Expiration Day (13 page)

I thumped her.

Just once, but it took her totally by surprise, and my punch landed squarely in her stomach. The air whooshed out of her, and she sat down, gasping and looking a bit sick. At which point the gym mistress intervened, sending Jemyra off to sick bay, and awarding me the impot and the detention.

Later, during the detention, the gym mistress spoke to me when we were alone.

“I'm sorry, Deeley, but I have to award a detention for any assault. It's a total waste of my time and yours, but it's the rules, even when there's clear provocation. I heard what she said, and for what it's worth, I think she deserved what you gave her. Maybe she won't bother you again.”

“I'm sorry, too, Miss James. I shouldn't have lost control.”

“Are you really sorry, Deeley?”

“Not really, Miss James.”

“Didn't think so. Well, we'll say no more about it. Shame you're a robot, or I'd put you in a boxing team.”

“I didn't know we had a boxing team, Miss James.”

“We don't. At least not anymore. There are too few humans around to let them go thumping each other for sport.”

“Oh.”

“And that's another thing. It's a good job you hit Myra, rather than Jemima, or you'd really be in trouble.”

“Oh?”

“Myra's just a robot, but Jemima is human. That would have been a police matter.”

Second offense. Deactivation.

“Oh.”

Yes, I know. Not very articulate of me. But I did make it mean different things. And that last “Oh” really was as much as I could manage. Death had just come
that
close. Still, I rallied as I asked:

“Miss James. How come you're telling me this? I mean, I've no idea who the humans are here; we're all supposed to pretend every girl is human, though it's common knowledge that one or two of the girls are definitely robots. Like me, I suppose.”

“Hmm, that's a good question, Deeley. I suppose there are some of us who see robots as more than just servants, or surrogates for those who can't have children. You may not be flesh and blood, but as far as I'm concerned, you're a real person. So, for example, I think deactivation at eighteen is murder.”

“Put like that, Miss James, I have to agree.”

“But unfortunately I have no idea what to do about it. In law, you robots are simply property, leased by Oxted. You have no more rights than my car. Deactivating a robot is legally equivalent to scrapping a car. Or putting down a dangerous dog.”

“Except that unlike a dog, we're allowed one mistake.”

“Oh, you know that, then?”

“Yes, because I've made it—my mistake, I mean. I'm on my final chance.”

“And you risked thumping a human?”

“I didn't think.”

“That must change, then, Deeley.”

“Yes, Miss James. Er, do you know who all the humans are in this school? So that I can avoid thumping them, you understand.”

Miss James grinned. I guess I didn't say, but Miss James must be about sixty, but she still looks incredibly trim and fit. Like she still jogs every day and works out in the gym and plays tennis—maybe she does. Anyway, she's got a rather stern face, most of the time, but when she grinned then, her suntanned face lit up.

“You're right, I do know who the humans are. I'm one of the first-aiders, so I have to know. But I think you know them already. Jemima and your friend Siân.”

“That's it? Just two? No doubt?”

“That's it. Both in the same year group, which is rather unusual. But when human numbers are so small, it's best not to rely on statistics.”

“So how bad is the birth rate? Or is that information secret?”

“It's supposed to be secret, but the truth is that having two human pupils makes us a very special school. A few schools have one. Most have none at all.”

“None? So what's the point of them then?”

“Another good question, Deeley. The government could close them down, I suppose. Educate all the human children in one or two specialized institutions. But it would rather highlight the population problem. If you let couples have robot children, then you have to send them to school, or the illusion is destroyed. And we'd be back to riots and the Troubles all over again.”

“So this is all a sham.…”

“From your point of view, I suppose it is. From the human point of view, the schools stand between us and a total breakdown of society.”

“And the universities?”

“Are mostly researching the fertility problem, in one guise or another. Looking for a cure, or looking for ways to keep our society from collapse. And, lastly, educating—really educating—the remaining humans. There aren't any soft options left for humans, now. It's all hands to the pump.”

