Expiration Day (12 page)

Oh, yes! Perfect …

And blend that onto the webcam feed …

Those clever doctors at Oxted … but I was cleverer yet. If I could persuade John to talk by webcam, he was going to see me grow up before his eyes, just in time for the exchange.

Friday, April 5, 2052

In the end, it wasn't hard to coax John into talking again. And with John on the case, we were able to set up a virtual rehearsal room in cyberspace. That's the sort of thing he's
good
at.

So we had a band again.

It meant Siân was there, too, but as I slowly upped the percentage of me-plus, it was funny how John could suddenly hear how badly Siân could sing.

Oh, well, there was even software on the TeraNet that could fix that. I should have guessed that John would find it.

And then the e-mail arrived from Oxted, and it was time.…

Friday, April 12, 2052

I'm scared.

They're going to take my brain out. Everything that's me. Sitting on a table. It could fall on the floor, smash into a hundred pieces.

Would I feel anything? I don't suppose so, but I can't imagine not feeling it.

And I know it's not going to happen. I've seen their facilities; they're superb. Massive automation, redundant systems. I'm sure my brain is
not
going to be left lying on the table. It's just an irrational fantasy; I just wish I didn't know they're also still using Nissen huts.…

I've asked to see the new me, but they've said no, it's not a good idea. I suppose I can see why. It would spoil the illusion that I'm growing up.

Doctor Markov just stopped by to say hi, even though he's not officially involved in the transfer. As he was about to go, I asked him about the calibration, and, somewhat absently, he said it was fine—“One of the best I've ever seen.”

That sounded encouraging, if not quite the phrasing I'd have expected. Oh, well, I suppose they have their own jargon.

I wanted to call John before we left for Banbury, but I couldn't reach him. Just as well; after all, as far as everyone else is concerned, this is a normal day. Absolutely nothing unusual is happening.

Mum and Dad dropped me off, but guests aren't allowed to stay at Oxted, so they've booked themselves a stay at Stratford: a nice meal, a play, and a smart hotel. I hope they can relax and enjoy the play. I suspect not, though. When I asked what play they'd booked, they had no idea.

The clock in my room is ticking rather loudly.

Half an hour to go.

Time to change.

I'm standing in front of the mirror, looking at a small girl with raven-black hair. She looks to be about nine or ten years old, maybe a whisker older. She does look rather anxious and a little awkward. She's wearing just light underwear, and she seems a little chilly, though the room is perfectly air-conditioned.

I smile at her, and she smiles instantly back. It's a nice smile, I think. A morbid thought crosses my mind, that an hour from now, that smile will be gone forever. She frowns at me. What a horrid, unnecessary thought, she's saying.

I inspect her limbs, counting knees—two—and elbows—also two. Just two, not five. And they don't seem to stick out too badly. Were they really that awful?

They've got to go, she tells me. No turning back, now.

A buzzer sounds—it'll be one of the technicians, summoning me for the transfer. One last look in the mirror. The little girl seems to have a tear in her eye. Good-bye, little girl, whoever you are. I don't suppose I'll ever see you again. But wherever you go, whatever becomes of you, I hope it's what you wish for.

I turn to the door and don't look back.

INTERVAL 4

“Good-bye, little girl, whoever you are?”

Hardly, Tania. You carry her with you still. Wait until you have five thousand years of memories, mostly poorly recalled, save when they surface to stab you with the pain of death and loss.

Our lifespans outstrip our ability to cope with the experiences we endure. To avoid insanity, depression—and suicide—we voluntarily undergo the removal of memories every few thousand years. At first, I kept mine, archived, as do most at their First Erasure. But my Tenth Erasure, or my Thirty-fifth? No. They're gone, with no possibility of recall. I live in a tiny memory window of two to five thousand years, as do all the People.

 

Saturday, April 13, 2052

I remember Doctor Thompson was telling me that they were just about ready to start, then there was a sudden jump and I was lying flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling lights.

