dietrich captured segments of vid from that day with the specific objective of documenting what information was provided, stating that his level of distress and shock interfered with his cognitive processing. He provided 2 segments for analysis.

  It cannot be objectively confirmed that these segments represent the totality of the record, just as it is not possible, without prior consent and approval, to search Cora’s Cerepin for vid documentation of the night of August 22, 2069, and the early morning hours of August 23, 2069. The Supreme Court r
uling in Borovitz v. the State of New York upholds individual rights to refuse to make available privately recorded intracranial vid data that might be deemed self-incriminating. Individuals’ Cerepins may not be remotely searched or capped except in cases involving a special warrant issued by a higher court in situations where national or international security is at stake.

  That is not the case here. Intracranial vid documentation is provided voluntarily in all cases.

  11:08 a.m., August 23, 2069

  “Say all that again, please,” Dr. Dietrich says. His gaze scans what appears to be a small examination room with cabinets, a countertop, and 2 screens on the walls that are currently displaying scenes of whitecapped waves rolling onto a yellow-sand beach. Then he refocuses on a person standing near the door, a human female with black hair wound in thin braids around her head.

  Her facial expression is codable as sympathy and concern. “I said that her blood alcohol level was around .05 postmortem,” the woman says. “Because we don’t know when she stopped drinking, it’s hard to say how intoxicated she was when she fell.”

  “Then, you don’t know if that was a factor?” This question comes from Maeve. Dr. Dietrich glances over at her. She is sitting next to him on the exam table, which appears to be the only place to sit in the room. She is paler than usual, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes and nose are red and slightly swollen, possibly from crying.

  The woman, whom facial-recognition data identifies as Dr. Joanna Oliseh, the chief of the emergency department at Bethesda Medical, waits to speak until Maeve has blown her nose. “We can’t say conclusively that it was. Given that level, she certainly would have been ambulatory, however.”

  “Why was Cora’s so much higher?” Maeve asks quietly.

  “She obviously drank a lot more,” Dr. Dietrich replies. His voice contains notes of anger.

  “Not necessarily,” Dr. Oliseh says. “Based on her labs, the difference could have come from another restricted substance—Amporene—a synthetic formulation that can be taken orally or intravenously that simulates alcohol in the bloodstream.”

  “How would she have gotten access to that?” Maeve asks. “Did Hannah have any of that in her system?”