Garbage: An MM Robot Romance (The SPARK Files Book 1), page 1
Reese Morrison
Garbage
The SPARK Files, Book 1
Copyright © 2023 by Reese Morrison
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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Author’s Note
Sometimes, as an author, I find that ideas come to me, fully formed, and just won’t let go. A reader asked about robot books in a Facebook group one day, and by that evening I had four books fully plotted out, plus a fifth one that presented itself as soon as I started writing.
I thought when I dove into this series that the books would be relatively simple, fast-paced, and short compared to my usual contemporary novels. Instead, I found that my sentient robots were exploring and handling all the complexities of what it means to be human, for better or for worse. This book, Garbage, addresses some of the ways that external prejudice and hatred can become internalized, and the pathway back to body positivity, self-acceptance, and joy.
I’m also trying something new and writing more action-based plots with this series, for a mix of gritty and sweet. As a trigger warning, please note that this book contains on-page assault, hate speech, and body shaming. If you’re still in, this is also a book about triumph, acceptance, and love. (Plus some kinky times with a sexy robot!)
I hope you enjoy it.
Love,
Reese
Prologue
He waited until the overnight security guard was looking the other way, and then snuck out the wide gate.
Well, maybe snuck was too strong a word. That would imply that someone knew or cared that he’d left, and he was pretty sure that even if the guard had seen him leave, nothing would have happened.
The first few times he’d snuck out, someone had shouted at him, and twice the techs had run diagnostics, but that had been a long time ago. So, probably the guard knew.
Still, it was better to sneak out. Just in case.
He made his way along the cracked, pitted sidewalk, picking up scattered litter automatically with the two forked metal claws that extended from his back. This side of the fence was always clean. His own invisible impact on the universe.
Beside him, cars whizzed by, their motors drowning out most of the sounds from the cramped apartments across the street. He caught snatches of babies wailing, adults arguing, music loud enough to compete with the traffic.
An older woman stumbled down the same sidewalk, approaching him. She smelled of liquor, even from this distance, and he couldn’t tell whether the ripped sleeve exposed her tattooed shoulder accidentally or on purpose. She didn’t look too steady on her feet.
He stepped automatically to the side. “Can I help you?”
He had a small set of programmed responsibilities, but basic politeness and support were within those confines. He’d helped a little girl find her parents once. Gotten more than a few balls down from trees for kids playing in the streets. Pulled a small boy away from an aggressive dog, to the gratitude of his nanny. Those were all treasured memories.
The woman looked up at him with bleary eyes, then spat. “Garbage.”
He wasn’t sure if that was a personal attack or simply a statement of identification. It was what he was. A sanitation worker. A trash collector.
Garbage.
He gave her a wide berth as he walked past her. Hopefully she would get home—or wherever she was going—alright.
He continued around the corner, the pistons in his chest cavity speeding up as he approached. He’d asked another bot if that ever happened to him, and been told that he needed a reconfiguration cycle.
He hadn’t gotten one, though, because each time he did, he knew what would happen. Little bits of himself would just disappear.
He didn’t really know what was missing, just that sometimes there were well-worn paths to a cluster of data—photos, bits of dialogue, or just his own internal organization of ideas—that simply weren’t there.
It happened without reconfigs. All the time.
It was just more shocking when it happened all at once.
That was far from the only thing that set him apart, anyway. None of the other bots ever left the lot at night. None of them had the same buggy programming that made him try to seek out conversation, even if he might not remember it later.
There were a lot of things that he did that didn’t make sense.
But tonight he had a destination in mind and remembered just where he was going.
The river two blocks away was blocked off by a tall chain-link fence, graffitied signs prohibiting anyone from visiting. No one played there, and bikers moved through the area quickly. From most angles, you couldn’t even see the trickle of slow-moving water, just the flutter of old paper cups and plastic bags caught amongst the overgrowth.
Yet someone had set up a park bench to overlook the steep banks. It had been new fifteen years ago, but now the lower board of the back rest had rotted through, and the rest was a dingy gray.
Growing beneath it, though, was a weedy plant whose yellow buds he thought might open tonight. He didn’t tend the plant in any way—it seemed to be good enough at seeking out the water and nutrients it needed between the cracked cement—but he’d been watching it.
His eyes sought the plant out first, then searched harder when he couldn’t find it.
He was certain that it was there. This wasn’t a memory from some other year, one of the dozens that seemed to swim together fluidly in his data banks. He’d time-stamped it, taking photos every night and refreshing them in his direct access memories during the day so they wouldn’t get lost.
His flower was supposed to be here.
He crossed the street, drawing closer to the park bench. He found the patch of fresh-torn dirt, already drying, where it had been. It was only after looking up and down the fence several times that he spotted his little plant, lying on its side, leaves withered and roots exposed.
