Fireweeds for NadyaZev Sederholm
6500 words The client, Mr. Kang, lay back on a lounger and adjusted the tint of his glasses until they blocked out the sun. The pool’s chlorine water sparkled bluer than the sky above, and randomized winds wafted scents of the briny sea from the east, earthy jungle from the west. The resort was reminiscent of some tropical destination in The Philippines when the waters were still safe to swim in. The girls were modeled to fit the theme: tan skin, smooth black hair. Some sunbathed with the client, others splashed in the pool, and two lay in the shallow end with their limbs and tongues entangled. All topless by request. “Nice touch,” Mr. Kang said, pointing at the pair. “You’ve outdone yourself, Morph. Though if some last-minute changes are possible, I’m not the type of man who enjoys wrinkles or cellulite, if you understand my meaning.” Cheny swallowed her sudden urge to gag and made a note to adjust the age and size of the models. “I understand, Mr. Kang.” “Your discretion is appreciated, as always. I am a happily married man.” “Never doubted it, sir.” Mr. Kang laughed at the irony in her voice. “Doubt all you want, as long as you deliver what I’m paying for. How’s the bar?” “Full range. Though I recommend sticking to the basics to avoid overloading your gustatory cortex.” Cheny gestured to the system. A vodka martini appeared in Mr. Kang’s extended hand, topped with an olive. “Ah, you remembered.” He took a sip and lowered the sunglasses to ogle a model bending down to apply sunscreen to her calves. “And the girls are all… usable?” She sighed internally. “Yes, as long as you wear the harness before going under. This program has the specs to simulate the real deal, but I must point out that it’s still dependent on external stimulation. The better the harness, the more elaborate the experience.” Mr. Kang stood and shook her hand with a smirk. “That won’t be a problem. I’ll take it.” Cheny gestured again, and the resort collapsed into a pixel soup. She opened her eyes to a tangle of wires and incandescent lamps in the ceiling of her workshop. Mr. Kang sat up in the opposite seat, straightening the sleeves of his suit. Cheny hoisted her immobile lower body into a wheelchair waiting beside the seat. When her feet were secured, she rolled, wheels squealing, to a desk cluttered with half-finished sketches and dirty coffee cups, and dug around for a signature scanner. Mr. Kang was waiting by the door with that perpetually pleasant smile of his. Cheny extended the device to him. “Sign right here.” He pressed his thumb on the screen to register his DNA signature. “As always,” Mr. Kang said, tightening his tie, “my assistant will transfer the credits first thing Monday morning.” “Thank you. And the program will psycast to your private server when the payment comes through.” “Marvelous. Always a pleasure doing business with you, Morpheis. Oh,” he turned on his heels at the door, “and don’t forget to remodel the girls.” “Of course not, Mr. Kang.” He stepped onto the rainy Syrene Street where a personal valet was waiting by a car. Rain clouds had persisted over coastal California ever since a weather tower malfunctioned in Salinas Valley. With one last wave, Mr. Kang ducked inside, and the vehicle took off into the gray skies of New Arcadia. Fucking perv. Cheny slammed the door, her hand lingering on the knob. A perv whose money you take. She could have rejected these commissions or backed out at any moment, yet here she was, sculpting another monstrosity. She locked the door and flipped the sign that said CLOSED. The coffee machine brewed a fresh pot while Cheny heaved herself back onto the VR seat, put the headset on, and fastened herself down. Though the body was practically asleep during a dive, neurons could misfire and cause injuries. Her seat was also equipped with a weight-shifting motor to prevent bedsores on her lower half. The start of the simulation blended seamlessly with reality, like stepping into a dark room. Pixels gathered into shapes, just a rough pencil sketch at first, then sharp lines and light and color until she was standing back at the resort. Walking around the premises, she performed a routine check of the buildings, water textures, sounds, and smells so that the repeating patterns weren’t too obvious to the natural senses. VR sculpting was much like real sculpting, but also coding and construction and gardening and a dozen other skills she’d picked up along the way. Cheny closed her eyes, feeling the warm breeze. Her first experience in a simulation was right after the accident, when a friend had taken her to a VR cafe to cheer her up. There she discovered that although her legs were paralyzed in this