Love and Robotics

by Eyre, Rachael

  “We do this when the kids are visiting. They get attached to their robots, think they’re real. One boy” – hearty guffaw – “wanted his Home Butler to marry his mum! So we put Josh on standby, let them know even he’s clockwork.” Yet he arranged a cushion beneath the artificial’s head and covered him with a blanket.

  “You see he’s on standby, no signs of intelligent life? Now watch.”

  Sugar flicked something behind Josh’s ear. A barely perceptible jolt. Josh rolled onto his side, coiling his legs beneath him. His hand went beneath the cushion. It hadn’t been more than a minute before he started to twitch, eyes moving beneath his lids. “I’ve caught a fish,” he murmured.

  The doctor chuckled. “Never been fishing in his life.”

  The Think Tank hummed with activity. Butlers crashed into walls, girls did complicated operations with wire, Krukowski swore as his robot sprayed sparks. But here was Josh, a smile playing on his lips, one foot poking from the blanket.

  “Don’t know why we didn’t do it before,” Sugar beamed. “Good idea, Lord Langton.”

  No point saying it had been Josh’s. Why couldn’t they put him in a separate room, away from this ruckus?

  “I need to meet my man of business -” Alfred began.

  Josh’s arm swung upwards, knocking Sugar’s glasses off. “Really!” the doctor spluttered. The artificial was convulsing, his face working furiously.

  “Bring him round, something’s wrong!” Alfred cried. Since Sugar was crawling on the floor, he pressed the switch behind Josh’s ear. “It’s jammed!”

  “Who gave you permission to be here, Langton?” Fisk stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, her voice like an icy spring.

  “Dr Sugar.” Who was on his hands and knees, searching for his specs. “He said -”

  “He thought wrong.”

  She tried to stare Alfred down. He gazed levelly back. If Josh’s movements had been jerky before, now they were frenzied. He grabbed Alfred’s waist and tried to hide behind him.

  “I don’t want her here.” There was a fear he’d never heard in Josh’s voice. “Get her away from me.”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.” Sugar tried to repair the damage. “He doesn’t mean you.”

  Josh pressed his face into Alfred’s back. “I don’t want Fisk. Make her go away.”

  Fisk’s face collapsed. She turned and ran, knuckles to her mouth. Alfred almost felt sorry for her.

  The button clicked. Josh sat up, oblivious to the scene he’d caused. “Hello! I had such a funny dream -”

  Alfred swigged from his hipflask and passed it to Sugar. “You look like you need it.”

  “I’m teetotal,” he said, but downed it anyway.

  ***

  It was three weeks after the incident in the Think Tank. Alfred had been visiting a reconstructionist in Lux, having his burns lasered. The doctor was itching to do more work - as she put it, she’d never had a patient with such a lived in face. (“Oh, yes,” he said. “It’s got squatters.”) He’d stopped her from changing his hair colour and chiselling his cheekbones.

  “You should’ve had it done,” Gwyn said now. “Might give you a new lease of life.”

  “Josh wouldn’t like it.” It flew out before he could stop it.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  The truth - that Josh thought he was perfect the way he was - might be misinterpreted. “He doesn’t like change,” he mumbled.

  Surprisingly Gwyn let it go. “Why do these streets all look the same?”

  For the last half hour they’d driven round the suburbs. Hedges clipped into cutesy shapes, water features sprinkling, toothy white houses. Gwyn hated this sort of landscape and no wonder, it reminded her of her father. Now they were trundling down a row of older, careworn houses, genuine trees and flowers on the lawns.

  Up ahead was a grey slate building shaped like a turret. With its walled garden, sunny balconies and clematis winding up the windows, it reminded him irresistibly of Josh’s sketches.

  “Gwynnie? Stop!”

  There was a ‘For Sale’ sign. Alfred ignored her protests as he crunched up the path.

  “What do you need a flat for?”

  “It’s not for me.”

  Three chimes and the landlord sidled out. Drifting toupee, shabby frockcoat, a high pitched snivelling voice - Jerry and Wulfric would have a field day. “Hello?”

  “Please could you show us around the flat?”

