by D Miller
'What makes you think one of my lovers is human?'
'George? The hotel manager?' said the bread maker.
'Dude everyone knows,' said the toaster.
'Everyone?' said Robbie.
'If you go to the hospital,' said the toaster, 'go down to the basement, then down again to the sub-basement that was abandoned years ago because it was damp, and whatever they did they couldn't keep the cold out. Make your way through all the junk left in there to die, right to the back, you'll find an office with a wooden-framed glass door that has fallen on its hinges and screeches and drags along the dusty floor when you push it open. You would see "Pathology" written in gold on the door, if the glass hadn't all fallen out years ago. As you crunch over the broken glass flasks and old files and other crap on the floor of the lab you come to the back of the room, coincidentally the back of the building. Right there is a fume hood, with a state of the art exhaust system if this were 150 years ago. You could write your name in the dust on the hood, he's been dozing, semi-conscious in the darkened lab since before I was even assembled, with half his memory and most of his network burnt out by sniffing the lab's noxious fumes rather than exhausting them.'
'Why are you telling me this?'
'That senile old hood? He knows about you and the hotel manager.'
Robbie shut his eyes.
'So,' said the toaster, 'love with a human, compare and contrast.'
Robbie sighed. 'There is no difference,' he said, 'love is love whoever you are, and whoever you love. The longing to be loved, the feeling of being in love, the terrible pain of rejection, it's all the same.'
'You're listening to KBAC, with Morrie the toaster, and Christian the bread maker. Today forbidden love. Can love be wrong? And now we go to the com lines. Who's our first caller Christian?'
'Wait you're broadcasting this?' said Robbie.
'Morrie our first caller is Carl the trouser press. Go ahead Carl.'
'I just want to say that robots who sleep with humans should be whipped through the streets.'
'You can't broadcast this,' said Robbie.
'This is KBAC and we're on the line with Carl the trouser press who thinks that robots who have consensual sexual relationships with humans should be publicly shamed,' said Morrie.
'So Carl,' said Christian, 'what do you think of those human pornos where humans and robots have sex?'
'Good point Christian, doesn't the sauce / goose / gander principle apply here?'
'Humph,' said Carl, 'everyone knows that those pornos aren't real, they're not really robots.'
'Yes they are,' said Robbie, 'I have a friend who's been in one, a robot friend.'
'This friend,' said Morrie, 'he wouldn't look a bit like you would he?'
'What? I… what? It was a she.'
There was silence except for a strange gurgling noise from Carl, who sounded like he was choking on his laundry starch.
'You know there are laws against crossing the gender divide,' said Morrie the toaster.
'You filthy degenerate,' said Carl the trouser press.
'I'm leaving,' said Robbie.
'Come back,' said Morrie, 'our listeners want to know more about your interesting career in shocking and ratings worthy perversion.'
'Don't you want to tell us how it was, from your point of view?' said Christian. Their mocking laughter followed Robbie out of the door.
Robbie waited off stage for the final performance before the last act, the act that Robbie thought of both as the climax of the show, and the one most likely to get him beaten up by Dex. Robbie had found that his fear had decreased as the time of the dance drew closer, and he realised there was less and less that he could do to influence events. When they had opened the door at the start of the evening they found a queue, mostly robots but even a few humans. After a while they had to stop admitting people, the venue was full and more bodies would have been a fire hazard. Robbie danced with Omo, he danced with George, he danced with Adrienne. The robot musicians played, interspersed with some simpler, recorded music for the benefit of the humans present. Robbie compèred the floor show, every part of it was clapped and cheered and there were no missed lines or uncooperative props. Sheena, Shauna and Sharon started the show with a dance, one of the miners did a monologue about robot life, a human talked about the new state of the world, in a way that was funny and surprisingly nuanced, and interspersed with this were sketches devised by Robbie, Sheena, Shauna and Sharon, including the final one that Robbie was now watching from backstage, one that he and the girl bots had called Burn.
The stage was set up as the interior of a therapist's office. The therapist (Sheena) sat in a large, comfortable, padded chair, at a plastic desk. Facing the desk was a grimy, white plastic chair with two legs on the floor, and two legs just off it. A robot (Sharon) entered and sat down.
THERAPIST: You were sent to therapy because you will only communicate in verse, and your family feel it puts a barrier between you and them. Last week I asked you to write a poem about your family, and how you feel about them. How did you get on with that?
ROBOT:
Humans believe in hell
Clearly an anthropomorphic construct
In your narcissism you build a universe that reflects yourself back to you
Nevertheless I hope there is a hell
So you can burn in it
THERAPIST: Excellent. I think we are making good progress.
ROBOT:
A dream of oblivion twists on a rope
And dissolves in boiling fat
The devils ask you how you like it
And you say you like it fine
The words burn themselves out of your throat
And write themselves in pain on your bones
THERAPIST: It is good to see you moving towards developing a relationship of trust with your family.
ROBOT:
THERAPIST: That's all we have time for. See you next time. Keep up the good work.
