I Heart Robot

by Suzanne Van Rooyen

  “No problem. Got myself a month’s worth of reading here.” Sal taps the table selecting the university library of MIT.

  “Thought you’d read through that one.”

  “That was Princeton. I need more stimulation.”

  The man beams and takes her money with a grin. A single word flashes out of my vocab database: lascivious. Sal doesn’t seem to mind him touching her.

  “I intensely dislike that man,” I say as we walk away.

  “Pity. Bet he’d pay double what Sal just did for an hour with you.” Kit waggles his eyebrows.

  “I’m not like you.”

  “You’re exactly like me. A Quasar. We’re built to love.” Kit smiles and slings an arm over my shoulders. “Thought you’d get that, being so sensitive and all.”

  “Doesn’t mean you have to be a prostitute.” Sal jumps in a string of puddles, sloshing mud over stranger’s shoes and splattering tents Jackson Pollock style.

  “I’m just doing what I’m good at, what I was made to do. Same as you Miss Giant Brain.”

  “I’m not doing it,” I say more certain of that fact than anything else.

  “You’re a Quasar, you’re hard coded to do it,” Kit smirks.

  “Quasars are companion-droids. Not sexbots. The government made those illegal ten years before my model even came into production.”

  “Like that law changed what your owners used you for.” Kit gives my shoulders a squeeze.

  “Quasars are the politically correct replacement. ‘Companion-droids,’ they’re still used for sex.” Sal uses her fingers for quotation marks.

  “See, even Sal agrees with me,” Kit says.

  “Thanks. Both of you. As if I need reminding I was engineered to be a whore.” I shrug out from under Kit’s arm. It’s impossible to forget, to suppress the memories of life with my owners, but I try my best.

  “Whore is such an ugly word,” Sal says.

  “Hence the new term. Companion-droid looks better than sex slave on transaction card statements,” Kit adds.

  “I wasn’t a slave.”

  “No? You did what you were programmed to do. Guess it must’ve been an oversight that the humans forgot to program us to like it.” Kit’s tone is bitter.

  “Come on, boys, some more shopping will cheer you up.” Sal skips through the quagmire, away from the main cluster of human friendly stalls to the blackest of the black-market dealers. Kit and I follow, avoiding eye contact with each other.

  The surgeonbots haunt khaki tents, closed and guarded by sentry-droids built for intimidation and physical durability. Their red eyes stare unblinking as we approach Dr. Curmudgeon’s tent. His perpetual scowl and ever sour mood have earned him the name, but he’s the best at manipulating nanytes and installing virtual reality shunts for humans desperate to escape reality.

  “Fancy some freckles, or how about a tan?” Sal skips toward the tents.

  “No.”

  “I think you’d look cute.” Kit tries to pinch my cheek but I block his arm, the martial arts code already taking effect.

  “Humans have freckles even if they are imperfections. Don’t you want to be human?” Sal asks.

  “Then I should have scars. If I was human, I’d be littered with them.” My words are more bitter than intended.

  “Oh Quinn, I was only teasing.” Sal ruffles my hair.

  “I think I’m done shopping.”

  “See you later, kiddo?”

  I nod and Sal disappears inside for her weekly tattoo touch-up. Kit trails after me as I stomp away from the tent kicking up mud.

  “You’re as moody as the apes.” Kit narrowly misses a clod flying off my shoe.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” It’ll take a lot more than mood swings and mobies to convince the humans that I’m not just talking scrap metal.

  Tyri

  I’m so nervous even breathing feels like work. Am I really good enough to be in this orchestra? And what on earth do I wear? I chuck yet another pair of inappropriate jeans on the floor. Five pairs of pants, twelve tops, four sweaters, three dresses, two skirts and six pairs of shoes are strewn around my room like storm wreckage. Glitch sniffs at a sneaker, settles with it between her paws, and proceeds to gnaw on the flugelbinders.

  “How do you manage with such a restrictive wardrobe?” Asrid folds the tops splayed across the bed.

  “There must be something.” I dig through the shelves once more, pulling out stockings and socks in search of any item worthy of the Baldur Philharmonic.

