I Heart Robot (6 page)

“You’d know if you joined.” She stares at me, waiting for something.

“Fine.” I run a hand through my wet hair. “I’ll look into it.”

“Good.” She swipes a moby off the table and thrusts it at my chest. “You need one of these.”

I roll my eyes at her.

“You going to read a text scrolling across your eyeballs or answer a call no one else hears ringing?” She has a point; only robots have internal comms units.

“I don’t even know how to use one.” The moby is light and fits easily into my pocket. The cover is scuffed, a geometric pattern of blue and purple.

“You’ll learn. We’ll stop by Patches.” Sal haggles down the price of the moby and hands over the cash to a kidbot in a tie-dye sweater. His armband looks less real than ours, the orange material two shades too close to red.

“Where’d you get all this money?”

“I freelance.”

“Doing what?” Now I’m convinced she has something to do with the Solidarity, even if it’s an indirect affiliation.

“Data crunching. Companies don’t care who does it, only that they get their info. And I only care if I get paid.”

“Simple as that?”

“For smart Sagas.” She winks.

We thread through the throngs, passing food stalls with hunger inducing aromas; although, I neither have the saliva with which to salivate nor the digestive system to handle eating any of the pastries on display.

“One day I’ll be a real boy and eat cake.” Sal’s voice rises three tones as she whines in my ear.

“One day I won’t need to be a real boy to eat cake.”

“Wow, the Quasar has wit. Decommission me where I stand.” She grabs my hand and tugs me toward a stall strewn with rainbow LEDs. Kit joins us beneath the neon board in the shape of a puzzle piece. It dangles by a single corner from its tent pole and reads ‘Patches’ in blinking red and yellow.

“Getting a self-defense patch?” Kit says by way of greeting. He hasn’t bothered with an armband. If he gets caught, they’ll put a bullet through his processor.

“Maybe next time.”

“Not a bad idea actually.” Sal taps her chin in contemplation. “No harm in knowing how to defend yourself.”

“Better than getting more in touch with your gooey emotional core.” Kit claps me on the shoulder as we duck into the tent.

“Salutations, Sal.” The human beams at us. I can’t remember his name, a minor glitch in my memstor. His eyes are marbles, unblinking. Fear perhaps? My interpersonal skills module needs an upgrade. My own emotional reactions have never been more visceral, but identifying emotions in others is far more complicated.

“What treats you searching for?” The human’s still grinning, two teeth short of a full smile.

“Gadgetry 101 for the kid and all the martial arts patches you’ve got.”

“Anything for you?” The human smiles.

“Got any more library patches?”

“Darlin’ for you, I’ve got Babylon.”

Sal chuckles. “Alexandria will do.”

The human’s smile falters as his finger taps the digisplay table. “Gadgetry 101. Basic human tech?”

“Yes. Just curious.” I force a smile.

“And will you be wanting karate, jujitsu, aikido –”

“All of them,” Kit answers. All those patches will max out my processing power, leaving no room for emotion module updates. The human taps the digisplay and unplugs a flash drive. He motions for me to turn around.

“Come on, son. Won’t bite,” the human says.

“You want to be human, you’ve got to let them touch you,” Kit says. I’m suddenly glad for the martial arts knowledge soon to flood my circuit so that I’ll know how to punch the smug look off his flawless face.

The human’s fingers are stubby and ungentle as they peel away the flap of skin beside my titanium-sheathed carborundum spine above the waistband of my jeans.

–Data received

The code runs; patch data delivered.

–Changes saved

The man’s fingers linger even though the transmission is complete.

“So real.” He strokes my skin with nicotine stained fingers.

“Not real enough,” Kit says.

I pull away and tuck my shirt in before crossing my arms over my chest. “Can we go now?”

“No problem. Got myself a month’s worth of reading here.” Sal taps the table selecting the university library of MIT.

“Thought you’d read through that one.”

“That was Princeton. I need more stimulation.”

The man beams and takes her money with a grin. A single word flashes out of my vocab database: lascivious. Sal doesn’t seem to mind him touching her.

“I intensely dislike that man,” I say as we walk away.

“Pity. Bet he’d pay double what Sal just did for an hour with you.” Kit waggles his eyebrows.

“I’m not like you.”

“You’re exactly like me. A Quasar. We’re built to love.” Kit smiles and slings an arm over my shoulders. “Thought you’d get that, being so sensitive and all.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to be a prostitute.” Sal jumps in a string of puddles, sloshing mud over stranger’s shoes and splattering tents Jackson Pollock style.

