The Vector

“Where’s Will?” I ask. Will’s my dad, but I call him Will.

“At the flying park. Reading. Thinks it’s peaceful,” Pippie snorts. She’s a good bot.

“That’s stupid.” I pick another handful of grass, stuff it in my mouth. It tastes good, like fresh lawn clippings, because it is fresh lawn clippings.

And then it is there. It does not fly here down the tracks like a car, nor land from the sky like a plane. It is simply there. A moment ago, that street was empty, but now something is there. It is sitting in front of me, right in the middle of Kithkin Street, at the end of the driveway that leads up to our house. Some big yellow thing. About the size of a car.

But its shape is irregular, a bit wider on the left side than the right. And it’s the brightest yellow.

“What is it?” I ask, my mouth wide open like I’m a little baby waiting for the airplane.

“I don’t know.” I shiver. Pippie always knows. I wait a few moments.

“What is it?” I ask again, hoping she’s remembered. She has to know.

“I don’t know,” she says. She really doesn’t know.

“Is your battery broken?” I ask. Sometimes it is.

“No. I just don’t know!” She jumps up on my head, a little holographic birdie. I love her.

It looks perfect, too perfect to touch.

And so tempting.

I walk up to it, studying its smooth, seamless exterior. I wonder what’s inside.

Its yellow body gleams in the yellow sunshine, bouncing to my eyes and hurting them. I squint.

I look across the street, to the large and blocky houses with their mirrored walls.

I know that inside, you can look clear out to the world and nobody ever sees you, but it looks like normal mirrors from here.

The entire street is silent, not a car in sight, not a child playing on the lawn. I’m either the only kid on this street, or the others sit inside and do boring stuff all day like Ibs. I’m not a fan of boring stuff.

The yellow thing still sits there with its shiny metal surface, taunting me. I’m not supposed to touch it. I could break it.

“Did any of the neighbors’ bots call the police?” I’m not sure if this is a situation in which one might call the police. A scientist might be more useful, or a detective, but there isn’t really an emergency thing for that.

“No,” Pippie says. She flaps up above it and looks down, presumably taking pics.

“Should you call the police?” I ask.

“No,” Pippie says.

“What are the neighbors doing?”

“Just sitting by the glass walls and watching. Ibs is, too.” Ibs hacked Pippie so she could see in the neighbors’ houses. It’s been really useful.

Unable to resist any longer, I reach out and press my open palm to the side of the yellow thing. A slight vibration runs down my arm, filling me up. It is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, a new presence inside me.

“You’re shaking,” Pippie says.

“I know,” I say. The vibration starts to feel kind of nice.

“Let go. Do not touch; bad.” I hate it when Pippie tells me what to do, but I let go anyway. A smeary little handprint is left on the otherwise immaculate thing, making it imperfect. I shouldn’t have touched it.

But a remnant of the vibration is still left inside me, and I’m not visibly shaking anymore. It is a warm feeling in my core, a lovely feeling.

“She did something to you,” Pippie says, her voice frightened. I don’t know why.

“She?” I ask. It’s a she?

“Yes. I think. It could be a he. Or neither.”

“It’s okay,” I say. I never have to reassure Pippie. She doesn’t get bad dreams.

“Nevers, it did something to you.” It wouldn’t do anything to me. I love it, with its beautiful yellow skin. Yellow is pure happiness.

“It did not!” I say, louder than I thought I would.

“I think it’s hurting you,” she whispers. The vibrations grow stronger.

The yellow thing is inside of me, but it hasn’t done anything to me. It is only a visitor here.

“Don’t be mean to the yellow thing,” I say. “It’s my friend.”

“Nevertheless Igo, something is very wrong,” Pippie says, flitting away from my grasping fingers. How dare this stupid little holobot imply that something is wrong, that I trust her more than I trust the yellow thing.

I feel as if I have known it for a thousand years.

There is a hand on my bare shoulder. Ibs.

“What’s that . . .” his croaky voice trails off. He hasn’t spoken since the lighting fixture fell on Mom. He and Will cried at the funeral. I didn’t.

“The yellow thing is beautiful, isn’t it,” I say. It is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.

“I feel like I’m . . .  buzzing. All over.” His voice is deeper than I remembered. He was younger, then.

“That’s the yellow thing. It loves you.”

“It is beautiful,” he breathes. “I think I love it, too.”