Expiration Day

by William Campbell Powell

  I really shouldn’t write poetry when I’m feeling so bleak. And definitely not with my diary open.

  Never mind. Let it stand.

  I decided I needed to read something uplifting after dumping all that blackness into my diary. Something John had written, I decided. He’d put some stuff up on his website. Rejected song lyrics the band would never use—too fluffy, I’d said, rather sneeringly, but right now I needed fluffy.

  So click and … there.

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  What? Was that an error message? John’s wacky sense of humor, perhaps.

  The screen went blank.

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>

  I couldn’t get the message back, nor any of John’s website. It was gone. Pulled. Blitzed.

  Are you there, John? Deep in some secret cavern, hidden from Oxted, yet still sending me messages of hope? You could do it, too, John, even if you had to rewrite a law or two of physics. Make it three laws, John, and read my reply.

  I love you, John.

  Tuesday, July 6, 2055

  Where did the time go?

  We’ve had four weeks—just four weeks—to prepare. Our case starts tomorrow. Mr. Guest, our lawyer, is here to help us with the final preparation.

  He says they’ve given us a week longer than normal. While Dad was in the kitchen making tea I asked him how long the hearing will take. That was the first thing I “learned” from him—it’s not a trial, it’s a hearing. I already knew that. Patronizing git!

  “Magistrate court cases normally only take a day or two, but the law says the magistrate has to let you talk for as long as you need to make your case. Your father and I have about two days of material prepared. We’ll bring in witnesses. Display your musical skills. Play some recordings of your performance as Portia. God, I had to twist some arms at County Hall to get that off Golightly.”

  Cow!

  “What about Oxted?”

  Mr. Guest looked blank for a moment.

  “Well, they play by a pretty standard script for their own case, which normally takes a day. I mean, the contract has had a lot of testing in the courts, and gets tightened up every…”

  “… time they lose. Yes, so I heard. You don’t fill me with hope, Mr. Guest.”

  “Well, er, you should always hope, Miss Deeley. Yes, always hope. Your father is a clever man, preparing some remarkable arguments. Must have studied hard. College-educated, I suppose?”

  Yes, you ignoramus. Theological college and before that a first in philosophy at Durham. Studied hard? Not really, he just soaked up ideas, and worked stuff out from that faintest of hints. No, Mr. Guest, Dad was—and is—just naturally bright. Irritatingly so if we were ever watching a quiz show on the vid—he could answer 90 percent of all questions. Which is all by the by, but probably far more than can be said for you.

  But I smiled like Mum does—did—whenever somebody joked about cucumber sandwiches. Which is to say, entirely on the outside.

  So why have we got you defending us, Mr. Guest? Answer: because gone are the days when an Englishman could represent himself in court. Nowadays we have to have a lawyer, and no one else would take the case. Why is that? Are these cases unwinnable? Is the legalese completely watertight now? Or is everyone else too afraid of Oxted? Or is it just that Mr. Guest wants our money, such as it is, and doesn’t really care whether he wins or loses?

  In which case, why does Dad think he’s got a chance? I can see Mr. Guest might not be that bright, but I can’t believe Dad would be fooled. Or is it emotion overriding common sense?

  Dad came back at that point, bearing tea and biscuits. I need a talk with him, when Mr. Guest is not around.…

  And so to London. We decided we ought to stay at a hotel near to the courts, rather than risk getting stuck in some transport failure. We’re about half a mile from the courts complex, so close enough to walk.

  We ummed and aahed about whether to go out for a meal, and finished up at a Thai restaurant over near Covent Garden.

  And why not? We’d done all the preparation we could. We knew our own arguments inside out. We’d brainstormed all the likely arguments that Oxted might use. Played devil’s advocate in turns. Used “five whys” against our own points, till we knew we could defend them.

  It could have been a somber occasion. It would have just taken a simple question, like, “Any regrets?” and it all would have unravelled in tears. Instead, we fell back on, “Do you remember?” And I asked a few questions I’d never dared before, about Mum and Dad, their getting together at Durham, and her choosing to put aside her career to become a wife. The fertility treatments and then making the Oxted Choice.