“I’m just doing what I’m good at, what I was made to do. Same as you Miss Giant Brain.”

“I’m not doing it,” I say more certain of that fact than anything else.

“You’re a Quasar, you’re hard coded to do
it,
” Kit smirks.

“Quasars are companion-droids. Not sexbots. The government made those illegal ten years before my model even came into production.”

“Like that law changed what your owners used you for.” Kit gives my shoulders a squeeze.

“Quasars are the politically correct replacement. ‘Companion-droids,’ they’re still used for sex.” Sal uses her fingers for quotation marks.

“See, even Sal agrees with me,” Kit says.

“Thanks. Both of you. As if I need reminding I was engineered to be a whore.” I shrug out from under Kit’s arm. It’s impossible to forget, to suppress the memories of life with my owners, but I try my best.

“Whore is such an ugly word,” Sal says.

“Hence the new term. Companion-droid looks better than sex slave on transaction card statements,” Kit adds.

“I wasn’t a slave.”

“No? You did what you were programmed to do. Guess it must’ve been an oversight that the humans forgot to program us to like
it
.”
Kit’s tone is bitter.

“Come on, boys, some more shopping will cheer you up.” Sal skips through the quagmire, away from the main cluster of human friendly stalls to the blackest of the black-market dealers. Kit and I follow, avoiding eye contact with each other.

The surgeonbots haunt khaki tents, closed and guarded by sentry-droids built for intimidation and physical durability. Their red eyes stare unblinking as we approach Dr. Curmudgeon’s tent. His perpetual scowl and ever sour mood have earned him the name, but he’s the best at manipulating nanytes and installing virtual reality shunts for humans desperate to escape reality.

“Fancy some freckles, or how about a tan?” Sal skips toward the tents.

“No.”

“I think you’d look cute.” Kit tries to pinch my cheek but I block his arm, the martial arts code already taking effect.

“Humans have freckles even if they are imperfections. Don’t you want to be human?” Sal asks.

“Then I should have scars. If I was human, I’d be littered with them.” My words are more bitter than intended.

“Oh Quinn, I was only teasing.” Sal ruffles my hair.

“I think I’m done shopping.”

“See you later, kiddo?”

I nod and Sal disappears inside for her weekly tattoo touch-up. Kit trails after me as I stomp away from the tent kicking up mud.

“You’re as moody as the apes.” Kit narrowly misses a clod flying off my shoe.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” It’ll take a lot more than mood swings and mobies to convince the humans that I’m not just talking scrap metal.

I’m so nervous even breathing feels like work. Am I really good enough to be in this orchestra? And what on earth do I wear? I chuck yet another pair of inappropriate jeans on the floor. Five pairs of pants, twelve tops, four sweaters, three dresses, two skirts and six pairs of shoes are strewn around my room like storm wreckage. Glitch sniffs at a sneaker, settles with it between her paws, and proceeds to gnaw on the flugelbinders.

“How do you manage with such a restrictive wardrobe?” Asrid folds the tops splayed across the bed.

“There must be something.” I dig through the shelves once more, pulling out stockings and socks in search of any item worthy of the Baldur Philharmonic.

“Tyri, I think you’ve exhausted your options.” Asrid pops a gum bubble at me.

“I could wear the dress.” I point to a simple A-line, cobalt blue with silver stitching.

“That’s for a gala performance, not a Saturday morning rehearsal. I’d go with sweat pants and a tank top.”

“I’m a violinist not a dancer.”

Asrid shrugs and leans against my pillows, her long legs almost reaching the end of the bed. For a moment, I hate her long legs, her perfect posture, and how effortless it is for her to look good in black tights and hot-pink legwarmers. Perhaps a shopping trip yesterday wouldn’t have been a bad idea. It’s a pity I spent most of Friday nursing my elbow back to mobility and filling out police forms.

“Who you trying to impress anyway? You’ve got Rurik.”

“I want to make a good impression on the conductor, not score the attention of boys.” I slump on the bed.

“Can we look at what I brought now?”

I nod and Asrid claps her hands, hauling her duffel bag onto the bed.

“Right, so we’ve got bold colors and pastels; I brought some prints too. Thought you might want to wear a skirt and show off your legs. You’ll probably want to wear something a bit looser to hide your problematic middle bits.” She holds up a V-neck top, pink, and flimsy as spider web.

