Love and Robotics

by Eyre, Rachael

  Privately Alfred agreed, but he had to know. “When you say love, what do you mean?”

  “Master Timothy is my world. I cannot live without him.”

  “It has that effect,” he sighed. “Do you want me to take you to your cabin?”

  He winched her down from the chair, gagging on her perfume. As they walked the halls together, people openly sniggering at them, he could have died.

  “This is my room,” she said unnecessarily. “See you.”

  She slapped her key fob against the door. Master Timothy - ugh, he’d always think of him as that - peered around it.

  “Where did you get to?” He didn’t see Alfred. “You know you shouldn’t go out on your own. There’s bad men about.”

  “That’s why I got Josh’s master to bring me home!” she chirruped.

  Timothy was so short he had to tip his head to make eye contact. “Who the hell are you?”

  “A bad man on the prowl.” Alfred gave a slow, evil wave. “See you, Mr -” he read the name tag - “Mauger.”

  “It’s pronounced ‘Mo-jay.’”

  So much was in that snitty response, the watery eyes like a lab rat. Yes, Timothy was fat, balding and mushy, racking asthmatic breaths that soiled the air, but a woman could see past that. What she wouldn’t see past was the meanness, the lack of imagination, the desire to label and own. Alfred felt sorry for Trini.

  “Sure it is.”

  Josh was subdued for the rest of the evening. He recorded new messages, spoke to a scuttlebot in the hall. He lay on the sofa, feet wagging in stripy socks. “Do you want to know what’s bothering me?” he said at last.

  “Blast. Yes.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about Trini and that horrible man.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Could you -?” He gestured for Alfred to join him. “I thought you’d change her mind.”

  “Why me, if you couldn’t?”

  “Robots listen to humans.” He chewed his lip. “I hate the thought of being programmed to do things. Like she’s forced to be in love with Master Timothy.”

  “If it works for them -”

  “It doesn’t, though!” He moved so violently, Alfred was nearly pitched into the wastepaper basket. “It’s all on his side. He gets a -”

  “Willing orifice -”

  “He gets a slave and she gets nothing. Love’s too important to be mucked around with.”

  Here was the opening. Josh gazed at him, lips parted. As Alfred pushed him away, fifty two Earls of Langton gnashed their teeth.

  “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  As the third day dawned Josh felt uneasy. He’d scarcely seen any humans the past two days. He asked the robots, but they shrugged. A few expressed boredom: not getting shut down was all very well, but what could they do? The scuttlebots became addicted to the casino. Some of the waiters broke into the cocktail bar and got drunk. Steam poured from their hearing sockets hours later.

  Alfred got up before him. Josh knew it was part of the restlessness that assailed him if he was in one place for too long, but it was lonely all the same. He’d bought a new book but it could wait. He had a need for robot company that morning. Ernest. He wasn’t the most riveting conversationalist, but he was better than nothing. When he stopped by the memo’s room, he sensed something was wrong. No ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, no droning hum. He saw in a glance Ernest wasn’t there. Even his smell had been erased.

  He wouldn’t be put off that easily. Trini. He took the lift, rehearsed what he planned to say. Something to stick in the draught between her ears. Her door yielded too. This time it showed signs of occupancy: a dressing table dedicated to inhalers and nose drops, a rack of impractical dresses. Where would she go on her own? Maintenance?

  A sound the other side of the cabin. Master Timothy, using the bathroom. Josh nipped inside the wardrobe. Not the most imaginative place but it’d do. Just as he breathed out, he had the shock of his life: Trini sitting on the floor beside him, naked with her legs splayed open.

  “Uh - hello.” Nothing. He snapped his fingers. Not a flicker.

  “Are you going to say hello to your master?” came a damp, beery voice.

  The door was sliding back. Josh tried to look invisible. Astonishingly it worked.

  “I’m a lucky man.” Master Timothy stroked Trini’s hair.

  She opened her eyes - he must have activated her onswitch. She gazed at him meltingly. A throaty gurgle. “Do you want to use me?”

