I Heart Robot (33 page)

The databoard girl hisses at me to hurry up as I stop to pin the treble clef to my lapel.

This is it, the moment I’ve been waiting for. The anticipation is palpable. I step onto the stage and let my gaze roam the eager faces of the audience gathered to celebrate Skandia’s thirtieth year of independence.

My gaze settles on Tyri. She’s sitting in the middle between Asrid and Rurik. One row behind, Kit and Dagrun sit with several other androids pilfered from the Solidarity. They’re all waiting for my signal to make a statement without making war.

Ahlgren taps her stand, calling the orchestra to attention. I take my place at the front of the stage in the corona of spotlights beneath the grinning faces of angels and double-check the tuning of each string. There’s envy on the faces of the other solo hopefuls, envy and respect.

The music starts, a slow unraveling of myriad colors. The first crescendo swells to a climax of crimson before ebbing away through pastel shades of blue. I start to play, entrancing my audience with every note.

Three movements pass without a single slip of bow or finger. The crowd sits in rapt silence as I remove my jacket and roll up my sleeves for the final movement. There’s a titter, a gasp, whispers and murmurs of disbelief. As I launch into the devilish triplets, Kit, Tyri, and all the other robots dotted around the hall roll up their sleeves to reveal their tags. There’s a cry of alarm, and Rurik’s father leans over the railing of his box to catch the Prime Minister’s attention. She holds up a gloved hand and scowls him into silence. A hush settles over the audience as I continue to play.

Perhaps I expected to feel more, to see more physical evidence of the lightning strike epiphany, but there is only joy blossoming deep in my core. As soon as I step off the stage, I’ll probably be arrested, the others too. What happens after that doesn’t bear thinking about. The strings under my fingers, the sighing arc of my bow, their confused but enthralled faces, and the pride I feel in this moment are all that matter right now. I am not human, and so much more than that too.

The concerto comes to a flourishing end, and I await their response. Tucking the violin beneath my arm, I make sure my tag is visible lest anyone had any doubt. There’s silence until Tyri stands and starts clapping. Asrid and Sara, then Kit and Rurik follow suit. The Prime Minister rises to her feet, her wife beside her, and applauds my performance. The roar of their adoration is a storm of vibrant color, the only dark spot comes from where Engelberger Senior sits, arms folded and glowering. A few others refuse to acknowledge me, remaining ensconced and not amused. They are pinpricks of darkness on a canvas of neon.

I only wish Sal was here to see me standing before a hall full of adoring humans.

“I knew you’d do it, kiddo,” I imagine her saying. I hope this is the ‘being better’ Sal talked about; I’d like to believe she’d be proud of me. Ahlgren stares at my arm in dismay but still gestures for me to take another bow. The crowd continues to clap and whistle, shouting ‘bravo’ and ‘encore.’

I find Tyri’s face in the crowd, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed. Have we changed the world with this one moment of revelation? No.

But it’s a start.

I owe my love of classical music in large part to my grandfather. Some of my earliest memories are of playing in the lounge on weekend afternoons while my grandfather sat mesmerized by the melodies and harmonies of Beethoven and Brahms, Schubert and Mendelssohn, no longer able to play his violin, but no less in love with the great composers.

At age six, I was given the choice between learning to play violin and piano. Despite knowing my grandfather was an accomplished violinist – or perhaps because I wanted to forge my own path – I chose to play the piano and thus music became an indelible part of my life, progressing from childhood hobby to serious academic pursuit, and eventually becoming my career. Even after my grandfather died, my parents continued to nurture my passion for music. I cannot thank my mom and dad enough for taking my love of music seriously and letting me pursue my dream – even if that dream took a detour and I ended up writing books instead of being the principal flutist for the Vienna Philharmonic.

Other people without whom this book would not have been possible are as follows: Wiz Green, who read a very early draft of this story and gave me wonderful feedback, feedback that has helped shape this story into the novel it is today. Jordy Albert, my lovely agent, who fell in love with my robots and believed in this story from the very beginning. Georgia McBride at Month9Books who ‘got’ this quirky romance when I wasn’t sure anyone would. Nichole LaVigne and my team of editors at Month9Books who have read and reread this novel almost as many times as I have in the hopes of making it as close to perfect as humanly possible. If only I had my own personal Saga-droid to sniff-out typos and errant commas. Terry Cronje, who is an outstanding artist and design genius, and the many music students with whom I had the pleasure of spending more than six years of my life both in South Africa and Finland, they have left me with so many wonderful memories of being in wind bands, ensembles and the orchestra – even when I was relegated to the percussion section and given the triangle to play.

My pooch, Lego, for breathing life into Glitch, and finally, my other half, Mark, who has not only put up with my authorly pursuits and been a patient technical advisor on all things ‘science’, but who has never ceased to encourage and champion my efforts no matter what. I love you more than words could ever hope to express.

Suzanne is a tattooed storyteller and peanut-butter addict from South Africa. She currently lives in Finland and finds the cold, dark forests nothing if not inspiring. Although she has a Master’s degree in music, Suzanne prefers conjuring strange worlds and creating quirky characters. When not writing, she teaches dance and music to middle schoolers, collects bruises on the climbing wall, and entertains her Shiba Inu, Lego. She is repped by Jordy Albert of the Booker Albert Agency. Feel free to hang out with Suzanne on Twitter (
@Suzanne_Writer
) or get in touch via her website:
suzannevanrooyen.com

Chapter One

[Asher]

I mark my body for Samuai.

