I Heart Robot

by Suzanne Van Rooyen

  “No, thank you.” I pause before ducking back into the cold. “You should buy something to eat.”

  She smiles and shakes her head. I wonder how much skag you can buy for a hundred krona.

  ***

  I’m naked and waist deep in frigid waves taking a much needed bath when I receive a call from an unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Quinn.” Tyri pauses, an awkward silence stretches. She sniffs and takes a deep breath. “Um, how are you?”

  Before I can answer, an electronic voice echoes in the background announcing a station stop. I rub my filthy skin and scrub stains from my clothes. On second thought, I drench the blankets and shawl as well. One more night wet and cold will be worth having less rancid blankets.

  “You’re on a train.” I splash my way back to the shore as the rain worsens.

  “Yeah, leaving Osholm. I’m calling from the train’s public comms. I don’t have a new number yet.”

  “Why are you leaving?” Maybe there’s been another riot, more violence perpetrated by robots against humans. Maybe Kit is one of the ringleaders, goading fellow androids to turn more human skulls into mulch.

  She sniffs some more. It takes another moment for me to realize she’s crying.

  “You okay?”

  “No.” Her voice breaks. The sound of her tears feels like nails driving into the tips of my fingers. “I tried calling Asrid, but she didn’t answer. I’m sorry for calling so late,” she whispers.

  “It’s fine. What happened?”

  Another shaky breath.

  “Actually, we don’t have to talk about it,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  It’s not much warmer inside the crate, but at least I have dry clothes. Still sticky with brine, I struggle into them. Huddling beneath Sal’s army jacket, I tuck my hands under my armpits wishing I had breath with which to warm my fingers. I’ve been using the flashlight like a candle, but the batteries are failing. I switch it off and sit in the dark with Tyri’s voice inside my head.

  “Coming to rehearsal tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Hadn’t thought about it.”

  “We could do something afterward maybe. Something to cheer you up.” The words leave my mouth before I’ve given them proper consideration.

  “Like what?”

  “There’s a gig tomorrow night. You could join me.” A queasy feeling takes up residence in the hollow of my abdomen. I want her to say yes, and I’m simultaneously afraid that she will.

  “What kind of gig?”

  “Neo-acoustic. Real guitars and vintage synths.”

  “Okay.”

  “You want to go?” My fuel-cell shudders beneath my ribs.

  “Sure.”

  I’m smiling and don’t know why. Spending more time with Tyri is dangerous, something to fear not eagerly anticipate.

  “I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow?”

  “I think so.”

  I don’t know what else to say and saying goodbye doesn’t seem appropriate just yet.

  “Whatever it is, Tyri, it’s going to be okay.” I tell her what I wish Sal was still around to say to me.

  She takes a long moment to respond. “Thank you, Quinn. I needed that.”

  “Sometimes we all do.”

  Tyri

  “Glad to see you decided to join us Miss Matzen,” Maestro Ahlgren says before a grueling 90 minute rehearsal. Quinn and I share an awkward ‘hi’ before tuning, stealing glances at each other between movements. I’m not sure what to say to him. Should I apologize for calling him so late? Is he truly okay with it and if he is, what does that mean? That we’re friends even though we hardly know each other? Was last night really the end of my relationship with Rurik?

  My tumultuous thoughts hamper my playing, and I make a mess of the Mahler.

  “Are you okay?” Quinn asks in that whisper voice of his while Ahlgren’s attention is on the woodwinds.

  “I will be.” This time we share a smile and I can almost forget the storm clouds and question marks dangling above me.

  At the end of rehearsal, Ahlgren makes an announcement.

  “Next week after rehearsal, solo candidates for the gala performance will attend an audition in the main auditorium. Brun, Dahl, Haga, Homstad, Soarsen, and … ” She turns her hawk eyes on me. “Matzen. Be prepared to astound me.”

  One out of six. Not bad odds except we stand no chance against Quinn. These auditions are just a formality.

