Expiration Day (25 page)

I did a second gig at Antonio's with Mike's band, which went really well, and they've asked me if I'll do some more. It looks like Amanda's more poorly than they realized, though they're still not sure what's wrong with her. I'd like to go and see her—maybe after the exams. Anyway, I've said yes to Mike about doing some more gigs. And, er, I've not told John yet. I'm not sure what he'll say. Except that I think he'll call me Paddy.

Friday, February 6, 2054

There are more people like Miss James. People who think robots are more than just property. I got my Eicon working again on the TeraNet, to see if there were other people like her, and who weren't afraid to try to change things.

They're there.

I guess, if they held a fair, they'd be right next to the animal welfare stall. Right next to the “Penguins First” fringe. Pardon me if I sound bitter, Mister Zog, but they didn't strike me as the best our society has to offer. At least half of them can't apostrophize “its” correctly, which is never a good sign.

Of the remainder, 90 percent want to free Soames and his ilk. Soames doesn't have any free will, my dears. Don't waste your time trying to liberate a machine that can't pass a Turing Test—there's nobody home.

But at least there is a core of people who are concerned about the “children.” And there is also a well-organized opposition that tracks down such sites and closes them down. The links I find always end up at “husk” sites—domains that have been blitzed of all content.

Sometimes there's a relic—a fragment that's been picked up and cached by one of the “independent,” read illegal, search engines. If it weren't for these occasional relics, I'd swear that no one cared. But the opposition—whoever they are—must have massive resources to track down these sites so quickly, and close them down leaving so little trace. Who, though? The government? Or … Oxted?

I don't think I'll carry on looking. These people are powerful. Hiding behind an Eicon doesn't seem as safe as it used to be.

Thursday, March 26, 2054

Well, they're over. My last exam was this morning. History. It was full of those open-ended questions, like: “Adolf Hitler gave Germany six years of peace and six years of war—discuss.” And questions on the Troubles, of course, though there's a lot of overlap there with the ethics paper. General LeClerc—the man who nuked Lourdes—features a lot in both papers. As did the Anglo-French Sabine War.

So I went to look for Siân, because it felt like weeks since I'd seen her to talk. I found her sitting by herself in the fifth-form common room.

“Hey, Siân! I brought you a coffee.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

She took the coffee from me and put it down on the table beside her, and left it. She'd been reading a small booklet when I came in and poured the coffee, but it was turned cover down on the table now.

There was a short silence, and I was about to ask how the exams had gone, when she took a deep breath, and I could see her trying to reach a decision. I waited.

“Look, Tania, can we take a walk?”

“Yes, but … I just poured you a coffee.”

“Leave it, I'm not allowed.…”

“What?”

“Don't ask. Wait till we're outside.”

So we made our way to the playing fields. There was a chill in the air still, and frost on the ground—the sun hadn't yet got over the school buildings to melt it. We walked, and I waited for Siân to say what she needed, in her own time and in her own way. We completed the short side of the field and turned the corner. We were about as far from the school buildings as we could get, when she spoke.

“Tania, I'm pregnant.”

“Oh … Siân, that's…”

What? Wonderful news? A bit rash? Rather careless? When you're fifteen and still at school, what's an appropriate response?

“Kieran's the father.”

Thanks for not making me ask.

“Does he know?”

“No. I'm not allowed to tell him. They don't know whether to be angry or delighted.…”

“Who? Your parents?”

“Oh, no—they're really proud and happy for me. No, it's the government. They're delighted that I'm fertile, but very annoyed that they didn't choose the donor. I know it wouldn't have been Kieran.”

Ah. Siân, you're not dumb.

“So you took the decision out of their hands.”

“Deliberately. Yes. I worked out the best time for me to conceive, and arranged to meet Kieran. It was the night of your first gig with Mike and the Stands.”

She looked straight at me.

