I Heart Robot (9 page)

“I don’t think they were psychopaths.”

“Sadists at the least. You said they got off on hurting you.”

I nod, trying to quell the rushing tide of memories.

“You think seeing your scars would’ve made them hurt you less? I reckon it would’ve made them hurt you more.”

Maybe Sal’s right, but part of me wants to believe that being human would’ve made everything better. “Doesn’t mean I should hate all humans because of what my owners did.”

“I would.”

“You hate humans?”

Sal deliberates before answering. “There’s not a lot to love about them.”

For a long moment, we sit in silence, and I contemplate all the reasons why I wish I were human. To be able to breathe and bleed, to live and die. If I were mortal, I’d have a life, and I’d be able to make that life mean something. Without a soul, robots merely exist. We don’t matter, not as individuals at least, and not for any reasons I’d want to be remembered. The only legacy I can leave is the possibility of recyclable parts.

“I think you should go for it.” Sal breaks the silence. “Teach this girl. Even if she finds out you’re a robot, the point is proven. Humans can learn from us. We are not second class citizens.”

“We’re not citizens at all yet.” I run a hand through my hair, too late remembering the goo slicking down the strands. Doubt I’ll be using gel again.

“That’ll change,” Sal says. “One way or another, kiddo. It’s the age of the android now. Humans just don’t know yet it.”

***

“How’d it go?” Kit pops his head into my hut. The string of LEDs strung across my ceiling lends him a yellow halo he doesn’t deserve.

“Why do you even care?”

He glares at me until I break eye contact. Kit has never
not
cared, despite our vastly different views on life.

“It was interesting,” I say.

“They suspect anything?” He slumps on the stool I salvaged from a dumpster and repaired with duct tape.

“Not yet.”

“You need to be careful.” His dark eyes brim with concern.

“I know.”

“If you want to make a difference, why not join us?”

“Us?”

“The revolutionaries.”

“The Solidarity, you mean.”

He smirks and I shake my head.

“I’ve got a date tonight. Want to join that?” Kit bites his bottom lip suggestively.

“Why do you keep asking when you know what the answer will be?”

“Thought you could use the cash. That violin’s starting to look a little shabby.” He nods at the instrument lying across my lap. It was old before they gave it to me and not the best either. It’s one of the generic models shipped out of the East back when instruments were made in batches of hundreds and music was a way of life.

“I’m earning now.”

“Finally come to your Quasar senses?” Kit feels no shame in selling himself to those who can’t find human affection.

“No. I might have a violin student.”

“A human?”

“Yes.”

“Did you offer your services or did they ask?”

“She asked.”

“And you’re willing to expose yourself like that? To risk everything to get cozy with this ape?”

“It’s not like that.”

“You’re an idiot.” He glowers. “Why can’t you accept what you are?”

“There’s more to life than what my code dictates.”

“You’re. A. Robot. You’re not even alive, Quinny.” Kit jabs a finger at me. “You know what your problem is? You think you’re human.”

“I thought you were all about equality for androids.”

“Equality. Because we’re equals, but we’ll never be the same.” He grabs my hand and splays my fingers before pressing them against his chest. “Feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“Exactly.” His lips twitch with the hint of a bitter smile. “No heartbeat. No lungs filling with air. We’re not human. We never will be.”

His words slice through my organosilicone flesh, sharp as scalpels.

There’s this old adage that says you should keep your friends close and enemies closer. Quinn isn’t an enemy exactly, but there’s nothing wrong with keeping the competition close either. His technique! I’ve never seen fingers move like that, like butterflies dancing across the strings. If only I’d had expert tutoring since I was old enough to hold a violin. Reluctantly, I leave him in the auditorium, as if he needs more practice. A pang of jealousy needles my insides as I cross the parking lot to Asrid’s waiting hoverbug. She greets me with a smile.

“How did it go?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“You get chewed out about missing next week?” Asrid selects my home address, and the bug sets off for Vinterberg.

“Maestro wasn’t impressed.”

“My dance teacher would have an apoplexy.”

“When’s your next rehearsal?”

“Classes start again on Wednesday. Can’t wait to get back into it.” she says.

“And see even more of Sara.”

