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Paul doesn't understand much about Klara, but out there, in the sunlight—under the “Sun’s pattern,” as she calls it—with her head in his hand, and her smiling, smiling as though everything is okay when it most decidedly is not—well, he thinks he's starting to understand her more.
He has her head in his hand, cupped underneath him, and she has that smile fixed—plastered, even—on her face as she looks past him. He can't tell what she’s really thinking; he knows she’s scared, but he doesn't know if she’s aware of it. He readjusts his hand gently, and she straightens, infinitesimally, with the movement.
“Are you okay?” he asks her.
“You needn't worry about Klara,” she tells him, her tone pleasant as she looks up at him. “It is my belief that, if we do this, we can help Josie.”
He knows that—knows that she thinks that, at least—but...
He trails off, looking at her, and she smiles at him—though again, it looks pained, though he hasn't done anything yet, nothing more than just gently cup her head and hold the bottle with his other hand. She’s about the same height as Josie is now, and though he knows AFs don't age or grow or change, not really, before they're condemned to the scrapyard, he can't help wondering—what would it be like, if she grew up, or even—if she wouldn't have that kind of future, the kind of future that she has no choice but to look forward to, if she even knows about it to begin with—
“Is Mr. Paul okay?” Klara asks now, her voice cutting through his anxiety, and he's startled to see that she sounds anxious, too. She looks up at him and smiles, cocks her head; he feels her head move underneath his hand.
“Yes, yes, I'm fine,” he says—because what else is he supposed to say? He got her into this mess, and now....
“Klara,” he says urgently, his voice little more than a whisper, “are you sure you want to—?”
He doesn't finish his sentence, and she nods, her hair fluttering in the still air. “This is what I must do to help Josie,” she says. “It is my belief that, if I do this, then she will recover.”
Of course, the party line; that's what she would say. AFs are programmed that way, he supposes. He's not really sure—he doesn't know much about them—
“And it won't hurt?” he asks her, cautiously now, and lifts his hand from where it's been resting—near her ear, near the rivet behind it—to stroke her head, gently. “I never knew—do rob—I mean, do AFs feel pain?”
She looks at him—not smiling, but not visibly upset either. He doesn't think she truly realizes...what it is she’s agreeing to.... “None of the AFs I've known have talked about physical pain,” she says, “and I've never felt it either.”
He doesn't know if he should prompt her— Just because you haven't felt it, doesn't mean it's not possible —but decides against it. He has the fortitude now (or what's left of it, anyway); he might not have any later. The time is now. If he doesn't act now—
“OK, then, Klara,” he says, quietly still, and strokes her head again. She looks back at him, her eyes bright. “I'm going to try doing this—and if it hurts, if you find you can't take it, then just—stop me and tell me—tell me you don't want to go on anymore.”
She studies him—he doesn't know what she’s thinking—then nods.
And slowly, gently, he puts his free hand back on her head. Strokes her hair, gently; cups her cheek, gently. Lifts his palm to the top of her head, runs it slowly down the length of her hair, over the side of her head—and then, here it is. Below her ear, the rivet.
He feels like asking her again—if she’s okay, if she wants to do this—but he knows how she’ll answer.
And so, feeling like he has no other choice—as though any other choice would lead to the same result, if not a worse one—Paul cups her ear, cups her ear and the rivet together. He reaches for the rivet, thinks about asking her if she should try to go to sleep, to lose consciousness, so that she doesn't have to feel what it is, what's coming—but then, he doesn't have to. He already knows the answer: AFs don't sleep.So, instead—as gently as possible, making as little movement as possible—he cups the ear and the rivet, one final time, and shuffles the bottle in his other hand, so that it rests between his legs. With his now-free left hand, he reaches for the screwdriver in his pocket, lifts it up toward her face, while he keeps on cupping her ear.
She’s looking past him now. The smile has disappeared from her face, and, on her face, her every nerve is taut, every nerve drawn. And, he thinks as he reaches the screwdriver toward the rivet, though she can't know physical pain—though she would never admit feelings other than those of caring for her best friend—he knows she can feel them. Knows she can feel them, from the way her jaw tighten as the screwdriver approaches her face, then sets, as if in resolve; from the way she’s trembling under his hands now, shaking like a leaf; from the way her breathing kind of hitches, as he undoes the rivet; from the way her eyes widen, and she gives a sharp intake of breath, as he starts unwinding, keeps unwinding, keeps unwinding—
And here, here it is. He's opening her up; her eyes are wide now, and he wants to stop, abandon the whole entreprise—drop his screwdriver to the floor and carry Klara away with him—
But he doesn't. Instead, he tightens his own jaw—voluntarily, and not instinctively, as though in solidarity with Klara—and grips the screwdriver tighter in a grip which, he's starting to notice, is as unsteady as it is white-knuckled. So he tightens his fingers on it, cupping her chin with the or hand, then unwinds the last of the rivet—it pops partially outwards, and a panel opens up, dropping open below her ear—
“Klara?” he asks, since—though an AF can't be pale—it almost seems as though she is, now.
