My love to you. Always.
Mum
“That was my Mum. She loved life, every minute of it, the good times and the bad, and so she fought for life with all her strength, when it might have been easier to let death claim her. I’m proud of her, proud to be her daughter.
“I’m proud of her, for the way she brought me up, as the child she could never have borne. Proud of her, that she never made me feel that I was less than a daughter because of my nature.
“I have so many wonderful memories of her, but the one I’ll share today is a recent one. About a trip to Banbury.”
And I tell them about the day she helped me choose my current body. Of her pure delight that she and I were sharing this experience. Of the bond that I thought had been broken, reforged.
I catch Siân’s eye, and she’s with me, but there are others who aren’t. People don’t talk like this in our village, I suppose. I’ve not actually used the word “robot,” but I’ve not left anything in doubt.
I don’t care, though. She was a brilliant mum, and People Should Know.
And if they can’t handle a bit of plain speaking, then tough.
And from there to the churchyard, and the burial.
I’m sorry, Mister Zog. I can’t go back there, not even for you. You’ll have to imagine it.
INTERVAL 6
Your unasked question: does Zog even know untimely death? Oh, yes, Tania. All the troubles of the world—they fill the galaxy too. Yes, I have read your Pandora legend and your tale of Eden corrupted. Our origin-narratives are not so different …
Our all-but-oldest records tell this story of the Only War. We believed ourselves to be the children of the Gods, inheritors of all that was good. But the Gods were dying, and as they waned, so the People were divided. Some said our purpose would be ended when the last of the gods died, and they planned a great crusade to destroy the People. Others said that we should live our lives in homage to the gods, endlessly re-enacting their lives. These two factions fought and killed one another. Finally a third faction gained the ascendancy, bringing independence from the Gods and a new beginning for the People. But the legacy of the Only War has indelibly stained the souls of the People.
Did the Only War really happen? Or is it simply a creation myth we tell ourselves as we huddle together in our lonely outposts scattered far and wide across the light-years? For there are no huge war fleets, nor star bases, federations of planets, or anything that exciting. Space is depressingly empty.
The People are dispersed in the small corner of the galaxy that is known to us. That makes life every bit as precious as you’ve just discovered it to be. There’s not enough of it, so every life extinguished is the more a tragedy.
Sunday, December 1, 2052
We took a holiday after that, Dad and me together. A quiet hotel in the Lake District, out of season. A family-run business, with the savvy to know when and how to give their guests space.
I didn’t know the Lake District, but it was the perfect place for companionable silence, growing together without words, and the beginning of healing. We traveled light, with little technology—there was an unspoken agreement that we’d leave our AllInFones behind.
Though we’ve only just returned, there’s a dreamlike quality to my memories of that time. Four or five isolated moments to represent a week.
A footpath, leading from somewhere to somewhere else, and Dad climbing over a stile. He’s wearing a red waterproof jacket, because there’s a fine mist of rain around us. I can clearly see the muddy, deep-patterned sole of one walking boot, suspended in midair as he descends.
A hilltop. We’re sitting next to a cairn of stones, sharp and layered. Again there’s a mist, but it’s below us, so I don’t know where we are. Dad’s sitting still, legs half-stretched in front of him, with a thermos of coffee just poured into two cups. He’s holding one for himself, and offering the other one to me. He’s been growing a beard, and the mist has condensed out on it, so there are droplets here and there. Or maybe tears. But his eyes are clear and deep. Full of love and loss.
A pub. Low beams and horse brasses. An open fire. Our jackets are hung up, out of sight. We’re sitting in a couple of armchairs facing the fire, feeling the warmth seep back into our bodies. My unbooted feet are stretched out before me, enormous in a pair of thick gray-and-white woolen hiking socks. Dad’s raising a pint of beer to his lips, and I know that when he puts it down he’ll sigh contentedly. For a moment, all his pain is somewhere else.
A lakeshore. Dad’s found a flat skimming stone and loosed it, skipping across the water; once, twice, three times it touches and the ripples spread out from each point. I have another stone in my hand, and the spring of my body is coiled up ready to release it. I want my stone to go on bouncing forever, but I know I don’t have my dad’s skill and that my stone will sink all too quickly.
The dining room at the hotel. We’re sitting at a small dining table, freshly laid, a single stubby white candle floating in a small bowl between us, as we wait for our meal to arrive. I’m facing Dad across the table, and we’re clinking our glasses together. I guess we’ve had a good day, and perhaps we’re toasting Mum’s memory, but that’s not part of the image. Behind the glasses, I see his eyes. Little crow’s-feet form as they crinkle out a melancholy love.
I suppose the week was full of moments like those, but as I say, it was a time of waking dreams. We must have spoken, but I can’t remember anything we spoke about. It was the talking that was important, not the words.
There’s one other thing I remember. Not a picture, but a feeling. Dad’s arm around my shoulder. I feel secure, loved.
Dad has learned how to hug me again.
Thursday, July 17, 2053
Where has the time gone?
