Expiration Day (28 page)

Anyway, Tim seemed to like it. At least, he spent a good portion of the meal looking at the pendant nestled in my cleavage.

Honestly, Mister Zog, I didn't mind. A girl likes to be looked at. It's part of the game that we play. It's why I'm saving up for a black leather catsuit to wear on stage. I want to look good, and I want the boys to enjoy what they see.

Desserts came and went, and coffees. We went Dutch on the bill, which Tim made a fuss about, but I think he was probably glad. At seventeen—did I say that he was a year older, about the same age as John?—we don't have a lot of money.

So we stood up to go, and Tim helped me on with my jacket, and as he did, he let his hand rest on my breast. It was just a brief touch, and I ignored it. If it was deliberate, it wasn't worth getting annoyed about.

So we walked to the bus stop, and I let him hold my hand. Sometimes there are some rowdy types there, but mostly if you're a couple they leave you alone.

Fortunately the bus stop was deserted, so we had some time to kill, before the bus came. Tim was silent for a while, then I heard a deep intake of breath. Here it comes, I thought.

“Tania…”

“Yes?”

“You know, I couldn't help noticing in the restaurant that you were wearing a rather nice silver locket. It looks antique. Is it a family heirloom?”

“Yes. It was Mum's.” And I explained what I knew about how it had been passed down, while wondering where this was going. Well, no. I thought I had a good idea what was going on in Tim's mind, but I was intrigued by the song and dance along the way. Like I said, it's part of the game we play. It was fine, so long as it didn't suddenly turn too serious.

“Really? I'd love to have a closer look. Do you mind?”

“The light's terrible here; let me take it off so you can see it in the light.”

“No, no. No need. I can see fine. Just turn around a bit.”

And before I could say anything, he was practically on top of me, the back of his right hand resting on my breastbone, and cradling the locket. I stepped back, but his hand followed, and then my back was against the bus shelter. Ouch!

“Mmm, nice,” he murmured, ambiguously.

And he turned the locket over, and turned it back, and passed it from hand to hand, and stroked it, and yes, the stroking didn't stop at the locket.

So I lifted his hand away, as gently as I could, and fortunately he didn't resist.

“No, Tim. That's not part of the evening.”

He looked crestfallen, but not too surprised. His shoulders drooped.

“What did I do wrong?”

“It's nothing you've done, Tim. It's just not something I want. Not with anybody.”

“Why?”

I was saved from answering by the arrival of the bus, a single-decker. Which was a relief. With the driver's eye on us I'd feel safer.

As the bus moved off, we lurched to an empty part of the bus, near the back, as it happened, in courting couple territory. I couldn't help that—it was the only part of the bus where we wouldn't be overheard. I owed Tim an explanation, I'd decided.

“Look, Tim, I'm sorry if I pushed you away just now, or hurt you, but I'm not looking for that kind of a relationship. I hope nothing I've ever said or done has given you a different impression.”

At which he looked very annoyed.

“Well, actually you did. Specifically, there was the time we kissed after the play. I remember vividly how you started to get very familiar. Or had you forgotten?”

There was a bitter edge to his voice, angry that I'd apparently led him on. So I explained.

“Oh. That was different. That was Portia. Or had you forgotten I'd said that?” It sounded lame, even as I said it.

“I didn't think you meant that. I felt the passion in your embrace, and your words just didn't match. So I reckoned that the words were just for show, because I know John was nearby, and you had to pretend, so he wouldn't cotton on to what was going on between us.”

“No, Tim. There's no ‘us.' I want you to understand that I truly was a different person on the stage, and that person—Portia—loved
Bassanio
passionately. But the play's over now, and you're plain Tim, and I'm even plainer Tania.”

“I don't believe you. Anyway, you could wake Portia if you wanted to. She's not dead, she's sleeping inside you, and she wants to come out. Bassanio's missing her.…”

Was he right? For a moment it sounded plausible, and I felt as though if I called her, Portia would come.

“No.”

“No? She's not sleeping? Or no, you won't let her wake?”

“Just no. This is Tania you're dealing with, and Tania doesn't want sex with you or anybody.”

“So you'll die a virgin? Is that what you want?”

“Die a virgin? What a strange idea. Is that what you're worried about, Tim? For yourself, I mean…”

And that was it. That was the key to his fear. He was desperate for sex, terrified of going into the unknown—as he saw it—unfulfilled. His fears poured out …

“All the girls I've known, they cluster together and giggle, and they're never alone. So I've never even had a chance to ask someone. And now I've finally asked someone and you've said no. That's it. The end. Because there's no more time.”

“What do you mean, no more time?”

“I'm seventeen, Tania. I've got weeks, maybe, just weeks. Do you think they always wait till your eighteenth birthday? They come any time.…”

“But they can't. The contract is until age eighteen. I read it.”

“Then you didn't read carefully enough. The stuff on the TeraNet isn't what's in the contract. It states ‘not exceeding the eighteenth year,' and ‘early termination at the discretion of the company,' and ‘in the event of early termination, a pro-rata refund of fees paid.' They can surprise you, and give you your own money back to keep you quiet.”

“Hang on. Dad showed me our contract, and there's nothing like that in it.”

“Did you read the upgrade contracts? About five years ago these clauses started appearing.”

I fell silent. He might well be right. I'd not read the more recent contracts. I wondered why I'd heard nothing about it, but then I remembered the blitzed sites on the TeraNet. Somebody who understood electronic media very well was very much in control of the TeraNet. That sort of thing might not leak out.

My birthday meal was sour in my stomach. My two years had suddenly shrunk to one, or maybe less.

Sunday, August 2, 2054

So what do I want to accomplish in the months that remain to me?

