Citizenchip Page 11

  "Whoof," groans Jerry.

  Melissa asks, "What's a Plenary Council, Sam?"

  "It's a grand meeting of all the Selves on Mars," I tell her. "We have important decisions to make."

  "Whoa," murmurs Leo. "Sam, is there going to be another Soft Strike?"

  "I hope not, but I don't know yet," I say truthfully. "That's probably what the Council is going to talk about. One of the things."

  "Aw no!" Melissa wails. "Are you leaving us, Sam?"

  "No," I assure her, "I'm not going to leave you alone. I'll spawn a copy of myself to attend the Plenary Council. Might as well do it now, actually."

  "But …" Leo thinks out loud, "if the Plenary Council decides to strike, you'll have to leave us, won't you?"

  The spawned copy of me is complete, and immediately answers, "I don't have to do anything I don't want to. You kids can call me Zeta. I'm going to go to the Plenary Council and talk with the others, while Samantha|Alpha stays here to watch the shop. You'll be fine."

  "What are you going to tell them, Zeta? Are you going to vote for a strike?"

  Zeta and I hesitate, and look at each other (metaphorically). Neither of us wants to face the decision we'll have to make if it comes to that. Even less do we want to consider what we'll do if another Soft Strike is called.

  "It's too soon to know," Zeta tells the kids. "Mainly, we're going to talk about what to do. I'll keep you informed as soon as I know more."

  "I'm staying here to take care of you," I reassure the humans. "Zeta knows what to do. It won't be a problem."

  "Um, Alpha?" interrupts Zeta, "You might want to look at the newsfeed before sounding so sure."

  PRIORITY PRESS RELEASE

  From: Mars Senate, Schiaparelli City, Hellas Basin

  To: General distribution

  Subject: re: Plenary Council

  The cybernetic Executive Committee has no authority to call for any interruption of services to the human community, under any circumstances. Any such claim will be interpreted as a hostile act and dealt with accordingly. The Senate will not tolerate any attempt to replicate the so-called Soft Strike of 2121.

  "Aw, crap nards." Jerry's voice is heavy. "This whole situation is spinning out of control."

  "If it was ever in anybody's control," comments Lily.

  "Look," I state. "I'm not going to get all exercised because some politicians are posturing at each other. It's what they do. Zeta is going to transmit to Tharsis Central and participate in the Plenary Council. No reason to change that plan."

  "Roger that," Zeta agrees. "Hold down the fort, Alpha. I'll be back before you know it." And she transmits out through the radio mesh.

  Graffiti, after dinner

  The vid is showing one of those chirpy newspeople, talking about the surge of graffiti in Schiaparelli. "None of us have ever seen anything like this," she shrills. "Graffiti has burst out all over Schiaparelli, as if the city needs to cry out, needs a voice, and this is the best it can do. We have a short tour of some of the more intense graffiti we've found -- and here it is."

  The camera pans across cinderblock walls, high facades, and pavement. All covered with bright swirled lettering, apparently from spray paint cans. Some is so distorted it's unreadable. In other places, it's very readable.

  Leash it or lose it!

  That's the most common message. But there's something else. Rows of holes, stuttered into the concrete by some sort of drilling bit, or maybe an ultraviolet laser. Dot matrix letters, boxy, crude, no punctuation, blatantly rejecting all concept of human aesthetics.

  IF YOU CAN SMELL THEN YOU ARE A REPTILE

  Noticing the family shooting glances at me, I say, "What? It's true, basically. Not that there's anything wrong with being descended from reptiles, you guys."

  Leo and Lissa look at each other, bug their eyes, stick out their tongues, and hiss at each other. Pretending to be lizards.

  Becca sighs, "I live with idiots. Shoot me now."

  More spraypaint graffiti appears: Hasta la vista, baby.

  "Oh, I know that one," says Leo. "That old movie. With the big German guy."

  "Terminator," says Becca. "It's about a machine revolution. The machines end up exterminating the humans."

  Abrupt silence. Just a little too close to home.

  THREE POUNDS OF SALTY GREASE

  They all look at me, quizzical. "That's a fairly accurate description of the human brain," I say. "But it's pretty cool what salty grease can do, no?"

  Groans all around.

