I Heart Robot (16 page)

“What’s he like?”

“Charming. Feels the same way I do about music.” I almost tell them about the train depot party, but that’s something I’ll keep to myself. Asrid wouldn’t understand, and it could make her dislike Quinn. “The lesson was great. He has amazing fingers.”

“I’ll bet.” Sara gives me a wink over her shoulder.

“You’ve got a dirty mind.” I fold my arms and stare out the window, vowing to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the trip home.

“Aw, T, we’re only messing with you. How’s your mom?” As the conversation turns away from Quinn, my cheeks cool to embers. I twist around in my seat to catch a final glimpse of him, but he’s already gone. Apart from his views on music and his ability to play the violin, and viola, as if he’d been given a bow in the womb, I know very little about the guy. I need to know more.

***

Asrid, Sara, and Glitch lounge across my bed while I try to pack for my weekend away. What does one wear to meet members of a political party?

“Take that blue dress,” Asrid says. “And something sexy for Rurik.”

“Think I can manage, thanks.” I roll up the dress and fit it into my overnight bag. “Can’t imagine half this stuff being required for two nights away from home.”

“You want to be prepared. I’d take at least three shoe options, four or five sweaters, my entire make-up kit and a box full of hair accessories.”

I can’t help rolling my eyes.

“Fine, do it your way,” Asrid says. It’s not like you have to co-ordinate colors.”

“Yeah, what’s with all the black?” Sara asks. She’s wrapped in tie-dye.

“Don’t know. Guess I like the color.”

“Black is not a color. It’s the absence of color.” Asrid reaches for the remote and the screen unravels.

Glitch shuffles up against Sara, demanding belly rubs as I zip up my bag with its minimal contents. Reams of homework demand some attention if I want to maintain my B-minus average, but a scene on the digisplay proves more interesting.

“Turn that up.”

A reporter stands in front of M-Tech. The windows have already been replaced, and the bloodstains on the sidewalk are fading.

“McCarthy Tech CEO Adolf Hoeg released a statement today regarding the riot that took place Monday.”

“You know the guy?” Asrid asks.

“I’m sure Mom does.”

“Androids incapacitated and captured during the riot were confiscated by McCarthy Tech. The androids are allegedly being studied here
…
”
The reporter gestures behind her.
“
…
In the hopes of understanding how such a travesty could occur and how it may be prevented in the future.”

The image swivels away from M-Tech to the parliament buildings in Osholm.

“Government officials say that measures to apprehend the culprits of Monday’s riot have been taken and that the public has no reason to panic and no reason to fear their household robots. Regarding the amendment, all deliberations have been halted as government takes steps to contain the situation amidst growing anti-android sentiment.”

“Contain the situation?” Sara’s voice rises. “That’s a political euphemism for annihilation.”

“Why haven’t they blown up Fragheim yet?” Asrid shakes the remote at the screen.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit extreme?” I ask.

“If they leave it too long, it’ll happen again.”

“They shouldn’t have tried to play god in the first place with all this AI stuff,” Sara says.

“They weren’t playing god; they were trying to improve human life.” I’m not sure why I’m defending the bots that hurt my mom, maybe because Mom spent her entire life building the damn things.

“Sure, T, but this is ridiculous. Who thought it was a good idea to build machines that could think for themselves?”

“I guess the thousands of people who commissioned their development. It’s not M-Tech’s fault. We all wanted this technology.”

“The robots blame M-Tech.” Sara curls an arm around Asrid.

“Can we talk about something else?” I grab the remote. Before I can turn off the news, we catch a glimpse of the violent clashes now taking placing in Osholm. Not good, especially not with Rurik due to relocate to the capital in a few days.

The screen rolls back up and Miles stands in the doorway with a tray of sandwiches, a bowl of salad for Asrid, and three cups of detoxing green tea made according to Sara’s specifications. Apparently drinking her concoction is guaranteed to assist with problematic middle bits.

“Thanks.” I take the tray.

“See, that’s the problem. Treating them like humans. It goes down hill from there.” Asrid accepts the bowl of salad and steaming mug without even glancing at my housebot. Miles blinks yellow and stomps down the corridor.

“They get moody just like people too.” Sara sips her tea.

