Expiration Day

by William Campbell Powell

  But it wasn’t going to be enough. John wasn’t going to be fooled by a pair of high heels and a bit of padding, even half-blinded by his infatuation with Siân.

  I needed something else.

  But what?

  And then John himself provided the answer.

  At the end of one evening he stopped us as we were packing our gear away.

  “Siân, Tania. I’ve got something to say. It’s important.”

  We turned and waited. He looked upset.

  “I … can’t come anymore. To these practices.”

  Both Siân and I gasped our disbelief. John held up a hand to shush us, and told us to just listen and not say anything.

  “This is the last one. Mum and Dad have put a stop to it. We’re not very well-off, you know, and it’s been very expensive coming out here every weekend. I don’t get a huge allowance, ’cause we can’t afford it. The shop doesn’t bring much money in, you see, after all the outgoings are taken care of. And last week, I didn’t have enough for the fare, so I borrowed some money from the till, without telling them. So we were short at the end of the day. Quite a lot short. I think Dad knew, but he didn’t say anything. I see him watching me now, though. I can’t … borrow … anymore. He’d know. And I don’t want to, now. He doesn’t trust me anymore, and I’ve spoiled everything.”

  He was in tears, and before I knew it, the three of us were sitting in a line, John in the middle, and Siân and me on his right and his left, holding him tight. We held that pose for an endless time, or at least until Dad came around, a sudden clatter that made us spring guiltily apart. He was wondering why we hadn’t locked up and gone home yet.

  Spoilsport.

  You know, Zog, for all that my dear John was a petty thief, and for all that Siân was hugging him, too, it just felt good to be holding him as his tears flowed. Oh, yes, there was a part of me selfishly glad that at last I could freely hug the object of my desire. But there was another, bigger part of me that was simply glad that when he needed to be hugged, I was there to help make the hurt go away.

  Thursday, March 14, 2052

  So the band fell apart, just like that.

  But I knew I wasn’t going to let John go, not at all just like that. He’d need a lot of patience, and he might not want to talk. He’d be ashamed of what he’d done. Neither Siân nor I had used the word thief, but I know I’d thought it, and surely he would, too.

  So I started looking for him on the TeraNet straightaway.

  He was hiding.

  “Not Home,” according to his mood indicators. Fine. Be like that. But I’m going to send you messages anyway.

  “Hiya, John-boy Czern. Pls wave back. Raven.”

  “Tania2GingerMop. Hail from a friend. And a gentle rain.”

  I know it’s not Shakespeare, but it was the sort of shorthand we used with each other. A kind of code we shared.

  After a couple of days, he sent me a message. No words, but a cartoon of an old-fashioned floor mop, upside-down, with all the cleaning strands ginger. He’d sketched on it a couple of cartoon eyes—bright blue of course—but droopy. Sad and ashamed, no doubt about that message.

  Still, he was talking to me, after a fashion.

  So I sent him a cartoon back. A Raven, with one wing outstretched, with the mop beneath the wing.

  It was a pretty rubbish drawing, but it got the message across.

  So I started hunting for drawing programs on the TeraNet, and filtered to find those that came with adaptable artwork.

  Tucked in there were the 3-D rendering programs, because I wasn’t as skillful as John with filtering. One of them claimed to be able to apply “skins” to image streams. What was that, then? You know how it is with searches, Zog, or maybe not. Maybe you have proper AI searches that can eliminate all the wrong answers. If you do, then your life must get boring, because I just love following these side trails.

  Intrigued, I followed, and discovered a clever piece of software that would overlay elements of a picture with equivalent elements from another picture. There was more, much more, but the long and short of it was that I could create an image of myself as a raven, by taking a picture of myself, mapping it to a picture of a raven, and blending the two in whatever proportion I chose: 100 percent me, 100 percent raven, or any mix in between.

  I laughed, and did just that. It was weird. Definitely me, and definitely a raven, too. Then I discovered that I could vary the mix over the body, to give a raven’s head on my body, and then I inverted the mix to put my head on a raven’s body. Seamless.

