Expiration Day (30 page)

A musicians' band? Does that puzzle you, Mister Zog? I'm not surprised—it feels odd to me. But with Siân leading us, the band was really a vehicle for her. And half of that was to give her a platform to flirt with the audience, who were dominantly male, and had come to be flirted with. I mean, she wasn't
bad
—provocative—about it, but she'd got that kind of Marilyn Monroe “hello
boys
” aura that was just part of being Siân, and it did cause tongues to hang out rather. But without Siân, it would have to be the music that counted. Yes, I could get that catsuit, and pull the zipper down low as I dared, and maybe the boys would enjoy the view. But I knew I didn't have the stage presence that Siân had. She could have had the same effect, without needing to pull the zipper down, if that makes sense.

 

 

Butterflies again. But not so bad, and John recognized the signs, and I didn't have to flee to the loo. He's not bad, for a boy.

Anyway, I went up on stage for the first number, still feeling warm and hugged. Thank you, John.

It's hot under the lights at Antonio's. I'd never felt it before, but then, I'd never been center stage. Some of it's the physics of all those watts of lighting rig. Most of it's the eyes on you. The lights are so bright, that you can't actually see faces. And then you know, you're not the bassist, tucked away at the back of the stage. You're the face of the band, the nexus of the musicians behind you and the watchers in front of you, and the spotlight is on … you.

There was a moment of stillness. I looked behind me. John, brow furrowed, deep in concentration. Kieran, poised and ready, smiles. Maybe he has forgiven me. I wink back. We're ready.

“Hi, friends. We're Raven.”

Yeah. I didn't mention that. We've got a proper name. John's suggestion. Kieran said aye, and they didn't give me a vote. “You're outnumbered, anyway.”

Polite applause. It was a Wednesday, after all. If there were twenty people in the place, that was all.

“The first song's called ‘Coils,' and it's for Siân, wherever you are now. We miss you … Give me a G, John.”

So my voice wobbled, but that was thinking of Siân, and you have to push that out of your mind, 'cause there's too much else to do. First line just over guitar then D-slide-down-to-G and in.

It went all right, I guess. Antonio's crowd like their music both ways, covers and originals, and they gave us a decent response—for a Wednesday—and I stumbled a couple of times coming out of the first chorus, waiting for Siân to come in—no, I'm the singer now—but then I landed in the groove, and by the time we ended the first song, we were there, in that place of creation, and the audience were with us.

Long sentence, but playing in a band is like that. You set off together, you keep going, going, for three minutes or whatever, and you can't stop, and finally, you can.

 

 

It's done.

I've got nothing left to give. I'm empty. It feels good, though. It feels
right
. Like … fulfilled.

Wednesday, May 5, 2055

I'm scared.

Dad's done it. He's taking Oxted to court, for the right to keep me. His tame solicitor—the only one he could find who'd look at the case—has submitted the papers and they've been accepted. We're waiting for a response from Oxted now.

Do I want to live? Stupid question. Of course I do. But the cost …

Dad's just a vicar, and I know the pay is pretty rubbish. I said before he's keeping half the village from mental breakdown, but he doesn't get any thanks for it. He's the one they call up when the despair of childlessness overwhelms them, when the fertility treatments fail, when they can't pay the mortgage because they've spent everything they have on quacks who promise miracles and deliver nothing.

It's psychiatric counseling on the cheap and people resent it. Dad delivers, but they don't like it for the self-respect it costs them.

Where was I? Oh yes, the cost … Well, Mum had a little money put by, and that'll help. But Oxted has the best legal team, and if we lose, Dad will be penniless, near enough. Actually, we'll probably be penniless even if we win—we're unlikely to get costs.

But Dad doesn't listen when I tell him. He mutters that we're going to win. Sometimes he looks a bit wild. Dad, who's keeping
you
from mental breakdown? The bishop just shook his head when he came to visit, and wouldn't meet my eye.

