Expiration Day

by William Campbell Powell

  “The rest should be pretty short, then.”

  It was. Mrs. Golightly trotted perfunctorily through her set speech and then abandoned us in some haste. Our Form Mistress gathered us up and led us to our classroom. Miss Gerrard introduced herself to us.

  “I’m Miss Gerrard, but you must call me—and any other teacher—ma’am. Or sir, in the case of Mr. Cuthbert, our chemistry master here at Lady Maud’s. Lady Maud’s is a great school, with a fine academic tradition, and though times may change, we expect our girls”—she paused slightly at the word—“to perform to their highest while they are in our care. Others may fall by the wayside”—and what did that mean?—“but our girls are our only priority.…”

  There was more, but the message was there, hidden just beneath the surface. Lady Maud’s might promise much for her human charges, but the robots were of no interest.

  And so we began. English. Geography, music, divinity, French. Latin, craft, and maths. That was Monday. I turned it into a little rhyme, to help me remember where I had to go.

  English, Geog

  Mus, Div, Frog

  Lat’n, Craft’n’ Maths

  Perhaps not very complimentary to the French, but it had a cadence and I found I couldn’t get it out of my head.

  English. Mrs. Philpott, short and dumpy, and we quickly discovered, excessively short-sighted. But she loved her Shakespeare, and in our first lesson we found ourselves reading The Merchant of Venice.

  Geography. Mrs. Hanson. Wispy and ethereal. She started to teach us about Africa. Mud huts and grass roofs. Dark-skinned babies, emaciated and dying. I put my hand up.

  “But, ma’am, surely it’s not like that now?”

  She coughed, embarrassed.

  “No, quite right. Not since the Troubles. There are a few coastal enclaves left as I’ve described. But Africa has gone wild, and nobody really knows anymore what it’s like in the interior. Oxted’s invention solved the problem in the West, but there weren’t enough robots for Africa, and perhaps they wouldn’t have wanted them. Many tribes, many peoples, so proud.… So often stronger than the developed world. They face death better than we do.…”

  Her voice tailed off. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the back of a chair, and her eyes glistened. I wondered what she saw. The silence lengthened and we fidgeted, looking at one another and all around. There were photographs at the back of the class, I noticed, of a young woman, who could have been a much younger Mrs. Hanson, in sun hat, tropical shorts, and blouse. Many showed her with children, brightly dressed and with beautiful smiles. In a few, she was visiting wards of a hospital, and the children looked unwell. In just one, set apart from the others, she was standing next to a tall, close-shaven black man. He was naked, save for a loincloth, but in his left hand he carried a short spear and an oval shield faced with hide, in the Zulu style. Very handsome, I thought. Mrs. Hanson clearly thought the same, for she was nestled under his right arm, and her left arm was about his waist. Husband and wife? I risked a glance at Mrs. Hanson, still staring far beyond the classroom.

  The moment passed, and Mrs. Hanson continued.

  “That’s enough. Back to life in the Kimberley Corridor, which is what we’re studying today.…”

  Music. Miss Carr. Divinity. Mrs. Reese. French. Madame Lebrun.

  They’re all old, I discover. They must have been teaching all their lives … and don’t know how to stop, even though there are hardly any real children left to teach. I realize it was like that at the village school, too, but I never thought about it. Are there no young teachers?

  Boy, oh, boy, Mister Zog. What else have I never noticed?

  Saturday, September 11, 2049

  Saturday already, a whole week at Lady M’s. Suddenly this is my new normality—how does that happen? Siân Fuller’s practically my best friend. I mean, if she were human, she’d be a total airhead. But for a robot, she’s all right. I remember only last Wednesday I helped her do her homework on the bus. I smiled at the ridiculousness of it—when she wasn’t looking—for what’s the point of a robot learning French verbs? But I don’t follow that thought often, because it leads to the future, and the future is a very scary place, with too many unanswerable questions:

  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?

