He leaned against the work bench. “Okay. Okay, okay.” Frustration began to simmer. He tried to ignore it. “Alternate power sources?”

  “Rambo,” Nurse Ratched said. “If you are okay with sacrificing him, I am sure it could be a temporary fix.”

  Rambo peeked out from underneath the table. “Did you say you wanted to sacrifice me?”

  “Yes,” Nurse Ratched said. “That is correct.”

  “I object!”

  “Duly noted. Your objection will be taken into consideration. Considering. Considering. Consideration complete.” Her screen lit up with the words CONSIDERATION DENIED. PREPARE FOR SACRIFICE.

  “We’re not going to sacrifice you,” Vic said.

  “Today,” Nurse Ratched said ominously. Then, “This android is almost as old as me, but requires much more energy than I do. His battery is corroded, and I would advise against trying to charge it. It will explode and shrapnel will enter your body, causing death. Feel free to proceed if you do not believe me. I will watch from a safe distance.”

  “There has to be some way,” Vic said, that angry simmer starting to boil over. “He can’t just—he was alive. You saw it.”

  “We did,” Nurse Ratched said. “But you are not asking the right questions.”

  “What should I be asking, then?”

  “If you should be bringing him back at all.”

  Vic frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “He was decommissioned for a reason. Either he was corrupted, or faulty, or damaged and not worth repairing and therefore unnecessary.”

  “That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be fixed,” Vic said. He glanced at the android’s face before looking away. “Everything deserves a chance.”

  Nurse Ratched was silent for a moment. Then, “Dream logic. Wistfulness. Empathy. These describe you. That is unfortunate. It would be better if you were a machine. Silly human emotions.” Her screen flashed blue before darkening. “But I like your existence. It pleases me. Should we find a way to repair him, what if he tries to hurt you? Do I have your permission to destroy him?”

  “Ooh,” Rambo said from underneath the table. “I want to help if he does that.” A pause. “But only after he’s already dead so he doesn’t step on me and crush me. I’m still brave!” he added quickly.

  “I need time to think,” Vic said. “I’ll—”

  A knock on the laboratory door.

  Vic’s eyes widened.

  “Victor?” Dad asked through the door. “Are you in there?”

  “Oh no,” Rambo whispered. “He’s going to see. What do we do? What do we do?”

  “Stall him,” Vic hissed. Nurse Ratched almost ran over his feet as she rolled toward the door. Vic grabbed a large, heavy tarp lying folded under the work bench.

  “Who is it, please?” Nurse Ratched asked through the door.

  “Giovanni,” Dad said, sounding bemused. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”

  “Just making sure,” Nurse Ratched said as Vic threw the tarp over the android. “You can never be too careful.”

  “Is Victor in there with you?”

  “He is,” Nurse Ratched said. “He is indisposed at the moment.”

  “O . . . kay. Why? What’s going on?”

  Rambo tugged on the tarp hanging over on the other side of the table, pulling on it frantically.

  “He is masturbating,” Nurse Ratched said.

  Vic choked.

  “Yes,” Nurse Ratched continued. “Though Victor identifies as asexual, it is still perfectly natural to explore the wonder that is the human body. I am merely observing to make sure he is doing it correctly. Victor, you need to loosen your grip. It will break off if you are not careful.” She turned around, her screen showing a thumbs-up.

  Vic said, “I—you can’t—I’m not—”

  “It is fine,” Nurse Ratched said. “Everyone does it. Well. That’s not necessarily true. I do not do it. Rambo does not do it. Giovanni, do you—”

  “I’ll come back later,” Dad said hastily. “Just . . . keep doing what you’re doing, I guess.”

  “See?” Nurse Ratched said. “Everything is fine. Masturbation is healthy. In men, it can help reduce the risk of prostate cancer. Studies showed that men who ejaculate an average of twenty times per month are less likely to—He is gone. Whew. That was close. You are welcome for assisting you.” The picture of a rectum with flashing arrows disappeared from her screen.

  Vic was flustered. His hands twitched. “Why would you say that?”

