Expiration Day (8 page)

Afterward?

Do I have to draw a picture, Mister Zog?

When I was cleaned up, and fed, and rested, I got to wondering, how different am I from human?

So “nanozyme substrate” went straight into the search engine. Back came pictures of macromolecules—lots of colored spheres and springs, black for carbon, red for oxygen, white for hydrogen, et cetera. Anything that looks like a sugar molecule hooks on to the nanozyme, which also finds water and oxygen, and turns it all into carbon dioxide, water, and energy.

So I eat the same food as Mum and Dad. I don't have to plug myself into the power circuit. I … eliminate waste. There's a whole science—Cybiology—devoted to mimicking human biology, so we can share the same ecology. It's complicated, and really expensive.

Soames and his ilk, however, have “conventional” powering, because it's cheaper. That means domestics have to be home-based, so they're always near to charging points. Brain-wise, they still have to be pretty sophisticated, so that's the same, but the programming is way less complex.

I felt quite smug when I read that. After all, I may be a robot, but I'm definitely not a
cheap
robot.

The other thing that I wonder about is waking and sleeping. Do I really need to sleep? And then there's dreaming—I have some really weird dreams. What's that all about?

Tuesday, July 18, 2051

Another year passes.

Exams are over, term is done, and the summer holiday has begun. School was actually okay this year. The bullying at school is a distant memory. Oh, it continued for a while, but at some stage Jemyra found some other girl to taunt. Robot, I should say. Gillian Simmons was a quiet girl who never said much, didn't have particular friends (nor enemies for that matter). One day, just outside the school gates, she stepped off the pavement without looking and was hit by a car. I wasn't there to see it, but those who did saw the web revealed. Gillian was whisked off to casualty, and returned a week later, without blemish, perfect.

So the spotlight shifted to her, and I was mostly left alone.

Then a few months after that, another girl got injured. I don't know what happened to her, because her parents didn't send her back to school. For a week or so, rumors ran wild, but after that, I think we realized we were all playing an enormous charade, and we stopped bothering.

And then it was autumn, and the next year's intake arrived, and from our lofty position of second years, we watched it all repeat—a rite of passage.

Not much changes at home, except we finally got a 3-D vid. Another cast-off, of course, but I don't mind too much.

John …

I'm sure you're wondering, Mister Zog. It's pretty good having John as a friend. Better than a lot of the boyfriends that the girls talk about at school. I mean, they don't seem to do anything. They only talk about gadgets and sport. Not that any of them play sport—it's just talk. John's different. He talks about making music and the stars. And John's teaching himself guitar and he really knows about computers. Maybe it's because his parents aren't well off, but he builds them. Or rebuilds them. And he can program them, too. You can see the light in his eyes when he talks about it.

But I can't see him. Of course I can see him over the TeraNet, but it's not the same. And if you're only twelve, you're stuck. I can't drive or anything. I've looked it up, how to get to his house, but it's a bus, then a train, then the Tube, with changes. And then walking through Wood Green, which isn't like walking through Wycombe. Wood Green is Yellow Zone, so I know Mum and Dad aren't going to let me do a journey like that on my own. And definitely not to see some boy. So I've not even asked. Though I do very much want to see him, I just don't yet know how. Not so I can kiss him again—though as a one-off peck in a '70s disco it was okay—or hold his hand or any of that stuff. Just to …
be
with him. Talking face-to-face. That's all.

But maybe that will change this year. Because finally the year has turned, and today I am thirteen.

A teenager.

Just five years left.

Tuesday, September 12, 2051

Siân wanted to go into Town—London—on her own, but her parents wouldn't let her. Too dangerous, they said, you're only thirteen. Siân argued, they argued back, and in the end a compromise was reached. She could go with a friend. Me. There may have been a bit of an argument about that, too, but maybe they'd softened a bit toward me since the drama at the Tower of London.

