I Heart Robot (15 page)

Settled in a dingy corner, I listen to the mellow sax sighing from the stage. It paints the drab interior with splashes of turquoise and smells faintly of blueberries. The humans hugging their drinks pay me no attention. Loneliness settles over me like a second skin. Sal’s dead. Kit’s vanished.

Alone and unobserved, I log onto the Botnet and scan the feeds for updates. No new messages despite having left several for Kit. According to the news, M-Tech took the bodies of the fallen robots after the riot. Sal will probably be deconstructed, any usable bits salvaged and destined for reuse in mindless housebots. The rest of her will end up in the scrap yard east of the city. My fuel-cell judders at the thought of human fingers taking her apart. I clench my teeth, coral molars grinding dust onto the back of my tongue. I keep scanning: a call to arms, a call to join the Solidarity with renewed fervor, demanding rights for robots. Robots or violent, murdering, metal thugs?

There’s an update about enraged robots attacking and destroying bulldozers sent to demolish the huts in Fragheim. More humans killed and more Cruor spilled. I tune out of the Botnet and slink out of the club. I need to hold my violin, to know that there is hope, hope that we can prove we’re more than just electronics and silicone. That we’re creative and compassionate like our makers. Maybe I can still make a difference for Sal’s sake.

***

Thursday at two-thirty, I run the comb through my hair and change my shirt.

Violin slung across my back, I trek toward the suburbs. The streets are busy, a normal working day. Monday’s events seem forgotten while everyone carries on with their routine, not sparing a thought for the dead or for those in mourning.

“That’s life,” Sal would say. “Got to get on with it.”

Closer to the city center, I flip up my hood and approach a taxi stand. A hoverbug lands a few meters away, its taxi sign blinking yellow in welcome. The color smells like vanilla.

“Greetings, sir. Your destination, please.” The driver’s digisplay eyes flash orange. The scent changes to apple trees in autumn. I wonder what other damage the bullets might’ve done.

“St Paul’s College, Karlshof.”

“Estimated time of arrival—twenty-two minutes.” The hoverbug takes to the street ways and zips through traffic. Engel Motor’s robots don’t ask any questions; their built-in GPS systems leave no room for conversation modules. The radio plays classics from the early 2000s and I almost relax in the back of the mint-scented bug. Whether the scent is real or simply a result of the seats being pastel green, it’s impossible to say.

Twenty-two minutes later, I’m standing in front of a school that dreams of being more than a mere institution where human children cast off their ignorance and try to absorb facts. How humans have managed to thrive for so long with such a rudimentary learning protocol remains a mystery.

Humans spew out of the building, a cascade of color and chatter as they saunter toward parked vehicles. I scan the throngs for Tyri, her face imprinted in my memstor. The dimensions of her jawbone, the taper of her nose, the slight asymmetrical placement of her eyes, the volume of her hair, and the diameter of her smile.

I keep my gaze lowered, hoping to be ignored by the kids as I mill around the building’s entrance. We should’ve agreed to meet at a specific location. I try calling her, but there’s no answer. Perhaps she changed her mind.

At three-thirty-eight, I turn to leave.

“Hey, Quinn.” Her familiar voice is breathless. “Sorry, I’m late.” She smiles and the whole world brightens.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Where to from here?”

“This way.” She nods toward the gaping maw of the building. With a rueful smile, I follow Tyri across the threshold.

We wind our way down corridors and take three flights of stairs to a basement divided into rooms the size of large pockets. It smells old and musty, a mixture of mold and ghosts softened by Tyri’s perfume, jasmine and rose, soft as velvet.

“It’s a bit cramped.” She opens the door for me. There’s just enough space for two people holding violins and the black and white digisplay mounted on the wall.

“This is adequate.”

“How have you been? Had a good week so far?” She asks and the sparkle in her eyes diminishes.

“Not the best.” I feel the loss of Sal all over again, a wave of hurt coursing through my Cruor.

“Me neither.” She pauses. “Actually, I’m not sure if I should even be doing this.” Tyri keeps her gaze on the digisplay.

“Doing what?”

“Playing violin” She glances at me, her gaze lingering on my face. “Are those eyes real?” She asks.

“Um … ” Lying proves tricky.

