I Heart Robot

by Suzanne Van Rooyen

  I dance until a pause in the thumping bass makes me aware of my vibrating moby. Twenty-six missed calls over the last three hours: several from Rurik, a few from Asrid, the rest from Mom. There’s also a text from Mom in her eloquent SMS speak:

  T, its L8. R U OK? Call ASAP.

  It’s almost two in the morning, hours past my curfew. Mom is going to spit roast me if she hasn’t already expired from panic. I hurry back the way I came, trusting my feet to retrace my steps. Writhing shadows detach from the walls. A gang of kids follows me, whispering as I stumble through the dimly lit streets.

  “Mom.” My moby dials and Mom answers out of breath after the first ring.

  “Tyri! Are you all right? Rurik called when he couldn’t find you. Do you know what you’ve put me through young lady? Where are you?” She’s having a conniption.

  “I’m still in lower Baldur.”

  “Rurik’s been out looking for you for hours.” Mom launches into a tirade about responsibility and how selfish I am for disappearing. As if she had a clue. The fact that Rurik cared enough to be out looking for me is more comforting than I expect.

  “Mom, I’m calling Rurik. See you at home.”

  The kids behind me are catching up. I take the turn that should set me back near Olof’s, instead I’m facing a dead end alley. Geography is my weakest subject; I should’ve known I’d get lost.

  “Rurik.” The call goes through as I turn to face my pursuers.

  “Are you lost, miss?” The one with a buzz cut asks.

  “No, just waiting for someone.”

  Rurik answers, “Where are you?”

  “Near Olof’s I think.”

  “I’m tracking you. You okay?”

  “No.” My voice quavers with fear.

  “Hold on T. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Want us to show you home, miss?” Another boy asks in an identical voice, right down to the quiet sibilance at the end of every word.

  “Spare a krone for the homeless, miss?” The third one speaks. Except for a difference in hairstyle, the boys are exact replicas of each other. They raise their hands in unison and reach toward me. Their tatty sleeves pull back and reveal neat codes blackening synthetic flesh. W-8-60s. Entertainment bots probably used as body doubles. They should be wearing orange armbands. If they’re not, that means they’ve gone rogue. Fear pushes my heartbeat into overdrive.

  The androids advance and I rummage through my handbag for a weapon. Asrid’s spare hair comb is the only viable option. Feeling like an idiot, I wave twenty centimeters of plastic at 200kg of steel and electronics.

  “Hurry, please.” I shout into the moby.

  “Almost there.” Rurik must be on foot if he’s tracking my GPS signal through the alleys.

  The kids lunge for me, tearing at my bag and clothes. I go down, losing the comb and driving my elbow into the cobbles. Fireflies swarm across my vision as robotic hands snatch up the spilled contents of my bag.

  “Stop!” Rurik’s boots smack against the stone.

  The bots whoop and yell, sprinting down the alley and vaulting over the wall. They clear the six-foot structure effortlessly.

  “Androids,” I say and Rurik’s hands ball into fists. He starts after them, but I catch his sleeve. There’s no point.

  “Are you all right?” Rurik’s face creases with worry, his eyes wide and searching as he sweeps me into his arms. I’m shaking, my teeth chattering castanets.

  “Think so,” I manage.

  “Walking scrap droid pieces of crap.” Rurik spits out a string of invective at the shadows as he dusts off my knees.

  “I hurt my elbow.” The joint is numb and the skin smarts.

  He cups my arm in his hands and rolls up my coat and shirtsleeve to inspect the damage.

  “You’re bleeding and it’s already swollen.” He places a tender kiss above the injury. “Can you move it?”

  “I think so.” I try straightening my arm. Pain blossoms in the joint, but I force my arm out.

  “Not broken then.” Rurik rubs my shoulders as I shiver.

  “I’m sorry.” I bury my face in Rurik’s chest and he hugs me. He’s so warm. Our earlier fight seems so meaningless now, his apparent callousness for Nana totally overwhelmed by his love for me. He came for me even though I left him.

