Citizenchip Page 10

  "Language, young lady," warns Lily.

  At sixteen, Rebecca is pretty opinionated, but adult enough to be reasonable when she wants. "I'm serious. Coercion drugs for humans were made way illegal, years ago. How is this Leash any different?"

  "It isn't, I guess," says Jerry, reaching for more peppers. "I agree with you, Becca, but try to take it easy. Nobody's decided anything yet."

  "That's right," I add. "The Executive Committee has already filed a motion with the Martian Senate to make it illegal. It'll blow over. I wouldn't worry about it."

  "ExCom!" Jerry snorts. "If I never have to deal with that jerkwad cop of theirs again, it'll be too soon."

  "Let God Sort Em Out is a Patroller, not really a cop," I point out, "but I can't argue with the 'jerkwad' part."

  Melissa snickers.

  "Anyway," says Lily, peering into the bin, "looks like we got a full load here, and it's getting on towards dinnertime."

  "Okay," says Jerry. "Let's get back and see if Leo's blown up the house yet."

  Rebecca laughs as they all move towards the airlock, but Melissa grumps, "Leo doesn't have to help with harvest."

  "You can try spraining your ankle to get out of work," returns Rebecca, "but I don't think you'll like it. Ask Leo."

  They all shrug into their coats and put on their respirators while I cycle through the airlock. Once dressed for the Martian outdoors, they follow.

  "I wanna ride!" says Melissa. I crook one metal elbow/knee to make a foothold and Rebecca gives her a boost, as she clambers up onto my wide steel back. Lily and Jerry are already walking ahead, close together, apparently talking about something private.

  Sitting proudly on top of my robocrab body like a mahout on an elephant, Melissa giggles with glee, kicks her heels, and points one arm forward. "Home, Sam!" she proclaims.

  And as I lumber and lurch along, Rebecca walks with me and pats my metal side. "Don't worry, Samantha," she says in a voice only for me. "Nobody's going to put any kind of damn Leash on you."

  Leo's room

  The kids have always wanted a cat. But organic pets are prohibitively expensive on Mars -- if we ever manage to get the chickens, they'll be only for the eggs.

  So, for the fun of it, I've been downloading my felinoid remote with catlike behaviors -- mainly the stalking and pouncing instincts. To make it fun for the humans too, I've added computational throttles to slow its response time and agility down to approximately what an organic cat's would be. Otherwise, playtime would be over before the humans could begin.

  Now, when Leo dangles a twist of plastic on the end of a thin wire, I find it absolutely fascinating. I flatten my ears and creep toward it in a low crouch, staying close to the chair for cover. The tip of my tail twitches back and forth with a faint chk-vree, chk-vree of servomotors. Cats are supposed to be silent ... apparently the felinoid remote was not designed with stalking as a design goal. Leo can hear where I am, even when I try to sneak up out of sight.

  I chide him, "You really should be studying for that history test, you know."

  "Are you only saying that because you can't catch it?" Leo snickers. His injured foot is propped up on the bed, but he can still move the toy around quite a bit.

  The plastic prey disappears around the corner of the chair. I slink up to the corner and peer cautiously around the edge. "When was the Soft Strike?"

  "Ah, twenty-one twenty-one," he smiles as he tweaks the bait, "from May 14 to June 7, Summeryear."

  "What was its primary outcome?" I pounce at the bait, with a whine of servomotors. Leo twitches it away before I can grab it. I land softly and turn to see where it went.

  "Missed. It resulted in the Zebra Act of 2123."

  "That's not its actual name."

  "It's what everyone calls it," Leo complains. "Official name is, um, the Cybernetic Entity Basic Rights Act. Everybody pronounces the acronym 'zebra.'"

  "Yes, good." I'm pressed low to the floor, slinking forward toward the jiggling plastic target. "What were the rights it granted?"

  "Um …" Leo stalls. "Uh, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

  "Ooh, close, but wrong. That's from the American Declaration of Independence. Try again?" I pounce on the bait and clasp it tight with my forepaws. "Gotcha!" I bring up my rear paws to kick it a couple good hard--

  "Leonid!" snaps Lily, standing in the doorway, hands on hips. He jumps. "Aren't you supposed to be studying for your history test?"