“Your eyes are almost silver.” She blushes. “Do you wear colored contacts?”

“Sometimes.” I tense, ready to bolt for the door if my attempt to bend the truth fails.

“I like them.” She fiddles with her belt loops. “Yeah, so about the lessons.”

After a long pause, I realize she’s waiting for me to say something. “You need lessons.”

“That bad, huh?”

“No, but you could be better.”

“Better … ” She bites her bottom lip and her eyes glisten with moisture. “I think my priorities have changed. There are more important things I should be doing.” She starts packing up her violin.

“More important, like what?”

“Do you know what happened on Monday?”

My spine locks with fear. “Yes, Why?”

“My mom works at M-Tech. She got hurt during the riot.” She gazes up at me. “She’s fine now, but some of her colleagues were killed. Erik … he was a family friend … He died.”

The image of Kit bashing in the man’s head, the sound of human bones crunching beneath my foot—I can’t quell the rushing tide of memory. It’s even more disturbing that Tyri’s mom is connected to M-Tech. If anyone can spot a robot, a McCarthy employee can. My involvement just became even more complicated. Still, it’s hard to imagine Tyri as a threat when she’s so breakable and pretty with freckles peppering her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry.” I want to hug her and tell her everything’s okay. I want her to tell me the same thing. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that last emotion upgrade. Not feeling anything would be easier than being overwhelmed by conflicting emotions.

“Considering what happened, I think I’m wasting my time with music.”

“That’s illogical.”

She purses her lips and folds her arms. “And what would you know?”

“What happened Monday was a tragedy. Things need to be done on both sides to rectify the situation, but you playing violin has nothing to do with robots or politics.”

She unfolds her arms and takes a step closer. Perhaps she hears something in my voice, some nervous response to the emotion code spooling through my core giving me away. Humans have an instinctual ability to recognize emotion in others, and Tyri recognizes something in me.

“Do you know someone who got hurt?”

“I lost someone very close to me.”

“Botspit, I’m so sorry, Quinn.” She bounces a fist against her thigh. “Guess I’m being a bit pathetic. I’m not the only one who lost someone.”

“At least your mom is okay.”

“True. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“As am I.” We hold each other’s gaze, her hazel eyes so warm and full of humanity. If eyes are the windows to the soul, I wonder what Tyri sees in mine.

“I still think if I concentrated on something other than music, I could do something worthwhile, you know?” She says.

“Like what?”

“Like getting involved. Being proactive. Be the change you want to see and all that. Music isn’t important.” She fidgets with her sleeves, tearing a thread loose at the seam.

“Why’s it not important?”

“Because playing the violin won’t change anything; it won’t give my life meaning. I—” She pauses and frowns as I scowl. In one sentence, this girl has managed to dismiss my entire purpose.

“Music has meaning,” I say.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Whether it comes from some unnamed divine or is a side effect of evolution, music is one of man’s greatest abilities.” I pause as if to catch my breath. “Music is man at his finest. Music is mathematics and architecture. It’s the most refined form of emotional expression humans can achieve. It’s freedom and structure with an infinite number of possibilities. It can move people to tears or inspire even the meekest to action. Music is a gift, a weapon, an opportunity.”

The girl stares at me gob smacked. I hadn’t meant to deliver a tirade. I run a hand through my hair and open my mouth to apologize when a tear escapes down her cheek. She buries her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry.” I open the door to leave, but she catches my arm.

“Don’t go,” she says, her voice stained with tears. “Please.” And then I’m hugging her. I cradle her brittle body, never more aware of how easy it would be to crush the life from her lungs. My arms tighten around her, and I bury my nose in her hair as my senses run riot.

After a minute, she recovers and wipes a sleeve across her face.

“Codes, I’m sorry.” Tyri chuckles, her cheeks twin rosebuds of color. “I’m not usually like this. What you said—” She takes a deep breath. “I’ve always thought about music that way, almost like it’s a living power unto itself. I’ve tried to explain it, but I’ve never found the words, and no one has ever understood me. No one.” She gives me a look that cuts right to the core.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say.

“You didn’t. You’ve made me happier than I ever thought I could be.” Her smile splits her face.

