Quinn
All is quiet in Fragheim as I tread through the muck toward Max’s hut. I haven’t seen Max all morning. He could be lying in bits outside M-Tech. Maybe he was wise and never went marching in the first place. I scan my surroundings, wary of every shadow. It could be hours or days before the military bashes down our defenses and obliterates our teetering homes. I find pliers and a utility knife. I snap off the dull edge of the knife and wind out a new blade. Nanytes can heal synthetic flesh and bone, but they can’t remove the bullets.
The bullet in my lower back is the easiest to reach. My skin parts beneath the pressure of the blade. I grit my teeth against the pain I wish I could turn off and delve into the wound with a finger, feeling the edge of the bullet cozied up to my spine. It’s wedged so close to the circuitry of my CNS. Working quickly, before nanytes seal the rift in my flesh, I use the pliers to remove the bullet, trying not to disturb any wiring. One down, two to go.
The others are higher up, almost impossible to reach. Straining, I stretch my arm over my opposite shoulder, barely able to touch the wound with the blade.
My whole body aches, throbbing as I cut into the slab of muscle lying over my ribs. Eyes squeezed shut, I poke around with the pliers and find the bullet. It tears free with a nauseating sucking sound as nanytes hasten to repair the damage and prevent Cruor loss. As it is, the injuries are going to drain my fuel-cell dry.
The last bullet, shallower and easier to find, I manage to lever out with the nose of the pliers. Pain overwhelms my circuit, over-clocking my core. I stay in Max’s hut until the hurt subsides and my hands stop shaking. When my system restabilizes, I pull my coat back on and ditch the tools, heading for my own hut.
Some clothes, a flashlight, and a half-empty can of Cruor—all I own goes into my backpack. A moment of vertigo brings me to my knees. The nausea is fleeting and pointless, vomiting physically impossible. The dizziness passes, leaving me feeling peculiar. I ignore the sensation, probably the result of nanytes rewiring my bullet rent CNS.
Backpack secure, I sling my violin around my shoulders so that the instrument lies against my chest more precious than ever. The humans have no reason to believe we are anything more than machines incapable of compassion or mercy. A single performance with the orchestra isn’t going to change their minds, but it’s a start. It’s all I can do.
Having double-checked the contents of my hut for anything useful, I head over to Sal’s. She’s got a few extra shirts that might fit me, a comb, and a few flash drives. My emotion module whirs in over-drive against the guilt for rifling through Sal’s stuff and the rationalization that my hands on her stash are better than others’. Sal is dead. She’d be pissed if I left her things for scavengers who never knew her.
The cracked leather wallet I find stuffed inside a cookie tin holds thousands of krona and two transaction cards, making me rich—not that I’d risk upgrading my core processor or going in search of a new violin right now.
I stuff the wallet into my backpack and secret the cash in various pockets. There’s a toolbox, and beneath the first tray of rusty nails rests a black 9mm and a box of bullets. If Sal had really wanted to cause a riot, she would’ve taken the gun, not the knives. Why’d Sal even have a gun in the first place? My hand hovers over the weapon, my fingers leaving printless smudges on the polished metal. I’d rather the weapon end up at the bottom of the bay than in the hands of someone who plans to use it. Someone like Kit. I wrap the gun in a shirt and bury it at the bottom of the backpack. The bullets go into a sock tucked into a side pocket.
“Goodbye, Sal.” I run my fingers along the rough weave of her hammock. “If you have a soul, I hope it finds peace in the Great Beyond.”
Trudging through the mud, I head out of Fragheim and away from my home. Home. The word plays on repeat inside my head until the syllable loses all meaning and becomes mere sound. I have nowhere to go until Thursday at three-thirty. Nowhere to go and no one to call my friend. I traipse across the tracks, past graffiti splatters and humans curled up in post-weekend recovery mode, until I reach the hydrogen station.
Sal’s card scrambles the machine and I fill up, scanning the alleys and shadows for thieves. There’s a smattering of junkies but no robots. Pressure altered to accommodate a full tank, I head down an alley, angling away from the warehouses toward the docks. The docks lie rusted and abandoned where they weren’t shattered by ordnance during the war.