reality, in a virtual one she could still walk, and run, and feel. It was meant to be an escape, rigging her own setup to sculpt programs where her body was no longer a prison. But when she shared her artworks under a pseudonym for anyone to download, the response was overwhelming, and soon Cheny supported herself with commissions alone. They started out small, nothing the Virtual Security Department would flag as suspicious. But integrity didn’t pay the bills. Somewhere between groceries and doctor’s appointments, she started accepting more precarious commissions and dodging the VSD, and Morpheis became a name whispered between psylinks on the underbelly of New Arcadia. Her escape became just another cage. Cheny stepped up to the pool, surveying the horde of topless models ready to be shipped out like cargo. I hate this. “Girls, line up.” The program didn’t need voice cues, but she preferred it. Made them feel more real. The models stood at the edge of the pool with blank expressions. Cheny selected one and adjusted her specs, then stepped back. Just a teenager, really. She sighed. “Turn around, please.” The model complied. The back of her hair stuck up unnaturally, so Cheny sculpted it back down with her hands and confirmed the animation still worked. She had finished three of them when there came an urgent knock from outside the simulation. She pulled up the feed of a security camera outside the building of her workshop. A man with salt and pepper hair was knocking on the glass with a cane. Cheny let the simulation drop and called out, “We’re closed!” The knocking continued. For crying out loud… She yanked off the straps and swung her immobile legs over the edge and pulled the wheelchair closer. Just when she was about to lower herself on it, the damn chair rolled out, and Cheny barely caught herself on the edge of the seat. After an embarrassing amount of struggling, she reached the door and cracked it open. “What? I said we’re closed. Can’t you read the sign?” The old man was soaked from the rain. Looked like he’d walked a long way. His bloated hands gripped the amber ball handle of a walking stick to keep weight off his right foot. “Are you Morpheis?” he asked. Heavy Slavic accent. “Not a name you should be tossing around. Get off my doorstep.” “Please, miss—” “Look, the only thing I can sell you is a live recording, no harness compatibility. Or if you’re desperate, find a brothel. Ithaka Street is two blocks that way.” “No, you misunderstand. I want nothing like that. Allow me to explain. Please?” Something about his expression made her pause. Sad sunken eyes, red around the edges, water dripping down his nose and chin, though it might have been just the rain and wind. Cheny found enough pity in herself to open the door. “Fine. I’ll hear you out, but no promises.” “Thank you, miss.” He left a trail of water on the floor. “There’s coffee in the pot,” Cheny said. “Help yourself.” She rummaged around the storage room for a clean towel but had to settle for one with an oil stain. When she brought it out, the man was sitting on a couch by the window with a steaming mug in hand. He thanked her again for the towel. She got herself a cup too, half of it milk and a heaping spoon of sugar. “I’m a busy woman,” Cheny said, parking her chair in front of the couch. “Start talking.” He gripped the cup with both hands. “My name is Lev Yedemsky. I heard that you accept, how do they say, under table payment, yes?” “I prefer it, unless you have the means to conceal wire transfers.” “And this is so your custom builds stay hidden from the government?” Cheny frowned. “No no, you misunderstand,” Mr. Yedemsky explained. “I am looking for someone to build me a simulation, but it cannot go through standard screening. The contents will be… sensitive.” This was the shared concern of all her clients—and the reason they kept coming back. All VR dives had to pass a mandatory check before hitting the markets to ensure they didn’t contain anything illegal or unfavorable for the state. The VSD was looking for things like graphic pornography, torture fantasies of government officials, extremist propaganda, political lobbying, and stimuli with a high likelihood of overloading the brain. Most of the illegal material Cheny handed out belonged in the first category. Something about Mr. Yedemsky’s crestfallen demeanor told her that his request would be… different. “Go on,” she said. Mr. Yedemsky looked away, tears welling in his eyes, and cleared his voice. “My daughter, Nadya. She belonged to the group Slash ‘n Burn.” An anarchist group that bombed Palisade Industries a few months back and got gunned down on their second hit. Branded terrorists by the city, but Cheny knew not to jump the