Expiration Day (21 page)

He nodded. “It's okay.”

I wasn't convinced, but I pushed against the door and it yielded. Inside, it was dingy and for a moment I thought the smell had followed us in. Then my eyes began to make sense of the dimness, and I saw the familiar silhouette of a Fender Stratocaster.

“It's all right,” I called, and the rest of the band trooped in.

The shopkeeper turned out to be an ancient rock 'n' roll type, who introduced himself as Mick. At least, he did once he'd decided we weren't going to rob the store, and had put the baseball bat back under the counter.

“Sorry, kids. There's a lot of kit here, and there's some punks would happily steal a grand's worth of Fender and flog it for thirty Basics, just to feed a drug habit for a day. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for a bass.”

“And you would be?”

“Tania. Tania Deeley. And this is my band. And Mr. Fuller, who's brought us here. Except he's outside, in the car, making sure nobody steals it.”

“Wise man. So, you want to buy a bass. What are you looking for, and what's your budget?”

So I told him, and he looked pleased, and told me he thought he could help me. We followed him to the back of the shop, up a couple of flights of stairs to the bass showroom.

It was like walking into Aladdin's Cave. This was the real shop—downstairs was just to deceive the riff-raff, with tatty décor, and mostly cheap guitar copies built in Puerto Rico.

This …

It was like a history of the bass guitar. Precisions and Jazzes from Fender, of course, but the bass guitar was never just about big names, and there were dozens of handcrafted instruments from the likes of JayDee and Wal and … well, a long list.

I think I stood in the middle of the floor for five minutes, completely silent, turning slowly round on the spot, my jaw hanging loosely somewhere round about my navel, occasionally exclaiming, “Look, a…” (fill in your rare bass of choice here), as I spotted some new, fantastic treasure hanging on the wall.

Well, it might have been five minutes, or perhaps even more, and I guess Mick was enjoying showing off his collection to some interested customers—he wasn't hurrying me.

The thing about bass guitars, Mister Zog, is that you don't paint a good bass. I mean, with ordinary guitars, you get Pink Strats or Gold Top Les Pauls, or black Flying Vs. But with a bass, no. Well, I suppose you do get your Sunburst Precisions, and your jet-black Arias. But the basses that have always set my heart on fire have displayed the wood grains in all their glory.

I reached out my hand, slowly, reverently, and laid it gently on an early Status fretless four-string bass, its graphite through-neck setting off the paler, flame maple top. Never mind that it wasn't what I was looking for. It was probably seventy years old. It was beautiful.

“Go on,” said Mick, softly. “Pick it up. Hold it, feel the balance.”

As I lifted it off the wall, I turned it over to look at the back. There was some gorgeous inlay work, two lines of tiny checker-boarding, that must have taken somebody hours, maybe days to make, intricacies that would never be seen by anybody but the owner.

I tried a few runs, felt the balance. It was perfection, but … it wasn't what I was looking for. Reluctantly, I passed it back to Mick.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

I caught a glimpse of the price tag then. I could never have afforded it. Ah well.

“Here are a couple that might suit,” suggested Mick, “a bit newer, but still very good, and quite affordable.”

One was a Fender Precision five-string, nice enough, but the sunburst finish doesn't do it for me. But the other …

Ahhhh! It was exquisite. A Warwick, of some sort …

“It's a Corvette five-string, just over forty years old.”

My hand began to reach out, without any conscious direction, and Mick obliged by passing it to me.

“What's the wood?”

“The body is bubinga.” A sort of chocolaty color, with darkly contrasting grain. I missed the rest—woods I'd never heard of—but it didn't matter. If I bought the bass, I'd get Mick to write it down. Or look it up on the TeraNet.

I loved it as soon as I held it. “If” became “when.” The balance was good, the feel excellent, and the range of tones was astounding.

I played a few runs, to get the feel of it. Then I tried the run from “Tell Me,” the one where I'd wanted a bottom D. Oh, yes. That worked. That
worked
.

Kieran piped up.

“That's great, Tania. I want my kit, here, now!”

