I Heart Robot (14 page)

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.

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 robots?”

“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.

“One year left.”

“It’s almost sad,” Asrid says, pausing to stare at the plaque across the entrance.
Provehito in altum:
Launch forth into the deep. The building is ancient, one of the few constructions to survive the war. In another life, the school could’ve been a cathedral replete with arched windows and menacing gargoyles. The gargoyles are no longer demon faced, but wear the visage of our school mascot, a tufty-eared, grinning lynx. I think the original gargoyles might have been less terrifying.

Inside, we join a gaggle of classmates and file into our respective homerooms. Despite the blur of normalcy, I can’t help thinking about what happened two days ago or what might happen tomorrow. The world’s a chromatic scale, all jagged edges, sharps and flats, sliding up and down the register waiting to spin out of control.

The seconds trickle slowly toward Thursday. I play through my entire repertoire of pieces, until every note and dynamic nuance is encoded in my synthetic nerves and muscles. Out here, no one hears me play; I’m alone with the music and screaming gulls.

The music becomes vivid ribbons of blue and green splitting into red and orange depending on the modulation. I see the music in threads of color as clearly as I hear it, a glitch in my senses as wondrous as it is perturbing. It started after I got shot. The bullets must have done more damage than I initially suspected.

Taking a break from violin, I practice slow motion martial arts formations to remind myself that fists and feet are as deadly as bullets.

The nights are long, growing longer as an early winter paints the docks with frost. Keeping a wary eye on the sky, waiting for the telltale signs of smoke and flame, I take a late night stroll along the waterfront. There are no bombs or military incursions. Maybe the humans are planning a more cunning retaliation.

I wander through lower Baldur, skulking in the doorways of jazz bars and electronica clubs. There’s a whole world simmering beneath the surface of the city that I’ve barely begun to explore.