Read I Heart Robot Online

Authors: Suzanne Van Rooyen

Tags: #science fiction, #space, #dystopian, #young adult, #teen, #robots, #love and romance

I Heart Robot (8 page)

BOOK: I Heart Robot
2.28Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

“Hi.” I sound more timid than intended.

He glances up at me but doesn’t maintain eye contact. His eyes are gray and bright as polished moonstone.

“I’m Tyri.” I take the plunge and wipe my hand on my skirt before offering it to him.

“Um … ” He slowly extends his hand, gripping mine for the briefest moment. “Quinn.” It’s not a Skandic name, but I think it suits him with his dorky hair and combat boots.

“Nice to meet you, Quinn. Figure we should get to know each other since we’ll practically be sitting on top of one another all season.” That sounded better in my head.

He blinks and is about to run a hand through his hair when his fingers hit the gel helmet.

“True. Nice to meet you, Tyri.” He smiles and his eyes sparkle. There’s something odd in his voice, the faintest trace of an accent, as if the words don’t roll naturally off his tongue.

“You’re really good. Great pizzicato.” I try to relax even though my heart hammers against my ribs as the time to approach Maestro Ahlgren draws closer. If I go last, perhaps I’ll avoid the embarrassment of being told off in front of all the others.

“Ah, thanks.” Quinn says in a quavering voice. It sounds like he has a speech impediment. Not that that’s a major detraction.

He has skin even Asrid would be jealous of. Codes, he doesn’t even shave. Quinn catches me staring and cocks his head as if waiting for something.

“My fingers are a bit stiff. I broke my wrist once ice skating.” I over share, like this guy could care less about my broken bones.

“Which one?” His gaze slides from my face to my wrists. I quickly lower them from where they’d been hovering around my cleavage.

“The left.”

“Does it affect general fingering?”

“Not at all.” I wiggle my phalanges. “The joys of having a mother in the tech industry.”

“How so?”

“I had to have surgery to repair the damage, but I think they did a pretty good job.” I stroke the pristine skin on my wrist that should bear an ugly scar.

Quinn rises and slings his violin over a broad shoulder. He’s tall and built like a tank, even taller than Rurik. His black sweater hugs his body in all the right places. He definitely doesn’t suffer from problematic middle bits.

“Are you two waiting for me?” Ahlgren asks in her nasal whine.

“Yes, Maestro.” Quinn steps around me. He smells weird, like burnt plastic and metal.

I try not to eavesdrop on their discussion. After about three minutes, the Maestro doesn’t seem too impressed by his boasting over infallible technique and dismisses him with a ‘we’ll see.’

“And you?” Her predatory gaze falls on me.

“M-m-maestro.” What would Asrid do? She’d turn on her charm and convince this rakish woman of her divinity. Emulating Asrid, I put on my best smile and start again.

“Maestro, I’d like to audition for the Fisker solo.”

“Why?”

“Because I have the technical skill required as well as the ability to express the complex range of emotion inherent in Fisker’s work from this period.” The last part is almost word for word from a school paper I wrote last year for music history. The only A I got all year.

“Oh you do, do you?” She purses her lips.

“I’ve completed all the performance grades with distinction, and I adore Fisker’s music.”

“Adore, huh?” She arches her caterpillar brows. “Play well in rehearsal and you might get a private audition.”

“Thank you, Maestro.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“Um, Maestro?” My Asrid emulated confidence disintegrates.

“What is it?”

“Next week—”

“Same time, rehearsal room nine.”

“I won’t be here.” The words come out in a rush.

“And why not?” She stands hands on hips.

“I have a previous engagement.”

“I see.”

“I wanted to apologize for missing a practice.”

“Just this once, I’ll allow it. Miss another rehearsal due to any kind of engagement, and you’ll lose your chair. Understood?”

“Yes, Maestro.” What a great way to make an impression.

“Best you learn your music. Your sight reading leaves something to be desired.”

With that, I am dismissed and traipse out of the rehearsal room to face the dreary, colorless world beyond the gilded doors of the opera hall. If I could, I’d stay all day to practice in the auditorium. I’d memorize every note and nuance to impress Ahlgren at the next rehearsal.

Everyone else has left already, even the reception bot. There’ll be securitybots for sure, but I don’t see any in the foyer. Maybe no one would notice if I sneaked into the auditorium. Tightening the strap of my violin bag, I tiptoe up the stairs. Each step in Asrid’s accursed boots sounds like a gunshot bound to draw unwanted attention. I race my echoing footsteps and heave open a sculpted mahogany door, ducking inside before a securitybot can chuck me out.

