I Heart Robot

by Suzanne Van Rooyen

  “So, what is it?” The suspense is making me hyperventilate.

  “Why did you join the BPO?”

  “Um … ” I wasn’t expecting questions; I was expecting a confession. “Because I love music.”

  “Only because of that?” His gray eyes are softer, smudged around the edges.

  It’s my turn to confess. “My mom’s never liked me playing music. She’s always been adamant that I was meant to do greater things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like finding a nanyte cure for the Ebola virus, I don’t know. She wants me to be like her, a carbon copy. But I’m nothing like her. I must be like my father.” In all my sixteen and three quarter years, I’ve never felt the lack of a dad so acutely. Perhaps there’s a way to track down the sperm donor and find out who he was. I bet Mom has those records secreted away in her locked drawers.

  “You’ve never mentioned your dad before.” Quinn inches closer.

  “That’s because I don’t have one. Not technically. He was a sperm donor.”

  “I never knew my father either,” he says with this wistful look that makes him seem so much younger. “Or my mother.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “It was.” He’s about to say more, but he bites his lip.

  “I don’t want to be like my mom,” I continue. “I want to be me and being me means playing music. That’s why I auditioned for the BPO.”

  “And why do you want the Fisker solo?” he asks.

  “Because it means proving to my mother that I’m good at something. That even if I’m not an A student like Rurik or beautiful like Asrid, I can do something well. Better than well. I’m great at violin.” I hold his gaze and he smiles.

  “You’re good. Itzhak Perlman was great.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll get there though.”

  “One day. If you can loosen up your left hand.”

  “Thanks, Teach.”

  “Sorry about your mom being anti-music.” He fiddles with a lose thread on the knee of his jeans. “But there’s no way you’re going to win the Fisker audition.”

  My heart drops and takes up residence in my big toe. “I’m not good enough?” My voice is even quieter than Quinn’s.

  “You are, but I’m better.”

  There’s no cruelty in his face, not even a hint of nastiness, just honesty. I draw my knees up to my chin and wrap my arms around my legs.

  After a moment spent trying not to scream or cry or both, I ask, “So why did you join the BPO? Why do you want this solo so badly?”

  “Music is my life. Without it, I’m nothing.”

  “That’s melodramatic.”

  “It’s true. You have no idea what it’s taken to get where I am. I don’t just want this. I need it.”

  He has such sincerity etched across his features. If I lose the audition, I’ll still play for BPO. If I play for another year, maybe I’ll rack up enough musical credit to score an audition for the Royal Academy of Music. This is what I want. I want this more than anything. What I need, I have no idea.

  “Why do you need this?” I ask.

  “I made a promise to my friend.”

  “The one that passed away?”

  “Yes. I promised her I’d do this not only for me but also for us, to prove to the world that—” He snaps his jaw shut and shakes his head. Prove what? Quinn’s scaring me a little, just enough to mingle anxiety with excitement. It makes me want to kiss him again.

  “What have you got to prove?” I ask.

  “That I’m more than what I seem. That I can be whatever I want to be.”

  I can relate, except I think Quinn might need this a lot more than I do. I guess I must’ve inherited a competitive streak from Mom, though, because there’s no way I’ll deliberately bungle my audition.

  “Are you asking me to mess up the audition so you’ll win?”

  A smile quirks up the right side of his mouth, and he gives me a lopsided grin. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “We’ll see, because I’m not going to let you win. What about the others?”

  “No contest. You’re my only competition.”

  That boosts my injured ego a little, but it’s a bit like sticking a Band-Aid over an amputation. Quinn’s right about being better than me, technically anyway. Musically? I’m not convinced.

  Quinn

  Tyri seems hurt by what I said. It’s not at all what I intended to tell her. What I wanted to say was “I’m an android.” What I wanted more was her continued friendship. Telling her about the audition seemed the gentler option. At least she didn’t kick me out, call the police, or run screaming from the house in fear for her life.

  We stop talking and unpack our violins. We’re both more comfortable with the instruments tucked against our jaws. We play for an hour when Tyri decides she’s done for the day. She chews on a fragrant peppernotter cookie spiced for the coming Yule, and the smell feels like the rough bark of an oak. I watch as her delicate nibbles give way to munching, leaving crumbs on her lips. She’s so human, so lovely.

  “Want one?” She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.

  “No thank you.” Maybe I can find out what Kit wants to know without betraying Tyri at all. Maybe I could just ask her. Given our recent heart to fuel-cell, perhaps she’ll be willing to divulge more information.

  “How are things going at M-Tech?” I try to sound casual as I pack away my violin.

  “Good, I guess. Mom’s back at work as if nothing happened.”

  “Is it that easy to pick up the pieces?”

  Tyri shrugs and eats another cookie. I perch on the edge of her bed and rub Glitch’s ears.

  “So what now? They just leave it at that? No repercussions, no contingency plans?”

  “Why are you so interested?” Tyri sits at her desk, maintaining her distance.

  “I lost someone too, remember? Sal was the only one who understood me.” I suppress the emotion threatening my system. “She was my closest friend, my only friend.”

