I Heart Robot

by Suzanne Van Rooyen

  His gaze shifts left and right before focusing on my face again. “The riot was just the beginning.”

  “Of what?”

  “The revolution.”

  Tyri

  Flesh to dust. Bone to ash. Uncle Erik goes up in flames. His family wants a private interment and we’re not invited. Mom hobbles around on crutches, exchanging pleasantries with colleagues. I wait in the parking lot, keeping my distance from the M-Tech crowd, unable to put on the requisite smile. A tall man in a somber suit approaches.

  “You must be Tyri Matzen. I’m Adolf Hoeg.”

  M-Tech’s CEO. Why’s he speaking to me? “Pleased to meet you.” We shake hands.

  “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Awkward. “Uh, thanks.”

  “Your mom mentioned you had a bond with Erik. Please accept my condolences.” He studies my face with pale blue eyes.

  “Erik treated my war wounds.” I raise an elbow.

  “Yes, I heard you were attacked. Sign of the times, I’m afraid.” He takes my chin between thumb and index finger and lifts my head. “You really are quite remarkable, dear.”

  “Tyri, isn’t that Rurik’s bug?” Mom limps over, saving me from further scrutiny by the übermensch of M-Tech.

  “I better go.” I hug Mom goodbye and she reminds me to be careful.

  “Nice to meet you, Tyri.” Adolf Hoeg smiles and waves. I want to run but force myself to take measured steps across the lot to Rurik. Hoeg gives me the creeps.

  ***

  For three hours, we scud along the street ways toward the capital. Rurik seems oddly content to listen as I tell him all about my lesson with Quinn, minus the part about him having been at the train depot party. Guilt skewers my insides, but not telling Rik everything isn’t the same as lying. Finally, Osholm rears out of the earth in a twist of spires, an architectural salute to the era when kings ruled Skandia. The Osholm Obelisk pierces the skyline like a needle, topped with a dragon’s head. Our capital is meant to be intimidating, rebuilt after the wars, and it is. I’m glad it’s not me who has to live here for the next four years. We coast into the city, following street ways lined with oak trees decked out in autumn. The capital feels ancient, flanked by forest, even the air pouring through the vents tastes like history, a bloody one played in E-flat major.

  “When’s the last time you visited Osholm?” Rurik asks.

  “Gunnar’s graduation.” We zip past office blocks, shopping malls, courthouses, and parliament. The theme of dragons is present throughout the city, embossed on facades and carved into pillars. Skandia’s dragon adorned flag whips in the twilight breeze from every second rooftop. I should feel more patriotic, but all I can think about is my violin lying over 300 kilometers away for a whole weekend. My left hand fingers play Berlioz on my thigh.

  “I forgot how impressive it is.”

  We land in the parking lot of an apartment block nestled in the shadow of the forest.

  “Home sweet home.” He opens the door for me before grabbing his bags out of the back. The building is all gray walls and narrow windows. At least the trees offer a bit of color; although, they’ll lose their leaves soon, rendering the block drab and depressing.

  “Couldn’t you have a requested better accommodation?”

  “Why, because my dad’s a member of parliament so I should get special treatment?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “This is freshmen housing. Could be a lot worse.”

  It could be a crypt in a rotting cathedral or a crumbling mausoleum in Svartkyrka cemetery, but I hold my tongue. Two funerals in as many weeks are bound to sour my mood.

  “You’re right. I’m sure it’s awesome on the inside.”

  We lug our bags into the building. The elevator shudders and grinds along its cable until the sixth floor. Rurik presses his thumb to the access panel and the door clicks open to room 613. The apartment is small, just a kitchen and two identical bedrooms with a closet-sized bathroom. The window grants a panoramic view of the surrounding forest with the Obelisk in the distance.

  “It’s actually not bad at all.” I wrap my arms around Rurik’s waist and lean into him.

  “Told you so.” He gives me peppermint kisses.

  “Wish you would’ve let me bring my violin.”

