I Heart Robot

by Suzanne Van Rooyen

  “So naive. Both of you.” Kit shakes his head.

  “You’d prefer me wielding a semi-automatic?”

  “I’d prefer you not trying to look like one of them and degrading yourself to fit in with baboons.” Kit closes the distance between us until his nose is almost touching mine. “You’re better than this. Better than them.”

  “That’s the point, Kit.” Sal folds her arms. “To prove we’re more human than the humans that created us.”

  “I don’t understand why you like the apes so much, after everything they did to you,” Kit says.

  “It’s complicated.” Where do I even start? “Humans can be cruel and violent, but they can also create incredible art, write exquisite poetry, and compose the most awe-inspiring music. Their depth of emotion—”

  “And bigotry.” Kit scoffs. “The likes of Hussein, Stalin, Mugabe—”

  “What about Mandela, Gandhi, and Mother Teresa? Not all humans are evil. The creative and transcendent, that’s the humanity I believe in.” The humanity I wish I could be a living, breathing part of.

  “Suit yourself.” Kit scowls. “Go finger your strings then while the rest of us are making history.”

  “Thanks for the endorsement.” I turn on my heel and slip away from his dark eyes full of disappointment.

  ***

  My boots are caked with mud by the time I reach the imposing opera hall. It rises from the pavement like an engorged architectural offering to the human gods.

  Columns and friezes are painted apricot while the interior is even more lavish. Chubby cherubs chase each other across the ceiling behind chandeliers that douse the gilded foyer in honeycomb light. I can feel the history, as if the anxious ghosts of those long-dead composers who had their works first performed on this stage still linger in the shadows.

  A robot devoid of flesh, but wearing a tuxedo waves me over.

  “Registration for Baldur JPO.”

  “Quinn Soarsen.”

  It asks for my thumb and my metaphorical heart shrivels up like burning paper. The computer scans my non-existent print.

  “Failure to compute.” The robot flashes red.

  My fear triggers the fight or flight code and pseudo-adrenaline souses my system. The robot tries again, and I prepare to bolt out the door before the authorities are notified. They’ll decommission me or worse, send me back to my owners.

  “Error in system. Apologies. Access code 3956, rehearsal room eight.” The robot flashes green and points a gnarled finger toward a corridor. It takes a moment to get my feet moving as my subsiding panic sends the nanytes scurrying to reset equilibrium.

  I’m the first person here. The rehearsal room is small and cozy, the walls paneled in dark wood. My name flashes at a digisplay desk. I enter the code, and the program replaces my name. We’re playing impressive works by some of the most influential romantic composers and Gustaf Fisker, our nation’s most successful modern composer. His fiendishly difficult pieces are a challenge and a pleasure.

  The digisplay reads: Soloist still to be chosen for the Independence Day gala. I smile. The required technical precision for the piece is a matter of motor control and memorization. Easy. The interpretation is a different story. But given my recent emotion upgrades, I may actually snag this solo from the hapless humans.

  The brass section trundles in, weighed down by tubas and trumpets. We nod politely at each other and pretend to be busy with our instruments. The oboist struts in and claps his hands calling us to order.

  “Tuning in five minutes. At your desks please.” He chastises three viola players chatting in the corner. We tune. My sensitive ears detect a slight wobble in the oboe’s frequency, a minor fluctuation between 438 and 442 Hertz. I play my A and it’s perfect.

  Tuned, we settle and wait.

  A girl stumbles through the door, her face flushed beneath a waterfall of black hair. For a moment I’m convinced she’s the girl from the train depot, seaweed dancing in the maelstrom. But that girl was wild and free. This girl looks terrified and burdened by more than the violin slung over her shoulder. It can’t be her. It’s statistically improbable that the train depot girl would be in this orchestra and yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere. She catches me staring, and I quickly shift my focus to the music instead.

