Expiration Day (22 page)

We always come back to that.

Tuesday, September 2, 2053

And a new school year begins. My fifth at secondary school, and it's exam year. It's supposed to be our first step toward a career, the watershed where some of us are marked forever as shelf-stackers at the local supermarket, and others take our first steps on the road to university and who knows? In reality, the choice is already made. For Siân and Jemima, university beckons, like it or not, to work on the Fertility Problem. Also known as The Problem.

For me and my tin cohorts—did that sound bitter, Mister Zog?—we're on the road that leads to Lethe. Soames, or rebirth. An endless cycle.

Yet, aside from these occasional dark moments when I'm alone with my diary, how often do I really think about it? Not often, if I'm honest. After all, does a cancer sufferer spend every minute worrying about the disease that may eventually kill him? I think not.

We all get on with life. I have Dad and I have my good friends—the band. I listen to music and I practice on the bass. I read widely, though I admit I do have a strong penchant for science fiction. I play table tennis and badminton quite well, and against better opponents than Soames, these days.

I play board games, from Scrabble to chess, usually against Dad. I write—my diary, of course—but also songs and poetry. Maybe I'll put some more in my diary if I think it's good enough. I love words, though, and I wish I could control them better. Like Humpty Dumpty, to have them line up and do my bidding. So I read, as I said, from Chaucer and Shakespeare, via Dylan Thomas and Rupert Brooke, to Ray Bradbury and Roger Zelazny, and try to see how they get their words to behave.

The days pass, and there's fun in there, and challenges, and moments of feeling loved, and instants of absolute terror—I've decided Dad should concentrate more on his driving and less on talking to me—and the sheer beauty of the whole universe, mirrored in a shimmering lake at midnight or a single raindrop at noon. Look at me, says the universe. Am I not marvellous? And the stars spin in the heavens, and the droplet quivers on the leaf, all for me, only for me. Yes, you are, I whisper. Yes, you are.

 

 

Back in uniform, then, this morning. We nearly forgot to buy a new one, ready for the upgrade, so we had a bit of a panic, yesterday. Mum would have remembered, but it's not the sort of thing dads think about. And back to the term-time routine, the early mornings and the walk to the bus stop. Siân's there, and I rush over to say hi. We hug, even though it's only a week since I saw her last.

And there are hordes of tiny creatures buzzing about. First years, I realize. Was I ever that tiny, that buzzy, that frightened?

On the bus, and I see Myra and Jemima, my fellow fifth-formers, and nod and half smile. Nothing too fulsome. But we've moved on since those early days of bullying, and I get a nod and a half smile in return. I know who I am, they know who they are—it's enough; we don't have to prove anything to one another.

There's the speech—Mrs. Golightly's standard welcome to Lady Maud's—I mean, the Lady Maud High School for Girls. We've heard it before. And then on to our new forms—and a pleasant surprise. My new form mistress is Mrs. Philpott, the English teacher from my first year. She smiles warmly as we seat ourselves and settle down. I remember how we teased her in the first year, forever hiding books and other things, because she was so short-sighted, and because we could get away with it.

But somewhere in that time in her care, despite all the messing around, I learned to love words. Old words, new words. My words, others' words. Beautiful words. Even ugly words have their place, I learned.

I decide I'm going to enjoy the year ahead.

Thursday, September 18, 2053

I don't know whether it's my new body, or my chat with Doctor Markov, or what, but I find myself noticing boys a lot more. Nobody specific, you understand, Mister Zog—I'm not actively
looking
, if you know what I mean. It's just that I'm a bit more sensitive to how … one-sided it can be at a single-sex school. The next-best thing is the boys' school up the road. King William's Grammar School for Boys. And after years of having nothing to do with them, suddenly we're joining with them to do a play. We're fifth-formers now, after all, and it's high time we learned to mix with the opposite sex.

The play's my favorite.
The Merchant of Venice.
So I'm going to audition for one of the main female parts. Portia, or maybe Jessica.