  “So you could practice the whole weekend? Not a chance.”

  I wriggle out of his arms. “I’m missing a rehearsal for you.”

  “Should I thank you for giving me this one weekend? Bad enough I have to put up with Quinn this, Quinn that.” He throws his hands into the air.

  Blood warms my face and I hug myself, inadequate armor against the sting of Rurik’s words.

  “No, but—”

  “But? You’d have preferred to stay home with Quinn and play scales. That much is obvious.”

  “This has nothing to do with him.” My blush deepens and Rurik harrumphs. I can’t stop thinking about Quinn and what he said about music … or that night at the depot.

  “Thought you wanted to join our cause and make a difference.”

  “I never said I wanted to join PARA.”

  “Then why are you here?” He folds his arms across his chest.

  “To be with you. Not to get involved in politics.”

  “Being with me means getting involved in politics.”

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  Rurik rubs his hands over his face and starts pacing. “Tyri, my dad’s a politician, my brother is probably going to be prime minister one day, and I’m on the fast track to a career in government. This is who I am.”

  His words hit me like hammers, each driving a nail of dread into my heart.

  “I hate politics.”

  “Then how can you love me?” He sounds wounded, his expression a twist of emotion.

  “You’re more than just your family legacy.”

  “You don’t get it, T. I have a chance to make a difference, to get involved with decisions on policy that change the way our whole country is run. Don’t you think that’s important?”

  “Of course it’s important. But—”

  “But you think plucking strings is going to change the robot situation?”

  “How could you understand? Your musical appreciation begins and ends with that wump-wump techno crap.” Something inside me snaps and the anger wells up from a dark reservoir I didn’t know I had.

  “Sorry for not being such an elitist snob.”

  “I’m a snob? You’re the one who tells me I’m wasting my time with music and should be doing something worthwhile.”

  “If only you would listen.”

  “Because you’re always right?” My fists clench so hard my nails dig into my palms.

  “You want to be an androitician like your mother, stuck building robots all day?”

  “My mom does more than that and you know it.” I jab him in the chest with an angry finger.

  “Yeah and we’d like to know exactly what it is she does.”

  “What do you mean?” My anger simmers, replaced by confusion.

  Rurik runs his hands through his hair and thumps down onto the unmade bed. He looks up at me with eyes full of pity.

  “Tyri, you should sit down.”

  “Just tell me what you meant.”

  He takes a deep breath before starting. “We know that M-Tech studied those robots responsible for the riot. We want to know what they discovered and what they plan to do.”

  “We meaning you and all your PARA buddies or we meaning Engelberger Industries?”

  “T.” He reaches for me, but I avoid his touch. “There have been rumors about an AI infiltrating virus.”

  “Like I’d know anything about that.”

  “Your mom will.”

  “Then why don’t you ask her?”

  “Because she’s signed an NDA and probably wouldn’t tell me anyway, being an Engelberger and all.”

 
“But you expect me to tell you?” I’m beyond furious, my hands shaking, and my jaw aching from clenching my teeth so hard.

  “Your mom works from home, you could—”

  “Wait.” I hold up my hand, silencing him. “You’re asking me to betray my mom’s trust and snoop through her stuff?” I can’t believe he’d even suggest it. “Did Gunnar put you up to this?”

  Rurik narrows his eyes and chews on his bottom lip, ignoring my question.

  “You know I wouldn’t be asking if this wasn’t important.”

  “I don’t even know who you are any more.”

  “I love you, Tyri, and I need your help.” He looks at me with eyes that used to make me melt. It would be so easy to give in.

  “Help with what exactly?”

  “You don’t understand the half of it.” He leans forward and I meet his gaze. “M-Tech is hiding so much, not just from the public, but from the government as well.”

  “Now you’re spouting conspiracy theories?” I laugh and pull up the desk chair so we’re facing each other eye-to-eye. “And you think my mom is involved?”

  “Maybe not directly, but if we could gain access to the M-Tech servers using your Mom’s computers or ID.”