A single pier juts out into the murky waters, a concrete finger pointing south. Sleet sifts through the clouds, pricking the dark water with concentric ripples. The ice soaks my hair. I hope it’ll get rid of the remaining StickEmUp crusted on my scalp. My boots carry me to the end of the pier. The scent of brine fills my nostrils, tantalizing my pseudo olfactory cells with the possibility of some better place, some distant shore if only I could reach it. Robots can’t swim. We sink. Might not be such a bad way to go really. Sink to the seabed and wait until my system short circuits, the corals turning my body into a reef. There are worse ways to end a life.
I crouch and rummage through the backpack. The gun is heavy in my hand, sleek and deadly. I’ve never fired a gun before. Never wanted to. The wind whips my hair through my eyes, stinging my cheeks. Gun in hand, I spin and, with the loudest yell my voice box can muster, I hurl the gun toward the sea.
At the last moment, my fingers catch at the handle. With my martial arts patches and now the gun, I know so many different ways to hurt and kill a human. Not that I would. After all that humans have done to me, I should hate them, but I don’t. I can’t. Maybe it’s a glitch in my code, but I can’t help thinking we’re not worthy of their trust, let alone affection. Given their freedom, what have robots done? Become criminals who rob and abuse their own kind and have no qualms about hurting humans. But we’re not all monsters. If only I could make the humans … make Tyri see that.
I wrap the gun back up into the shirt and jam it down into the bag. The shore looms behind me, a snarl of twisted cranes and long since emptied shipping containers stacked in neat rows. The downpour increases as I jog along the pier and through the maze of crates in search of one to call home, for now at least.
Tyri
Rurik drives us home and helps Mom into the house. She’s wearing yesterday’s clothes and still looks fragile, but the doctor assured us she’d be fine as long as she didn’t go hiking through the fjords for a week. As if. Mom’s not a fan of the muddy, insect-ridden outdoors.
“Would you like some refreshments?” Miles greets us at the door, and my spine seizes. Mom’s fingers grip Rurik’s arm, her knuckles white.
“Tea and sandwiches.” Rurik pushes past the housebot with my mom in tow as Glitch greets me with whines and licks.
Miles disappears into the kitchen leaving me wound tighter than a violin string. It’s a stupid thought, but who knows if our own housebot might rise up mutinous and slit our throats in our sleep. I guess my expression gives away my fears.
“Tyri.” Rurik returns. “It’s a housebot programmed for docility and obedience. It can’t do anything to you or your mom.”
“Same way those robots weren’t programmed to riot?”
“Some models are different. Their AI more advanced. Your housebot is about as intelligent as a walking refrigerator.” He kisses me on the forehead and helps me out of my coat.
“You’re right. I’m being ridiculous.” I shake off the anxiety and join them in the lounge for salmon sandwiches and chamomile tea.
Rurik leaves after half an hour. He still has reams to do before the big move to Osholm. I let him go with a kiss that bruises my lips and a promise to chat later. I don’t want him to leave me alone with a robot in the house, but he assures me we’re safe as he waves goodbye.
Glitch and I curl up in the armchair as Mom stretches out on the couch.
“Mom, what do you think will happen now?” I stroke Glitch between the ears, and she huffs in contentment.
“To the robo
ts?”
“No, I mean at M-Tech. If Erik … ” The words stick in my throat, prickly as a puffer-fish.
“They have protocols for situations like this.”
“They expect this sort of thing to happen?” They expect mutinous machines to kill their creators? Part of me thinks it’s not really the robots’ fault. We did want them as weapons to begin with. Maybe we should’ve known better. Maybe the fault is ours for making them too human, for giving them the propensity for violence.
“M-Tech prides itself on being prepared.”
“Not prepared enough.” I slump against the cushions.
“We were, perhaps, a little too complacent. I’ve already received a call to say I can expect compensation for damages and two weeks paid leave while management picks up the pieces.”
