I Heart Robot (3 page)

“You want something.” Lex punches a fist in the air. “You take it, guns blazing.”

Having heard enough, I cut a track through the mire to Sal’s.

“Lex has a point,” Kit says as he ambles along beside me.

“That the humans are about to commit robotic genocide? I doubt it.”

“Why? Fragheim might as well be a Gulag
camp.”

“We’re not prisoners here.”

“Aren’t we?” Kit glares at me, daring me to argue, but I can’t and he knows it.

“There must be better ways to get what we want.”

“Like pretending you’re human?” His gaze burns me to my core. I grit my coral-polymer teeth and jog the rest of the way to Sal’s hut.

The hut is a questionable union between corrugated iron and duct tape. Sal dangles in a canvas hammock reading, the text spooling across her jade irises.

“Any good?” I move her legs to sit beside her. Kit catches up and leans against an unstable wall.

“Chapter,” she says, and I wait for her to finish. “Not bad.” She blinks, and her vision clears. “I think Alfred Jarry drank too much absinthe, but his ‘pataphysics are … amusing.”

Typical. Only a Saga class android, manufactured for intelligence operations during the war, would find ‘pataphysics entertaining. It’s too bad Sagas were stuck in research facilities as data crunchers after the war. Sagas know they’re smarter than the rest of us with their intelligence quotients in the stratosphere, and Sal’s not shy in reminding us.

“So.” She runs her hand across her tattooed scalp. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, boys?”

“I got in.” The grin splits my face ear to ear. Kit mumbles something indiscernible.

Sal takes a moment to absorb the information before crushing me to her organosilicone chest in a hug.

“This is fantastic. Congratulations! But I knew you’d get in. You’ve got top-notch music firmware.”

“Thanks,” I say as she releases me. I want to tell her it’s more than being able to read the music and move my fingers over the strings, bowing perfect tremolo. It’s about feeling something beyond what any emotion patch can offer. Playing music is about glimpsing the divine, about believing in something beyond yourself, some ethereal force. If I say any of that, she’ll just pat my head and smile that infuriating smile that says she knows better because she can rattle off every composer’s birth date and list their greatest works in six languages. I could download all those dates, but it would use up slots in my memstor that are better used for memorizing actual music. As for languages, we Quasars have severely limited linguistic capabilities.

“When do you start?” she asks.

“Saturday. First rehearsal.”

“It’s a bad idea,” Kit singsongs.

“Nonsense. We should celebrate.” Sal leaps off the hammock causing me to swing backwards into the metal wall, making the entire structure vibrate.

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“Yes it is.” Sal whirls on me. “First we celebrate and then we fix you up.”

“That’s what I’ve been talking about.” Kit rubs his hands together.

“I need fixing?” The uncertainty in my voice sounds so natural, so human. Sometimes I forget that under the layers of synthetic flesh, I’m a snarl of electronics.

“We could rough you up a bit.”

“Some droids already did that.” Kit nods in my direction. I point to my head where the pipe injury has reduced to a slight depression.

“You both get jumped?” Sal asks.

“Filling up. They took my card. Kit came to the rescue, as always.”

“Good thing he was around.” She glances in Kit’s direction.

“Next time I might not be. Next time maybe I’ll just watch.”

For an android determined to be nothing more than plastic and metal, Kit can be as passive-aggressive as any human.

“Hm, let’s hope not.” Sal muses with a finger tapping her chin. “You’ll pass for human, long as no one looks too closely.” She musses my hair and grins. “Better already.”

“No one suspected anything at auditions.” Quasars are made to look more human than other androids.

“You look like a doll,” Kit says. “Not that that’s a bad thing.”

“This is the biggest problem.” Sal grabs my wrist as I attempt to smooth down my unruly mane of platinum blond.

“My tag?” I stare at the black lettering of the code on my wrist. It’s not a tattoo or superficial decoration like the ink smears on Sal’s baldhead. Q-I-99: class, model, and number printed in flesh above my identifying microchip. It’s all that I am.

“Quinn.” Sal runs a finger over the numbers. “We can grind it out.”

“Are you that desperate to pass for an ape?” Kit spits Cruor into the mud.

“Couldn’t we just tattoo over it?” I ask, ignoring Kit’s jibe.

“Tattoos fade quickly.” Sal points to her head, freshly inked once a week. “Grinding it out will last longer.”

