Expiration Day

by William Campbell Powell

  “I’d love to, Reverend Deeley, but my eyesight was never good at the best of times—the girls used to hide my books and whatnot. Do you think the court would mind if Tania read some of her own work? She reads so well.”

  The court was skewered by a dear, shortsighted old lady. Even Mr. Lloyd accepted with a certain grace. My Dad is a genius.

  So I stood—hardly Portia in eloquent prosecution—but I spoke.

  “When Mum died, she wrote me a beautiful letter, mother to daughter. She urged me to live each moment to the full, and to fight for each successive moment. That’s how she lived, and I wanted to honor both her love for her family and her fighting spirit. These are the words I finally found. They are mine alone, for her alone.”

  Though, mother mine, your final breath

  Soon marks your passing unto death

  Yet hands that healed and heart that beat

  With love, unstilled, still fight defeat

  As falt’ring strength drives feebling brain

  As brittling body fails ’neath strain

  As heart, once iron, turns to rust

  As straining lung now chokes on dust

  You gaze with dimming eye on kin

  Who would sustain you, and begin

  Hope gone, all pow’r spent, deep in debt

  To fade, to sink, to fin’lly let

  The cloak of dark enfold your frame

  And seas of night erase your name

  Writ, once, in stone; scraped now in sand

  By fingers weak, enfeebled hand

  Reach down and let your anger find

  A final erg to stoke your mind

  To cling with weak’ning grasp to life

  Yet daughter’s mother, husband’s wife

  Rest, mother mine, your final breath

  Has marked your passing unto death

  And hands that healed and heart that beat

  At last, choice gone, concede defeat

  Dad? Dad? Are you okay? He’s looking at me, but also not looking at me; somewhere else, beyond the courtroom. A whisper, for me alone, “Thank you, Tania, from both of us.” He is back.

  “And this is something I wrote a couple of years back. Since Mr. Fuller has already told you about me and John, I imagine it’s pretty obvious what inspired it.”

  Gentle me, love, but gentler yet

  Thy touch be coarse, I’ll fly away

  Thy finger’s tip to bless my cheek

  Doth drag and scour, I seek

  A softer brush with thee

  Thy lips to mine, is love defin’d

  If busses crash, and grind?

  Be gentler yet to me

  Thy breath, though thou dost sleep and meet

  Me in thy turns, dwells sweet

  Upon my neck and me

  Thou gentle love, and gentler yet

  Soft touch hast found, I’ll not away

  And Miss James … who introduced a clip of The Merchant of Venice. The one that Mrs. Golightly had tried to block.

  And Donald Michael Koczinski … aka Mike Clip of the Stands. “Yeah, there’s not a lot of live music around. Some kids still want to listen to it, but where are the bands? Music industry’s dead, ’cause nobody’s creatin’ new music anymore. Best you’ll get is cover bands, doin’ Abba to ZZ Top an’ everythin’ in between.

  “But Tania’s band, they were different. Like the old days. They were writin’ their own stuff—mostly John, but Tania wrote stuff, too.”

  “And Tania played with your band, too, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah. When Amanda, our bassist, fell ill, she depped for her. And when Amanda died, there was no discussion needed—Tania was our first and only choice for bass player.”

  “What was she like, on stage?”

  “I wish I could show you a vid of her. She’d blow your socks off. Like I always said, she could play bass fit to make a stone cry. The boys liked her a lot.”

  “The boys?”

  “Gus and Gary. The other band members. She could read what they were doing, and adapt her bass to work around it, if one of them decided to stretch out a little, do something different, a bit jazzy … But since you ask, the boys in the audience liked her, too, because she was good to look at, too. She knew how to flirt from behind a bass.”

  “Did you know she was a teknoid?”