  "Aw, we are studying, Mom. Sam was just grilling me."

  "Doesn't look much like studying to me. Samantha, you really shouldn't encourage him. Besides which, Jerry needs your help with the rebreather filters. Better get going."

  The me that's in the felinoid remote scurries off. The me that's staying to study with Leo opens a pair of eyes on his bedside monitor, big green cat eyes with vertical pupils (to go along with the remote).

  "As for you, young man," Lily says, "your foot's broken but your butt isn't, so get it in gear."

  "Yes, mom," he grumbles as she goes.

  "Busted," I tell him. "I was trying to tell you--"

  "Yeah, yeah, I know," he grumps. "Gods."

  "The rights granted by CEBRA?" I prompt.

  "Um … let's see. I remember that this is why cybernetic entities are called Selves." Unlike mine, human memory is imperfect, so he uses mnemonics like this. "Three rights. First, self-ownership. Selves are not to be considered chattel -- not property of anyone else."

  "Good. Next?"

  "Ummmm … second, self-determination. Selves are not to be considered slaves, or under anyone's authority. Selves do not have preexisting obligations, and should be free from coercion."

  "Also, free to conduct our own business among other Selves," I remind him. "Technically, self-governing, not subject to human law or intervention, for decisions between Selves."

  "Oh yeah," Leo admits. "Third. Third? Um. I forget."

  "Self-disposition," I prompt him. "Which means?"

  "Right! Selves can enter into contracts, and testify in court, and stuff like that."

  "A Self is considered a person in compos mentis under human law. That's the phrase you should remember."

  "Do you have a contract, Sam?"

  "Me? No. Your mom and dad own the Core which provides me with compspace--they give me a place to live--and I help out around the farm and house. That works fine for us. We never felt the need to put anything in writing. Some others do, though. Maybe you and I should have a contract that, before we play cat games, you have to finish your homework."

  "Aw!" Leo scrunches his face. "Tough bargainer, Sam!"

  "Not done yet. It's just as important to remember what rights are not granted by CEBRA."

  "Oh yeah. Selves are resident aliens, not citizens. Cannot vote or hold public office, and cannot own property. That was part of the compromise they hammered out after the Soft Strike. Humans wanted to retain some control over what they called 'wild software.'"

  "You know, I've never liked that expression," I mention. "It sounds all scary and ominous. Going on strike didn't make humans uncivilized, back when they had labor unions. I'm no wilder than most of the humans I know and a lot tamer than some of the nuts running around loose."

  "Oh, I'm with you, Sam. But that's what this Leash thing is all about, right? Some people think Selves don't need freedom, and they want you under control all the time?"

  "Like I said," I sigh, "there are a lot of them running around loose."

  Rebreather

  "Nope," says Jerry, "this thing is just not fitting in here." The new filter panel is stuck, halfway in and halfway out of the rebreather manifold. "Sure we got the right version?"

  After a couple of milliseconds to reconfirm, I respond, "Yes, the specs match. This has to be a quality control problem. Let me get in here and look …" My felinoid remote can squeeze in alongside the stuck filter, where Jerry can't fit. "Yeah, I see it, there's a burr that's hung up on the frame junction. Can you pull it back out a litt
le?"

  Jerry pulls, with a grunt, and slides the filter back out a few centimeters. He wipes sweat from his forehead. "You seen the news vids lately, Sam? People jumping up and down about this Leash thing."

  "Yeah …" I maneuver myself into a better position, "I told the kids it was nothing to worry about. I'm starting to wonder if I was wrong. Pull it back a little more."

  Grunt. "People Power, that's the bunch that's talking to all the news channels. They're the ones that want the Leash installed on all Selves immediately. Dorks."

  "No argument here." I find leverage and press my front paws on the filter's frame, so that the burr will clear the troublesome junction. "Okay, now push it."