  A face like a sly child’s, a whistle through his nose. “Certainly! The name’s Montagu, Hugo Montagu.”

  He ignored Gwyn, confirming her belief this was a waste of time. “This is boring,” she griped, or “Let’s go home.”

  Alfred was pleased with everything he saw, matching it with the drawings in his wallet. He let the landlord twitter on, picturing the flat in summer. Light flooding in, plants on the sills. Josh could really paint here.

  “It’s a perfect spot,” Montagu said. “A bachelor’s pad.” A dusty laugh, inviting confidences.

  Idiotically Alfred blushed. “It’s not for me. A friend.” That sounded even dodgier. “He’s an artificial.”

  “A bot, eh? Haven’t sold to one before, but it’s a changing world. He can’t be worse than the last tenant. He was a liberal.”

  A shake of his clammy claw and they left. Alfred whistled, Gwyn booted cans along the pavement.

  “Hope you know what you’re getting into,” she said.

  “I’m buying a flat, not taking a hit out on someone.”

  She was still in a bad mood, so they had a kick about on the common. He let her win and she knew it, but it put a smile on her face.

  Although Alfred didn’t know it, Josh had been charting his progress with the flat hunting. From the way he let himself into the suite, the artificial could tell if it was going well. Alfred wouldn’t say - “I don’t want to get your hopes up” - but it could be gleaned from the slope of his shoulders, the tiredness of his eyes. The day after the discovery, Josh noticed. He saw the change in him, the release of tension. So when Alfred asked, “Want to go for a drive?”, Josh hid a smile and asked, “What for?”

  “I need to have a chat with Sugar first.”

  They took so long he went in search of them; they came out of a study cell. Both adopted neutral expressions but he could tell Alfred was defiant and Sugar fussing.

  “I can come,” Sugar stammered. “I won’t get in the way -”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Josh said.

  Gwyn was waiting in the vix, tapping her watch. Alfred wound down the windows and hopped the network for a catchy tune. When one didn’t materialise he invented his own. Gwyn snorted sherbet up her nose.

  He was so different from how he’d been in the hospital. Soon after the bandages came off, a journalist had appeared. “C’mon,” she begged Josh, “one picture. A few lines on what it’s like to be a hero.”

  Standing outside Alfred’s room, Josh heard what sounded suspiciously like, “Go and bloody ask one.”

  “He’s exhausted,” he improvised. “He’s not seeing anyone outside the family -”

  “How come you -”

  “Tell her to do one.” This filtered through, no ambiguity whatsoever.

  She left. Josh went back into the room. “Sorry about that.”

  Alfred was sitting up in bed, staring dully ahead. No - not staring. To Josh’s horror, his friend was crying. He knew what he was supposed to do, yet –

  The Code can go hang.

  So he sat beside Alfred and put his arms around him. Alfred started and swallowed, but then something broke inside him and his head lay heavy upon Josh’s shoulder. He cried silently, as though he was ashamed of himself.

  “Josh,” he asked, “who’s going to want this?” He gestured towards the ruined face and singed hair.

  “That doesn’t matter.” He meant every word. “There’s somebody for everybody.”

  Alfred laughed bitterly. “The c
hances of me finding somebody were never great. Now they’re non existent.”

  “Of course you won’t, if you sit around feeling sorry for yourself.” Josh stopped, horrified. He’d stepped out of line twice - Alfred would have every right to report him. He left before he said anything worse.

  Thankfully he’d been forgiven. A box of chocolates had arrived, with ‘Sorry for being a moody git’ written in icing.

  They’d been circling the outskirts of Lux; now they turned into quieter, leafier suburbs. The smells associated with the capital - fumes, engine oil, decay - evaporated. Josh rested his chin on the window edge. It wasn’t the countryside but there were natural trees with real birds singing.

  “What is this place?” he asked.

  “Redfern,” Gwyn said dismissively.

  She couldn’t know the sensations acting on him. Alfred did. “It’s like your pictures, isn’t it?”

  Josh nodded. It was as though somebody had put his thoughts on display.

  “That’s not the best part,” Alfred said.

  An avenue of handsome houses spread before them, but Josh knew which one he meant. Fairy tale castle and hideaway in one, a round gate leading to the walled garden. “Stop the vix,” he said.

