I Heart Robot

by Suzanne Van Rooyen

  Despite the ease of access, I find nothing. I turn on Mom’s personal computer, which is password protected as well. The Odin crow configuration fails, as do birthdays, social security numbers, and everything else I can think of. I know my birth certificate lists my father as anonymous, but maybe I can dig through hospital records and find out more. I scoot back to my bedroom and get onto the Net.

  I type my date and place of birth into the public record and registry site. There’s a list of babies born on February thirteenth, but my name’s not on it. There must be a glitch in the system. I rerun the query. Still nothing. Now there’s a hollow feeling inside my stomach and an emptiness spreading in my chest. I know I technically don’t have a dad, but I never thought not being able to put my father’s name on my birth certificate meant no certificate at all. It’s as if I’m not a real person. An unexpected tear trails down my cheek as I run the query again. It must be a clerical error. I can’t not exist. I do exist, even if I don’t have the paper work to prove it.

  As a last resort, I type my name into the search engine and hit go. As I wipe my tears, two results pop up: one listing me as a student at St Paul’s, and the other listing me on the BPO program for the upcoming Independence Day performance. That’s it – the sum total of my existence.

  I’m not even a quarter of the way through the search results for European sperm donors searching for anything in their profiles that shouts out ‘dad’ when Mom gets home. It’s about time she gave me some straight answers.

  Quinn

  –Transmission received

  I read as I walk, the text scrolling through my vision, rendering the background a blur. Tyri sent me the entire prototype document, including red warnings of confidentiality.

  The Mjölnir virus. The Old Norse word rolls around my head. Thor’s hammer. Thor. Is it more than a coincidence that Tyri’s name means Thor’s warrior?

  I skip over the virus notes, the pages I already read, and skim back over graphs and schematics to the specifications listed for the T-class super-android. The specs read like those for any advanced humanoid. It could be a description of a Quasar, but it’s not. According to the document, this model would be a human analogue capable of sleeping, eating, breathing, and bleeding, ‘indistinguishable from human to the layman’s eye.’

  “See Sal, told you I wouldn’t have to be a real boy to eat cake.” My smile is short lived. Comprehension hits me as hard as a strike from Thor’s hammer itself. My knees buckle, and I stagger into the doorway of a bakery already closed for the night.

  Thor’s hammer. Thor’s warrior. But she breathes; she eats. It’s impossible.

  I scan through the data again. The prototype exists. It’s location unspecified. I scroll to the schematics. The prototype is female.

  Nausea rocks my system, confusing my circuitry and compromising my balance. The weight of the knowledge is like an anvil crushing my brain.

  Maybe the reason Tyri seems so human is because she doesn’t know she’s not.

  ***

  It’s dark by the time I return to the docks. Hearing hushed voices and seeing the flare of flashlight, I slow my approach, half expecting Kit and his Solidarity groupies. Three men stumble out of the container carrying my duffel bag, one brandishing Sal’s gun.

  “Hey, stop.” I shout before I’ve fully considered the consequences. They turn and blind me with the flashlight. One takes a sip from my can of Cruor before passing it on. Androids.

  “This your stash?” The tallest of the three raises the can before taking another swig. Anger warms my core, and I slip the violin case from my shoulder, nudging it into the shadows with my foot. There’s no chance of passing for human with a half empty can of synthetic blood.

  “Walking fuel can,” one says in a voice I recognize from the day they attacked me at the hydrogen station.

  “Run and I’ll put a bullet through your core.” The dark-haired android smiles and aims Sal’s gun.

  “What difference does it make?” They’ll bleed me dry anyway.

  “We don’t want to kill you, just drain you.” The androids approach.

  “Nice and easy.” The tall one puts the barrel of the gun against my forehead. They’re Z-class models, their tags visible beneath their tattered sleeves, commissioned for private security and built to break heads. Even with my martial arts patch, the odds of taking down all three aren’t in my favor.