  Yes, why hasn’t he called?

  I dreamed about him last night. That single, daring peck on the cheek. The memory makes me feel all hot inside. I’m embarrassed, I suppose.

  He hasn’t called me. Not in nearly two weeks since the holiday ended. Has he forgotten me so quickly? Has he lost my PTI?

  English. We’re reading Shakespeare. Sorry, I think I already said that. Yes, I did. The Merchant of Venice. Mrs. Philpott. We played tricks on her. Moved things when she wasn’t looking, so she couldn’t find them. Her sight is very bad.

  But she knew her Shakespeare by heart, and she never needed the books we hid. After a while we gave up our tricks—it was no fun.

  Mostly we just read our lines in a bored monotone, and she’d say things like “No, no, no, imagine this is happening to you. How would you feel, dear?” And then her victim would briefly display anguish or ecstasy, with all the range and the depth and the sincerity that an eleven-year-old can muster, which is not a lot, Mister Zog. And then she’d say, “That’s so much better,” while rolling her eyes up to heaven.

  And then, of course, it was suddenly my turn to read Portia, Mrs. Philpott’s exhortation still fresh—“How would you feel, dear?”

  How all the other passions fleet to air:

  As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac’d despair,

  And shudd’ring fear, and green-eyed jealousy!

  O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy,

  In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess!

  I feel too much thy blessing: make it less

  For fear I surfeit

  Is this the trickery of Shakespeare that suddenly from nowhere an image lodges in your brain? A ginger-haired boy dressed in ’70s clothing, dancing to a Slade tribute band?

  Mrs. Philpott said nothing, but I felt her eyes on me long after I stopped and Bassanio spoke. At the end of the lesson, she kept me back for a moment.

  “You felt something.”

  It wasn’t a question, and I felt I could trust Mrs. Philpott.

  “I did. There’s someone…”

  “Yes, I thought there might be. That’s how it often begins. Our experience brings life to the words. The words enrich our experience.”

  “How it begins, Mrs. Philpott?”

  “Our love affair with language, Miss Deeley. How dull to be an animal, knowing only emotions, or a drab mechanical, knowing only words. To be human is to feel, which is to give expression and texture to our emotions through language.”

  “Is that all?”

  “It’s everything, Miss Deeley. Does flesh and blood define humanity? I disbelieve it. Many born of woman do not feel—look at history and ask yourself, could this man or that have acted that way, if he could truly feel?”

  “You mean, like Hitler?”

  “An extreme example, but yes. A man born of woman, I grant, but human?”

  “I…”

  “A rhetorical question. Don’t answer. In act three, scene one, there’s a famous speech by Shylock, claiming his own humanity—‘I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes?’—and thereafter going on to define his humanity in purely physiological terms. Then read his actions. Does he use language to leave the prison of his own head, and understand the feelings of another human? Does he, therefore, love another human more than himself? Or do his actions and his language show that he is alone, locked within his own mind?”

  I think she would have gone on more, but I was fid
geting, nervous that I’d be late for my next class. She told me to run along.

  I was going to take the play home and read it, but I forgot to put it in my homework bag. But later I remembered, and I cheated. I went and found an old mpeg on the TeraNet and watched Anthony Sher as Shylock. Is Shylock human? By Mrs. Philpott’s definition, probably not.

  But I’m going to watch that mpeg again. And again. And I promise I’ll read it, too.

  I’ve decided I do love language.

  I’m glad I’m human.

  Monday, September 27, 2049

  I heard from John.

  He’s fine, he says. Enjoying school. How am I?

  “I’m fine, too.” Why didn’t you call me? “It’s nice to hear from you.”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  You can do better than that. Typical boy! “You must have been very busy.”

  “Uh, not really.”

  I hope you didn’t call me just to grunt. I remember you used to talk. Back in the 1970s. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t lose my PTI. I was beginning to think you were just going to be a holiday memory.”