  He did it in a kind of dream: crossing the street and standing in front of the house, walking the gravel path, touching the gate. He leant against the tree and gazed into its canopy of blossom. He had to remind himself that he didn’t live here, he didn’t have a key to turn in the lock.

  Gwyn didn’t budge: “Seen it.” Alfred rang for the landlord, warning he was one for the sketchpad. “You decide which animal he is.”

  Out Montagu trickled. “Hugo Montagu. So you’re Josh?” A damp handshake and an unhealthy gleam over his spectacles. He appreciated good looking young men, human or not. Alfred nearly said, “Had your eyeful?” but bit his tongue.

  “Mink,” Josh whispered, as Montagu rhapsodised about the garden.

  “Sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Montagu ran through his patter, complete with laugh track. Josh was oblivious. First he explored the textures, next he sniffed - Alfred stopped him from licking the beams. He opened every window and tested the doors. He seemed entranced by the taps and toilet, watching the paper swirl eagerly. “Not that I’ll use it, but it’s a nice thing to have.”

  “We’ll take it,” Alfred said.

  Dr Sugar replaced the speaker tube, dazed. One of the functionals looked at him quizzically. “Could you put whisky in this?” he asked, holding out his mug.

  It made a reproachful noise and hooked its claws around it. Shaking his head, he joined the other doctors in the Conference Room.

  “You look like death,” Malik remarked.

  He sat down heavily. “Langton’s found a flat. Josh wants to move as soon as.”

  “We knew this day would come,” Ozols said. “Our boy’s grown up!”

  “I didn’t mind it in theory, but -” Sugar raked his fingers through his hair. “How will he manage? What if he gets lost?”

  “He’s got a sensible head on his shoulders. He’ll adapt.” Ozols patted his arm.

  “If not, we can bring him back,” Malik said. With her unerring ability to scent blood, “You’re very quiet, Julia.”

  The handler crushed her cup in her fist. “Can I get some fresh air?”

  “Sure,” “Let’s get some brews,” “We’ll wrap up soon.”

  As the door closed, Fisk heard Sugar stage whisper, “It’ll hit her hardest, being his handler.” Worse, the mirthless ‘Nurrr’ that passed for Malik’s laugh.

  She visited the interface most days, trying to work out where she had gone wrong. Josh seemed no fonder of her, despite her efforts; if anything, he actively pushed her away. He was always running off to spend time with Langton. Even saying his name made her want to smash the arrogant, ravaged face.

  She played back their interactions, tried to learn his secret. She could take Josh out, play silly games, share new experiences. But when she haltingly asked if he would like to go to a museum or help with a crossword, there’d appear a look of such outrage, as though she had profaned a sacrament.

  Now she was crying: ugly wrenching sobs that stained her face and made her eyes bloodshot. She couldn’t go down like this. Everyone would know.

  Why can’t you love me? Why is it so hard?

  ***

  From the day Alfred signed the deeds to the day Josh collected the keys, there was a fortnight’s hectic activity. Josh loved it. He’d wake at eight in the morning, Alfred joining him for breakfast. They tried something new every day, the nadir being when a functional ran off with their first perfect pancake.

  Early on they realised such a huge task was beyond them. Despite her loathing of the metropolis, Nanny took over. She might have been an oddity - people snickered at her pointed hat and croc skin bag - but she knew everything there was to know about homemaking.

  Picking paints with pretentious names. Whittling fabric into curtains and cushions. Turning up curios in junk shops. Bickering that swelled into rows (“Nanny, he won’t need it.” “It’s expected!” “It’s expensive.” “I didn’t raise you to be a tightwad.”) After an epidemic of sulking, one of them - usually Alfred - caved and treated the victor to a cream tea.

  They’d cart it all up to the flat, Montagu growing paler as time went on. Alfred feared he’d pull out but he never did, even when he learned Josh wanted to paint a mural.

  “What of?” the landlord asked.

  “It’s going to be brilliant,” Josh enthused. “There’ll be the sky, the planets and the sea. I’ll put Lady Thea in if there’s room.”

  “I need to lie down,” Montagu murmured.