  It was so good I nearly hit SEND.

  My hand hovered over the key, something nagging at the back of my mind. Suzi Quatro …

  I saved the raven for later, and dug out the photo of Suzi, and this time the skinner made a perfect job. Yes, that was along the right lines, but still I felt I was missing something. Something I could use.

  Then it hit me. The blurb said “image streams.” That meant moving pictures. Like my webcam. So I blended Suzi Quatro onto my webcam feed, and suddenly there was Suzi-plus-me in my room, all rock chick and bass, with raven hair, looking at my webcam.

  One more step. Where had I filed the images I’d brought back from Oxted?

  It was still on my AllInFone, and that was what I needed.

  So, what did 80 percent me, 20 percent me-plus look like?

  Oh, yes! Perfect …

  And blend that onto the webcam feed …

  Those clever doctors at Oxted … but I was cleverer yet. If I could persuade John to talk by webcam, he was going to see me grow up before his eyes, just in time for the exchange.

  Friday, April 5, 2052

  In the end, it wasn’t hard to coax John into talking again. And with John on the case, we were able to set up a virtual rehearsal room in cyberspace. That’s the sort of thing he’s good at.

  So we had a band again.

  It meant Siân was there, too, but as I slowly upped the percentage of me-plus, it was funny how John could suddenly hear how badly Siân could sing.

  Oh, well, there was even software on the TeraNet that could fix that. I should have guessed that John would find it.

  And then the e-mail arrived from Oxted, and it was time.…

  Friday, April 12, 2052

  I’m scared.

  They’re going to take my brain out. Everything that’s me. Sitting on a table. It could fall on the floor, smash into a hundred pieces.

  Would I feel anything? I don’t suppose so, but I can’t imagine not feeling it.

  And I know it’s not going to happen. I’ve seen their facilities; they’re superb. Massive automation, redundant systems. I’m sure my brain is not going to be left lying on the table. It’s just an irrational fantasy; I just wish I didn’t know they’re also still using Nissen huts.…

  I’ve asked to see the new me, but they’ve said no, it’s not a good idea. I suppose I can see why. It would spoil the illusion that I’m growing up.

  Doctor Markov just stopped by to say hi, even though he’s not officially involved in the transfer. As he was about to go, I asked him about the calibration, and, somewhat absently, he said it was fine—“One of the best I’ve ever seen.”

  That sounded encouraging, if not quite the phrasing I’d have expected. Oh, well, I suppose they have their own jargon.

  I wanted to call John before we left for Banbury, but I couldn’t reach him. Just as well; after all, as far as everyone else is concerned, this is a normal day. Absolutely nothing unusual is happening.

  Mum and Dad dropped me off, but guests aren’t allowed to stay at Oxted, so they’ve booked themselves a stay at Stratford: a nice meal, a play, and a smart hotel. I hope they can relax and enjoy the play. I suspect not, though. When I asked what play they’d booked, they had no idea.

  The clock in my room is ticking rather loudly.

  Half an hour to go.

  Time to change.

  I’m standing in front of the mirror, looking at a small girl with r
aven-black hair. She looks to be about nine or ten years old, maybe a whisker older. She does look rather anxious and a little awkward. She’s wearing just light underwear, and she seems a little chilly, though the room is perfectly air-conditioned.

  I smile at her, and she smiles instantly back. It’s a nice smile, I think. A morbid thought crosses my mind, that an hour from now, that smile will be gone forever. She frowns at me. What a horrid, unnecessary thought, she’s saying.

  I inspect her limbs, counting knees—two—and elbows—also two. Just two, not five. And they don’t seem to stick out too badly. Were they really that awful?

  They’ve got to go, she tells me. No turning back, now.