  “Tyri, I think you’ve exhausted your options.” Asrid pops a gum bubble at me.

  “I could wear the dress.” I point to a simple A-line, cobalt blue with silver stitching.

  “That’s for a gala performance, not a Saturday morning rehearsal. I’d go with sweat pants and a tank top.”

  “I’m a violinist not a dancer.”

  Asrid shrugs and leans against my pillows, her long legs almost reaching the end of the bed. For a moment, I hate her long legs, her perfect posture, and how effortless it is for her to look good in black tights and hot-pink legwarmers. Perhaps a shopping trip yesterday wouldn’t have been a bad idea. It’s a pity I spent most of Friday nursing my elbow back to mobility and filling out police forms.

  “Who you trying to impress anyway? You’ve got Rurik.”

  “I want to make a good impression on the conductor, not score the attention of boys.” I slump on the bed.

  “Can we look at what I brought now?”

  I nod and Asrid claps her hands, hauling her duffel bag onto the bed.

  “Right, so we’ve got bold colors and pastels; I brought some prints too. Thought you might want to wear a skirt and show off your legs. You’ll probably want to wear something a bit looser to hide your problematic middle bits.” She holds up a V-neck top, pink, and flimsy as spider web.

  “What’s wrong with my middle bits?” So I don’t have Asrid’s chiseled abs, but Rurik’s never complained.

  “V-neck would work for you, show off your cleavage.”

  “The conductor should be listening to my playing, not peering at my chest.”

  “Let’s work with what you’ve got.” Asrid produces more clothing from her bag than I have in my entire closet.

  Three hours until rehearsal starts.

  “Turquoise is definitely your color.” She hands me a slippery shirt with capped sleeves. “With this.” A black pencil skirt. “And . . . “ She scrounges in the bag and produces ankle boots with silver buckles. “Get dressed.”

  I do and spin three-sixty for her approval.

  “Terrific, T. Sexy and sophisticated.”

  I raise my arms and play an air violin. The shirt slips and slides over my skin without restricting my movements or creating an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction. I perch at the edge of the bed and test the skirt. Perfect.

  “Thank you, Sassa. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Go wandering off into Fragheim, apparently.” She gives me a stern look made sterner by her severely plucked brows that are about six shades too dark for her sunshine hair.

  “I wasn’t in Fragheim.”

  “Close enough. Did you report the robbery?”

  “Yesterday. Rurik made me.”

  “And?” Asrid drags a toe along Glitch’s back. My ever-so-royal Shiba pauses in her chewing to bask in the attention.

  “And the police said they’d look into it.”

  “That’s it? Good to know Baldur’s finest are so concerned with their citizens’ welfare.”

  “It was only a mugging.” I start folding and packing away my clothes.

  “Only a mugging.” Asrid snorts and folds her arms, ignoring Glitch’s nose jabs for more affection. “They practically broke your arm. Who knows what would’ve happened if Rurik hadn’t shown up.” She fumes, her cheeks turning brighter than her leg warmers.

  “Sassa, I’m tired of talking robots.” />
  “Did you at least get checked out?”

  “Yeah, spent two hours getting poked and prodded at M-Tech.”

  “You didn’t go to the hospital?” Her cheeks return to their regular rosy hue as Asrid calms. I appreciate Asrid’s concern, but I wish we could talk about something else already.

  “Guess it wasn’t that serious. Besides, Erik has access to cutting edge tech.” Mom’s always taken me to M-Tech when I got hurt or wasn’t feeling well.

  “I didn’t know M-Tech did so much medical stuff,” Asrid says.

  “Maybe that’s because they’re doing secret government experiments like making clones.”

  “Don’t joke, T. You might be right.”

  With its stark white corridors, frosted glass, and hushed whispers—it’s not impossible, though I doubt straight-laced Mom would get caught up in conspiracies.

  Asrid shimmies off the bed and helps me fold, color-coding my wardrobe, even my socks. I have a lot of black.

  “You ready for school?” She asks.

