Expiration Day (15 page)

I have created massive symphonies of radio color and bathymetry, and simple monologues (you might call them) of proximity. Epic tales composed entirely in chirality and meson flux. Delicate patterns of transition-metal halides, arranged as a lattice-poem in iambic hexameter, accompanied by graviton à basso, telling the story of two lovers doomed to wander the galaxy, sundered by their own aphasic memory cycles.

Yet your simple thirty-two bars …

Perhaps I will recast myself in basic mode once more, and experiment with sounds and harmonies. If I can only remember …

… what is basic mode?

 

Sunday, May 5, 2052

For a wonderful moment, everything was right with the world. Locking up the church, the equipment back in its storeroom, the old Dad was back, too. We walked home under the stars, and he told me he was proud of me. And I told him I'd seen what he'd done, too, and I was proud of him, too. And he said that any dad would have done the same, but I knew he was pleased.

Sunday, June 30, 2052

Mum was tired a lot, those days, but I guess I didn't really think too much about it. I was disappointed that she hadn't made the gig, but she'd have been worried frantic if she'd been there, given everything that went on. I guess I didn't really sympathize with “tired”—it's not something that robots naturally relate to. We copy human sleep patterns by design, but I've never really thought much about whether we truly need to, or why.

Anyway, Mum was doing less and less about the house, and Soames had been recalled from the attic to help keep the place in order. I tended to avoid him; knowing what I did, a domestic robot was just far too creepy.

This morning, though, I came downstairs to find Mum in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, with her back to me, her head in her hands, weeping.

“Mum? Are you all right?” Stupid question, really.

By way of answer, she just held out her arms.

They were purple and yellow with bruises.

“What's happened? How've you hurt yourself so badly?”

“I've not done anything. This has just happened—I've no idea why.”

“Nobody's done this to you?”

“No. It's not your father, if that's what you're thinking.”

“No.” Well, yes, but I wasn't going to say so.

“Shall I call a doctor? An ambulance?”

We called the doctor, and got an appointment for that afternoon.

 

 

It's conventional for husbands to be allowed in with the patient, but daughters, even human ones, get to wait outside.

Dad was pretty curt when they emerged.

“They don't know what it is, but they want to run some blood tests. We're going to the hospital. Now.”

 

 

They've told us to wait.

They won't rule anything out. “Is it cancer?” “We can't say one way or the other.” “Leukaemia?” “No positive indications, but we're unable to eliminate it either.” “Well, what can you tell us?” “Nothing. Just wait.” “How long?” “We don't know.”

That's it. Just wait, while some unknown disease runs free.

Thursday, July 18, 2052

It's been a bit of a damp squib of a birthday. The three of us around the table. A nice meal, and a glass of wine to go with it—I appreciate the “adult” treatment. But there are no candles on the cake. That's a bit of a sensitive subject.

But Mum's feeling tired after cooking dinner, and goes off to bed early. Dad looks worried, and busies himself writing a sermon. I'm alone with my thoughts.…

 

 

It's all going round and round in my head with no beginning and no end.

Mum. What's wrong with her? Is it serious? Why can't the doctors hurry up and do something to make her better?

John. It's not a crush anymore. I feel something missing in myself. Like a jigsaw puzzle that is short of a piece to make it complete. A John-shaped piece.

Siân. She's a dear friend, but she's also a darn sight too sexy. And she's not such a bad singer. Maybe she just had a cold. She's a fantastic front-girl for the band—the boys loved her at the gig. Unfortunately, John still spends far too much time drooling over her bust and her bottom.

Kieran. He's not really a problem. He's just a nice lad. A bit young. Maybe it would be better if he would grow up a bit. Or take his next revision. Then maybe he'd start taking an interest in Siân. He might be part of the solution, but how's that going to work? Do I suggest that he could do with putting on a few more inches? And a few more pounds. But then, he might think
I
was getting interested in him. No way, Kieran, no way.

Too many problems, and I don't see any solutions.

If I had a friend I could talk to … but all my friends are part of the problems.

There's no one I can talk to about all the problems. Maybe I could talk to Mum about John. No. That's not fair; she's not well. So I could talk to Siân about Mum, maybe. But what's she going to say? I mean, it's a medical problem, and she's not even vaguely scientific.

So … that leaves John. Well, I can't talk to him about Siân. Maybe I could talk to him about Mum.

But how do you start? I've never had that sort of conversation with anybody.

Saturday, July 20, 2052

So how come John was able to make the gig and the practice, after supposedly getting almost caught stealing from his parents?

How come Siân sang better than a dead crow at the gig?

Shouldn't we be practicing for the next gig, if we can get one?

Isn't it about time I saw John face-to-face, without Siân being in the room?

Does that chain of thought look reasonable to you, Zog? No, it doesn't to me, either.

Which is why I'm on a train into London, on my way to meet him. Without Siân.

To talk with him about things other than music.

 

 

John lives in North London, in a place called Wood Green, so I need to get the Tube out to the Yellow Zone. It was easier—and felt safer—when I had Mr. Fuller taking me in his car, but it's not too bad in the daylight. I wouldn't like to do the journey alone at night. Too many dark alcoves; the lights are failing and there's no money to repair them.

The up escalator is broken—though oddly the down escalator is running fine—so I have to walk up two flights to street level. My legs are starting to ache by the time I get to the top. Out on the street I get a signal again and my AllInFone gives me directions.

//

I choose safe with random, which is supposed to be the best when you don't know an area well. Sometimes the crims know the safest routes and take a chance.