  “No, I wanted to call you.” It constructs a whole sentence! “But I felt awkward. Afraid you might…”

  “What?”

  “Not like me anymore.”

  “That’s silly, John. I like you a lot.”

  “And I like you a lot too, Tania.” Go on, go on! “I … I … yeah, I like you a lot.”

  Gosh, you’re really communicating today, John. I’m going to have to do some serious work to get anywhere. “I thought a lot about our holiday, you know, John. Making friends like that hasn’t happened to me before. All the people I know are, like, the kids of my parents’ friends, my dad’s parishioners’ kids, and the kids in my class. I’ve never really had a choice in my friends. They’re just there, and I accept it. You’re different.”

  “Uh, thanks.” Don’t grunt! And try constructing complete sentences. “It’s the same at my school, I suppose. I watch the others run around playing soccer, and there’s a part of me thinking that they’re just programmed to do that. It’s not fun they’re having, it’s just the way they’re made. So I don’t want to join in. I don’t have any friends. Not really.”

  “You mean, because they’re all robots.”

  “Yeah.” I forgive you for grunting, this time. My own fault for asking a boy a yes-or-no question. And the rest wasn’t bad for a boy, either. Lots of sentences. We’ll try for a few adjectives, next time.

  “So you do understand. I never felt the same as the others at school. There’s always the knowledge that they’re different. I never wondered how I’d ever recognize a human kid if I met one. I knew they’d stand out. I just worried that it might take a long time to happen.”

  “And now?”

  “Now it has happened. I’m very, very happy. So talk to me some more, and don’t spoil it.…”

  Anyway, Mister Zog, that’s enough. I think there are one or two things I still want to keep secret from you, at least for the time being.

  Tuesday, October 26, 2049

  My foot.

  My foot.

  I’m staring at my foot, like it doesn’t belong to me.

  My traitorous foot.

  I’ve been sitting in my room now, for an hour or two. Longer, maybe. Mum and Dad have been up, telling me once more that they still love me, but I’m not talking to them, and they’ve gone away again. If I concentrate, I can hear them downstairs, whispering, crying, pacing up and down. I try not to listen, though. It doesn’t help. I just sit here, staring at my traitorous foot, while my thoughts whirl in mad circles.

  If only …

  The first If Only:

  If only I hadn’t let Siân talk me into a trip to London at half term.

  “It’ll be lovely,” she said. “Mummy and Daddy will take us both in the Mercedes—there’s lots of room—and we’ll visit the Tower of London, and the London Eye and HMS Belfast and Madame Tussauds, and we’ll stay in a hotel and…”

  That was Siân all over. She couldn’t stop talking. Ever.

  But it sounded like fun, so I said yes.

  The second If Only:

  If only I hadn’t decided to show off.

  We’d been round HMS Belfast, with its bow guns still trained on Barnet. Why Barnet? You’d think it would be more use to aim at a Yellow or Red Zone. Well, Siân had chased me round the decks, and I’d hidden from her, and jumped out and surprised her. And then we’d turned about while I’d chased her.

  Harmless stuff.

  And then we’d crossed Tower Bridge and watched the boats ply up and down the Thames, and ended up at the Tower of London. It had been restored a few years ago, to mark the 500th anniversary of Anne Boleyn’s execution. The moat had been re-excavated, and turned into a boating environment for tourists, complete with a picnic park. They were running 3-Dram pictures of the pageant, with robot actors playing Boleyn and her executioner, Jean Rombaud, and stills of old King William officially opening the Gate and then being rowed out to the river. But mostly what Siân and I were interested in was more chasing games, hide-and-seek.

  We ran out of places to hide.

  At least, if we stayed in the public areas.

  So we didn’t. While Siân’s back was turned, I raced off toward Traitor’s Gate. They run boat trips nowadays, with theme parties where people dress up as condemned nobles on their way to the Tower, but only in summer. So it was all off-limits now, and the tour boats bobbed gently, chained up at the base of the steps.