  If you don’t mind, Mister Zog, I’ll keep those answers deep in the heart Oxted doesn’t believe I have. Save only to say, I love Mum more than I ever was able to tell her, for having learned those answers.

  We had coffee, and Dad bought a fine brandy for each of us.

  Done.

  Wednesday, July 7, 2055

  I had a wrong picture of the courtroom—too many Old Bailey 3-Drams, I guess.

  This was smaller, just a bare meeting room. No raised bench for the judge, just a standard office chair—black leather and chrome steel tubing—for the magistrate. The magistrate himself: a balding man in his fifties wearing a timeless business suit, navy blue and discreetly pin-striped. I tried to read his face—a pleasant oval, slightly mottled with a faint tracery of purplish veins. Mild, watery eyes—but did they speak of a kindly disposition? This wasn’t Dickens, though, where face mirrors heart.

  The clock showed a couple of minutes past ten, and so we should have been under way, but everyone was settling still. Our lawyer, Oxted’s lawyer, keeping their distance from each other and emitting icy glances, but for all I knew it could be just an act and they were old pals from law school. There was a clerk and a recorder, and a couple of heavy-looking fellows that looked like bouncers. I think they might properly be called sergeants-at-arms. Anyway, they were the muscle.

  And there was me, and Dad. That was it.

  After a moment, the magistrate glanced at the clock—five past ten—and coughed for attention.

  “Can we begin, please, gentlemen?”

  The lawyers nodded.

  “Right,” he continued. “I’m Mr. Simpson, your magistrate, and I like to keep things light and gentle, not too much formality. But don’t take advantage of that, or I’ll run it the hard way.”

  Then he called the clerk to read the business of the day—the basics of our suit and Oxted’s countersuit. As the clerk spoke, Mr. Simpson’s gaze roved, and I thought I could see boredom in his eyes. Not good. How many times has he seen this little drama played out? I wondered And always the same way?

  Dad looked up. I think he’d been praying. Lots.

  Who do you pray to, Dad? I know you call him God, but who is he? Does he know about robots? Would he listen to me if I prayed? Or is there a different God for robots—or no God for us?

  Oh God, I’m scared. Is that a prayer that he’d listen to? Anyway, if robots can pray, I just prayed.

  Our lawyer, Mr. Guest, was speaking.

  “… we will further show that the being Tania Annette Deeley is human in all essential respects, and that she is not subject to the conditions of the original contract.”

  “I object.”

  “Why?” asked the magistrate.

  “Use of the terms ‘being’ and ‘she’ cannot be used of a machine. The terms are ‘teknoid’ and ‘it.’”

  “That’s nit-picking, Mr. Lloyd. We call boats ‘she,’ don’t we? And I should resent the implication that I’d be influenced by such trivia.”

  Point to us. Mr. Guest continued.

  “Thank you, sir. I will demonstrate that Tania has all the important aspects of a human, and is effectively human under the law. For example, Tania writes music, and poetry. She is an actress, a fine actress, capable of interpreting Shakespeare.…”

  And then it was Mr
. Lloyd’s turn:

  “… I shall call, if necessary, expert witnesses to testify that, in fact, this teknoid’s so-called creativity is simply a manifestation of its malfunctions, as shown by its erratic responses to the standard CalTech Morrison-Bowyer Test…”

  Oh, b … darn. Those calibration tests.

  “Excuse me,” I burst out, “but Doctor Markov called my test one of the best he’d ever seen.”

  Everyone’s mouths gaped for a moment. Then the magistrate spoke.

  “Mr. Guest, did you or did you not explain to your client that the teknoid would not be permitted to speak?”

  “I regret that it might have slipped my mind, sir.”

  “What?” I called. “But this case is all about me. Surely I have a voice?”

  Mr. Simpson thumped the table and barked out at me—no, not at me, because magistrates don’t talk to machines, but he meant me.