“In a leotard.” Asrid grins.

“I think I might’ve found a new violin teacher.”

Asrid gapes, and the hoverbug judders. “What about your mom?”

“What about her?”

“Isn’t she anti this whole thing?”

“Yeah, so? It’s my life, not hers.”

“You need to be practical, T.” Asrid puts on her big deal voice, the one for scolding her baby brothers or reprimanding her cat.

“I want to be a musician. What’s so hard to understand?”

“You need to think about your future.”

“Codes, you sound like my mother.”

She glares at me.

“You dance, why can’t I play music?”

“Because my dancing is a hobby,” she says. “I’ve already applied for the actuarial science program at Baldur and Osholm University. If that fails, I’ll do biotech engineering.”

“I can think of nothing more boring.”

“You love music, I love math.” Asrid swerves into the MegaMart parking lot and joins the swift-meal queue. Neon adboards scroll through a selection of burgers, salads, and hot-dogs.

“You love dancing more than math,” I say.

“I’d never make it a career.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not soft in the head.”

Her words are razor blades. I cradle my violin case, resting my chin on the hard plastic.

“Time to grow up, T. This is our last year at school. After this we’re adults, and we’re expected to contribute to the betterment of society.”

“How is being a musician not contributing to the betterment of society?”

Asrid rolls her eyes and punches her order into the digisplay hovering at her window. “I ordered you a salad.”

“I wanted pizza.”

“You need salad.” Asrid’s C-sharp major today, her words cutting to the bone.

“You’re a greased droid joint.”

Asrid smiles and adds another item. “Salad and a raspberry-toffee low-cal shake. Fair?”

“Rik doesn’t mind my middle bits.”

“That’s because he likes what’s above and below them.”

My face flushes as we jitter forward and a chrome arm hands us our order in brown paper bags. I start with the shake. It tastes like nothing without the benefit of fat and sugar.

“Anyway, who’s this new teacher?” Asrid asks as we rejoin the highway and head toward the suburbs.

“My desk partner. His name’s Quinn.”

“Weird name. Is he cute?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Hm-mm.” She raises her eyebrows.

“What?”

“Like Alvin was cute?”

“That was seventh grade, and Rurik and I weren’t technically a couple then.”

“Hm-mm.”

“Sassa, it’s not like that. Quinn’s brilliant. I’ve never seen technique like that. You should see his fingers. They’re exquisite. He makes the hardest parts seem as easy as breathing.”

“I’ll bet.” She smirks.

I slurp on my shake and ignore her. My old teacher was great. She taught me to read music and how to make the music my own. I bet Mom could actually afford more lessons with her. Saying we’re broke is Mom’s passive aggressive way of getting me to quit music. Not going to happen.

“Come on.” Asrid pokes me in the ribs with a pink nailed finger. “I’m teasing you, but maybe you should check with Rurik before you go having private sessions with some other guy.”

“Not everyone hooks up with their teacher.” Now I’m being the greased droid joint, but Asrid infuriates me.

“Ouch, T. You hormonal or what? And Sara was the teacher’s assistant. Not exactly fraternization.”

“Rurik has nothing to worry about.” I hope Quinn will say yes, and that he’ll accept my paltry offering of eighty krona a lesson. There’s something different about him. How he plays, his soft voice, his awkwardness, his silver eyes, and of course the fact that I’m almost certain he was the boy at the train depot even if he doesn’t want to admit it. Maybe once we get to know each other a little better …

“Good, because you two are perfect together. I’ll do grievous bodily harm to anyone who messes it up.” Asrid interrupts my thoughts.

“Thanks for the lift and the salad,” I say as the hoverbug lands in my driveway.

“We still going shopping Monday?”

I shouldn’t spend anything if I want to afford violin lessons. Window-shopping, however, is free.

“Sure,” I say. “See ya.”

Asrid zooms off and I stalk inside. Mom is in her office, probably on a conference call. Raised voices emanate from the tiny room.

“ … This isn’t just another project. That virus is more dangerous … I’ve made it clear how I feel about her … No, I’m not prepared to do that … This prototype is more … No, you don’t understand … ” Mom’s voice rises in volume. Sounds like an argument. I tiptoe closer to eavesdrop, but Miles ambushes me.