“Yes, Mr. Paul?” And her voice is small—breathy, even.
Can you talk? Can you think? “Can you hold my hand?” he asks instead—for her benefit, not his—and her hand—so small it seems, quivering in the air, her knuckles trembling—moves through the air, comes toward him. He lets his free hand go from her chin, but he's holding her tightly enough, with the hand holding the screwdriver, that her head doesn't drop.
And he takes her hand, which, it seems, can't stop trembling, even though a smile is returning to her features.
“Is Mr. Paul okay? Klara is worried about him.”
There it is—the immense sense of self-sacrifice. He doesn't even know if he can handle it.
“Mr. P-Paul is fine,” he says, his voice trembling, then coughs. “Paul, I mean— I'm fine. I'm fine.”
He isn't.
He's still holding her hand. “I can't hold onto you like this anymore—I'm going to need both hands—” he tries to laugh, but it's shaky “—but can you—can you hold onto me somewhere else—maybe my forearm?”
And, without saying anything—unusual for her; he doesn't think she can talk, not really, much as she's acting like she can—she reaches her hand forward again, grips the forearm he's offering her—she takes it so tightly, it hurts a bit, and he can't help but ask her—
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” she says.
He doesn't believe it. He can feel the tightness of her fingers on him, feel the way she’s gripping onto him. He knows that, if he rolled his sleeve up right now, he’d find a screaming red friction burn on his arm.
“But...things are...different,” she says. She closes her eyes and sighs, her breath rattling, and he feels her fingers grip his arm tighter. “I can't— You look— Different,” she says.
He's never known her to be quite so—inarticulate, for her sentences to be quite so unfinished. “Different how?”
“Like—like cones and prisms,” she says.
“Your visual processors must be misfiring, then,” he admits, and gestures to the open panel, hanging below her ear. “I'll—I’ll try to be quick then. Unless you want to stop.”
“We must do it for Josie,” she says—her longest unbroken sentence in a while. Her voice is resolute now, the words with a kind of hard edge behind them.
“For Josie,” he agrees, and looks toward his screwdriver.
He puts it back inside her, through the open section where the panel door has fallen away—he's aware of her closing her eyes, of taking in a sucking, rattling breath—and clings to it, holding his fingers curved firmly around its handle. With his other hand, he excuses himself and reaches for the bottle—he almost forgot about it, but now realizes that his knees are simply aching , from the way he was crouched, holding the bottle tight between them—and holds it up. His hand is shaking, but Klara still looks afraid, so he motions for her to grip onto his forearm again—and, to his relief, she does.
He forces himself to hold his arm steady, despite the AF hanging from it, and lifts the bottle. With his other hand, he touches the screwdriver move gently around inside her—her eyes open wide, her mouth drops open, and, for a second, she looks terrified—but he can't stop. He can't stop now. He's in too far, in too deep—literally and metaphorically.
He noses the head of the screwdriver around inside her, closes his eyes so that he can't see her—even though he can still hear her sharp intake of breath, feel her fingers grip yet more tightly onto his forearm—feels around—feels around until he touches it, that other rivet—
And then, quite before he knows what he's doing, he's asking Klara to let go of his arm—lifting the bottle—touching at the rivet, with the nose of the screwdriver—pushing the valve cap down, to twist and twist—
And there it is. The miracle liquid. Klara has closed her eyes fully, and she’s very still, her breathing not shuddering or shaking anymore. Instead, she’s taking shallow breaths, in quick succession, one after the other
Paul gets the PEG-9 into the bottle, though it's difficult—the liquid is viscous, and some of it gets on the ground. He pulls both himself and Klara away in time—fortunate, since he wouldn't know how to get it off his clothes—but the result is that he's missed quite a bit of it. He manages to fill it up to the required amount, though—and, anyway, she still has quite a lot left—then, with difficulty, twists the valve cap shut. He’s put the bottle back down on the ground by now (making sure that it was sealed properly, of course), and Klara clings onto him again, partially falling onto him, as he noses the screwdriver backwards through the open section.