But which? Portia—educated and erudite, witty and sharp and all the things I'd like to be. Jessica—a member of the downtrodden race, submissive, and self-serving to the point of abandoning her roots. Is that me? Anyway, I feel a kinship with both.

And it'll be in costume, proper late-sixteenth-century attire. None of this let's-set-it-in-the-1920s revisionism. I'm sure I could argue that setting it in the 1920s would be artistically valid—I expect that Mrs. Philpott will set just such an essay (or exactly the opposite)—but I find it quite distracting. No, it's pure selfishness on my part. I think those costumes are just gorgeous to look at. The men look like proper men, and the women get to dress to start a fight.

Hmm. I hope Siân isn't also going for Portia.

Thursday, September 25, 2053

I hate auditions.

Mrs. Philpott is getting us to audition for all the female parts. Portia, Jessica, and Nerissa. Just three principal women. And five of us auditioning for the roles. The others are Siân, Jemima, and two sixth-formers, Erica and Fleur.

Siân told me that she wasn't given any choice. I suppose I can see why. Well two reasons why. One, she's human, and two, she's stunningly attractive. She's not very happy about it.

“I'm a singer, not an actress,” she wailed. “I don't know how to be anybody else but me.”

“How do you know, until you try?” I replied.

In answer, Siân picked up her script.

“Just listen:

I never did repent for doing good,

Nor shall not now; for in companions

That do converse and waste the time together,

Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love

There must be needs a like proportion

Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit

Which makes me think that this Antonio

Being the bosom lover of my lord,

Must needs be like my lord.

“That's all one sentence, and by the time I get to the end, I can't remember what the beginning was about.”

I laughed, encouragingly I hoped.

“But you can carry off a song brilliantly. There's nothing wrong with your memory.”

“It's not the same.…”

I suppose she's right, really.

 

 

Anyway, there we were. All of us, waiting for our summons. Except for Erica, who'd just gone in.

Erica was a little short for a sixth-former. I guess she must be about due for her next revision. She was a redhead, and freckly. A little bit on the broad side, too. She made me think of farm girls, brawny from all that physical labor. Ruggedly healthy, but unsophisticated. I had her tagged as a Nerissa, Portia's lady-in-waiting. Which was total prejudice on my part, as I'd barely heard her speak. After the briefest of hellos, she'd sat quietly waiting, scanning her speeches, politely but firmly declining to join in our chatter.

Fleur would be Jessica, I decided. She was tall and slim, insubstantial even, and looked a bit Middle-Eastern, slightly dark with full red lips; lots of potential as a young Jewish girl with a bit of makeup to help. She was evidently nervous, pacing up and down, reciting under her breath. Portia's lines, I noticed. But you're not Portia, I said to her in my head. You're Jessica, so act the part.

I suppose, though, that Siân would have to be Jessica. The humans would both have to have parts, and Jessica was the safest role to give to a girl who couldn't act. Nerissa has to interact more with Portia, so that would be Erica.

No, it wouldn't. By the all-humans-get-parts rule, Jemima would be Nerissa.

And I would be Portia, of course, and tough luck on Erica and Fleur.

Except that I didn't feel any “of course” about it. Not then. I felt as nervous as Fleur looked. My stomach felt all twisted up inside, which is so weird, when you think about it. What possible reason could a robot stomach have for feeling twisted?

Erica came out, and we asked how it had gone.

“There are three of them on the panel—Philpott, James, and Golightly. They got me to read out some of Portia's lines first, then Jessica, then Nerissa. I was so nervous, I botched the Portia, but the other two were okay. And they got me to walk about a bit, and do some actions, and asked me some questions, like who was my favorite character of the three. I said Portia.”

We all nodded, and I could see each one of us tucking away the information, wondering how we could increase our chances.

“Siân Fuller, please!”

Siân nearly jumped out of her skin. She gave me a panicky glance, saying, “Wish me luck!”

“Luck, Siân,” we all responded as she went in.

And when Siân came out, they called me in.

Then Fleur. Then Jemima.

