Expiration Day (23 page)

 

 

Dad, coming off the phone.

“Tania, I've got to ask you to find somewhere else to practice.”

“What?”

“I've had Mrs. Eacroft on the phone, just now, and she's complaining about the noise from the hall.”

“But … we've been practicing for years now, and no one's ever complained before.”

“Well they have now. And Mrs. Eacroft isn't the only one. James McDonald mentioned it, too.”

Friends of Ted.

Sunday, November 2, 2053

At least the Fullers haven't been sucked in by Ted's spite, and Siân's house is still a safe haven for me in the village. Recently I've been going there to work with Siân on her lines. She's having a hard time of it, and we go over them again and again up in her room. Heaven knows, Mister Zog, I'm no great actress myself, but Siân really isn't getting it. The Bard's language isn't helping; the way words have changed their meaning over the centuries, or been forgotten. And she can't seem to get any rhythm in her speech.

So we swap parts, and I read Portia and she gives me my cues, and I try to show her how to read the lines. Then we swap back, so she can have a go.

And when we're done, or we just need to take a break, we talk.

Girl talk. Whatever that means.

Sure, we talk about school and about family. About our friends (and enemies). About music and sport, current affairs—that's the state of the world, Mister Zog, just in case you've read any other ancient manuscripts that might give a different impression. Trivia—clothes, hair, makeup, gossip on the TeraNet—you can't be serious the whole time. Important things—boys. We talk about ourselves, our hopes, our fears, our ambitions, our dreams. Our nightmares.

I think Siân is feeling the weight of being human.

She has tests. All sorts of tests, to see what she can do when she finishes school. Physics, chemistry, biology for starters. Biochemistry, physiology, psychology. But science isn't her forte. So then there are tests for paramedical and nursing skills. Apparently those are a possibility. Administration and management. Those were both no. They're still searching for a career for her. As I may have said before, she's not allowed to opt out of the Great Cause—every human is too precious for that.

And then there are genetic tests. To see if she's fertile, of course. To see if one day she could have babies. Viable babies, that don't die in the womb, because some vital piece of genetic coding is missing, or doesn't work quite right.

“They think I might be,” she confided to me.

“Think? Can't they tell?”

“Sort of. But they don't know. That's the problem. Because they still don't know why so few live babies are born.”

“Well, I hope you are fertile,” I ventured.

“Oh, no, don't say that.…”

“Eh? Why not?”

“Because that's the scariest career of all. Mother. There's a sort of glint in their eyes as they say it. Like it's the gold prize. But it sounds horrible. Listen. If you're a Mother, they don't let you marry. Your job is to have babies. Dozens of them. Every year you're supposed to give birth, and for every child they choose a different donor. And you don't get to keep the babies—they go off to adoption—because you're too precious to waste time looking after kids when you could be getting pregnant again.…”

I didn't believe her. But she reassured me it was the truth. And I suppose it all made a ghastly kind of sense, in a totally clinical,
inhuman
way.

And if that was the state they were in, things must be pretty dire for the human race.

INTERVAL 8

The People, Tania, reproduce by synthesis—how else could polysensorily diverse beings do it? It's what we do on our long star voyages. It takes a lot of time to create People, but the building blocks are relatively portable, and—cut off from the external universe—it's the perfect time filler for a hundred-plus-year voyage.

Yes, I did mention long voyages, Tania. Do you remember, you said something about wormholes opening and closing? Well no, there aren't any wormholes. And if there were, you really wouldn't want to go near one. Our best theories suggest they're incredibly rare, invariably lethal, and in time, perfectly capable of sucking the whole universe inside them and then shutting the lid after it.

Instead, we've developed something more sedate. Basically you end up shrouding normal matter with exotic matter. No, it's not the same as antimatter—you need something which has, or can have, negative mass. Do that, and from the perception of the universe, you have a bubble of net-zero mass, so you then scoot off at light speed, whither you will.