“So, in two weeks, it’ll be like nothing ever happened? Like Uncle Erik never existed?”
“Of course not, sweetheart. There’ll be a memorial service for him on Friday.” Mom sighs and opens her eyes, turning her head to look at me. There’s sadness there, but Mom is nothing if not stoic. “Life goes on, Tyri. We suffered a tremendous loss, and I will miss Erik.” Her voice catches. It makes me wonder if Erik might’ve been more than just Mom’s colleague.
“What do you think will happen to the robots? Think PARA will bulldoze Fragheim?”
Mom blinks away tears. “Doubtful, but I think this is precisely the wake up call the government needed. The robots need to be dealt with.”
“You think the HETR guys are at fault?”
“Robots are machines. They should be created and destroyed as we wish. Fragheim shouldn’t exist.” She stifles a yawn. “The government has been trying to avoid this issue for years and here we are. Rogue robots driven to violence in their desperation. It’s so very human.” Mom sighs.
“Robots? So are androids different?” I want to keep Mom talking. We haven’t had a real conversation in forever.
“Androids are completely different. Not all robots are created equal.” Mom leans forward and gives me a pointed look. “The type of processor, the complexity of the acuitron brain, the intricacy of the synthetic body, and the quality of the human features make androids—the humanoids—altogether different.” She reaches across the table and tucks hair behind my ears.
“So different rules for robots and androids?”
“Absolutely. Humans for the Ethical Treatment of Robots would be better off angling for the improved treatment of androids. That’s where the future lies, not in basic robotics. That’s why Engelberger Industries is floundering.”
Rurik never mentioned his family’s company wasn’t doing well. Maybe he doesn’t know.
“That Saga-droid mentioned something about a virus. Is that an M-Tech thing?”
Mom’s head snaps up, her gaze penetrating. “Why do you say that?”
“Just speculation in the newsfeeds.”
“Gossip, Tyri. Nothing more,” Mom bites out.
I look up to see Miles leaning around the kitchen door as if he’s listening. He flashes yellow and slinks out of view. Chills race across my skin.
“Rurik invited me to a PARA meeting this weekend in Osholm.”
Mom’s brow furrows. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Be wary of Gunnar.”
“He’s Rurik’s brother.” No idea why I’m being defensive.
“I know but … ” She slumps against the cushions. “I’m glad you’re okay. That this whole thing hasn’t affected you.”
“Affected me? Mom, you almost died! And Erik’s gone.” My voice quavers. Mom shuffles across the lounge to sit beside me, gathering me up in the type of hug I haven’t received since I was little. She strokes my hair as I fight back tears.
“I’ll be fine. And so will you. You know I’d never let anything happen to you. I love you.” She holds my face in her hands and says it again. “I love you, Tyri.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
She smiles. “You ready for school tomorrow?”
“Do I have to go? Won’t you need help at home?”
“Nonsense.” She waves away the suggestion. “Think you could let me nap a while?” She nudges me off the couch as she lies down.
“Sure.” I extricate myself from Glitch’s paws and fuss around my mom, tucking a blanket over her shoulders and adding a pillow beneath her ankle.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I know things haven’t always been easy. I’m sorry about that.” She takes hold of my wrist.
“It’s okay.” This is definitely the longest conversation Mom and I have ever had. “Sleep well, Mom.”
“You too,” she says with eyes closed as Glitch curls up beside her.
“Stand guard, okay?” I cast a cautious glance toward the kitchen, but Miles is out of sight.
Glitch yawns at me and stretches. The mechatronic joints of her back leg click and hiss as she settles into a comfortable position. Leaving them both to sleep, I tiptoe to my bedroom.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, my violin case open before me. The instrument calls to me, begs me to play, but Mom deserves some rest. Besides, maybe music is a silly idea. Maybe I’d be better off spending my 80 bucks a week on sending out university applications instead of lessons. Maybe it’s time to consider a career in engineering or IT, medicine or law. I could get the grades to get into Osholm University if I wanted to.