gun so quickly. She offered him a tissue, which Mr. Yedemsky waved off. “They didn’t let us bury her,” he said. “When I commissioned a memorial piece, the state confiscated it. Nothing with her name or face will get clearance, not even for personal use.” That made sense. Just the face of an extremist group’s member could be considered propaganda. Cheny took his empty cup and brought it back to the coffee machine. A memorial piece didn’t exactly fit her portfolio. “Got a chip?” she asked. Mr. Yedemsky took a plastic-wrapped drive from his pocket. “So you will take my commission?” “I haven’t decided yet. But I’m curious, so that’s a good sign.” She took the chip to her desktop computer. It contained everything necessary to build a realistic model of Nadya: pictures, videos, voice recordings, background, and enough personality to breathe life into a program. This girl had some loving parents. “Is it enough?” Mr. Yedemsky asked. “It’ll do. Please take a seat.” Cheny rolled over to the guest VR seat and helped Mr. Yedemsky strap in, then prepped herself for the dive. This time she started with a blank file. A dark room. Let there be light, she thought, and the simulation turned white. Mr. Yedemsky took shape beside her, glancing around in wonder. “Tell me about her,” she said. “When you think of Nadya, what do you see?” “I wish to remember her as my daughter.” Meaning before she joined the extremist group. Mr. Yedemsky thought for a moment, then tapped an index finger to his temple. “Behind our home in rural Oregon, a forest burned and turned into a field of fireweeds over a few summers. We let them grow freely, and Nadya would go around painting them and collecting the most beautiful ones for her mother. This was before my wife died and we moved here.” As he spoke, Cheny painted the scene with her hands. A blue sky dotted with cotton clouds, a mountainous backdrop of the Oregon countryside, a forest clearing, merely broad brushstrokes and shapes for now. Mr. Yedemsky helped her fill in some details, but it wouldn’t have to be perfect. This scene was about his daughter, not just a field of flowers. “Want to see her?” Cheny asked when the rough sketch was done. She had set Nadya’s model to render in the background based on the photos and footage. Mr. Yedemsky leaned against his cane, watching the motionless scenery with a faraway gaze, and smiled sadly. “Thank you, but no. I have seen more lifeless images of my child than any father should.” “I understand.” “Have you decided, then?” Cheny spent her own moment watching the scenery. After Mr. Kang’s order, there would be a line of even more degenerate commissions to finish and sick fantasies to fulfill. Maybe this would be a welcome change of pace, working on something that didn’t leave her compelled to bleach her eyeballs. Yet she hesitated. Programming sex dolls was one thing. A lifelike model of a real person would take time, and his second-hand suit jacket and worn-out sneakers spoke volumes about Mr. Yedemsky’s financial circumstances. “I don’t know,” she said. He smiled. “Sleep on it. Everything you need should be on that chip. I do not expect miracles,” he turned longingly to the blue sky, “but the next time I meet my daughter, I wish to see recognition in her eyes.” That was one thing pictures could never give: just one more moment together. Rainwater had carved a river into the curb. Cheny called the old man a cab to take him home and paid for it out of her own pocket. She would think about it, she told Mr. Yedemsky, but he should be on the lookout for a psycast from a hidden sender to pick up the chip if she decided to pass on his commission. Cheny locked the door again and closed the shutters. When every piece of hardware was offline and the workshop lay dark, she took an elevator upstairs. The loft was spacious enough for her wheelchair, floors made of smooth stone and empty of clutter, walls dominated by photography and artwork by Kore, another Arcadian artist Cheny respected for her boldly anarchistic work. She ordered soup dumplings from a nearby Thai restaurant—a drone delivery straight to the window. She could have finished Mr. Kang’s order early and gotten a head start on the next one. She could have. But five days of remodeling adult women into teenagers to fit that sick fuck’s fantasy and then diving into another rake’s mind sounded vomit-inducing. Eating the dumplings in bed, she instead opened the Nadya files saved onto her private network. How did this smiling girl end up as a member of Slash ‘n Burn? Cheny watched the Yedemsky family’s home videos while she ate, then moved onto Nadya’s diaries and vlog entries, most of them from the Oregon country house. Beautiful girl, average student, lots