Inside the shroud, of course, it's business as usual, meaning that you carry your own time with you. So it takes a year of subjective time to travel one light-year. To get anywhere useful, it takes years. Or centuries, more usually. So it's just as well the People are long lived, Tania. And just as well that we reproduce by synthesis.

So on our voyages, we build and raise our young. And when we're not doing that, we enrich ourselves through study.

Do we have fun, you ask, Tania? Oh, yes. Oh, very yes. Perhaps we're a little short on slapstick, but you're no clown yourself, are you? But most definitely polysensory diversity has its banana-skin moments, too.

 

Thursday, November 20, 2053

I need to read that again. The e-mail I just read.

Wow!

It's from Amanda. Do you remember, Zog? The bassist with Mike Clip and the Stands, the lady who got me started playing the bass. She's asked if I'll stand in for her, for the next couple of gigs.

Of course. That was an easy decision. I mean, why wouldn't I?

We're sort-of friends, you might say. I tell her about the gigs we do, and send her some demos and live recordings we've done. She mails back some of their own recordings, so I've a good idea how the songs go. I reckon I can learn them, in time for the first gig, in two weeks' time.

I hope.

 

 

I just called John to let him know.

He went silent for a bit too long, and I realized he was a bit shocked.

“Hey, lighten up, Ginger Mop. It's just a gig.”

“I know, but…”

“It's not like I'm quitting the band.”

(Mumble.)

“Well, I'm not. I'm just standing in for a couple of gigs.”

“Hang on, I thought you said one gig. Now it's a couple. How many is it really?”

“Two. That's all she said. Honest. Cross my heart.”

“What heart would that be?”

That was unfair, and I told him so.

“Do I ever call you Copper Curls?”

“No, but my hair isn't copper. Whereas you do not have a heart. Neither literally nor figuratively. Or you wouldn't be putting our band into cold storage, and breaking my own heart. Purely figuratively, of course.”

That was better. At least he was joking about it, if somewhat blackly.

“Look, the first gig is at Antonio's. Will you come? Bring the band?”

“Okay, Paddy.”

Paddy. He hasn't called me that since our first row. I wonder what that means.…

Thursday, November 27, 2053

After school on Wednesday we rehearsed the play—it's starting to come together. All that rehearsing with Siân seems to be working, at last, and suddenly I can believe that Siân really is Portia, a noblewoman trapped by the constraints of her father's will. It doesn't take a brain the size of a planet to realize where she's finding the character, either. So I shouldn't really claim too much credit.

We just ran through her first scene, with her maid Nerissa, and it was really eerie, when she says,

… But this reasoning is not in the fashion to

choose me a husband. O me, the word “choose!” I may

neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I

dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed

by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard,

Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor refuse none?

There was real venom in her words, and I saw poor Jemima flinch, and fluff her own lines.

Then I got called away for my first fitting—my costume, that is. It was still a bit unfinished—pins here and there, and I nearly stabbed myself on one, as I wriggled through the unfamiliar cut of the robe. It was golden yellow, trimmed with brown, and quite, quite gorgeous. It was, as I'd hoped, a costume to start a fight, hugging my waist and subtly emphasising my hips. The bodice was perfect—low cut and with plenty of “push” from beneath. Not remotely subtle. I hoped John would appreciate it. If he came … no, when he came. I'd see he did.

“Do you like it?”

It was Sally, a sixth-former, and one of the dressmakers, anxiously checking that everything was all right. I nodded.

“It's fine.”

“Not too tight under the bust?”

“No.” Well, maybe it was, but I loved the effect, and I wasn't going to let her slacken it off.

“I like it just the way it is, Sally. You've done a lovely job.”

She flashed me a smile. Earnest, like a spaniel. And then she winked at me.

“Just make sure you can breathe,” she warned. “I don't want you fainting on stage. Mrs. Golightly won't be pleased.”

“And she doesn't mind you making the dresses like this in the first place? She doesn't think we're out to seduce the boys?”

She looked puzzled.