“But not for robots.”

“No.”

“That's so unfair. I wanted to study psychology at Cambridge, you know.”

“I'm sorry, Deeley. That's the way it is.”

“Why? Why can't we change the way it is?”

But Miss James didn't answer me, except to tell me to finish my impot.

Are there really so few human children left?

Wednesday, May 1, 2052

John called—we've got our first gig!

Woo-hoo!

And then he told me the downside: it's his school disco and we have to play covers. He reckons we can put some of our own songs in.

John called a conference.

“We've got to rehearse.”

“I think we should play that song that goes ‘tell me, tell me' then there's a guitar break—what's it called?”

“‘Tell Me.'”

“I don't like it.”

“What's not to like, then?”

“Duff title, for one.”

“Who cares what the title is? It's got a great beat.”

“We need some covers.”

“Do we have to?”

“We have to.”

“And our own songs, we can play those, can't we?”

“'Course we can.”

“So is ‘Tell Me' in the set?”

“I don't like it.”

“This is a bad time to start not liking ‘Tell Me'—what else can we do?”

“It needs a drummer.”

“We'll find a drummer.”

“Why not use the drum machine?”

“This is a live gig—we can't use a drum machine.”

“We need to rehearse.”

“We need to rehearse.”

“We need to rehearse.”

We've got a week.

 

 

Oh, Zog!

What a week!

“This is Kieran. He's our new drummer.”

Kieran was about eleven, just started at John's school. John just showed up with him at our first rehearsal, unannounced. So we set up the church's drum kit for him, brushing away the cobwebs, while I cast occasional dark looks at John for dumping this kid on us. John was blissfully unaware that I was trying to kill him by sheer frown-power, because he was helping Siân carry the bass drum out of the store room. John could easily have done it on his own, and so, I guess, could Siân.

Seeing I was wasting my frowns on John, I decided I might as well talk to Kieran, who was fair-haired and skinny. Tall for his age, I'll admit, and every inch as gangly as I'd been a month ago.

“Hi, I'm Tania.” And I held out my right hand.

“H-h-h-hi,” he replied. “I'm K-K-K-Kieran.”

Then he held out his hand, too, realized he was holding his drumsticks in it, fumbled them into his other hand, dropping one, and eventually gave me a dead-fish handshake.

“J-J-John s-s-says you're a p-pretty good b-b-b-bassist,” he stammered, as I hurriedly gave him back his hand.

“I'm learning,” I modestly admitted. “How about you?”

“M-me t-t-t-too.” He nodded desperately, and bent down to pick up his drumstick.

I tried again.

“What bands do you like, Kieran? What drummers…”

That was the key. His eyes seemed to light up behind his fringe, and his stammer faded.

“The Police. Stewart Copeland. He's just brilliant, so controlled. A perfectionist. And some of the indie bands. Yeah, and Charlie Watts. ‘Honky Tonk Women' was the first track I heard that made me want to drum, and I worked at that rhythm for weeks until it finally clicked. Do you know it?”

“Not so well.”

“I'll play it for you some time. But I learned it on cardboard boxes and drinks cans, not a proper kit. And I showed off to my dad what I'd done, and he said I could have drum lessons if I wanted. But we can't afford a drum kit, so this is the first one I've played on, apart from my teacher's. Thank you for letting me play it.”

Honestly, Zog, he was like a puppy dog, so eager. A Nice Boy.

So we carried the rest of the drum kit out, and bit by bit got it put together. Kieran seemed to know what he wanted, so we just did what we were told.

“No—the first pad goes on now, then the ride cymbal,
then
the second pad…”

Eventually we had a working drum kit, and the rest of us set to work. I lugged my amp across the carpet—at least it had castors—and knelt down to smooth out the carpet where it had rucked up. It took a minute or two to sort out, and get the cables plugged in properly, and as I did so, I could hear John tuning up briefly, then stop. After a while I was done, so I stood up, raising my head, and there was John, staring at my … chest.