There's a silver lining. The congregation have found out what he's doing, and they're doing their best to help. Even Ted and his crowd. There might be a little guilt at work there, I think.

Sunday, May 30, 2055

Dad surprised me again, though I liked this surprise better. Four days walking in the middle of nowhere. After he got back from evening service, he suddenly brightened up and told me: “The die is cast, and there's nothing we can do now. So pack a bag. We're going for a walking holiday in the Yorkshire Dales.”

So I've got Dad back. The old Dad.
My Dad
.

He's found us a delightful hotel for our base. Solid stone, to keep the outside outside. A restaurant where we can eat well, if not extravagantly, and a guest lounge where we can pull up chairs by the fireside, and drink warm cocoa after a day walking. Hotel staff who are friendly, without being in your face.

And the Dales themselves right outside our front door. He picked Ribblesdale for our base, which is gorgeous. We've got our copy of Wainwright's Limestone Country book, and we're doing our best to follow that.

One of the other guidebooks talks about the caves and potholes in the area, and I think back to John, asking me if I'll run away before Oxted takes me (if they do). I can imagine it, skulking in some cave, living off stolen food, cold and wet, dreading the approach of the searchers. Is that what I want? Life at any price, no matter how miserable?

Mrs. Hanson, telling me about choices, how life is always looking for more choices, and death being accepting only the obvious ones. Here and now the Dales are beautiful, because I have a warm bed to return to. I have the company of a fine friend—Dad—and that is a choice I accept. Life forever on the run, alone, miserable, hungry, and cold—no, the Dales would not be beautiful then. I need to find a different choice.

 

 

We were at the top of Pen-y-ghent, and I found myself thinking of John, wishing I could bring him here, show him all this. And I let my thoughts run on, to strange places. John beside me, a husband. Children of my own. Growing old together, as Mum and Dad had done. A gentle dying; first one, then the other.

A very human destiny, as lived out by billions of humans before me. And so, comfortable. But, I remind myself, I'm a robot. I need to find a different choice.

There has to be a different model for us. I have to dream it, because I may not get to live it. But dream it, I will, and I will tell my kind.

Tuesday, June 1, 2055

I found out where Christiana is, by the way. It's in Africa, in or near the Kimberley Corridor. At least, the only one I can't find anything about is there. There are about four in the United States, one in Germany, a couple in England. They're quite ordinary.

The other one only shows up in old atlases, like the one in Dad's study. There's no mention of it anywhere on the TeraNet. So it's got to be that one that Doctor Markov didn't want to talk about.

Thursday, June 3, 2055

John's building up to something, I'm sure. Just little things that he says—or doesn't say. He stops, almost in mid-sentence, and I know there was something on the tip of his tongue. It's not like Tim, though, where I had a pretty good idea what was on his mind. John isn't that transparent, but he can't hide from me that there's a decision brewing.

The only thing I can think of is that he's going to run away. But he must know that Oxted will find him. It's too easy to add a tracking beacon into a robot for them not to have done it. I remember—way back—Martin falling over and injuring himself. I can't help thinking that I must have sensed a distress beacon, because I don't remember he was actually calling out, but I knew exactly where to find him. There must be beacons in all of us robots, for emergencies and, I guess, for when we go on the run.

It makes sense, but I can't prove it. Still, maybe John plans to hide in a deep cave, like the ones in the Dales, where radio can't penetrate. He's a good engineer, I'd almost say brilliant, so maybe he's got something figured out.

I trust John, that he'll tell me when he's ready, or else he won't if it's not safe to do so. I'll keep my suspicions to myself, encrypted here in my AllInFone.

So we talk about other things. We're writing music together, and I try to find words that say something new.

And me? I'm going along with the legal approach. We win, or we lose. I win life, or else I don't. But I'm going to lose that anyway. So what's to lose?

