Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(29)
“I didn’t mean to barge in, and wasn’t trying to spy.” I put my hand on my niece’s shoulder, and her rose gold–streaked hair is the shortest since college. “Are you aware that Merlin has been roaming about with no collar?”
“What? News to me, and how weird. That’s not good.” She reaches for him, pulling him into her lap.
“I guess you didn’t see him in the cameras?” I scan different murky live video feeds on one of the flat screens.
“When he sneaks around under the shrubbery, forget it. He must have gotten his collar snagged on something.”
“You weren’t answering texts or the door so I thought at the very least I should get him safely back inside.”
“I figured he was at your place.” She pets him. “Thanks for finding him. Wow, that’s bad. I don’t know how that happened. It never has before.”
“Well, I didn’t find him. He found me, and you know I’m not a fan of pet doors, lockable or otherwise.” I repeat a lecture she’s been hearing since moving in. “For so many reasons, and this is a perfect example. He got out but couldn’t get back in. I assumed he was at your place, and you assumed he was at mine.”
“Look, I don’t like it any more than you do but he’s an indoor-outdoor kind of guy, and that’s never going to change. I should know, we’ve tried. What did you do out there, Merlin?” Talking to him as if he’s a child. “What happened to your collar? Did it get caught on the bushes or something while chasing a squirrel?”
Merlin has no answer beyond purring like a buzz saw, and it would seem he’s been largely unfazed by recent human tragedies and dramas. I suppose if a cat could make assumptions his would be that Janet and Desi are still in London. They’re safely ensconced in a nineteenth-century building overlooking a park on the Victoria Embankment.
I’ve stayed in their flat many times. It’s an easy walk to New Scotland Yard, where Janet and Lucy had begun consulting before the pandemic. They’d been dividing their time between the U.K. and Boston, and when I began discussions about the position in Virginia, there was no thought of them relocating with us.
My niece wouldn’t be here now were it not for a mutating virus that attacks some far more viciously than others. Especially if they have an underlying autoimmune disorder such as asthma or Crohn’s disease. In quarantine, she couldn’t be with Janet and Desi when they got sick on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
Testing positive herself, Lucy wasn’t allowed to fly anywhere, certainly not to other countries. She sheltered in place, suffering only mild symptoms, and I’m not sure she’ll forgive herself for surviving when they didn’t.
“What are you two talking about?” I indicate Janet’s avatar on the large screen display.
“Don’t go acting like I’m doing something kooky,” Lucy says, her sharp-featured face emotionally flat, her troubled eyes as vivid as emeralds.
“This hasn’t been much of a birthday, and I’m very sorry.” It pleases me that she’s wearing the bracelet I gave her, clasped on her right wrist, the infinity symbol glinting in lamplight.
Lithe and strong in a black warm-up suit and ankle-high sneakers, she’s in her usual super-buff shape, but there’s a weariness about her. As if a circuit breaker has been thrown, the power out in certain rooms, and she’s having a hard time turning it back on.
“You know how I feel about birthdays,” she says. “I’d skip them if possible.”
“Well, this one was supposed to be fun.” I think back on how many times I’ve said that when plans are disrupted. “And of course, we get lousy weather and then I’m tied up, but it’s never too late to celebrate. Has your day been reasonably okay? I can see you’re spending some of it with Janet.”
I’m talking about the one on the computer display, the result of billions of parameters used in neural network algorithms. The language structure they create seems human as it predicts behavior, events, and answers questions. The performance runs rings around conventional search engines, and it seemed like a spoof when I first witnessed the Adam project’s capabilities.
Whether it’s composing stories, songs, even computer code while conversing amicably, somberly, angrily, depending on the situation. Or playfully and flirtatiously, looking deep into your eyes, gesturing the way Janet did when she was alive. I would swear that’s who I’m looking at, her dimples showing when she smiles, her blond hair short and mussy.
But she may as well be a hologram, a reconstituted version that can’t feel what she emotes, can’t touch or be touched. She’ll never be flesh and blood but would continue to change as the real Janet does. At least, that was the plan when the work began, but such an evolution can’t happen anymore.
Janet no longer receives or transmits in a way that’s relatable since she’s not physically present to add to the data. She’ll have no new thoughts or experiences. There will be no new achievements or setbacks, no biological changes or calamities that require altering parameters.
Future edits will become increasingly unreliable as the ever-changing model includes the traits of her maker. In this instance Lucy, and all who influence her. As she continues to refine and perfect, to tinker and second-guess on her own, the more her creation becomes like herself. Warts and all. Biases and emotionality thrown in at no extra charge.