I guess Quinn had a similar idea. He’s standing on stage, violin in hand, and the Fisker solo spooling out from under his fingers. I am transfixed. My jaw hits the floor as he scissors through the most difficult passages with machine like precision. Not only is this my competition, but I’m also pretty sure I’m looking at the guy from the train depot.

Quinn

 

 

“I can already play the Fisker symphony,” I tell Ahlgren. The conversation with Tyri has left me tongue tied, my processor in a whirl-a-gig, and my circuits firing with white-hot, blinding fear. Despite my programming, when confronted by pretty teenage girls and all their questions, my system can’t handle it.

“Concerto, Mr?” The maestro purses her lips.

“Soarsen, sorry, yes. Of course. Concerto. I can play it, I mean I have played it. I still can.” The sudden spike in terror fries my emotion module. My circuits are burning.

“I hope you can play it better than you string sentences together.”

“Yes. I play it perfectly, in fact.” Reclaiming calm, my words become coherent. “My technique is flawless.”

“Flawless?”

“Care for a demonstration?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Soarsen. I noticed your fingers in rehearsal, but Fisker is about more than flawless technique.”

“I realize—”

“Good, then you realize that my decision will be made after I’ve heard you play more than just notes. I want to hear music.”

“I can do that.”

“We’ll see.”

Admonished, I end with a polite goodbye and stride down the corridor. This was a catastrophically bad idea. If the girl doesn’t already suspect something, she will soon, long before I have time to prove my prowess to Ahlgren and take the stage.

I’m no revolutionary.

Instead of following the French horns and bassoons into the rain, I bolt up the stairs to the auditorium. It’s empty and inviting. If the girl reports me then this may be my only opportunity to stand on stage. Angels frolic across the ceiling, the lights are dim and the velvet drapes bring to life a different era, an era drunk on beauty. I imagine an audience of two thousand rapt faces, their eyes glazed and glistening with tears as the humans lean forward in their seats, listening to me play.

Violin tucked against my jaw, my fingers fly across the strings. I am not a robot, I am the reincarnation of Fisker, violinist supreme, who composed and performed only one concerto for his own instrument.

“One cannot improve upon perfection,” he said when asked why he only composed the one.

More than just notes, the concerto is a matrix, a sprawl of frequencies and possibilities. I want to lose myself in the music the way I’ve heard humans do, but I don’t know what that really means. When I play violin, I am not lost; I am found. I am complete.

There’s a shadow at the edge of the first tier of seats and the grind of old fashioned hinges as the auditorium door closes. Tyri stands staring as I play. I finish the phrase and, sacrilege though it is, I break off mid theme and lower my violin. Forever waiting, I wait for her questions, for her accusations, for her to whip out her moby and call the authorities.

“Don’t stop.” She clip-clops down the stairs and slides into the third row. “That was magnificent. Why’d you stop?” Her gaze is intense and makes me feel queasy.
Thy look containeth both the dawn and sunset stars—
a snatch of Baudelaire’s poetry tumbles from my memstor.

“I wasn’t playing for an audience.” My system stutters as the fear spikes. If she knew, suspected even, surely she would’ve said something by now. My fear subsides, anxiety still simmering in my core.

“I’m sorry.” She brushes loose hair off her face.

“I should go.”

“Wait.” She bites her bottom lip and wrings her hands. “You ever been down to the old train depot?”

My circuits pop and fizz. I can’t speak and stare unblinking. She must be the girl I saw; and if she is, does that put me at greater risk of exposure? The depot is only a stone’s throw from Fragheim. Will she make the connection and figure out I’m a robot?

“Silly question.” She waves it away. “Who taught you to play?”

My tongue comes unstuck from my palate, but speech is still a few moments away, my system in recovery.

“You’re really good. Your technique is incredible.” She smiles and something inside me softens.

“Thanks.” I manage.

“How long have you been playing?”

“As long as I can remember.” They put a violin in my hands two minutes after activation. They gave me the instrument before they gave me clothes and made me play scales to test my musical programming. No one taught me. I was made for music, hard coded with perfect pitch and the perfect fingers for violin.

“I know this is a lot to ask.” She hesitates and twirls a lock of hair around her finger.

“What?” The door to freedom is forty meters away though escape no longer seems necessary.