It was a bit of an adventure, going into London, but we'd both been into Wycombe alone a few times and Siân had been as far as Henley. Siân's mum grudgingly agreed that we could look after ourselves a bit. “But you must stay in the Green Zone and be back by eight,” she insisted. Shops. A meal—or at least a burger—and then home.

Then I had the same argument with my parents.

“Back by half past seven!”

My jaw dropped. How old do you think I am? I'm thirteen.
Thirteen
. In the end, I did get them to agree to eight o'clock, and it was Mum who caved in first. I'm not sure why.

The date was set for the following weekend, so Siân and I got planning.…

Saturday, September 16, 2051

Saturday came, and we got the bus to the station. Then the train and the Tube. And we wound up in Oxford Street. Mum and Dad had given me some extra spending money, on top of my weekly allowance—I'd finally convinced Mum and Dad to stop calling it pocket money.

I knew I was going to like Oxford Street. It had the largest media store I'd ever seen, and I'd made up my mind I'd spend my allowance there. Every last penny. I knew it would be more expensive than downloading from the TeraNet, but there's something about buying your music on a real datachip.

I started toward the door, but Siân caught my elbow.

“There,” she said. “That's where we're going.”

She was pointing at a shop with a bright pink front, glittery and gaudy. In the shop window stood three or four figures, stock still. The shop name gave it away: “Sais Quoi.” A fashion boutique.

I tried to look interested.

I think the assistants sensed that Siân had money, and was in a mood to spend it. They clustered round her, and all but ignored her dowdy friend. A pile of possibles rapidly accumulated—this top, that skirt, and a selection of shoes. Er, Siân, you do only have one pair of legs, you know?

Half an hour later I was beginning to wonder how much longer this was going to go on. The salesgirls continued their fluttering about Siân, offering this and that for her approval.

I sighed deeply.

One of the salesgirls heard me, and to my surprise turned and met my eye.

“Was that boredom, miss? Or exclusion? If you're bored, I can't help you. But if you'd like me to find you something that's right for you, then just say.”

“I don't know. Both. To me, clothes are just … clothes. It seems a lot of fuss, just to keep warm. But Siân's different. She's…”

“She's older? Got a different figure to you? Yes, she has. But I can still help you be you. It's something your parents can't do.”

She was good. My elbows and knees were still the elbows and knees that had been so awkward, dancing to the Slade tribute band. Literally the same, for I'd not grown in all that time. But she found a few items that weren't childish, yet didn't demand teenage curves I didn't possess. Blacks, to match my hair. I thought she might suggest reds to go with it, which I'd already decided would look cheap, but she was wiser than that, and found a skirt and a matching blouse subtly streaked with silver-gray. It made me think of a web—Oxted's web—which somehow appealed.

Siân looked briefly across, and nodded, approvingly. Her own shopping was nearing completion, and five minutes later she joined us, with a selection of carrier bags in her hands.

“Can't decide?” she asked.

I showed her my choices. A couple of tops, a skirt, and a pair of trousers, all themed black and silver.

“But I can't afford them all—my allowance won't stretch that far—and I don't know what to leave out.”

We had an argument then. Siân's solution was simple; she'd buy for me what I couldn't afford. For my part, I was trying to be noble, the nobility of the poor. But I really wanted that outfit. The salesgirl was right; it was a part of becoming me, and I couldn't fight that. And it fitted my plans.

I walked out of the shop, dressed in black and silver, with more bags under my arm.

 

 

I looked at my watch. It was nearly time.

“Siân. I've got a confession to make.”

She looked at me, alarmed.

“I've not been to London like this, you know, without grown-ups. And I thought, it'd be a chance to, well, meet someone. A friend. From my holidays, a couple of years back.”

“A boy, you mean?”

I nodded, blushing.

“John.”

“Of course. I should have guessed. Have you arranged something, then?”

“Sort of. He's waiting for my call. But if you've got other plans…”

She was smiling gently.

“Call him. Where shall we meet?”