“The numbers will come back anyway. The chip’s embedded in my CNS. No getting rid of that.”

“True, but at least you’ll be unmarked for a few weeks between sessions,” Sal says.

“It’ll hurt,” Kit adds.

“As if that’s ever been a problem.” I shut him up with a look. “Pain is part of being human. How do you think all those composers wrote such awe-inspiring music?”

“That’s different,” Kit grumbles.

“Is it?”

“This is Quinn’s chance at doing something better with his life,” Sal says.

“Better? How is trying to fool the humans better than standing up for your own kind?”

“And what? Violently demanding rights from a government that might never grant them?” My tone is bitter.

“Go join the apes then.” Kit throws his hands in the air. He kicks Sal’s wall, denting the metal before striding away.

“He cares about you,” Sal says with a soft smile.

“Funny way of showing it.”

“Don’t let him dampen this. This is your chance to show the humans that we aren’t just machines, that they gave us minds. We think, we feel, we dream, we create.”

I nod as my tear ducts prickle with an automatic response to the emotion codes triggered in my processor.

“So, are we going to get Max to grind it out?” Sal looks ferocious, all sharp angles with an aquiline nose halving her face. She’d look gentler with hair, but she says it irritates her when it falls over her bulbous forehead into her eyes.

“I think I’ll take my chances and wear long sleeves.”

“It’s your fuel-cell on the line.” She raises an eyebrow at me.

“I’ll be careful.”

“In that case,” Sal grabs my hand, “I do believe it’s time to celebrate.”

Glitch woofs a warning from her vantage point on the sofa, her dark eyes fixed on the front door. I open it before Rurik has a chance to press the buzzer.

“Hey you.” He offers me a silly grin and a giant bouquet of purple-checkered daffodils.

“This wasn’t necessary.” I bury my nose in the blooms. A single daffodil vibrates as tinkling music spills out of the petals. The flower sings to me in Rurik’s husky voice, asking me to forgive him for being such a jerk.

“You’re not a jerk.”

“You’re right, I’m a gangrenous nullhead and despicable boyfriend.” He smiles and his whole face lights up. If Rurik were a song, he’d be in D major, bright and easy going. His brown eyes peering into mine make me melt as I fold into his arms. I love the way he smells: a touch cinnamon and a touch lemon fresh. Being so close to him I can almost forget that he didn’t show up for the funeral and that he hung up on me.

“Sorry about earlier.” Rurik tilts my face toward his and we kiss, a slow meeting of our lips. He tastes of peppermint gum, and I kiss him again. He jerks away, cursing as Glitch shoves herself between our legs and pees on his foot.

“Glitch! Bad dog.” She gives me a baleful look and pads into the house, nonplussed by her actions.

“Codes, I’m sorry.” I dash into the house. Dumping the flowers on the kitchen table, I grab a towel and head back to the door. Rurik stands barefoot, shaking off his sneakers.

“Not like it’s the first time.” He chuckles and cleans his foot. Dropping the towel and shoes on the porch, he kisses me again and shuffles me into the hallway before closing the door behind us.

“Your Mom home?”

“Not yet.”

“Excellent.” He drops his bag and shrugs out of his jacket before grabbing my hand and heading down the passage to my bedroom.

“Greetings, Rurik. Would you like some refreshments?” Miles comes to my door as Rurik pushes me down onto the bed.

“In twenty minutes,” Rurik says. “Coffee and hot chocolate.”

“As you wish.” Miles leaves, flashing green.

“My mom’ll be home any minute.” I gasp as Rurik nibbles my neck, and his hands slide beneath my shirt.

“Baby, I can work with a minute.” He kisses me, ferocious this time as he leans his body into mine. My pulse beats in
agitato
triplets as I pull off his sweater. Rurik’s all jagged hipbones and harp-string clavicles. He’s just taken my shirt off when the front door hisses open and my mom yells for Miles.

“Botspit!” Rurik reaches for his sweater. Giggling, I put myself back together and smooth down my hair. Mom always knows. I don’t know how she can tell when Rurik and I have been fooling around, but somehow she always does and ends up giving me this look of disapproval that feels worse than if she confronted me outright.