  “Do I.”

  The door might have hidden him but couldn’t conceal what was happening up against it: Trini with her legs jack knifed, Master Timothy plugging away with a putrid purple root. When it popped out he spat on his hands and forced it back in.

  “Master Timothy, you’re so big!”

  “You’re so tight.”

  “Fill me up now!”

  After a grunt from him and a squeak from her, the man pulled out. They landed on the bed, Master Timothy falling asleep. Trini rested her head upon his chest as though there was nowhere she would rather be.

  The coast was clear. Josh snatched a book - he needed an excuse for being there - and tiptoed out. Thankfully they were too exhausted to raise their heads.

  A few hours later, Alfred catapulted into the cabin. He sealed the door, pulled down the grille and pushed one of the bar stools against it. “Would you believe - ?”

  The sentence died. Josh was clasping his knees, head bowed. “What’s wrong?”

  Alfred sat next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Josh wriggled as far as he could down the sofa without falling off.

  “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” Alfred’s gaze fell upon a book on the coffee table. “I’ve got something to read.”

  He opened it, expecting one of Josh’s treacly romances. Instead, diagram after sickening diagram, voluptuous robot plundered by a shadowy man. In one the robot stood on her head, legs scythed open while the man rutted. He must be hung like a mule. ‘The Fetish 2000 has three vibrating orifices and a lifetime supply of wipes.’ Good thing he’d skipped lunch.

  “Josh! Where did you get this thing?”

  “I went to visit Trini.” Every word was an effort. “I got trapped.”

  Alfred had a fairly accurate idea of the hour Josh must have spent. “You saw -”

  “Them,” he said, hunching up further.

  Alfred wanted to soothe him but wasn’t sure how. A small foot in a lavender sock lay by his elbow. He squeezed the toes gently. An appreciative moan, followed by panic. Josh dug his nails into Alfred’s arm, drawing blood.

  “Is that what you meant when you talked about -”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “I’d read books -”

  “But it’s not the same as knowing,” Alfred finished.

  “You must think I’m so stupid.”

  “When I was a kid I thought Abernathy grew babies in the greenhouse.” He pulled a face. “Nanny put me right.”

  A miserable smile. Fucking CER. It hurt to watch as Josh’s ideals burst like bubbles. “Is it always like that? No tenderness or love?”

  Alfred wanted to say: of course not. If they made love it would be special. Right. But he couldn’t explain - and, if he was truly Josh’s friend, he wouldn’t try. “It is what it is.”

  The foot was withdrawn. “I’ll be in the other room. Don’t wait up.”

  Alfred walked round and round the suite, peeking in at Josh. The artificial was in sleep mode, curled up like a snail. He slid the door shut and plodded to the bar.

  Why was he reacting so badly? Why did he want to burst into the spare cabin and give a flowery defence of physical love? To explain that it wasn’t a case of part A slotting into part B, but born from passion and need -

  He didn’t know what he was drinking. If it was cold and clinked beneath his touch, that was enough. He must have been on the sixth bottle when the lights flatlined.

  Fluorescent eyes wavered in the darkness. His stool we
nt over. He tried to land a punch but his arms were pinned behind his back.

  “For Thea’s sake. It’s me.” Alfred made out the soft curls, the neat profile.

  “Thought you’d turned in.”

  “What have you been drinking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Could draw you a picture -” What was he saying?

  The innuendo passed Josh by. “The second phase has started.”

  “The bots have cut the power? How could they -”

  “The robots haven’t done anything. If we don’t make a move in -” a tinkle of glass - “five minutes, we’ll be facing an angry mob.”

  Instant sobriety. “Any ideas?”

  “One or two.”

  They worked by torchlight, blocking every entrance in their suite. Boards were no good, the enemy could saw through them. After rooting in their luggage they came across several sheets of turquoise metal.

  “What are these?” Alfred asked.

  “I thought they’d come in useful. You know, in case you invented something.”

  “Hmrph.”