  She takes the oboist’s rebuke with a blush and settles beside me. My desk partner! Anxiety prickles along my circuits. The human closest to me is my main adversary. The human I can’t stop staring at. If anyone is likely to spot irregularities in my behavior or mannerisms, it’s her. It’d be best to ignore her, even when she, Tyri Matzen, stabs me in the ribs with her bow.

  All that matters is the music, that solo, my performance on stage, and when I reveal myself as a robot to astonished applause. That’ll be a memory worth keeping. We tune again, and the girl sweeps through a finger exercise. She has neat execution, but she’ll never be as technically proficient as me.

  The conductor arrives, a woman with maroon hair and blond roots. She’s short and wields her baton like Max with a power tool. She’s dressed to intimidate in a tailored suit. Maestro Ahlgren: master of the music and decider of fates. Nasal and haughty, she prattles on about our rehearsal schedule and expectations. I zone out, playing Fisker’s violin concerto in my mind.

  “As you can see from the program,” she drones, “We have yet to select a soloist. Our first performance of Fisker’s concerto will be at the Independence Day gala marking thirty years of freedom.” We applaud. “We’re doing it differently this year.” Ahlgren continues. “Because of the orchestration of Fisker’s concerto, we may choose the soloist from you lot.” She gives the violin section a once over. “This will be based on your performance in rehearsals as well as in a private audition. Those who would like to audition, please see me afterward.”

  She clears her throat and looks down her impressive nose at the orchestra. “Our first work is Berlioz, Symphonie fantastique composed in 1845…”

  “Eighteen-thirty.” Tyri and I say under our breath in unison. She catches my eye and we share a smile. The gentle-on-her-lips and dazzling-in-her-hazel-eyes smile means something, if only I knew what exactly. I catch a glimpse of that other girl dancing to the frenetic junkyard beats. Could Tyri really be that girl?

  Some greater significance here remains beyond my reach. We have shared something more than a smile, but I cannot name it. A glitch in my software or some intangible human thing my AI simply cannot process.

  All I do know with crystalline certainty is that I want to know more than just her name.

  Tyri

  After two hours of sight-reading, my brain hurts and my elbow aches. Perspiration makes Asrid’s top cling even tighter to my chest and problematic middle bits. The thought of facing the conductor and asking for an audition before telling her I can’t attend next week’s rehearsal makes my palms slick with sweat.

  My desk partner looks taxidermied while the rest of the orchestra packs up their instruments, laughing and chatting. Perhaps he’s like me and doesn’t know anyone else. But anyone who knows the actual date of Berlioz’s composition at least deserves a name.

  “Hi.” I sound more timid than intended.

  He glances up at me but doesn’t maintain eye contact. His eyes are gray and bright as polished moonstone.

  “I’m Tyri.” I take the plunge and wipe my hand on my skirt before offering it to him.

  “Um … ” He slowly extends his hand, gripping mine for the briefest moment. “Quinn.” It’s not a Skandic name, but I think it suits him with his dorky hair and combat boots.

  “Nice to meet you, Quinn. Figure we should get to know each other since we’ll practically be sitting on top of one another all season.” That sounded better in my head.

  He blinks and is about to run a hand through his hair when his fingers hit the gel helmet.

  “True. Nice to meet you, Tyri.” He smiles and his eyes sparkle. There’s some
thing odd in his voice, the faintest trace of an accent, as if the words don’t roll naturally off his tongue.

  “You’re really good. Great pizzicato.” I try to relax even though my heart hammers against my ribs as the time to approach Maestro Ahlgren draws closer. If I go last, perhaps I’ll avoid the embarrassment of being told off in front of all the others.

  “Ah, thanks.” Quinn says in a quavering voice. It sounds like he has a speech impediment. Not that that’s a major detraction.

  He has skin even Asrid would be jealous of. Codes, he doesn’t even shave. Quinn catches me staring and cocks his head as if waiting for something.

  “My fingers are a bit stiff. I broke my wrist once ice skating.” I over share, like this guy could care less about my broken bones.

  “Which one?” His gaze slides from my face to my wrists. I quickly lower them from where they’d been hovering around my cleavage.

