by Red Harvey
“It was an accident,” Shylar said.
His were a familiar set of words. Ada had heard the words shouted at her several times when her mother had been trying to get them through to her a year ago. After Ada refused to attend August’s funeral, her family and friends had gotten sick of her denial, but they hadn’t gotten through to her either. She even tried to scream the words at herself in front of the mirror. None of it stuck. Likewise, Shylar’s endorsement failed to change her view of who was to blame.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” she said.
“What a timely bladder you have,” he drawled.
She ignored him and kept walking.
He called out, “How long can you keep lying to yourself?”
Seconds ticked by before she came back into the room.
“Lying about what?”
“I thought you had to go to the bathroom.” He waggled his brows.
“Well, I certainly was lying about that!” Ada threw her hands into the air.
He chuckled. “All right, all right, but...so many people have tried to tell you, and you wouldn’t listen.”
What the hell do you know about it? But she left that unsaid. It would have been a defensive question, and she was done playing defense on the issue of her dead husband. She had just admitted to herself August’s death was accidental, but if hearing it from someone else brought some closure, then hallelujah.
“Tell. Me. What.” Shylar exhaled noisily. “You didn’t kill your husband. He’s still alive.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“He is still alive,” he repeated. “Kressick tried telling you, several times. Each time, you nodded and accepted the words, but a second later, you went about the day as if the conversation had never happened. Telling you now seems the right time, since you’re more lucid than I’ve ever seen you.”
And she was. Lucid. Completely aware. Tears fell fast and free from her eyes, though her cool did not completely crumble.
“What-what happened to him then?”
“He was seriously wounded, but physically capable of recovering. It’s his...mental status that’s holding him back.”
She frowned. “Huh?”
He continued on with his explanation in a measured tone, as he would to a child. “You fried his neurological pathways, at least that’s what Kressick surmised about the state of his brain. He’s like a toy without batteries.”
Her tears stopped. All of the details made her feel too shocked to cry. “Where is he?”
Shylar took a long breath. “Kressick had him moved, here to Atlanta, a few days ago.”
“How?”
It was a valid question. If interstate travel was difficult, interstate re-location was near impossible. The fees alone kept most citizens in their native states for all of their lives.
“A sizeable donation to the Prominents allowed him certain freedoms.”
Ada barely heard the answer. Her question of how had been automatic. Now, her head was spinning, and she was thinking of one last mission.
“I want to see him, today.”
Shylar shook his head. “That’s completely possible, but...”
“But?”
“Don’t expect to fix him.”
Heat flooded her face. He seemed to know everything she was thinking, as if Kressick had linked their minds in some way. Nosy old coot. If that was true, the connection went one way, because she felt little for Shylar except annoyance.
Liar.
“You’ve been really nice, saving my life and shit, but I can’t let that bury my regular, rude self.” She put up her chin to look down at him. “Stop acting like you know me. Wanna keep playing sidekick? Fine, but don’t advise me on anything. Tell me where to find my husband.”
“The address uploaded to your interface two minutes ago, under the name ‘August’.”
There was no evidence of sadness in Shylar’s demeanor. Ada hoped her words would hurt him, but the man was a robot. She wondered what it would take to see some emotion from him. It was a fleeting concern, overshadowed by her worry for August.
She told Shylar to wait for Darcy, instructing him like the faithful dog he was. She wanted to see her husband alone.
“Be back in a few hours,” she said.
Thirty One
Calm down. Calm down. Calm.
On the ride to the hospital, her mind played through several scenarios at once:
August waking up and not remembering her. August waking up and hating her. August never waking up. When the car finally announced, “You’ve reached your destination,” she flew from the small space and into the building. The hospital was nice, a Prominent-run facility, and fully-equipped. Kressick had seen fit to take care of her husband, and she swallowed the tears that surfaced. Every so often, she glanced at her arm, verifying August’s coordinates via Shylar’s map.
Five meters from her goal, an attendant tried to bar her entrance into the long-term care ward.
“Can I help you, citizen?” The young man stepped in her path, blocking the particle screen.
“Move.” She threw out a small spark, hitting him in the knee.
He went down with a yell, allowing her to override the security screen. He yelled for her to stop, to come back and submit to an eye scan. She waded on, the last stretch. She rounded the corner, expecting to see August’s sleeping form hooked to various tubes, but the bed was empty.
Slamming footsteps caught up to her, and the attendant stood behind her, threatening to call security.
“Where is he?” she asked. “Who?” he panted. She tweaked him slightly, just so he would be more accommodating.
He gurgled, sneezed, and a glazed hood went over his eyes. “This patient died nearly an hour ago. His body has been moved to the crematorium, in the sub-level.”
“How did he,” she wheezed, the words barely making it out of her mouth, “how did he die?”
The attendant shrugged. “His heart stopped.” Worse than never waking up. Dead. A scenario she hadn’t imagined. She doubled over, hair hanging in her face, tears surfacing anew. Two simple sentences had punctured her gut. She couldn’t breathe.