“You know, you nearly ruined things when you had your little panic episode. It wrecked the mood I'd been building with Kieran. But when John walked you back to the lounge, everyone's attention was on the two of you, so I practically grabbed Kieran and led him away to an unused room, full of cleaning equipment and furniture all covered with dust sheets.”

“Oh.” I must think of more original things to say.

“It was very uncomfortable”—though she grinned rather too smugly as she spoke—“but Kieran was happy with the arrangements, and this”—she patted her stomach—“was conceived to the sounds of your debut number with Mike and the Stands.”

I remembered vaguely seeing John alone in the gig, and being annoyed at not being able to find Siân at the end. Now I knew why, I couldn't stop a grin myself.

“So now…”

“It was only just in time. The government people had already made plans for my first insemination, and they're checking me pretty regularly. So they picked up practically straightaway that I was pregnant, and they were in a right tizz what to do about it.”

I counted weeks and months.

“That's still less than four months, isn't it?”

“Yes, so there's still some risk. Quite a lot of risk, in fact. Which is why I'm now on a very carefully controlled diet—no coffee, by the way—and exercise management regime. That's what I was reading in the common room. But four months is really pretty good going already, they tell me. Ninety percent of eggs don't fertilize. Ninety percent of fertilized eggs don't implant successfully. Ninety percent of implanted eggs fail to develop past one month. So I'm already a minor miracle.”

“You sound quite happy about it.…”

“I'm clutching at the few straws of happiness I can find. I'm a Mother now, Tania. The career I dreaded. I have no more choices now. Kieran was the first, the last, and only free choice, and he'll never be allowed to know…”

“Siân! He deserves to know.”

“And if he ever let it slip, he'd be lynched. All men are encouraged to donate, but it's anonymous. Every man consoles himself with the thought that he might be a father, however unlikely. It's one of those clever psychological factors that helps keep society from exploding. The other factor is the robots, which keep the mother instinct satisfied.”

Yeah. Me and my brothers and sisters.

I sensed there was still more, though.

“What else, Siân? There's something else you're not telling me.”

Tears welled up in her eyes then.

“All this”—she gestured around her at the school—“all this is coming to an end for me. The exams don't matter now. At four months, I'm officially a Mother. A member of the most elite group of people on the whole planet. The most pampered, protected, and envied people that have ever existed. And a people totally without freedom. From here on, my life is dictated by the government.”

An enormous sob wracked her.

“I'm going away, Tania. Maybe as soon as tomorrow. Leaving you. Leaving the school. Leaving Kieran. Leaving everybody and everything that's ever mattered to me…”

Leaving the band.

Sunday, March 29, 2054

We have two new members in our flock—Mr. and Mrs. Fuller. I don't know how much they'll attend the services, but they showed up last night at the vicarage, totally distraught. I've seen it a few times over the years, the parents showing up late at night, their hearts ripped and bleeding. Figuratively speaking, Mister Zog, figuratively speaking.

That was when I knew that Siân had been taken. Not, for once, a robot taken from a couple and returned to Oxted, but a real, live human girl.

I answered the door, as it happened. Dad was in a Steering Committee meeting, so I showed them into our living room to wait until he could see them.

“Siân?” I made it a question, though what else would have brought them both here on a March night?

Mrs. Fuller answered me, sobbing, “Yes. She's been taken.”

“By the government?” Though again I knew the answer.

“Yes,” she replied. “They had all the legal papers that said she had to go. There were a dozen policemen. There was nothing we could do. Our poor daughter…”

“Our foster-daughter, dear,” added Mr. Fuller. “We can admit that, now.”

Now that was a total shock.

“I thought … never mind, let me get my father.”

 

 

I left Dad with them, while I escorted the Steering Committee to the door. Ted, being a churchwarden, was of course on the Steering Committee.

“Who was that?” he asked. “It sounded like the Fullers.”

Trust Ted to pry.

“I'm sure the vicar will update you with anything you need to know about parishioner visits.”