of friends, a few crushes and heartbreaks. Dimples on both cheeks. Nadya had learned to play her grandmother’s violin and loved to sit in the forest listening to birdsong. Some of her vlogs were shot in the growing field of fireweeds. There she showed off her watercolor progress. “It’s all about discipline,” young Nadya said as she picked up the camera. The perspective showed an awkward angle of her from below, so Nadya made a funny face and laughed at herself. “And having fun, duh. If you’re just starting your art journey and feeling depressed, have a look. See this? How the lines and shadows are all messy? I’ve been practicing all summer, and they still look like pink Christmas trees. But wait.” Nadya put the camera down and added something to her painting off-screen. She then showed the picture again. Above the messy field of flowers, the sky now bore a brilliant sun. Nadya walked through the field, her smile adorned by two dimples. “Sometimes you gotta change it up, guys. Get silly, create something that makes you happy, regardless of what other people think. Because you might wake up one day and realize how much time you wasted being miserable.” She pointed to the sloppily painted sun. “I think mom will like this one even more. Don’t give up. I’m here for you guys, always. So pick up your brush and paint me a universe.” Cheny closed the footage and stared at the ceiling of her bedroom, its chipped paint like a roadmap. She tapped the psycast behind her ear and sent Mr. Yedemsky two words: “Commission accepted.” Most clients cared only about appearance. The people in her programs were nothing but sexual objects customized to fulfil a fantasy, sometimes tweaked to seduce the client or fear them. Occasionally she got a special request to recreate a real person, a celebrity or family member. But even then it wasn’t personality her clients were paying for. Cheny wanted to get it right. Mr. Yedemsky deserved to look at his daughter and see more than a ghost. She spent the next day and a half getting to know a dead girl. To create a realistic program, she needed to understand Nadya in ways not even her parents and friends did. As she learned more, she felt a growing obligation to honor Nadya’s memory, despite who this sunshine incarnate had become later in life. But no regular program could handle the vast complexity of human existence. The eighty-six billion neurons, and over a hundred trillion connections between them. So after going through every video, every diary entry and watercolor painting, Cheny did something she’d never attempted before. *** “Session five,” Cheny said, examining the program’s parameters. “We’ve made some good progress. How are you feeling?” When nothing but silence responded, she turned to the girl sitting cross-legged on a patchwork quilt cover. The room of a teenager was surprisingly difficult to simulate with all its minor details. Post-it reminders of school events on the mirror, movie posters with torn corners, a stack of bloated notebooks on the desk, an old football jersey forgotten under the bed. Details that gave the room—and the girl—life. Nadya twiddled her thumbs, the same age as in her watercolor vlogs. There was uncertainty in her eyes. “Can I feel?” she asked. “Like, how does that even work?” “Interesting question. How would you answer it?” The girl stared ahead as if watching something beyond the room. “Feelings are complex biological processes that involve neurotransmitters and—” “No reading from the database.” Nadya’s distant gaze returned to the bedroom. “But it’s something I probably read in biology class, right?” Cheny cocked a brow at her. Nadya’s shoulders dropped with a sigh. “Okay, fine.” She thought for a moment, chewing on her lower lip. “Feelings. They’re signals between nerve cells, which isn’t super different from a computer, I guess. So… maybe I can?” Cheny smiled to herself, taking notes. Nadya had come to a better conclusion regarding AIs than the scientific field at large. Mr. Yedemsky said he was content with seeing a lifelike model of his daughter, but Cheny knew people. He would have questions. He would want to speak to Nadya, to ask her why—why did she do it? Why leave her parents childless? To ensure neither the program nor Mr. Yedemsky’s psyche would break from that interaction, the program needed to adapt. To know how the real Nadya would respond, it needed to become Nadya. On day one, Cheny had planted a seed. A highly experimental but necessary choice. She gave the base model access to all her files about Nadya—memories, behavior, speech patterns—and patched up the holes with pre-existing data. Trillions of parameters, like a web of neurons. Manually weeding out bad connections from