“Greetings, Tyri. Would you like some refreshments?” His lights flash. Glitch saunters up to me, wagging her tail and nudging the food bag with her nose.

Leaving Mom to her argument, I inspect the salad: lettuce and carrots sprinkled with vita-nutrients.

“Could you add some tuna or egg mayonnaise to this and bring it to my room?”

Miles scans the salad contained within a sheer plastic bubble before he creaks away to the kitchen. I sweep Glitch into my arms, heading for my bedroom. Asrid has a point about being a musician and not really contributing to society. Skandia needs doctors and tech professionals. But what’s life without art, without entertainment for the senses? And not this electro, computer generated rubbish Rurik listens to. Real music played by real people on real instruments. Isn’t that what being human is all about, being able to feel and express those feelings through art?

I shed Asrid’s clingy clothes and crawl into comfy sweats. Glitch puts her paws on my shoulder and proceeds to clean my ear piercings. I lean my head against the bed and stare at the lyrics and sheet music stuck to my ceiling.

“Glitchy girl.” I scratch her tummy as she continues my bath. “What am I going to do with my life?” There’s nothing more abhorrent than contemplating a career like Mom’s. She’s so overworked and underpaid, she never even tried to have a normal relationship, opting for sperm instead of love.

Miles brings me my salad, and I thank him despite a lingering wariness of robots. He’s a bit light on the mayonnaise. My resentment doubles.

Bath complete, Glitch sits with her legs splayed and eyes the salad. I stab my fork into the mass of green, picking out some tuna. Tasteless. As bland as life would be without music.

***

My elbow is stiff despite the HealGel. I snap another one of the blue pads, and the gel warms in my fingers before I mold it onto my aching joint, securing it in place with surgical tape. Micro-panax particles ooze through the gel and seep into my body, healing my damaged tissue. I forgot to take my platelet serum this morning. Cursing, I head to the bathroom in search of my medi-pen. Miss too many doses and I’ll end up in a coma, apparently. Not that I’m keen to test the theory. With my thigh stinging from a double dose, I return to my bedroom.

Fisker’s violin concerto: four movements of hell and brilliance. My old teacher always made me practice the hardest passages first. Get those right and the rest is easy. Except, nothing about Fisker’s composition is easy. I start with the third movement, ten pages swarming with black notes. The runs are tricky when played slowly, never mind
prestissimo
. The bowing is a work out. I might have problematic middle bits, but my biceps and triceps are more toned than any android’s.

“Tyri!” Mom slams open my door and stands fuming on the threshold. “I’m trying to work.”

“It’s Saturday.”

She seems about to deliver an angry tirade but sighs instead, looking exhausted.

“Mom, you shouldn’t be working on the weekend.” I lower the violin and wiggle my fingers.

“Got to pay the bills.” She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. Her wan smile disappears when she sees the HealGel. “Your elbow still worrying you?” She crosses the room to prod my arm.

“It aches a bit.”

“Erik said it might take a day or two.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“If it isn’t right by Monday, let me know.” Mom shuffles the gel pack back into place. “Could you give me another hour? We’re having a bit of a crisis at work.” Purple rings hang beneath her eyes like soggy teabags. Lines cut canyons at the corners of her lips.

“Is it that bad?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.” Mom strokes my hair and kisses my forehead.

“Can Rurik come over?”

Mom purses her lips, the frown exaggerating the furrows on her face. “Fine, but leave your door open, please.”

Practice over for now, I lay my violin back in its velvet bed and call Rurik.

Half an hour later, we’re trying to make out, but Glitch is having none of it, constantly inserting herself between us on the bed.

“I hate your dog.”

“Love me, love my pooch.” I grin and tuck loose hair behind my ears.

“Can’t I just love you?” Rurik loops his long arm around my shoulder, and I haul Glitch onto my lap so I can weasel in closer to my boyfriend. At least Glitch doesn’t try to pee on him, opting for death glares and growls instead.

“How was orchestra?” He asks.

“Rehearsal was intense. My desk partner is amazing. I’m kind of embarrassed sitting next to him.”