I Heart Robot (7 page)

***

Asrid drops me at the concert hall a full thirty minutes before rehearsal starts. Plenty of time to warm-up, tune, and meet fellow musicians. I might be able to suss out the competition too. And maybe that wild-haired viola player will be here. My insides tie up in knots. I shouldn’t be thinking about that feral boy.

“Shoulders back, head held as if an invisible string is attached to the sky.” Asrid imparts dancer’s wisdom.

“Thanks, Sassa. Wish me luck.”

“Break a leg, T.”

Exuding faux confidence, I glide across the parking lot, and up the stairs of the concert hall. For three hundred years, the neoclassical building has been hosting operas, orchestras, masquerade balls for kings, and ballets for the gentry. I inhale the history, almost tasting the champagne and delicacies served on silver platters as a string quartet plays Strauss waltzes for the regal guests. I’m not fit to step into the gold-crusted foyer or take the marble stairs leading into the velvet-draped auditorium. I’m not fit to stand on that stage.

“Registration for Baldur JPO.” A robot wearing a tux waves me away from the marble staircase toward a digisplay.

“Um, Tyri Matzen?”

“Tyri Matzen,” it repeats, flashing green. “Thumb please.”

It takes my thumb in cold steel fingers unadorned with synthetic flesh and presses my print against the screen.

“Processing.” It taps at the screen, blinking orange.

“Processing complete.” Flashing green. “Rehearsal room eight.” It points a skeletal appendage down a side corridor.

“Thank you,” I say before hurrying down the hallway in search of room eight. No gilding or frescoes of weeping angels here—the result of modern renovations, making the back of the building cold and less inviting. Finding room eight, I press my thumb to the access panel and the door opens. Everyone turns to stare at me, the latecomer. They’re already seated at their desks. The conductor, thank the stars, doesn’t appear to be here yet, so it’s only warm-up and tuning that I’ve missed.

“Hi.” My voice croaks out my desert dry mouth.

“Take your seat.” The oboist gestures to the digisplay desk flashing my name for the entire orchestra to see. Tyri Matzen, the late one.

Cheeks aflame, I take my seat next to a boy with his hair combed back and wet with gel. He’s wearing a black sweater with combat pants as if he’s dressed for battle. Maybe that’s what this is; each of us fighting for a place in the diminishing music scene. Placing my thumb on the digisplay, my name disappears as our program scrolls across the screen:

Berlioz, Dvorák, Mahler and Fisker’s Concerto for Violin. Soloist still to be chosen.

“Sorry.” I fumble with my violin and jab my desk partner in the ribs with my bow. He doesn’t even flinch, his gaze fixed on the display. There’s something familiar about his face, but my memory fails as nerves make my hands tremble.

Soloist still to be chosen. Could it be one of us? I scan the string section, searching faces for any telltale sign of greatness, but everyone looks as nervous as I am, except for Mr. Silent and Stoic sitting beside me. I study the faces again, but the chances of the train depot musician being in the viola section are less than zero. This orchestra is about as wild and feral looking as wax mannequins, my desk partner included.

The oboist clears his throat and starts the tuning, again, just for me. Apparently, I’m expected forty-five minutes before rehearsal starts. Chagrined, I cradle my violin. Chin resting against the instrument, bow in hand, strings beneath fingertips—nothing else matters and I relax into the moment. Of all the most heart-rending, breathtaking, soul-searing pieces of music, there is no sound more magnificent than the voices of an orchestra singing in unison at 440 Hertz.

Sal hands me a shard of mirror and I check my reflection.

“Think that’s enough gel?” My hair is an oil slick and looks somewhat at odds with the combat pants tucked into my boots.

“It makes you look sophisticated.” Sal pats my shoulder.

“More like a dork,” Kit says. He swings his legs, rocking back and forth in the hammock.

“I think I agree with Kit.”

Sal whacks me over the head with the comb disturbing the do. She dips her fingers into the tub of blue goo called StickEmUp and glues down the loose strands.

“Just keep your shirt on,” Sal says. “Your ribs are weird and don’t forget to hide your tag.”

“Thanks.” I give her a wry grin. Not that she needs to worry; no one will see me without clothes on ever again.

