“Hang on. Dad showed me our contract, and there’s nothing like that in it.”
“Did you read the upgrade contracts? About five years ago these clauses started appearing.”
I fell silent. He might well be right. I’d not read the more recent contracts. I wondered why I’d heard nothing about it, but then I remembered the blitzed sites on the TeraNet. Somebody who understood electronic media very well was very much in control of the TeraNet. That sort of thing might not leak out.
My birthday meal was sour in my stomach. My two years had suddenly shrunk to one, or maybe less.
Sunday, August 2, 2054
So what do I want to accomplish in the months that remain to me?
Sex?
I don’t think so. Certainly not with Tim. The rest of the bus journey had been a dream. I was just completely shocked. I think Tim put his arm around me, but it felt like it was happening to someone else. After the bus ride, at the gate I didn’t give him a chance to kiss me. As my feet crunched down the gravel path, I heard his final words to me: “Hey, Tania, if you change your mind…”
When I had a moment by myself to ponder, I wondered if he’d made the whole thing up, just to trick me into having sex with him. The jerk.
But I’ve checked, and it’s true. Which brings me back to the question:
What do I want to accomplish in the months that remain to me?
There are a hundred books I want to read, and more. The thoughts of the greatest minds in history, each adding to the sum of knowledge of what it means to be human. I want to understand how I’m different. If I am. To paraphrase Shylock:
I am a Robot. Hath not a Robot eyes? hath not a Robot hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?
(Just a shame he mentioned diseases. Apart from that, it fits rather well.)
So yes, I want to read the great books and poems of the world, starting with the Great War Poets—Wilfred Owen, Rupert Brooke—who lived their lives at the edge of death, but who never let the fear of it stop their urge to create. I need to understand them first, find their strength, or else I might as well give up now.
Art, in all its forms, that distinguishes the human from the beast. Music, sculpture, painting. Even comic books.
Humor and psychology.
Love and hate.
All the built-in opposites of mankind.
And yes, I want to gig again with Mike and the Stands. I will buy that catsuit, and I will pull the zipper down as low as I dare, and then let the boys’ eyes pop out.
I want to solve those problems, too. My little list, minus the crossings-out.
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?
Is Jemima (or Myra) a robot or human?
For that matter, how many of the girls who’d been bullying me today were robots? And did they know it, or did they think they were human, as I’d done?
Do robots live forever? If so, could I live forever? Did I want to live forever?
Was Siân really human? If she’s just a robot, why am I helping her learn French?
How many humans are there now? Are there any humans still being born?
And the new ones I’d added …
Why didn’t Doctor Markov want to talk about Christiana?
Where did Doctor Markov get his tan in a wet English summer?
Friday, August 28, 2054
It’s almost routine, now.
My final upgrade. I’ve kept the slightly darker skin tone. I’m a couple of inches taller and I’ve added a bit about the thighs, hips, and breasts—not a lot, but a good excuse for a minor wardrobe update. No real changes or redesigns—that was all decided at the last upgrade.
Not even an overnight stay; it was just in and out—Dad called it an “outpatient visit.” No messing around with that calibration nonsense, even.
If it hadn’t been for the accident, and the chance to switch to “production quality” skin—Dr. Markov’s words—I’m not sure I’d have bothered.
I liked the old me. The new me is pretty much the same.
“Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”
A song for every situation.
Wednesday, September 23, 2054
I decided to give Tim a call, to see if he was all right. Not, absolutely not because I’d changed my mind. Apart from his obsession with sex, he’s actually a nice guy. I can talk to him, and he can even talk back, which is better than most of the XY-programmed.
What is it with boys? Is sex that important to them? Is Tim typical? There’s a thought.
Whoa! Here’s another. Am I a typical girl? In my … programming, that is.
I like boys, Mister Zog. I can’t help it. They’re similar enough to girls to be acceptable. Different enough to be intriguing. Complementary to one another, in mind and body, if you want to get all analytical about it, which sometimes I do. Analytical, schmytical, but I’m happy with my mind and with my body, too. But that doesn’t mean I want sex. Certainly not just so Tim can go into the unknown having exercised all his programming.
But, like I said, I liked Tim enough to be concerned that he might be suffering. So I gave him a call.
No answer.
I tried a few times. Still no answer.
So after school I took a bus to where I thought Tim lived. I could see a few lights on in the house, so I plucked up my courage and knocked on the door.
No answer. I knocked again.
Eventually I heard footsteps, and then the door was opened.
“What do you want?”
The voice was tired and broken. Resentful of my interruption, but too worn down to slam the door in my face.
“Hello, are you Mr. Price? Look, I’m sorry if I’ve called at a bad time.… Er, my name’s Tania Deeley, and I’m a friend of Tim’s. I wanted to see if he’s all … I wanted to see him.”
No answer.
“Er, I am at the right house, aren’t I? Tim does live here?”