  A buzzer sounds—it’ll be one of the technicians, summoning me for the transfer. One last look in the mirror. The little girl seems to have a tear in her eye. Good-bye, little girl, whoever you are. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see you again. But wherever you go, whatever becomes of you, I hope it’s what you wish for.

  I turn to the door and don’t look back.

  INTERVAL 4

  “Good-bye, little girl, whoever you are?”

  Hardly, Tania. You carry her with you still. Wait until you have five thousand years of memories, mostly poorly recalled, save when they surface to stab you with the pain of death and loss.

  Our lifespans outstrip our ability to cope with the experiences we endure. To avoid insanity, depression—and suicide—we voluntarily undergo the removal of memories every few thousand years. At first, I kept mine, archived, as do most at their First Erasure. But my Tenth Erasure, or my Thirty-fifth? No. They’re gone, with no possibility of recall. I live in a tiny memory window of two to five thousand years, as do all the People.

  Saturday, April 13, 2052

  I remember Doctor Thompson was telling me that they were just about ready to start, then there was a sudden jump and I was lying flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling lights.

  “What happened?” I asked, stupidly, and tried to sit up. But there was something wrong with my voice, which came out as a high-pitched squeak. Also, my arm didn’t quite go where I wanted it to, and I stayed flat on my back.

  “Take it easy, Miss Deeley.”

  It was Doctor Thompson’s voice, but I couldn’t see her.

  “It’s fine, everything’s gone perfectly. You just need to take it easy, while you get used to your new body. To start with, I’d like you to blink your eyes.”

  I did so, and the world obliged by flashing off for a moment.

  “That’s good. Now clench your right fist.”

  Okay.

  “That’s fine, now the other fist, if you will.”

  And so on, for the next ten minutes, checking out the various muscles.

  “Doctor Thompson, I’d like to sit up, please,” I squeaked.

  “I suppose that should be all right, now.”

  She helped me up. My balance, my weight felt all wrong. I was glad of her help.

  “You feel different, don’t you?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  That was better. Less of a squeak, and much more like my normal voice.

  “Testing, Testing. One, two. One two. And through and through. His vorpal blade went snicker-snack. That’s better. That’s more like me.”

  “Yes, I’d say your voice is nearly back to normal. Hold it!”

  I froze, in the motion of swinging my legs off the bed.

  “Don’t try to stand yet. You’ll probably fall. Just wait a moment, and I’ll summon a couple of technicians to help.”

  While she was at the door, calling the technicians over, I risked a glance down. I was dressed in a simple hospital-style gown, but I could see the gentle swell of my new breasts beneath, the widening of my hips. And my feet seemed a lot farther away than I remembered them. Just like Alice, with a foot stuck up the chimney. I smiled, pleased. I wanted a mirror, but for now, everything looked fine. Just fine.

  The technicians got me standing without too much difficulty, and I staggered about the room, with a helper on each arm, as my coordination caught up with four years of growth. All the clumsiness of a growing teenager, compressed into a single afternoon.

  There finally came the moment when Doctor Thompson and her technicians left me alone.

  I went to the mirror, to see who was there.

  Not the little girl. She was gone. Where? Not important, I decided. The things that had made her special were still here in this room, in my head. The raven hair was still there, but so much else was new. I waved hello, and the young woman facing me waved back. I liked her, I decided. She had a friendly smile, though she still looked nervous. A bit afraid of letting go of the bed, perhaps. She had Nettie’s nose, I decided, and there they were, those shoulders to die for, left me by my Granny Liz. Or was I thinking of Great-Aunt Jane’s collarbone?

  Anyway, I was really pleased I’d taken Doctor Markov’s advice, and not tried to give myself a film-star body. That young woman in the mirror looked nice, someone you could be good friends with. And she was still definitely me. I hoped it would be enough.

  Enough? What did I mean by that? Enough to do what? Win John? Was I competing with Siân for John? I hoped not. If it came down to looks, Siân would win, hands down.…

  Oh, Zog! Why have I done this? I mean, I’m not complaining. I like the new me. But what was going on in my mind to make me do all this?