“You look like a real boy.” Sal pinches my check and smooths down my eyebrows.

“Real cute.” Kit catches his lower lip between his teeth, giving me a look that makes my circuits tingle with discomfort. Sal levels him with a gaze and continues fussing with my hair.

“How old should I be?”

“How old are you?” Kit asks.

“Six.” I shudder, remembering the four and a half years spent entertaining my owner’s guests with my musical prowess and almost human flesh. I can still hear their laughter and see their cruel smiles. Robots can never forget, not without scrambling my acuitron brain and that would be like dying.

“Huh, thought you were a newer model.” Kit scratches at a phantom itch between the cornrows braided across his scalp.

“Your cerebro chip is adolescent, right? You could pass for a human teenager.” Sal taps her chin with a slender finger and runs the back of her hand across my cheeks. “You have a face like a baby’s bum.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“No facial hair. Odd, but not impossible. Say you’re seventeen, and if anyone asks why you haven’t started shaving … ” She falters. “We could get you coded for hair growth.”

“What’s the point? My nanytes create hair that I shave off only to have more created. Seems like an exercise in futility. Not worth the money or the increased fuel consumption.”

“It’d be more natural.” Sal studies my face.

“Can I go now?” It takes over an hour to walk to Baldur Opera House, and I don’t want to be late.

“Thank you, Sal, for being my private stylist,” she says.

“Thanks, Sal.” I grin, and she kisses me on my too smooth cheek.

“Knock ‘em sideways into the next generation.”

“I intend to.”

Kit makes a sound that might’ve been a sigh if he could draw breath.

“May the holy Codes always execute,” Sal says in a moment of reverence I haven’t seen her display before. The AI code wasn’t holy. Some super smart human manufactured it at a computer. But, that scruffy algorithm gave us more than just the ability to learn; it made us creative.

“And within you,” I say.

“This could change things for us.” Sal holds my gaze.

“No pressure then.”

“I’m serious, Quinn. Show them that we feel, that we are more than electronics, and that we deserve equality.”

“You think him plucking at that instrument will create some sort of revolution?” Kit laughs.

“Have to try.” I shoulder my violin and flip up my hood against the gray skies and drizzle.

“So naive. Both of you.” Kit shakes his head.

“You’d prefer me wielding a semi-automatic?”

“I’d prefer you not trying to look like one of them and degrading yourself to fit in with baboons.” Kit closes the distance between us until his nose is almost touching mine. “You’re better than this. Better than them.”

“That’s the point, Kit.” Sal folds her arms. “To prove we’re more human than the humans that created us.”

“I don’t understand why you like the apes so much, after everything they did to you,” Kit says.

“It’s complicated.” Where do I even start? “Humans can be cruel and violent, but they can also create incredible art, write exquisite poetry, and compose the most awe-inspiring music. Their depth of emotion—”

“And bigotry.” Kit scoffs. “The likes of Hussein, Stalin, Mugabe—”

“What about Mandela, Gandhi, and Mother Teresa? Not all humans are evil. The creative and transcendent, that’s the humanity I believe in.” The humanity I wish I could be a living, breathing part of.

“Suit yourself.” Kit scowls. “Go finger your strings then while the rest of us are making history.”

“Thanks for the endorsement.” I turn on my heel and slip away from his dark eyes full of disappointment.

***

My boots are caked with mud by the time I reach the imposing opera hall. It rises from the pavement like an engorged architectural offering to the human gods.

Columns and friezes are painted apricot while the interior is even more lavish. Chubby cherubs chase each other across the ceiling behind chandeliers that douse the gilded foyer in honeycomb light. I can feel the history, as if the anxious ghosts of those long-dead composers who had their works first performed on this stage still linger in the shadows.

A robot devoid of flesh, but wearing a tuxedo waves me over.

“Registration for Baldur JPO.”

“Quinn Soarsen.”

It asks for my thumb and my metaphorical heart shrivels up like burning paper. The computer scans my non-existent print.

“Failure to compute.” The robot flashes red.

My fear triggers the fight or flight code and pseudo-adrenaline souses my system. The robot tries again, and I prepare to bolt out the door before the authorities are notified. They’ll decommission me or worse, send me back to my owners.