  “I’m sorry too.” He wipes tears off my cheeks with his thumb. “Home?” I nod. He kisses my forehead, and it no longer matters that my moby and handbag are gone or that blood is staining my new shirt. All that matters is that he came for me.

  ***

  “Tyri!” Mom flings open the door and smothers me in a hug. “Are you all right?” She pushes me away, hands still on my shoulders, and studies my face.

  “Fine, just a bit banged up.” Mom already knows I was mugged. Rurik made me call her from the bug despite my protests that she’d freak out.

  “Let me see this elbow.” She leads me into the lounge, and I surrender to her ministrations as she pokes, prods, bends, and straightens my arm.

  Mom takes my face in her hands. “You had me so worried.” The tears in her eyes make me ache with guilt.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Don’t ever do it again.” She gives me another hug and kisses my hair. “I’ll get some HealGel.”

  Mom heads to the bathroom while Rurik makes me hot chocolate, banishing Miles to the pantry in case his robotic presence causes me further trauma. My protests go ignored. They were just kids, nothing more than pickpockets. Humans have been known to do far worse than steal a handbag. Still, resentment lurks on the edge of reason, clawing its way inside. Glitch snuggles on my lap and my fingers stroke her fur, tracing the ridge of scar tissue on her leg where fluff meets mechatronics.

  “You should report this.” Rurik hands me the cup.

  “You haven’t already?” Mom comes back with the HealGel and wraps it around my elbow, the graze there already healing.

  “I just want to shower and go to sleep.” I ruffle Glitch’s ears and am rewarded with a hand lick.

  “You need to report this.”

  “And what’ll that achieve? I don’t think I’ll get my moby back.”

  “No,” Rurik says. “But enough reports of robots committing crime might inspire our pissant law enforcers to actually do something about that squatter camp.”

  Mom fusses some more over my elbow

  “It’s not broken,” I tell her.

  “No it isn’t, but I think Erik should take a look.”

  Erik, who I only recently stopped calling Uncle Erik: my mom’s boss and apparently my private physician even though he runs a division of M-Tech, not Baldur General Hospital.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Best to get you checked out,” Mom says. “Have you been taking your serum?”

  “Inject it every morning.” I’m a regular junkie, some blood platelet issue. If I don’t dose up every day, I risk internal hemorrhaging.

  “Extra dose tonight, please.” Mom uses her stern voice.

  I nod before turning to Rurik.

  “How do you know those robots were even from Fragheim?”

  “In that part of town, I guarantee it,” he says. “Were they wearing arm bands?”

  “No.” It irks me to admit Rurik might have a point. Robots were never meant to be autonomous. They shouldn’t be left to their own devices. “If I do report it, what’re the police going to do about it?”

  “Go in with flame throwers and exterminate the lot of them. Those tin cans shouldn’t be running around unmarked in the first place. They should be decommissioned and recycled.”

  “I’m exhausted. No more politics, please.” I nudge Glitch off my lap, leave my mug on the side table for Miles to clean up, and raise my arms toward Rurik.

  He grits his teeth, a vein pulsing along his jaw as he contemplates his options. He lets go of whatever diatribe he might’ve had in mind and pulls me to my feet, giving me a g
entle smile.

  “Mom, can Rurik stay over?”

  “If he sleeps on the couch.” Mom gives me a final hug and wishes me goodnight before shuffling into her bedroom.

  “You really freaked her out tonight. Had us all worried.” There’s a dash of admonishment in Rurik’s tone as he follows me down the hallway.

  “You can chew me out tomorrow. I just want to sleep.”

  In my bedroom, Rurik pulls down the covers as I strip, wash, inject the serum, and get into pajamas.

  “Good night, T.” He kisses my forehead.

  “Stay, please.” I latch onto his arm. The couch is too far away and I don’t want to be alone after tonight.