Ada almost fell over. She grabbed the attendant to steady herself, and he did all he could to get her hands off of him without touching her too much.
“Ma’am, this isn’t really appropriate.”
“Fuck appropriate,” she spat. “Take me to the crematorium.” The sub-level was dark, with a wet smell familiar to most basement areas. They went by several unmarked barriers embedded in the concrete hallway, until they came to the one titled CRM.
“He’s in there,” the attendant whispered.
“Thanks, you can go now.” She released the hold on him, and he whirled around, marching back to his station upstairs.
Easily, she unlocked the barrier to the crematorium, her eyes adjusting to the bright lighting inside. Lit panels lined the wall to the left, a large interface covered the wall, along with a chrome incinerator. One particle slab shimmered in the center of the room, a sheet hiding the burden it supported.
An arm dangled, uncovered, and Ada made out pink tapered nails. Definitely not August.
She scanned the panels individually, searching, searching, until panel 3256 lit up completely. At her request, the panel slid out, revealing a body.
“August,” she sobbed, rushing to confirm her other worst fear.
Dark curling hair, thick eyebrows, chiseled mouth.
“August,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. Too late to even say a proper goodbye. Again. She would never get to see him wake up or sleep indefinitely. All of the hope Shylar’s revelation caused died a bloody death within her, and she was crushed for a second time on behalf of her husband.
She ran her hands over his cold, naked body. She lightly kissed his forehead, his eyelids, his unyielding mouth. With every kiss, she told him she was sorry, so very sorry. The contact lasted for hours, or minutes. She wished she could stay, clinging his i
cy hands, but the non-crazy part of her warned her of limited time. An alien smell wafted up from the body, and she forced down rising bile. She could taste the smell on her mouth.
According to the room interface, he was scheduled for cremation in a few hours.
She hated waiting. Ada gave the machine new orders, and his body moved from the panel on particle tracks to the incinerator. Before he went through the open space, she kissed him one last time. Soon, the body was swallowed by flame, and she envisioned the features she loved melting away. She turned away from the incinerator, shaking violently.
When the procedure finished, a ceramic container eased from incinerator, with the lone initial A inscribed on the side. She gingerly handled the urn, expecting heat, but there came none. The grey stone was cool, enticing her to trace the A over and over. She searched the room for a smaller urn, an easier transport to take a small part of A in, and soon, she found an answer.
In one of the wall panels, smaller versions of the ceramic urn hung from silver chains, and she grabbed one. The top snapped off, and she poured as much of A into it as it could hold. Once full, she snapped the top back into place, donned the necklace, and pocketed the larger urn to take.
She patted the new piece of jewelry on her way out of the crematorium.
Close to me, always.
It would have to be enough.
~*~
That night, Ada was back at the Moretz estate, her face expressionless. She didn’t give anyone a chance to ask what happened at the hospital, though Shylar remarked on her new necklace.
She went up the winding marble staircase to collect her little sister. She and Chancelin had discussed Darcy’s placement, with both women agreeing that Darcy needed someone who understood her unique abilities. Without a teacher, she might lead herself to depths unknown.
“I certainly don’t want her to end up like you,” Chancelin said.
Instead of being offended, Ada concurred with her stepmother. Another mentally unstable person descended from the Corentin lineage was not something the world needed.
On her way to Darcy’s bedroom, Ada was blocked by Phennell in the upstairs hallway. He tapped the wristlet, commanding an outward projection. The holographic images showed a newscast relaying the details of Congressman Moretz’s supposed death. Pictures flashed, telling the story of how his private jet had crashed over the Indian Ocean with Moretz and the pilot being the only lives lost. Apparently, he had been flying in a new electronically powered jet.
“Gas-powered engines have been found to be much more reliable over the years.=,” one newscaster commented, looking regretful.
Leave it to the Sammies to endorse use of fossil fuels while orchestrating an entirely different cover-up.
After the newscast finished, Phennell started yelling in her face. He was heaping blame down on Ada. Slut, bitch, were some of the epithets she caught before silencing him. Literally. She held up a hand and sent a command to his brain. While she was in his cerebral cortex, she did a small overhaul. Nothing major—but a change persisted nonetheless.
The change took hold within him. His face flushed as warmth flooded his system. What he likely distinguished as warmth was really the movement of electrical signals being overturned, or fried, in his brain. Whatever words and actions he planned were evaporated under new impulses put in place by her.
Phennell was dazed. He deactivated his wristlet, muttered something like “never mind” and shuffled off. Even his walk was different. And all she had done was remove his cruel nature. That cruel nature had driven many of his impulses, gestures, and habits. Hel was no longer himself. He was someone new.
Ada felt a wrench of guilt she buried, knowing she would have to deal with it later. No wonder Kressick had waited years to re- wire Moretz. Once completed, there could be no denying the immorality of it. To change a person, well, killing a part of them became necessary. She could go so far as to call a re-wiring murder. Though she had come to Atlanta looking to commit that very act, she found she no longer had any taste for it.
Thirty Two
“Tell me what happened at the hospital,” Shylar asked from the passenger seat.