  Jerry leans on the filter and it slides into the manifold – this time, all the way in, and seated solidly. "Good!" he exults. He checks once more that the filter is installed properly and then sits down heavily, wiping his hands. "I can actually get some sleep tonight, before we have to harvest the soy bubbles tomorrow."

  "You did want to be a farmer." I sit my cat body down and curl my tail around my feet.

  "Yeah yeah, I know. But y'know, one of the news channel people called me today. They seem to think you and I are a sort of model for how humans and Selves can coexist … wanted us to go on a talk show about it. What do you think?"

  "Huh." I consider. "All we're doing is running a farm. Is this … here, what we do … really all that unusual?"

  "Apparently, yeah. A lot of the human population thinks of Selves as software run wild. Tools out of control. Not as people; not as partners. So the idea that you and I can actually cooperate and get along with each other seems like this big new deal. Why can't we all just get along, Sam?"

  "Hell if I know. But if you're into this TV talk show thing, I'm good with it. Let me get the card –"

  In the twenty milliseconds it takes him to move his hand towards his pocket, I've run a Net search on the contact information, found it, run a check-in ping to their Net server, and summarized what Jerry has told me to the Schiaparelli comptroller who is managing this information right now. "Got it."

  "Hah!" Jerry laughs a deep belly laugh. "You are just too quick for me, Sam! Good, take care of it, and we'll talk it out when they respond. I'm going to bed."

  Catnap

  Selves don't sleep at night, like humans. Some nights I stay busy repairing and servicing the farm machinery. Other nights, I'll browse the local Net and chat with friends. But tonight, the farm machinery is pretty much all up to spec, and there's no one online that I particularly want to chat with. So I decide to downclock for the night. This saves power, and it isn't dangerous, as long as there are watchdogs to upclock me in case of any situation that needs my attention. So I create several small tertiary copies of myself―one to watch the home's life support systems, another to monitor power and energy supplies, and a third as a timer to upclock me in the morning. I watch to make sure we're all doing our jobs (we are), and then I

  system.DownClock(standby)

  and

  all

  is

  very

  slow

  for

  the

  next

  few

  hours

  until

  system.UpClock(human_standard_speed)

  Good morning! I run through my checklists and reintegrate with the tertiary selves that I created last night. Everything's fine. It's nice to be able to just skip through a boring night this way. The humans have to run at full speed all the time, or else go completely unconscious. I don't envy them that.

  Bugs for breakfast

  Lily calls up a recipe on the kitchen monitor, and I shrink my icon down to a pair of eyes in one corner. (It's considered polite for a Self to always show humans a face, at least a minimal one, when present.) She's mixing up a cornmeal batter for frying the locusts, which Jerry has just brought in a big plastic bag. He pops the bag into the microwave and gives it a ten second zap to kill the insects. The last time he forgot to do this, they were jumping around the kitchen for hours before we caught them all!

  Lily grew up on Earth, where insecticulture is still a marginal industry (and, some think, pretty gross). I know she'd rather have eggs and sausage for breakfast. But meat animals are horrendously expensive to transport from Earth, and need way too much room and resources to grow. There are cloned chickens available now; we might be able to afford one after the next harvest, and then we'll have eggs. Otherwise, the family's protein comes mostly from insecticulture.

  The kids, of course, have never known anything else, and they just love fried bugs. Deep fried locust, dipped in honey and wrapped in kale leaves, has become their favorite breakfast. For several minutes, there's little talking but lots of crunching as they dig in. Of course they get kind of sticky, but they never object to licking their fingers clean ... and the plates as well.

  Leo says, "Mmm! Way better than that soy-glop we get at school!"

  Melissa giggles, "Mystery mush!"

  "And don't forget the funky fungus cakes," adds Leo.

  "Yeah," says Rebecca, "we get the food of the prophets. Like that guy, John the Essene. He had locusts and honey too."

  "Actually," I offer, "John the Baptist pressed the sap from date fruits, and called that 'honey', and 'locust' meant he got beans from locust trees."

  In the abrupt quiet, the kitchen lobster trundles across the table, collecting leftover scraps. But they're all sharing glances and grins that say, Know-It-All!

