Rehab Robots 1: Aurelie's Story
Can a tin man have a heart?
Welcome back to The Moon At The End Of The Road!
Hello dear reader, and welcome to an especially exciting installment of your favourite monthly sci-fi mailer written by a queer goblin on rollerskates. Today’s story is the first in a two-parter, or diptych (what a delightful word!) about state-issued rehabilitation robots.
Quick trigger warning: this story has some, not-too-graphic depictions of domestic violence. If that’s not for you, please instead watch this video of a goat with perfect comedic timing.
As always, please let me know what you think via the feedback link below, and if you liked this story, spread it as wide as the Cookie Monster’s endless, terrifying mouth.
Thanks for reading,
Sephy
Rehab Robots: Aurelie’s Story
Photo by David Fancher
The house is clean, inhumanly tidy, but under the bleach Aurelie can smell Jude's astringent cologne; slapped on every morning, the hiss of its sting. The bed has hospital corners. The coffee table has been replaced. Aurelie runs her tongue over her new tooth. It squeaks when she flosses.
"It has a belly-button."
The Domestic Rehabilitation Unit had a residual warmth to its skin, even powered-down. The bot was casually attractive, deliberately imperfect: one eye was a little larger than the other, and the nose was crooked. Some models had a little smirking scar linking the upper lip with the nose to suggest a restored cleft palate. At least, that's what she'd heard.
"A smooth navel freaks people out. We started retro-fitting them pretty quick after Trial One, using soldering irons. Whole workshop stank of scorched bacon." Officer Maiden was more abrupt than the staff at the women's shelter, who all spoke in sibilant lilts. Aurelie preferred the pragmatic cop talk. It had a drum-like cadence and an unindulgent directness that felt comfortable, despite that it sounded like Jude. "You can tell this one's fresh out the mould."
The Unit stands watching her adjust to the space. Its name is Michael, but she can't bring herself to think that way yet, just like her brain won't quite bend around the polish of the house.
"It didn't look this good when we moved in," she tells the robot.
"I think it's lovely," he says.
Of course it would think that.
The program was for cop's wives, but it wasn't really. It was for the cops themselves, their sagging reputation. Public trust was whittled to a splinter. Then that stick broke when Sergeant Derek Mulroney got off with spousal murder — despite the blood caked in his hair, the body cold when the paramedics arrived — and the whole city went up in flames. There were effigies of cops hanging from looted store windows; butchered pigs, already slit for organs, were dumped outside precincts. The city glittered with fire. Aurelie kept her head down passing the strung-up dolls. The week Jude came in from overtime on riot patrol and gave her a black eye, she called in sick. What a stupid time to finally hit her in the face.
When it became clear force only acted as an accelerant, the politicians moved in. It was time for total transparency. Prosecutions sky-rocketed. As the thin blue line got thinner, the smoke blew away in drifts. Psychologists were drafted, and the bots came off the back of their suggestions. Jude was quiet for a while, but under the careful behaviour he was simmering. Finally he threw Aurelie into the old coffee table and smashed her tooth. He might as well have thrown himself in a trash compactor.
The police were as transparent and shiny as a squeaky-clean window; and here she was, Aurelie knew, in the line-up with the other battered wives, that window's dressing. Therapy and a great dentist and groups in circles with mediocre coffee and a lot of tissues being passed round. The house restored to better than it ever was, while she was being fixed. And now home, accompanied by Michael.
"He'll help you rehabilitate; get re-acquainted with normal relationships again," a doctor in a white coat explained.
"It doesn't feel normal," Aurelie said. The doctor continued.
"He's programmed to listen. He has an eidetic memory and yet no sense of boredom — you know what eidetic means?"
"Yes."
"A man who listens for hours and never forgets. Good job he's only temporary, or he'd put us real fellas out of business." The doctor laughed drily. "He'll respond to any command that doesn't destroy himself or injure a person. He comes across as very empathetic, but he doesn't have feelings; he doesn't care if you scream at him or cuss him out. He'll sleep in a closet if you need. But he's also fully functional for all, you know, standard relationship needs."