“It was the right house. But you’re too late. Tim’s not here anymore.”
“But … he didn’t say anything about going away.…”
And as I said it, I realized that actually he had.
“Oh, my! I’m really sorry. I have come at a bad time, haven’t I?”
“Yes. I suppose you meant well, but I think you’d better leave.”
And that was that. I was dismissed. The door closed.
Tuesday, October 27, 2054
“There’s a lawyer I’ve found, Tania. A solicitor, I should say. He’ll take on the case.”
“What case, Dad?”
It was just an ordinary day. Well, no, it was October, just a few days short of the anniversary of Mum’s death. Anyway, it was breakfast time, and Dad had the post open.
“Our case. Your case. Against Oxted.”
“Eh? Why do I want to take on Oxted?”
“We have to break the contract, Tania. Prove that it’s unfair, unlawful or whatever. I want to keep you, Tania. You deserve life.”
He waved the letter at me. “Finally, as I was saying, I’ve found a solicitor who’ll take on the case.”
“Finally? How long have you been trying? How many have you approached?”
“Three months. Maybe twenty solicitors in that time. They’ve all refused, till now. Don’t waste your money, they told me.”
“And now you’ve found someone who will? What’s he charging?”
“That doesn’t matter. He’s prepared to do it.”
“Dad. Please don’t. I have a really bad feeling about this.”
I do. Does Dad think we’re the first family to try to find a way out of these contracts? Dozens, hundreds, thousands of times it must have been tried. And maybe one or two were successful, but then the loopholes would be closed a little tighter. And tighter.
The day I learned Tim had disappeared I called John. I’d not spoken to him since … well, not long after the play. We’d had a row, because I’d mentioned I’d been out with Tim, and he got all green-eyed jealous about it. I mean, he pretended to be all mature about it at first, but then I said he didn’t own me, and he said, no, I belonged to Oxted and they were welcome to me, and it all got rather nasty at that point.
But now with Dad planning I don’t know what legal stupidity, I needed to talk to a friend, and with Siân gone, and Tim gone, the choice was rather small.
So I called John. And got a blocked signal from his AllInFone. Well, technically it was a number unobtainable, but since there’s no possibility of error when calling someone’s PTI, it means he’d set up his account to refuse all calls from me. It deliberately uses the same error code as not being able to find the target.
Damn you, John Czern.
So I rummaged around and found Kieran’s PTI instead, and got through.
I got a really frosty reception. Yes, he was still in touch with John. No. If John didn’t want to speak to me, that was John’s business, and he wouldn’t go against that.
“What about the band, Kieran?”
“A bit late to think of that, Tania. If you hadn’t gone off with the Stands, we’d still be together. You wrecked the band because it suited your plans. Now you want to put it back together, because you’ve got some new plans, no doubt.”
Ha! Me, wreck the band? Kieran and Siân had had a pretty good go at wrecking it themselves, getting Siân knocked up. At one of my gigs, I should add.
But I bit back my reply, and said, as charmingly as I could, “No plans, Kieran. I’d like to talk to him, but I have to trust you to tell him, when you judge the time is right. Is that all right?”
There was a long pause, before he answered, “I suppose so.”
“Thank you, Kieran. I’d better let you go. I’m sure you’ve got some fun maths to get back to.”
“What? No, don’t go!”
“What is it, Kieran?”
“It’s Siân. I can’t get in touch with her. It’s like she’s vanished off the face of the earth. Her parents just told me she’d gone away and broke the call. What’s going on? Have you seen her?”
“I’ve not seen her for a while, Kieran, but I’m sure she’s being well looked after.”
“Are you just saying that, or do you know something?”
“I’ve told you what I can.”
“But you know more, don’t you?”
“I’ve told you what I can. Leave it.”
I wondered if he would leave it. But almost as I said the words, his eyes narrowed, and a calculating look came into his eyes. I could see it on the screen, as clearly as if he were standing in front of me. He said, “Tell me, and I’ll speak to John for you.”
Ah! He knew he had me. Or maybe I had him. We each had something the other wanted. So I told him what the government didn’t want him to know.
It’s funny—strange—but she’d not told Kieran anything of what she’d told me. About the testing, about her probable “career” as a Mother. So maybe I didn’t tell him the best way, because he didn’t react with joy at his possible fatherhood.
“She used me, the bitch! She wanted a child, and I was convenient. She didn’t ask, she just seduced me.”
You’d have thought he’d have been pleased. Most boys would have given their right arm for a chance to have sex with Siân.
“No, Kieran, no. Please don’t be mad at Siân. Think what her life is going to be like. She’ll never have another choice again. Not like that, I mean. Yes, she’ll be pampered and looked after, till the day she dies. No harm will come to her, because she’ll be guarded, night and day. But she’ll be a total prisoner. No meaningful choices, ever again. Not one.”
“She didn’t tell me, though.”
“Would you have said yes?”