  Nurse Ratched beeped. “About masturbation? Because I am a nurse, and it is in my programming to be knowledgeable about specific subjects, like masturbation and gangrene.”

  “You didn’t have to tell him that,” Vic snapped, skin buzzing. Once, when he was fifteen, he’d come across the idea of sex and sexual practices in a book. Unsure of what he was reading—he knew about the idea of procreation, but this specific scene was between two men, and seemed to be for pleasure—he’d gone to Nurse Ratched to ask. He’d considered his father, but that made his stomach twist, oily and heavy. Nurse Ratched had given a long and involved presentation (complete with photographs and videos that would haunt Vic’s dreams for months to come), and by the time she was finished, Vic was sweating, confused, and—per Nurse Ratched—did not appear to be experiencing the feeling of arousal. Sex seemed complicated, unnecessary. Sticky, and involved in ways that Vic couldn’t bring himself to appreciate.

  It wasn’t until Nurse Ratched explained that sexuality was on a spectrum that it started to make more sense. She said it wasn’t unheard of for people to identify as asexual, meaning those who were “ace” didn’t experience attraction in the same way others did. Sex-positive or sex-repulsed, there was no wrong way to be.

  “So I’m not malfunctioning?” Vic had asked nervously, mulling the word “asexual” over in his mind.

  “You are not,” Nurse Ratched had replied. “I also do not experience sexual attraction, and I am perfect. The same could arguably be said about you.”

  Even armed with this new knowledge, discussing sex or self-gratification made Vic uncomfortable. If asked, he probably wouldn’t be able to explain why with any clarity, only knowing the way it rankled him. Nurse Ratched telling Dad he was masturbating crossed a line he hadn’t known was there.

  Nurse Ratched must have sensed this. “I apologize, Victor. I did not mean to make you feel embarrassed. Here. Have a lollipop. Error. Lollipop distributor empty. Please refill.”

  “Just . . . please don’t do that again.”

  “I will not. Since I have brought down the mood of the room, allow me to make amends. Would you like to hear a joke?”

  “Yes!” Rambo cried. “Jokes, jokes, jokes!”

  “Wonderful. Here is a joke. Why did the robot murder everyone?”

  Rambo spun in circles. “I have no idea. Why?”

  “The robot murdered everyone because they kept pressing its buttons. Ha, ha. Get it? Because robots sometimes have buttons, and pressing buttons is also a phrase that intimates causing irritation.”

  Rambo’s arms drooped as he slowed. “I don’t get it.”

  “That is fine,” Nurse Ratched told him. “It is high-brow intellectual humor. It is not for everyone. I will try again. I just flew in from a considerable distance, and boy, are my process servers exhausted—”

  “Stop,” Vic snapped. “Now.”

  She did.

  He closed his eyes, trying to regain control. His head hurt. He wasn’t angry, not exactly, and even if he was, he didn’t know who to direct it toward. He internalized it. He breathed in and out, in and out. His heart rate slowed. The sweat began to cool on his skin.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, opening his eyes again. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  “It is fine,” she said. “Do not worry about it.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not fine. You were just . . . being you. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome, Victor.”

  “Are we fighting?” Rambo asked quietly.

  “No,” Vic said. “We’re okay.”

  Rambo flashed his sensors in relief. “Good. I don’t like it when we fight.”

  Nurse Ratched rolled back over to the table, the tarp now covering the android, though it didn’t do much to conceal the fact that a body was hidden underneath. “We should not stay in here much longer tonight. It will only make Gio ask more questions.”

  Vic nodded. “Tomorrow, then. We can start tomorrow.”

  They found Dad in the ground house sitting in his chair, hands folded and resting on his stomach. The dying gasps of sunlight filtered weakly through the far window. Dad chuckled as Rambo raised his arms up, asking to be lifted. He bent over, pulling Rambo up and onto his lap. Rambo settled, tucking his arms in at his sides.

  “Eventful day?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Nurse Ratched said. “Unexpectedly so.”

  Vic looked down at the floor. “I wasn’t . . . doing what she said.”