“I’m good, but I’m not
that
good. Would you help me? You know, give me a few pointers?”

“Don’t you have a teacher for that?”

“I used to.” She looks wistful. “Would you mind? I can pay you.”

“Give me a moment to process this.”

She nods as my processor whirs. Teach her. She wants me to teach her. A human asking a robot for help. The world tilts on its axis and I laugh.

“You don’t have to be a nullhead about it.” She huffs.

“No, wait.” I wave my bow at her. “Sorry, it’s … ” I’m a robot, and you asked me to teach you. “I’m a bit surprised, that’s all.” Speaking cryptically is easier than lying. She studies her feet, before staring up at me. I stare back and her pale cheeks turn pink.

“So is that a yes or a no?”

“Could you give me some time to think about it?” Sal will know what to do. She’ll tell me whether this is a step forward for robots or a giant leap toward disaster.

“Sure, when?”

“Next week?”

“I won’t be here, but I could give you my number.” She looks hopeful.

“Great. I’ll call you.”

“You want to save it?” She hovers in the third row, plucking fuzz from the plush seat in front of her.

“What’s the number?”

–Add contact

Contact

“You’re going to remember it?” She grins.

I should’ve used my moby.

“I’ve got an excellent memory.”

She calls out the number, and I save my first human contact.

“I’ll call you.” I assure her, although I’m not that sure myself. If Sal thinks it’s a bad idea, I don’t know how I’ll tell this girl without hurting her feelings. Humans are so fragile.

“Bye, Quinn.” She gives me a wave before clip clopping out of the auditorium.

Fingers trembling, I pack up my violin and pull up my hood. She said she’d pay me. It would be nice to earn some money of my own and not have to rely on Sal for upgrades or patches. If I save enough, I could upgrade my core processor. If I save a bit more, I could buy a new violin.

Smiling, I step into the autumn evening.

 

 

***

 

 

“She what?” Sal sits up in her hammock, the sudden movement making the whole hut vibrate.

The clouds are weeping again, dripping sleet into the dirt of Fragheim. I place a steadying hand on the hut’s ceiling as I duck inside for cover.

“She asked me to teach her. Said she’d pay me.”

“That’s … ” Sal smooths her face into blankness.

“Incomprehensible?”

“Indeed.” She scratches at the dragon inked onto her scalp.

“This could be good for me. Earn some real money.”

“It’s too dangerous spending that much time alone with a human.”

I ease into the hammock beside her. “Let’s make a list of pros and cons.”

“Pros. You get paid and quit sponging off me.” She thumps my shoulder with a gentle fist.

“I earn enough to afford a core upgrade or a new violin.”

“Core upgrade first. You’re all patched out until then.”

“Fine. So that’s a pro. Spending time with a human might be a good learning opportunity too.”

“Observing emotional displays, expressions, reactions, speech patterns. That kind of assimilation is more potent than any patch.” Sal agrees.

“Exactly.” There’s a tingle of excitement in my synapses.

“But,” Sal says.

“But, being alone and close to a human—under constant scrutiny—means one misstep could reveal my true nature. She’s the chatty type. Asks a lot of questions.”

“What’s your truth module like?”

“I’m a terrible liar.”

“Don’t lie then, bend the truth.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?” We stare at each other, both searching for an answer.

“I thought companion-droids could lie. Kit does,” she says.

“My owners wanted to keep me honest.”

“Your owners were the bacteria that grows on shit in a bucket.”

A grin splits my face as Sal takes my hand and rolls up my sleeve, inspecting my unblemished skin.

“Why would you want scars?” She asks.

“Sometimes I thought that if the wounds didn’t heal, if I’d had scars, they’d be less inclined to do what they did. If I’d been human, they wouldn’t have hurt me.”

“You really think that?”

I shrug and smooth down my shirt.

“Human or robot, I don’t think it would’ve mattered to psychopaths like that.” Sal keeps hold of my hand as we peer into the afternoon already darkening around the edges. Soon the day will be reduced to a mere five hours of twilight.

BOOK: I Heart Robot
2.28Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

NYPD Red 4 by James Patterson
Take Charge by Melody Carlson
Judy Moody, Girl Detective by Megan McDonald
Murderous Lies by Rhondeau, Chantel
Population Zero by White, Wrath James, Balzer, Jerrod, White, Christie
Lord Protector by T C Southwell
Sergeant Gander by Robyn Walker
Rapture's Rendezvous by Cassie Edwards