They will never know they are perfect for each other. Theoretically. Algorithmically. A solved equation of two strangers. Objectively a cosmic match. As objects moving through the universe are drawn toward each other by their natures. They’ll never know they should have found each other and been as beautiful and strange and full of fire as the birth of a star.
Failure One
The girl will be in pieces, and that’s how Tynan will know what she is. He’ll only have seen her once before, gliding down the boardwalk with the wind in her amethyst hair, hoverskates weaving to the beat of some music he can’t hear. And he’ll think she’s a real girl. Until he sees her in pieces and knows what she is.
The shop will look empty at first, and he’ll call out. He’ll follow the sound of her answering shout to find her on the floor behind the counter. And she won’t seem to mind him seeing. She’ll smile up at him as she twists the screwdriver deep inside her ankle.
“You caught me on the hop,” she’ll say, and she’ll laugh at her own bad joke before apologising for the wait. She’ll explain she’s cracked an axle bolt and has to replace it, and Tynan will pretend the rhythmic turn of the screwdriver isn’t churning his stomach. Then he’ll watch as she reattaches her foot and the skin plates slide into place until the seams are invisible. He’ll remember he had no idea what she was before this moment. He’ll feel lied to. Tricked. And it won’t occur to him to wonder if it’s because he found her beautiful that first day.
Failure Two
The boy will be holding himself together, and that’s how Nell will know she disgusts him. She’ll spring upright and test her foot. Rotating the ankle. Rising onto her toes. And she’ll catch him staring at the glimmering blue varnish on her toenails.
“So, how can I help you?” she’ll ask. And the boy will be distracted by her feet and forget why he came into her shop.
“What?” he will say.
“What brings you to Nell’s Mechatronic Repairs,” she will ask. But when she smiles this time, she’ll catch him staring at her teeth. And see questions in his eyes.
Are they human? Are they your own?
She will wait. Holding her smile hostage, until he pays his answer.
“Oh, we, uh… it’s this.” And she’ll pretend not to notice when he doesn’t hand the projector to her, but places it down on the countertop between them. She’ll pick up the smooth black hexagon and weigh it in her palm.
“An Omega Seventy-Five Hundred. Nice. Security iteration?” she’ll ask.
“Just a pet,” he will say.
“Yours?”
“My sister’s,” he’ll say. And it will sound like he wants her to stop talking. So she’ll pop the outer casing off the projector using only her thumb, and she’ll hear his feet scuff the shop floor as he flinches backwards.
“This is no problem,” she’ll say. “I’ll have it back to you tomorrow.”
Failure Three
The girl will be holding herself together, and that’s why Tynan won’t notice anything is wrong. She’ll come to his parents’ shop, further down the boardwalk from her own. It will be late afternoon and she’ll have the repaired projector clipped to her belt, activated, with the hologram trotting by her side. And she’ll take the Rottweiler through some tricks to show his program is fully intact. She’ll be smiling, scratching the dog behind the ears. When she puts the projector on the countertop it will still be warm from her body. Tynan will pay her and she will leave.
He’ll never know that she plans to come in the morning but she can’t. That some kids from the boardwalk throw an electromagnetic pulse grenade at her on her way to work. That it instantly shuts down all her biomechatronics, rendering half her body useless. And by the time she drags herself to her shop to repair the damage, their laughter drifting behind her like poisoned gas, the day is almost gone. That crying as she works slows her down but she can’t seem to stop.
Tynan will never know any of this. Though he will think of her, from time to time. Or see her on her hoverskates, swooping to the rhythm of some new song. He’ll think of her power and her grace and her beauty, and wonder how much of it is engineering and how much is her.
Failure Four
The boy will be in pieces, and that’s why Nell won’t recognise him. Straight-backed pride will wilt into sorrow and the flush of good health will pale with sleepless, vigilant nights. The hands that wouldn’t touch hers will take up the nervous habit of fidgeting. The nail beds will bleed, chewed to their quicks.
And Nell will never know why. Never know about the thoughts that rise behind his eyes the day they meet, as he watches her fix her own broken limb: the sister. Who slowly wastes to nothing at home, trapped under the weight of incurable, paralysing sickness. Never know about the parents who believe in the iron law of what is natural and what is not, and who will not allow the pleading of a son and brother to change their minds. Nell will never know any of this. She will only remember, now and then, the dark-eyed boy who flinched at the strength of her hands.
Lauren Everdell lives in Gloucestershire, UK. Her work has appeared in The Drabble, Ellipsis and Reflex, as well as several anthologies. When not writing she’s either reading or painting furniture, but always in the company of her chocolate Labrador, Fable.
To read two stories in a row in a magazine so strong is rare. This lovely blending of the real and mechanical, and the blurred line about what defines beauty and humanity … and what, regardless, always separates us. All the gulfs of misunderstanding and comprehension. Such an evocative, vivid story.