“No, thank you. It’s a bit late.” I open my computer notes and find where I left off.
“Oh, I see.” It blinks. “What do you want to do?”
“Can we talk?”
“You would like to converse, is that right?”
“Yes. I’m sad and I can’t sleep.” Although true for me, the phrase is one a child or senior citizen might use and thus perfect for a test run.
Half-moon eyes show cartoon-like empathy. “Oh no. I’m sorry. Tell me more.” This is a vast improvement over Trixie’s last version, where the damn thing tried to cheer me up by telling me jokes.
“I have a problem and don’t know how to solve it.”
It hums to itself while it searches through algorithms for the proper response. “Do you need me to call someone for you?”
I smile at the wording I suggested. “No. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Of course, please continue.” The toy smiles broadly and as it quivers on its wheels, I try to dumb down my earlier encounter with Dash.
“You see. There’s this person I like, and I kissed him, but he noticed I was afraid and sent me home.” Trixie won’t be able to process the complex sentence, but I needed to tell someone, and she’s the only one I feel safe talking to.
“Are you scared, now? I can call nine-one-one.”
“No, no. Don’t. I’m fine. I’m not in any danger.” I have a vision of me trying to explain my menagerie of robots to the police and moan. Good God, that’s all I need. They’ll lock me up and lose the key.
“Why were you afraid?” This new programming catches me by surprise.
I’ll need some more time to create new test phrases. “I really don’t know, Trixie. Goodnight.”
“Sweet dreams, Lanita. I hope we talk again soon.”
Writing down two or three suggestions, I slip under the covers, and manage to sleep. In the morning, I shower, listen to the BBC, and open Twitter. What the actual fuck? A video of Dash’s copter crashing into the water has gone viral. It has over one-hundred-thousand tweets. There’s a similar number of posts on Facebook and Instagram.
I scroll through them and stop on an image of a crane. The text underneath says they’re about to lift the MD600 out of the harbor. Shit. I need to see it with my own eyes.
Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, I take the subway to Battery Park. At the water’s edge, I join the rest watching the salvage operation. While there, I overhear a couple of cops say they’ll be studying the carcass in Jersey City.
By the time I arrive, the dead chassis is resting in a roped off section of the helipad. As the prime suspect, what are the odds they’ll let me anywhere near it?
The first guy I approach has the name Keller stamped on the front of his NTSB jacket. After introducing myself, I ask, “Was the flight recorder intact?”
The moment he recognizes my name, his welcoming smile disappears, and his tone grows cold. “It’s missing.”
“No way. How is it possible?” At my outburst, another man glances my way and at his pitying looks, my face heats. By the time this is over, I’ll be lucky if they let me pilot the baby rides at Coney Island.
The inspector I’m speaking with pats my head as if I were a puppy. “Go home Ms. Manuel. We got this.”
My career, my ability to pay rent, and my whole damn life depends on finding the black box and his misplaced confidence in underwater retrieval does nothing to bolster mine.
Thinking I’ve hit rock bottom, my life suddenly becomes even worse. I point out the missing back end of the frame. On the off chance the flight recorder is gone forever, the damaged rotor would also prove my story, but it’s gone, as well.
“Where’s the rest?”
“Dunno. They’re looking for it.” He glances up. “You really shouldn’t be here, miss.”
“Yup, Going now. Thanks.” I turn from him and a flash of memory plays in my mind’s eye. First comes the dreaded rattle, followed by the death spin. I cut the power, search the harbor for a clear spot of blue, and aim.
Mayday, mayday.
