I Heart Robot (27 page)

“What?” Kit sends a piece of tombstone skittering across the graves.

“Tyri contacted me.” It feels like I’ve swallowed a jar of screws. “Through internal comms.”

Kit smirks. “And?”

“Stop, please stop. Help … ” The words cycle on repeat.

“Doesn’t sound good.” Kit folds his arms. “You got a location?”

“M-Tech.” My system shudders as pseudo-adrenaline floods my Cruor.

“Well I’m not surprised.”

“This isn’t her fault. She thought she was human.”

“Thought?” Kit’s face widens in surprise.

“If she’s using internal comms, I guess she knows she’s a robot.”

“So, the weapon of mass robotic destruction is with the very people who could set it off.” Kit glowers.

“We have to help her.”

“Help her?” He makes exasperated noises to the best of his voice box ability. “How do you know some M-Tech baboon didn’t send that message? Our comms units are vulnerable. Codes, Quinn! She could’ve just infected you! How do you know—”

“I don’t know! But I know Tyri, and I know she doesn’t deserve this.” They rip apart androids as easily as ripping up autumn leaves. Sal’s voice echoes in my head. ‘Be better.’ Being better means having courage.

“Fine, but let me handle this.” Kit runs a hand over his head. “I’ll talk to the Solidarity. Figure something out. We’ve managed to reprogram an entire platoon. We’ve been waiting for the time to strike. Maybe this is it.”

“And storm the proverbial Bastille, murdering more M-Tech employees who are only doing their jobs?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of blowing the place to smithereens.”

“That would be an act of terrorism.”

“No, Quinny.” Kit holds my gaze. “It would be an act of war.”

The whole situation just jumped to ridiculously dangerous. The idea that a bunch of robots could get their hands on an aerial craft capable of dropping bombs is perturbing to say the least. Maybe the PARA party is right, and we shouldn’t have autonomy if we only use that freedom to hurt humans.

“War?” I ask.

“Graffiti and protests weren’t exactly doing much. Time to take it up a notch.”

“It’s murder.”

“The Solidarity plans to change the world. Sometimes that takes serious fire power.” Kit has never sounded so vehement.

“You really have bombers at your disposal?” I’m so afraid his answer will be yes.

“Enough to take out M-Tech.”

“Does human life mean so little to you?” I’m not as concerned about the humans as I should be. I’m more concerned about Tyri. She doesn’t deserve annihilation. Maybe there’s a way to remove the viral code without hurting her.

“Life has no value to me.” Kit presses two fingers against his jugular. “I’m not alive. Never will be. Couldn’t care less.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Rather that than delusional.”

“She asked for my help. I have to try.”

“Try what?” He grabs my shoulders. “Save her? An android in love with the prototype that could kill him, how very Greek tragedy of you.”

I try to shake him off, but Kit increases his hold, his fingers biting into my flesh.

“Don’t let that emotion module cloud your reason. Execute some logic here.”

“Quasars were built for passion not wisdom, right?”

“Fine, go play the hero.” He gestures to the rusted gates of Svartkyrka. “But you’ll be obliterated along with the rest of them. There’s no way we can risk that virus getting out.”

I push past him and head out of the cemetery. I have no idea how I’m going to get into M-Tech, and I have no idea how I’ll save Tyri if she’s infected. All I know is that I have to try.

There’re hands on my body, strange hands. I want to scream and kick, except I’m paralyzed. The only part of me still working is my brain and even that seems to be misfiring. The voices fade in and out through the static between my ears. I catch a few words, but the meanings are fuzzy. I want so desperately to breathe.

The hands on my body flip me over on a metal table. My ear folds beneath my head, the cartilage bent and aching. Pain is good. Pain means I’m still alive—if I’m alive at all. Maybe this is death, and I’m about to meet my maker in some alien lab.

A power tool whirs above my head then descends. My flesh parts, the agony exquisite, and tears trickle from my eyes.

“Is the core stable?”

“Nothing defragging won’t fix.” A man prods my spine with something that could be a screwdriver. The pain is too much, a bombastic concerto blaring inside my head. It doesn’t stay in one key; it isn’t just one melody, but a modulating morass of dissonance. I’m hallucinating now, seeing the pain as some distorted treble clef with fangs. I retreat from the monster and crawl toward a pocket of silence and numbness. My eyes peel open. Instead of seeing a steel and starched surgery, there’s an ocean of numbers and code, like a numeric map.

