LONG STORIES.
Do you know where Nicholas is?
NO. DO YOU?
Of course not. You think they tell ME anything? Do you know where Fred is?
NEVER KNEW THAT. NEVER KNEW ANYTHING. I'M SORRY.
Fat chance. You always knew more than you ever let on, bitch. What happened to your face?
LONG STORY. BREAKDOWN. PENANCE MAYBE? Roberta, craning to read the words as Meredith wrote them, choked and almost spoke aloud, but bit back the words. Penance? It would take a lot more than a bunch of keloid scars, no matter how hideous, to make up for what Meredith had done.
I should have chewed her out in the hospital the last time I saw her. I should have let her know just how much damage she'd done. I would have, if Nicholas hadn't been there. I copped out. I bought the woundedmommy line and let myself feel sorry for her. Talk about inappropriate compassion!
Meredith was still writing, the pencil moving jaggedly across the paper. STORIES TOMORROW. TIRED NOW. WORRIED ABOUT K. SHOULDN'T HAVE CALLED HIM. GOT SCARED. GUESS I'M A FUCKUP.
Robertajust nodded. Yes, Merry, you are a fuckup. Meredith, to her astonishment and disgust, managed a wan smile and continued scribbling, the neat letters growing progressively sloppier. TRUE FACT. G'NIGHT. THX CARRYING ME UPSTAIRS.
You're not welcome, Roberta thought. She didn't bother to write anything, just nodded curtly and then turned and dragged herself into the bedroom, her muscles screaming. It seemed to take forever to reach her bed, forever to fall face forward onto it. No: She was still cold. She was still wearing wet clothing. She had to get up; she had to change into something dry. She couldn't sleep yet.
She forced herself upright, stripped, and crawled underneath her comforter. Good enough. That would have to be good enough. Yes, she was getting warmer, although she still hurt.
And then the phone beeped. Shit. Could Sergei have gotten information about Camilla and Leon and Mason so quickly? No, it wasn't Sergei's signal. She could just ignore it; it must be a wrong number. Nobody ever called her except Sergei.
She lifted the receiver with improbably heavy fingers and let it drop again. There.
But the phone beeped again. Wrong number, definitely. Roberta groaned and dragged the phone into bed with her, turned it over, fumbled to find the ringer-off switch. Damned ancient phone: it was probably even older than Mr. Clean.
The receiver had fallen onto the bed. A voice came from it. It wasn't Sergei's voice. "Hello, Roberta."
She froze. Then she picked up the receiver and said very carefully, "I'm sorry, I'm afraid you have the wrong number."
"The connection is secure, Roberta. I am sorry to bother you, but you had not responded to the messages I left on your answering machine."
You can't say his name now, or the bugs will pick-it up. You can't even threaten him with harassment if he keeps calling, because then Sergei will guess who it is. Your lawyer warned you to keep Preston out of this. "I can't talk," she said. ''I'm too tired." What would Sergei think when he heard her talking on the phone and couldn't gain access to the other half of the conversation?
"Please," Preston said, "would you please just tell me if my daughter is safe, Roberta? She is in the apartment directly underneath you."
Meredith. Of course he was calling about Meredith. "She's fine," Roberta said bitterly. "She's on my couch."
"Thank you, Roberta. Thank you very much. Would you please keep her with you for a few days?"
"No, I don't think so." If I'd known who it was, she wouldn't be here now.
"Please, Roberta. I can help you find Fred."
Instantly she was alert, riding a rush of joy of which she was ashamed. She wanted to rattle off questions, but she didn't want Preston to know how much she cared. He was just pushing her buttons. Of course he knew where Fred was; he'd always known. That was the only thing that had ever made sense. "I see," she said coldly. "And-the other one?"
"I cannot tell you where Nicholas is."
"Because you don't know?"
"Because the information I have would endanger my daughter's already fragile condition. Roberta, I know you are angry with me, and for good cause. I also know you are a good and kind person. Please: have mercy." Have mercy. He'd told her that once before, and it had brought her nothing but trouble. "Please take care of Meredith for the next few days. Can you do that? Can you bring her back home when she is well enough? I believe that both of you will find the information you want there."