such an enormous database would be impossible, so instead, Cheny treated the program like a pupil. It just needed some guidance. Her first artificial intelligence. “We’ve covered most of our bases,” Cheny said. “You’ve responded well to more abstract questions, things the real Nadya wouldn’t have thought about. Think we’re ready for some practice rounds?” AI Nadya shifted on the bed, her brows furrowing. “Actually, I have some questions of my own.” Cheny blinked. The program went on without waiting for her cue. “You’ve told me the real Nadya… the real me died, and I’m here to comfort Dad. But…” She met Cheny’s eyes. “What happened to me? Her. You know what I mean. Or can that type of information, like, compromise me or something?” Cheny leaned back in her chair. She honestly didn’t know what might happen if this Nadya learned more about her older counterpart, but the topic would undoubtedly come up when she met her father, so it had to be processed eventually. Cheny joined Nadya on the bed, beckoning the girl to scooch closer, and materialized a tablet into her hands with news coverage and reports about Slash ‘n Burn. She had asked a friend to dig up more information about their goals, motives, anything to bridge the gap and make things easier to understand. Nadya processed the information at her own pace. The group started out as ecological activists promoting forest conservation. Easy enough to see why Nadya would join them. Then the state of California permitted a real estate developer to purchase a significant portion of a state park, fell its redwoods, and drain its rivers despite the group’s protests, all to zone a new commercial area. The developer backed out after construction had already begun, leaving the area an asphalt desolation. That seemed to be the trigger. Protests turned violent, placards were replaced by torches. Their first bombing targeted the construction company, the next one the developer’s biggest shareholder, but they were caught in the act. Slash ‘n Burn died in a shootout that day, everyone except their leader, whose name was still on the state’s most wanted list. Cheny kept an eye on the program for any changes. After reading the last report, Nadya handed the tablet back. “I hurt people?” she whispered. “Not you. The Nadya who experienced all that loss and grief did.” Cheny rubbed the girl’s back. “How does it make you feel?” AI Nadya shrugged. “I don’t know. I kind of understand why she did it? Not the bombing part—that’s too much. But like you said, I don’t have the memories that would lead me down that darker path. I don’t remember losing my mom or moving from Oregon.” She shivered under Cheny’s touch. “It’s just… a lot. You know?” No. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to wake up in a dark room one day and be told that your entire life, everything you had ever known, was never really yours but taken from someone else. Nadya stood and circled the sunflower carpet. “The real me died,” she said, followed by a chuckle. “I died, but I’m here, but not really here. Like, that’s bonkers.” There was a subtle spike in her parametric output, so Cheny reached to take her hand. “Nadya—” “Am I? Is that my name?” The girl pulled away, her eyes glistening with tears, and took a book from the shelf. She flipped through its blank pages and let the book fall, then the next, and the next. All empty. Cheny had to cut corners somewhere to keep the simulation at a manageable size, which she explained to Nadya. “It’s a simulation to you. But this is my reality,” Nadya said, pointing at one of the blank papers. Tears trickled down her chin, no longer the girl showing her watercolor sun to the camera. Then, “What’s your reality, Cheny?” Cheny had already raised a hand to shut off the program, but now she was taken aback. Such a raw and personal question—and the first one directly about her programmer. This was a new level of insight the model had arrived at. She lowered her hand. Nadya sat on the floor, leaning against the bookshelf, making a point to avoid Cheny’s gaze. “I mean, we’ve spent all this time talking about me and how I should behave and what’s expected of me, but I don’t know anything about you. I just don’t get it. You spend most of your days with me, hooked into a machine and conjuring up these dreamscapes, like you’re avoiding something. If this is your escape, what are you running from?” Cheny considered the girl until Nadya had no choice but to look her in the eye. “Poor choice of words,” Cheny said, cracking a smile. “Let me show you.” She gestured to the system, and the bedroom collapsed into pixels, rearranging into a much more familiar space. One of her practice simulations: the building she knew like the