  “Kinda funny, we did and we didn’t. I mean, she didn’t have glowing eyes, but you knew there weren’t many humans ’round. But if you know your music history, musicians have long been pretty cool about a man’s skin—what color it is and what it’s made of. She had a lot of trouble with her fingers, at one point, ’cause the skin wasn’t designed for playin’ bass. Then she got herself fixed up with the new skin she’s wearin’ now, and that seemed to fix the problem. Looks good, too, if you don’t mind me sayin’. But yeah, we didn’t worry too much about what was under the skin, because she could play bass alongside the best.”

  And Ted … Yes, Ted. Ted Hinchliffe, the churchwarden.

  Dad explained it to me thus. A man’s friends may never speak ill of him, but if an enemy praises him, then they can surely be believed. We don’t need people who only love you. Someone who hates you for the right reasons can be just as eloquent.

  “You didn’t get on well with Tania, did you, Ted?”

  “No, not always. I tried to respect her, as she was your daughter, but she could be difficult.”

  “For example?”

  “Most of the trouble was around her, ah, revisions, when she would tend to flaunt her new body, somewhat. At Mrs. Deeley’s funeral, for example, I thought it quite poor taste that she should talk so much about herself, being a robot, and getting a new body, with Mrs. Deeley lying dead in her coffin just a few feet away. I suppose one should make allowances about robots not really knowing how things are done.”

  “Or indeed any young person attending a funeral, particularly of someone so close.”

  “Possibly so.”

  “And was Tania better or worse than the other teknoids in the village?”

  “Oh, worse, I should say. I think after she discovered her robotic nature she became quite morose. I much preferred her prior to that point, when she was to all appearances a slightly snobby and precocious little girl.”

  “Though you knew otherwise, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course. You were very candid on this point, Michael, and that is as it should be for someone in your position. A vicar carrying on a deception would not be a good role model for the parish.”

  “You called her snobby and precocious—are these normal traits for a teknoid? Ah … in your opinion…”

  (I think Dad spotted Mr. Lloyd about to make an objection.)

  “No, they’re not. Most robots are more average in their behavior. They don’t stand out.”

  “They know their place.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Thank you, Ted, for your candor. For the record, are you and Tania reconciled? Are you friends?”

  “I think it is truer to say we have learned to avoid each other, and to observe a modicum of politeness in each other’s company. Out of respect for you, and for the sake of both our friendship and our working relationship. I may not like her, Michael, but I understand that since Mrs. Deeley died, you’ve had no one else but her that you could call family. I know she means the world to you, whatever she is, and if she’s the price we have to pay to keep you functioning in the parish, then I think that Oxted should drop this damn lawsuit and let you get back to doing your job. Er, if you’ll excuse my French, Mr. Simpson.”

  “Thank you, Ted. Any questions, Mr. Lloyd?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Hinchliffe. Were there any other instances when Tania flaunted her robotic nature?”

  Ted paused, and Mr. Lloyd pushed.

  “You mentioned her revisions…”

  “Ah, yes. There was one time, a couple of years back. A particularly obnoxious incident. I’m afraid we had a real falling out over it. But we apologized to each other, and
put it behind us.”

  “I’d like you to tell us a bit more about that incident, Mr. Hinchliffe. We’ve heard a lot about Tania’s nature that has tried to blur the issue of whether she is a teknoid or in some way human, and I think you might be able to help the court here. Does Tania think of herself as human, or does she know and accept that she is a teknoid?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Lloyd.”

  “Don’t avoid the question. I believe you recorded the conversation, and played it to a number of people, because your relations with the teknoid were particularly poor at the time, and you ran a bit of a hate campaign against her. To help you, the date was August 31, 2053, and you were recording because you’d come to visit Reverend Deeley on a professional matter, and you always record such meetings, and you switch your recorder on before you arrive, as you sometimes forget if you leave it till the meeting starts.”

  Poor Ted, he didn’t know where to look. Here was proof of his treachery being brought to light in front of Dad. He crumbled.