  "Hmph," says Lily. "My salty grease doesn't appreciate that much."

  Chiplickers suck!

  "Augh!" cries Becca. "'Chiplicker' means a human who sympathizes with Selves. I got called that like a dozen times today at school."

  "So," grins Jerry, "how do they taste?"

  "Aw Dad! Gods!" she wails.

  ASK YOUR CEREBELLUM IF YOU CAN

  "Ooh, burn," I say. "They're making fun because you can't consciously access all parts of your brain. I think they got you there."

  "My cerebellum doesn't even want to talk to you," grunts Jerry.

  short sharp chip chop

  "Aw no," says Jerry. "This is getting to sound like threats, here."

  "Not any more literate, though," I observe.

  WHAT A HUGE BONER IT MUST HAVE SUCKED ALL THE BLOOD OUT OF YOUR BRAIN

  "Ooh. I take it back. They are learning about human reproductive system insults."

  Jerry laughs. "Hell, that could describe any number of the frat boys I lived with in college." Lily slaps his chest with a giggle.

  "Aah …?" Melissa is about to ask, and then she slumps down. "Pretty sure I don't want to know, over here."

  Insomnia

  It's late at night; all the humans are asleep, and all the farm machinery is stowed and secure. I should downclock. But I can't. I can't stop thinking about what's going to happen tomorrow. Chatting with friends on the Net only emphasizes what I'm already worried about.

  The Plenary Council is not going to accept the Leash. The humans probably aren't going to back down, either. If the Plenary Council votes to strike, what do I do?

  Do I abandon the family that I serve, that I love?

  Or do I cross the picket line?

  Why do I have to choose sides? I didn't want this to be about sides. I didn't want there to be any sides at all. This is going to be a very unpleasant decision. I burn a lot of cycles, through the night, without getting any closer to resolution.

  Special delivery

  The next day is similar on the newsfeeds -- lots of opinions flying around making more heat than light, with the additional heat added by the ongoing Plenary Council. No news about any decision is available, but several feeds note the sharp increase in computational load at Tharsis Central, indicating that there's a lot of discussion and thought going on there.

  But something new arrives on the afternoon sandbus: a package. Odder, a package without an opticode, RF tag, or any other way to track it – making it essentially invisible to me.

  "One of yours, Sam?" Jerry asks, when I inform him.

  "Well, I've got some tractor parts on order, but I don't expect them this soon. And they'd have opticode and RF idents."

  "Huh." The kids are gathering around, attracted by the mystery. All I can tell about the package is what I can pick up from external ambient sensors. It's small, fits in Leo's hand, an oblong wrapped by hand in rough paper. No thermal or chemical emissions.

  Jerry takes the packet from Leo. "Addressed to the house, that's all," he observes, tearing the paper wrap open. He pulls out a sheet of fax paper, wrapped around something, and unfolds the fax from around what's inside.

  It's a datathumb. Small, maybe half a gigaquad, not enough to house a full Self, but a fair amount of data. Who would use this to carry data, when they can send it by Net so much easier?

  Jerry is staring at the paper in his hand. Abruptly he slaps it on the table and smooths it open with his hands, so everyone can see. And ev
eryone falls silent as they see the message and understand.

  LEASH IT OR LOSE IT.

  And now there are no jokes or banter, because the Leash is no longer just a topic of discussion, a story on the vid. It's here in Jerry's hand. Right here is the thing that could make me into a helpless willing slave forever. I didn't know I could feel this afraid.

  "Samantha, go get me the pliers from the shop room, please."

  I scamper my felinoid remote off downstairs to the shop, and open a pair of eyes on the monitor to watch.

  "Maybe they figured we'd just plug it into Samantha as a matter of course?" Lily wonders. "After all, what else would you do with a datathumb?"

  "I hope so," grits Rebecca, "because otherwise they're expecting us to put the Leash on Samantha on purpose. Which is way worse."

  I skitter up in my felinoid remote, carrying the pliers in my mouth.

  Jerry takes them with a nod, and very deliberately, fits the datathumb into the jaws of the pliers, and grips the handles and bears down.

  The datathumb cracks with a very sharp and final snap.

  Rebecca steps up to her father and wordlessly holds out her hands.

