By Elizabeth Jane Shelton
I jogged to keep up with Mother, my clanging footfalls on the raised metallic walkway nearly lost to the cacophony of the market. The unique technological marvels in the city of Cantabile had convinced our captain to land on this world and let me, the crew’s engineer, take the lead.
I needed the distraction. I couldn’t keep expecting to hear Lorian’s laugh, realizing I never would again.
“Is the market always this busy?” I shouted.
“Today it is especially full, Karlin Kayle!” Mother swept a hand along a booth’s curtain, leaving the metallic beads of each long strand tinkling.
Even with the din of the marketplace, it was impossible to miss the city’s most distinctive feature: the ring of an unceasing chorus, thousands and thousands of “voices” all contributing in their own way. The wordless, ethereal Hymn of Cantabile.
For in Cantabile, the robots sang.
As we walked, I spotted many booths with musical nods—wind chimes, music boxes, even live instruments, all harmonizing with the Hymn. Curiosity bubbled up within me, a rarity since Lorian’s death. “What are those?”
“Many of my people regard the Hymn as a sort of… spiritual phenomenon,” Mother explained. “They create their own rituals to participate.”
Several people greeted Mother as we passed. “Does everyone call you Mother?”
Mother laughed. “Yes. Mother of Robots, Mother of Prime.” She shook her head. “I created the first robot, the base for all the others. They are all my children.”
What was it like to be hailed as the mother of the “magic” surrounding a whole city?
“Then you know why they sing?” I asked eagerly.
Mother glanced around nervously. “It is one of the great mysteries of Cantabile, Karlin Kayle.”
I studied Mother as she haggled with a shopkeeper. Rings and beads clinked in her intricate brown braids, and her utility belt clanked with shifting tools and carabiners, one of which she clicked open and shut. She moved freely, making her own music. In my stiff uniform and tight bun, I felt muted by comparison. Lorian had been my music. I was the engineer, the logical one. Yet somehow, Mother managed to be both.
Mid-haggling, both Mother and the shopkeeper fell silent. In fact, it sounded like someone had pressed pause on the entire market. For the first time since we’d landed in Cantabile, I could hear myself think.
Why did that feel… wrong?
Frantic footsteps clanged along the walkway, heralding the arrival of a city messenger. “Mother,” he said frantically. “The robots have stopped singing.”
Of course. That’s what was missing. The overarching Hymn of Cantabile had gone quiet.
“Does this happen often?” I whispered.
“No, Karlin Kayle,” Mother said gravely. “It does not.”
“Something is wrong with Prime,” said the messenger. “The Circle of Five sent me to find you.”
“Lead the way.” Mother glanced at me. “You. Come.”
We took off at a run, traversing the city’s raised metallic walkways, the silent crowds parting to allow our passage.
When we arrived, the plaza was guarded by Circle members, the city’s leaders. Upon seeing Mother, they let us pass without question.
Mother quickly knelt at the side of a small robot billowing smoke. “What is wrong, Prime?” She opened a panel, revealing a screen and keyboard.
This was Prime? I crouched nearby, not wanting to get in the way, but unwilling to miss anything.
Mother’s fingers flew, her keystrokes like the roll of a snare. After a moment, she sagged. “I cannot repair this,” she whispered, eyes unfocused. “Prime is simply too old.”
In an instant, I was back there—kneeling on the floor of the ship, cradling my dying husband, realizing I couldn’t save him. I could almost hear Lorian’s last shuddering breath.
“Mother, the Hymn…” a Circle member urged. “Cantabile is starting to panic. None of the robots are doing anything. All await the Hymn.”
I opened my mouth to snap at the man, but Mother stood, and I held my tongue. Instead of answering, Mother addressed a robot that stood nearby. “When I cease, harmonize with those remaining.” Then she opened her mouth and began to sing.
Even after only a day in Cantabile, I recognized the tune. It was almost the melody at the heart of the Hymn of Cantabile, but… different.
Mother sang with the passion and anguish of a woman in mourning.
After a moment, the robot joined in, adding another layer. It was joined by another. And another. The music spread, filling the city.
Haunting.
Otherworldly.
Grieving.
Tears I had yet to spill for Lorian dripped down my face, and I wished I knew enough of music—or of grief—to join in this Elegy. Instead, I listened and let the music carry my own sorrow as well as Mother’s.
Until, slowly, Mother wove in a new melody with all the hope, the joy, the brightness of the original Hymn. The change spread like a tidal wave with Mother at the epicenter, and eventually it, too, echoed from the corners of Cantabile.
Once again, the robots sang.
***
Mother cradled the small broken robot as she escorted me back to my ship. I rested my hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry about Prime.”
“It was inevitable.” She sniffed. “At least now, the song will outlast any individual.” She glanced up at me, at the tears still trickling down my cheeks. “You want to know why the robots sing?”
I nodded.
“My daughter was three when I assembled Prime. She sang all the time, and it began to mimic her.” She caressed the small robot. “She was gone too soon but lives on in their song. You have lost someone, yes?”
“My husband.” My voice wavered.
“He lives on in your song, too.” She placed a hand over mine. “I will see you tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“We must keep moving forward, Karlin Kayle. They would want that.”
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