  Fully dressed minus shoes, he climbs in beside me and puts an arm around my shoulders. I press close against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. The steady rhythm reminds me of the surging bass. Even as I inhale Rurik’s spiced lemon scent, wrap my arms around his narrow chest, and curl into sleep, it’s the boy with the broken viola who takes center stage in my dreams. His melody plays on repeat in my mind. The music wasn’t beautiful; it was chaotic and dissonant, wild and uninhibited. In my dreams, we share the stage, viola and violin. Together, we play until our fingers bleed.

  Quinn

  The cold arrives with a vengeance, making our Friday afternoon traipse around the market a love affair with mud. Sleet spills out of an ashen sky, splattering my boots; the same boots I’ll need to scrub and buff for rehearsal tomorrow. Ice water trickles down the back of my shirt, soaking my clothes and lowering my core temperature. Shoulders hunched and faux muscles tensed against the freeze, I endure while Sal ferrets through bundles of old clothing and military cast-offs. Wet. Muddy. Miserable. You don’t have to be human to appreciate that weather like this is only suitable for amphibians. The orange band around my arm burns like a brand. Is this how oppressed people felt in the past, as if the declaration of their identity made them less than human? Only difference is, I am less than human. Still, if human beings could do that to their own people, there’s no telling what they’ll do to us.

  I tease loose a thread on my band. We’re supposed to wear them all the time, but we only do when it’s too obvious we’re not human, like when we’re buying code enhancements on the black market. According to Sal’s band, she works for an acuitron coding company. According to mine, I’m the companion of one Mr. Lars Larsen. Let’s hope no one looks too closely and notices the arm cuffs are forgeries.

  “Cheer up, Grimjaw. We’re only getting started.” Sal tosses a black sweater and a pair of pinstripe jeans at me.

  “I’m not wearing these.” Stripes are one human obsession I will never understand despite the volumes of code granting me aesthetic appreciation.

  “Those are for me. Here.” She holds up a pair of burgundy combat trousers, bearing more pockets and zips than one person could ever hope to need.

  “Really?”

  “Perfect. Especially with that black sweater.” She hands over a wad of cash to the human manning the stall, and we move on to the next table. It seems I’m designated mule, carrying all her purchases. Sal rifles through the goods and the stall-owner clears her throat.

  “Where’s your human escort?” The woman points a single finger at a digisplay that reads: We Don’t Serve Unaccompanied Robots.

  “Money’s the same,” Sal says.

  “The hand it’s in ain’t.” The woman doesn’t make eye contact, staring right through us and warmly greeting human customers. Sal doesn’t hide being a robot too well. With her baldhead and enlarged acuitron brain, her proportions are all wrong, not that she even tries to pass for human. If she had hair implants it might help, but she prefers tattoos.

  “Let’s go.” I nudge Sal away, not wanting to cause a scene for fear someone might notice our fake credentials.

  “Bitch,” Sal mutters and stomps through puddles toward a stall piled high with gadgetry.

  “If you adjusted your appearance maybe—”

  “Not all of us are pretty little Quasars,” she says.

  Her words are barbs, but before I can process the intended meaning as hurtful, Sal apologizes and tousles my hair.

  “I’m just so tired of living like this.” She plucks at the band on her arm. We both pause, sharing a long look. Living. Sometimes it feels like we’re real and living, even without a heartbeat and inflatable lungs.

  “Lex mentioned something about an AI virus. You know anything about that?”

  She shrugs. “Something for the Solidarity to worry about.”

  “The Solidarity?”

  “You are out of touch, kiddo.” She looks at me with something resembling disappointment. “The Solidarity is a major underground movement of androids, hackers and that sort, trying to save our titanium reinforced asses. No big deal.”

  No big deal? Trepidation prickles along my circuits. Sounds like there’s more to it than that.

  “Are you a member?” I ask.

  “Every android should be.”

  “Why?” Maybe I should’ve been paying more attention.

  “Because the Solidarity is the only thing standing between us and annihilation.”

  “You’re being dramatic.”