  “He was not,” Nurse Ratched agreed. “It was a tasteless joke, and I apologize.”

  Dad nodded slowly. “It’s all right, you know. If you were. Your space is your space. You can do whatever you wish—”

  “Dad!”

  He shrugged. “I’m just saying. You’re not a child anymore. And being asexual doesn’t mean you still won’t have questions about—”

  Vic groaned. “Can we not? Please?”

  “Okay,” Dad said. “I won’t bring it up again. I know these things make you uncomfortable.”

  “Many things make Victor uncomfortable,” Nurse Ratched said. “It is fascinating. There is no one like him in all the world.”

  “No,” Dad said quietly. “I don’t believe there is.” He smiled as he looked Vic up and down. The smile faded when he saw Vic’s bandaged hand. “What happened?”

  Vic looked down. He’d forgotten. His mind froze, unable to think of a believable excuse.

  “Lab accident,” Nurse Ratched said. “Minor. Cut his palm on a carving knife. I administered first aid. It did not require stitching. It will not leave a scar.”

  Dad stared at Vic for a beat too long. “That right?”

  “Yeah,” Vic muttered. “Just slipped, is all.”

  “You go to the Scrap Yards today?”

  Vic scratched the back of his neck. “We didn’t—” He winced. “Just for a little bit. We were careful.”

  “Find anything?”

  And though it hurt to do, Victor lied. He lied because he wasn’t sure what his father would say. He lied because he didn’t know what they’d found. He lied because he didn’t know what else to do. “No. Just the usual.”

  Dad nodded, looking relieved. “So long as you’re safe.”

  “We were.”

  “Good. I believe it’s Rambo’s turn to pick the movie tonight.”

  “Top Hat!” he shouted, sensors flashing excitedly.

  Dad chuckled. “Again? Are you sure? We have many other—”

  Rambo bounced up and down. “Top Hat, Top Hat, Top Hat!”

  “Top Hat it is,” Dad said, stroking Rambo’s casing. “Nurse Ratched, would you see to it? Vic, pull up a chair.”

  Vic’s chair wasn’t as grand as his dad’s, the cushion frayed and flat, and he didn’t quite fit onto it as well as he did when he was younger, but with the familiarity came comfort. And though he was distracted by the mystery lying in darkness above them, he allowed himself to calm as the old television in front of them flickered to life.

  Before long, Jerry Travers was in London, ready to star in a show produced by Horace Hardwick. Jerry began to tap-dance in his hotel room, awaking the lovely Dale Tremont, who stormed to his room to complain about the noise. Jerry, of course, fell immediately and irrevocably in love.

  Rambo sighed dreamily. “It’s so nice,” he whispered as the black-and-white screen flickered in front of them.

  Dad hummed under his breath. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Was it always like this?” asked Nurse Ratched. “I never see robots in any of these old movies. The representation is sorely lacking.”

  “They didn’t have machines like us back then,” Dad said. “Humanity was . . . well. They were still young.” He looked off into nothing. “We were not made in their image, at least not at first. The first of us were great machines that required extraordinary amounts of energy. And though they were still in their infancy, humans learned. They built trains. And planes. Rockets that went into the stars.”

  “What happened then?” Rambo asked, though he already knew. They all did. They’d heard Dad’s stories over and over.

  “Humanity was lost,” Dad said. “And lonely. I don’t think they even realized just how lonely they were. And so they began to build again, making machines that looked more and more like them. Even surrounded by so many of their kind, they still searched for a connection. They were like gods, in a way, in the power of their creation. At first it was Hubble. Then Discovery. And Curiosity. Explorer and Endeavor and Spirit. The humans gave them names and sent them away beyond the stars in search of that connection they so desperately wished for.”

  “Why?” Nurse Ratched asked. “It seems illogical. Why did they not just speak to each other if they were lonely?”