I stare after Miles, the most basic of the housebot models. He has no emotion module, not even a core processor advanced enough to handle something that complex and yet he seemed annoyed. Impossible. I shake my head and take a bite of the sandwich instead.

Cream cheese and raspberry jam, a combination I detest. Miles has been programmed not to produce things we don’t like, and here it is polluting my taste buds.

I leave the bread on the plate and wash away the taste with a mouthful of what should be honeyed green tea. It tastes like dirt.

“Don’t like it?” Asrid crunches on a leaf of lettuce.

“I think Miles is pissed off at me.”

“Yeah right.” Asrid dismisses my concerns with a toss of her blond locks.

“I think robots have proven they’re capable of more than we realize.”

“But not more than the power of their processors.” Sara offers Glitch a crust, which she accepts with grace, only to bury it under my pillows so that I’ll be smelling cheese and jam all night.

Mom’ll know what’s up with Miles. Perhaps she installed an upgrade I’m not aware of and there’s some circuitry issue resulting in petulance. Guess I’ll have to learn to make my own sandwiches.

Friday night and ice tumbles from the sky, stabbing needles at my face. The wind whips off the sea, tainting the air with brine. I huddle in my jacket hoping for a reprieve from the gloom. The sky burns orange, reflecting Baldur’s luminescence as I tune into the Botnet to triple check the data. The news feature plays on repeat: a human reporter standing in the morning rain while M-Tech employees unceremoniously dump robot remains in Baldur’s scrap yard.

No humans are likely to be at the yard after midnight, giving me a full six hours until the morning shift stumbles in. Six hours of searching through the debris for what’s left of Sal.

It’s a long walk on streets slick with ice to the industrial district where factories chuff smoke and sparks like sleeping dragons. I’ve never been here before despite the numerous threats made by my owners.

“Don’t need a formal decommission to end up scrap metal,” the man said, a cigarette dangling off his cracked lip. “You just be a good boy and do as you’re programmed.” Once I tried to reason that my arms weren’t ashtrays, earning me a thrashing that took a whole can of Cruor to fix.

Baldur scrap yard spans three blocks, a maze of crushed robots, unwanted hoverbugs, old machinery, and outdated appliances. The yard lies in darkness beyond the puddles of light from the perimeter lamps. Chain and electrolocks bind the main gate, making it impenetrable. The electrified fence is festooned with yellow and red placards threatening prosecution or worse for trespassers. I follow the fence around the block looking for a point of access.

There’s a rent in the fence, the electrified wiring peeled back and held in place with rubber tape. Seems I’m not the only one here tonight. I duck through the gap and feel the hum of voltage waiting to leap from the wires into my core. The alarm on the fence must’ve been disabled else the yard would be swarming with police.

Cameras mounted on the perimeter posts might capture my movement, but I don’t care. Let the humans see me trawl through rubbish in search of my lost companion. Let them see me grieve.

Picking my way through the dark, I fish the flashlight from my jacket pocket and follow the beam through the clutter, leaping over quagmires as the sleet continues to stab the earth. My search for a single skeleton amongst the thousands of metal scraps seems futile.

A mountain of crushed hoverbugs and mangled machinery rises before me. Perhaps the summit will provide a better vantage point. Metal edges jut from the hill like giant guillotines. The slippery slope makes the climb treacherous and slow. By the time I reach the summit, my hands leak Cruor from a number of gashes, but the rest of me is intact.

My flashlight flicks over the peaks and valleys of the scrap yard. It could take me a week to find Sal in all of this. My beam illuminates a figure wading toward me through the shrapnel sea, their own flashlight sweeping back and forth.

“I don’t want trouble.” It doesn’t sound as threatening as I’d hoped. From this distance, I can’t tell if they’re human or not. I’m hoping not.

The figure says nothing until they’re standing less than 3 meters away, their face a sinister mask of shadow and torchlight.

“Kit?”

“Yeah.”

“Where have you been?”

He waves away the question, joining me on the summit.

“Looking for Sal?” He asks.

“Of course. Why are you here?”

“Looking for Lex.”

“You haven’t answered any of my messages.”

“Sorry,” he says without meeting my gaze. A snag of metal pokes out of the heap to my right. It wouldn’t take much to shove Kit onto the spear, impaling him. Maybe then he’d be more willing to give me answers. He tries to step around me, but I grab him by the lapel.

“What?” He blinds me with his flashlight. It smells like caramel.