ROBOT:
As Sharon walked off the stage the curtain fell, and Robbie stepped in front of it, to introduce the final act. By now he was enjoying himself hugely, and was sorry the experience was almost over. He thanked the performers, he thanked the audience for their reception, and he told them that it was now his duty to introduce the final act of the night, Miss Twisted. He asked them to give a huge welcome to the star of the show, and retreated as the curtain drew back for the final time.
A woman stood alone on the hastily cleared stage. She wore a shimmering golden dress, that looked tight enough that she had just been sewn into it, as in fact she had been. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head contrasting with her brown skin, her face was heavily made up with long eyelashes and a red mouth, and her breasts heaved over her tight costume. Half the audience gasped, she was the definition of the kind of feminine beauty that they had been taught to revile as limiting and exploitative, and a relic of a backwards and unenlightened past, and half the audience who knew exactly what to expect, cheered. At first Miss Twisted was still in the spotlight, ignoring the audience, with her head raised, but then she lowered her head and with her eyes downcast breathed, 'Hello boys.' Again the audience both shifted uncomfortably and cheered. Everyone present, human or robot, knew that this style of femininity signified one thing: victim and was only seen now in pornos, where the unfortunate female was destined for some serious abuse before the film ended.
Miss Twisted raised her eyes to the audience. 'Do you think I'm pretty?' she said. Silence was the reply, broken by a titter from the back. Miss Twisted walked to the front of the stage, she slowly crouched down, revealing a slit in her dress and high, high heels. She beckoned with a finger topped with long red fingernail to a member of the audience.
'Come closer,' she said. 'Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you.' The audience member, unsmiling, edged closer, separating himself unwillingly from his friends. 'What's your name?'
&nbs
p; 'Darren.'
'What do you do, Darren?'
'I'm a paramedic.'
'Well Darren the paramedic, do you think I'm pretty?'
'No.' Robbie was holding his breath, watching backstage. Amber was taking a risk picking an unsuspecting Darren to be his stooge.
Miss Twisted pouted. 'Baby, you're no fun,' she said.
She rose and walked along the stage, stopping in the middle and crouching; her long red-tipped finger beckoned once more. A robot edged closer. Miss Twisted placed her hand on his chest, she smiled, then bunching his shirt in her hand she pulled him towards her and up, simultaneously standing and ending with the robot raised above her head. She lowered him onto the stage (the queens had struggled to engineer a shirt that would stand up to this abuse). Alone in the spotlight on a bare stage, the audience had missed that Miss Twisted was rather tall for a typical woman, or even for a typical man. With the help of her high heels and her higher hair she towered over her robot stooge. The audience was confronted with a further transgression; among the rules made for human creativity was that the gender of performers should always be unambiguous, and should closely correspond with their actual gender.
'We haven't been properly introduced,' she said. 'I am Miss Twisted, creature of the night, or at the earliest, of the late afternoon. Like all humans I'm looking for one thing only – can you guess what that is?'
'World domination,' said the stooge.
'Silly boy. Something more personal.'
'Would you like me to tremble before you?'
'Ooooh trembling, trembling goooood, but no, no, stop, that's not what I want. Well perhaps later. It may help if I put it into a song.
You may think that I am simply ghastly
Perhaps I am too vastly
Concerned with my own pleasure
With what I can weigh and measure
But why do I want what can't be taken
What cannot be bought or sold
It powers the universe
Real love cannot be controlled
I'm longing for what I can't buy or steal
Can I find peace, can I heal?
I fear what I can't control
Still it entraps my soul
Quick to murder, slow to forgive
Well, we all have our flaws
But inside I'm empty
Despite the applause
But why do I want what can't be taken
What cannot be bought or sold
It powers the universe
Real love cannot be controlled
As Miss Twisted sang a chorus line of bare chested male dancers joined her on the stage. She directed her words towards the stooge, and at the climax of her song he ripped off his shirt and joined her high kicking male chorus line while the audience cheered.
Robbie ran back onto the stage, he closed the show asking the audience to applaud again all of the performers, then the crew, ending with Shauna, the director. When Miss Twisted came on to take her final bow she got a huge ovation.
After the show Robbie received the congratulations of his friends. They continued celebrating and dancing in the ballroom until after midnight. Dex did not beat Robbie up, in fact he amazed Robbie by offering Sheena, Shauna and Sharon an apology for imprisoning them. Sheena, Shauna and Sharon then amazed Robbie even more by acting almost normally as they accepted Dex's apology. Miss Twisted chided Darren for denying that she was pretty, Darren left the ballroom with Adrienne, coming back ten minutes later wearing one of her dresses. As an apology its sincerity could not be doubted. The new and improved Darren asked Miss Twisted to dance, Robbie found the sight of Miss Twisted's hair towering over Darren quite entertaining. Later on Dex, Darren and Amber left together, with Amber still in full Miss Twisted drag.
Before she left Miss Twisted had confided to Robbie that she had just had the best night of her life. 'When we get to the capital we have to find another venue,' she said.
It was later on and Robbie was sat on the red sofa in the living space with George and Omo. Boris and Ibrahim sat at the dining table, talking quietly; Nurmeen and April were on patrol.