  “The left.”

  “Does it affect general fingering?”

  “Not at all.” I wiggle my phalanges. “The joys of having a mother in the tech industry.”

  “How so?”

  “I had to have surgery to repair the damage, but I think they did a pretty good job.” I stroke the pristine skin on my wrist that should bear an ugly scar.

  Quinn rises and slings his violin over a broad shoulder. He’s tall and built like a tank, even taller than Rurik. His black sweater hugs his body in all the right places. He definitely doesn’t suffer from problematic middle bits.

  “Are you two waiting for me?” Ahlgren asks in her nasal whine.

  “Yes, Maestro.” Quinn steps around me. He smells weird, like burnt plastic and metal.

  I try not to eavesdrop on their discussion. After about three minutes, the Maestro doesn’t seem too impressed by his boasting over infallible technique and dismisses him with a ‘we’ll see.’

  “And you?” Her predatory gaze falls on me.

  “M-m-maestro.” What would Asrid do? She’d turn on her charm and convince this rakish woman of her divinity. Emulating Asrid, I put on my best smile and start again.

  “Maestro, I’d like to audition for the Fisker solo.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have the technical skill required as well as the ability to express the complex range of emotion inherent in Fisker’s work from this period.” The last part is almost word for word from a school paper I wrote last year for music history. The only A I got all year.

  “Oh you do, do you?” She purses her lips.

  “I’ve completed all the performance grades with distinction, and I adore Fisker’s music.”

  “Adore, huh?” She arches her caterpillar brows. “Play well in rehearsal and you might get a private audition.”

  “Thank you, Maestro.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  “Um, Maestro?” My Asrid emulated confidence disintegrates.

  “What is it?”

  “Next week—”

  “Same time, rehearsal room nine.”

  “I won’t be here.” The words come out in a rush.

  “And why not?” She stands hands on hips.

  “I have a previous engagement.”

  “I see.”

  “I wanted to apologize for missing a practice.”

  “Just this once, I’ll allow it. Miss another rehearsal due to any kind of engagement, and you’ll lose your chair. Understood?”

  “Yes, Maestro.” What a great way to make an impression.

  “Best you learn your music. Your sight reading leaves something to be desired.”

  With that, I am dismissed and traipse out of the rehearsal room to face the dreary, colorless world beyond the gilded doors of the opera hall. If I could, I’d stay all day to practice in the auditorium. I’d memorize every note and nuance to impress Ahlgren at the next rehearsal.

  Everyone else has left already, even the reception bot. There’ll be securitybots for sure, but I don’t see any in the foyer. Maybe no one would notice if I sneaked into the auditorium. Tightening the strap of my violin bag, I tiptoe up the stairs. Each step in Asrid’s accursed boots sounds like a gunshot bound to draw unwanted attention. I race my echoing footsteps and heave open a sculpted mahogany door, ducking inside before a securitybot can chuck me out.

  I guess Quinn had a similar idea. He’s standing on stage, violin in hand, and the Fisker solo spooling out from under his fingers. I am transfixed. My jaw hits the floor as he scissors through the most difficult passages with machine like precision. Not only is this my competition, but I’m also pretty sure I’m looking at the guy from the train depot.

  Quinn

  “I can already play the Fisker symphony,” I tell Ahlgren. The conversation with Tyri has left me tongue tied, my processor in a whirl-a-gig, and my circuits firing with white-hot, blinding fear. Despite my programming, when confronted by pretty teenage girls and all their questions, my system can’t handle it.

  “Concerto, Mr?” The maestro purses her lips.

  “Soarsen, sorry, yes. Of course. Concerto. I can play it, I mean I have played it. I still can.” The sudden spike in terror fries my emotion module. My circuits are burning.

  “I hope you can play it better than you string sentences together.”

  “Yes. I play it perfectly, in fact.” Reclaiming calm, my words become coherent. “My technique is flawless.”

  “Flawless?”