  I climbed over the low gate and pattered down the steps to the waterline, but now I was here, there really wasn’t anywhere to hide. Except down with the boats, and I could hear Siân running closer, so I scrabbled in, and slid under a tarpaulin. The skiff rocked rather wildly as I did so, but I just stayed low and it steadied.

  There were a few bumps, and I risked a peek out from under the tarpaulin.

  The first thing I saw was Siân looking right at me, and as she saw my face emerge, her own expression became surprise, then horror, and she pointed at me and shrieked.

  And then I looked about me, to see what the fuss was about, and there was muddy water in every direction. The little skiff was drifting away from the steps, caught by the eddies, and heading out toward the river.

  Oops!

  No oars, I quickly discovered, and the first gate was past, too far to reach. Siân had summoned help—a Beefeater—and he was casting off a second skiff. But it wasn’t going to be in time; my own skiff was moving faster, toward the open river. Beyond the arch of the river gate, the Thames was racing past, and there were some iron railings partway across. The skiff would miss them, but not by much, so perhaps I could jump across …

  Behind me, the Beefeater was rowing, calling something as he rowed …

  “Don’t jump!”

  … but the railings were close, and I knew I could make it.…

  I jumped …

  The third If Only:

  If only my foot hadn’t caught in something as I jumped.

  I felt something wrap round my ankle, just as I also realized you shouldn’t jump from an unladen skiff. As I pushed off, the boat simply spun out from under me and I went down into the water.

  And that something wrapped tight around my ankle pulled me down, held me down. I reached down with my hand, and felt a tangled mass of rope, and chain, tight and pulling me ever deeper.

  I opened my eyes, but the murky water showed nothing clearly. There was a pressure in my ears, so I knew I must be going deep. And I could feel a terrible burning in my chest—I was going to have to take a breath and then it would all be up with me. I’m not sure if I managed a clear thought then, but perhaps I might have thought, “Good-bye” or “Sorry” or “I love you, Mum and Dad.” Maybe a bit of each …

  The fourth If Only:

  If only I’d drowned.

  I couldn’t stop myself from taking that breath. I knew it would kill me, but I did it anyway.…

 
There was a curious sensation as the water rushed into my lungs. Only that. Just curious. There was no choking feeling. Nothing, except maybe a slight resistance as I breathed.

  I was breathing. Breathing water. I could feel the motion of my chest as I breathed out again, and in. I wasn’t dying.

  Then through the murk came a figure, swimming. The Beefeater, I supposed. And he had a knife, because I felt a sawing around my foot, hacking, hacking, cutting through the rope that held me.

  It was enough. My foot came free and I struck for the surface, feeling the strong arms of the Beefeater bearing me up.

  I’m not sure exactly what happened then, but I remember flashes:

  My head breaking water, and I coughed out a little water …

  Hands, hauling me out of the water …

  Siân, bending over me as I lay, her eyes flicking down, not quite meeting my own …

  More hands, lifting me onto a stretcher …

  A brief glance at my feet, still hurting …

  My right foot, bloody where the knife had slashed …

  And something else: silver-gray threads, shimmery and bright …

  Silver-gray threads …

  Silver-gray threads …

  My next clear thought was some time later, when I realized the white blur in front of my eyes was a ceiling, and I was lying on my back, in a bed.

  A hospital bed. Obviously.

  I sat up, half-expecting resistance from bandages and drips and I don’t know what else. But no, the covers fell away from me easily, and I flicked the sheet off the bottom of my bed, to see …

  My foot—both feet—sticking out of the end of a pair of green-striped hospital pajamas.

  Perfect.

  Not a mark. Not a scratch. Not a blemish.

  I leaned forward to inspect them more closely. If either of them had been hacked bloody with a knife, I couldn’t prove it. I touched each foot, carefully.

  Healed, I thought.