“Maybe. Yes, of course. No! Well, I suppose so. Probably. She should have asked.”
“Sometimes choice works like that. One person’s choice is another’s loss of choice.”
That was deep. Where did that come from?
“But…”
“Kieran, she chose you. Be content. Be honored.”
That seemed to help—his anger subsided, and he mumbled his excuses, and broke the connection.
“Tell John I want to talk to him,” I called. But the screen was dead before I finished my sentence.
Saturday, November 6, 2054
Over two weeks since my appeal to Kieran. Nothing.
Dad was wrapped up in I don’t know what. Actually, I suspect it was his planning. He’s been sending messages to this solicitor, I’m pretty sure. I can’t worry about that now, though. I need someone to talk to. I need John.
“I’m just popping down to the corner shop, Dad. I’ll see you around six.”
“Okay.”
And it’s only 9 A.M. Dad is so distracted.
I’m off to the corner shop, I told him. John’s corner shop. So I didn’t tell a lie.
The journey is tedious, but my heart is beating wildly all the way. Oh, you know I’m not being literal, Mister Zog. Yes, I’m nervous, in my quaint, neurotronic way.
It’s all right. Thank God.
There were some awkward moments when I walked into the shop. Mr. Czern was fine, and so was Mrs. Czern, but when they told John who’d come to see him, he wouldn’t come out of his room.
So I went up and sat outside his room, and spoke to him through the door. I spoke in a calm and dignified way, adult to adult. I told him that I’d come to see my dear friend, John, and I hoped that if there were any barrier between us, it would be broken down, and any rifts healed.
I did not cry. I did not sob deeply. I absolutely no way definitely did not lose my rag even in the slightest and yell at him you heartless peasant why won’t you talk to me I still love you.
That’s what did it. John could never resist a row. Next thing he was calling me a selfish bitch for wrecking the band, and so I yelled something back at him to help clear the air a bit—something about challenging him to come out to my side of the door to say that and him finding a guitar rammed up where the tuning pegs would do most damage. Or so I recall.
After a couple of exchanges like that we really got going, and the door was getting in the way a bit, so John thoughtfully came out so we could yell at each other properly.
Then he called me a bitch. Again.
So I reached out my hand to his mouth, and gently put my finger to his lips.
“Time to stop, John. You’re repeating yourself.”
“Bitch.” He sneered.
So I kissed him.
Actually, I think I may have let Portia kiss him. She’s better at these things. Anyway, it seemed to do the trick. At least he stopped calling me names.
And he kissed me back, and I let his hands wander a bit, but that was all right, that was something I’d been meaning to get around to again for quite a while, and never mind what I’d told Tim. Maybe I did feel the clock ticking for myself, but mostly I just wanted to.
After a while, though, we were distinctly not swept away on a tide of passion, unfortunately, just as Doctor Markov had warned, and we found ourselves at a bit of a loose end, wondering what to do, since falling into bed with each other was a nonstarter.
“Well, now you’re here, would you like some tea?” John asked.
“What a lovely idea.”
John’s parents, of course, behaved as if they’d not heard a sound and we’d just walked in after a walk in the park. Perhaps there was a little strain, but John and I were clearly good friends now—we’d come downstairs hand in
hand and I’d carefully left a faint trace of lipstick on John’s cheek.
So we had tea together, and then we did go for a walk together—John took me round Alexandra Park—and somewhere along the way we spoke about getting the band together again and how John had written a new song, but he needed some better lyrics and I said I’d have a go.
We were on a high hill, just below the Palace—Ally Pally, he called it. We could look out over the whole of London, imagining it as it must have been in its heyday. Where were the crowds now? I asked.
“They’ll be back,” he answered.
“Do you believe that?”
“No. Not really. Nobody has a clue why there are so few humans being born, have they? In fifty years, there’ll be just a handful of humans left. Each one waited on by a dozen Soameses. And fifty years after that, the last humans will be gone. Leaving just the Soameses.”
“And one of those Soameses will be me, and another one will be you, but we’ll have forgotten that we were ever John and Tania.”
“Is that what you think, Tania?”
“It’s the only solution that makes sense. The last humans won’t need child surrogates, just servants. So our brains get re-used as Soameses.”
“I’m not sure that’s any better than being broken up for scrap.…”
It was a conversation-killer. We sat in silence for a long time, John with his arm around me, as if to protect me from a fate that neither of us could avoid.
“I’m sorry I called you a bitch, Tania. And all the other things, too.”
“Yeah. Forgiven. You forgive me, too?”
“I suppose so.”
“John…”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to run away? When the time comes to go back to Oxted?”
“I should. What was that letter you read, at your mum’s funeral?”
It came easy to me.
Live each moment to the full, therefore, squeezing out its value, its richness and its flavor. And then fight for the next moment, and the one after it, too. Life is good, and should not ever be yielded lightly, nor should it be spent fruitlessly.
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