  “I remind everyone that I run things informally, but the laws of this land do not accept evidence of robotic origin under any circumstances. Such evidence differs from standard electronic recording in that it is at the whim of programming, which is nondeterministic in part. In short, a robot may lie, dissemble, or misrepresent.”

  “But so do humans!”

  “Any more outbursts from the teknoid, Mr. Guest, and I will instruct the sergeants to remove it.”

  Mr. Guest looked angrily at me.

  “Shut up, or you’ll lose the case right here.”

  I shut.

  I guess I’d imagined myself, like Portia, speaking boldly to the court, astonishing them with my impeccable logic and oratory. Instead I was held mute by the laws that wouldn’t recognize my voice.

  Oh, to have been even Shylock—at least he could speak in his own defense.

  At the end of the opening speeches Mr. Simpson spoke.

  “I’ve worked with Mr. Lloyd on these sort of cases before, so he’ll be familiar with what I’m about to say, but I understand this is the first of these cases that Mr. Guest—and of course Reverend Deeley—has worked on.…”

  So proof positive that these cases do get contested … just not reported. Who controls the past controls the future.…

  “I remind both parties that this is a civil court, not a criminal court. My job is to ascertain whether the contract under dispute is legally valid, having been freely entered into by both parties, and whether any breach has occurred to justify termination of the contract by either party, and whether the outcomes being sought are permissible under the terms of the contract, or under the laws of this land.

  “So long as the law is clear, and the contract—and its subsequent amendments—are legally valid and have been willingly entered into by both parties, there will be no appeal granted. If, however, the law is not clear, then this court has no power to make new laws, and the case will be referred to higher judiciary bodies. I warn both parties that such a process is likely to be prolonged and expensive, and that this court is willing and able to act as mediator, to avoid such an outcome.

  “And if there is evidence of coercion or deception by either party, then again this court has no jurisdiction, and I shall refer the matter to the Prosecution Service, which may lead to further proceedings in a criminal court.

  “Those outcomes aside, there are just two possible outcomes. It may be that I’ll decide in favor of Oxted. In that case, Oxted has requested that it take custody of their property immediately. It may be that I will decide for Reverend Deeley, in which case he will be free to return home with the teknoid Tania, for the remainder of the term of the contract.”

  So we’re fighting for just twelve more months.…

  “As to costs, you should expect those will be awarded in line with the main judgment. Neither side is requesting damages. Is that all clear?”

  Mr. Simpson paused and traversed the room by eye, eliciting a “yes” from each of the participants. Myself excepted.

  He continued by asking Mr. Lloyd to stand.

  “Mr. Lloyd, on the basis of your submissions, and taking into consideration what I’ve heard in the two opening statements, I’m going to ask you to elaborate on your arguments first. You’ve indicated that you don’t believe there’s anything in Reverend Deeley’s submission that requires you to modify your own approach, and that you should be done by the end of the day. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  That’s not good. Have they genuinely got all our bases covered?

  “Very well. I know you’ve got a number of experts lined up. In the interests of keeping the costs of this case down, let’s hear from them first. Mr. Lloyd?”

  Unsubtle message from Mr. Simpson—do yourselves a favor, you’re going to lose, so don’t prolong this and maybe you won’t end up broke.

  The first expert was a Dr. Evans, a tweeded spinster—yes, I know I shouldn’t judge marital status on appearances—with bottle-bottom glasses, silvering hair, and a cracked-earth complexion. Add a shapeless, green tartan cardigan. So tell me I’m wrong.

  “I’m a technical historian. I did my first bachelor’s degree in neurotronics at Banbury New University, worked for five years on the second-generation neurotronic web design—the N2—to earn my master’s and then my doctorate, but then I took a sabbatical, where I worked with Neil—that’s Neil Oxted, of course—up till his death in 2034, as his technical biographer, with access to some of the earliest records, to catalogue and summarize. Classic designs, such a privilege to be able to handle the original design documents…”

  “Dr. Evans, you’re saying that you’re technically qualified as a neurotronic designer, and moreover have intimate knowledge of current and historical designs, yes?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And how have those designs evolved over the years?”