I pick up the violin and tuck the wood beneath my chin. Leaving the bow in the case, I run my fingers over the strings, plucking out a quiet melody. Headphones couched in my ears, I turn up the volume on my musopod and lose myself in Fisker’s concerto. My fingers move of their own volition, practicing the devilish runs of the third movement. Maybe there’s room for both, for doing something important with my life and doing something I love.
***
Glitch wakes me with a paw on my nose and a tongue in my ear. My digiclock shrieks at me from the side table, demanding I wake up in time for school. I roll out of bed and into clothes. Starting the year off with style is not going to happen. Black Jeans, t-shirt, sweater and my sneakers with half chewed laces suffice. Asrid will have to deal with being friends with a frump.
Mom’s in her office still in pajamas, leg propped on a kitchen stool, the phone tucked between shoulder and ear as she stabs at her keyboard pulling up charts and diagrams.
“Thought you had two weeks off?”
She waves me away over her shoulder. Reluctantly, I leave her and slouch over robot-made toast at the kitchen table. I don’t thank Miles, not even for using my favorite cloudberry jam. Glitch trots to her bowl and buries her face in kibble. We eat in relative silence punctuated by our crunching and Mom’s muffled voice.
“No, there’ve been no adverse effects … Of course I’ll be logging observations … ”
The buzzer sounds and Miles lopes to the door.
“Greetings Asrid, would you like some refreshments?”
“Botspit, T. You kept this hunk of metal after everything that happened?”
“He’s a housebot.” I swallow the last square of toast, washing the crumbs down with bitter coffee.
“He’s a robot.” She stands with her arms folded and hip jutting out, glaring at Miles.
“Give me a sec.” I knock on Mom’s door and mouth goodbye.
“Have a good day, sweetheart.”
“Goodbye, Tyri,” Miles says in clipped syllables as he hands me my school bag. I bite back the ‘thank you’ and follow Asrid to her bug.
“How’s your mom?” She asks as we zoom uptown to St Paul’s.
“Fine, actually. She has two week’s leave, but she’s already back in her office.”
“No surprise. I can’t believe you’re keeping the housebot.”
“We need him.” As if Mom would ever lift a feather duster or think to cook dinner.
“That’s the problem with this world. Lazy-ass humans thinking we need robots to do everything for us.”
“Don’t you have like three housebots?”
“We have a big house,” Asrid says. “Besides, my mom didn’t get attacked by rabid bots.”
“Your mom doesn’t build robots. Mine does.” We whiz through the suburbs and land in a wide parking lot ringed by gnarled oaks. The leaves are a riot of reds and golds. Squirrels forage in the grass and run races along the branches. Kids spill out of hoverbugs, laughing and chatting. The scene is so normal, so pleasant, as if people didn’t die getting their heads smashed and their bones crushed yesterday. They’re all so oblivious, strolling across the lawn to the main building.
“Your mom is a workaholic. She should see someone.” Asrid double checks her reflection and applies yet another layer of pink gloss to her lips.
“Like your dad?”
“I’m sure there are more affordable shrinks. How do I look?” She strikes a pose.
“Like a doll dipped in strawberry jam.” I grin.
“You’re mean.” She pouts, but seems unfazed as she flicks blond hair behind her shoulders.
“Don’t you get tired of all that pink?” She wears a blue coat with hot pink buttons, black leggings, and a pink polka dot skirt with matching pumps.
“Don’t you get tired of all that … ” She gestures to all of me and screws up her face as if struggling to find a suitable adjective. “Of being so dowdy. Would a splash of color hurt you?”
“It already hurts.” I squint my eyes at her. “Far too bright.”
Asrid laughs and takes my arm, leading us toward the building. En route, we’re greeted with casual hugs—no, Asrid is greeted. I just happen to be there, a shadow with purple shoelaces. Being around so many people, it’s easy to forget about rebel robots hiding out somewhere in the city, possibly planning their next attack. It’s easier not to think about my injured Mom home alone with a housebot who might be harboring murderous intentions or about Uncle Erik and his memorial.
I Heart Robot Page 11