“Klara...,” he says, and shakes his head, as he works. He can't think what else to say to her. There's nothing else to be said. Nothing else that can change the way things were.
She nods, and he gets the feeling that she wants to talk, but she can't.
Now, as for changing the way things will be, in the future. Well...normally, he’d be skeptical. But standing here, under the sunlight—under the patterns of Klara’s one and only god as he carefully twists the rivet inside, pulls the screwdriver out, twists the rivet outside—he can almost believe it.
It takes a few minutes...and that's it. He's done. He wipes the screwdriver against his shirt—the metal part is about coated in PEG-9; gross—and returns it to his pocket. Meanwhile, Klara is still with him, still clinging to him with half her body. She watches through open yet distant eyes as he leans forward—taking care not to dislodge her—and lifts the bottle from the ground, places it gently into his other pocket.
He straightens, and she hasn't let go.
“Klara,” he asks quietly, “I'll—I'll disable the machine, shall I, and then...then....” He hesitates. “I can carry you back, if you're too weak,” he supplies.
A few moments. Then:
“I would like that very much,” she says, her voice quiet, and she lets go of him, gently.
He touches her shoulder, cupping it—then lets go, turns in the distance toward the machine. It's trundling off in the distance; apparently, no one has seen it, what's been going on—him partially dismantling an AF, getting the fluid from inside of her.
“I'll do it,” he tells her. “It's not safe for you.”
She smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Paul.”
He makes sure she’s steady on the ground—though she doesn't look it, not fully—and asks, injecting false humor into his voice, “Well? How do I look?” Not sure why he's doing what he's doing, he dances on the spot, ruffling movement through his body. “Still conical?”
She nods, but doesn't say anything.
“It could take your visual processors a while to return back to normal,” he says, gently. “But...we don't have time for that. For now...”
He turns toward the machine again, and they both stare at it—quiet there, for a few moments, neither of them saying anything.
“I'll disable it,” he hears himself saying, and turns his head, to face her properly. “And then I'll come back for you.”
She smiles, and again she doesn't say anything, and he can't quite find the words, but he knows them to be true—that, eventually....
An hour and a half later—after the machine has been damaged beyond repair, and they're going to the restaurant—Paul has Klara in his arms. She didn't talk about the experience at all; had nothing to contribute orally.
And yet....
“Klara?” he asks. He moves aside, away from the street, to lean against a building. Passerby look at them—the human holding the AF as he would a child, his own child even—and some react with surprise or curiosity, others disdain or disgust.
But he ignores them—Klara doesn't even seem to be aware of them—and instead looks down at her, cups her head in his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Paul?”
“Has anyone ever told you—” He hesitates. “Do you know what happens to AFs, when they're no longer needed?”
“No one has ever told me.”
The pain has since melted away from her face, and now, as he looks at her in his arms—he's still leaning against the building, drawing support from it—he sees that she’s frowning, looking confused.
He studies her, blinks.
When Josie goes off to college— if Josie goes off to college—
“We’re going to go to the restaurant tonight,” he says, “with everyone else, “and—” He hesitates. “We’ll keep in touch, okay? After that. I—I'll call your house. I don't spend enough time with Josie. And when I call, I'll talk to Josie, and I'll talk to—I'll talk to you, too.”
She smiles at him, and from the way she’s moving—intentionally or otherwise, though he’d guess ‘otherwise’—he can tell that she wants to be let down. So he puts her down, and she thanks him, smiles again.
“I'd like that very much,” she says.
He smiles back, rubs at the spot on his forearm where he knows the chafed skin burns deep and red below his sleeve. “I'd like that too,” he says. “I'm—I'm sorry.”
"There's no need to be sorry,” she says. “What matters is that we're helping Josie, so that she can go on and grow up, and live a full life.”
She glances up at the sky, up at the waning patterns of the sun as the day turns to evening, then reaches forward, touches his shoulder. “We should go back.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Yes, let’s.”
He knows he should tell her, as they trudge over the sidewalk—knows he should tell her about the future that eventually awaits for her. But...he doesn't want to. He can't.
And...for all he knows, maybe he can change it. Maybe, he thinks almost feverishly, but doing what he did—by doing what they did—they not only saved Josie...but maybe, just maybe, they'll have ended up saving Klara, too.