  The dark haired one pulls up my sweater and pokes my ribs. The third android watches in silence, manning the flashlight. When strange fingers activate my haptic sensor, my self-preservation protocol kicks in, and I lunge at the one with the gun. He fires and the bullet burns a hole straight through my shoulder as I force the android to the ground. The pain is a starburst of colors I can’t name. It smells like the interior of Asrid’s hoverbug.

  I grapple with the others as they haul me away, landing carborundum-crushing kicks to jaws and kneecaps. As I break one, the others heal and rise until my adrenaline dose is spent. They force me to my knees, jamming a canister into my side. My field of vision narrows as hydrogen leaves my system. Cruor drips from the wound in my shoulder my nanytes can’t fix without fuel. My eyes close of their own volition, and I struggle against automatic suspension, fighting to retain sensory perception.

  “Done.” The android removes the canister. One of them grabs my arm and taps my wrist.

  “It’s a Quasar.”

  “Could be worth something.”

  “Can’t transport it like this. Leave it in the container. We can come back later.”

  “Check his pockets.” Fingers rifle through my clothes and find the wallet full of Sal’s cash.

  “Score. Think we … ”

  My hearing fades as my consciousness battles system failure. I’m floating then falling. My cheek presses against cold metal, and a vibration resonates up from the ground through my bones. My emergency protocol is still set to ping Sal. Operating on fumes, I reset the emergency contact and send out an SOS complete with GPS co-ordinates before my processor shuts down.

  Tyri

  “Tyri, be a dear.” Mom passes me her coat to hang up as she pries her feet from toe-pinching stilettos. I guess her ankle must be all healed up if she managed to walk in those shoes.

  “How was your day?” I ask.

  Her gaze narrows, and she gives me a knowing look. “Just fine. How was yours?” Mom plays along, but I know she knows I have an agenda.

  “Interesting.”

  She sails through the lounge with me trailing in her wake. She goes straight to the study, the door ajar.

  “What—how?” Mom’s lost for words.

  “I’m not sure why you trust Miles with a key and not me.”

  “Miles? What are you talking about? How did you get in here?” She grabs my arm. She’s scaring me.

  “Ow, Mom. You’re hurting me.”

  She eases up her grip, but doesn’t let go.

  “How did you get in?” Her face is turning pink.

  “Miles has a key.”

  “Impossible!” Mom drags me into the kitchen and watches Miles with a hawk-eyed gaze as he peels papaya.

  “Miles, tell Mom you opened the study for me.”

  He turns and flashes orange.

  Mom scowls at me, her fingers tightening around my arm again.

  “You have a key for the study, right?” My voice hitches up a tone.

  Miles cocks his head, still flashing orange. Is it possible for him to pretend? This is the same robot who gets passive-aggressive with raspberry jam.

  “Stop lying to me,” Mom gives my arm a shake. “You got into my study, the how barely matters. What I want to know is why?”

  “Why?” I jerk my arm out of her grip and put some distance between us. “Because for almost seventeen years you’ve refused to tell me who my father is, and I want to know.”

  “Your father?” The anger coloring her skin drains away, leaving her wan.
/>   “Yeah, my dad. You know, the random guy whose sperm you borrowed.”

  “Tyri.” Mom fiddles with the buttons on her cardigan. “You shouldn’t have gone snooping. You know there’s sensitive information in there about M-Tech.”

  “If you’d told me the truth, I wouldn’t have to go snooping.”

  “You could’ve asked.”

  “I did.”

  Mom tries to come up with another excuse but fails. This time I’m not backing down. I want to know the truth. Mom stares at me and I stare back, neither of us wanting to be the first to look away.

  The impasse lasts several awkward moments before Mom sighs.

  “Let’s sit down and talk about this. Tea, Miles.” She pads from the kitchen into the lounge. I settle opposite her.

  “Why are you so intent on knowing about your father now?” Mom gets straight to the point.