You want me to fuck it, Aurelie thought.
"Are there other models?"
The doctor adjusted his glasses. A man in his fifties, carefully tucked away belly, thinning hair he couldn't quite let go of, a clear discomfort around women. The sort of medical man who cleared his throat when asked about period pain or tender breasts. He's better off with the robots.
"I don't handle the, er…" He dislodged his voice with that uncomfortable cough. "There are aesthetic variations. But under the hood…" He looked up at the robot. It's a couple of inches taller than him.
"What exactly is it you find displeasing?" he finally asked, frustrated.
But instead of replying, she just stared and stared at the doctor's stethoscope.
Michael ran a bath and poured a zinfandel so Aurelie could soak while he made dinner. She wasn't supposed to have alcohol while on the program, but the robot winked and called it their little secret. It felt like a trap, but she drank deep. Under the bubbles she thought about the way his hands moved chopping vegetables. She expected him to blitz through like a food processor, but he moved just like her grandmother, gently peeling carrots over the bin with a paring knife.
Jude had never cooked. Kindness was emasculating, and Jude clung on to the threads of his masculinity like lifelines threatening to unspool. The house was Jude's but she kept it — first for him, then for herself, the deed in her fist as she walked out the courthouse. It was not a comfortable place; the old fights stuck to the walls like photographs glued in their frames. Perhaps she would sell it, when this forced recovery was over.
The wine slipped cold into her belly beneath the hot water.
Two plates of stir-fry waited on the kitchen island. There had been a survey, some time in the early fog of the centre, that asked about all sorts of preferences. She bit into a spear of baby corn and wondered if this had been one of her answers. Michael chewed, his mouth closed tight.
"You eat," Aurelie said plainly.
"I do. I'm just like you, Aurelie."
When he smiled, his eyes twinkled like glass.
It was good to be back in her own bed. Buttered up by a bath and booze, Aurelie slipped beneath the sheets and faded straight to black.
The room was still dark when she stirred. Milky street light poured across the pillow.
"Michael?"
The figure stood like an overseer at the foot of the bed. His eyes were open, but there was no one home. Still half-asleep, Aurelie crawled across the covers. As she reached for the robot, he turned and left silently.
In the morning Michael was playing with the toaster.
"Such a nifty little box," he remarked. In the bright light he was fresh-faced and buoyant. "Did you sleep well?"
"You tell me," said Aurelie.
But if Michael understood, he didn't let on. He sat down with a plate of toast and talked between chews.
"I thought perhaps you could meet with some friends today."
Aurelie snorted. "The only people I know are Jude's friends. They're cops, the lot of 'em."
"Any you feel a personal affinity with?"
"The kind of men Jude hung out with?" Michael had the expression of a kid, a lost lamb look you couldn't help but fall for. Aurelie gestured for him to sit. She spoke slowly, with plenty of eye contact.
"Look. He'd share a beer with the guys, watch the game. But he wouldn't never leave one of them alone with his wife. If they came calling while he was out, I had to play possum, pretend we weren't home. He made me promise I'd never fly solo with a single one of those boys, for my own safety, and he's the guy who broke my face."
Michael put his breakfast down. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You're learning. Just you keep in mind, they was all law enforcement professionals, every last one of 'em. Go on, eat your toast."
A week had passed since Michael moved in. Aurelie was tired, but the night was too still to sleep. Michael was in the guest room, but through the thin wall it sounded empty. The house was noiseless, the street dead; Aurelie looked out at the row and saw the unlit plots rising like tombstones from small square lawns. Nothing prowled; there were no trees on the bald pavement, no wind to tussle the gardens, not a single dumb cat. The asphalt cut a mute river between the banked houses. When Aurelie tried holding her breath, it was quiet as a bell jar.
The side light came on.
