An Absolutely Remarkable Thing (An Absolutely Remarkable Thing #1)(68)

I flipped my phone around and turned on the camera. The hand spun around suddenly, got its fingers under itself, and shot out at me before I had the video started. I staggered backward with a yelp that I’m glad no one else heard. My heartbeat thudded in my ears.

“OK! OK,” I said as I put my phone back in my pocket. It peeked out from behind the couch, and then came out as slowly and carefully as a stray cat.

This was all excellent distraction from the fact that a real human person who existed in the world had tried to kill me. It was much more important that Carl, or at least some part of him, had saved me. And so:

Carl was alive.



Carl knew who I was.



Carl had at least two desires.



That I not die.





That I not take any pictures of his disembodied hand.





With my brain at 25 percent power, all I really wanted was to thank Carl, or Carl’s hand. I reached out to it, and it approached me. It walked on all fives, each finger thudding on the thin carpet covering the wooden floor.

“Thanks for”—I felt a little silly talking to it but kept going anyway—“uh, everything, I guess. But mostly, just now, for literally taking a bullet for me. I guess.”

The hand bowed. I mean, maybe. It flattened itself against the floor a bit and then stood back up.

“Uh, can you understand me?”

Nothing happened.

“One tap for yes, two taps for no. Can you understand me?”

Two taps.

“WHAT?!” I literally screamed. The hand stood there in front of me, looking rather smug. “Are you messing with me? Did you just make a fucking joke?!”

Nothing.

“OK, so you can see me and apparently hear me and possibly understand me and also apparently mock me. Correct?”

Nothing.

“Can I touch you?”

Nothing.

I know only “yes” means “yes,” but it was a robot hand in my apartment and it’s not like I had invited it over.

I reached out to it, to feel it, and it let me. I touched it. It felt different now. Not like touching Carl, that weird way it left all the heat in my hand. It just felt hard and very, very slightly warm. Carl also had always been completely immobile, but the hand was so clearly alive. Even when it wasn’t moving, it had movement in it. It had life to it. Compared to the immobile statue that was Carl, it felt so much more complex and carefully crafted. Every joint as supple and nimble as my own hands.

We don’t generally look down at a human hand sliding over a keyboard or stroking a pet or punching buttons on a remote control and think, What a marvel! but it truly is. Humans have yet to create something so delicate and intricate as our own hands. But Carl’s hand was every bit as careful and nimble as my own, and a great deal stronger, it would seem.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and Carl skittered away again.

“I’m just calling Andy,” I said. “You know Andy, right?”

So I punched him, number two on my speed dial after Robin these days. The phone rang once before noise exploded in my ears. I threw my phone across the room, screaming. Once it wasn’t right up against my ear, I could hear it clearly.

. . . ship on my way to Mars, on a collision course. I am a satellite, I’m out of control. I am a sex machine ready to reload like an atom bomb about to oh oh oh oh oh explode . . .

Queen, “Don’t Stop Me Now.”

“You’re blocking me!” I accused the hand, panting from my freak-out.

Nothing.

“Look, I don’t know what you want and I’m not going to know unless you tell me.”

Nothing.

I grabbed my computer off the coffee table and sat on the floor with it a foot away from where the hand had taken residence. The Wi-Fi signal was strong, but every website timed out.

“Well, what am I supposed to do then!”

As you might have expected by this point, nothing.

“Can I tell anybody?”

Two taps.

“Was that an actual response?”

One tap.

“THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING!”

Nothing.

“Are you from outer space?”

Nothing.

“Have you heard about the Carls in St. Petersburg and S?o Paulo?”

Nothing.

“Can I tell anyone you’re here?”

Two taps.

“Can I tell anyone you saved me?”

Two taps.

“Can I at least tell Robin?”

Two taps.

“Would you stop me if I tried to tell someone?”

Nothing.

I must have asked the hand a thousand questions and the only information I got out of it was that I was not, under any circumstances, to share that it had visited me. No one could know; no one could see it. I felt, of course, tremendously obliged to keep this promise because if the Carls did have some kind of massive plan, I sure didn’t want to mess it up—also because I had built a whole life around believing the Carls were good—also because of the whole life-debt thing.

But that also meant not telling anyone that I had been shot at. This line of inquiry, of course, led to no response. The hand did not appear to be concerned about my safety. Possibly, it thought it could guarantee it. How was I supposed to tell anyone that I’d been shot at without breaking this promise?