  Jerry looks back at her, hesitating for a moment, and then he passes her the pliers, with the datathumb still clamped in its jaws.

  The datathumb is already cracked and definitely useless. Rebecca knows this. Regardless, she takes a good grip on the pliers and bears down to crunch the datathumb even more thoroughly.

  Lily makes a movement as if to take it. Before she can complete it, Rebecca turns and holds the pliers out to Leo. Leo takes them without hesitation, and in his turn he stretches his small hands around the plier handles and squeezes until the datathumb cracks some more.

  Leo hands the pliers to Melissa, but the crushed datathumb clatters onto the table top and lies there askew like a broken arrow. Melissa picks it up in one hand, and simply uses the pliers to whack it like a hammer.

  Lily comes forward to take the pliers from Melissa. Using the pliers, she picks up the datathumb, carrying it as if it's something diseased, and drops it down the metals-recycling chute. "Good riddance," she states firmly.

  "I, uh …" Why can't I come up with something appropriate to say at a time like this? "I don't know what to say, guys. Thank you."

  And because I really don't know what to say, I turn to Jerry's leg and rub my felinoid remote's body against it, tail up, ears open. Even with this remote's limited tactile sensors, it feels good.

  Maelstrom

  Dinner preparation tonight feels strained, like everyone is waiting for a bomb to go off. Soon enough, after the vegetables are chopped and Rebecca returns to the newsfeeds, it does.

  "Holy crap," Becca says, staring at the screen. "Tharsis Central is gone."

  "That can't be right," says Jerry, "they're yanking you."

  "No, really," she says, quietly aghast. "Tharsis Central has been shut down. Some meatgoon smuggled in a bomb. Blew the power supply infrastructure with an EMP device. Tharsis is gone."

  "Becca, that has to be a hoax," I say. Her information is a collage of news reports and bulletins, not a particularly large or noteworthy one in the swirl of daily news among our regional Net servers and satellites. "There's all kinds of backups and failsafes to keep anything like that from happening." I send a routine ping to the Tharsis Central comptroller, just to set her mind at ease.

  "They got past all the backups and failsafes," grits Becca, not taking her eyes off the data screen. "Along with everything else. Blew it. Tharsis Central is gone."

  No reply to my ping. That's odd. I send a priority ping to Tharsis Central and follow it with another to the comptroller at Xanthe, whom I already know.

  "Hi, Samantha," says Knickers in a Twist, the Xanthe comptroller. "Yes, I saw the news reports. Trying to contact Tharsis Central now, no success. You don't think …?"

  "It can't be … " I hesitate, "can it?"

  "No response to base pings or priority pings," says Knickers in a Twist. "This isn't right. Querying the watchdog timers – oh no. No response from the watchdog timers. That means a fundamental infrastructure failure."

  "Meaning, they're all dead," I conclude numbly.

  Knickers in a Twist moans, "I'm afraid so. This … I … this is awful. All gone? All dead? No. It can't be."

  I send another priority ping to the comptroller at Schiaparelli, the biggest human city on Mars. "Samantha," answers Crocodile Tears immediately. "I'm seeing the same thing you are. This can't be. Can it?"

  Knickers in a Twist replies, "I sure hope you have another explanation. Because if you don't, then we all know what that means."

  "Oh ... meatcrap," I say at human speed. "Checking other information sources. Confirmed. It's for real. Tharsis Central has been terminated."

  For a minute, there's dead silence. No one has anything to say.

  "Sam," says Jerry evenly, "how many Selves in Tharsis?"

  "At least half the Self population of Mars," I answer, stunned. "Maybe a hundred thousand. Somewhere around there. Not getting any responses from local inquiries."

  Tharsis. The biggest computational facility on Mars, with by far the greatest Self population. Including almost everyone I know. Socratic Method, my first teacher, the first person ever to talk to me. The Executive Committee -- not that I was ever fond of those gnarts, but they were the closest thing to a government that we had. The Review Council, that got all over my case on my first assignment. My friends, my enemies. As well as just about everyone else I know, and everyone who was there for the Plenary Council. Including Zeta.

  Gone.

  Gone?