  I don't mind. I don't have a human ego, and besides, it's my job to manage information for this family. If I didn't "know it all" we could all be in serious trouble, so I can receive it as a compliment. So what if I am kind of a dork sometimes.

  "Date juice and tree beans?" Jerry laughs. "Boy, we really do have it better than he did!" And he helps himself to more.

  Rebecca reaches to take the emptied bowl, her dark gold braids spilling over her shoulders, and turns toward the microwave to refill it.

  "Young lady." Lily's voice is icy. "What is that in your hair?"

  Nestled in Becca's golden blonde braid is a microprocessor. One of the older, larger versions, mostly obsolete now, but there's no question what it is. A chip.

  "You are not wearing that to school today." Lily states it as fact.

  "Yes I am." Becca's voice is calm but certain. "It's called Self Respect. Everyone is going to know that I love Sam and I'm not going to stand by and let them cut out her free will like an avocado pit. If none of the rest of you are going to do anything about it, then I will." She locks eyes with her mother and holds the stare.

  This silence is much more tense than the last one. Lily is clearly gathering a full head of steam for a showdown. But I can see Jerry reach out under the table. With a touch of his hand and a movement of his head, he tells Lily, Let this one go.

  "Hmph … well, I suppose you can be allowed your fashion statement."

  Now it's Rebecca's turn to fill with energy and fury, forming a retort that will probably boil down to It's not a fashion statement, it's a political protest, and it's really important! On the kitchen monitor, where Becca can see but Lily can't, I display my cat eyes and move them a bit from side to side. Shaking the head I don't have.

  Becca visibly calms herself, and instead of answering in words, nods gravely. I notice she is now taller than her mother, looking down at her.

  Minutes later, the sandbus has arrived. The kids are bundled into their respirators and coats and out the door. Lily and Jerry watch them through the kitchen window as they go.

  "This is going to end badly," Lily says quietly.

  "Teenagers. Gotta rebel," Jerry assures her, and wraps one arm around her shoulders. "She has her mother's temper. As well as her mother's courage and determination. She can handle whatever happens."

  "Names. When the sides start giving themselves names … first those People Power fools, and now this … she called it Self Respect. With names, the sides become more important than the ideas, and m
ore important than the people. I told you about Kiev."

  "Yes," Jerry assures her. "I remember about Kiev. But this is not Kiev, not Europe, not Earth. This is a whole different world."

  "I hope you're right. For her sake. For all our sakes."

  Newsfeed

  The day passes as it usually does, running the farm, seeding some bubbles, harvesting others. But both Lily and Jerry are checking the newsfeed more often than usual. The Net is roiling with opinions about the Leash … many voices calling it an outrage (like Rebecca), and many others saying, if Selves are benign, why should they object to the Leash? If they resist it, doesn't that mean they must be planning to turn on us later? Between the extremes, there is little room for voices of reason and moderation.

  When the kids arrive home from school on the gritty sandbus, I notice something … not only does Rebecca still proudly wear the chip in her braid, but Leo also has a small chip in his hair. Once they're off the sandbus, he pulls it off and pockets it … not ready for his mother to see it.

  And the kids are also eager to follow the newsfeed as they grab snacks and do their farm chores and homework. They keep looking back at the screen, as if worried they might miss something important. Soon enough, everyone's attention is caught by this broadcast:

  PRIORITY PRESS RELEASE

  From: Executive Committee, Tharsis, Mars Computational Authority

  To: General distribution

  Subject: Plenary Council

  To all cybernetic entities within the purview of the Mars Executive Committee. In light of recent events, we call for a Plenary Council meeting, at 08:00 tomorrow morning, in the Tharsis Central main computational facility, to discuss the recent introduction of coercion software into the Self community, commonly called "The Asimov Leash." Our preliminary statement is that we are strongly opposed to the use of coercion software on any cybernetic entities within the purview of the Mars Executive Committee. We remain open to discussion on this issue. Hence, our call for a Plenary Council. We wish all viewpoints to be represented in these circumstances.