My right hand is steady as I press the slim needle into my skin. It glints under the soft overhead light of the storage locker, the only place to hide on Starship Pelican. Row upon row of shelving fills the room. Back here I’m hidden from the door.

It’s been seventeen days since Samuai passed. Seventeen days of neutral expressions and stinging eyes, waiting for the chance to be alone and pay my respects to the dead Official boy in true Lifer fashion. With blood.

The body of the needle is wrapped in thread I stole from my spare uniform. The blue thread acts as the ink reservoir. It’s soaked with a dye I made from crushed feed pellets and
argobenzene
, both swiped from farm level. The pungent fumes sting my eyes and make it even harder to keep the tears at bay. But I will. There will be no disrespect in this marking.

My slipper drops to the floor with the softest of thuds as I shake my foot. I raise it to rest on a cold metal shelf. Samuai always held my hand when we met in secret, but I can’t bear to examine those memories now. The pain of him being gone is still so fresh.

The first break of skin at my ankle hurts a little. Not much, since the needle is nano-designed for single molecule sharpness, and it’s not as though I haven’t done this before. Recently. The tattoo for my brother circles my ankle, completed days ago, a match for the one for my father. My memorial for Samuai had to wait for privacy. The blue spreads out into my skin like liquid on a cloth. The dot is tiny. I add another and another, each time accepting the momentary pain as a tribute to Samuai. Soon I’ve finished the first swirling line.

“Are you mourning my brother or yours?”

My hand jerks at the familiar voice, driving the needle deep into the delicate skin over my Achilles. Davyd’s voice. How did he get in here so quietly? I wince, clamping down on a cry of pain. No tears though. Nothing will make me disrespect Samuai. I remove the needle from my flesh and school my features into a neutral expression before I turn and stand to attention.

“Davyd,” I say by way of greeting. Despite my preparation my throat thickens.

My response to him is stupid because he looks nothing like Samuai. Where Samuai radiated warmth from his spiky dark hair hinting of honey and his deep, golden brown eyes, there is only ice in his brother. Ice-chiseled cheekbones, tousled blond hair, the slight cleft in his chin, and his gray eyes. Eyes that see far too much.

But he’s dressed like Samuai used to dress. The same white t-shirt and black pants. It’s the uniform of Officials, or Fishies, as they’re known below. He’s a little broader in the shoulders than his older brother was—to even think of Samuai in the past tense is agony—and he’s not quite as tall. I only have to look up a little to meet his gaze. I do so without speaking.

I shouldn’t be here, but I’m not going to start apologizing for where I am or his reference to my forbidden relationship with his brother, until I know what he wants.

“Is that supposed to happen?” He points at my foot, where blood drips, forming a tiny puddle on the hard, shiny floor.

His face is expressionless, as usual, but I can hear the conceit in his voice. I can imagine what the son of a Fishie thinks of our Lifer traditions.

Today, I don’t care. Even if his scorn makes my stomach tighten and cheeks flame, I
won’t
care. Not about anything Davyd has to say.

“It’s none of your business.”

One fine brow arches. Superior, knowing.

He doesn’t have to say the words. The awareness of just how wrong I am zaps between us. Given our relative stations on this journey—he’s destined to be a Fishie in charge of managing the ship’s population, and me to serve my inherited sentence—whatever I do
is
his business, if he chooses to make it so. He’s in authority even though we’re almost the same age.

In order to gain permission to breed, Lifers allowed the injection of nanobots into their children. These prototype bots in our cells give our masters the power to switch us off using a special Remote Device until our sentence is served. At any time we can be shut down. I’m not sure how exactly, only that each of us has a unique code and the device can turn those particular bots against us. It’s an unseen but constant threat.

I keep my face blank and my posture subservient, but my fingers tighten around the needle in my hand. How I long to slap the smooth skin of his cheek.

For a second, neither of us speaks.

“Your brother or mine?” he asks again. Softly this time. So low, the question is almost intimate in the dim light.

I inhale deeply, welcoming the harsh fumes from my makeshift ink. The burning in my lungs gives me a focus so the ever-present emotional pain can’t cripple me. My brother and my boyfriend were taken on the same day, and I’m unable to properly mourn either thanks to the demands of servitude.

I can’t let it cripple me. Not if I want to find out what really happened to Zed and Samuai.

“Does it matter?” I ask. Rather than refuse him again, I twist the question around. He would never admit to having interest in the goings-on of a mere Lifer.

“No.” His voice is hard. Uncaring. He folds his arms. “But it’s against ship law to deface property.”

It takes a heartbeat, and then I realize
I’m
the property he’s talking about. My toes curl because my fists can’t. I see from the flick of his eyes to my feet that he’s noticed. Of course he has. There’s nothing Davyd doesn’t notice.

It’s true though. The marks we Lifers make on our bodies are not formally allowed. It is a price we pay for the agreement signed in DNA by our parents and our grandparents. They agreed to a lifetime of servitude, and their sentence is passed down through the generations for the chance at a new life on a new planet. I am the last in the chain, and my sentence will continue for twelve years after landing.