  “Because … ” I’m not sure how to word this. Mom kept secrets from me, but I don’t want to hurt her. Half of my DNA is hers after all.

  “Because I want to know who I am. Maybe my father was like me.”

  “Like you?” She raises a single eyebrow.

  “Into music, not great at school, you know. Maybe he played violin.”

  “Oh sweetheart.” Mom chuckles softly. “A propensity for music might be genetic, but I don’t know anything about the man beyond the nature of his alleles.”

  Miles enters and leaves two steaming cups of peppermint tea on the table before loping back to the kitchen.

  “I looked up birth records. There’s no Tyri Matzen listed.”

  “Clerical error, I’m sure.” Mom says it too quickly, her lips puckering and forehead creasing.

  “Somehow I doubt that. Was my dad really an anonymous sperm donor or … was he a one night stand you don’t want me to know about?” I meant to word it more gently.

  Mom takes a moment to absorb my insult and then smiles.

  “No, Tyri. You’re not the progeny of random intercourse.”

  If I was the outcome of a night of passion, I think I’d feel better. It would prove Mom had a heart, and that I had a father who shared more with my mom than just his genome.

  “I want to know more about my dad. Don’t they have profiles or something like that available? Personality traits, favorite color, whether he liked sports or books?”

  “I’ll look into it.” Mom folds her hands in her lap, which usually means the matter is settled. “No more breaking into my study, okay?”

  “I didn’t. Miles has a key.”

  “He most certainly does not.”

  “He does. He did this swivel thing with his hand, and his index finger became a key.”

  Mom’s eyes widen as she leans forward to whisper, “Are you one hundred percent sure?”

  “Yeah, I saw it.” I whisper back as understanding kicks in. If Mom didn’t know Miles had a key that means he shouldn’t have one period.

  “Tyri, don’t forget you’ve got that extra English lesson with Asrid this evening. You’re going to be late if you don’t get moving. Now,” Mom says and beckons me over to the bookcase out of sight of the kitchen. “Don’t waste time packing.” She whispers. “Take this. Call Asrid and get out of here.” She slips her moby into my pocket not knowing I’ve got my own.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper.

  “I’ll explain later. But you need to leave.”

  “Why and what about you?” Chills march up and down my spine. I try giving her back the moby.

  “Please, Tyri. Do as you’re told, just this once.” The look on Mom’s face silences all argument. I nod and try not to run to the door. Glitch pads up the hallway. I snatch her up and start dialing Asrid while Mom watches me from the lounge.

  “Hey, Sassa, I completely forgot we had a study night.”

  “What are you talking about, T?”

  “Sorry I’m running late. Any chance we could meet somewhere closer?”

  Asrid’s a quick study. “You in trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m on my way. Where are you?”

  “Corner of Bondegatan and Griffelvagen.” I’m lucky it’s Monday, and Asrid isn’t in dance class.

  “Be there in ten.”

  “Bye Mom.” There’s a quaver in my voice. Mom nods to me and mouths ‘go’ when I hesitate at the door.

  Mom will be fine, I tell myself as Glitch and I scurry down the street away from the malicious housebot. Mom works for M-Tech. She knows how to deal with a rebellious robot.

  What if she’s not okay? I could call the police. I should, but something makes me hesitate before dialing 112. I scan through Mom’s contacts and dial M-Tech instead.

  “Maria, have you reached a decision about our darling little prototype?” Adolf Hoeg’s voice is syrup. Prototype? The virus. Something to worry about later.

  “It’s Tyri. I think Mom’s in trouble.”

  “Explain.” He doesn’t sound impressed.

  “Something’s up with Miles, um, our housebot. He got into Mom’s study, but he shouldn’t have a key. Mom got me out the house, but I don’t know what’s happening and … ” And I think I’m going to hyperventilate or throw up, probably both.

  “We’ll handle this. You’re a good girl, Tyri.” He gives me a verbal pat on the head.