  “They did,” Dad said. “Or they tried, at least. But they hated as much as they loved. They feared what they didn’t understand. Even as they built us, they pushed for more. And the further they went, the less control they had. They accused each other of treachery. They poisoned the earth. They had time to change their ways, but they didn’t. And their anger grew until it exploded in fire. Most of them died. But we remained, because our flesh wasn’t their flesh. Our bodies were not their bodies. Our minds weren’t their minds.” He shook his head. “And yet, I love them still.” He looked at Vic. “Because for all their faults, they created us. They gave us names. They loved us.”

  “How come we only have Vic?” Rambo asked.

  “Because we’re very lucky,” Dad said, patting his casing.

  “He’s not going to blow us up?”

  “No. I don’t think he will.” Dad smiled. “At least not on purpose. Look, Rambo. Heaven.”

  They all looked at the television. On the screen, Jerry Travers and Dale Tremont were dancing cheek to cheek.

  Vic left them before the movie ended, saying that he was hungry and tired. Before he walked out of the ground house, Dad grabbed his uninjured hand, bringing it up and kissing his fingers. “You were quiet tonight.”

  “Thinking.”

  “About?”

  Vic shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m here, if you need me. Always.”

  “I know.” Vic pulled his hand back. “Good night.”

  He made his way to the elevator and watched the stars as he rose into the canopy of the trees. Thick clouds were gathering on the horizon.

  He meant to do just what he said. Go to the kitchen. Eat. Go to bed. He was exhausted.

  But he found himself standing in front of the door to his lab, hand holding the doorknob. He listened. No sound. He pushed open the door, switching on the light.

  The tarp still covered the android. It hadn’t moved.

  He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, tapping the back of his head against the wood over and over.

  He said, “Hello.”

  No response.

  “What is your name?”

  Nothing.

  “What happened to you?”

  Silence.

  It upset him for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. Vic didn’t actually want it—him?—to answer. Not really. But here Vic was, talking to the dead machine as if he expected a response.

  His hand shook as he pressed it against the android’s cheek, watching the skin dimple, the fine stubble scraping his fingertip. Vic gripped the tip of the machine’s nose, wiggling it from side to side. He touched the forehead. The cheekbones. The line of the jaw.

  Vic leaned forward, face inches from the android’s, studying the tears in the synthetic skin.

  Dad had taught him the concept of personal space. But here, now, with no one watching, Vic tugged on the hair on the android’s head, tracing the swirls cut into the sides. He pressed his fingers against the ears, lifting the detached lobes carefully.

  “Strange,” he said. “You’re so strange. Are you dreaming? Somewhere, in there. Your battery is dead. But are you really gone?”

  The android stared up at the ceiling. Vic touched the whites of his eyes. Glass of some kind. Glass, but filled with all those colors. It had a name, those many colors. It took him a moment to remember what it was.

  Heterochromia.

  “I’ll fix you,” Vic promised. “I don’t know how, but I will.”

  He pulled the tarp back over the android’s face before heading toward the door. He paused with his hand on the light switch. Without looking back, he said, “Good night.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Vic began with the foot.

  The replacement Rambo had found in the Scrap Yards was slightly smaller than the one still attached to the android, but it fit. The joints lined up with the ankle, and though it took some jury-rigging, they were able to attach it with minimal effort. He held the foot in gloved hands as Nurse Ratched extended one of her tentacles, the tip thinning into a fine point.

  “Ready?” Nurse Ratched asked.

  “Ready.”

  “Proceeding,” Nurse Ratched said as she pressed the tip of the tentacle near the outer ankle joint. Her screen lit up with the words IT’S TIME FOR LASERS! “Three. Two. One. Fire.” Vic squinted behind his goggles against the bright beam of light that shot from the end of her tentacle. Sparks arced around them, falling onto the floor and hissing as they blinked out. It only took her a moment to fuse the outer joint. The light disappeared. The smell of scorched metal filled the lab. “Excellent. I am a master.”

  By the time they finished, it was early afternoon. He stepped back, allowing Nurse Ratched to inspect what he’d done. She beeped softly as she scanned the foot.

  “Well?” he asked when she rolled back again.

  “I think it will work. Either that, or it did nothing at all and we have wasted half a day.”