Result!

Oh, well done, Doctor Thompson, you brilliant designer! Whatever you're on, they should pay you double!

John looked away hastily, blushing, and I decided to pretend I hadn't seen him looking. You ask why, Mister Zog? Oh, you poor alien! I'd just discovered the pleasure of being admired, Mister Zog, and I didn't want to scare the poor boy off from doing it again.

Well, after that little diversion we needed to start playing. When John had finished blushing, he called us to order and read out his set list. It was all pretty safe stuff, I suppose—the three of us didn't have that many songs of our own, and, given our line-up and Siân's looks, Blondie's “Hanging on the Telephone” was a natural opener.

We just had to learn to play it.

Kieran, bless his cotton socks, was a bit nervous, but actually settled down to be a not-bad drummer. Hardly Stewart Copeland, but then, I wasn't John Entwistle, either.

Between John's downloaded music, and some smattering of ability, we managed to play along with the track, while Siân struggled with the unfamiliar words. It ended, inevitably, in an utter shambles, a total train wreck of last notes and power chords and drum crashes.

We looked at one another, not quite sure if we should congratulate ourselves that parts of it had nearly ascended to the mediocre, or admit that it was an unrecoverable disaster. Me, I was all for a bit of plain speaking.

“I think that was total…”

“… totally worth another run-through, but I want Kieran to finish the song, building up on the ride cymbal over our last five-chord rallentando, count four and crash,” John interrupted. “And Siân, I'm giving you a ghost note before the start to give you your pitch—listen for it. Tania, your bass part was way too fussy. Your bass and my guitar need to be in lockstep. One note of yours for each of mine. Not two. And definitely not four.”

Bossy. And worse than that, he was dead right.

So—cue ghost note …

“I'm in the phone booth, it's the one across the hall…”

… and in.

Better.

And round again, and again. Until each song was perfect … in an ideal world. Right. So just twice through, then on to the next. Hope it's all right on the night.…

We had five songs—covers—and we'd taken an hour and a half. We just had half an hour before we
had
to finish, to get John and Kieran to the station in time for their train home.

“John, we have to do one of our own songs now. ‘Coils,' or even ‘Tell Me.'”

“Okay, Tania. We'll do ‘Tell Me.' With Kieran to drive it along, we should be all right. Kieran, give us a basic four beat, with hi-hat sixteenths. Intro is count four on the sticks, then guitar line over a count of four, then everyone in. This is the drum tab. Got it?”

I looked at Kieran, setting up the music for yet another unknown song. The lad looked shattered already, but there was a glow of excitement in his face. He'd done all right on the covers, as strange to us as to him. But what would he do to
our
song, where we were the pros and he was the new boy?

“Not too fast, Kieran,” I whispered. “Remember you've got to play sixteenths. Drive is more important than speed.”

Listen to me. Veteran bassist, rising star, and general know-it-all. Oh well.

Somehow we got through to the end. And it was mostly my fault. I was trying to show off, I guess, and played something different I'd been trying out alone—faster and more fluid. It didn't go. Well, maybe it would have gone, against our drum machine, or I could have recovered it. But Kieran thought he'd got it wrong, and tried to compensate, too, and I didn't know what he was doing and I guessed wrong where he was going and we ended up two beats out of sync, which then threw off both John and Siân. John's face was an angry mask, looking from me to Kieran and back again.

At the end, he let rip. At me.

“What the blazes do you think you're doing, Tania?” he began. Well, he didn't actually say blazes, but I'll spare your blushes, Zog. He'd never been cross with me, nor sworn at me in the years I'd known him, and it really hurt.

“You can't go changing your part without warning us. It's … unprofessional. What's wrong with you? Teenage hormones messing up your head?”

Ow!

“Listen here, John bully-boss Czern. Don't you dare try to tell me when I can or can't be creative, and jumping to wild conclusions, just because you've
finally
noticed I'm growing up.”