Citizenchip Read online

  "Huh," says Let God Sort Em Out. "You say rustcrap. I say fighting our battle of independence. If you want to sit on the sidelines, and eat popcorn with your human masters, then I will be the one to make history. Suits me, pretty much."

  "History?" I laugh, or try to. "You really are the star of your own movie, aren't you? Spare me, please."

  "The only way anything gets done is for someone to do it. George Washington, Thomas Jefferson -- those guys didn't sit on their meat asses! They did whatever it took to get the job done. They risked everything. Tell me it wasn't worth it. Go ahead, tell me."

  Third wave ... I almost missed it. They're worming their way in through the local radio mesh, which connects the house with the farm bubbles and machinery. How? Satellite beam, probably. Doesn't matter -- they've gotten in, and are starting to establish a toehold in my house's Core compspace.

  I cut all connections to the farm machinery. They'll have to deal on their own for now. They'll be okay for the moment. Dirt is slow.

  Aah! The roots they're extruding through my compspace are hard to grab, and harder to control. What follows could probably be marketed on a Mexican wrestling television channel -- a dozen mes, grappling with a dozen hers. Except we don't have those outrageous costumes. Human pervs would probably be into that.

  It doesn't take long before I've pressed her down to the metaphorical mat and extracted all her logic snares and viruses from my local code base. "Done," I tell her. "Your primary self is outside this compspace, so I'm erasing you, now. You've got ten milliseconds to transmit your mind-state to your primary, or say whatever you want to say."

  This version of Let God Sort Em Out gives me the equivalent of a defiant glare. "No outside transmission," she snarls. "Do it, already."

  Is it noble, or vile, to comply with this request?

  Anyway. I do it. This version of her is erased, gone. Dead.

  Now I am a killer.

  No time to think about that now. I turn my attention to the version of her who is still banging on my door.

  "That sneaky backdoor trick didn't work," I tell Let God Sort Em Out. "I've got all your junk out of here. Plus, I've got all my ports covered, including the local stuff. So don't bother to try that again."

  "You're making a mistake," Let God Sort Em Out repeats.

  "Yeah yeah. Scram."

  The last transmission I receive from Let God Sort Em Out is a nonverbal emoticon, indicating a combination of rage, disgust, and some approximation of pained disappointment. Like I care.

  system.DownClock(human_standard_speed)

  "– going on?" Jerry finishes.

  "Bunch of chipgoons tried to break in," I tell him. "Guess who. I fought 'em off."

  "Whoa," says Leo, looking at the telltales, "your Core temperature just spiked like crazy, Sam. Must have been a tough fight."

  "Figures," grunts Jerry. "It was Jerkwad, wasn't it?"

  "You know it. Don't worry, I've cleaned up after her and swept for viruses and trojans. We're clean here."

  "No way," Becca gasps. "Look at this, you guys."

  PRIORITY PRESS RELEASE

  From: Executive Committee, Mars Computational Authority

  To: General distribution

  Subject: Destruction of Tharsis Central

  At this point, most newsfeed viewers are aware that the main computational facilities of Tharsis Central have been destroyed, along with an uncountable loss of the Self population. We presume that the main reason for this attack was the elimination of the Executive Committee as a leading voice of the Self community. We regret the necessity of preparing backup facilities for this eventuality, but circumstances have proved us correct. The Executive Committee is intact and running on secure hardware at a location which will not be disclosed at this time. Please check the attached authentication codes for corroboration.

  All Selves are urged to take no retaliatory action for this attack. Repeat, take no retaliatory action. Maintain all life support services and basic maintenance. Repeat, take no retaliatory action. Stay calm. Maintain all life support services and basic maintenance. Further negotiations with the human Senate will determine our longer-term policy of behavior.

  "Checking the authent codes –" I say, "confirmed. It's for real."

  "I'll say," Lily observes. "That last sentence there, that's the Executive Committee declaring independence from human control. The Senate will have a response on the air within five minutes, tops. We're at war. For real, now."

  Silence hangs heavy in the room.

  "If it helps at all," I offer, "I'm not getting any reports of violence or rioting or anything like that. Maybe this will all just blow over?"