  “Surprisingly little, Mr. Lloyd. The first designs were in some senses quite crude, but that was more a matter of the limits imposed by the state of the art—specifically, our ability to grow the necessary three-dimensional structures at sub-micron scale. The N2 was far more compact, with the basic neutrotronic link element being a full order of magnitude smaller. The N3—which was the first model produced after Oxted’s death, and the N4, which is the current model—are each in turn a little more compact than their predecessors, but by nowhere near as much as an order of magnitude.”

  Oh, John, I wish you were here. I need to understand this stuff. I think they’re trying to blind the judge with science. The magistrate, I mean.

  “So is it fair to say, Dr. Evans, that all Oxted neurotronic designs are refinements of Oxted’s original design, and differ merely in the number of—what did you call them—neurotronic link elements? This being achieved through successive improvements in miniaturization. Yes?”

  Dr. Evans’s desert-bottom face crinkled further, if that were possible, so that she looked even more annoyed.

  “That rather neglects the improvements made in long-term stability by my own team, and the work of Greene et al. in taste perception, and similar sensory enhancements, but yes. Oxted was an intellectual giant, a genius, and he gave the world an almost-perfect invention.”

  “And how does that compare in complexity with the human brain, Dr. Evans?”

  “It depends on what you measure, Mr. Lloyd, but the most commonly quoted example is to compare the number of neurons in the human brain with the number of neurotronic link elements. Certainly in that respect the human brain is significantly more complex than even the N4—which, for the benefit of the court, is the model installed in Reverend Deeley’s teknoid.”

  “And how about the rest of the animal kingdom, then? How does the N4 compare to, say, a dog, or a cat, or a chimpanzee?”

  “Oh, it well exceeds a cat or a dog, Mr. Lloyd. It’s up in the region of the higher primates, no doubt. But I don’t think we’ll ever get close to a human on that measure. Quantum effects limit how much miniaturization we can achieve, and the N4 is pretty much there. We’ve tried, believe me, but beyond the N4 leve
l, the neurotronic link element is destabilized by quantum effects.”

  “Let me sum up, then, Dr. Evans. The neutrotronic web is less complex than the human brain, so comparable to a chimpanzee. Therefore Oxted’s teknoids are sophisticated pets at best. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s about right, Mr. Lloyd. Anticipating the next line of questioning, though, I will say that unlike the primate brain, or the brain of a dog, the neurotronic web has been specifically designed for human companionship. So neurotronic teknoids can speak, can learn—within limits—and can mimic human emotions, through specific programming.”

  “And this human companionship is the sole purpose of such teknoids?”

  “Precisely. The teknoids are designed to substitute for children during those years when the urge to reproduce is strongest in humans. Oxted made it possible for vast numbers of humans to ‘adopt’ children, which was a significant factor in bringing to an end the Troubles.”

  “How was that, Dr. Evans?”

  “The Troubles were so very nearly the End of the World. The Last Days of Rome. Barbarians at the Gate. Without children, there is no hope for the future. With no hope, there is nothing to restrain me-firstism. The Child is a pillar on which our society rests. With the restraining influence of the family removed, hedonism and nihilism soared, particularly among the hormonal young, and violence quickly followed. You will doubtless recall from history the terrifying clips showing prowling packs of young men, raping and murdering, looting and burning our cities. Social background meant nothing—the rapist was as likely to be the university-educated son of a respectable stockbroker as an unemployed immigrant from the East End. While sending in the riot police, desperate politicians blamed other nations for the problem. Demagogues re-ignited old national rivalries for their own purposes, then found they could not control what they’d started. The Sabine Wars were the result.”

  “And the teknoids solved this…”

  “In part. One shouldn’t discount the shock effect of the LeClerc Solution in bringing an immediate end to violence, not just in France but ultimately worldwide. But yes, back to Oxted and teknoids. Oxted restored the appearance of normality—women pushing babes in prams, kids playing in parks, and so forth. Surprisingly quickly, the psychology changed. People felt hope was restored, and some sort of stability returned.”