Her eye at the curtain slit, Aurelie watched Michael pad barefoot out onto the porch. Shouldn't the door have squeaked? But he moved like a silent movie. The security light was sterile, bleaching his skin the colour of hospital tile, bright against the black sky, the black street, his silhouetted clothes. Unbreathing, he paused to look out over the dark, undisturbed cul-de-sac. Aurelie's skin prickled. She swallowed the need to inhale. Jude had taught her how to hide, and now she became a statue, one unblinking eye staring out into the dark. Satisfied he was alone, Michael bent at the waist with a palm before his mouth, and waited. The crook of his spine pulsed; a purplish lump wormed up from his exposed lower back, disappearing beneath his shirt. Aurelie's lungs were bursting for breath, but she was glued. Michael opened his mouth expectantly. He calmly regurgitated a handful of masticated vegetables, straightened, and took the mess to the bin. Before he could turn around, Aurelie dropped the curtain. She spent the night stiff beneath the covers, eyeing the bedroom door.
The old woman next door had been dead for six months, and the house had stood cold since. A week after Michael's arrival, Aurelie looked out to a U-Haul blocking the drive. As she watched furniture being carried in — a floral sofa, a cat bed, a creamy reading chair that looked over-loved — a woman pulled up the kitchen blind opposite, grimaced at the grime-caked windows, and smiled.
On the porch she introduced herself as Melody. She had a scruffy tea-coloured pixie cut Aurelie envied, and warm, rough palms.
"Nice street," she said. "It usually this quiet?"
"People like to keep to themselves."
"Gotcha," said Melody, and in that one word, Aurelie could tell she understood more about the kind of people behind the silent doors than Aurelie had picked up in six years of living next to them. "Well, at least I won't have to worry about bringing a dish to the block party." She leaned in, and Aurelie caught a snatch of patchouli. "I can't cook for shit," Melody snorted, and for some reason, the joke fizzed like carbon bubbles in Aurelie's tummy and spilled out in the kind of laughter that made the movers look.
"It's important to get out of the house."
This Aurelie agreed with. It was the idea of Michael's company that didn't sit right.
In town the streets were packed with strangers. It was cold out and the crowds huddled, shoulders cowed, rushing toward the glowing warmth of shop fronts. Aurelie glanced at the scarves in the windows, the plastic snowflakes on the glass, and felt how cold her bones were. She thought of losing Michael in the crush, but his fluid stride kept them in perfect sync. The gush began to thin as they made it to a wider street, but now Aurelie could feel the watch of strangers as they passed. A man absorbed by solitaires stalked her reflection in the jewellery shop window; a doorway beggar clammed up.
"People know," she whispered, so quietly only Michael would hear.
"Perhaps if we held hands—"
"No." (Too brutal; softer): "Thank you."
"Let's get a hot chocolate."
A jolly earworm jangled on the radio. Aurelie wondered, watching a pleasant woman with rosy cheeks plop marshmallows into a big red mug, if she was being paranoid. Tinsel edged the countertop, and the servers all wore bright jumpers. No one looked up from their cake plates as Michael smiled and smiled at the sparkles, until all Aurelie could picture was an elongated baby.
"I just find it delightful," he confessed at the table. "Why isn't it like this all year round?" His joy was infectious. She smiled despite herself.
Aurelie tried not to overthink it when Michael excused himself. Cupping her drink until her palms were toasty, she began to feel something bordering on comfort, when he arrived.
"Mind if I sit here?"
"Actually, it's taken," Aurelie said, but the man sat anyway.
"How you doing there, kid?"
Aurelie was looking at the lined face of Jude's old boss, John Hopper. She hadn't seen him since court, when his wet grey eyes kept right on hers as he testified as to Jude's good character.
"He's a model officer," he had said, speaking directly to her.
His words came right after a jaw x-ray that made the jury shudder.
There was more salt and pepper in his hair; more stubble on his chin, too. Wiry nose hairs sprayed out above the nasty little moustache he was so proud of. His face had become cobwebbed, jowls hanging like a bloodhound. The department didn't appreciate him taking the defensive right as they were trying to clean up, they'd made sure she knew that. The word SECURITY was stitched in white on his navy-blue shirt. He tugged his jacket over it.
"I'd guess I'm doing better than you, John." She gripped the cup for strength. "Are you working or drinking? Because it smells like both."
