Free I Heart Robot by Suzanne Van Rooyen Page A

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