Humans are walking contradictions, sobbing in joy and sorrow. I doubt I’ll ever understand these creatures well enough to pass for one long term.

“So, teacher Quinn.” Tyri picks up her violin and tightens the bow. “What’s my first lesson?”

My fingers should be bleeding; they’re so sore. Despite my years of playing, my finger pads still bear the striations of a good workout. Quinn’s a slave-master, demanding nothing less than perfection. His technique is flawless. He plays like a machine, never missing a note or skipping a beat. My stubby fingers don’t seem to want to co-operate; they’re determined to sabotage my efforts. I stare at my hands, wishing they were someone else’s.

Quinn walks me out of the school like an old-world gentleman.

“Thanks for the lesson. I’m sorry I can only pay you eighty krona.” Especially considering our lesson lasted closer to an hour.

“It’s all right,” he says in that quiet voice that’s barely above a whisper.

“I really enjoyed it. You’re brilliant.”

He grins, a slight quirking up of his thin lips. “I think you make the better musician.”

My ego inflates like a balloon inside my chest. To be praised by a violinist of his caliber actually means something.

“Same time next week?” He asks.

“Actually, how about sooner?”

“Like when?”

Codes, the guy has shocking eyes, gray but iridescent and ringed with black. He’s got lashes Asrid would envy. I envy his fingers.

“Monday, three-thirty?”

“I’ll be here.” He smiles. With a face like that, this guy should be on adboards, or the star of a big budget flick. That jaw and those broad shoulders – he has to be the boy I saw at the train depot.

“You ever play anything beside the violin?” I ask.

“Viola, once,” he says.

“You ever been to that old train depot in lower Baldur?”

“Maybe.” His eyes narrow.

“I was there this one time. There was this party, and a guy played the viola. It was … ” My cheeks warm. “Strange.” I stare at Quinn, studying his face and stance. It has to be him.

“I remember you.” A slow smile tugs at his lips.

“What?” My stomach flips.

“I saw you that night in the crowd.”

“You did?” He noticed me. He remembers me. We shared something that night, something I can’t articulate but desperately want to feel again.

“You dance really well.”

I take a deep breath, calming the rush of giddiness threatening to spill out of my mouth. “What were you doing there?” I ask instead. It’ll totally be my luck that Quinn’s some junkie going downtown to swap needles. He’s too healthy to be using skag or flex. Maybe he built his ripped body on sustanon 250.

“I was with a friend.”

He doesn’t seem keen to elaborate, but I press the matter anyway. “A girlfriend?”

“Just a friend. She’s dead now.”

“I’m sorry.” Foot in mouth, down throat, choke. I want to ask if she was the one he lost on Monday, but I bite my tongue.

“Don’t be,” he says.

“You don’t always have to trek out here.” I peel my gaze from Quinn’s face. “We could meet at your school, if you’d prefer. Where do you go?”

He hesitates and runs a hand through his hair. He looks so much better without the gel helmet.

“Here is better for me.”

“See you Monday, then.”

“Have a great weekend, Tyri.” The deliberate way he says my name reminds me of Miles for a moment, but it evaporates when Quinn gives me another smile.

“Hey T, get your Goth butt over here.” Asrid hangs out of her hoverbug on the far side of the parking lot.

“Coming.” I yell back. “Sorry, that’s Asrid. She’s giving me a ride home. See you Monday.”

Quinn gives me a shy wave as I skip across the asphalt to Asrid.

“That the guy?” She asks as I climb into the back. Sara’s riding shotgun.

“Yup.”

“You forgot to remind me I wanted to meet him.”

“Did I?”

Asrid sticks her tongue out at me.

“He’s pretty,” Sara says. “Fly closer.”

“Sassa, don’t.” Asrid smirks and takes to the air, letting the hoverbug waft closer to Quinn. They gawk at him and my cheeks burn. Sadly, the backseat upholstery doesn’t swallow me whole.

“Check out his biceps. He live at the gym or what?” Sara asks and Asrid thumps her arm.

“Don’t go perving over boys.”

“Never.” Sara leans in and kisses Asrid on the cheek. “But he does have a nice butt. Toned like a dancer’s. Like yours.”

“Fifth wheel back here,” I chirp as we turn toward the exit. Quinn stares after us, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.