Someone had torn it out, only to drop it a few meters away.
Why?
He didn’t understand humans.
He didn’t understand himself.
But this little flower… all it had asked for was a bit of sunlight. The runoff from the dirty city rain, finding its way into the narrow cracks. Was it too much to ask for it to be allowed to grow and flourish? It was a weed, but didn’t it deserve to open its yellow face to the sun?
He sat down heavily on the bench.
His chest pistons cycled as usual, gearing down as his activity decreased. But they seemed louder now, like his insides were hollow.
That was meaningless, of course. He could check the capacity of each internal canister. Water, 96%. Sanitizing fluid, 98%. Collection Bin 1, 0%. Collection Bin 2, 17%, from the assorted litter he’d picked up on the way here.
Everything was working according to specifications.
He watched the sky, pale blue slipping into pinks and golds and purples, until it was all swept up into a blanket of indigo.
The streetlights kept him from seeing most of the stars, but at least he could still see a few, and the moon rose in a graceful crescent.
For years, he’d watched the moon grow wide and full before fading back to a sliver. A never-ending cycle with its own beauty.
No one could take the moon away from him.
Chapter 1
Evan
Evan wandered down the familiar block, half his attention on the warm spring weather and blooming flowers in his neighbor’s yards, and half devoted to the emails he was flicking through on his phone.
He didn’t register much of the angry words off to his left until he was almost upon the scene.
“You like a big cock down your throat? Pile of rusty wires like you ought to be honored to touch a real man.”
Another voice joined in. “I’ll hold him. You really think he’s a spark?”
Evan walked a little faster. He was just a guy—a pale, skinny, dweeb of a guy whose idea of a workout was a walk to the vending machine—but he still couldn’t let this happen.
He wasn’t anybody brave, but he’d been to trainings on this. He knew what to do and… it looked like he would be the one doing it today. There wasn’t anybody else around.
“Cachu!” he swore. Shit! He wasn’t fluent in Welsh, since he didn’t speak it with anybody but his grandparents, but it slipped out sometimes when he was most stressed.
His fingers shook as he pressed a few buttons on his phone before shoving it back in his front pocket. Now his watch and glasses would be recording and live streaming everything while he waited for the call to connect to the cops.
The day was disarmingly gorgeous, all blue skies and fluffy white clouds on the tree-lined streets just a few blocks from his apartment. A garbage truck idled in the street while cars wove around it, oblivious to the trauma taking place a few feet away.
“Of course he’s a spark,” the first voice bellowed. “Here, Sparky. You think you can take our jobs? Recite some poetry for us.”
There was a long pause, followed by a robotic voice, punctuated with odd gaps
and a rising pitch. “’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the…”
“Aw, that’s just that stupid poem all the Orbit models are programmed with. Shut up, robot.”
“Yeah, but he hesitated. Did you hear him? He took too long, and his voice got all weird. He’s scared of us.” The first voice said it like it was something to be proud of.
Evan was only a few steps away, and more than grateful when the call connected. The AI greeted him and started going through a spiel about options he could choose, but Evan knew he could just start talking. Something would eventually have to trigger a response.
He drew in a breath and spoke loudly, letting his voice carry down the alley that he’d almost reached. “Reporting an assault on Hazel Crest between Twenty-Third and Twenty-Fourth. Recording and live streaming.”
It was a clean alley, more like a narrow street, planted with backyard gardens. He’d never felt unsafe walking down it. Homeowners parked their cars there and kids played basketball.
Two men wearing scruffy hoodies and expensive shoes had a third one pinned against a wall, and they both looked up when he entered.
“Shit, man!” The second guy looked away as soon as he spotted Evan. “Let’s go. You don’t wanna be on camera.” He quickly dropped the wrist he’d been holding pinned.
“Yeah, or he’s faking it,” the first one sneered. “You one of those robot lovers?”
Evan sucked in a breath. He’d hoped they would just leave. “I’m on the phone right now with the police.” He ignored the AI droning in his earpiece, trying to figure out how to direct his call. Everything would still be recorded, and it sounded like it was maybe being transferred. “And you’re either destroying city property or committing an assault. I’d get out of here before they come.”
Evan honestly didn’t know which crime was being committed. The man—well, the android—was dressed in the distinctive uniform of a sanitation worker, which explained the garbage truck idling on the street. His face was model-gorgeous, with dark brown hair that swooped perfectly over his forehead and warm sand-colored skin that could have been any race or none at all. His luminous brown eyes were framed by perfect brows and long lashes, while his nose was just short of smooth in a way that somehow managed to look distinguished or cute or at least interesting enough to draw the eye to his dusky pink lips.
A lot of science went into those enigmatic good looks, and Evan wondered if his friend Ben was behind the algorithms.