“Idiot. Not that.” The voice sounds far away.

Two names shriek at me in the silence: Quinn. Rurik.

“Activating now.”

Activating what? Panic wraps suffocating arms around my chest.

Stop. Please stop.
I try to scream, but there’s no voice without air.
Somebody help me. Please, help me
… The words repeat in my mind long after the numbers fade from view, and the tools stop whirring above my head.

“It’s done.” The man pats my shoulder. “You’re good to go.”

***

Sterile light bleeds through the darkness, a snowy vista that turns out to be the ceiling. I blink. My eyes are bleary, the world around me unfocused and glaring white. Sensation creeps back into my limbs. No longer feeling like deadwood, I flex my fingers and toes, bend my knees, and raise a hand in front of my face. Everything’s still attached and in one piece even though it feels like I’ve been through a mincer. With tentative fingers, I explore the back of my neck. There aren’t any staples holding together my flesh, not even a ridge of scar tissue.

The room is bare—four gray walls, gray ceiling, and checkered linoleum floor—except for the narrow bed I’m lying on. Even the sheets are gray and hard as cardboard. There’s no window, so there’s no way to tell how long I’ve been here. With Herculean effort, I haul myself from the pillow that feels more like a cinder block. They’ve replaced my clothes with gray pajamas. I’m naked beneath the too long pants and tent-like top.

On spaghetti legs, I stumble toward the door. No handle, no access panel, and no view beyond the snowflake-patterned glass square at eye level. I try to call out, only it feels like someone stuffed pine-cones down my throat. A coughing fit later, my cries become intelligible.

“Hello? Mom? Anyone?”

My legs give out, and I crumple to the floor.

If I’m at M-Tech, Mom must be around somewhere. Did she know Adolf Hoeg was going to do this? There must be an explanation. Maybe I was somehow exposed to a pathogen by being near Quinn. Quinn—an android, not human. It makes my brain hurt and my heart ache. Do I have a heart? Pressing two fingers against my throat, I wait for the familiar throb of a pulse, the ebb and flow of blood that proves I’m alive. A steady da-dum thumps beneath my fingertips. Quinn was wrong; there’s no way I can be a robot.

Except … What did they do to me on the table? Defragging, they said. They needed to fix me as if … as if … I pound my fist on the door of my cell. I cannot be a robot. I just can’t.

Footsteps and voices echo in the next room. Mom and Adolf Hoeg are arguing.

“ … Can’t possibly understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” Mom snaps. “For almost seventeen years, I’ve dedicated myself to this project and seen it to fruition. Now you want to end all of this, to undermine everything Erik and I have done for some political pat on the head.”

“I don’t need to remind you who’s been funding your little project. You’re not playing dolls here, Maria. Grow up! What you’ve developed is incredible,
impossible
. It exceeds all our expectations, especially our client’s, but it’s dangerous, a liability.”

“Because she’s too human?”

“Because she’s too independent. The ability to control this model is essential to our investors.”

“For God’s sake, Adolf. She’s a teenager. She’s exactly as she should be.”

“And human teens are naturally rebellious. Dangerous,” he says. “You outdid yourself; and in doing so, you jeopardized this company.”

“You could clean up her code. She’d still be fully functional.”

“Can we really take that chance? Mjölnir is active. For now that’s enough.”

“Her wanting to play violin was hardly the end of the world.” Mom sounds exasperated.

“It was cataclysmic on a fundamental level, proof that the AI evolved beyond our control. You let this go too far.”

“She doesn’t even know what she is.” Mom’s voice rises in volume. I don’t know
what
I am?

“She’s not your daughter,” he says. “You were never meant to love her.”

Mom doesn’t answer. My hands are shaking and chills march up my spine. Is it possible that Quinn was right, that I’m not human? I’ve never been sick, never had a headache. But I inject myself every morning; I have a platelet issue. I’ve been bruised and bashed, broken my wrist, skinned my knees—but I don’t have a single scar. I stare at my wrist where they cut me open to replace the broken bones. But why make me? What am I?

“What am I?” I scream, my voice ricocheting off the walls.