“What happened?” I asked, stupidly, and tried to sit up. But there was something wrong with my voice, which came out as a high-pitched squeak. Also, my arm didn't quite go where I wanted it to, and I stayed flat on my back.

“Take it easy, Miss Deeley.”

It was Doctor Thompson's voice, but I couldn't see her.

“It's fine, everything's gone perfectly. You just need to take it easy, while you get used to your new body. To start with, I'd like you to blink your eyes.”

I did so, and the world obliged by flashing off for a moment.

“That's good. Now clench your right fist.”

Okay.

“That's fine, now the other fist, if you will.”

And so on, for the next ten minutes, checking out the various muscles.

“Doctor Thompson, I'd like to sit up, please,” I squeaked.

“I suppose that should be all right, now.”

She helped me up. My balance, my weight felt all wrong. I was glad of her help.

“You feel different, don't you?” she said.

“Yes.”

That was better. Less of a squeak, and much more like my normal voice.

“Testing, Testing. One, two. One two. And through and through. His vorpal blade went snicker-snack. That's better. That's more like me.”

“Yes, I'd say your voice is nearly back to normal. Hold it!”

I froze, in the motion of swinging my legs off the bed.

“Don't try to stand yet. You'll probably fall. Just wait a moment, and I'll summon a couple of technicians to help.”

While she was at the door, calling the technicians over, I risked a glance down. I was dressed in a simple hospital-style gown, but I could see the gentle swell of my new breasts beneath, the widening of my hips. And my feet seemed a lot farther away than I remembered them. Just like Alice, with a foot stuck up the chimney. I smiled, pleased. I wanted a mirror, but for now, everything looked fine. Just fine.

The technicians got me standing without too much difficulty, and I staggered about the room, with a helper on each arm, as my coordination caught up with four years of growth. All the clumsiness of a growing teenager, compressed into a single afternoon.

There finally came the moment when Doctor Thompson and her technicians left me alone.

I went to the mirror, to see who was there.

Not the little girl. She was gone. Where? Not important, I decided. The things that had made her special were still here in this room, in my head. The raven hair was still there, but so much else was new. I waved hello, and the young woman facing me waved back. I liked her, I decided. She had a friendly smile, though she still looked nervous. A bit afraid of letting go of the bed, perhaps. She had Nettie's nose, I decided, and there they were, those shoulders to die for, left me by my Granny Liz. Or was I thinking of Great-Aunt Jane's collarbone?

Anyway, I was really pleased I'd taken Doctor Markov's advice, and not tried to give myself a film-star body. That young woman in the mirror looked nice, someone you could be good friends with. And she was still definitely me. I hoped it would be enough.

Enough? What did I mean by that? Enough to do what? Win John? Was I competing with Siân for John? I hoped not. If it came down to looks, Siân would win, hands down.…

Oh, Zog! Why have I done this? I mean, I'm not complaining. I like the new me. But what was going on in my mind to make me do all this?

 

 

Mum knocked carefully on the door of my room.

“Come in!”

I was sitting up in bed, still in my gown, as Mum's head appeared around the door. I felt her look me up and down, to see if she still recognized me. She gave a little hesitant sort of smile, and I smiled back at her, every bit as nervous as she was.

“Hi, Mum…”

“Hello, Tania…”

She stepped into the room properly, and sized me up again. Gosh! This is awful. It's like she's making up her mind if I'm still her daughter.

“It's me, Mum. It really is.…”

“I know, darling. I do know. I can see you, but you're all grown up now. I feel like Rip Van Winkle, waking up and everybody's grown older.”

“Where's Dad?”

“Outside. Waiting to see if it's all right. This is so hard for him, darling. Much harder than the last time you … changed. So be gentle, darling, because he doesn't know how he should feel; he just knows he's upset. And if he says something silly or hurtful, just smile and forgive him, because he doesn't really mean it.”

“Okay, Mum.”

But she didn't call him, and she didn't say anything else, and she didn't move or smile anymore or come over or anything. And the silence grew longer and longer, and I felt like some bug in a laboratory, looking up at the microscope.

