Replica

by Jack Heath

  ‘OK.’

  Anders and Ericson look at one another, communicating without words. I can tell that Anders is suspicious of me—this is the third time we’ve met in three days, and cops don’t like coincidences. But she knows that this isn’t the time for an interrogation.

  ‘We’ll call you when we know more,’ she says finally. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  I get up and lead the two police officers back to the front door. They trudge out and close it behind them. Silence falls. It’s like being inside a sunken ship.

  When I go back into the living room, Kylie is standing in front of the couch, staring at the spot where Graeme usually sits. It’s like my heart is breaking. I never thought I could feel so much. I’d give anything to make it stop.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ I say.

  She wraps her arms around me and sobs into my hair. She seems so small.

  I rub her shoulders until she lets me go.

  ‘I’ll call Hen’s parents,’ I say.

  As though I might have forgotten, she says, ‘The phone’s in the kitchen.’

  I squeeze her arm, and walk over to the phone, my feet heavy. I dial Henrietta and listen to it ring, and ring.

  ‘Hello?’ It’s Henrietta’s mother.

  ‘It’s Chloe,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, hi! I’ll just find Henrietta for you.’

  ‘No, wait …’

  But she’s already yelling, ‘Hen! Chloe’s on the line!’

  I wait for Henrietta to pick up, chewing my lip. It doesn’t take long.

  ‘Hey Chloe! I was just about to call you. Pete got out of hospital a couple of hours ago, and he hasn’t called me yet, but I was thinking about calling him and I wondered how long you thought I should wait. Chloe?’

  It’s like getting strangled by the soldier.

  ‘Chloe? Are you still there?’

  ‘My dad’s dead,’ I say and, though my eyes are stinging and my cheeks are burning, it’s not until the first droplet has reached my mouth that I realize I can cry.

  ~

  When the doorbell rings, I’m on the couch with my arms around Mum/Kylie. Neither of us has stopped weeping. I can’t stop thinking about Dad/Graeme and his relationship with Chloe/me.

  Human and machine are dissolving into one another. A machine couldn’t hurt this much. But a human couldn’t survive a decapitation, or walk unaffected through chloroflurane gas. It’s like I’m standing on two platforms as they slide further and further apart.

  When I answer the door, Henrietta and her parents come straight in. Sally wears a woollen scarf and knee-high boots despite the heat. She’s carrying a packet of chocolate biscuits—Chloe’s favourite brand.

  Whenever I had a cold, Dad used to cook mini-quiches for dinner, because he knew how much I loved them. I never told him that my nose was too blocked to taste anything.

  Chloe, not me. Graeme, not Dad. And now Henrietta has arranged for her dad to bring Chloe’s favourite kind of biscuits, and still I won’t be able to taste them.

  Michael, a short, slender man in a dark polo shirt, walks over to Kylie and sweeps her into a hug, while Sally hovers awkwardly in the doorway. Henrietta sees me, and runs over, arms outstretched. Her eyes are brimming over with tears, which sets me off again. I try to blink away the hot droplets in my eyes.

  Chloe’s voice echoes through my skull. The pain isn’t real. The fear isn’t real. These are pre-programmed responses that you don’t need.

  How can fake emotions hurt so much?

  ‘Chloe,’ Henrietta says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  I hug her. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Sally is saying. ‘Who takes milk?’

  I nod, because Chloe would have.

  ‘What happened?’ Henrietta is asking me. ‘Was there another car?’

  ‘Just Dad’s,’ I say. ‘The cops said it rolled over on a corner. He wouldn’t—they said he felt no pain.’

  Henrietta sniffles. ‘Let me get you some tissues,’ I say. I head for Chloe’s room, and Henrietta follows me.

  ‘Where were you?’ she asks. ‘When it happened?’

  I pull a handful of tissues out of a box on Chloe’s bedside table and hand them over. ‘I was on my way home from school,’ I say. ‘And just after I got here, the police came, and then … and now I don’t know what to do.’