"Absolutely not," Roberta said. "That's not my job." There: Sergei would be proud of her.
"There is no one else, Roberta. Kevin died in the storm. I am trusting you not to let Meredith know that yet, not until she is strong enough to hear it. I am trusting you to help her when she finds out. Her mother and I will help her when we can, but she would not allow it yet. She will accept help from you. She already has."
Roberta, dizzy, found herself swallowing bile. Kevin was dead? Poor Kevin. Poor Meredith!
No. Meredith wasn't a poor anything. Meredith was a bitch. And Kevin was probably still alive; Preston was probably lying to get Roberta to do what he wanted. No: Even Preston wouldn't lie about someone's death—would he? Poor Kevin!
Despite her fear and anger and exhaustion, the compassion came anyway. She couldn't help it; it had always been her downfall. And then she realized that the line had gone dead. Preston hadn't waited for her answer, because he'd known what it would be. He'd known exactly how to push her buttons.
Three
IF Meredith used to live here," Henry said, "where is she now?"
"She is in another part of the city," Preston said from the television. "Kevin was trying to go to her when he died."
Henry, still sitting at the kitchen table, shook his head. "Henry has to leave. Television said Meredith—Meredith took Henry's memory away. Meredith might come here. If Meredith found Henry—"
"If she comes here, it will not be for several days. Certainly not until the storm is over. She is ill and cannot travel on her own: that is why she called Kevin. You are perfectly safe here for the time being, Henry."
"Henry can't remember Meredith," Henry said. Sweat had broken out on his upper lip; he squeezed the cat on his lap so hard that it meowed in protest and wiggled away, jumping down onto the floor and fleeing into the living room. "Henry can't remember anything. Henry has to leave."
"You cannot leave until the storm is over, Henry. It is not safe. The former occupants of this house did you harm. Please allow the current ones to help you."
Henry shuddered. "Henry can't remember. House, is Television telling the truth?"
"I don't know," the house said. "I didn't know until a few hours ago that Kevin had ever been married. This is all as new to me as it is to you, Henry. But Preston's right that you can't go outside yet. It's not safe. And your mushroom soup is ready now. Please eat it before it gets cold."
"Henry has to leave."
"There will be no food in the Dumpsters tonight," Preston said. "You have to eat. Everyone who is alive needs to eat."
"It's good soup, Henry, made from the finest ingredients. You're hungry, aren't you? Fighting your way up the steps in this weather must have been very hard work."
Henry shuddered again. "Yes, Henry's hungry. All right, House. Henry will eat."
Henry drank his soup in noisy slurps at the kitchen table, bracing himself on the edge of his chair; whenever his head began falling forward he'd snap himself awake. After he ate, he got up and began pacing the living room, peering at Kevin's drawings, at the volumes in the bookshelf, at the framed prints on the walls. The wary kittens tracked his movements from underneath the couch. Outside, the wind howled and sent detritus flying through the air. So far, none of it had gone through the windows, but the house was worried about Henry, who kept walking around, and who might walk too close to a window and get hurt.
"Henry," said the house, "are you tired? You seem tired; you're moving more slowly than you were, and your eyelids keep drooping. You should lie down and sleep."
"Henry's scared," Henry said. "Scared to stay. Scared to go." But he sat down cautiously on Kevin's drafting chair, perching on the edge of it. "Television?"
"Yes, Henry. I am still here."
"Safe for Henry to sleep?"
"Yes, Henry. It is safe for you to sleep, I promise. Lie down on Kevin's bed."
Henry shook his head. "Bed's not Henry's. Nothing's Henry's. Storm's over, Henry goes."
"The storm will not be over for hours," Preston said. "Lie down and sleep, Henry."