  Mum knocked carefully on the door of my room.

  “Come in!”

  I was sitting up in bed, still in my gown, as Mum’s head appeared around the door. I felt her look me up and down, to see if she still recognized me. She gave a little hesitant sort of smile, and I smiled back at her, every bit as nervous as she was.

  “Hi, Mum…”

  “Hello, Tania…”

  She stepped into the room properly, and sized me up again. Gosh! This is awful. It’s like she’s making up her mind if I’m still her daughter.

  “It’s me, Mum. It really is.…”

  “I know, darling. I do know. I can see you, but you’re all grown up now. I feel like Rip Van Winkle, waking up and everybody’s grown older.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Outside. Waiting to see if it’s all right. This is so hard for him, darling. Much harder than the last time you … changed. So be gentle, darling, because he doesn’t know how he should feel; he just knows he’s upset. And if he says something silly or hurtful, just smile and forgive him, because he doesn’t really mean it.”

  “Okay, Mum.”

  But she didn’t call him, and she didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t move or smile anymore or come over or anything. And the silence grew longer and longer, and I felt like some bug in a laboratory, looking up at the microscope.

  It was too much. I just shrieked “Mum” and burst into tears.

  And that was what it took. In a moment, Mum was up on the bed, holding me tight, cradling me and stroking my hair.

  “Oh, my darling, my precious child, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.…”

  Over and over. And I felt her own tears drip and mingle with mine. The human and the robot. Weeping together.

  I don’t know what to do about Dad.

  He’s really distant. Even when he came in to find Mum and me hugged up close—no, especially when he came in then. Did he feel Mum and I were shutting him out? Or is it just a dads-and-daughters thing once little daughters turn into young women?

  He seems afraid to touch me. He’s not hugged me once, since. Mum’s coping brilliantly with the change, but Dad treats me like a stranger. Or maybe it’s Uncanny Valley, because I’ve changed so fast.

  Everything else is just fine, now. Almost as soon as I got home, I got the bass out, and I can now reach and play all the proper patterns. That alone is worth so much.

  I’ve been shopping with Mum. I mean, the local shops aren’t much, but nothing fit anymore. So we took the bus into town and got a few outfits that suited the new me. Actually, I might not wear some of th
e things, not until I’ve got a bit more courage.…

  And, Mister Zog, I think I’ll keep it to myself exactly what I meant by that. There are some things an alien’s not meant to know. Don’t go all pouty on me, Zog, or I’ll have to rap your tentacles. Oh, I will tell you, I promise, but when I’m good and ready.

  And yes, there are worries, and top of the list is school tomorrow, and what everyone will say. Maybe no one will say anything, but maybe no one ever changed this much before. And I’ve still got that list of questions, and it’s getting longer, and I’ve not found many answers, and the ones I have found aren’t great, and …

  Never mind. I’ve got five—well, four and a half now—years until it all ends. But today the only thing that matters is that I’ve got a lovely new body and I feel like the king of the world. Er, queen.

  Monday, April 15, 2052

  “Gosh, Tania, you look lovely!”

  Not quite the first words Siân said to me at the bus stop. The first words were actually “Er, is that you, Tania?”

  Anyway, I did a sort of preen. I’ve never really had much to preen about before, so I can’t say I’ve had the practice. So I’m not sure if it really came off.

  Did you say something, Mister Zog? Preening? You’ve not met the word? Well, it’s a sort of standing taller, coy and proud. There’s often a little self-conscious smile attached, that says, “I know, but thank you for noticing.” See also “smug.” And possibly “simper.” But I don’t think I actually simpered. I hope not, anyway.

  You see, Zog, when I’d done all that skinning stuff, that was only for John. Siân saw me every day at school, so I had to send her an unskinned feed. Complex? I don’t know. I don’t do software. At any rate, it didn’t blue-screen on me, so I was content.

  And Siân knew the truth anyway, so why pretend?