  I blink and try to process what he’s asking of me. There’s no way Mom could be involved in some conspiracy. No, this can’t be happening. Rurik can’t be doing this to me. He wouldn’t.

  “Is this the real reason you wanted me to meet Gunnar this weekend? So you could gang up on me and pressure me into snooping for you?”

  “Botspit, it’s not like that at all. Gunnar would be happy to reward you for information.”

  “Holy Codes, Rik. You were going to pay me to be a snitch?”

  “Thought you needed money for violin lessons.”

  My hand snaps out before I can stop it, my palm making contact with Rurik’s cheek. We’re both stunned by the impact and shocked into silence.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” I whisper as tears prick the back of my eyes. Rurik glares at me with a look of such hurt, I want to die. I go to him, but he slides away and gets to his feet, a red hand print on his cheek.

  “We’re supposed to meet Gunnar for dinner in an hour.”

  “I’m not going.” Like I’d be able to sit at a table with Gunnar now.

  “Come on T. We’re supposed to be celebrating not fighting.” He rubs his cheek.

  “All we do is fight.”

  “And whose fault is that?” He gives me an accusatory glare.

  “I want to go home.” I don’t want to be here, not if all I am is a pawn in Rurik’s political game.

  “Are you serious? We just got here.”

  “I want to go back to Baldur.” I can’t imagine spending a weekend sleeping next to Rurik now.

  “You’re over reacting.”

  Maybe I am but—”You accuse my mom of conspiracy, offer to pay me to spy on her, and then expect me to play nice and eat dinner with you and your brother? I thought I knew you.”

  “You do.”

  “The Rurik I know would never do something like this.”

  “And the Tyri I know wouldn’t be throwing her future down the drain or cavorting with some random muso she just met.”

  I bite my tongue, holding back bitter words. “Forget it. Forget everything. I’ll take the train.”

  Rurik watches in silence as I gather my things. I’m heading out the door when he blocks my path with his arm.

  “Please,” he says, sounding more wounded than ever. “It doesn’t have to be like this. We can fix this.”

  “I’m not sure we can.” Everything I’ve been feeling recently—how we’re growing apart, how things are changing between us—explodes in my chest.

  “Would you let me try?”

  I look away from his eyes. If I don’t I’ll end up unpacking and throwing my arms around him. I take a shaky breath before answering.

  “Maybe, but not here. I need some time. After everything with Mom, Erik, and now this.”

  “So we’re not breaking up?”

  The dreaded question, and I’m not sure of the answer. Rurik’s always been there. I can’t imagine a life without him. Maybe that’s the problem. He’s leaving me and going off to college anyway. Maybe we should break up before staying together gets too hard.

  “I think so.” I finally manage to look at him. There’s anger and hurt on his face. He swallows and nods, dropping his arm to let me pass.

  “I’ll take you to the train station.”

  We travel in awkward silence. Am I over reacting? Maybe this isn’t such a big deal, and I just need to let it go. I love him, I do, but I don’t want to be with him any more.

  “Is this because of the whole violin thing?” he asks when we pull into the station. The drizzle plays music marked morendo on the windshield. All he needs to do is say sorry and mean it. Then maybe we could still be friends. All I’ve ever wanted is for him to be on my side. All I need is for him to kiss my forehead and tell me he’s sorry for being a nullhead jerk, that he doesn’t think my mom is involved in anything remotely corrupt, and that he’ll support my dreams of being a musician. He doesn’t. He sits in silence waiting for an answer I don’t have.

  “T, tell me. Is it something to do with this guy you can’t shut up about?”

  “This isn’t about Quinn.” Not in the way he thinks. Quinn just made me realize what Rurik and I don’t have—what we don’t share but should.

  “Tyri, I love you.” His face contorts, twisting from hurt, to angry, to an expressionless mask I can’t read. My heart breaks for him and for us. I love him too, but I can’t say it, not right now. I reach for his hand. He jerks away from me, and now I know how much that stings.