  Tyri takes a shuddering breath and studies the peppernotter in her hand.

  “That’s why I want to know,” I add.

  “Mom doesn’t tell me anything. She gave Miles a key to her study but not me. Oh no, daughters can’t be trusted.” She twists a long strand of black hair around a finger and pouts.

  “That’s odd.”

  “It’s insulting. But at least she has a photo of me on her desk.”

  “So you’ve been in her study.” This sounds promising.

  Tyri narrows her eyes and leans forward to whisper. “Can I trust you?”

  “Do you want to?”

  She seems taken aback but recovers and nods.

  “I’m only telling you this because we both lost someone we care about that day. You have to promise not to tell another soul, okay?”

  “I promise.” We interlace pinkie fingers and seal the pact. Tyri’s wording makes for a convenient loophole I might have to step through if Kit continues to threaten me. I have no doubt he’d out me to the orchestra.

  “I went snooping and I think I found something,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure exactly, a bunch of private emails talking about emergency protocols. I didn’t understand most of it, but there was something about a virus.”

  If I had a heart, it would’ve skipped a beat.

  “What does this virus do?” My circuitry shudders with trepidation. Maybe Kit was right about M-Tech all along.

  “No idea. It’s all on a databoard.”

  “You still have it?”

  “I sent a copy of the file to myself.” She swivels in her chair and taps at her desk. A digisplay blinks lurid green and her holographic desktop hovers at eye level.

  “Here.” She accesses a file. My computer knowledge is rudimentary by android standards. I can recite 19th century poetry, but I wouldn’t know Python from C. Despite that, I
get the gist of the data. The virus is a self-replicating, circuit frying, acuitron brain destructing parasite. A T-class super-android prototype already has infected nanytes. All the virus needs is an activation code, a single string of ones and zeros, before it starts contaminating any robots that comes in contact with the prototype. It’s the perfect contagion designed to decimate the synthetic population.

  “Quinn, what’s wrong?” Tyri puts her hand on my shoulder. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

  I feel it too, my Cruor turning to sludge and my circuitry withering. Maybe it’s already begun and I’m infected, decaying from the inside out without even knowing it. There’s no list of symptoms. The virus is described as ‘the absolute demise of artificial intelligence.’ They’ve even given the virus a name: Mjölnir—the hammer of Thor.

  “Do you know when they’re going to release it?” I ask.

  “I don’t even know if they are going to release it.” Tyri shuts down the hologram.

  “This is terrible.”

  “You one of those HETR types?” She folds her arms and screws up her face at me.

  “They’re going to destroy every robot.”

  “They wouldn’t do that. Half of M-Tech couldn’t function without robots. And what about medical bots and manufacturing plants and industry? They all use robots.”

  “They won’t after this.”

  Tyri thinks for a moment while I try not to overcook my processor. Fear and anger activate, making my fingers twitch.

  “I don’t think they’d do it. There’s too much at stake,” she says.

  “The lives of androids?”

  “No silly, too much money at stake. The robot industry is worth like a zillion. No way they’d ruin that with a kill-all virus. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Yes it does if they can no longer control the multitude of robots. There’s an entire droid military programmed to kill. If it’s a choice between being slaughtered and adapting to a life without robots, I’m pretty sure the humans would choose the latter.

  “I really need that solo.” I think aloud.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You’ll see.” Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.

  “You’re making no sense what so ever.” She glowers.

  “Can I get a copy of the file?”

  “Why?” She chews on a fingernail.

  “I’d like to read it over, try to understand it better.”

  There’s a moment of indecision before she nods. “You have a flash drive or something?” She holds out her hand. All we need is a USB cable from her desktop into my CNS, but I’ll have to do this the human way. I fish through my pockets for the moby I’ve never used. Tyri’s eyes widen in surprise as I hand over the device.

  “Where did you get this?” she asks.

  “At a downtown market.”

  “This is my moby.”

  We both stare at the patterned gadget sitting on her palm.

  “I don’t understand. How do you have my stolen moby?” she says.

  “Stolen?”

  “I was attacked by droids that night after I saw you play at the depot. You bought stolen goods?”

  “I didn’t know.” An unpleasant chill creeps up my spine.

  “You live alone, don’t go to school, hang out at the depot, and shop on the black market. Are you on drugs?”

  “No.”

  She drops the moby and lunges for my arm, my left one, tugging at the sleeve. I slap her hands away and she gasps. Holy Codes, I could’ve broken her fingers.

  “I didn’t mean to do that. Are you okay?”

  Tyri cradles her hand and looks at me with wide, frightened eyes. She flexes her fingers. No damage done. “What are you hiding, Quinn?”

  “Nothing,” I say far too quickly.

  Her expression is one of concern as she repeats the question, slower and more deliberate this time. “Are you on drugs? You can tell me if you are.”

  “You think I’m shooting up skag?” I peer down my sleeve at the black tag. Better to let her think I’m an addict than reveal the truth.

  “I’m not a junkie.”

  “Considering how you ran off Saturday night.” She picks up the moby. “And came back all shiny eyed, it’s not an unreasonable assumption.”