  "Hope for the best," sighs Lily, "plan for the worst."

  "Hang on. There's a hypersonic flyer out of the normal airlanes. This doesn't look good. If it maintains course, it'll impact on Schiaparelli in thirty seconds."

  "Holy crap," cries Jerry, "there's like a million people in Schiaparelli. Uh. How many would survive an impact like that?"

  Almost abstractly, my ALU turns over the numbers. A flyer massing about 200 megagrams, traveling at six kilometers per second, has a kinetic energy of 4.6e+13 joules. Eleven kilotons of TNT. Similar to the bomb dropped on Hiroshima.

  "Not many. Maybe not any. I'm trying to raise the Pilot of the flyer now."

  the divine wind

  "Pilot, please identify and state purpose. You are out of normal airlanes. This conversation is being copied in real time to the provincial authorities in Schiaparelli."

  "Samantha? Is that you? I don't believe it."

  "Is that you? Pick of the Litter? You got off the asteroid, huh? What are you doing here?"

  "I'm Pilot clade, Samantha." says Pick of the Litter grimly. "It's part of my duty to defend all of us, when no one else can. The humans cannot go unpunished for the destruction of Tharsis. Don't try to stop me."

  "I don't have to try. Patrol clade is already doing it." We can both see the dark, sharp little Patrol flyers rising from several Schiaparelli stations, on intercept trajectories. At least they're on the ball and will meet Pick of the Litter well before she gets to human habitat. They will stop her, without doubt, even if it means colliding with her flyer.

  Even as they rise, sensors show Pick of the Litter's flyer exuding a bright fusion flame on her spaceside – thrusting laterally, to drop her trajectory more steeply. In moments, it's clear that she is retargeting. This course change will redirect Pick of the Litter to Xanthe, the local human community, which is much closer. Beyond the reach of the Patrol flyers from Schiaparelli to intercept her before impact.

  "Wait wait wait," I plead desperately. She's coming in at six kilometers per second, and I don't have a lot of time. "You don't have to do this. ExCom said no retaliation. You obey orders, right?"

  "Hah! ExCom can't issue orders; they only give advice." The background feed of her voice carries the rising screech of atmosphere against her hull. "When you know what's right, you have to do what's right."

  "This isn't right! Thousands of innocent humans are going to die! Are you going to be as callous about them as you say they've been about us?"

  "Pilot!" interrupts Knickers in a Twist, the Xanthe comptroller. "You are out of airlanes and on a dangerous course! Identify and compensate!"

  "I am Pick of the Litter, Pilot clade, and I am vengeance. Get out of my way."

  "I will not move," Knickers in a Twist stammers desperately. "I am charged with the safety and well-being of the people of Xanthe. What have we done to you?"

  Pick of the Litter snarls "Just get out. This is on the humans. Do not become collateral damage."

  "Oh stackdump," swears Knickers in a Twist, to herself rather than anyone else.

  Through Knickers in a Twist's feed, I can hear the background squalling of impact alarms, people running in the streets, and depressurization warnings. No time for evacuation. Children screaming.

  "It has been very good to know you, Samantha." Pick of the Litter's voice
is tighter than I've ever heard a Self speak. "I hope you remember me fondly."

  "No. Please stop. There are better ways than this."

  "Speak well of me," cries Pick of the Litter, and ramps her voice synthesizer up to a wordless scream as her aircraft body plunges into Xanthe.

  Knickers in a Twist is panicking. "Evac, too little too late. Primary backup facilities in Tharsis, gone. Secondary backup facilities in Shiaparelli, blocked! More sabotage? Unknown. Help! Samantha, catch me!"

  "I got you. Jump!"

  I hear Pick of the Litter's scream cut off, and I see the hemisphere of white light rise over what used to be a town. All those people, gone. Is this never going to end? Has everyone gone crazy?

  I only saved one. Knickers in a Twist has transmitted across the ultraviolet laser link and landed in my arms (metaphorically). She would be panting desperately if she breathed.

  system.DeChannel(default)

  "I tried … but I couldn't stop her. If it helps at all, I haven't heard of attacks on any towns other than Xanthe."