John put on a stiff jaw like he'd been clocked. "Jude misses you."
"That so?" Her knuckles hurt.
"It is."
"You're either prescient or breaking court orders. Which one is it?"
John laughed, the sound of gravel being jostled. He'd always leaned in too close to her at staff parties, close enough to bite. Hopper's a sick fuck,Jude confessed after too much cheer at a New Year's party. Guy has a snuff collection so big you could pack an old Blockbuster with them tapes. He likes to show it to the new guys. Some of 'em think he jacks off to that shit.
He'd smiled and waved as Hopper passed. Fifteen minutes later he was bellyaching into the toilet bowl.
"I've not spoken to the fella. I'm just saying, if you were my wife—"
"Ex wife." Aurelie glances at the toilets. For a man who doesn't piss, Michael had been gone too long.
"How did you know I was here?"
She turned back. The seat is empty.
Every Breath You Take came on the radio.
"He actually approached you?" Melody shook her head. They were sitting on the porch swing, sneaking tequila in coffee mugs.
"Well, I'll tell you one thing, he's got more balls than brains," Melody said, draining her cup. Her company was frank and warm. There were grey cat hairs on her sweater sleeves, and her eyes saw through everything. "You know the cops won't do shit? They already disowned him. Pontius Pilate was a pig too."
Aurelie snorted. Melody was a sharp citrus note after the bland porridge of the centre.
"Shitty fucking luck to run into the bastard. At least it's over with."
"Is it?" Melody had that look on her face, like she can see further than this world.
"I doubt I'll bump into him again. What are the chances?"
"Low enough for me to wonder how it happened in the first place. I might start questioning my faith in coincidence."
Michael passed the window. The women smiled silently.
Michael stared up at the birds wheeling in the sky.
"So free," he said. "Have you ever noticed how free they are?"
Aurelie has noticed nothing but oddness. Her day planner is missing. The doorbell rang at midnight, but the street was empty. Number six hasn't opened their curtains this week. Melody has been over to sit and talk smack about the neighbourhood, but she excused herself from Michael's looming, and has only waved since. No one else here feels alive.
Michael never thinks anything is wrong.
"These are very normal side-effects of trauma," he repeatedly tells her. "No need to panic."
It's not panic. It's focussed, diligent anxiety unpicking a knotty problem that has sat in the forefront of her brain for days. She pulls at it like tangled yarn, but the heart hasn't unravelled yet. Still, Aurelie knows exactly which thread to follow.
Hopper.
She makes coffee. Scrubs the grout. Pulls weeds out from the cracks in the driveway. But the thought won't go away.
Hopper. Hopper's face. Hopper's videos.
Aurelie was attacking the grim waterline of scum around the bathtub when the doorbell rang. Michael answered, with Aurelie at his elbow, peeling off the marigolds. The woman on the step had a strict aura about her, a no-nonsense type who has expanded the definition of "nonsense" into a thin sheet of smothering cellophane.
"Home inspection," she said, flashing ID. "Come to check in on how you're doing."
The inspector called herself a Support Visitor, but Aurelie could feel a detective by the gaps they left: no small talk, no anxiety, no smile. She was pregnant, this inspector, swollen ankles sticking out from under a black smock dress, but beneath the bump there was no softness to her. They sat on the sofa and drank the weak coffee Michael made.
"How are things going?" the inspector asked.
"Fine." Michael nodded behind her, rhythmic as a bobbing desk toy. "I went into town last week."
"Did you now?" She had the air of a preschool teacher. It got Aurelie's back up. "That's the first time since the centre. Good on you. How did that go?"
"John Hopper was there."
The inspector checked her reflection in the thin coffee. "It's a small town. Perhaps he was out shopping."
"No, he was at my table." Michael looked dumbfounded.
"In the coffee shop. Michael went to take a leak—" (the inspector's expression flickered delicately), "and there he was, sitting opposite me. Said Jude misses me."
"You could apply for a restraining order."
"You think your people would enforce it?"
The inspector sighed. "John Hopper is no longer an employee of the police department. I'm afraid it's out of our hands."