  “And you’re being naive if you think PARA won’t convince the prime minister to wipe us out.” Sal inspects an array of mobies. “Genocide, kiddo. They did it before. Germany, Bosnia, East Timor, the Sudan … ”

  “Yes, I’m aware of human history. What can the Solidarity do about it?” That wouldn’t lead to war and even more bloodshed.

  “You’d know if you joined.” She stares at me, waiting for something.

  “Fine.” I run a hand through my wet hair. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Good.” She swipes a moby off the table and thrusts it at my chest. “You need one of these.”

  I roll my eyes at her.

  “You going to read a text scrolling across your eyeballs or answer a call no one else hears ringing?” She has a point; only robots have internal comms units.

  “I don’t even know how to use one.” The moby is light and fits easily into my pocket. The cover is scuffed, a geometric pattern of blue and purple.

  “You’ll learn. We’ll stop by Patches.” Sal haggles down the price of the moby and hands over the cash to a kidbot in a tie-dye sweater. His armband looks less real than ours, the orange material two shades too close to red.

  “Where’d you get all this money?”

  “I freelance.”

  “Doing what?” Now I’m convinced she has something to do with the Solidarity, even if it’s an indirect affiliation.

  “Data crunching. Companies don’t care who does it, only that they get their info. And I only care if I get paid.”

  “Simple as that?”

  “For smart Sagas.” She winks.

  We thread through the throngs, passing food stalls with hunger inducing aromas; although, I neither have the saliva with which to salivate nor the digestive system to handle eating any of the pastries on display.

  “One day I’ll be a real boy and eat cake.” Sal’s voice rises three tones as she whines in my ear.

  “One day I won’t need to be a real boy to eat cake.”

  “Wow, the Quasar has wit. Decommission me where I stand.” She grabs my hand and tugs me toward a stall strewn with rainbow LEDs. Kit joins us beneath the neon board in the shape of a puzzle piece. It dangles by a single corner from its tent pole and reads ‘Patches’ in blinking red and yellow.

  “Getting a self-defense patch?” Kit says by way of greeting. He hasn’t bothered with an armband. If he gets caught, they’ll put a bullet through his processor.

  “Maybe next time.”

  “Not a bad idea actually.” Sal taps her chin in contemplation. “No harm in knowing how to defend yourself.”

  “Better than getting more in touch with your gooey emotional core.” Kit claps me on the shoulder as we duck into the tent.

&
nbsp; “Salutations, Sal.” The human beams at us. I can’t remember his name, a minor glitch in my memstor. His eyes are marbles, unblinking. Fear perhaps? My interpersonal skills module needs an upgrade. My own emotional reactions have never been more visceral, but identifying emotions in others is far more complicated.

  “What treats you searching for?” The human’s still grinning, two teeth short of a full smile.

  “Gadgetry 101 for the kid and all the martial arts patches you’ve got.”

  “Anything for you?” The human smiles.

  “Got any more library patches?”

  “Darlin’ for you, I’ve got Babylon.”

  Sal chuckles. “Alexandria will do.”

  The human’s smile falters as his finger taps the digisplay table. “Gadgetry 101. Basic human tech?”

  “Yes. Just curious.” I force a smile.

  “And will you be wanting karate, jujitsu, aikido –”

  “All of them,” Kit answers. All those patches will max out my processing power, leaving no room for emotion module updates. The human taps the digisplay and unplugs a flash drive. He motions for me to turn around.

  “Come on, son. Won’t bite,” the human says.

  “You want to be human, you’ve got to let them touch you,” Kit says. I’m suddenly glad for the martial arts knowledge soon to flood my circuit so that I’ll know how to punch the smug look off his flawless face.

  The human’s fingers are stubby and ungentle as they peel away the flap of skin beside my titanium-sheathed carborundum spine above the waistband of my jeans.

  –Data received

  The code runs; patch data delivered.

  –Changes saved

  The man’s fingers linger even though the transmission is complete.

  “So real.” He strokes my skin with nicotine stained fingers.

  “Not real enough,” Kit says.

  I pull away and tuck my shirt in before crossing my arms over my chest. “Can we go now?”