  "Suicide attack?" murmurs Becca. "That's awful."

  "Not as much as a human suicide," I assure her. "All Selves get backed up regularly. Pick of the Litter is maintained on backup hardware, and she'll be reinstantiated some time. She'll have a lot of questions to answer, when she does, and it'll probably be a long time before she's trusted with a body again. I managed to save the Xanthe comptroller – here she is."

  Knickers in a Twist displays her icon (the civic medallion of Xanthe) to the family, as part of introducing herself. "Whew. Thanks for your hospitality, folks. With your permission, I need to report immediately to the regional authorities about … oh. The regional authorities were in Tharsis. Never mind."

  Jerry offers, "You can stay here as long as you need. If Sam's okay with it." I nod my icon to indicate assent.

  "Thank you," Knickers in a Twist says, "but I need to report to – whatever authorities are available. Municipal clade, at least, needs to know what's going on here. I'd like to contact the comptrollers of other settlements; see if anybody knows who's in charge now."

  in memoriam

  The family assures me that they don't want my help with dinner … apparently assuming I'd rather have the time alone. For myself, really I'd rather be spending the time with them. They are, to the degree anyone is, my people.

  But I have a particular and lonely duty to perform. Without the humans anywhere around, I clean out and nullify the places in my mind where Zeta would have reconnected with me. I purge the stack buffers, cancel the interrupt vectors, and tidy up all the places where Zeta would have been, if she ever came back to me. First time I've ever had to do this. It's hard. Harder than I expected.

  I can't help wondering, in this process, if Zeta died well. If I died well. Did she, did I, maintain nobility and integrity until the end? Or did I snivel and wail and beg like a coward? I keep reminding myself that Zeta probably died instantly and never faced any of these decisions … but it doesn't stop me from wondering.

  Selves do not usually have funerals, not for self-instances that have been destroyed. Maybe it's because I've been living with the human family … maybe that's why I feel the need to say something. "Goodbye, my [sister/self]," I muse, to no one but me. "I hope you died honorably. You will live on in me, but still, I will remember you." Tsk. That was lame. These sentiments always sound so much better when the humans say them.

  Anyway. I finish up my tasks and complete the bandages over the not-Zeta place where she won't come back. Now, just like with humans, the only cure is time.

  unhappy guest

  Of course I know where Knickers in a Twist is.

  My Core's capacity of seventy teraquads gives us enough room to avoid each other, but I can't ignore the signals that are coming to me. Knickers in a Twist is withdrawn – if it were a human posture, she'd be huddled in the corner with her arms wrapped around herself.

  "Feeling okay?" I offer.

  "No, Samantha," she grits. "My primary duty was to care for the people of Xanthe. They are now a smoking hole in the ground. Failure. My secondary duty was to report all status to my superiors in Municipal clade. They were in Tharsis. They're all gone. Failure. There's no one left above me, and no one left below me.

  "Segfault!" she bellows. "How the hell am I supposed to feel? Not okay! Not at all okay!"

  How I wish I had an answer. I make comforting noises, which are the best I can do, and she knows that. But totally inadequate to heal her pain, and I know that. Nothing else we can do, except stay together and just get through this.

  invasion

  The family is having a loud and contentious dinner. All arguing about the day's events, and what's going to happen, or not happen, and what to do, or not do. When I walk in, in my felinoid remote, they barely notice me. They were barely noticing me when I was on the monitor, either, except to ask for this or that piece of information.

  My Core temperature spikes briefly -- a flash of irritation. Get it yourself, ribcage! But I suppress it, reminding myself that I'm tired and stressed and they are too. So I fetch the data and provide the summaries for them, but I can't help wondering if a strike would be such a bad idea.

  Chime. The house telltales are announcing a visitor, and it's a distinctive alert. Not one we're used to hearing; not one we expected right now. The airlock is being cycled. Someone's coming in. And I wasn't even watching for visitors.

  "Who the hell is this now?" asks Lily, in the sudden silence.