They had gotten into the sub-garage to leave, and he had gone for the driver’s seat. Ada had zapped the handle of the door before he could open it, effectively taking control. Even though the car was put on autopilot more often than not, it was the issue of control that was most important. He knew she liked having her bit of control, and she wasn’t going to give it up to her robot friend just to maintain a semblance of politeness.
He also believed employing tact was pointless, which is why his first question left little to be desired. Darcy was asleep in the backseat, and had she been awake, he would have saved his inquiry for later.
She fingered a black ceramic vial hanging from a silver necklace. “I shouldn’t have gone, because when I got there, August was already dead. And I was...I was glad.”
Any other person would have given Ada a reproachful or surprised look, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, remaining impartial to her revelation.
She continued, “On the way there, I fantasized about what would happen when I saw him. I knew I would try to save him, but I thought about how August would react. Maybe he would wake up, he would know me, and we would go on with our lives together. Or, he would wake up, not know me at all, and our lives would go on in separate directions. Yet, with his death, I didn’t have to see any of the outcomes. August never had to wake up and see how much I changed. What’s best of all is that he passed on peacefully, no longer trapped within a withering shell. So yes, I was relieved to find out my husband was dead.”
She sighed. At her pause, Shylar turned to her. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes were reflective pools. Lightly, he touched her shoulder. Ada froze then, she reached up to cover Shylar’s hand with her own. The hum of an electrical current warned him. It was more than awareness for her skin on his. More like a jolt that increased his blood flow. He didn’t mind, and he thought he could get used to it in time. When she squeezed his hand, he smiled at her unusual display of affection.
The intimacy of the moment propelled Ada to admit even more to him. “It may not have been my fault, but I know that—” She closed her eyes before saying, “I killed August.”
An eternity passed. “You’re right.” She frowned. He realized he needed to clarify his viewpoint. Before she shut down on him, he spoke. “You’re right, you were partly responsible, but nothing was your fault. It was an accident.”
The angle of accident would take a longer time for her to accept, but at least she listened. She might not agree but she said, “Thank you for waking me up to the truth. Even if you were programmed to. None of what you’re saying is real or your own, is it?”
The sudden shift of her body moving away from him clued Shylar into was she was feeling. He wished she would stop thinking about him as though he were a thing. “None of this was part of my mission parameter.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he thought, what a jackass. Mission parameter? That sort of wording is sure to convince Ada you’re not a robot. Though, he couldn’t help speaking like that. The person he’d been before had been replaced, but traces of his old personality still lingered. Shylar could feel his old memories and thoughts thrumming behind his eyes. Close as they seemed, he knew they were far away, out of reach.
“It wasn’t, huh?” she said. “No, just as my feelings for you are completely separate from the artificial personality constructs Kressick created in my mind.”
As the words left his mouth, he worried he was lying to her. He couldn’t be sure what part of him was the result of re-wiring or what wasn’t, as the line between who he was and he who he had been obliterated the day Kressick smiled, looked him in the eyes, and imbued him with the deepest calm he’d ever known.
She shook his hand off of her shoulder. Her tears fell, and Shylar was fascinated by her suffering.
“I knew you had feelings for me, b
ut I suspected Kressick’s programming influenced you.” She grinned, a tear tracing its way down her uplifted cheek. “It’s nice to know I was wrong.”
Even with her tears, she seemed happier. Shylar could see a playfulness replacing her sadness, a calm replacing her anger. Without thinking, he reached up to wipe her tears away. It was the old Shylar in him, feeling and acting out instead of just thinking.
“Why’s that?” but he could guess the answer.
“I like you. I have no taste, but I like you. What do we do about that?”
Unexpectedly, he stopped touching her. He straightened, and his face held no hint of emotion.
“We don’t have to do anything about it. We can take care of Darcy, take care of each other.”
“Shylar.” Ada grabbed his hand and held it. “Okay.”
He glanced down at their joined hands. The jolt from before surged through him, and his heart beat a little bit faster. Whatever answer he planned, it never came. The car stopped moving, parked in the underground lot of Kressick’s building.
From the backseat, Darcy stretched to show she was awake. She saw Ada and Shylar holding hands and grinned.
“Are we there?” Her question came out in between yawns.
“I guess we’re home,” Ada said.
~ * ~
At first, Darcy seemed fine with her new living arrangements. She and Ada would sit and talk for hours, a rarity in the age of interfaces, or they would practice honing the skills she inherited as a Corentin. Ada taught her sister the ritual of purge. Shylar heard surprise when Ada told him what she’d learned.
Darcy’s electric manipulation was much stronger than Ada’s. She was able to shoot electric arcs several hundred feet in front of her. The true limit of her ability had not been fully tested because their practice area was the townhome next to Kressick’s. It was a location they could trust was without State surveillance equipment.
“Two townhomes. I thought Kressick was just playing the part of excessive Prominent,” Ada said to Shylar.
“He had plenty of money, and he liked his privacy. It wasn’t about excess.”