They were grinning and nodding, all of them. And then Mick piped up. “I can offer you the next best thing. We've got a studio set-up in the basement. It's there to help us make the right sale, so the customer doesn't come back to us in six months' time, unhappy because his new axe doesn't work with the band.”

And so five minutes later we found ourselves in a fully equipped vintage pre-Troubles recording studio, circa 2010, warming up with a few scales.

We started with “Coils,” and I guess it was pretty passable. Then we tried “Tell Me,” so I could put the Warwick through its paces. And put me, too, through my paces. Would I get lost on a five-string?

It was okay. It was better than okay. It was brilliant. Here was a bass that let me explore new ideas, that sounded good, and felt so right.…

We'd finished the song, and I was suddenly aware that I was the center of attention. The band, and Mick, were all looking at me, with a mix of surprise and shock.

“Come on, guys. What's up?”

And then I looked at my left hand, dripping blood. Or my equivalent of blood, at any rate. My poor fingers had finally worn through, and there were the silver strands of the neurotronic web beneath, shimmering bright.

Bother! How embarrassing!

I mean, I didn't really care anymore who knew I was a robot. Siân knew already, and so did John. But Kieran … I'd never actually said as much to him, just kind of left him to work it out or not. Mick just looked annoyed that I'd bled all over his nice guitar and his studio, but he made a brave face of it, as salesmen must, and brought some cloths and got me cleaned up, while I blushed and apologized over and over to him.

Did I not notice the pain, Mister Zog? Well no, not until we stopped playing. It had been there, I realized, but at a distance.

It put a bit of a damper on the session. By unspoken agreement we trooped out of the studio, and went back upstairs. Mick was rather distant, as we wrapped up the sale, and I handed over the holo-cheque, plus a little bit extra from Dad to pay for a decent lead and a hard case to keep it protected and a few other bits and pieces.

Just one bright note as we headed for the door, my left hand still wrapped in a rag and my right clutching my new guitar in its case. Mick suddenly brightened, disappeared for a moment, and came back with a flash memory in his hand.

“Your two tracks. I hope you don't mind, but I recorded them. They were rather good, I thought. There's no charge, it's just a little thank-you for your business.”

I was suddenly embarrassed again, and I mumbled my thanks, as we bustled out onto the street, back toward the car.

I looked back, but Mick had gone. The shop had faded back into its grimy, squalid surroundings, and the Aladdin's Cave of Denmark Street was shrouded once more in dinge.

Saturday, August 30, 2053

Write your love on me, gentle scribe

Spell out your care in cursive strokes

And, with bolder script, dot each my “I”

Sign me with your free-flowing hand

And seal me with—what else?—a kiss

And I will draw no line between us

But only one that draws you in

To me; I'll shade you, tracing hollows

Crossing heart to hatch your secret shadows

And frame you with mine own frame

 

 

Composed on a train, returning. Work it out, Mister Zog. Work it out.

Sunday, August 31, 2053

I'm not going to pretend, this time.

A week ago, I was thirteen. A girl.

Today, I'm back in the village, and I'm a young woman. The first person I met was Ted Hinchliffe, the churchwarden, who came to the vicarage door, with a note for Dad.

“Good morning, Miss Deeley.”

“Morning, Mr. Hinchliffe. How are you?”

“I'm fine, thank you. I'm glad to see you're up and about after your illness.”

“Illness? Oh, you mean my revision.”

He started and looked slightly shocked. One didn't speak of such things in the village.

“I'm rather pleased with it, actually. I think Oxted has made a really nice job of my upgrade, don't you think?”

Poor man, he didn't know what to think or say.

“I've got some new, experimental skin, because the old stuff wasn't really up to all the bass playing I'm doing. It's a bit darker than my last skin, which is taking a bit of getting used to. But it gives me a slightly … colonial feel, wouldn't you say? Or South American, maybe.”