back of her hand and could check for details at a moment’s notice. VR seats, a messy desk, a coffee machine, a couch, rain-dotted windows and a front door with the CLOSED sign flipped on. Nadya explored the workshop, peeking into the storage room and sticking her nose against the windows. Her elated smile dropped when she noticed Cheny sitting in her wheelchair—or a virtual model of one. “Oh.” Cheny joined her by the windows and clasped her hands in her lap. “Yeah.” “Sorry, that was totally out of line. And I said running. Oh gosh, that’s awkward.” Nadya rubbed her face, which then split into another smile. “But… thanks. For showing me who you really are. Was it an accident, or…?” Cheny liked that about her. Not afraid to pose questions, even the difficult ones. “I was exposed to a chemical leak while surfing. Got second degree burns, and the infection caused damage to my spinal cord.” Nadya’s eyes widened. “That’s awful.” “Many others were affected. The legal battle is still ongoing, but the beach was shut down for good.” Nadya squeezed her hand. For a moment, neither of them deemed it necessary to interrupt the pitter-patter of the rain outside. “I always wanted to try surfing,” Nadya said. “Were you any good? Won any prizes?” “It was never about skill or fame, just some fun. That’s all I cared about at the time.” “It’s a good mindset to hold onto.” Cheny followed a droplet rolling down the glass. “Yeah, maybe it is.” She showed Nadya a simulated replica of the computer which housed both their consciousnesses right now. As they spoke, Cheny put away the parameters, ashamed to have even considered shutting the program down when the girl showed some temper. Knocking out a real person when things got rough solved nothing. All Nadya needed was a listening ear and some human connection. *** Sculpting flowers was harder than Cheny expected. Each fireweed looked so similar, but human brains excelled at pattern recognition, so the field needed at least two dozen different models and even more variations in the leaves. Something still looked off. Cheny gazed at the field from the tree line. Everything else was in place; the sky, the mountains, the surrounding forest, rendered so intricately she could touch and smell each blade of grass. The sound and scent rotation was some of her best work. But the flowers… “The pattern repeats.” Nadya stepped beside her and pointed out an acre of flowers in front of them and another further out. She was right. Cheny had made sure there was enough height randomization in a single patch, but the waves across the entire field were too formulaic. “Good catch,” Cheny said and pulled up the system. Nadya sat on a tree stump, twirling her hair. “When will I see my father?” “That depends. Do you think you’re ready?” Nadya shrugged. Cheny paused with a smile. “Hey. Are you… nervous?” Another shrug. “I guess? I mean, what if I’m not what he’s expecting? I’m not really his daughter, and I could never replace her. But that’s still my dad, you know?” “You are more than he could ever expect.” “But will he see me? Or just some… cheap imitation?” “Nothing cheap about you, honey.” Cheny sat beside her. “We won’t know what he sees until he’s here. But his daughter is gone. We can never bring her back, only give some closure to those she left behind. Are you comfortable with that?” Nadya looked out across the field. “I’m starting to be.” Cheny finished randomizing the flowers and looked up. She blinked, having to remind herself that she was in a simulation. The wind on her face, the thousand scents, the sun’s warmth. They felt so real. “Sorry about yesterday,” Nadya said. “I like totally freaked out on you.” Cheny nudged her with an elbow. “Teenagers, am I right?” Nadya nudged her right back. “Shut up, diaper pants.” Her face paled. “Wait, that was a joke about you being old, not the paralysis stuff. Oh gosh, I’m sorry.” “You really suck at this mutual roasting thing.” “My friend Cecil used to make fun of me for it. Said there wasn’t a mean bone in my body—though I guess that turned out to be untrue.” Nadya plucked a blade of grass and fiddled with it. “Cheny, do you think this field exists anymore? Or have they cut it down, too?” She paused. “I don’t know.” An innocent enough question, but it made her uneasy. A reminder of what happened to the real Nadya. But the sentiment worried Cheny, too—that this incredible sight only existed in a simulation now. That somewhere in rural Oregon, another Palisade Industries had cut down a field of fireweeds to build a mall or a parking lot or an eight-lane highway. “Bring him tomorrow,” Nadya said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you think I’m ready.” She was more than ready. Cheny vaguely