Some of the audition is blank already, but I recall I read Portia's first realization of love for Bassanio—“I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two”—and I remember a moment's panic that I was gabbling the words. I've forgotten what words of Jessica's they asked me to read, or of Nerissa's. Miss James wanted to see how I moved, and asked me to walk and to turn, to twist and to stretch; and then Mrs. Golightly suddenly asked, “Deeley. Do you think you could kiss a boy?”

I grinned and said, “I suppose I could, Mrs. Golightly.”

“Is that why you've auditioned, Deeley? To kiss boys? To deceive and seduce some poor human boy with your too-perfect Banbury body?”

“N … no, Mrs. Golightly.”

“Well I have to tell you this is serious drama, Deeley. Shakespeare is not about sex, and you need to think again why you want to do this.”

And though I could see the shock on the faces of Mrs. Philpott and Miss James, I could also see that Mrs. Golightly had made her mind up.

 

 

Siân got Portia. Fleur got Jessica, and Jemima got Nerissa.

Miss James apologized—she told me they argued—but said that in the end there was nothing they could do.

Erica and I are relegated to the chorus.

 

 

Oh, and I beg to differ, Mrs. Golightly, but Shakespeare absolutely is about sex.

Saturday, September 27, 2053

Dad was furious when I told him what had happened, but I begged him not to make an issue of it. After all, what appeal could I, a robot, make? To whom? Who would take my side against a human? If Miss James and Mrs. Philpott had tried and failed why would anyone else care enough to bother?

“What I don't understand is why she seems to hate you so.…”

“She doesn't think much of my kind, Dad. You should hear her welcome speech at the start of each year. I'm a second-class citizen.”

“I know her opinions. I've met the woman a few times, and she's a bit small-minded. But this goes deeper than prejudice, Tan. I know people—it's my job—and this feels more like personal hatred.”

“I've never done anything to her, Dad. She's got no reason to hate me. I didn't think she even knew my name.”

“But you said she didn't speak to Erica like that.”

It was true. I'd compared notes with Erica, in private. Maybe I'd been a little uncharitable describing Erica—if I was honest, she was attractive enough, I suppose. But Erica had been surprised and shocked to hear what Mrs. Golightly had said, and denied that Mrs. Golightly had shown any prejudice to her.

“That's right…”

Prejudice.

I'd never really been aware of it in the village. Everybody treated me the same as they treated all the other kids.

Or did they? I mean, I didn't go into the village a lot, except sometimes with Siân, and we got treated fine mostly. There were a couple of corner shops, and they were friendly enough there, and a pub and a café we sometimes went to. I suppose sometimes we had to wait if the place was busy.…

No, that wasn't true. If Siân was with me, we never had to wait. But on my own? Now I thought about it, I could remember a few instances where I'd been kept waiting when I'd been on my own. Nothing too obvious, but Mrs. Kemp in the post office did tend to drag out her conversations with the other customers when I was around.

No one ignored me totally, true. Nobody spat at me in the street, like they used to spit at Jews. Nobody made me wear a yellow armband with a big R for robot.

Nobody made me ride at the back of the bus, or called me a
Mekker
.

But who sought me out at the end of the Sunday service? The church hall was full of little groups, tight clusters that rarely widened to let me in. As a child, I'd been happy enough playing with the other children; as a young adult seeking the company and the approval of my elders, I quickly tired of having no one to talk to, and drifted away.

It was subtle. But it was there, and before now I'd not noticed it, or ignored it, or tried to pretend it was just coincidence.

Had it always been there? Perhaps. Had it been so strong? I don't think so, but maybe I didn't use to be quite as observant. Just recently, though. Since I'd got my new body. Since …

Since my encounter with Ted?

Hmm.

Did Ted know Mrs. Golightly? Probably. Both were community figures, who would surely meet socially. But it was pointless to speculate. I couldn't prove anything.

So if Dad was baffled, I wouldn't stir up trouble between him and his churchwarden. I'd tough it out.