  And so Mr. Lloyd played his own copy, obtained, I guess, from Mrs. Golightly. But there was no doubt about its authenticity—Ted’s anguish confirmed it—as my voice boomed out from the speakers. The whole, embarrassing, damning conversation, with my stupid, put-on dalek voice, but those two sentences in particular:

  “Oh, I’m so glad I’m a robot…”

  and …

  “Sometimes I need to speak the truth. I am a robot, and that’s not always something to be ashamed of.”

  And underneath it all, Ted’s broken and sobbing apologies, while Dad held him tight in a forgiving embrace, as Christ held Peter.

  There were no more witnesses after that, and no need for that ghastly revelation and humiliation of Ted in my opinion. Dad was not trying to prove me human, and that imbecile Lloyd should have known it.

  Mr. Simpson conferred with Dad and Mr. Lloyd. Mr. Guest hung around, but no one was paying any attention to him. It was agreed we’d take a fifteen-minute recess and then Dad and Mr. Lloyd would get to make their closing remarks.

  Mr. Lloyd restated the case for Oxted. Oxted had entered into a contract with Reverend and Mrs. Deeley to provide a fosterling, for a period not exceeding eighteen years. They had provided the fosterling as required and had conducted regular tests. On discovery of the anomalous test results they had invoked the appropriate clause to get the defective teknoid returned for analysis and reprogramming.

  This was where Dad pulled it all together.

  “Mr. Lloyd has said this dispute is all about our contract, and he’s right. I could have made a strong case for Tania’s humanity—after all, as a vicar, I belong to one of this planet’s oldest institutions devoted to the study of what it is to be human. Personally, I have no doubt that for all practical purposes Tania is human, and has a soul.

  “Annette and I received our fosterling, a teknoid fresh from the Oxted factory, and wrote our humanity upon her, with every look, every word, and every touch of love we gave; the love that made Adam out of dust, and made Eve out of the bone in his side. This is how you make a human—with love and tears. Nettie and I gave both in full measure.

  “I stand before you alone. My wife is gone, killed, most likely, by the costly and extreme treatments she took to try to conceive a child of flesh and blood, and which she abandoned while we still had money left to adopt a child from Banbury.

  “So Tania is all I have left of Nettie, and I dared to dream I might keep her, for she is no robot, but a human by any test mankind can devise.

  “The witnesses this afternoon have spoken about Tania. Several spoke of her creative talents. My dear friend and colleague spoke of his dislike for her. But he did not consider her some sort of robotic chimpanzee. Men do not hate chimpanzees, and run campaigns against them. They only do that to those they recognize as their equals.

  “Am I claiming Tania is a human? I am not.

  “Am I claiming Tania is a robot? No, I am not.

  “So this is where Oxted has broken the contract, because it did not provide what it promised. It promised to provide the illusion of parenthood, through a creature of robotic origin, with limited potential for development. Its whole economic model is geared around this device that is supposed to alienate its parents well before the end, so that they voluntarily return it. Accidentally or no, they provided Nettie and me with Tania. She does not have a teknoid’s limitations—whether you love her or hate her, everyone who has met her agrees on that—she is far more than that. Tania exercises choice, remember that, in a way that teknoids cannot.

  “Is she human? That’s for God to decide, not this court. My own opinion is that she’s something new, a lot like humans in many respects, and certainly so for all practical purposes.

  “She is, at any rate, far more than the contract stipulates. It seems an odd thing, to call a breach for doing more than the contract requires. But it is as much a breach to overperform as to underperform. If I were buying oranges, say, and I ordered a boatload, but Oxted supplied gold bars, I might have to tear down my barn and build a fortress. It costs me, because Oxted has not supplied what was contracted. Or a closer analogy: I decide to buy a pet poodle, but Oxted supplies a Great Dane; my food bills will be higher, and my experience of walking the dog will be considerably more taxing. Similarly, Oxted contracted to supply a human-optimized pet, designed to trigger rejection. Instead they supplied a being capable of loving and hating, capable of being loved, or indeed hated. It cost me, and cost Nettie, because we built a loving relationship where none should have been possible.