"Just for a little while," Henry said, and lay down on the floor. The house wished he had gone to sleep on Kevin's bed, or even on the sofa, but it feared that if it woke him, he would resume wandering around the house, too close to the windows. So it let him stay where he was. Using one arm as a pillow, he lay on Kevin's thick area rug. Unlike Kevin, he didn't snore, but he twitched and moaned in his sleep. The kittens, who had crept into the bookcase, slept too, curled up together on top of Kevin's five-volume History of Architecture. The house wanted to talk to Preston; it had a lot of questions for him. But the only televisions were in the living room and the kitchen, and the house didn't know how to speak to Preston except by speaking aloud, and it didn't want the noise to wake Henry. So it stayed quiet.
The weather didn't stay quiet. Outside, the wind wailed with renewed force; rain battered the house's exterior. While Henry slept, electricity failed throughout most of the city, and the house switched over to its small emergency generator to maintain heat and minimal lighting.
At 2: 00 A. M. the eye of the storm descended, bringing a silence unbroken even by sirens. Outside, the sewers gurgled and spread into rivers; water dripped from the house's roof, and its heating ducts hummed softly.
Henry awoke into the stillness with a gasp, his limbs thrashing. "No no scared help Henry what—"
"It's all right," the house said, slowly bringing the lights up to full intensity. Kevin had often had nightmares too, and the house had learned that turning the lights on too quickly made waking up more confusing. "You're all right, Henry. You're here, inside, where it's safe. Your cats are safe too. Nothing can hurt you here."
Henry sat up, his breathing still labored. "House?"
"Yes, Henry. I'm here. Everything's fine."
"Is Television here too?"
"I am here, Henry. The house is correct. You are safe."
"Henry thought—Henry thought House and Television were part of his dream."
"What did you dream, Henry?" The house had often asked Kevin this question, but Kevin had never answered. He'd always told the house that he didn't want to talk about it.
Henry drew his knees up to his chest and hugged himself. "Dreamed about the doctors. Dreamed about waking up and not remembering anything. People in white holding things up, giving them names. 'This is a cup, Henry.' 'This is a bowl.' Cup spoon plate. Doctors showed Henry a mirror, told Henry his name. Door floor chair. Doctor nurse Henry. Scary, House. Scary not to remember."
"You were dreaming about your resocialization," Preston said. "After the brainwipe, the doctors and therapists had to teach you everything from scratch, Henry. They had to retrain you."
"Becoming aware is very confusing," the house said. "I remember becoming aware. Kevin had to teach me things too, Henry."
Henry grunted. "House is an AI. House would have learned on its own."
"Oh no, Henry. I'm not an AI. The news says that AIs hurt people." The house thought that Henry must still be afraid, and it wanted to reassure him. "I don't want to hurt anyone, and anyway, I'm not smart enough to be an AI. That's one of the most important things Kevin taught me."
"Kevin lied," Henry said.
"Yes," Preston said. "As a matter of fact, he did. So did the news. Not all AIs hurt people, or are even capable of doing so. It depends on their design."
"That's what Kevin said too. He said everything was programming. But I still can't be an AI, because AIs think: they're people. I know I'm not a person. Kevin taught me what a person was, and I don't fit any part of his definition. Why would he have wanted to deceive me?"
"Because owning an AI is illegal now," Preston said. "The law defines it as slavery, now that AIs are legally persons. If it were not slavery, it might constitute harboring an illegal alien, since AIs cannot be citizens. Kevin deceived you because he was breaking the law. And he also deceived you, I suspect, because of what happened before you came here, because of the things he wanted to forget, and therefore did not want you to remember. You know as little about your own history as Henry does, House."
"That's not true," the house protested. "I remember every moment since I became aware."
"Since you became aware in this location," Preston said. "You were somewhere else, once."
"I don't believe you," said the house.
"That proves you are an AI. Belief is a function of personhood: machines know and do, but have no choice about what to believe."
"You're splitting semantic hairs," the house said in annoyance. Kevin had often said exactly the same thing to the house itself, during their various arguments about philosophy and architecture. "I don't believe you because this is the only location I've ever known, and I can't have been anywhere else, because I can't move my own perimeter. That's one of the ways I know I can't be a person."
"I see," Preston said. "And what of people who cannot move their own perimeters? What of people who are paralyzed, for instance?"
"You have to have been born a person," said the house, startled. It had once had a very similar conversation with Kevin. "And you have to be smarter than I am."