  “Congratulations,” Quinn strokes his violin before shutting the case.

  “She should get it over with and announce you as soloist already.”

  “How can you be so sure she’ll choose me?”

  “You’re actually going to make me say it?”

  Quinn cocks his head the same way Glitch does when she pretends she doesn’t know why she’s in trouble.

  “You’re brilliant Quinn. The best in this orchestra.”

  “You really think so?” There’s surprise on his face, not arrogance.

  “Yeah, I know so.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot.” He clutches his violin to his chest like it’s all he has in the world.

  “What time does the gig start?” I ask as we head out of the opera house.

  “Not until seven.”

  We have a full three hours of blank space in the day. I’ve never been more relieved to not have my moby vibrating in my pocket. No messages from Rurik. No call from Asrid. Just quiet-spoken Quinn, feral viola player and violin prodigy.

  “What we going to do until then?” I ask.

  Quinn shrugs. “What would you like to do?”

  “Get into something more gig appropriate and have some dinner. You want to come back to my place?” There, I asked. No turning back now. “We’ll have to take the bus, but—”

  “Okay.” Quinn looks as if he’s just made some bigger, life altering decision than whether or not to come home with me. We stroll through falling leaves and puddles reflecting sunshine toward the bus stop.

  ***

  “Welcome to my humble home.” I open the door for Quinn.

  “It’s lovely.” He steps into the hallway at the same time Miles lurches out of the kitchen. Quinn’s eyes go wide.

  “Miles is a simple model.” The words come out in a rush. “He wasn’t involved in the riot or anything.” I step between them. “Nothing right now, Miles. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “As you wish, Tyri.” The housebot’s green digisplay eyes pass over Quinn before he leaves us.

  “You named it?” he asks.

  “Why not?” I shrug. “Glitch, where are you girl?” I kick off my shoes as Glitch comes trotting down the hall. “This is Glitch.” She licks my face as I scoop her into my arms.

  “What happened to her leg?” Quinn approaches with caution. Glitch sniffs him warily.

  “She was born with a bad leg. They were going to put her down, but Mom thought it’d be a good opportunity to test out some M-Tech gear.”

  “Does it hurt her?” He trails his fingers across the seam where flesh meets metal. Glitch doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

  “Nope, she’s just like a normal dog.” I plop her down. Glitch brushes up against Quinn’s legs, and I expect a puddle to appear. Instead, she nips at his trouser leg wanting to play. Amazing.

  “Is your mom home?” Quinn asks, a little nervous.

  “Probably.” I stalk through the living room. Mom’s in her office. “Hi Mom, brought a friend home. We’ll be in my room.”

  “Asrid?” She glances at me over her shoulder, her fingers hovering above her databoard.

  “No, a friend from orchestra.”

  Quinn peers around my shoulder and gives my mom a tiny wave.

  “You two going to practice?” Mom asks, her eyes narrowing a little.

  “We’ll keep it down. Promise.” I close her door before she can protest or ask any embarr
assing questions.

  Quinn follows me into my bedroom with Glitch attached to his ankle, her curled tail wagging.

  “She’s not usually this friendly.”

  Quinn chuckles, a sound like brittle leaves rustling in a breeze. My room’s a mess. I should’ve thought about that before inviting Quinn over. I sweep a bunch of clothes off my bed and into the closet before jamming the doors shut. A digiframe sits on my bedside table, looping through photos of me and Rurik—awkward—but Quinn’s not even paying attention. His gaze is riveted on my vintage CD collection.

  “Scriabin. Elgar. Rimsky-Korsakov. Bartók. What are these?” He plucks one from the shelf and studies the cover.

  “They’re really old. It’s the way they used to record music. You’ve never seen a CD?”

  “Only ever heard about them.”

  Where did this guy grow up?

  “These were my grandfather’s. Here.” Ignoring my violin for the moment, I take Scriabin’s Piano Sonatas out of Quinn’s hand.