Which was what Dad had told me to say to anyone prying into confidential pastoral matters. It didn't stop Ted from giving me a poisonous look. Oh, well, what did one more glare from Ted matter?

 

 

Back in my room I pondered that last bombshell. Siân was a foster child. And of course, it made sense. Siân had told me herself that her own children would be fostered. Here was the other side of the coin—Siân being taken from her foster parents. Were all human children being fostered, then? It must be so, because every Mother had to give up her children.

The government said so.

No. The State said so.

The State. That word feels more appropriate, I think. Not a benevolent government of the twentieth century—that's a luxury humanity can no longer afford. We have a State, in the best Stalinist sense of the word. For the good of humanity, every Mother was kept prisoner, albeit in luxury. For the good of humanity, every child was taken away from its Mother and fostered. For the good of humanity, no man could knowingly father a child. For the good of humanity, robots were given to comfort those who wanted children. For the good of humanity, the TeraNet was rigidly policed and all dangerous information blitzed. For the good of humanity, we are kept ignorant of how much freedom we've lost.

Hmm. Next to the State, Ted was beginning to look like Saint Francis of Assisi.

 

 

After an hour or so of that sort of scary thinking, I heard the sounds of movement downstairs, and I guessed that Mr. and Mrs. Fuller were leaving. I hoped they might call for me to say good-bye, rather than just disappearing, and to my delight, Dad summoned me down to see them leave.

Mr. Fuller spoke to me.

“Tania, you were a good friend to our Siân, and I want to thank you for that. Right now, we're feeling rather raw, but I'd like to think there'll come a time when we can all share our favorite memories of Siân. You'll always be welcome in our house.”

He made it sound like Siân was dead, but even so—Oh, my! What a lovely father you had, Siân. So open and generous. I flung my arms around his neck and gave him my best hug. And one for Mrs. Fuller, too.

 

 

When they had gone, Dad asked me what I knew. I told him about my conclusions. He sighed.

“The State, eh? Well, it makes sense, Tania, but it's not the only explanation. I'm not sure I agree with Siân's rather gloomy prediction of her future, nor with this picture you have of a modern Stalinist state. I do see a government trying hard to prevent a return to the Troubles, and I think it has to protect people from certain realities that would tend to push our civilization a bit off the rails.”

“And abducting Siân?”

“Not ‘abducting.' Just taking her where she can be looked after, and guarded from the unstable elements in our society. Since the Troubles there are some very disturbed people in our land, who would certainly harm Siân if it became known she was a woman able to bear children. God knows, we need such women now.”

I was going to contradict him further, but there was a hint of pleading in his voice, like he was saying, “I don't want to know.”

I left it. “Okay, Dad. I'll reserve judgment. Let's wait and see.”

Monday, March 30, 2054

I didn't have time to worry.

The next day, at school, I was summoned to see Miss James. When I entered the gym, she had Mrs. Philpott with her.

“It's a mess,” Miss James began. “It's a bloody mess.”

Yes, Mister Zog. A teacher swore. So I've put it down. I've decided I owe you a bit more honesty about what people say. Even if it's language I wouldn't use myself, you understand.

“We hope you can help us, dear,” continued Mrs. Philpott. “It's most inconvenient, Miss Fuller leaving so precipitately.”

“Getting herself pregnant, the silly cow,” said Miss James, and seeing my hackles start to rise, continued. “Sorry, Miss Deeley, I know she was a friend of yours. But she's left us in an awkward position. No Portia. Unless…”

“… unless you could take on the role, Miss Deeley.”

A million and one thoughts must have gone through my head then, but top of the list, well ahead of “Yes-I'd-love-to,” was … “What about Mrs. Golightly?”

“She knows we don't have a lot of choice,” answered Miss James. “She'll go along.”

“Under protest?”

“You could say that. But she'll keep out of the way. The head of the boys' school has made it clear that the play will go ahead, and Mrs. Golightly had better come up with a Portia, or else.”