 

 

I keep thinking of that long-ago tryst by Ally Pally, when John asked if I'd run away with him and I said no. I remember the chill in the air, the walk back in the safety of John's enfolding arm. When we kissed goodbye, at the Tube station, there was, not passion, but tenderness and a deep poignancy in our embrace that I'd not felt before, or since.

If he's leaving, let that be our adieu.

Friday, June 4, 2055

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

A brown envelope. Recorded delivery. It arrived this morning, and suddenly our legal approach isn't a no-lose proposition anymore.

Oxted is counter-suing. They allege “… the robot, known as Tania Annette Deeley, is declared to be defective and is to be returned immediately to the manufacturer for fault diagnosis and reprogramming, under the terms…”

Reprogramming. Wipe my mind in other words. Death. Not a year from now. Immediately.

Merde!

Excuse my French, Mister Zog. But what else can I say?

 

 

I've called John. No answer. Has he made his move? If so, we are both alone. Farewell, John, my love.

What shall I do?

Dad says we just have to brazen it out. We're committed; now we have to fight. That's fine for him to say—it's not his brain that's about to be reprogrammed. I just want to start running, but I know they've got the resources to find me before I get anywhere near the caves in the Dales.

Mrs. Hanson's words keep coming back to me. Look for more choices. But what choices are there?

 

 

I went to the station to buy a ticket to London. Just to see what would happen. The machine flashed “Request Assistance” at me when I tried to pay with my ID card. At least it didn't retain my card.

So I'm stuck. Well, I could walk, or I could pay cash, maybe catch a bus. But how far could I get before I had to show my ID card? Hitchhike? I'd never tried it, but it didn't feel safe. It was completely illegal, as well. So who would give a lift to a hitchhiker out of the goodness of their heart? I could think of plenty of unsavory reasons why someone would offer a lift. No thanks.

 

 

I've called Mike, he of the Stands, to tell him. Not everything, of course, but I've let him know that I might have to go away at very short notice for a very long time.

“Shoot! I was hopin' they'd forget about you.”

“You know?”

“Sure. You ain't born of woman. But who is, these days? Still, you're no R either. You can play bass fit to make a stone cry. You can feel. You're People.”

“Thanks, Mike. You're People, too.”

“You going to play one last gig with us? Last Saturday of this month?”

“Hey, Mike, who said it was going to be my last gig?”

“These things happen fast. I know. Word gets around. So you play this gig, and make it a stormer. Yes?”

“But I can't get to London. I can't travel.”

“I'll drive out and get you. Take you home after the gig. Make the party blast for Tania.”

So what else would I do? Hide in my room until the day of the court case?

Monday, June 7, 2055

So Dad said, “We'd better start doing some serious research, Tan.”

He was right. It's not going to go away by not thinking about it. I wish we knew a bit more law, but as Dad says, we are where we are. Dad says we have to own our defense, meaning we have to understand it, agree with it, control it, whatever. (Dad says a lot, and it's making sense. Has he done something like this before, or am I just lucky to have a dad who can just grasp all of this stuff?)

It feels like we're going to war.

The study is our War Room. He's dumped a lot of books off the shelves into boxes, moved the bookcases out into the dining room, and made lots of wall space. We've got big sheets of paper sticky-tacked to the wall, easels and marker pens and what-not.

I wrote on the wall when my pen slipped, and felt so guilty, but Dad just said, “So what? Do you think I give a
skata
about the wallpaper when my little girl's future is at stake?” I don't think I've
ever
heard Dad swear before, in English or in Ancient Greek.

Honestly, where does Dad learn all this stuff? The Greek goes with the job, but brainstorming, mind maps, and game theory? Formal logic? He's a
vicar,
not a business exec or a general!

We moved the other computers down into the office, so that we could set some off searching and crunching, leaving one for our main planning documents, and a VPN to one in the church office for backup.

“Call me paranoid, but this is not a time for our planning to be crippled by a disk failure. Or a house fire.”

Paranoid? Why would we have a house fire
now
? Do you think Oxted plays dirty, Dad?