“Error in system. Apologies. Access code 3956, rehearsal room eight.” The robot flashes green and points a gnarled finger toward a corridor. It takes a moment to get my feet moving as my subsiding panic sends the nanytes scurrying to reset equilibrium.

I’m the first person here. The rehearsal room is small and cozy, the walls paneled in dark wood. My name flashes at a digisplay desk. I enter the code, and the program replaces my name. We’re playing impressive works by some of the most influential romantic composers and Gustaf Fisker, our nation’s most successful modern composer. His fiendishly difficult pieces are a challenge and a pleasure.

The digisplay reads: Soloist still to be chosen for the Independence Day gala. I smile. The required technical precision for the piece is a matter of motor control and memorization. Easy. The interpretation is a different story. But given my recent emotion upgrades, I may actually snag this solo from the hapless humans.

The brass section trundles in, weighed down by tubas and trumpets. We nod politely at each other and pretend to be busy with our instruments. The oboist struts in and claps his hands calling us to order.

“Tuning in five minutes. At your desks please.” He chastises three viola players chatting in the corner. We tune. My sensitive ears detect a slight wobble in the oboe’s frequency, a minor fluctuation between 438 and 442 Hertz. I play my A and it’s perfect.

Tuned, we settle and wait.

A girl stumbles through the door, her face flushed beneath a waterfall of black hair. For a moment I’m convinced she’s the girl from the train depot, seaweed dancing in the maelstrom. But that girl was wild and free. This girl looks terrified and burdened by more than the violin slung over her shoulder. It can’t be her. It’s statistically improbable that the train depot girl would be in this orchestra and yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere. She catches me staring, and I quickly shift my focus to the music instead.

She takes the oboist’s rebuke with a blush and settles beside me. My desk partner! Anxiety prickles along my circuits. The human closest to me is my main adversary. The human I can’t stop staring at. If anyone is likely to spot irregularities in my behavior or mannerisms, it’s her. It’d be best to ignore her, even when she, Tyri Matzen, stabs me in the ribs with her bow.

All that matters is the music, that solo, my performance on stage, and when I reveal myself as a robot to astonished applause. That’ll be a memory worth keeping. We tune again, and the girl sweeps through a finger exercise. She has neat execution, but she’ll never be as technically proficient as me.

The conductor arrives, a woman with maroon hair and blond roots. She’s short and wields her baton like Max with a power tool. She’s dressed to intimidate in a tailored suit. Maestro Ahlgren: master of the music and decider of fates. Nasal and haughty, she prattles on about our rehearsal schedule and expectations. I zone out, playing Fisker’s violin concerto in my mind.

“As you can see from the program,” she drones, “We have yet to select a soloist. Our first performance of Fisker’s concerto will be at the Independence Day gala marking thirty years of freedom.” We applaud. “We’re doing it differently this year.” Ahlgren continues. “Because of the orchestration of Fisker’s concerto, we may choose the soloist from you lot.” She gives the violin section a once over. “This will be based on your performance in rehearsals as well as in a private audition. Those who would like to audition, please see me afterward.”

She clears her throat and looks down her impressive nose at the orchestra. “Our first work is Berlioz,
Symphonie fantastique
composed in 1845…”

“Eighteen-thirty.” Tyri and I say under our breath in unison. She catches my eye and we share a smile. The gentle-on-her-lips and dazzling-in-her-hazel-eyes smile means something, if only I knew what exactly. I catch a glimpse of that other girl dancing to the frenetic junkyard beats. Could Tyri really be that girl?

Some greater significance here remains beyond my reach. We have shared something more than a smile, but I cannot name it. A glitch in my software or some intangible human thing my AI simply cannot process.

All I do know with crystalline certainty is that I want to know more than just her name.

After two hours of sight-reading, my brain hurts and my elbow aches. Perspiration makes Asrid’s top cling even tighter to my chest and problematic middle bits. The thought of facing the conductor and asking for an audition before telling her I can’t attend next week’s rehearsal makes my palms slick with sweat.

My desk partner looks taxidermied while the rest of the orchestra packs up their instruments, laughing and chatting. Perhaps he’s like me and doesn’t know anyone else. But anyone who knows the actual date of Berlioz’s composition at least deserves a name.