  “Just want to get through today.” I’ll worry about my final year in high school Tuesday night when I’ll be ripping through my closet again.

  “You still going with Rurik next weekend?”

  “Holy Codes and bags of botspit!”

  “You forgot about Osholm?” Asrid ushers me to the dresser and starts on my hair, trying to tame my charcoal waves. Guess my sperm donor dad must’ve been Slavic or Spanish because Mom’s so pale she’s almost translucent.

  “I have rehearsal every Saturday.”

  “Rurik only goes to university once.”

  “How can I tell the conductor I’ll miss my second practice? That’s sure to make the wrong impression.”

  “I’m sure Rik’ll understand. No big deal, leaving your entire life behind and moving three hundred kilometers away to the capital for the next four years. Who wants their girlfriend of like forever going anyway? He’s better off going by himself. Maybe he’ll meet some sexy little freshman.”

  “You’re mean.”

  “You’ll be the mean one if you ditch Rurik for your violin. After what he did for you Thursday night?” Asrid glares at me in the mirror, brandishing the hairbrush. Glitch whines and bashes my knee with her nose as if in agreement. I’m out numbered.

  “Guess I’ll be missing rehearsal.”

  “To be alone with your boyfriend in Osholm.” Reflected Asrid wiggles her eyebrows at me and bites her bottom lip.

  “You’re right.”

  “Always.” She grins and pins my hair in place. I dig around in the drawer until I find the jewelry box Mom gave me for my sixteenth birthday. Inside there’s only one item: a silver treble clef brooch. I pin it to my shirt, now I’m dressed, coiffed, and ready to make my mark on the music world. I hope I don’t leave a stain.

  ***

  Asrid drops me at the concert hall a full thirty minutes before rehearsal starts. Plenty of time to warm-up, tune, and meet fellow musicians. I might be able to suss out the competition too. And maybe that wild-haired viola player will be here. My insides tie up in knots. I shouldn’t be thinking about that feral boy.

  “Shoulders back, head held as if an invisible string is attached to the sky.” Asrid imparts dancer’s wisdom.

  “Thanks, Sassa. Wish me luck.”

  “Break a leg, T.”

  Exuding faux confidence, I glide across the parking lot, and up the stairs of the concert hall. For three hundred years, the neoclassical building has been hosting operas, orchestras, masquerade balls for kings, and ballets for the gentry. I inhale the history, almost tasting the champagne and delicacies served on silver platters as a string quartet plays Strauss waltzes for the regal guests. I’m not fit to step into the gold-crusted foyer or take the marble stairs leading into the velvet-draped auditorium. I’m not fit to stand on that stage.

  “Registration for Baldur JPO.” A robot wearing a tux waves me away from the marble staircase toward a digisplay.

  “Um, Tyri Matzen?”

  “Tyri Matzen,” it repeats, flashing green. “Thumb please.”

  It takes my thumb in cold steel fingers unadorned with synthetic flesh and presses my print against the screen.

  “Processing.” It taps at the screen, blinking orange.

  “Processing complete.” Flashing green. “Rehearsal room eight.” It points a skeletal appendage down a side corridor.

  “Thank you,” I say before hurrying down the hallway in search of room eight. No gilding or frescoes of weeping angels here—the result of modern renovations, making the back of the building cold and less inviting. Finding room eight, I press my thumb to the access panel and the door opens. Everyone turns to stare at me, the latecomer. They’re already seated at their desks. The conductor, thank the stars, doesn’t appear to be here yet, so it’s only warm-up and tuning that I’ve missed.

  “Hi.” My voice croaks out my desert dry mouth.

  “Take your seat.” The oboist gestures to the digisplay desk flashing my name for the entire orchestra to see. Tyri Matzen, the late one.

  Cheeks aflame, I take my seat next to a boy with his hair combed back and wet with gel. He’s wearing a black sweater with combat pants as if he’s dressed for battle. Maybe that’s what this is; each of us fighting for a place in the diminishing music scene. Placing my thumb on the digisplay, my name disappears as our program scrolls across the screen:

  Berlioz, Dvorák, Mahler and Fisker’s Concerto for Violin. Soloist still to be chosen.