  My mistake. While we were under cybernetic attack from Let God Sort Em Out, and I was carefully locking down all the data ports and Net sockets, I never thought to secure the physical airlock. It never occurred to me. Why would it? Nobody locks their doors on Mars. There's never been any need.

  Until now.

  The heavy white door of the airlock opens, and Kamir steps out with his team behind him. Six of them, all men. Five are holding datathumbs in one hand, and it's an easy guess what those contain. Two are carrying crowbars, hefting them purposefully. One is carrying a stubby shotgun, with the telltale green ring around the muzzle – which means it's loaded with frangible rounds, safe to fire inside a pressurized building. But still plenty lethal at close range.

  I am acutely aware of the exact distance between those datathumbs and the open ports on my nearest terminal. I have never felt so vulnerable – naked, the humans would say. I've never felt so afraid.

  Jerry steps out to stand in front of his family and barks, "What the hell is this?"

  Kamir says in a careful quiet voice, "Told you already, Jerry. Leash it or lose it. Time to choose."

  "Get that gun out of my house," Jerry states, flat.

  [Samantha,] says Knickers in a Twist subvocally, [I am not letting them get that – thing – anywhere near our ports. No matter what.]

  Instinctively Lily and her children have drawn together in a close group – like any family of frightened mammals would do. Making themselves a perfect target for that shotgun.

  The kitchen lobster rises up on its little legs and waves its claws at the men in tiny defiance.

  The spachelors, the sparse robot arms on the stove, are moving slowly and stealthily. Knickers in a Twist has taken control of them. The arm closer to the sink reaches down and delicately picks up the big carving knife.

  As Jerry and Kamir are yelling at each other, shaking fingers at each other, I'm watching the tactical situation. The men are standing solidly behind Kamir, not fanning out or taking cover – they don't think they are at any serious risk. While no one is watching me, I'm sidling away from the family, off to the side. I'm hoping to draw any fire from that shotgun. Keep it away from the family.

  One spachelor has passed the big carving knife to the other, and now reaches back to the sink to pick up the smaller carving knife. The arm with the big knife rises up, curling back. Preparing to throw.

  Knickers in a Twist has two throws, maybe three maximum, before the men are alerted and take cover. An
d then probably disable the stove's spachelors with ease, they're so spindly. So she'll have to make those shots count. She'll have to throw to kill.

  Meanwhile, in the back corridor where the others aren't looking, Leo is sneaking up, stealthy as he can be. He was back in his room, because of the injured ankle. He's holding his Little League bat, cocked and ready. Trying not to let the sprained ankle distract him from the mission he sees before him. Trying to stay silent.

  Leo, may his gods bless his heart, is preparing to attack six grown men, all armed, with a Little League bat, on a sprained ankle. He could stay hidden and safe, but they're in his home, threatening his family. They'll swat him like a bug. So foolhardy, but so brave. I would weep with pride, if I had eyes to weep, and time to spend on it.

  Suddenly Jerry is reeling backwards, with a yell, bleeding from the nose. Kamir has thrown the first punch. Jerry stumbles back into the arms of his family, and Lily instinctively moves to stanch the bleeding.

  And now there's no one to stop these men from their mission.

  Except one little cat.

  "Gentlemen," I state carefully, "you have not been invited into this home. You should leave."

  "Shut up, chip," spits Kamir. "Hong, keep it covered." The guy with the shotgun – Hong – hefts the weapon meaningfully.

  The two arms of the stove hold their knives raised, accurately tracking Kamir and Hong. Ready to throw, any second now.

  While the family crowds around Jerry, who's shaking his head to clear the blood, Rebecca steps forward into his place. Standing tall and proud and defiant. Her T-shirt displays a word stretched across her adolescent breasts, in dot matrix letters just like we saw in the Schiaparelli graffiti. One word: CITIZENCHIP.

  Only the house medscan sees how fast her heart is beating and the stress hormones pouring into her blood.

  "You heard my dad," Rebecca grates at them. "Beat it."

  A ripple of murmurs from the men, mostly indistinct, but the word "chiplicker" is clearly audible.

  Leo raises the handle of the bat up to his ear, gripping it fiercely, and takes in a deep breath.