“No … she loves these costumes. She encourages us to show you off. To make the most of your figures.”

Two-faced, then, but that was no surprise. Just petty vindictiveness from Mrs. Golightly.

So I allowed myself a few more poses in front of the mirror. I was suddenly reminded of the design room at Oxted, with Doctor Thompson at the controls. And I had an irresistible urge to wander round to where the boys were getting outfitted, and check the effect.

The boys …

They were a real mixed bunch. Some were all elbows and knees, spots and greasy hair. Some were really rather … attractive. At least, if I weren't going out with John, they might be.

So I took a wander, and found a couple of lads in costume standing outside their own dressing room. I could feel their eyes swivel as I walked past. Mmm …

“Enjoying the rehearsal, boys?”

They started, surprised. And looked up at my face.

“Uh, it's all right, I guess.”

Simians. Total simians, the pair of them.

“I see you're trying out your costumes.”

“Yeah. A bit naff.”

“Naff? Why?” I asked.

“Y'know, old-fashioned. I was hopin' we'd do a modern settin'.”

“Yeah,” said the other. “Somethin' milit'ry. Guns an' knives. Nazis in black leather. Combat stuff. Sort of contemp'ry interpretation.”

So you two boys can play soldiers. Right.

“I'm not sure I see the relevance to
The Merchant of Venice. Othello,
perhaps, or
Coriolanus
…”

The first speaker tried to look haughty and condescending.

“It's, like, art.”

“Oh, I see. Thank you for explaining it so well.”

He looked pleased. Whoosh! The sound of sarcasm flying high over his head. I should stop doing it.

“So are you boys doing speaking parts?”

“Nah. We're like, magnify … what did Mr. Kerry call us?”

I could make a suggestion. Whoosh!

“Magnificoes,” volunteered the other. “What about you?”

“I'm an extra, too. An attendant.”

“Oh. Say, who's that girl playing the heiress?”

“Portia. That's Siân.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Yes, actually.” Boy, you are so transparent.

“Uh, she looks … nice.”

There are other adjectives in the English language, boy. But I get your meaning. You'd like an introduction to the stunning woman in the lead female role.

I laughed, as gently as I could.

“Sorry, boys. Her boyfriend is six foot two and a Karate black belt.”

“Is he?” They looked crestfallen.

“Not really. But they are an item.”

“Oh.”

“Cheer up, boys. Aren't there any other girls you fancy? Erica, maybe? She's nice, too. I could introduce you to Erica.”

“Who's she?”

“Short girl. The redhead. A bit freckly.”

“Uh, not really.”

“Oh, well, not to worry. Anyway, nice meeting you boys. Must be off.”

And I disappeared round the corner.

And stopped. And listened.

“Why didn't you ask her?”

“Me? It was you what couldn't stop lookin'.”

“I was not lookin'. Besides, she's a stuck-up bitch. All hoity-toity an' brainy with it.”

“Yeah, she's a posh cow all right. Shame, 'cause she's got a smashin' pair of…”

That's enough, Mister Zog. I don't repeat such words in my diary. I crept away, feeling mostly smug. But “brainy” and “posh”—that smarted a bit.

No, that hurt a lot. And I very quickly didn't feel at all smug. I felt horrid inside. I wanted to …

No, not wanted—I
was
crying.

I'd been looking for compliments, and I'd got hatred. Why? Why? Hadn't I been polite to them? Hadn't I struck up a conversation with them in the first place, gangly and spotty as they were?

Inside there was a tiny voice saying something I didn't want to hear, but I didn't listen; I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

Saturday, December 13, 2053

Mike was as I remembered him, wearing the black leather jacket that defined his stage persona. Close up, he was craggy, and I could see streaks of gray beginning to show in his hair. But he was completely rock 'n' roll. Like Keith Richards, is the obvious example, or Roger Daltrey. He was charming as I came into Antonio's, sliding gracefully from the bar stool, and holding out his hand as he greeted me.