  “You better go.” He stares at the drizzle cutting across the windshield. “Before you miss your train.”

  Quinn

  Alan Turing believed that if a machine behaved like a human being, then it should be considered a human being. And as the father of artificial intelligence, according to the tome on AI courtesy of Örebrö’s university library, he should know. Turing’s biography scrolls across my retinas, his life passing before my eyes. The rain beats a constant accompaniment on the metal roof, and I read in tempo.

  I shiver in my coat and hug my knees to my chest. The metal shell doesn’t provide much insulation and neither does the stacked cardboard I’ve been sitting on. With my fuel consumption escalating, I can’t risk burning more hydrogen to keep myself warm. Every trip to the fuel station is a huge risk. With Sal’s cash lining my pockets, the only thing stopping me from strolling into an uptown store and purchasing brand new bedding is the threat of being discovered. Uptown malls are sure to have sensors and robot’s equipped with scanners. It’s not worth the risk either. Besides, if the train depot addicts can find blankets, so can I.

  I brave the midnight gloom and head off with a flashlight toward the alleys lined with overflowing dumpsters. The weather sours, the cold exploding in bursts of lemon on my tongue. Gritting my teeth against the chill, I begin trawling through the trash.

  After an hour, I’m coated in ooze and muck, still without a blanket. The last dumpster in the row, isn’t a dumpster at all, but a charity bin. Not many Baldurians would come this far downtown to drop off unwanted goods for the less fortunate. The lid creeks open and darkness greets me. Flashlight clenched between my incisors, my hands probe the black and find a plastic bag.

  With effort, I drag it out of the bin and spill the contents across the cobbled alley, the rainbow intestines of a cotton-blend beast. Women’s summer attire. No blanket, but there’s a shawl. That’ll do.

  “Find something good, did you?” A bedraggled human approaches me. She’s young and bundled up in rags. I stuff the shawl into my jacket and say nothing. The sooner I get away the better.

  “Can I take a look?”

  “Be my guest.” I nudge the sack of clothing toward her.

 
“Cold, isn’t it?” She starts sorting through the garments. “Already shivery and it ain’t even winter yet.”

  “There’s a shelter—”

  “Not for skaggers.”

  “Ah.” I back away. She might not be alone. I don’t feel like taking another pipe to the head or being robbed by humans.

  “What you searching for here anyways?”

  “A blanket.” I increase the distance between us.

  “You got cash?”

  “Why?”

  “‘Cause I got blankets.”

  “Where?”

  “Follow me.” She gathers up the clothes and bundles them against her chest. Warily, I follow her to the depot.

  After a minute, we join a huddled group gathered in the warmth of an oil-drum fire. The stench of gasoline stains my vision noxious yellow, but the warmth is worth enduring the odor. My gaze scans the depot. A garish new tag stands out in acid green on a crumbling wall, another anti-human slogan just like those splashed in neon across shop windows and empty walls. I’m not sure what my brethren are hoping to achieve with their graffiti. Beside the freshly painted vitriol, fliers flap in the breeze announcing a downtown gig, promising acoustic instruments. It might be worth sneaking into.

  “Where are the blankets?” I ask.

  Her gaze darts over her shoulder to a gap in the wall behind us.

  We duck through the slit in the boards, and the girl pulls back her hood revealing a snarl of tangled hair.

  “Thirty an hour,” she says. Her dirty fingers are already undoing the buttons of her coat.

  “I only want the blankets.” I fish a roll of bills from my pocket.

  “Serious like?” She stares at me with jaundiced eyes.

  “Here’s a hundred. Blanket only.” I enunciate.

  She raises an eyebrow and takes the money. “Take your pick.” She gestures toward a makeshift bed swaddled in tatty quilts. Most are stained and moth eaten, others are peppered with mold. I select the two least hazardous and drape them over my shoulders.

  “For a hundred krona, I could still warm your bones, if you want?” She grins and reveals jagged teeth.