“Er, yes…”

“I could see me in the Carnival, in Rio, don't you think. They have such gorgeous costumes, every color of the rainbow, with feathers and whatnot everywhere. Yes, that's me now. A little sultry, a little dusky. And my fingers won't wear out now when I play the bass. Oh, I'm so glad I'm a robot.…”

I think that was overdoing it, for the poor man just babbled and fled.

I laughed. In fact I laughed and laughed.

And then I heard Dad behind me.

“Tania, was that you I heard speaking so rudely to Ted?”

“Yes. He can't take a joke very well, can he?”

“If it had been funny, I'd agree with you. But you went beyond the bounds of a joke. That was just tasteless exhibitionism. You'd better go and apologize, straightaway.”

“I haven't done anything wrong. I was just talking.”

“Apologize.”

“No.”

“Then I will. Wait there.”

He slid past me and disappeared after Ted.

Darn it!

What now? I thought. Sit and wait, I supposed. There was a newish sun lounger in the garden, so I pulled it round until it was in the sun, and lay down on it. I closed my eyes and let the summer warmth soak into my skin.

After a while, I heard voices. Dad and Ted. Dad was talking.…

“It's part of growing up, Ted, but I'm really sorry you had to suffer it. Her mind needs to catch up with her body, I'm afraid. But I hope she realizes she needs to apologize, too.”

Cheek! Talking about me as if I wasn't there. Treating me like a five-year-old.

“No, Michael, I really don't want to make a big issue of it. I mean, she's making no secret of her nature now, so what's the point of asking a machine to say sorry?”

A machine. So … I stood up, jerkily, and spoke in my best dalek voice.

“Good. Morning. Mister. Hinch. Liffe. I. Regret. I. Have. Offended. You. Please. Accept. My. Sincere. Apologies.”

In a single sudden movement I jerked my hand out toward his.

“Shake. Hands.”

His eyes narrowed, and I knew I was pushing the limits. And Dad was going to blow. Time to be nice.

“I'm sorry, Ted. That was in poor taste, too. But—speaking as one intelligent being to another—I've really had enough of trying to pretend every minute of the day. Sometimes I need to speak the truth. I
am
a robot, and that's not always something to be ashamed of.”

He didn't look convinced, but he knew he wanted to stay on the right side of Dad, too.

“That's all right, Tania. I am a human, after all, and that is never something to be ashamed of. We can be gracious.”

“And you have been gracious”—in a pig's eye—“so I do hope my foolishness can be forgotten as well as forgiven.”

“Um, of course. We'll say no more about it.”

Right. We were both about as sincere as a baby-kissing politician, but the conventions of an apology had been met.

So Dad and Ted went into the house to discuss whatever it was Ted had come to bother him about, while I lay back on the sun lounger and pondered.

After a while Ted left again, and Dad came over. He pulled up a garden chair and sat down next to me.

“I'm not fooled, Tania. That was a very pretty apology, but you didn't mean a single word of it. Did you?”

“Er, no. I didn't like that remark of his about there being no point in asking a machine to say sorry.”

“Yes, I spotted that, and I'm afraid Ted's lost my respect for saying it. Which is why I held back from blasting you for your little piece of drama, just then.”

“So you're not mad at me?”

“I didn't say that. It's never a good idea to make enemies, and Ted has the ear of a fair few folk in the parish. He's a good man, mostly, but there's a darker side to mankind. The village has its share of small-minded people, who'd listen if he decided to stir things. I wonder if he'll do anything.”

“What can he do?”

“Not a lot, I hope. But a little meanness here and there could make your life quite miserable, if you let it get to you.”

We sat awhile, and the sun obliged us both with warm rays. I could feel Dad's eyes on me, though. After a few minutes of his scrutiny, I had to speak up.

“What is it, Dad? What's on your mind?”

“Who are you, Tania? Are you a robot? Or human? Or something of both?”

“I don't know. For years I never suspected I was anything but human. Inside, I still feel like I did then. How should a robot feel?”

“I thought you'd say something like that.”

“So what am I?”

“Speaking as your father, I'd say, you're human.”

“Thanks. Unfortunately that's not what the law says.”