  “I am not a drug addict. Do I look like I do skag?” I’m not sure why I’m so upset. She’d think even less of me if she knew what I really am.

  “Prove it. Show me your arm.”

  I roll up my right sleeve and show off pristine flesh.

  “The other one.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my guardians used to put cigarettes out on me.” The words come out of nowhere accompanied by an unwanted flood of emotion overwhelming my circuits.

  Tyri’s face contorts, and she presses her fingers to her lips. “Codes, Quinn. I had no idea.” She reaches a hand toward me but I back away. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Forget about it.” Please, please, please. Let’s go back to the way things were half an hour ago.

  “Have you told someone? Do the police know? Is that why you’re on your own?”

  “I said forget it.”

  “Forget it? You were abused and I should just forget it?” Her hands ball into fists.

  “I think I should leave.” I gather up my violin and head for the door.

  “I’m only trying to help. Please Quinn.” She runs after me and there’s an ache in my fuel-cell as I meet her gaze. Her fingers graze my elbow, and I’d like nothing more than to scoop her into my arms and pretend I’m human, but that’s never going to happen.

  “Can we practice again before Saturday even if I am going to lose?” She attempts a smile.

  “We’ll see.” I shove my feet into my boots and escape the bungalow. The last thing I need is Tyri reporting my invisible scars to the authorities in some misguided attempt to help me. This is why getting close to humans is dangerous. It never ends well for the android.

  Tyri

  Quinn disappears behind a line of fiery oaks. Glitch bashes my leg with her nose, looking up at me as if she knows how alone I feel with only a robot and cyborg dog for company, with the boy I should love hundreds of kilometers away, and the boy I definitely shouldn’t think about loving walking away.

  Dejected, I return to my bedroom and curl up with Glitch. Picking up my moby, I turn on the device. New SIM, no password, all my old contacts erased. I dial Asrid’s number from memory and wait for her to answer.

  “What’s up?”

  “Sassa, Quinn’s not on drugs.”

  “You asked him?”

  “Yeah. It’s sort of worse than that.”

  “I’m listening.” The background noise diminishes, and there’s the click of a lock.

  “You alone?”

  “Yup. Tell me everything.”

  I take a deep breath. This isn’t my story to tell, and yet there’s no way I can carry it by myself. I have to tell someone. “Quinn was abused by his guardians.”

  “Abused how?”

  “He said they put cigarettes out on him. Who knows what else.”

  “That’s really awful.”

  “I know.”

  “Did he show you?”

  “No, he wouldn’t.”

  “Then how do you know he’s telling the truth?” she asks, incredulous.

  “Who lies about that?” I chew on the corner of my pillow.

  “To cover up drug abuse, sure. Has it been reported?”

  “Quinn didn’t want me to.”

  “Sounds dubious.”

  “You don’t think he’s, I don’t know, embarrassed maybe?”

  “T, my dad’s a shrink. I’m telling you, something’s off about this.”

  “Maybe I could get Quinn to talk to your dad. Is he still doing pro bono work?”

  “Anything to avoid taxes.” Sh
e pops bubblegum. “Maybe we can arrange some casual meet-up. Organize another date, and then Dad and me’ll just happen to come by. My dad can suss him out.”

  My brain hurts. It’s as if I can feel the cogs turning, the pistons pumping at max. “I don’t know.”

  “Up to you. Whether he’s on drugs or the abuse story is true, Quinn’s clearly a guy in need of help. You’d be doing the right thing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.” There’s a crash on Asrid’s end followed by a string of expletives as she screams at her brothers to play with their light sabers outside only. “The twins tried to Jedi mind-trick my door with their heads.”

  “I’ll let you know once I arrange something with Quinn. You sure your dad’ll do it?”

  “T, when has my dad ever not done something for his darling little girl?”

  The conversation ends with the sound of a boy crying and Asrid yelling. It’s too quiet in my house, silent except for Glitch’s sleepy breaths and the grumbling refrigerator. Whatever Miles is doing, he’s doing it silently. The emptiness becomes too much, and I put on Beethoven’s complete symphonies. The 5th symphony begins with Fate banging on the door. I activate my desktop.

  Don’t know if you can access email since I have the moby—’the’ moby is better, right? No possessive pronoun or insinuation that Quinn did something wrong.

  —but I thought you might want to take a look at all the files from my mom anyway. Could we meet for coffee or a chat somewhere? What about tomorrow evening?

  Love Tyri

  Regards Tyri

  Sincerely Yours Tyri—Why is this so complicated?

  Tyri

  I attach the files and hit send before I spend another ten minutes obsessing over my salutation. Now I just have to wait.

  ***

  Waiting sucks. In seven minutes, I’ve checked my email twenty times for a response as Beethoven’s symphony thunders to a close. No point wallowing when there’s an entire study to explore. Mom’s always been cagey about the other half of my DNA, but it’s about time I know who I really am.

  Mom might be home any minute. The study is still unlocked, and Miles passes me a desultory glance from the kitchen where he’s chopping carrots. I stalk into the study and start searching through databoards. They all have the same mythological password. Not too security savvy, Mom.