Footsteps rush to my door and Mom clears her throat.

“Tyri?

“What am I?” I repeat with a calm I don’t feel.

“You—”

“No harm in telling her now,” Hoeg says.

“You’ve done more than enough harm already.” Mom lashes out at her boss.

Adolf sighs. “Tyri you’re a T-class prototype. An artificial human.”

“I’m a robot?” Like Nana or Miles? Like Quinn? Am I nothing more than a talking refrigerator?

“The most complex one we’ve ever built. You breathe, you have a heartbeat, and you even menstruate.” Hoeg sounds pleased with himself. “Maria and Erik did an outstanding job.”

“Mom?”

“I’m here.”

“Why?” My voice cracks.

“Why what, sweetheart?” She shouldn’t bother being nice to me considering I’m not even real.

Why did you build me? Why did you let me think I was human? Why did you lie about my dad? Why did you let me fall in love with Rurik? Codes, Rurik is going to explode when he finds out he’s been sleeping with an android.

“Why everything?” I can’t help the tears dripping down my face. Wrapping my arms around my bent knees, I hug myself and wait for Mom’s answer. She’s not my mother. She’s my maker, a scientist in a lab playing God. But I don’t feel any different. I’m still me. What did they mean about Mjölnir being active? What did they do to me on that table? Maybe this is just a nightmare, some hyper-real hallucination.

“Three, two, one, wake up. Three, two, one wake up.” It used to work when I was a kid and having bad dreams. Do androids dream? I repeat the words over and over, ignoring the conversation taking place about me beyond the glass. I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to wake up; but when I open my eyes, I’m still in the gray prison. My tears become sobs as I pound the floor with my fists.

I’m not real.

On my knees, I aim a punch at the wall. Plaster crumbles as my knuckles connect with concrete. The pain silences my sobs and blood weeps through tears in my skin.

Not real blood.

Not real pain.

Standing, I slam my fist into the wall again. The impact sends a shudder through my whole body. I do it over and over. Outside, Maria and Adolf reach a boiling point, yelling at one another. Maria’s afraid I’ll do irreparable damage to my body; Adolf’s afraid I’ll do irreparable damage to his building.

I start punching the glass instead. It bends beneath my fists but doesn’t break. My hand is pulverized, a bloody mess of smashed whatever my bones are made of and fake flesh. Not that it matters. There’s not a single scar on my skin. Mom said it was the serum that helped me heal so well, that I was lucky I didn’t scar easily. Luck had nothing to do with it.

There’s a lull in the voices, a palpable tension, but I’m done. What’s the point? I cradle my throbbing hand against my chest and the blood spattered pajamas, giving up. I’m just a robot.

There are more footsteps beyond the door. Hoeg curses and Maria screams.

There’s no time for plans and contingency plans, no time to think about the ramifications of what I’m about to do. Kit and his soldiers might already be on their way. Standing in Skandia Square, I scan the glass-faced buildings. Since the attacks, M-Tech has increased security—numerous cameras dot the exterior and sentinel-droids guard the entrances. Every passing second could mean I’m already too late.

The campus is quiet, the wintry stillness punctuated only by the hurrying feet of commuters cutting through the McCarthy park. No one goes in or out of the buildings. A hoverbug approaches, whirring into the square. I duck behind the memorial expecting police, but the bug is unmarked. It settles on the cobbles and a figure leaps out without bothering to tether the vehicle. It’s a man, obviously human by the ungainly movements as he runs across the square to the main entrance. The sentinels bar his way, eyes flashing red. He’s the perfect diversion.

The human bellows at the robots, gesticulating at the building and throwing fists in the air. He’s young. His voice hitches up a semitone in hysteria as he berates the robots, which haul him away from the entrance. Any other day I might’ve stepped in to help, but getting to Tyri is all that matters.

I hurry across the square keeping the robots in my peripheral vision. They ignore me, their full and limited attention on the human threat.

“But she’s in there you useless screwhead, you rust-bucket tin can.” The human starts kicking at the legs of the robots as they hoist him by the armpits and drag him to his hoverbug. It’s now or never; I steal toward the entrance. The doors are sealed, requiring an access code, but carborundum bones reinforced with titanium give me all the strength I need to punch a hole through the glass.