The Czern's shop is a classic corner shop. They sell a bit of everything—newspapers, groceries, hardware, greeting cards, drinks, nearly fresh veg, and anything else they think will sell. My own village has one, only slightly more upmarket—which doesn't mean the goods are any better, just that they are a fraction more expensive. Sure, you could find everything better and cheaper at the supermarket, but the corner shop is just a fraction closer, open longer, and the staff know your name—doing whatever it takes to make you leave the car in the garage.

I knew John would be there working as he'd canceled a practice for the evening, saying he had to look after the shop.

I suppose I'd better mention something, Mister Zog, before I go any further, or it all might not make complete sense. You see, I hadn't told John I was coming over to see him.

Yes, I know I ought to have done, but I didn't. I can't think of any reason not to ask, except I didn't want him to say no. You see, John says yes to band practices. He says yes to going to other bands' gigs. He happily chats over the TeraNet, and we've got a really good banter going.

But a relationship? John has never said one word that would indicate he'd want to meet me in person, alone, without a reason like a practice. I'm the bass player, I'm the girl he met on holiday. I've kissed him twice, but he's not shown much interest in making it three.

 

 

I suppose if you go to any Yellow Zone, like Wood Green, you'll find it has some scary people in it. You'll even find such people straying into safe Green Zone villages like mine. Poor people, desperate people, I agree. Probably not evil people. But they are scary. They ask you for money as you walk past them on the street. Some just mumble “Sparesomechange” and don't meet your eye, and I guess they're all right. The ones who frighten me are the ones who look you in the eye, and reach out to you from their doorway, trying to touch your arm as you pass. It's still the same litany—“Spare some change, miss”—but more personal, more invasive. More threatening.

Do you have poor people, Mister Zog? People who've fallen off the bottom end of society. People so desperate that they might … not … obey … the … rules.

After about the third or fourth of these, I realized I'd unwittingly changed course once or twice. I'd crossed a road, or turned a corner to avoid a beggar, and somehow ended up going in a different direction than I'd intended. My AllInFone was making annoyed pop-ups at me, telling me that
here
was not a good place to be, and to go
there
at the first intersection on the left.

I could hear footsteps nearby. And laughter. Not
nice
laughter, though. My AllInFone was twitching Red Zone just a street or two away.

I moved briskly, pretending a confidence I did not feel. The laughter receded. Perhaps it had only been my imagination, but I didn't think so.

 

 

So I've got this far. He's just the other side of a shop window, and I've just spent two weeks' allowance to get this close. Not to mention lying to my parents; they think I've just caught the bus into Wycombe to mooch around the shops.

I edged closer, so I could just see the counter through the shop window. John was there, and he was busy serving a customer, a middle-aged lady about Mum's age. Not that my mum is middle-aged, you understand, Mister Zog, but other people with similar birth dates to hers often are.

This is the weak point in all my plans: how to walk into the shop and just say hi to John. Yes, I just happened to be passing and thought I'd say hello. Passing? On the way from where to where? Er …

The customer leaves. I should go in now.…

Too late, another customer has gone in.

As I wait, I can feel my courage ebbing away.…

Laughter, Tania, remember the laughter. It wasn't nice laughter.…

 

 

I almost collide as the customer leaves the shop, an elderly gentleman who calls out, “Watch it, youngster!” as I just miss crashing into him.

I'm inside. Panting in self-inflicted fright, unable to talk.

John looks at me, amazed. Behind—outside—my fears lurk.

“Tania! What on earth are you doing here?”

 

 

I suppose it was for the best. I'm not sure I'd have had the courage to go into the shop, if I hadn't scared myself half to death.

So why
was
I here?

Wordlessly, I pointed back outside.

“I got a bit lost. There are some scary places round here.…”

John smiled faintly.

“I guess Wood Green can be a bit unnerving compared to your village. But it's okay if you're careful, act like you belong here, and don't stray near the Red Zones.”

“Yeah. I'll be more careful when I go back.”

There was a silence, which lengthened. John was looking at me, but I couldn't fathom his expression. I guess we were both trying to work out what to say. It began to get uncomfortable.

We broke the silence at the same moment.

“So what are you doing here.”

“I'm gasping for a cuppa, would you mind?”

“Of course,” John replied, letting me avoid the question for a second time. “Would you mind the shop for a moment?”

I looked nervously over my shoulder, outside. But the street outside was empty. I heard noises from the kitchen, cupboards banging, cups clinking, water pouring.

The shop door opened, and I started. But it was just an old man. He looked to be about sixty, with wispy, silver hair and a face that had begun to wrinkle and fall in on itself. Everything about him was blotchy, skin and clothing, and I gave a little shudder of repulsion. I guess I'd not seen many old people—at least, not
poor
old people—in the village, and it came as a bit of a shock.

He shuffled. Yes, shuffled. As though he was afraid to lift his feet off the floor, terrified that gravity would grab him and dash him onto the unyielding ground.

At the shelves he hesitated, before picking up two small tins of baked beans and turning them over, inspecting each one carefully, squinting and holding each tin right up to his glasses, then at arm's length back and forth. Eventually, his puzzled look undiminished, he shuffled up to me.

“Can you read these labels, love? Me eyes en't what they used to be, and I can't read the price.”

I had to squint as well, but …

“This one costs fifty-five, and the other is fifty-nine.”

“I'll take the one at fifty-five, love. Have to watch the pennies.”

“The one at fifty-nine is better value, sir. Heavier.”

“No. I want the one at fifty-five.”

And he laboriously counted out fifty-five in small coins. At which point I realized I didn't know how to operate the till. Did I scan the barcode? Or just enter a price? The old man must have spotted my uncertainty.

“Don't worry, love. Just put the money on the till, and the young man will sort it out later.”

Saying which, he helped me scoop up the cash from the counter. And knocked some coins onto the floor.