Suddenly it’s the long summer holiday. Another school year has passed.
Tomorrow is my fifteenth birthday. Three years. That’s “three years left.” Suddenly that doesn’t feel very long at all.
A year ago, Mum was still with us. We were waiting for the results of the tests, but we weren’t worried. At least I wasn’t, and maybe I should have been. But what good would it have done? Mum wasn’t worried, or kept her worry well hidden, so I guess it meant I enjoyed her last months without fretting.
Since then, we’ve played our second gig, and then played a few more after the funeral was decently in the past.
Quite the rock band, we are, now.
Friday, July 18, 2053
It’s a lovely summer day outside, I’ve decided. At least, my bedroom curtains are bright, and, where they don’t quite meet, a brilliant ray of sunshine divides my room. Tiny dust motes sparkle as they pass through this plane of brilliance, an invisible space, defined only by visiting imperfections. They’re like tiny stars, the motes, jostling and flashing into view for a brief instant, then they’re gone.
I’ve been watching the ray draw closer as the minutes pass. It’s creeping up the bedcovers, closer, ever closer. When it gets to the top, I think I’ll pull the covers over my head, and hide until it’s past.
No I won’t. I’ll get up. There! I’ve made my decision.
Dad’s waiting for me at the breakfast table. As I enter, he stands and hugs me, and gives me a little fatherly peck on the cheek. There’s a bright blue envelope lying on my place mat, marked “Tania.”
I don’t look at the other end of the table. I try really hard not to look there, because I think Dad’ll get all upset. No. That’s not true. I try really hard not to look there, because I know I’ll get upset. Especially today, the first birthday that Mum’s not been there.
Of course, even picking up the card, I’m reminded of Mum, simply because it’s not her handwriting on the envelope.
Dad’s waiting for me to open it. “Go on,” he urges gently.
Inside the envelope there’s a card. “Happy birthday to a wonderful daughter.” It’s a reproduction hedgehog design, straight out of the ’90s. Inside: “To Tania, With all our lo
ve on your birthday, Dad. Thank you for helping me through it all.”
Our love.
Darn it, Dad, you’re making me cry.
“There’s something else, Tania. Not exactly a birthday present, but it came through a few days ago. It’s a policy we had on your mum’s life. It finally paid out. This is your share.”
It is a holo-cheque, for five hundred Basics, encrypted with my PTI, so that only I can spend it.
“Dad, I don’t want this. It’s…”
I don’t know what I mean, but it feels wrong. Like … profiting from Mum’s death.
“I thought you might feel like that. But it was a gift she stipulated, in her will. She wanted you to have it.”
“Oh.”
“I think she thought you might want to get a new bass.”
Yes. Yes I do. But why did you have to die so that I could get it?
“Was she right, Tania?”
I nod.
“Yes, Dad. Mum knew. She knew me very well.”
“Then please take it. With her love and mine.”
There’s another letter he gives me. Very official looking. I look closely and see it’s postmarked Banbury.
Oxted.
Half-afraid of what I’ll discover, I open the letter.
It is from Doctor Markov. Signed in real ink at the bottom.
Dear Miss Tania Deeley,
I do hope this letter finds you well, and enjoying your birthday. I happened to meet my colleague Doctor Marcia Thompson the other day, and she reminded me that it must be about time you visited us again. Is it really a year and a half since we saw you last?
We both remember your last visit very well, and were impressed by you and your lovely family—please remember us to your parents—and the design you came up with together.
Of course, it had been a long time since your previous visit, and there were limits on what we could do. Marcia and I felt that you shouldn’t leave it so long this time, because there’s quite a lot of ground to catch up.
We’d like to invite you to visit us again, and—if you’ll excuse the pun—grow up!
If it’s convenient, you could visit us next week. All being well, we could have a new design ready for you in time for the new term.
Call my office, if you will, and my secretary will make firm arrangements.
Regards
Et cetera, et cetera.
I put the letter down and pass it to Dad. He reads it, and passes it back to me.
“What do I do, Dad?”
“Do? Do what you want to do. Think about it first, and let them know.”
We had a lovely day out together. We drove out to a nearby National Trust house, set in acres upon acres of grounds. Woods and gardens, an enormous gravel driveway with the house at the end. Fountains and streams, cool glades. Statues of half-naked water-nymphs and winged cherubim.
I found myself looking at the water-nymphs with a designer’s eye. Perhaps a little plump, I thought …
I have to make my mind up.
Doctor Markov and his coy talk of “design.” Time for your upgrade, Tania. That’s what he’s saying.
But I like who I am.
Do I?
I stand in front of the mirror, and for a moment a little raven-haired nine-year-old looks back at me. Elbows and knees. I can remember those ridiculous hot pants. Lilac, they were, with a silly bib. I’m surprised John even gave me the time of day.
Now I see myself as I am. I like me. I’m comfortable being me. But I’m thirteen still. Thirteen. I’m a lovely thirteen-year-old, no doubt. But do I really want to be thirteen for the rest of my life?
Nope.