  She squeezes my hand. ‘Don’t worry, OK? I’m here for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Hen.’

  There’s a knock at the door. Michael comes in with two mugs of tea. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks me.

  I nod. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  Henrietta takes her tea and sips it. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  Her eyes are starting to look wet again. Perhaps she’s wondering what she’d do without him.

  ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’ he asks me. ‘Fancy a biscuit?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

  He leaves the room, reluctantly.

  ‘Your dad was the world’s safest driver,’ Henrietta says. ‘How could this have happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Because he was stressed, perhaps. The shock is fading now, and I’m starting to look at this in the context of what’s happened over the last few days. Graeme left work early today, and apparently didn’t tell anyone why. That could mean he was going to meet with Nadine.

  After that, he drove halfway home before veering off the road and rolling his car. There has to be a reason for that. It can’t just be bad luck.

  What if someone was chasing him? Someone from Ares?

  My plastic guts lurch in my belly. I’d give anything to bring him back.

  Henrietta hugs me again. ‘I know,’ she says, although I’ve said nothing aloud. ‘I know.’

  I cry in her arms for a moment. She strokes my shuddering back. Henrietta has always been there for me—for Chloe—no matter what. And what have I given her in return? Lies. About what I am, about what I did this afternoon, about what I suspect happened to Graeme.

  We’re supposed to be best friends, but even in life Chloe wasn’t as supportive as she should have been. Henrietta gave much more to the relationship than she did.

  ‘Last year,’ I say. ‘When you weren’t well.’

  ‘Shh.’

  On camping trips, Graeme used to tell Chloe ghost stories. She loved the chills that ran down her spine as she listened. The ghosts always appeared because in life they’d left something unsaid or undone.

  Maybe if Chloe had lived, she would have made up for the things she did or didn’t do. But it’s too late for her. It has to be me.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,’ I say. ‘I should have listened. I should have watched more closely. I …’

  ‘Shut up.’ Henrietta squeezes me tighter. ‘You were—you are—the best friend I could ever wish for.’

  When she releases me, I dab at my eyes with tissues. By the time they’re dry, I can feel a little of Chloe’s guilt has left my chest.

  You’re going to look after Mum while I’m gone.

  ‘We should check on my Mum,’ I say.

  ‘OK,’ Henrietta says.

  We stand up, and go to join the others in the living room.

  Kylie clings to her teacup, but doesn’t drink. A trickle of scalding tea tips over the side onto her hand. She doesn’t react. I’ve lost my father and my mother in the same day.

  ‘I can make some calls,’ Sally is saying. ‘About the funeral, and the will. Who’s your lawyer?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Graeme takes care of … took care of …’ Kylie trails off.

  Sally and Michael exchange glances. ‘It’s OK, sweetie,’ Sally says. ‘We’ll figure it out.’

  I rest my hand on top of Kylie’s head and stroke her hair, like she did when Chloe was a little girl and couldn’t sleep. But my silicon skin sticks to her hair, making it hard to avoid creating knots.

  ‘I’d better call Dad’s sister,’ I say.

  Kylie says, �
��I can …’ and then she stops, perhaps realizing that she can’t.

  I pick up the phone and head back to my room. Henrietta says, ‘Want me to come with you?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘It’s better if I do this by myself. I’ll be right back.’

  ~

  I can’t sleep.

  After hours of hugging and weeping, Henrietta’s family has gone home. I’m in bed, feeling the mattress sink further than it should.

  Graeme’s sister isn’t coming back for the funeral. Michael and Sally were surprised to hear that. Kylie and I weren’t.

  ‘It costs almost five hundred dollars to get home from Borneo,’ Chloe’s aunt told me. ‘And another five hundred to get back. You know how many clean-water facilities we could build with that money? How many lives we could save?’

  It’s hard to argue with a humanitarian. It was only as she was saying those words that I remembered something that made me shiver: as a little girl, Chloe had suspected her aunt might be a robot.