  I swallow the rising bile. “Will you let me know when Mom’s safe?”

  He promises he will and hangs up, leaving me alone with my heart beating incalzando until the drumming inside my ears is all I can hear.

  Quinn

  My eyes peel open, dry and unfocused. A face hovers above me, featureless and unrecognizable. My ears ring, and there’s a throbbing deep within my skull.

  “Welcome back,” Kit says. He hooks his hands under my armpits and hauls me into a sitting position, propping me against the wall of the container. I can’t talk yet, repair protocols taking priority over human operations. The interior of the container condenses into a single pinprick point of light as my system reboots. I blink and moisture coats my eyes. My shoulder burns as nanytes fight their way through viscous Cruor to repair the damage. Kit’s face swims into focus.

  “Cruor.” My voice is a whisper. Kit hands me an open can, and I pour the contents down my throat.

  “Feeling better?” He rocks back on his heels, grinning.

  “Not yet.”

  “See, Quinny, the Solidarity takes care of its own.” He tousles my hair as my toes twitch back into operation. Fresh Cruor lubricates my joints, and I’m able to move on my own.

  “They’ll be back. Thought they could sell me.”

  “Pretty boy like you, I’m not surprised.” His fingers brush hair from my face.

  “You shouldn’t stay here. Next time they won’t be so gentle.” He pokes a finger through the scorched hole in my sweater.

  “I won’t.” There’s nothing left in the container except dried puddles of Cruor. Where’s my violin?

  “You can stay with me.”

  “I owe you enough already.”

  “Who’s keeping score?” He grins. “Miles mentioned you were at the Matzen house today. Said he helped you.”

  “Miles the housebot?”

  “A housebot with upgraded capabilities.”

  Anger stirs briefly in my core, vanishing before I can latch onto it.

  “What do you mean, upgraded abilities?”

  “The Solidarity connects via the Botnet with any robot, droid or not. They’ve been slowly upgrading those with the processors capable of handling it.”

  “They’re giving mundane robots android intelligence?” If the humans weren’t aware of the Solidarity and its activities before, they will be once their housebots start demonstrating analytical thought processes.

  “They’re recruiting for the cause.” Kit grins. “It was Lex’s idea.”

  “So that march turned riot, that was always part of the plan?”

  “Yeah.”
At least Kit has the decency to look guilty.

  “And Sal’s death was what? Collateral damage in your great scheme for world domination?”

  “She knew the risks.” Kit meets my gaze, his dark eyes lost in shadow.

  “She was Solidarity too?”

  “Used her connections in the corporate world to get us information.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were the new kid in the ghetto, all pro-human and soft. We didn’t trust you not to go blabbing about us to the apes.”

  My world turns to cinders.

  “Then why did she encourage me to join the BPO?”

  “To keep you occupied while we made the necessary arrangements.”

  “You’re starting a war.” A myriad of emotions simmers in my core.

  “That’s the plan.” Kit grins. He looks like a macabre clown with glowing white teeth.

  “It won’t work.”

  “And why not?” Kit takes a menacing step forward.

  Should I tell him about my suspicions regarding Tyri and the virus hiding in her code waiting for activation? If Sal was merely collateral damage, then Kit would have no qualms about destroying Tyri. He’d rip her circuits apart if it meant stopping the virus. Does she even have circuits? She breathes and bleeds. It’s incredible, humans playing gods. And what about me? I might already be infected. Would Kit even hesitate before destroying me for the greater robotic good?

  “Thank the Solidarity for the fuel and Cruor,” I say.

  “You owe me, Quinn. You owe us.” He grabs my shoulder. “What do you know?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Really? Then I guess you won’t mind me tossing your violin into the Baltic.”

  I jerk away from him.

  “Where’s my violin?”

  “It’s safe. For now.” He folds his arms. “Consider it an insurance policy. Tell us what we want to know, and you’ll get that hunk of splinters back.”