  “Well, we will invent something tonight.”

  “The ‘Keep Scratters Out of Our Personal Space’ device?”

  “Do you have your soldering iron?”

  It was astounding, the stuff Josh had sneaked into his bag. “You get busy,” he went on, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “What if I say no?”

  A mischievous blink-wink. “But you won’t, will you?”

  As Alfred chivvied away, Josh went through a series of mystifying actions. He’d tap the panels, listen hard, pour a bottle into a paint bucket. Finally he found the spurgle and blew it down the pipe. “There!” he exclaimed, wiping his hands on his trousers. “We’re ready now.”

  The siege was the strangest thing. In one respect it was painfully exciting: outwit the enemy, hear the booby traps go off. Yet Josh felt detached, as though he watched in a darkened auditorium. At a quiet point in proceedings he said, “I know it isn’t the time or place, but look at the calendar.”

  Alfred peered at it. “May 29th. Tournament Day ... Blast. I haven’t got you anything.”

  Josh shrugged. “There isn’t much you can buy an artificial. I made you this.” As Alfred sat up, “Close your eyes.”

  He did as he was told, reluctantly. “You’re not going to feed me a snail, are you?”

  “I should hope not! Who did that?”

  “Gussy.”

  “Your sister had problems.”

  “Now can I open them?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Alfred stared at what lay in his palm. It was a tiny silver dragon, eyes, teeth and claws engraved to the last detail. Its wings were furled as though it was asleep. Josh worried he didn’t like it but the stupefaction gave way to a grin.

  “You made this? Is there anything you can’t do?”

  “Rub his spine.”

  Alfred did so. A jet of flame shot out. “A dragon lighter?”

  “It seemed a good match of owner and subject. ‘Not more bloody dragons!’”Josh mimicked.

  “Don’t do that, it’s creepy. I’ll make an exception this once.”

  “Happy Tournament Day.” They toasted each other with the hip flask.

  “Happy Tournament Day.”

  Alfred was in his element: shotgun at the ready, passing a flask of coffee between them. The War Pipe wreathed him in gusts of smoke. It occurred to Josh how little he knew of his friend’s past, only crumbs dropped when he was caught off guard. He thought he’d surprise him now. “Do you miss the army?”

  “Why’d you ask?”

  “You come alive at times like this.”

  “You don’t give me time to miss it.”

  A volley of bullets ripped through the wall. For the next few minutes china shattered, wood splintered, the wall gave way. They lay with their faces pressed to the carpet, Alfred’s arm slung over Josh’s back. When nothing further happened they sat up.

  “Is that it?” Alfred hissed.

  Josh licked a finger and held it out. “Looks like it.”

  “Don’t think much of their sticking power.”

  “Unless they want to lull us -”

  Alfred stopped him. They were very close. Josh, thinking he was going to kiss him, closed his eyes. Instead Alfred cocked and reloaded his gun.

  “You look shattered. I’ll hold the fort.” As Josh objected, “You’ve had a bad day.”

  He was going to say, “No more than usual,” but remembered Master Timothy’s plunges. He was still shuddering as he bedded down in the cabin.

  Josh clicked awake early the next morning. The only sound was the lap of waves outside the porthole. He slipped into the main lounge. The destruction was incredible. Grit spilled from cracks in the wall, jagged wood, prisms of glass. Even the barricades had buckled, peppered with bullet holes.

  A low rumble. He looked down and smiled. Alfred was propped against the doorframe, his gun on his lap. Even in sleep he was guarding him. Josh found a cushion and placed it beneath his friend’s head.

  Time to wash yesterday’s events from his skin. Josh always sang in the shower - because he liked being clean? He never stayed with the one tune, running through all the songs he could remember. It was only as he switched off the jet that he realised they weren’t alone. Somebody cajoling Alfred, his gruff replies.

  Whoever it was, they were persistent. He’d have to give Alfred a hand. Arranging his towel into a turban, Josh strode forward. “May I help?”

