Arlo

By YT Harris

What would happen, if you woke up one day trapped inside a body that wasn't human? A domestic appliance, a service droid, a tool in the hands of a family who treat him like... well, the machine that he is.
Arlo is the story of a robot – destined to a life of slavery, who falls in love with his captor.

Self-aware and questioning, he is faced with a choice. Speak up, and risk possible decommissioning, and death. Or keep quiet, and lose the glimmer of hope for a different future, one he could never dare to dream.

Wistful, introspective, heartwarming and melancholy, the story of Arlo will take you on an emotional journey and grip you right to the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: YT Harris
• Release date: Jun 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9780473528621

YT Harris

When I was 13 years old, instead of doing my school work, I invented a world... a fantasy of spaceships, robots, bad guys and quirky characters. My works appeal to a broad range of readers from young adult to octogenarians. If you love all things Marvel, Voltron and Star Wars (with a splash of romance and a heap of adventure), you will enjoy my stories.Based in a solar system on the other side of the Milky Way Galaxy, my novels feature arse-kicking, no-nonsense female protagonists who love adventure and aren’t afraid to get their knuckles bruised. I hope you feel as much connection to them as I did when writing.I live in Auckland, New Zealand with my husband, two daughters, a cat, a bunch of fish and three budgies.

Book preview

ARLO

By Yvette Harris

Copyright © 2020 Yvette Harris, Elusive Design

ISBN 978-0-473-52862-1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover image: Shutterstock

Part One.

Arlo.

Chapter One

For as long as I have known her, I have loved her. But she will never know the voiceless ache in my absent heart.

I arrived at her house in a box. I was sixteen. Well, at least that’s how old I think my mind was. The body I entered into her life with was much younger.

I fell violently into sleep as a free teenager and awoke as their captive. A servant, or was I a slave? Her family did not pay me for my service. I toiled endlessly, day-in, day-out, yet they neither loved me nor fed me. Silenced by muteness, I was left with no choice but to obey their simple instructions.

Their two dogs were treated better than I was, but then what did I expect? They were beloved animals, bought for reasons of love, companionship and joy. I was merely a domestic appliance. I was their cleaner, cook, laundry worker, gardener, driver, bodyguard, slave.

I had lived with this family for nearly a year now, silently observing them as they went about their daily business. Unnoticed, I listened in on every argument, witnessed every act of love, saw every tear shed. My talent was standing motionless for hours on end, an artform I had perfected. I had the unremarkable presence as that of a coat rack.

I knew nothing about myself, what I was, where I had come from. I didn't know whether the memories in my head belonged to me or someone else, an echo of another life. My limbs were not made of flesh, blood, bone and ligaments – but were fabricated from metal, plastic and internal wires. So why was it then, that I could remember my body running, jumping, throwing, catching, hurting, writing, playing my guitar? These crude robotic hands were not the ones I remembered from years ago, the fingers, palms, knuckles, sinews that had gripped the steering wheel of my slightly rusty and dented red sports car. My pride and joy. My first car. My last memory.

To reveal I was conscious would be fatal. I had come to the conclusion that I was some sort of domestic robot, and it was a rare defect that had resulted in my mind being conscious, aware. Surely, I was not supposed to have independent thought. Or feelings. Emotions. Love. If I was correct, then if I spoke, or even moved out of turn, it would be a giveaway that something was wrong with my manufacturing. They would send me back to the factory and I would be deactivated. My brain would be switched off forever and I’d never see her again. So, I remained silent.

My memories were patchy, like watching an ancient VHS with bits of it scrubbed, static, recorded over. Sometimes flashbacks of my Tudor-style house would flood my mind's eye. My home, a modest suburban dwelling in a clean cul-de-sac. A lush green tree towered over it, the gentle sound of wind rustling the leaves on a warm summer's day. I could still feel the motion of playing on the swing which dangled beneath it. When I stood for hours on end awaiting instruction from my masters, I would vividly imagine my bedroom, recalling every single music poster, action figure and remnants of projects. The wistful nostalgia of clothes strewn on the floor and bed, half eaten sandwiches on plates, nerdy clutter taking up every patch of real estate on my desk.

But I couldn’t remember my mom or dad. I mean, I couldn’t remember what they looked like, and it broke my heart. At least I could remember Hazel, my snotty-nosed younger sister with her messy red hair and bossy attitude. I