“He said he'd meet us for lunch. There's a café he knows, a few streets away. It's safely in the Green Zone and it's not too expensive, he says. It's called Antonio's.”

 

 

Antonio's had once been Italian—pasta and pizza, but had evolved into something not quite so pigeon-holeable. It was darker inside, blinds drawn, and partitions to keep out any daylight through the doors. It felt like we'd shifted seamlessly in time to the evening.

It managed to hint at elegance and exclusivity, yet an exclusivity that was not based simply on wealth. You, it seemed to say, are the kind of customer I want, because you know who you are. You have style and wit, it said, and you are welcome.

And at the end farthest from the door there was a stage, where a band was starting to set up.

I was intrigued, because I'd never seen a live band. Big networked stadium events, sure, recorded and edited. Archive footage of the great summer festivals. I thought of all my musical discussions with John, and I guessed he'd chosen the venue deliberately.

There was a poster, advertising the various bands for this month. I skimmed the list and decided they were all just tribute bands—I chuckled over some of the names, wondering who in their right minds would call their band The Lost Corrs …

Today's band, though, was Mike Clip and the Stands. With a name like that they weren't a tribute band—at least nothing came to mind—so they were probably a generic blues band. I could cope with that.

Siân was getting nervous—even more than I was. She'd also seen the band setting up.

“Do you think they'll be loud?”

I shook my head, though I really had no idea what to expect. I was more concerned that John wasn't here yet.

“Not too loud, no.”

“They
look
loud.…”

I could see what she meant. The amplifiers looked powerful, but that wasn't where Siân was looking. The singer had just walked in, and he took my breath away. It was the black leather, really. It made me think of 1980s heavy metal posters, pouting and posing.

The singer reached out to his microphone, patted it, as a man might pat an old and trusted pet. No, not a pet, I decided, but a working dog, or … yes, that was it, like a warrior might greet his warhorse.

Then his eyes moved on to the audience, such as they were. Apart from Siân and me, there were a handful of other tables around the room, maybe twenty people at most. When his gaze reached me, he paused, acknowledging my interested stare with a wry smile and a conspiratorial wink. Then his eyes moved on.

That was the moment John arrived.…

 

 

You must remember, Mister Zog, that I hadn't seen John for two years or more, and that all our contact had been via the TeraNet, using cheap webcams. So nothing had prepared me for how tall he'd grown, or how broad his shoulders had become.

Or how that unruly ginger mop had somehow been tamed into a lion's mane: smooth, lustrous, and … regal.

Even his freckles had become more grown-up. That looks so weird as I write it now, but it's truly the effect I saw.

So I stammered a greeting, and my feet got tangled in my bags as I stood up to shake his hand.

Yes. Shake his hand.

I'd been imagining this meeting, over and over, with all the variations I could think of. I played it through with coolness, just a peck on the cheek. Or with friendliness—a quick hug. Or with real warmth—a proper kiss on the lips.

When the moment came, the chairs got in the way, my bags got in the way, I was half-tripping over and I couldn't get my face even vaguely close to his—he was just too tall for anything but a handshake.

He looked surprised, and maybe there was a trace of amusement at my awkwardness, and even a hint of disappointment at my formality.

“John, this is Siân.”

Siân had also stood up to greet him, but she'd had time to sort herself out. She smoothly reached out and steered him by the shoulders toward her, briefly kissing his cheek.

It was elegantly done, and John preened himself under her smile of welcome.

I decided to kill her.

Only for a moment or two, honest.

But there it was. Jealous. Me. Little Miss Tin Heart.

Where had that come from?

John was
my
friend. Of course he was, but so was Siân, and … and they were both human, and I … was not.

 

 

We ordered some snack food and something to drink, and settled down to wait for the band to start.

Mike Clip had disappeared, but the rest of the band were carrying in the last of their gear, running cables around and taping them down. To my mind they looked pretty old—my parents' age or thereabouts—so I tried to keep my mind off the problem of John-and-Siân by trying to guess the genre.