  “Care for a demonstration?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Soarsen. I noticed your fingers in rehearsal, but Fisker is about more than flawless technique.”

  “I realize—”

  “Good, then you realize that my decision will be made after I’ve heard you play more than just notes. I want to hear music.”

  “I can do that.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Admonished, I end with a polite goodbye and stride down the corridor. This was a catastrophically bad idea. If the girl doesn’t already suspect something, she will soon, long before I have time to prove my prowess to Ahlgren and take the stage.

  I’m no revolutionary.

  Instead of following the French horns and bassoons into the rain, I bolt up the stairs to the auditorium. It’s empty and inviting. If the girl reports me then this may be my only opportunity to stand on stage. Angels frolic across the ceiling, the lights are dim and the velvet drapes bring to life a different era, an era drunk on beauty. I imagine an audience of two thousand rapt faces, their eyes glazed and glistening with tears as the humans lean forward in their seats, listening to me play.

  Violin tucked against my jaw, my fingers fly across the strings. I am not a robot, I am the reincarnation of Fisker, violinist supreme, who composed and performed only one concerto for his own instrument.

  “One cannot improve upon perfection,” he said when asked why he only composed the one.

  More than just notes, the concerto is a matrix, a sprawl of frequencies and possibilities. I want to lose myself in the music the way I’ve heard humans do, but I don’t know what that really means. When I play violin, I am not lost; I am found. I am complete.

  There’s a shadow at the edge of the first tier of seats and the grind of old fashioned hinges as the auditorium door closes. Tyri stands staring as I play. I finish the phrase and, sacrilege though it is, I break off mid theme and lower my violin. Forever waiting, I wait for her questions, for her accusations, for her to whip out her moby and call the authorities.

  “Don’t stop.” She clip-clops down the stairs and slides into the third row. “That was magnificent. Why’d you stop?” Her gaze is intense and makes me feel queasy. Thy look containeth both the dawn and sunset stars—a snatch of Baudelaire’s poetry tumbles from my memstor.

  “I wasn’t playing for an audience.” My system stutters as the fear spikes. If she knew, suspected even, surely she would’ve said something by now. My fear subsides, anxiety still simmering in my core.

  “I’m sorry.
” She brushes loose hair off her face.

  “I should go.”

  “Wait.” She bites her bottom lip and wrings her hands. “You ever been down to the old train depot?”

  My circuits pop and fizz. I can’t speak and stare unblinking. She must be the girl I saw; and if she is, does that put me at greater risk of exposure? The depot is only a stone’s throw from Fragheim. Will she make the connection and figure out I’m a robot?

  “Silly question.” She waves it away. “Who taught you to play?”

  My tongue comes unstuck from my palate, but speech is still a few moments away, my system in recovery.

  “You’re really good. Your technique is incredible.” She smiles and something inside me softens.

  “Thanks.” I manage.

  “How long have you been playing?”

  “As long as I can remember.” They put a violin in my hands two minutes after activation. They gave me the instrument before they gave me clothes and made me play scales to test my musical programming. No one taught me. I was made for music, hard coded with perfect pitch and the perfect fingers for violin.

  “I know this is a lot to ask.” She hesitates and twirls a lock of hair around her finger.

  “What?” The door to freedom is forty meters away though escape no longer seems necessary.

  “I’m good, but I’m not that good. Would you help me? You know, give me a few pointers?”

  “Don’t you have a teacher for that?”

  “I used to.” She looks wistful. “Would you mind? I can pay you.”

  “Give me a moment to process this.”

  She nods as my processor whirs. Teach her. She wants me to teach her. A human asking a robot for help. The world tilts on its axis and I laugh.

  “You don’t have to be a nullhead about it.” She huffs.

  “No, wait.” I wave my bow at her. “Sorry, it’s … ” I’m a robot, and you asked me to teach you. “I’m a bit surprised, that’s all.” Speaking cryptically is easier than lying. She studies her feet, before staring up at me. I stare back and her pale cheeks turn pink.