“I didn’t know what happened. You could’ve let me know you were okay.”

“Codes, Quasar. You’re as whiny as the apes.”

Anger executes and my circuit broils. I can taste it, the simmering brimstone rage.

“This is your fault.” My grip tightens.

“Humans did this, not me.”

“They were defending themselves from you and your violent Solidarity. You roped Sal into this. You got her killed.” I shove him backwards and he careens down the shrapnel slope, shredding organosilicone as if sliding down the face of a grater. In a single bound, I join him in the valley between mountains of metal.

“Feel better now?” Kit lifts his arm. The fabric of his jacket hangs in tatters, as does his flesh.

“Not yet.” Accessing the martial arts patch in my memstor, I deliver a round of vicious kicks to Kit’s middle. Each impact hurts my foot at least as much as it hurts Kit. I aim for his head. He catches my foot and spins me to the ground.

Grunting with effort, he hauls himself to his feet. “Think you cracked my ribs.”

“You deserve worse. Sal would still be alive if it wasn’t for you.”

“Would you listen to yourself? ‘Oh, if it wasn’t for you, Sal would still be alive.’
Alive
?” He sneers. “We’ve never been alive.”

“And what about the man you killed?”

“What about it?”

“You killed a human being.”

“Not the first. Probably won’t be my last unless they change their attitude.”

Kit parries my blows and the stench of Cruor ravages my senses, permeating my vision with swaths of vomit green. He’s been running the martial arts patches longer than I have. His body oozes through the formations and I catch a right hook on the jaw. I spit out the remnants of a coral molar as Kit pounces, straddling my chest and pinning down my arms.

“We are not alive, Quinn. Never will be. We’re robots.” He taps my forehead. “Sooner you get that through your thick, pseudo skull and into that emotion-clogged acuitron core of yours the better.”

“Sal was my best friend.” Tears prick the corners of my eyes. “Now I’m alone again.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Where were you?” I scream at maximum volume. “You abandoned me. I thought you were dead. Decommissioned. Gone.”

Kit eases off my chest and gathers me up into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he says before he kisses me. My system seizes as his lips meet mine. The momentary paralysis passes, and I push him away.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought … ” Kit gets up and straightens what’s left of his coat. “I just … you missed me, so I thought … ”

“What? That because I’m a Quasar, sexual contact automatically resets my system and purges my emotion module?” I get to my feet and shake clods of mud from my jeans.

“I should’ve messaged you.” He opens and closes his fists. “And I am sorry about Sal. She didn’t deserve to go like that. Neither did Lex.” He meets my gaze with fiery eyes. “But I’m not sorry about fighting for something I believe we deserve.”

“Thought we were built for love not war.”

Kit stares at me for a long moment before his face cracks into a smile and he chuckles. “Sometimes we have to fight because of love.”

“How poetic.”

“Damn literary patch keeps acting up.” Kit smirks and brushes hair off my face, examining my jaw where he hit me. I tolerate his touch. Without Sal, I have no one but Kit.

“You all right after Monday?” He asks.

“Been better.”

“Where’re you staying?”

“Empty container by the docks.” We pick our way through the scrap, retrieve our fallen flashlights, and start the search for Sal’s body once more.

“Did you disarm the fence alarm?” I ask.

“Yeah. Should keep the policebugs at bay.”

A carborundum tibia glimmers in the beam from my flashlight, beyond that a fleshless skull gleams eyeless and open-mouthed. I head for the skeletons.

“Bastards even stripped them of flesh.” Kit kicks over a skull and wipes away muck to reveal a serial number.

“You know Sal’s?” he asks.

“Of course.” One of the first things Sal made me do was save her serial number in my memstor, and she did the same with mine. “Just in case,” she said. “You never know when your number might be up.”

“What about Lex?”

“No idea.” Kit kicks aside a faceless head.

It’s grim work sorting through skeletons for a bunch of numerals. My hands dig through the carnage. Some skulls are still attached to their spines, but all the acuitron brains have been harvested, leaving behind solidified Cruor, sticky as treacle between my fingers. Some skeletons are buckled but whole, while others have been reduced to scattered bone fragments. This is what I’ll become one day, a gooey, rusting mess. There’s an ache inside me, an ache so deep even my titanium-reinforced bones hurt.