  Nanny wouldn’t let Alfred near her sewing machine and shooed away any robot who wasn’t Josh. They needed his help with the mural, however.

  “I can’t draw!” he protested.

  “You can colour in.”

  He took the brush and did as Josh directed. “A block of colour here. A hazy wash there.” The artificial followed in his wake, filling in sugar spun clouds or tinsel stars. After three days’ intensive work it was complete.

  “To the flat!” Nanny said. She held the teapot aloft, pinky out.

  “The flat,” Alfred and Josh chorused, clinking mugs.

  The morning of the move they had an early start. Nanny boasted she never had more than four hours’ sleep. She was disgusted by Gwyn’s yawns - “Cover your gob, we don’t want to see your tonsils!”

  Alfred let himself into CER, taking the stairs two at a time. Josh was up and dressed, leaning out into the dawn. “It’s the first time I’ve seen the sunrise,” he said. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  Even in Lux. No, especially in Lux - you could follow its progress through the sky, lighting the dark and making the ugly beautiful . The Forum, the Ira, the streets - all were transformed. As the sun came over the horizon, the towers wavered then snapped to attention.

  “It makes you wonder if there’s something more.” As Alfred raised an eyebrow, “But not quite.”

  “Thank goodness. I thought you’d gone religious on me.”

  They couldn’t stand dreaming all day. Josh went around the suite, singling out some things, dismissing others. He only filled half a suitcase.

  “Are you sure that’s all?” Alfred asked.

  “Hardly any of this is mine. Can you see me in this room?”

  Josh had a point. The furniture had been foraged from a hundred different rooms. Now he’d plucked the dressing gown from the back of the door and put away his paints, it reverted to anonymity.

  The only light burning was Fisk’s office, but if she watched them go, they couldn’t tell. Out into the morning, where Gwyn struggled to stay awake and Nanny pleaded to drive.

  “You’ll do that a quarter after never,” Alfred said. “C’mon Gwynnie, can’t have you snoozing on the controls.”

  “We could fetch a coffee robot,” Josh volunteered. He emitted
a whistle that scraped the limits of human endurance. A functional skated over.

  “This is Frank. Actually, I don’t know what his name is, but he looks like a Frank, doesn’t he? Don’t ask for anything complicated, he’s not very bright. And don’t be mean, it’ll hurt his feelings.”

  Gwyn choked down her cold lumpy offering, Alfred knocked back his battery acid. Fortunately Nanny liked coffee so sweet it limped from the cup.

  Gwyn returned to the controls while Nanny hogged the passenger seat, feigning travel sickness. Alfred and Josh squeezed into the back amidst lamps, folding bookcases and a fish tank. Josh knelt on the seat and watched CER recede in the rear view window.

  “I thought you didn’t care,” Alfred said quietly.

  “I’ve lived there since my creation. I don’t know anything else.”

  “You’re not having second thoughts?”

  “Oh, no!” He sounded surprised. “I’ll miss the bots, though.”

  Nanny came into her own that day. Looping her fox fur over the coat rack, she set to work. First she commanded from a needlepoint stool, pointing with her umbrella; next she beat the rugs, waxed the floors and denuded the beams of cobwebs.

  “Call this clean?” she demanded as she wiped her finger along the skirting board. “Get that old woof to knock a hundred off!”

  Montagu did little more than hover, though he was worth seeing for his night cap and stripy gown. “He looks like a nursery rhyme,” Gwyn said. He couldn’t help with the heavy lifting - he had a “murmur on the old apparatus.”

  “You should get someone to look at it,” Josh said. “Maybe my creator, Dr Sugar -”

  Alfred and Gwyn smacked their foreheads on opposite sides of the room.

  Nine hours of elbow grease, rewiring and picture hanging later, they crashed. Gwyn snored on the settee, Nanny found herself odd jobs. Josh pattered around the flat with enchanted eyes. Alfred joined him.

  “You don’t think we’ve overdone it?” Josh asked. The walls were a fabulous bestiary, gods and monsters crowding the available space.

  “It’s marvellous,” Alfred said. Josh smiled. He knew his friend wasn’t extravagant with praise.