“What’s wrong with my middle bits?” So I don’t have Asrid’s chiseled abs, but Rurik’s never complained.

“V-neck would work for you, show off your cleavage.”

“The conductor should be listening to my playing, not peering at my chest.”

“Let’s work with what you’ve got.” Asrid produces more clothing from her bag than I have in my entire closet.

Three hours until rehearsal starts.

“Turquoise is definitely your color.” She hands me a slippery shirt with capped sleeves. “With this.” A black pencil skirt. “And . . . “ She scrounges in the bag and produces ankle boots with silver buckles. “Get dressed.”

I do and spin three-sixty for her approval.

“Terrific, T. Sexy and sophisticated.”

I raise my arms and play an air violin. The shirt slips and slides over my skin without restricting my movements or creating an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction. I perch at the edge of the bed and test the skirt. Perfect.

“Thank you, Sassa. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Go wandering off into Fragheim, apparently.” She gives me a stern look made sterner by her severely plucked brows that are about six shades too dark for her sunshine hair.

“I wasn’t in Fragheim.”

“Close enough. Did you report the robbery?”

“Yesterday. Rurik made me.”

“And?” Asrid drags a toe along Glitch’s back. My ever-so-royal Shiba pauses in her chewing to bask in the attention.

“And the police said they’d look into it.”

“That’s it? Good to know Baldur’s finest are so concerned with their citizens’ welfare.”

“It was only a mugging.” I start folding and packing away my clothes.

“
Only
a mugging.” Asrid snorts and folds her arms, ignoring Glitch’s nose jabs for more affection. “They practically broke your arm. Who knows what would’ve happened if Rurik hadn’t shown up.” She fumes, her cheeks turning brighter than her leg warmers.

“Sassa, I’m tired of talking robots.”

“Did you at least get checked out?”

“Yeah, spent two hours getting poked and prodded at M-Tech.”

“You didn’t go to the hospital?” Her cheeks return to their regular rosy hue as Asrid calms. I appreciate Asrid’s concern, but I wish we could talk about something else already.

“Guess it wasn’t that serious. Besides, Erik has access to cutting edge tech.” Mom’s always taken me to M-Tech when I got hurt or wasn’t feeling well.

“I didn’t know M-Tech did so much medical stuff,” Asrid says.

“Maybe that’s because they’re doing secret government experiments like making clones.”

“Don’t joke, T. You might be right.”

With its stark white corridors, frosted glass, and hushed whispers—it’s not impossible, though I doubt straight-laced Mom would get caught up in conspiracies.

Asrid shimmies off the bed and helps me fold, color-coding my wardrobe, even my socks. I have a lot of black.

“You ready for school?” She asks.

“Just want to get through today.” I’ll worry about my final year in high school Tuesday night when I’ll be ripping through my closet again.

“You still going with Rurik next weekend?”

“Holy Codes and bags of botspit!”

“You forgot about Osholm?” Asrid ushers me to the dresser and starts on my hair, trying to tame my charcoal waves. Guess my sperm donor dad must’ve been Slavic or Spanish because Mom’s so pale she’s almost translucent.

“I have rehearsal every Saturday.”

“Rurik only goes to university once.”

“How can I tell the conductor I’ll miss my second practice? That’s sure to make the wrong impression.”

“I’m sure Rik’ll understand. No big deal, leaving your entire life behind and moving three hundred kilometers away to the capital for the next four years. Who wants their girlfriend of like
forever
going anyway? He’s better off going by himself. Maybe he’ll meet some sexy little freshman.”

“You’re mean.”

“You’ll be the mean one if you ditch Rurik for your violin. After what he did for you Thursday night?” Asrid glares at me in the mirror, brandishing the hairbrush. Glitch whines and bashes my knee with her nose as if in agreement. I’m out numbered.

“Guess I’ll be missing rehearsal.”

“To be alone with your boyfriend in Osholm.” Reflected Asrid wiggles her eyebrows at me and bites her bottom lip.

“You’re right.”

“Always.” She grins and pins my hair in place. I dig around in the drawer until I find the jewelry box Mom gave me for my sixteenth birthday. Inside there’s only one item: a silver treble clef brooch. I pin it to my shirt, now I’m dressed, coiffed, and ready to make my mark on the music world. I hope I don’t leave a stain.