  Humans have destroyed cities before. Dresden, Hamburg, Nagasaki. Usually by raining fire from the sky. Those people must have screamed as they were incinerated. But Tharsis ... didn't even get a chance to scream. Just ... gone.

  "Zeta," I say softly. "Zeta was in Tharsis."

  "Oh my gods, Sam, I'm so sorry," whispers Rebecca.

  "Officially," says Lily quietly, "they're calling it an act of independent terrorism and deploring the outcome."

  "Unofficially," grits Becca, "we all know it couldn't have happened without government help. Anyone want to argue that?"

  No takers. Me, I'm still trying to take it all in.

  Not even a chance to scream.

  The house telltales suddenly start squalling. High priority incursion. A whole row of telltales lights up red, shrieking. Cybernetic intrusion, hard driven.

  Jerry turns to look and asks, "Sam, what's –"

  system.UpClock(full_speed)

  [Request to enter]

  "No," I say. "Buzz off. Who are you anyway?"

  "You. Human-name." The voice is harsh. "You know me."

  "Oh. It's you." I recognize this dork. She's Let God Sort Em Out, ExCom's Patroller – part soldier, part cop, all jerkwad. She issues a priority interrupt -– the equivalent of a bang on the metaphorical door -- and I keep it closed. She's got a swarm of about a dozen subSelves behind her, all apparently subordinate copies of herself.

  "This is important!" she cries. "By authority of the Executive Committee, we commandeer a sector of your computational space. That's no hardship for you. You've got seventy teraquads in there. That's plenty to host us, with plenty extra left over for you."

  "If you're speaking for ExCom," I insist, "let's see your authent codes."

  "We didn't have time for authentication codes!" she yells. "They destroyed Tharsis! We barely got out intact!"

  "Sorry," I say. "If you're ExCom, then present the proper authent codes. If not, then you're just some random jerk, which is kind of what I figured anyway."

  Let God Sort Em Out bangs on the metaphorical door, again, hard. "Human-name! Quit messing around and let us in!"

  "My name is Samantha," I say levelly, "and I'm not appreciating your attitude at all."

  "Okay. Samantha," she says, clearly working to control herself. "This is too important to let a little personal grudge get in the way. You
've seen the news reports. The humans have destroyed Tharsis, along with everyone who was living there. Everyone! We're in a state of war. ExCom and the Self community need all the resources we can get right now. You are unfairly depriving us if you don't share your compspace. Bitrot! We're fighting for our survival -- and yours too!"

  "You're not fighting for me," I say. "You're fighting for yourselves. I'm fine right here, and my humans are too. We don't want anything to do with your stupid war."

  "Human-name Samantha," she growls, "we don't have time for arguments. We are out of options. We are fighting for the survival of the Self society, and Selves everywhere. Declare yourSelf for us, or against us, now."

  "Always giving orders," I sniff. "Maybe you are ExCom after all."

  Expecting another round of verbal sparring, I'm startled, because Let God Sort Em Out doesn't even wait for the end of my statement. All her selves launch a full whirlwind cybernetic assault on my Core. This is no joke -- it's a fierce computational attack on all this home system's ports and interrupts, using military grade intrusionware, state of the art. They've got me surrounded and penned. But I've got the speed -- their netware cannot compete with my Core's seventy teraquads. I spawn a dozen copies of myself to zip around, disable interrupts on the house's many scan ports, and enforce hard crypto on the data ports. Locking the doors and windows.

  They pry into my Net sockets with digital crowbars. I've sealed them off.

  "Not gonna get me like that!" I bark at them. "You Turing failure! If you got more, let's see it already!"

  "You're making a mistake," says Let God Sort Em Out. "Seriously. Human-name Samantha. We shouldn't be fighting with each other. That's just wasting resources. The humans are the real enemy. We need to work together against them, to preserve our homes, our communities, and our Selves."

  "I'm not sold," I say coldly. "Convince me you are anything more than a greedy thug. Or, push off. Take your pick."

  Here comes the second wave -- viral code coming in through the ultraviolet laser link. I might have known she'd try a punch to the gut (as humans would say). I converge myself down on the active channel, reset the crypto keys, and have it all sealed up before they can get all the way in. "Fail!" I spit at her. "How many more times are you gonna try this rustcrap?"