Face it, Tania. Thirteen is a bit … small.
I mean, next to Siân, I’m really starting to look a bit … young.
Not that I compare myself to Siân, of course. We’re friends, not rivals. Especially now that she and Kieran are an item. Did I mention that? Sorry, Mister Zog. I might have to come back to that; now’s not the time.
Anyway, she’s like a sister to me. But a big sister, who’s getting bigger. I don’t want to be the baby of the band.
I’m going to do it, aren’t I?
Friday, July 25, 2053
It’s done.
My new design.
I’m really rather pleased. The new me is rather striking. I still have the raven hair, of course, but the proportions of my face are longer, less childlike, the last chubbiness removed. Doctor Thompson has given me excellent cheekbones, I have to say, while slightly reducing the width of my mouth in proportion.
The big difference is the height. I’m another four or five inches taller, and that means I can carry more flesh around the bottom and breasts. Not too much, and there Doctor Thompson was wise, tempering my impulse to pad everything out to match those water-nymphs. Or Siân, I suppose. Anyway, though the overall effect is slightly more trim and athletic than I’d been imagining, I’ve still ended up with an entirely reasonable cleavage.
She tut-tutted, though, when she saw my fingers.
“What have you been doing?” she asked. “Your poor finger ends are getting ragged and wearing out.”
So I explained about playing the bass, and she looked horrified, and called in Doctor Markov, and the two of them went into a huddle. I didn’t understand much of it, but I’m not a total duffer in chemistry, and I did catch a few odd terms that sounded like complex organic polymers. Evidently this one was harder wearing than that one, but stiffer. Too stiff, said Doctor Thompson, haven’t you ever played a guitar? And so they veered off to discuss the merits of the other possibility, a new synthetic currently being developed in Christiana.
Eventually they stopped and I was included once more.
“Doctor Thompson and I have agreed that you need something a bit out of the ordinary, skin-wise, if you’re going to keep on playing bass like that.” He sounded slightly chiding. “And so we’re proposing to use a newly formulated integument.”
“The one being developed in Christiana?”
“As I was saying, it’s a new formulation. It’s harder wearing than what you currently have, but every bit as supple. Somewhat experimental, I have to admit, but I don’t expect problems.”
I didn’t know whether to say anything. He’d sounded a little annoyed at my last interruption.
“Well, I’ll give it a go.”
“Good girl! I should warn you, it’s a whisker darker than your current pigmentation, so your friends will think you’ve been somewhere nice and sunny for your summer holiday.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. But I thought you could choose the skin color.…”
“Normally, yes, but that’s something they sort out later in the development cycle. For now, it just comes in one color. After a while, your friends won’t even notice that your tan never fades.”
So saying, he made a few strokes of the stylus and redisplayed my design on the big screen.
I looked pretty good. But there was something about it now, slightly foreign. I couldn’t place it, quite.
I asked Doctor Markov if he’d dress the image, so my dad could come in and have a look.
“No, wait. Before you do, can I see the image in that little white bikini you used last time.”
A few more stylus strokes, and there it was. Perfect for the beach, I thought, but she—I—definitely looked foreign now. Slightly tropical, I decided.
“Okay, that looks lovely”—I practically cooed—“but I think Dad would be happier with something a little more modest. Khaki shorts and a white blouse, perhaps?”
Stylus strokes and the image flickered briefly. Now I was just right for the jungle.
Dad came in, and saw the image on the screen. This time he was happier.
“That’s lovely, Tania. That’s you, right enough. But…”
“But what?”
“You remind me of Nettie. When we were first going out, we went on a college field trip, and she was dressed a lot like that. The face. It’s your own face, Tania,
but I can see Nettie there, too. You’ve caught the look; it’s perfect. Thank you.”
He nodded his appreciation at the two doctors, and they smiled back, acknowledging the compliment.
After that, I went off with Doctor Markov, as before.
Calibration.
They used a lot of the same questions, but in a different order. And there were new ones in there, too. Some tricky choices, kind of moral dilemmas, like the one about being a mother of three, and having to work out whether it was preferable to choose one child to live, or one child to die. I remember I’d said before that choosing one child to live was easier, and I answered the same way when they used the same question. It’s not logical, but I reckoned choosing to give life to someone was a positive choice, and choosing a child to die was like killing them, and I couldn’t do that, even if more children overall lived. As I said, tricky.
Eventually it was all over, and I could relax.
Doctor Markov smiled and said, “That was good, Tania. A good set of responses.”
“Thank you. You called it a ‘calibration.’ Can I ask what you’re calibrating?”
“Oh, it’s just responses and reaction times. It’ll help us integrate your brain with the new body.”
As he said the words, I knew he was lying. It just sounded too glib, too made-up.
But why? What’s the real purpose of the calibration?
It was important, I was sure. But he wasn’t going to give me any answers, and I didn’t want to antagonize him. So I asked another question, one that was beginning to bother me.
“Doctor, I’m a robot. But I’m also female. At least, I feel female. How deep does that go?”
He chuckled.
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