The android still had a round, barrel chest that looked like a storage cylinder despite the faint outline of pecs, and it was clear that the rubber “boots” on the end of his legs couldn’t come off. His two human-like arms looked muscular and sturdy—probably much stronger than a human’s if it was necessary to do his job—and they were supplemented by a few silver tubes and thin, black clawed extensions jutting out from behind his back.
Evan vaguely remembered the city advertising the new initiative five or six years ago when they’d replaced the last of the human sanitation workers with androids. To make it more palatable, he supposed, in the face of the ongoing anti-robot protests and counter-legislations, they’d apparently sprung for the higher quality, more lifelike models. Keeping them human-shaped probably meant they wouldn’t have to retrofit the trucks, either.
Right now, the android stood frozen, arms and appendages at odd angles, eyes staring vacantly.
That wasn’t normal robot behavior. A model like this should be going through a dozen subroutines of human-like behavior, shifting his weight or asking a polite, if bizarrely inappropriate, question about getting back to work. The extensions should have coiled back into wherever he stored them, and his eyes should have been looking around, even if the sensors he used to take in information weren’t located in those orbs.
So either the assholes had managed to turn the robot off—not an easy feat without illegal tech—or he was a real spark, and freaking the fuck out.
There wasn’t a lot of visible damage—android skin and “bones” were tough—but his thick, blue neoprene shirt was scuffed like it had been dragged over concrete.
“Come on, man,” the second guy cried, grabbing the first one’s arm. “We gotta go.”
The first one lifted his middle finger—which was just fine with Evan because it was giving the camera a nice long look at his face—before shoving the android back into the wall again. “Piece of shit sparky,” he jeered as a parting blow, already running down the alley and onto the following street.
The android wobbled, his head bouncing hard against the brick, before he took an awkward step to correct his balance. Hopefully there wasn’t any important circuitry stored up in his skull.
Evan approached him slowly. “Are you alright?”
There was a long delay, and then a flicker of his eyelids, almost like someone having a seizure, but more rhythmic, like an appliance turning on. A moment later, his hands jerked, and then the metal hoses retracted into his back in a sudden snap. The clawed arms followed, though one lagged behind, in a way that looked uncomfortable.
“I’m alright,” the android echoed back. His mouth wasn’t moving though, the voice coming from somewhere near the top of his head.
Clearly, he wasn’t alright. “They’re gone now, but that doesn’t mean you’re okay. They hurt you. You could press charges.”
A hesitation, and those deep brown eyes finally swung his way. “I’m a machine. I can’t press charges.” He looked haunted.
Evan took another step closer. “I think you know that you’re more than that. You have feelings. In fact, you have rights.” It wasn’t a question now. No simple AI would respond like this.
The spark shrugged, one shoulder jerking up like the other was paralyzed.
Evan risked a hand on his elbow, telegraphing the motions in case it wasn’t wanted. But even if sparks experienced touch differently, he hoped a soothing hand would help. “I think they messed you up pretty good. And I don’t want them to come back and target you again.”
The spark shifted his weight, but it wasn’t clear if he was just getting better balance or leaning into Evan’s hand. At least his mouth seemed to be working again when he spoke, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. “What do I do?”
Chapter 2
CNS-84-2
Route map. Twenty-third and Hazel Crest. Alley halfway between. Visual overlay with a blue dot, that was him. The truck was the red dot. Too far away.
Fluids dripping. Pressure low in lubricant fluid tank two. Repair needed. Repair alert. Repair needed.
The bad men. The man who talked to him last week, and again yesterday. The man who said all those hurtful things. His black eyes. His dark, black eyes under the scowl.
Here, Sparky. You think you can take our jobs? Recite some poetry for us. You like a big cock down your throat?
Mobile operations. Balance. Leg subroutines. Automation disengaged. Why?
The bad men. The men who wanted to… No, no, no, no…
Scalp abrasion. Camera three: no data. Need to turn head. Subroutine: rotate head. Insufficient memory.
“Are you alright?”
The voice was soft, soothing. Male. Younger? Not the bad men.
Eyes. Sub-routine: open. Insufficient memory alert. Camera three: no data. Test routine: retract hoses.
The bad men. Arms pulling him. Should he fight back? Damage reports. Pain.
Memory and not-now. The pain was not-now. No, the damage was now. The pain was now. But the bad men were gone.
Subroutine: speech. Secondary speakers. “I’m alright.”
The soothing voice was still there. One point two meters to the left. “They’re gone now, but that doesn’t mean you’re okay. They hurt you. You could press charges.”
The soothing voice was here. Now. Safe.
CNS-84-2 looked up. The soothing voice was connected to a slim body with messy brown hair and gentle eyes. The man carried a bag, strapped over one shoulder, which made his slender shoulders look wider. He held his hands out, relaxed and open by his sides. The only tension in his body was the worry in his face.