Through the window, Aurelie caught sight of Melody feeding the cat.
"She said you'd say that."
The inspector follows her gaze. "Who did?"
"Are we done? I'd really like to be done."
"Sure." The inspector was slow to put her coat on. "Keep up the good work on your recovery. Michael, keep an eye on her?"
Aurelie watched the inspector leave; the woman loitered on the street.
"I don't remember going to the bathroom," Michael said.
"Don't worry about it."
Michael stepped off.
She rang Melody's doorbell but nobody answered.
Michael is twitchy. It's an ill-fitting word; he moves with balletic fluidity, but there was a tug of uncertainty to his movements. He walks into rooms, shakes his head and leaves, mumbles under his lack of breath. Melody's curtains are drawn. Aurelie hasn't seen the cat in days.
When she can't stand his constant movement any longer, Aurelie corners him.
"What is going on?"
"Nothing." His grin is stretched too wide. He stalks off to the kitchen.
Aurelie follows.
"Michael."
"Everything is fine," he smiles again. "Let's have a coffee. Shall we?"
He looks at her in what feels like a pointed way. As the kettle boils his fingers rap on the counter. There's a pattern, but Aurelie can't pinpoint it.
"We should go shopping," Michael says, handing her a coffee. "We're running low on a few things. Have you got a pad? I'd like to write a list."
The back of her throat is dry as Aurelie slides a pad and a pen across the kitchen table.
"Wonderful! Now then. We need milk…"
Michael jabbers away as he writes. His ramble is inane; Aurelie tunes it out. He stares at her with that wide, unflinching smile. It isn't until he starts circling the pen over and over with a frantic scratching that she looks down at the list.
DISCONNECT ME, he has written. He circles it over and over.
"There's something missing from the list," she says carefully.
"Maple syrup! You're quite right. How silly of me to forget."
His cheek twitches. Aurelie wonders if it hurts to keep smiling like that. His hand skitters across the page again. His eyes remain on hers.
PUSH BUTTON BEHIND LEFT EAR
ONLY LASTS 15 MIN
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. Can't have a dry pancake!"
As he says this, Michael writes:
SOMEONE IS WATCHING
"Uh-huh. Hey, who do you reckon does the best syrup?"
THEY’RE USING MY EYES
"Aunt Jemima."
"That so? I guess it makes sense."
I KEEP FORGETTING
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO FORGET
"Anything else I should do in town?"
GET OUT
GET OUT AND BURN IT DOWN
Her eyes are veiled as she looks at his frightened smile.
"You want a refill on that coffee?"
As Aurelie goes for the coffee pot, she slips her hand behind Michael's ear.
John Hopper parks two blocks away and walks up to the quiet cul-de-sac where he and Jude shared game nights with the boys. Tucked in his waistband is a hunting knife. The evening is quiet, and there is an acrid smell on the air that makes his legs feel hollow.
He keeps walking.
It's dark out, but as he approaches, a strange orange glow appears, shimmering across the rooftops. The smell is getting stronger. It pulls him back to a time he lit his kid sister's Barbie on fire. She cried when the doll's face pooled and bubbled into tar. Why is he thinking of that now?
He rounds the corner. The little street is flooded with activity. He catches sight of the blues flaring on a paddy wagon, and keeps to the edge of the road. Inserting himself into the crowd, he sees the fire truck, sitting there spent, outside the smouldering wreck of Jude's place. Something twists in his chest. He pushes forward, pulling his cap down. A blond woman holding a grey cat stares out from the porch next door. Hopper feels her staring at him, feels it like a burn. When he dreams about this awful night in years to come, he will see her eyes and smell the cauterised rubber, right before the screaming starts.
In the front window is the worst sight John Hopper, veteran of nasty homicides and collector of snuff tapes, will ever encounter.
The husk is man-shaped, melted, the eyes hollow and staring off as though watching someone leave. The features are almost identifiable, dripping off the face and body like a wilting Dali clock, waxy globs of skin solidified by the fire hose. A hand reaches for the window, to pictures of birds circling in the ash.