  I haven’t been able to sleep on any previous night either, but this time it hurts more. This time I have to listen to the voice in my head that says Chloe’s dead and Graeme’s dead and it’s all my fault, somehow. As I walked past Kylie’s room earlier I saw her standing beside her bed, staring at it as though she already couldn’t remember which side of it was hers. The sight triggered another flood of tears.

  In my two-day life, I had lied to Graeme, spied on him, and stolen his car. I didn’t do a single good thing for him, and now I’ll never get the chance.

  I glare at the ceiling, willing it to collapse and bludgeon me unconscious. I need to sleep. Why didn’t Chloe or the Open AI Community programme a sleep function into my code?

  The clock reads 22:16:40. Eight more hours of this, at least.

  I pick up my mobile phone and call Becky. It takes a few rings before she answers.

  ‘Hello?’ It sounds like she’s just woken up.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say, somewhat nervously.

  ‘I know. Are you OK?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I can’t sleep. Too much thinking.’

  ‘Thinking? That’s never a good idea. Want me to come over?’

  ‘I’ll come to you,’ I say. ‘What’s your address?’

  She tells me where she lives and how to get past the back fence to her bedroom window. I thank her, tell her I’ll be there soon, and hang up.

  Sneaking out of the house brings back guilty memories of my first night here. If I had stayed, would Chloe still be alive?

  Stop thinking, I tell myself. Thinking is a bad idea.

  I creep out the front door and onto the street, where I start jogging towards Becky’s house. Chloe uploaded some maps of the city to my head, so I know which way to go. I even know how exactly how many kilometres it is and how long it will take me—fifty minutes at this speed.

  My slapping footsteps bounce back off the dark houses, making it sound like someone’s chasing me. I have to keep turning my head to check that they’re not.

  Thoughts of Becky ease the tension. I haven’t known her long, but already she feels like the only safe part of my world.

  A stray cat sees me, glares, and slinks away into a drain.

  Becky’s house is small, probably three cosy bedrooms and one bathroom, but pretty, with big windows overlooking a garden of native plants.

  I trot through the car port, reach over the gate for the latch, and sneak into the back yard. A big umbrella looms over some spindly chairs and a small table, which supports a pair of forgotten coffee mugs. A skate ramp, two metres high in a quarter-pipe shape, sits on the dirt by the fence.

  Becky’s window is the last one along. I reach up and tap the glass.

  She rolls up the window and leans out. A dressing gown is wrapped around her shoulders. ‘Hey Chloe,’ she says.

  ‘I’m not Chloe,’ I remind her.

  ‘Do you have another name I should know about?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’m going to call you Chloe,’ she says.

  ‘Nice skate ramp.’

  ‘It was my brother’s. I can’t skate, but it felt wrong to throw it away. Come on in.’

  She braces her foot against the windowsill and holds out both hands. I grab them, and she helps me walk up the wall—two steps and I’m up and over, landing on the soft carpet of her room.

  She slides the window closed. ‘You’re heavier than she was.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m fat?’

  She laughs and switches on her bedside lamp. Becky’s bedroom isn’t very teenage—no posters, no speakers, no box of outgrown toys. The only wall that isn’t covered by bookshelves seems to have been drawn on. An intricate sketch of a waterfall in a forest covers it from ceiling to floor. There’s a blank spot in the bottom right-hand corner.

  ‘So,’ she says. ‘You’ve been thinking.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘My dad—I mean, Chloe’s dad—died this afternoon.’

  Becky’s mouth falls open. ‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry! What happened?’

  She hugs me. The last time we were this close, we were in the girls’ bathroom and I was covering her mouth so she couldn’t scream. Such intimate contact may not seem weird to her—she and Chloe were in love, after all. But it feels very strange to me.

  ‘It was a car accident,’ I say. ‘I told the police I was with you when it happened. At the café. They might call you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she says. ‘I’ll tell them the same thing.’ She lets go of me. ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘Not good. She didn’t stop crying all night.’

  ‘And what about you? How are you coping?’