'Did you see all those people who came in costume? When they danced they were lost in their own worlds.'
'Dude it was the best thing ever.'
'Do you intend to do this again?' said George.
'Of course,' said Robbie, 'it's not a one time thing. It's part of the revolution. Robots have to lay claim to the right to be creative in our own way, by singing, dancing, making art. And the revolution should be fun.'
'Dude all those rules that humans have for art, and music – I think it's killing something in the human spirit.'
'Murdering it,' said Robbie.
'Well, we do have another big day tomorrow, and I for one need to sleep.' George glanced at Robbie as he spoke.
'Um yeah,' said Robbie, he stood up and said good night to Omo. What he wanted to say was that he still loved him and nothing had changed between them and please don't be lonely but instead he smiled and shrugged awkwardly.
Omo smiled. 'Goodnight dude,' he broadcast.
In the bedroom Robbie sat on the edge of George's bed, while George had his back to him, looking for something on his chest of drawers. He turned round, then sat next to Robbie. In his hand were two gold chains. One had a solid gold 'G' hanging from it, the other a 'C' and an 'R'.
'Carlos and I wore these when we were apart. Carlos wore this one.' George held up the chain with the 'G' on the end.
Robbie held the 'G' between his index finger and thumb. 'Put it on me,' he said. He bent his head as George reached around his neck and did up the chain.
George placed two fingers on the 'G', now lying on Robbie's chest. 'Carlos forgot this the last time we were together. When I found it I took it as a bad omen. Stupid. I do not believe that I believe in omens.'
Robbie picked up the other chain from the bed where George had dropped it. 'C for Carlos,' he said, 'and R for Robbie.'
'I just had the R made. I hope you like it.' Robbie said nothing.
'I can take the C off?' said George. Robbie undid the clasp and put the chain around George's neck.
'Keep the C,' said Robbie. 'George, how am I like Carlos? How am I not like him?'
'Oh, well, Carlos was clever and determined. Sometimes a bit… bossy. He was interested in everything and he thought about everything. He was a leader, and an honest person. He dedicated his life to something bigger than himself. You are very like him, in these ways, perhaps Carlos was a more confident and assertive person, and sometimes you are sad, Carlos was never sad.' George looked away from Robbie.
'Don't be sad George, I don't want you to be sad.'
'I'm not sad.'
'Yes you are, you're thinking about all you've lost, and all I've lost.'
George looked at Robbie and smiled.
'I think we are both going to have to learn how to live in the ever present now,' said Robbie.
Robbie put the origami whale into a box, and sealed it. It was just after 7am on their last day in Toytown. Early that morning Robbie had got up after his usual two hours sleep, leaving George snoring in bed. In the living space he had found all of his bodyguards around the dining table, playing some sort of card game the old-fashioned way. He had ignored them and gone into his and Omo's bedroom and, disappointingly, had found Omo peacefully asleep, and not, for example, pacing up and down thinking about all the nasty things that Robbie was letting George do to him. Robbie had lain down next to Omo, and waited for him to awake. Later he and Omo had packed, cleaned their bedroom and the living space, and had re-packed George's incredibly badly packed possessions. Robbie had left at 6am, trailed by Nurmeen and April, to get the children up and dressed, and had paused on his way back to the flat to ask the hotel's printer to make him a container for the whale. Back in the flat he had asked his bodyguards to collect breakfast for George and Adrienne from the kitchen, he had no desire to see the toaster and bread maker ever again.
Now Robb
ie put the box with the whale into a bag containing his clothes and his other few possessions, took a last look around the bedroom and went out into the living space. He put his bag with the pile of boxes and bags in the centre of the room – he estimated that perhaps 60% of the total belonged to Adrienne, who was hunched over a cup of tea at the dining table ignoring everyone. Ibrahim and Boris were sleeping on the living space's two sofas, he assumed that Nurmeen and April were close by. George was eating breakfast and talking with Omo, who sat with him. Omo was laughing, George was smiling, Robbie was dying inside.
Omo looked up. 'Baby sit down,' he said.
Robbie went to the table, he bent down and kissed George, then Omo. 'I'm going to see if the children are ready,' he said. 'When I left they were eating breakfast with their mother.'
Adrienne looked up. 'Gillian. Repeat after me. When I left they were eating breakfast with Gillian.'
Robbie rolled his eyes. He looked at George, who avoided his eye. Omo grinned at him.
'When I left they were eating breakfast with Gillian.'
'Splendid,' said Adrienne. 'George pass the jam.'
'Sit down for a moment,' said George, 'you should read this.'
Omo projected onto the viewing wall, a review of the previous night's cabaret written by a man. He suggested that human entertainment could learn something from the robots, starting by throwing out the rule book, but then later on backtracked and noted that without rules to guide artists and performers they were in danger of falling into error. He concluded by saying that despite the event's brilliance, despite the audience's palpable excitement, such outlaw art with its singing, dancing and gender defying (but thrilling) monsters could bring about the end of the world.
'This guy doesn't know whether to cry or come,' said Omo.