“Kay…” I reach for her, then stop. Now that I’ve fought back my tears, I notice she’s different from how I remember her. Older. Closer to twentysomething than sixteen. Her hair is short—shorter, I should say, than the bob I’m used to.
But what do looks matter? She’s Kay. My Kay. My mind floods—not with memories this time, but emotions. The pain of not being able to share her world, and the love in spite of it, when I realize we will always be there for each other when it matters most.
“Kay.” My voice wobbles. “Open your eyes, love.”
She does, and every fear I’ve had these last three years—about forgetting her or perishing before I find her—melts as our gazes meet and lock and she smiles.
“You’ve finally found me.”
32
AT THIS POINT IN EVERY presentation, all hell broke loose.
“A bot that can pursue happiness?”
“With emotions?”
“That’s a violation of the Ester Act!”
Trust people to always state the obvious.
“Would you rather it be a human?” The auditorium quieted at Actinium’s question. “Think of this as a clinical trial; the bot will test the treatment before it’s released to the masses. Does someone want to volunteer in its stead? Be the guinea pig?” Silence. “I assumed not.”
“The bot’s happiness is just a means to an end,” said Kasey, who had less patience for the audience than Actinium. The bot continued to roll toward her from across the stage. “Once it completes the ‘Find me’ command…”
The bot reached her.
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IN MY DREAMS, WE HUG. We cry. We hold each other so tightly our limbs become one.
But there are no hugs. No tears. Not from Kay’s end, anyway. She hasn’t moved since opening her eyes, and though I know she needs time and space, my worry builds until I can’t stay silent any longer.
“Are you okay?”
She draws a breath, reminding me to do the same. “Yes.” She lifts a hand, her nails trimmed practically short as always, and slowly curls her fingers shut. “Just the side effects of…” She trails off.
“Of…？”
“Take a seat, Cee.”
“Okay…” I look around at the seatless space. “Um—”
Four faucet heads rise from the ground before the casket, shooting out beams of red light that crisscross to form a cradle.
“Sit,” Kay repeats, and though I trust her, I still prepare to butt-plant on the ground as I lower myself onto the light-cradle.
It holds.
A nervous laugh escapes me. I just dove to the bottom of the sea, and now I’m sitting on some chair made out of light while Kay’s in a casket. Also, Kay is older than me, which—unless my memories are screwed up and spotty—isn’t right. I should be two and a half years older.
But I feel small under her gaze.
Guess I’ll start with the whole bottom-of-the-sea thing. “I thought we lived in some city in the sky,” I begin. “Which, I know—ridiculous.” So is this, says a voice in my head. “I’ve been having trouble remembering things, but I thought—”
“Tell me about your life on the island, Cee.”
“Oh.” Something in me sinks. I’m not sure what, or why. “It’s been all right,” I say with a shrug. “Not exactly comfy, but not bad, either.”
She’s nodding along, but she’s not really listening. Instead she’s looking at a … projection of some sort （holograph! I remember triumphantly） that’s rising up from the foot of the casket, filling the air between us with translucent images of graphs and numbers. She frowns as she considers them. “Calorie readings are a bit on the low side…”
“Oh yeah. There was a bit of an issue with the taros—”
“But happiness levels…” The frown deepens. “Cee. Has something happened?”
“I don’t think so?” I try to mimic Kay, squinting at the graphs, but all the numbers are backward to me. “What’s wrong, love?”
“Well there’s this spike right here…” She’s talking to herself again, but I look to what she’s referring to: a graph with a line, mostly stable, before the line randomly jumps up.
“It’s been nine hundred eighty-nine years,” mumbles Kay, “so it’s close to the estimated date, but if not for this spike … perhaps a couple years later … Cee.” Her gaze cuts to mine and I sit straighter. “Are you sure nothing unusual has occurred during your time on the island?”