I was introduced to science fiction through the writings of Ray Bradbury (who was a friend and writing mentor when I was a teenager), Isaac Asimov, and the wonderful Adam Link stories by Eando Binder. I was Team Robot from the jump. I loved Robbie from Forbidden Planet and Robot from Lost in Space. I loved the Space Giants TV show, which was about a family of robots. I have statues of robots—stationary and windup—on my bookshelves. And about the only dance moves I can manage are sad approximations of the Robot.
Besides, robots are cool. They bring with them a sense of mystery. Especially in this modern era, where artificial intelligence, nanotechnology, and robotics are heading toward the very real possibility of mechanical constructs who can legitimately think. Not programmed responses, but self-awareness. Now, I know, you’re thinking Skynet and about a zillion cautionary tales of the technological singularity. I don’t buy that part of it. Why would self-awareness instantly lead to hostility? Maybe what we’d get is a kind of benign, powerful, well-informed innocence. That’s where I’m placing my wildly optimistic bet.
Right now the most I can do is have decidedly one-sided conversations with my Roomba, but that could change.
Any ol’ day now.
So, sure. Team Robot.
JUST ANOTHER LOVE SONG
by Kat Howard
The first time I tried to sing a man’s death, he laughed. Then he asked me out.
I was busking downtown. It can make for long days, standing outside in the ebb and flow of people, none of whom are actually there to see you, but I can also make pretty decent money, and even the longest day busking is better than a short one spent locked in an office, or working retail.
Plus, I do have a bit of an extra advantage. Being a banshee means my voice is a tool—I can harmonize with myself, run vocal loops, all sorts of stuff that has people looking around for cords and reverb pedals and a laptop where I must be programming things. Sorry, folks. No electronics. Just me. And my fairy blood.
Things had gotten a little weird that summer. Fae had gone missing, and without any obvious reason. No bodies had turned up, there were no rumors that unpleasant humans were making life difficult for those of us who didn’t quite fit in, no hints as to what was happening. Just Fae, gone. Four so far, and in the span of under a month. Completely creepy, and moving toward terrifying. So I noticed things, more than I normally would have.
And I noticed the guy, who pushed his way from the back of the crowd around to the front. I noticed, and then my magic did.
Before I saw him, I’d never felt the call to use the darker side of my inheritance and be an omen or sing a death, which, honestly, I had been fine with. It wasn’t a part of my power I wanted to use. I mean, we live in a society: I don’t need to be breaking out the wailing and watching people drop dead in my wake to be happy. But as he came closer, I felt as if my blood had turned to fog. Magic rose up in my throat, so full and fast that I wondered that I could still sing at all, around the lump of it.
Then, in the middle of singing all of Carly Rae Jepsen’s harmonies at once, I let out a wail. One that should have stopped his heart in his chest, and his breath in his lungs.
It didn’t work.
He laughed. “Forget the lyrics?”
No, I had not.
“Well, look, do you take requests? I want you to sing me a love song. One that’s just for me.”
“No,” I said.
“If you won’t do that, then maybe you’ll go out with me? I’m Trent, by the way.” He looked expectant, as if his dimples ought to be enough to make me give up my name. They weren’t.
“Very no,” I said.
“Come on, just one cup of coffee—I’m a musician too.”
Of course he was.
He was good-looking, I’ll give him that, but he had the kind of attitude that suggested he knew to the ounce precisely how good-looking he was, and expected the world to make his life easier because of it. “I’m busy tonight, sorry.” I stared, waiting for him to turn pale and faint. Or for blood to leak like tears from his eyes. For something. Anything.
“Your number. Could I at least get your number?” A smile and a step closer, his eyes twinkling at me. “I promise I’ll only use it for business purposes—I’m putting together a band, and I think you’d be perfect.”
“Still no.” He looked disgustingly healthy and sounded like he was having no problems breathing. The magic hadn’t worked. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. I gathered up the Wonder Woman lunch box I used to collect money in, and left.
His voice followed me. “What? Do you have a boyfriend or something? I promise I’m more fun.”
“Drop dead,” I said. I waited until I got to the corner to glance back and see if that had worked any better than the singing. Nope. Still alive. “Shit.”
As I walked home, I thought I heard someone singing. A love song—desire and longing. I shook my head and walked faster.
*
“You sang what you were supposed to?” my roommate, Sarah, asked. Sarah is a brownie, which is the best possible thing for a roommate to be. She’s a brilliant cook, keeps the apartment both spotless and roach free, and actually likes doing the laundry.
“I mean, I think so. I’ve never done it before, but the wail welled right up when I saw him.” I could still feel the sensation of fog, cold air, and loneliness lingering in my throat, like it wasn’t finished, like it might come back.
“Maybe he didn’t realize what you were doing,” Sarah said.
“What, he figured I spontaneously burst into howls while singing, and that turned him on so much he had to ask me out?”
“Guys have liked stranger things, Mairead, you know this,” she said.
“True. But it shouldn’t matter whether he realized or not. That’s not how the magic is supposed to work. Ugh, maybe I’m broken.” I rubbed my throat. Part of me was glad it hadn’t worked. I liked the part of my magic that let me sing. I didn’t even mind having a voice that could be a weapon. But if it was, I wanted to be in control of it, to be able to decide how and when I used that part of my magic. Bad enough the magic wasn’t working when I wanted it to, I didn’t want to have to worry that I’d reach for a high note and wind up with someone keeling over mid-chorus.
I shook my head, and shook the thought aside. “Speaking of singing, there’s a new band at Purple Reign tonight. Want to come?”
Sarah shook her head. Like a lot of brownies, with their tight ties to the house they dwell in and care for, Sarah is agoraphobic. She’s not totally housebound, and she’s told me that she appreciates it when I invite her places. So I do—she’s my friend. And it doesn’t bother me when she says no, like she usually does. “Not this time, thanks. There’s this new recipe I want to try, one of those fifty-layer cakes, and it takes a long time.”
I let out a sound that was less of a wail and more of a groan of sugar-filled anticipation. “Sounds amazing. I look forward to taste-testing it for you.”
“I knew I could count on your help,” she said.
I grinned.
“Maybe take a cab tonight, though. There was another disappearance today.”
“Another?” I asked. “Who this time?”
“The púca that lives in Central Park.”
“Seriously?”
Sarah nodded.
“Still no hint as to what’s going on?”