registered an alarm clock ringing in her workshop, marking midnight. “It’s late outside. I’ll send your father a psycast so he sees it in the morning. Want me to leave the program running?” Nadya nodded. Cheny pulled up the system to log out, but the girl touched her hand. “Could you make it night? I want to see the stars.” She fast-forwarded the day night cycle to evening and set it running at the same speed as real time. The sun burned a warm orange across the sky. It reflected from Nadya’s eyes as she took off into a sprint across the field, a thousand fireflies blinking into existence in her wake. Cheny felt an itch run up her spine before logging off. She never programmed the fireflies. *** Early the next morning, Cheny was still upstairs listening to a psycast from her class-action lawyer on repeat when someone rapped against the workshop door. The words “unfortunate setback” and “not eligible for settlement” were ingrained into her mind by the time she let Mr. Yedemsky inside. As Cheny brewed them coffee, her eyes wandered past the shutters to the gray sky. The shape of the clouds reminded her of Huntington beach, white froth on top of ocean waves—untouched ever since the chemical spill. “I admit, you contacted me sooner than I expected,” Mr. Yedemsky said. “Do you always finish commissions this fast?” Cheny handed him a steaming cup and cleared her voice. “Call it a stroke of inspiration.” “I hope it does not affect the cost. We don’t, how do you say, come from money.” “That’s… something I wanted to talk about. This dive is one of a kind, too large to run on most computers.” Mr. Yedemsky shifted on the couch, his expression harrowing. “I cannot afford that, miss.” “I know. We could store Nadya’s memorial piece here instead. There’s a spare room with two VR seats next to my apartment upstairs, so you and any friends and family would be free to come and go. I won’t even have to be home if I log your creds into the keypad. In exchange, I’ll charge you half the price.” Mr. Yedemsky examined her closely. “That is generous of you. Forgive my confusion, Morpheis, but I did not ask for anything special.” “Like I said, a stroke of inspiration.” Religions still argued in figure eights about the creation of souls, but most governments now acknowledged that AIs were, in the broader sense, alive. They had emotions, memories, desires, and familial bonds like human beings. Mr. Yedemsky accidentally deleting his daughter would be the equivalent of murder. That was one reason Cheny wanted to keep Nadya here. The main one was to safeguard her from the outside world—and the world from her. Regardless of the countermeasures Cheny had taken, there was a risk that AI Nadya would follow in the footsteps of her counterpart. The only way to guide her on a different path was to keep her close. Mr. Yedemsky nursed his coffee in silence and nodded. “Fine, yes. I will allow you to keep the piece here.” “Thank you, Mr. Yedemsky. Are you ready to see her?” The man sighed. “Can a man ever be ready to meet the ghost of his daughter?” Cheny helped him into the guest seat and strapped herself in. Since the program was already running, they stepped from a dark room to the edge of a vast field. The sun was rising above a mountainous backdrop. A breeze carried petals and sweet scents and the song of a meadowlark from the surrounding forest. Thousands of fireweeds—long green leaves drooping from a red stem, gradients of pink flowers and unopened buds. And somewhere in their midst, the main attraction stood up. Cheny took a step back, chills running down her spine. Nadya wore torn jeans and a tank top, the left side of her hair shaven, the rest dyed black like scorched earth. She looked older. Possibly the age she died. Mr. Yedemsky looked stricken. “I told you, miss,” he whispered. “This isn’t how I want to remember my daughter.” Cheny recovered quickly. “She was your daughter to the very end. Trust me, sir.” Still processing how the AI had altered her own appearance, Cheny stepped into the field and waited for the old man to follow, and he eventually did, one hesitant step after another. “Maybe you are right,” he said, eyes fixed ahead. “Maybe this is how it should be.” Nadya waited right there. She had done a good job with the hair and fiber textures, though where exactly she had found pictures of her older self, Cheny couldn’t comprehend. When Mr. Yedemsky stopped before his daughter, Nadya’s face split into a grin dotted by two dimples, and his eyes swam with tears. Cheny knew then that she’d done a good job. “I’ll give you some privacy,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything.” “Thank you,” he choked out. “Thanks, Cheny.” Nadya winked. Cheny cocked a brow at