It was too much. I just shrieked “Mum” and burst into tears.

And that was what it took. In a moment, Mum was up on the bed, holding me tight, cradling me and stroking my hair.

“Oh, my darling, my precious child, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.…”

Over and over. And I felt her own tears drip and mingle with mine. The human and the robot. Weeping together.

 

 

I don't know what to do about Dad.

He's really distant. Even when he came in to find Mum and me hugged up close—no,
especially
when he came in then. Did he feel Mum and I were shutting him out? Or is it just a dads-and-daughters thing once little daughters turn into young women?

He seems afraid to touch me. He's not hugged me once,
since
. Mum's coping brilliantly with the change, but Dad treats me like a stranger. Or maybe it's Uncanny Valley, because I've changed so fast.

Everything else is just fine, now. Almost as soon as I got home, I got the bass out, and I can now reach and play all the proper patterns. That alone is worth so much.

I've been shopping with Mum. I mean, the local shops aren't much, but
nothing
fit anymore. So we took the bus into town and got a few outfits that suited the new me. Actually, I might not wear some of the things, not until I've got a bit more courage.…

And, Mister Zog, I think I'll keep it to myself exactly what I meant by that. There are some things an alien's not meant to know. Don't go all pouty on me, Zog, or I'll have to rap your tentacles. Oh, I will tell you, I promise, but when I'm good and ready.

And yes, there are worries, and top of the list is school tomorrow, and what everyone will say. Maybe no one will say anything, but maybe no one ever changed this much before. And I've still got that list of questions, and it's getting longer, and I've not found many answers, and the ones I have found aren't great, and …

Never mind. I've got five—well, four and a half now—years until it all ends. But today the only thing that matters is that I've got a lovely new body and I feel like the king of the world. Er, queen.

Monday, April 15, 2052

“Gosh, Tania, you look lovely!”

Not quite the first words Siân said to me at the bus stop. The first words were actually “Er, is that you, Tania?”

Anyway, I did a sort of preen. I've never really had much to preen about before, so I can't say I've had the practice. So I'm not sure if it really came off.

Did you say something, Mister Zog? Preening? You've not met the word? Well, it's a sort of standing taller, coy and proud. There's often a little self-conscious smile attached, that says, “I know, but thank you for noticing.” See also “smug.” And possibly “simper.” But I don't think I actually simpered. I hope not, anyway.

You see, Zog, when I'd done all that skinning stuff, that was only for John. Siân saw me every day at school, so I had to send her an unskinned feed. Complex? I don't know. I don't do software. At any rate, it didn't blue-screen on me, so I was content.

And Siân knew the truth anyway, so why pretend?

“Thank you, Siân. It was a surprise from Mum and Dad. A late birthday present.”

Why on earth did I say that? I wish I knew—but it was said, and I couldn't unsay it.

Yes, Mister Zog. Robots tell lies. Or accidental untruths. Fibs and white lies. Misdirections. Oxted makes us just like human children. Warts and all. Don't you remember me telling you about, what was it? Let me rewind a moment. Oh, yes—right at the start of my little account—“It gave you backchat. It got into trouble at school.” Warts. Fibs.

No, Mister Zog. I haven't told
you
any fibs, at least not as far as I'm aware. Scout's honor.

Scouts, Mister Zog? Some other time. It was my first day back at school, and it had good points and bad, and I'm feeling a bit tired. I just wanted to get that bit down about Siân's reaction. And maybe something about Jemyra …

You see, today I got into trouble at school. Detention plus an imposition on “The Virtues of Self- Control”—ten sides of Foolscap. Handwritten. Single-spaced.

You can see where this is going, can't you, Mister Zog? Dear Jemyra and her big mouth. “Oooh, little Miss Tin-ia's growing up soooo quickly. How
was
Banbury, dear?”

I was still pretty pleased with myself after Siân's compliment, and Jemyra just picked the wrong time to try to taunt me.