  “Oxted breached the contract, and I am requiring restitution, which is to allow Tania to live out her natural life, with me if she so chooses, but in any case to live out that full span.

  “It remains for me to thank the court for allowing me to present my case. I am done.”

  Perhaps I’ve shortened it slightly, but I promise you, Mister Zog, that’s the substance and the essence of what he said. When he finished, he was weeping, and so was I—I’d had no idea that fertility treatments could have such side effects, and that Mum had risked all that, and yet had loved me, a substitute, so unreservedly.

  Mum, I miss you so. I love your precious memory.

  Mr. Simpson spoke, eventually.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lloyd, Mr. Guest, and Reverend Deeley, for your submissions, and for the journeys you have each taken this court upon. You have presented me with much to think about, and evaluate in the context of—just—the laws of contract.

  “Well then, the afternoon is drawing to a close, so I do not propose to deliver a judgment this session. Instead, I will call a recess. I strongly recommend that all parties unwind and relax. You have all done well in presenting all your arguments, but now there is nothing more that you need to do, nothing more that this court requires of you, other than to present yourselves back here at ten o’clock tomorrow, when I will issue my judgment.”

  Surely, we’ve won. After that conclusion from Dad, how can we not?

  And yet …

  Dad cautions me.

  “It’s not in the bag, Tania. It’s never in the bag. Some point of law that neither I nor Mr. Guest thought of. Our case is a long way from watertight, though the same can be said for Oxted’s case, too. Put it out of your mind. We’re here, and now, and tomorrow will find us when it wants us. Let’s go eat.”

  But we didn’t have much appetite, either of us, and I barely remember what or where we ate. So we walked awhile, in companionable silence, through the last lights of London.

  And, not too late, we returned to the hotel and sipped drinks in the bar.

  After the intensity of the last days, the let-down hit us hard. Nothing could hold our interest, so in the end we just turned in.

  “G’night, Dad,” I called.

  “G’night, Tania. Sleep well. God bless you.”

  I found the recording of “Coils” that we’d done at the music shop in Denmark Street, listened to that, then told my AllInFone to
find soothing tracks until I was asleep. After a while, I drifted off.

  {Dream}

  Sleep is strange. A queer state, halfway between wakefulness and dreams, where phantoms stretch across the Styx, and trouble me.

  Mum. Gray and lost, she grasps my hand. “Who are you?” she demands. “Your daughter,” I reply, but she shakes her head. “My daughter died long ago, one Halloween.” And she looks at me: “Your journey is long. You have barely begun.”

  Amanda. Faded, wasted by disease. “Sing to me. There is no music here and the night is everlasting.”

  Mrs. Hanson. In black and white, with her warrior husband beside her. “Out of choices, Tania? I hoped for better from you. Surely the Red Zone would hold a mighty Street Warrior worthy of your love? Together, might you not have conquered the world?”

  Tim. I feel no surprise to see him clad as Bassanio. “Fair Portia’s counterfeit!” “I am Tania,” I reply. “This shadow doth limp behind the substance,” he tells me, reaching for me. His embrace is chill, and leaves tracks of rime upon my breast. And then he steals Morocco’s words, “Fare you well; your suit is cold. Cold, indeed; and labor lost: Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost! Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.” I am left with the curious feeling that despite his words he has returned to warmth and light, while I am marooned in loveless, icy wastes.

  John. His skin has been flayed from his body, and a domestic’s dull steel is revealed beneath. Alone about his face a remnant of skin still attaches; the eyes, however, glow red, and where once sweet freckles adorned his face, now blotchy rust streaks crudely upon iron cheeks. His hair is gone; in mocking substitution a garish kitchen mop flops crazily from his crown. “Braggart Raven—did you not croak that you would vanquish the fear of death? How then, that, offered life, you named it death and fled in terror. Stupid Bitch!—you have learned nothing, save that now you fear life even more than death. So come, join us in death, and taste fear.…”

  Dad …

  No! Go away! Why are you in this company of ghosts? Where are you?

  I wake in terror and confusion.