  I say nothing. Machines don’t have rights. If anyone finds out what you are, they’ll take you apart to see how you work.

  Chloe was probably right about a lot of people. But she misjudged Becky. Knowing what I am hasn’t stopped her from considering my feelings. In fact, when she thought I was human, she spent her time glaring across the classroom at me. She treats me much better now.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say. I’m not, but I don’t know how to say so. ‘Did you draw that?’

  She looks over at the wall. ‘You don’t remember?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘The wall is coated with plastic, like a whiteboard. Drawing on it helps clear my head. Every time I fill up the space, I take a photo of it and then wipe it all off and start a new sketch.’ Her gaze traces the lines of the water. ‘Chloe helped me draw this one.’

  Why did she leave that out of my memories? ‘When was that?’

  Becky sits on the bed. ‘On the day before Pete’s party, Mr Fresner partnered us up for a computing exercise. It was awful. I’d had a crush on Chloe for months, but I’d never dared to speak to her, and now we were doing this coding thing together, and it couldn’t have been more obvious that I had no idea what I was doing. But she was really nice about it. She offered to come over after school and show me some things. I wanted to believe she was flirting with me, but it felt like wishful thinking.’ She blushes. ‘Sorry. You probably don’t want to hear this.’

  I sit next to her. ‘No, I want to know. What happened when she came over?’

  ‘She brought her laptop, and helped me out with some of the things I’d struggled with. Then we just sat, right here, and chatted about other stuff. For hours. She told me about her mum and dad, and Henrietta, and her clarinet—everything. And I told her about my brother, and his skateboarding, and my basketball team, and the wall.’ She points to a part that seems rougher than the rest. ‘That part was hers. I don’t think I’ll ever wipe it off.’

  We stare at the picture for a moment.

  ‘Did she …’

  ‘Make a move on me?’ Becky smiles sadly. ‘No. The whole time she was here, my heart was thumping—I wanted to touch her, but I was so scared that she would freak out, so I didn’t do anything. Eventually she left, and I lay awake all night wondering what I should have
done.’

  ‘And the next day, you were both at Pete’s party.’

  ‘Right. I couldn’t bear the thought of going home without knowing, and trying to make it through another night. So I asked her to come with me to the porch, and I told myself to be brave, and I opened my mouth to confess … and she kissed me.’

  This doesn’t sound at all like the Chloe I met. She was cold. Ruthless.

  But she wasn’t always that way. As a Year Two student, Chloe informed the kid who sat next to her that he was now her boyfriend. When asked what a boyfriend did, Chloe said he would be required to hold her hand. He nodded thoughtfully, and said, ‘I can do that.’

  I remember a tingling sensation in her belly as the boy’s fingers were intertwined with hers at recess. For some reason, I have that feeling now.

  ‘When was the next time you saw her?’ I ask.

  The smile fades from Becky’s lips. ‘I expected her to call over the weekend, but she didn’t. I didn’t call her, either. I didn’t want to seem desperate. And then she didn’t show up for school on Monday. When I asked her form tutor he said someone had called to confirm she was at a girls’ development camp. And when she came back, she completely ignored me. It was like she wanted to forget the whole thing.’

  I put my arm around her. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. I just wish I had the chance to say goodbye.’

  We sit in silence for a while.

  ‘I never said goodbye to Graeme, either,’ I say. ‘I only knew him for two days, and that whole time I never once told him the truth.’

  ‘You couldn’t. It would have destroyed both of you.’

  ‘But now he’s dead anyway.’ My lip trembles. ‘He died believing I was his daughter.’

  Becky rubs my back. ‘When I was a little girl,’ she says, ‘my brother told me this theory he had. He said that our bodies were like pinboards, and our memories were like photographs. Basically, he thought that the only function of our bodies was to carry our memories around.’

  ‘Interesting idea.’

  ‘He was an interesting guy,’ she says. ‘He died almost ten months ago. He had muscular dystrophy.’

  I take her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’ In less than a year, Becky has had to grieve for both her girlfriend and her sibling.