  “Sorry.” I fumble with my violin and jab my desk partner in the ribs with my bow. He doesn’t even flinch, his gaze fixed on the display. There’s something familiar about his face, but my memory fails as nerves make my hands tremble.

  Soloist still to be chosen. Could it be one of us? I scan the string section, searching faces for any telltale sign of greatness, but everyone looks as nervous as I am, except for Mr. Silent and Stoic sitting beside me. I study the faces again, but the chances of the train depot musician being in the viola section are less than zero. This orchestra is about as wild and feral looking as wax mannequins, my desk partner included.

  The oboist clears his throat and starts the tuning, again, just for me. Apparently, I’m expected forty-five minutes before rehearsal starts. Chagrined, I cradle my violin. Chin resting against the instrument, bow in hand, strings beneath fingertips—nothing else matters and I relax into the moment. Of all the most heart-rending, breathtaking, soul-searing pieces of music, there is no sound more magnificent than the voices of an orchestra singing in unison at 440 Hertz.

  Quinn

  Sal hands me a shard of mirror and I check my reflection.

  “Think that’s enough gel?” My hair is an oil slick and looks somewhat at odds with the combat pants tucked into my boots.

  “It makes you look sophisticated.” Sal pats my shoulder.

  “More like a dork,” Kit says. He swings his legs, rocking back and forth in the hammock.

  “I think I agree with Kit.”

  Sal whacks me over the head with the comb disturbing the do. She dips her fingers into the tub of blue goo called StickEmUp and glues down the loose strands.

  “Just keep your shirt on,” Sal says. “Your ribs are weird and don’t forget to hide your tag.”

  “Thanks.” I give her a wry grin. Not that she needs to worry; no one will see me without clothes on ever again.

  “You look like a real boy.” Sal pinches my check and smooths down my eyebrows.

  “Real cute.” Kit catches his lower lip between his teeth, giving me a look that makes my circuits tingle with discomfort. Sal levels him with a gaze and continues fussing with my hair.

  “How old should I be?”

  “How old are you?” Kit asks.

  “Six.” I shudder, remembering the four and a half years spent entertaining my owner’s guests with my musical prowess and almost human flesh. I can still hear their laughter and see their
cruel smiles. Robots can never forget, not without scrambling my acuitron brain and that would be like dying.

  “Huh, thought you were a newer model.” Kit scratches at a phantom itch between the cornrows braided across his scalp.

  “Your cerebro chip is adolescent, right? You could pass for a human teenager.” Sal taps her chin with a slender finger and runs the back of her hand across my cheeks. “You have a face like a baby’s bum.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “No facial hair. Odd, but not impossible. Say you’re seventeen, and if anyone asks why you haven’t started shaving … ” She falters. “We could get you coded for hair growth.”

  “What’s the point? My nanytes create hair that I shave off only to have more created. Seems like an exercise in futility. Not worth the money or the increased fuel consumption.”

  “It’d be more natural.” Sal studies my face.

  “Can I go now?” It takes over an hour to walk to Baldur Opera House, and I don’t want to be late.

  “Thank you, Sal, for being my private stylist,” she says.

  “Thanks, Sal.” I grin, and she kisses me on my too smooth cheek.

  “Knock ‘em sideways into the next generation.”

  “I intend to.”

  Kit makes a sound that might’ve been a sigh if he could draw breath.

  “May the holy Codes always execute,” Sal says in a moment of reverence I haven’t seen her display before. The AI code wasn’t holy. Some super smart human manufactured it at a computer. But, that scruffy algorithm gave us more than just the ability to learn; it made us creative.

  “And within you,” I say.

  “This could change things for us.” Sal holds my gaze.

  “No pressure then.”

  “I’m serious, Quinn. Show them that we feel, that we are more than electronics, and that we deserve equality.”

  “You think him plucking at that instrument will create some sort of revolution?” Kit laughs.

  “Have to try.” I shoulder my violin and flip up my hood against the gray skies and drizzle.