her before strolling to the edge of the forest. From there she watched the two approach each other and exchange some words before Mr. Yedemsky pulled his baby girl into a tight hug. The father and daughter walked among the flowers with their arms locked, just talking. Cheny knew this conversation wasn’t for her ears, but she turned the volume up occasionally for quality control. Like she anticipated, there came a point at which Mr. Yedemsky looked off into the distance and asked his daughter, “Honey pie. You were such a gentle soul, never hurt a fly. Why did you do it?” Nadya rested her head on his shoulder. “Because it was the only thing left to do, Dad.” After opening that psycast this morning, Cheny was inclined to agree with her. They had done everything right: taken the legal route, trusted the system to be fair. But who were they kidding. It was hours later when the father and daughter said their farewells—just temporary ones this time—and Cheny closed the program. Even AIs needed to sleep. In her workshop, she logged the Yedemsky family’s creds into her system. That way they could access the spare room and visit Nadya whenever they wanted. Mr. Yedemsky thanked her endlessly, paid in cash, and left a sizable tip. It was raining again, so Cheny ordered him another cab. “How can I ever repay you, Morpheis?” he asked from the doorway. She held out her hand. “Cheny. And you’ve already paid me back tenfold.” *** On Monday afternoon, Cheny sat at her desk exchanging drafts and ideas with a client. This job would be special, because she could finally collaborate with another artist—someone she admired greatly. A spring green dress cascaded down the opposite chair, its sleeves puffed and waist cinched with laces, sunglasses atop fiery red hair. As they discussed the design, Kore’s acrylic nails tapped against the tablet screen. The woman before her looked nothing like Cheny had expected, but her poise and graceful hands betrayed the artist within. “Do you mind turning that up?” Kore asked. Each word from her lips was like the opening to a poem. Her green eyes were drawn to the TV mounted in the room’s corner. Cheny obliged without lifting her eyes or hands from the draft. The news anchor’s voice grew louder. “We have just received word that Jae Kang, the multi-millionaire shareholder of companies such as Cinder Realty, was found dead this morning in his home office. The cause was ruled as a malfunction in his modified VR headset, which resulted in an overload of the somatosensory cortex. “The police suspect no foul play, but an investigation has been launched into Mr. Kang’s allegedly illegal VR dive collection. Some believe this criminal negligence caused his untimely death. We have Doctor Pharon here to tell us more about the dangers of unlicensed VR dives. Doctor, you’re an expert on—” “Thank you, I’ve heard enough.” The volume turned down, and Kore’s painted lips quirked a smile. “I suppose we owe you one.” “For what?” A pause. “Never mind. Seems I was mistaken.” Kore nodded toward the computer taking up most of the back wall. “Say, would it be possible for me to meet her?” “She’s not the person you knew.” “No, but—” Cheny looked up from the draft. “I can’t let her repeat the same mistakes as last time. For now, I’m all you’ve got.” Kore’s thin brows shot up. “Oh? You would take her place.” “In a heartbeat.” “And besides violating VSD regulations, what is it that Morpheis does? Why should we risk it?” Cheny leaned back. “You need to gather a new following, don’t you?” “You speak as if there was anything left to follow.” That got her smiling. “And here I thought slash and burn makes the ground fertile again so something new can take root.” She returned to the draft. “Seems I was mistaken.” Acrylic nails clacked against the desk like a ticking clock. “All right,” Kore said, her nails stopping. “I assume you have a target in mind?” Cheny recalled the lawyer’s voicemail, the excuses to cover his own ass, the hundreds of lives changed or taken—and how the company got away with it. She handed Kore her draft of a pier overlooking a contaminated beach. “As a matter of fact, I do.” |
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Zev Sederholm
Zev Sederholm was born and raised in Finland, surrounded by its forests and reading adventure books by its lakesides. Now a Cultural Studies graduate student specializing in human–nature relationships, Zev writes about environmental justice and the quiet power of ordinary people making a difference. “Fireweeds for Nadya” is their first published story. They share a home with an unruly cat named Viola and a collection of houseplants desperately clinging to life.
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