We’ve never had a mother-daughter sex talk. Mom taught me about menstruation and procreation using scientific terms, showing me diagrams in a textbook. It felt more like a lecture than a conversation. Going to buy tampons for the first time was the most embarrassing experience. Mom asked me about the heaviness of my flow right there in the store. I don’t even want to think about how she’d deal with a discussion about prophylactics and orgasms.

Rurik combs fingers through his curls and rearranges his pants.

“Tyri?” Mom calls, her slipper-covered feet shushing down the hallway.

“In here.” We position ourselves in what we hope passes for innocent stances: me on the bed flipping through sheet music on a databoard, Rurik sitting on the floor fiddling with his moby.

“Think you might want these.” Mom drops Rurik’s bag and sneakers at the door. She raises a single eyebrow. That combined with her severe suit and hair bun makes her seem all the more like a cane-wielding schoolmistress.

“Tyri, you called me earlier but didn’t leave a message?”

“Yeah, I’ve got good news.”

“And I’d love to hear it. Join me in the kitchen in five.” She pauses at the door. “Rurik, your sweater’s inside out.”

Rurik, pale as snow with his pure Skandic genes, turns puce with embarrassment.

“Let me help.” I tug off his shirt again, turning it the right way round and looping it over his head.

“Once I’m at Osholm, we’ll have more privacy.”

“You’ll have a roommate.”

“Nothing a digisplay set to busy can’t fix.” He tucks loose hair behind my ear and clears my bangs from my eyes. “I am sorry about earlier.” His apology seems genuine. “I was with my dad.”

“Sorry I interrupted.”

“Don’t be. It’s just, well, you know how he is.”

“I’m surprised he even managed to squeeze you in between press conferences and golf course meetings.” Knowing Rurik’s father, it’s no wonder his mom looked for love elsewhere. The only reason they didn’t get divorced after that was because it wouldn’t be good for Engelberger Senior’s or their eldest son’s political career, never mind the family’s corporate image.

“He’s preoccupied at the moment,” Rurik says.

“Problems?”

“Not sure, but he read me the riot act about not bringing shame to the great Engelberger name while I’m at Osholm.”

“Sometimes I’m glad my father was an anonymous sperm donor.” Not sure I would’ve been any better off with two parents. Mom’s hardly ever around anyway and my dad, if I’d had one, probably would’ve been a workaholic too. Still, sometimes I wish I knew who he was, whether I look like him, or if I have half siblings.

Rurik helps me to my feet and kisses me gently before we amble to the kitchen.

“What’s the big news?” Mom arranges my flowers in a vase. She’s dressed in sweats that mold her figure, which seems untouched by pregnancy. Miles busies himself with food packages at the sink. Cups of coffee and hot chocolate wait for us on the counter.

“I’m going to play for the Baldur Junior Philharmonic.”

“You got in?” She blinks at me.

“You sound surprised.”

Part of me shrivels up inside and dies, legs in the air twitching dead.

“I … ” Mom trails off. “Well done, sweetheart. I’m happy for you, but remember what we discussed.” She slides a mug of hot chocolate toward me.

“You said I could play if my grades improved.” Maintain a better average was what Mom said. If my grades start slipping, it’s bye-bye violin.

“And you call going from a C to a B- average improvement?” She gives that arched eyebrow look.

“Isn’t it?” My cheeks burn.

“You’ll need better grades to get into college.”

“I’ll keep improving.”

“I hope so.” Mom sighs and the pain of disappointing her needles my heart.

“I want to be a professional musician. Math and physics don’t matter when I’m this good at violin.” I resist the urge to slump down on the stool beside Rurik. Standing makes me feel more powerful, like I might have a say in my life’s trajectory.

“Math and physics might surprise you,” Rurik adds.

“Don’t gang up on me. Music is what I want. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“You weren’t meant to be a musician,” Mom says and then looks a little guilty.

“Well, I’m sorry if the sperm cocktail you selected is a disappointment, Mom.” Maybe my dad is a musician; maybe he’d understand what Mom clearly doesn’t. Those needles poking my heart turn to spears.

“That’s not what I meant, Tyri.” She steps around the table and gives me a one-armed hug. “I just think you have far greater potential. You could do anything if you applied yourself. I want you to reach your full potential and not waste your talents on music.”

“I have a talent for music.” I shrug away.

Mom sighs again. “Yes, you do. I still think you should go to university. You’ll need a scholarship and those aren’t easy to come by. Don’t you agree, Rurik?”