  “My grandfather had this old CD player too. Rurik helped me hook it up to my sound system.” Rurik. Better not to mention his name or anything even remotely connected to him. I slide the CD into the tray and hit play. Moments later, music trickles from the speakers crouching like spiders in the corners of my room.

  “Glitch, enough.” She growls as I detach her from Quinn’s leg and drop her amongst the pillows. “You can sit if you want.”

  “What is this?” He slides to the floor.

  “Scriabin’s Black Mass.” I sit beside him, my leg pressed against his. He’s colder than I expected.

  “This is one—”

  Quinn shushes me. I’m about to harrumph with indignation when he winces at the dissonant harmony. His face scrunches up as if the clash of tones causes him physical pain. His features smooth out as the harmony resolves. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the bed, his fingers conducting an unseen orchestra. I watch him experience the music, and Scriabin has never looked so good. He feels the music; he doesn’t just hear it. He’s in it, living each progression and every jagged note of the melody like he did that night on stage. I wish I could see what he’s seeing, feel what he’s feeling. My hand slips into his, but it’s not enough.

  The piano fades into the background as I study Quinn’s quivering lashes and twitching lips. His eyes are shiny with welling tears. At the tritone, his mouth quirks up into a crooked smile and all I want to do is kiss him.

  “You all right?” I ask when the track ends.

  “Thank you.” He grins and wipes his eyes.

  “For making you cry?”

  “For making me feel. That was spectacular.” His gaze is too intense and makes my insides turn to bubblegum. I try to let go of his hand, but he tightens his grip on my fingers. “I could see it. See the colors, like … ” He’s left grasping for words.

  “See it?”

  “An explosion of color. Each chord unique in shade and hue.”

  “You’re synesthetic?” I ask, incredulous. Scriabin claimed he could hear color, but then he also thought he was god.

  “Yes.” He squirms a little and releases my hand.

  “So you can see sound and taste feelings?”

  “My senses are complicated.”

  “Have you always been this way?” Now I’m fascinated, trying to imagine what experiencing the world might be like if I could feel smells and taste sounds.

  “It’s a more recent development.” His expression turns cloudy. “Can we listen to more?”

  “Sure.” I put on Scriabin’s White Mass. Quinn spaces out to the music and I watch him, my gaze riveted on his face. At the end of the piece, he fixes me with a moonstone stare.

  Ribbons of warmth spread up my neck.

  “I have a boyfriend.” I blurt, not sure if it’s the truth but too afraid of how Quinn’s looking at me. A rabble of butterflies whips up a cyclone in my stomach.

  “That him?” Quinn nods at the digiframe.

  “Yeah. Rurik.” My cheeks blaze.

  “Does he like this sonata?”

  “He’s never heard it.” He’s never bothered to listen.

  “Why not?”

  “Rik doesn’t like music.”

  “I struggle to comprehend that,” Quinn says, his eyes losing focus in the middle distance. “More?” He reaches for the CD case, his face millimeters from my own. He smells of the ocean and sunshine. I want to play Scriabin on repeat and lose myself in Quinn just as he lost himself in the music. Our lips meet before I have time to think about what we’re doing. His lips are too soft, his kiss too gentle, and I think of Rurik: lemon, cinnamon, and a lifetime of friendship if nothing else. It’s way too soon. I pull away, almost regretting the ten centimeters I put between Quinn’s lips and mine.

  “Quinn, I … ”

  “Shouldn’t I have kissed you?” His forehead furrows with concern. I want to smooth out those creases, but I resist and play with my own hair instead.

  “It’s okay.” I stand up. Better to be further away from him. His eyes burn like smelting metal; his gaze should leave me blistered. “Could we play some violin?”

  “Sure.” He gets to his feet.

  “Did you grow up in Baldur?” I ask as we remove our instruments from their cases, the awkward kiss forgotten. I’m fishing for details, but I hope he won’t notice.

  “Not exactly.” He meets my gaze, and a lopsided grin quirks up his lips. “You’re full of questions today.”

