on some ridiculous whim seemed insane. It seemed destructive. How could it be so? Yet he, Maxon Mann, gearshrinker, droidmaster, having decided that all romantic love is at odds with the survival of the species, had fallen, himself, in love. He had fallen deeply, hopelessly, inexorably in love with Sunny, and it had happened almost before he got started in life. Over seven thousand rotations of the Earth ago. Certainly before he understood the ramifications of his electrobiological behavior.
That night, his second night in space, the feeling of breathing in was almost crushing him, the quarters so close that taking a deep breath almost had his bony chest brushing up against the shelf that held his laptop, his mission log, stuck down with Velcro. He let his head roll back against the wall, his crisp curls brushing the back of his neck. One hand went up to cover his eyes, the other hand still held the pen, poised over those three words; love, regret, forgive. When he finally slept, lulled by a cyclical computation worked out on the back of his eyelids, the pen went scratching across the paper, one final subconscious underscore. First there was Asimov, and his fictional laws of robotics, all written to protect humanity from the AI they’d created. Then Ito’s laws, excusing the failure of programmers who wouldn’t dare to try to re-create a human mind. Now Maxon’s laws, because he was the only one left with the stones to know when to stop pushing the buttons that he himself had wired. Maxon Mann’s Three Laws of Robotics: A robot cannot love. A robot cannot regret. A robot cannot forgive.
7
The contractions stopped. Fluids were drained into her. She went home. Night came and everyone slept. Morning came and the nanny took Bubber off to preschool. He went out the door with his head pointed forward, wearing his helmet, with a snack and emergency pants in a horse-shaped backpack he called “Word.” Sunny was supposed to lie down as much as possible, so she did. She lay down in her pumpkin-colored bedroom. She put her bald head down on the embroidered silk duvet cover, so carefully joined in color and historical context to the weird footstool she’d found at an estate sale, which was itself so carefully coordinated with the Morris chair in the corner, by the pumpkin-shaded light. The theme of her bedroom decor flowed around the space like a gentle ellipse through a series of perfectly oriented points. Not one curtain rod, not one shoe tree, not one alarm clock fell off the graph. On the TV, the NASA channel was playing without sound. But Maxon was not on the screen.
She fell asleep and dreamed of a matrix of all possible babies that she could be carrying at that moment. The possible babies spread out over a three-dimensional cube. At point zero, zero, zero was a normal human male baby, looking exactly like Maxon. Tall, mad-eyed, long-limbed, and pale. From there, the change in babies radiated out along a three-dimensional grid through the whole volume of the cube. At the intersection of every line was another scrawny infant, crouched and curled, naked and wrinkled. Eye color, hair color, pianist hands, knobby legs, short neck. Along this axis, more and more freckles. Along that axis, more and more hair. Of course, there cannot be an incremental change in gender. So, all alone, the baby at the opposite point of the cube, with her large alien eyes and her bald alien head, and her padded fingers and short legs, was the only female. She rotated like the other babies, but in the opposite direction. Already different.
The phone rang, waking her up. It was the director of the school.
“Mrs. Mann,” he said, “I would love for you to spend some time here with us when you pick up Bubber today. I have arranged a meeting with our staff psychiatrist for you.”
He didn’t know about the car accident, because she hadn’t told him. He didn’t know about the wig.
She sat up, held up the phone firmly to her head, and said, “No.”
“Mrs. Mann,” he droned on, “Bubber has had a meltdown this morning. Now he is back in his helmet, and we are all fine. There is no need to worry. But the behaviors we are seeing are becoming prohibitive.”
“What do they prohibit?” asked Sunny.
“With respect, Mrs. Mann, we have an extraordinary facility and many resources,” he said, “yet we cannot quite account for Bubber and his behavior.”
“But I thought Miss Mary had been working with him.” Sunny had spent a lot of money on the school. Miss Mary was one of many resources.
“You mention Miss Mary,” said the director. “At the meeting today, she’d like to discuss the results of some tests. They need to be read and discussed.”
Bubber had had many tests, and Sunny had read and discussed them all with doctors of every stripe. What she should do now was to search out the appropriate files to bring, the appropriate numbers to consult for comparison.
Instead Sunny said, “You know what? No more tests.”
She found herself thinking,
Sunny was the mom with the multicolored activism ribbon in magnet on the back of her van. Sunny, heretofore, had been a very good friend of tests.
When she arrived at the school, the other parents were waiting to pick up their children, too. It was like a minivan convention in the parking lot. Silver ones, mostly. Some burgundy. Some teal. When they had purchased their minivan, Maxon had yearned for the black one, but Sunny said no.
“I’ve never seen a black minivan,” she said. “We have to blend in with our environment.”
“Well, if you’ve never seen a black minivan, might that not mean that the black minivans are blending in very well?” Maxon pointed out.
But they bought the silver one. On the highways, it was virtually invisible. The wig and the minivan together made an invisibility cloak. Walking past the rows of other cars, the different-colored ribbons on the bumpers, the soccer balls, the black-and-white ovals from vacation spots, Sunny remembered the first of three terrible things she had said to Maxon on the day before he went into space:
On the sidewalk, a little stream of children bumped past her, the few girls with their little sparkling backpacks, their hair accessories glittering, their leather shoes squeaking comfortably, each holding a larger, duller, flatter parent by the hand, pulling them along. The children did not look up at Sunny as they passed her. They were dispassionate. She could have been a talking hawk, or a rhinoceros. They were like little hairy animatronic children, marching down the sidewalk, already thinking about lunch. The parents, in contrast, had no time to hide their surprise at Sunny’s bald state. These were women she had chatted with, day after day, waiting for pickup time in the rain, or at the Christmas show, or at the grocery store, over the grapefruit bin. She didn’t know all their names, but they were Taylor’s Mom, and Connor’s Mom, and Chelsea’s Mom, and yet they walked right past, carefully averting their eyes and also smiling with lips drawn together in a line. Some crazy bald lady came to the school today.
Inside, the director was distributing art projects to take home, making sure sweaters were matched with the right children, and giving out lollipops that had no artificial colors. He was actually a man with no hair. He did have eyebrows, chin hairs, the rest of it, but his head was shining and bare. Sunny had never truly forgotten that fact, but in the days since the wig went on her head, she noticed bald people with less interest than before.
Back in the old days, it might have been like, Hey, high five, my brother. Then with the wig it was just another hairstyle, of the many that we regular humans can choose from. Now it was as if she were an animal, identifying another of her species.
The other parents began to clear out. The other children were all delivered to their families. Then there were only the three bald people in the room: the director of the preschool, and Sunny, and the baby inside her. The director’s name was Mr. Dave. He recognized her, even without the fake hair she had been putting on her head. Mr. Dave said, “Hello, Mrs. Mann.”
“I’m bald,” said Sunny. “I’ve been wearing a wig this whole time. Eyebrows too, and eyelashes.”
“Have a seat,” said Mr. Dave. “Are you all right?”
