Free I Heart Robot by Suzanne Van Rooyen

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