  “I don’t know much about you.”

  He chews on his inner cheek and drums his fingers on his thigh. “Fair enough. I grew up outside Osholm. What else do you want to know?”

  “Do you go to school?”

  “No.”

  “You’re home schooled?” There are so many things I want to know.

  “Something like that.” He’s as cryptic as ever.

  “Do you prefer violin or viola?”

  “Violin, but … ” Quinn closes the distance between us with a single step. His hand reaches behind my head and pulls out my hair band. His runs a hand through my hair as the waves fall across my shoulders. Codes, doesn’t this guy know what he’s doing to me?

  “Playing viola that night, it was almost like, for the first time, I truly felt—”

  “Alive.” We say in unison.

  If Quinn kissed me right now, I wouldn’t pull away this time. Am I rebounding?

  “Time for Fisker?” Quinn asks.

  “Dvorák.” There’s no way I have enough control over my fingers for Fisker.

  We play for an hour keeping the dynamics pianissimo so as not to upset Mom.

  “I’m hungry. Want a sandwich?”

  “Okay.” He holds his violin as if it’s an extension of his body, organic and living. Reluctantly, he leaves the instrument on the bed.

  “Sara thinks you look like a dancer,” I say over my shoulder as we head toward the kitchen.

  “Who’s Sara?”

  “Asrid’s girlfriend. She said you’re built like one.” It’s a veiled compliment, maybe too subtle for a guy to get. Miles greets us, his orange digisplay lingering on Quinn.

  “I’m not built for dancing. I have done some martial arts, though.”

  “That would explain it then.” The broad shoulders and biceps straining against the sweater that fits like a second skin.

  “Explain what?”

  “Tea?” I change the topic. I’ve done enough blushing for one day.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” He settles on a kitchen stool. His gaze keeps shifting to Miles.

  “He’s harmless.” But my assurances are short lived when the house phone rings. Miles answers automatically before disconnecting the headset from his chest and handing it to me.

  “Tyri, call from Rurik. Do you accept?” The last thing I want Quinn to witness is me having a post break-up melt down.

  “Sorry,” I mouth to Quinn as I scuttle back d
own to my bedroom for a bit of privacy. Glitch looks up, tongue caught between her teeth, and gives me an unimpressed glare for disturbing her nap.

  “Hey.” I perch on the edge of the bed and give Glitch tummy rubs to say sorry.

  “You get home okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Awkward silence.

  “About last night,” Rurik says. “I’m sorry to do this … Gunnar wants to know if you’ll reconsider.”

  “Seriously?”

  So, that’s why he called, not to apologize or declare his eternal love and beg me to take him back. No, he just wants me to snoop.

  “I only said I’d ask. I’m not expecting you to say yes.”

  “Good, because the answer’s no.”

  “Okay.” Another lengthy pause and I think maybe he’s hung up when he speaks again.

  “I meant what I said at the train station,” he says.

  “Which part?”

  “That I love you.”

  “I know.” I whisper.

  Then there’s more silence while hurt and rage vie for control.

  “So you won’t help us out.” Rurik sounds defeated.

  “Not like this.”

  “Fair enough. So we’re done, for real?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because of this thing with your mom?”

  “Mostly.” But that was just the cherry on the top of an enormous double-cream, black forest cake of problems.

  He runs his hands through his hair loud enough for me to hear it through the phone.

  “How was your first day?” I ask. He might not be my boyfriend anymore, but we’ve got too much history for me to stop caring all together.

  “A bit boring since I know the campus already. I start proper classes on Wednesday.”

  “Busy schedule?”

  “Yeah. You sure you won’t even think about helping us? Do it for me, because I love you. Always have.”

  “I’m sorry, Rik.” I hang up before he realizes I’m choking on those three little words that have flowed so easily since we were thirteen, before he realizes there’s a storm-eyed boy sitting in my kitchen who loves music as much as I do, whose lips I can’t wait to kiss again.