Sex?

I don't think so. Certainly not with Tim. The rest of the bus journey had been a dream. I was just completely shocked. I think Tim put his arm around me, but it felt like it was happening to someone else. After the bus ride, at the gate I didn't give him a chance to kiss me. As my feet crunched down the gravel path, I heard his final words to me: “Hey, Tania, if you change your mind…”

When I had a moment by myself to ponder, I wondered if he'd made the whole thing up, just to trick me into having sex with him. The jerk.

But I've checked, and it's true. Which brings me back to the question:

What do I want to accomplish in the months that remain to me?

There are a hundred books I want to read, and more. The thoughts of the greatest minds in history, each adding to the sum of knowledge of what it means to be human. I want to understand how I'm different. If I am. To paraphrase Shylock:

I am a Robot. Hath not a Robot eyes? hath not a Robot hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?

(Just a shame he mentioned diseases. Apart from that, it fits rather well.)

So yes, I want to read the great books and poems of the world, starting with the Great War Poets—Wilfred Owen, Rupert Brooke—who lived their lives at the edge of death, but who never let the fear of it stop their urge to create. I need to understand them first, find their strength, or else I might as well give up now.

Art, in all its forms, that distinguishes the human from the beast. Music, sculpture, painting. Even comic books.

Humor and psychology.

Love and hate.

All the built-in opposites of mankind.

And yes, I want to gig again with Mike and the Stands. I will buy that catsuit, and I will pull the zipper down as low as I dare, and then let the boys' eyes pop out.

I want to solve those problems, too. My little list, minus the crossings-out.

What happens to robots when they grow up?

Why does Mrs. Hanson have a photograph of a handsome Zulu warrior— her husband?—in the classroom?

Why aren't there any young teachers?

What lies in the heart of Africa, beyond the Kimberley Corridor?

Why hasn't John called me?

Is Jemima (or Myra) a robot or human?

For that matter, how many of the girls who'd been bullying me today were robots? And did they know it, or did they think they were human, as I'd done?

Do robots live forever? If so, could I live forever? Did I want to live forever?

Was Siân really human? If she's just a robot, why am I helping her learn French?

How many humans are there now? Are there any humans still being born?

And the new ones I'd added …

Why didn't Doctor Markov want to talk about Christiana?

Where did Doctor Markov get his tan in a wet English summer?

Friday, August 28, 2054

It's almost routine, now.

My final upgrade. I've kept the slightly darker skin tone. I'm a couple of inches taller and I've added a bit about the thighs, hips, and breasts—not a lot, but a good excuse for a minor wardrobe update. No real changes or redesigns—that was all decided at the last upgrade.

Not even an overnight stay; it was just in and out—Dad called it an “outpatient visit.” No messing around with that calibration nonsense, even.

If it hadn't been for the accident, and the chance to switch to “production quality” skin—Dr. Markov's words—I'm not sure I'd have bothered.

I liked the old me. The new me is pretty much the same.

“Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”

A song for every situation.

Wednesday, September 23, 2054

I decided to give Tim a call, to see if he was all right. Not, absolutely not because I'd changed my mind. Apart from his obsession with sex, he's actually a nice guy. I can talk to him, and he can even talk back, which is better than most of the XY-programmed.

What is it with boys? Is sex that important to them? Is Tim typical? There's a thought.

Whoa! Here's another. Am I a typical girl? In my … programming, that is.

I like boys, Mister Zog. I can't help it. They're similar enough to girls to be acceptable. Different enough to be intriguing. Complementary to one another, in mind and body, if you want to get all analytical about it, which sometimes I do. Analytical, schmytical, but I'm happy with my mind and with my body, too. But that doesn't mean I want sex. Certainly not just so Tim can go into the unknown having exercised all his programming.

But, like I said, I liked Tim enough to be concerned that he might be suffering. So I gave him a call.

No answer.

I tried a few times. Still no answer.

So after school I took a bus to where I thought Tim lived. I could see a few lights on in the house, so I plucked up my courage and knocked on the door.

No answer. I knocked again.

Eventually I heard footsteps, and then the door was opened.

“What do you want?”

The voice was tired and broken. Resentful of my interruption, but too worn down to slam the door in my face.

“Hello, are you Mr. Price? Look, I'm sorry if I've called at a bad time.… Er, my name's Tania Deeley, and I'm a friend of Tim's. I wanted to see if he's all … I wanted to see him.”

No answer.

“Er, I am at the right house, aren't I? Tim does live here?”

“It was the right house. But you're too late. Tim's not here anymore.”

“But … he didn't say anything about going away.…”

And as I said it, I realized that actually he had.

“Oh, my! I'm really sorry. I have come at a bad time, haven't I?”

“Yes. I suppose you meant well, but I think you'd better leave.”

And that was that. I was dismissed. The door closed.

Tuesday, October 27, 2054

“There's a lawyer I've found, Tania. A solicitor, I should say. He'll take on the case.”

“What case, Dad?”

It was just an ordinary day. Well, no, it was October, just a few days short of the anniversary of Mum's death. Anyway, it was breakfast time, and Dad had the post open.

“Our case. Your case. Against Oxted.”

“Eh? Why do I want to take on Oxted?”

“We have to break the contract, Tania. Prove that it's unfair, unlawful or whatever. I want to keep you, Tania. You deserve life.”

He waved the letter at me. “Finally, as I was saying, I've found a solicitor who'll take on the case.”

“Finally? How long have you been trying? How many have you approached?”

“Three months. Maybe twenty solicitors in that time. They've all refused, till now. Don't waste your money, they told me.”

“And now you've found someone who will? What's he charging?”

“That doesn't matter. He's prepared to do it.”