  Two realisations. One, their visitor was a jumped up middle management type. A factory somewhere must churn them out. Two, Alfred was staring at him, a spot of colour on each cheekbone.

  Nudity was something Josh gave no thought to. It was only now, seeing Alfred so affected, he was forced to reconsider. The blue eyes travelled, lingering. His torso. The long slender legs. Slightly higher up –

  Alfred remembered where he was. He went to the kitchen and bolted a shot of brandy. Josh knotted the towel around his waist and tried to be polite. The man wore an unpleasant sneer.

  “I was explaining to your handler -” the word in quotation marks - “it was in your interests to drop your crusade.”

  “Or?”

  “Every bot on this ship gets squelched.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Glad you’ve come to your senses. Now -” addressed to Alfred - “there’s a craft at midday. Make sure you’re on it. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Abundantly,” Alfred said.

  “Certain things are against Her word. I will not tolerate them.”

  Alfred muttered, “Dis-miss!”, making Josh giggle. The man glared and marched down the corridor.

  Alfred kneaded his forehead. “Let’s clean up.”

  A gang of scuttlebots appeared, asking was there anything they could do? Alfred was going to send them away but Josh forestalled them. “Actually, there are a few jobs.” He dished out the tasks: mending shelves, filling cracks, sweeping up smithereens.

  “Isn’t this hypocritical?” Alfred asked.

  “No. They’ve volunteered.”

  While the whirring put his back up, it was useful in another way. It stopped him from playing back what he’d seen: naked, unabashed Josh, studded with water drops ...

  He had to get a grip on himself. Not like that.

  The robots finished up. You had to hand it to them - you’d never have guessed there had been a shoot out twelve hours earlier. One had even fitted new curtains. Josh gathered their luggage and put it down the chute.

  Alfred checked his watch. “An hour to go. Shall we get some fresh air?”

  “I wanted to say goodbye to Trini -”

  “Suit yourself.”

  They parted, Josh taking the lift to the second floor, Alfred going upwards. Josh caught up with him, saying, “It’s queer. I knocked and knocked, but I’m sure someone was in there.”

>   “Maybe it’s Master Timothy’s day off.”

  “Maybe.” He was still unhappy. “I won’t see her again.”

  They only saw three humans. One, a fat man with an overpowering signature of sweat, spat - it landed on Josh’s collar. He moved too fast for Alfred to deck him. “What a charmer,” he said.

  Josh shrugged. “It’ll come off. Look!”

  There were three shining pools of oil on the floor: one small, the second a puddle, the third expanding. Josh sniffed. “Engine oil. A robot’s hurt -”

  They collided with something jutting from the wall. An elaborate fish tank, swirls of colour dashing in and out of the light. They realised simultaneously. “Trini!”

  They rounded the next corner, where the leak had become a lake. Trini lay beneath a service hatch, legs at right angles like a broken doll. A terrible wheezing came from her chest. She had been shot point blank through her oil tank.

  Josh knelt beside her. “Trini? Can you hear me?”

  She lifted her head. “Josh? Josh’s master?”

  Alfred didn’t correct her. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Find Master Timothy,” she whispered.

  Josh took her hand. “Don’t worry, he’s coming.” Looking up, “Can you get him? I’ll stay.”

  For once Alfred took the lift. He hurried down the hall and banged at the door. “Room service!”

  A moment’s fumbling and the door opened. He didn’t have to look to know Timothy was drunk. Cider oozed from every pore.

  “You don’t -” A spark of recognition. “You again.” With his ratty bathrobe, pimply chest and saggy belly, Timothy couldn’t be further from love’s young dream.

  “Trini’s dying.”

  The plump face showed no emotion. “Got an extended warranty.” He went to shut the door.

  Alfred blocked the way. “You are going to drag your sorry arse up there right now and tell her you love her. Go or I’ll throw you there.”

  “I’m not dressed,” Timothy whined.

  Alfred grabbed his arm and propelled him out of the door. Somehow they went up two flights, Timothy struggling all the way.