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For another moment, Rava focused on the cable before her brain
caught what Cordelia had asked. She yanked the mono-lens out of the
jack and the lenses went transparent. “You can’t tell?”
The oblong box of Cordelia’s chassis had been modified into a faux
Victorian-era oak lapdesk, which sat on the fold-down plastic table in
Rava’s compartment. Twin brass cameras—not period correct—stood
at the back and swiveled to face Rava.
Above the desk, a life-size hologram of Cordelia’s torso hovered. Her
current aspect was a plump middle-aged Victorian woman. She chewed
her lip, which was her coded body language for uncertainty. “It’s not
showing in my systems.”
“Goddamit, Rava. Let me look at it.” Ludoviko, handsome, smug
Ludoviko reached for the camera cable ready to plug it into his own VR
glasses.
Rava brushed his hand away. “Your arm won’t fit.” The hum of the
ship’s ventilation told Rava the life support systems were functioning,
but the air seemed thick and rank. Ignoring her brother, she turned to
the AI. “Does your long-term memory need a reboot?”
“It shouldn’t.” Cordelia’s image peered down as if she could see inside
herself.
“Are you sure it’s plugged in?”
Rava reattached the camera’s cable to her VR glasses and waited for
the f lat view to overlay her vision. The cable rested in its socket with
no visible gap. She reached out and jiggled it.
LE PORTRAIT MAGAZINE
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