Expiration Day (32 page)

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.”