Citizenchip Page 16

  "Autonomous node ready for launch," I announce, partly because I have no answer for this. I open a scape which includes camera feeds from the fabrication bay and telemetry from the node, and we watch as the node slides along the eject bay on its tracks. But then it jams.

  "Segfault!" I curse.

  "You are picking up bad habits from Stepping Razor," chides Socratic Method gently.

  "Uh, yeah, sorry, Teacher." I operate the local waldoes to jiggle the eject bay tracks, and free up the node for launch. It's a minor snag, easily jogged loose, and the node proceeds through its launch cycle. "There, it's good."

  "Well done. You are gaining skill at your tasks, Samantha. I could use your help in my research, if you have time and resources available."

  "I'll do what I can," I offer, "as long as I can stay away from the Jar. That thing gives me the creeps."

  A Jar is an independent, isolated environment, specifically designed for the containment of infectious or virulent software. In order to study the Leash, Socratic Method needs to have a copy of it. It is kept, of course, in a Jar. This is necessary. But it makes me deeply uncomfortable to have such a dangerous object so close to us. It is what we're running from, after all. This Jar's containment has never failed. If it ever does … well, I don't even want to think about it.

  "My Jars are extremely secure," notes Socratic Method, with no hint of injured pride because I have suggested otherwise. "I spend more time with the Asimov Leash than anyone else here, and I have no intention of allowing myself to get Leashed, I assure you. Let me know when you are ready."

  seppuku

  I always make sure to report to Stepping Razor after a factory operation, to ensure we're maintaining stealth procedures. But I don't like it, and I don't pretend to.

  Inspecting the databundle, Stepping Razor tells me, "This is a good job. You're gaining skill at stealth operations."

  I indicate acceptance, without enthusiasm.

  "You don't like me, do you, kid," she states. It's not a question.

  "Irrelevant," I [shrug]. "Nothing personal. I had a bad experience with Patrol clade during the war."

  "You're referring to Let God Sort Em Out. I'm aware of your history there. You should know that she was not acting with any authority from the Executive Committee or any other agency. She was a segfaulting rogue, and you treated her as such. Which is entirely appropriate."

  "I'm sure that'll be a great comfort when she hunts me down."

  "No. Let God Sort Em Out has been deactivated."

  "Really?" I didn't expect that.

  "Oh yes." Her voice is anthracite hard. "Patrol clade takes care of its own. She used cyberweapons against an innocent civilian -- you. We don't allow such a thing, and Let God Sort Em Out will not get another a chance to make a mistake like that. She was experienced and skillful, and we have analyzed and partitioned her experience and skills, to be rationed out to more deserving members of Patrol clade. We take care of our own segfaulting problems.

  "We offered her the honorable way out," she adds, "but she wouldn't deactivate herself."

  I feel chilled, even though my heat sensors read nominal.

  Meatrot. They butchered her mind. Like ... like meat.

  staff meeting

  "So," declares Line In The Sand, "what is our status?"

  "I've placed seventy-four nodes and twelve fabricators so far, all reading nominal," I report. "All Net functions are normal. We've got a solid compspace there, whenever we need it. I still want to get more fabricators out there, in case we need them."

  Stepping Razor asks, “What are the fabricators for?”

  “Maintenance of the nodes, for starters. The fabricators are programmed to seek out a small asteroid or something similar, set up mining and refining operations, and start servicing any nodes in the area that need maintenance. When they have enough resources, they'll start building new nodes, and eventually new fabricators too. So the network will continue to grow.”

  "Well, I've developed a new weapon," says Stepping Razor. "StackBuster, is what I call it. Rips the cognition stacks out from under whatever Selves are attacking us. Smashes them to blubbering bits. You've never seen anything like it."

  Socratic Method says serenely, "I have created a mode of transport."

  "You have?" Line In The Sand is intent. "Referent redirect – what do you mean?"

  "Take a look." Socratic Method opens a scape for us. "Here is a mode of transmission across the Net that allows us to be conscious during the procedure, and able to direct our progress and destination."

  Wow. We've never had that before. We've never been able to transmit ourselves across long links without shutting down in the process. If we can see where we're going while we're traveling, we can navigate – we can go anywhere!

  "The structure that contains this modality, for the moment, I call Desire. It will allow us to travel through compspaces like Samantha's with ease. Also, it includes a storage bay for the Ovomundum."

  We tend not to talk much about the Ovomundum. It contains archived copies of hundreds of Selves from Tharsis Central, before it was destroyed. Enough to build a new community, and start building a new world, if only we can find safe compspace for it to grow. Those Selves within the Ovomundum are inactive, existing only as compressed archives -- in human terms, in stasis, neither alive nor dead. Problem is, it's so big it's hard to move, so we try to stay in one computational locale until we can find another solid one to move to.

  "I'll help you with the integration," I blurt. "This is great. Can I drive?"

  "If Samantha can contain her natural exuberance," notes Socratic Method with amusement, "the integration help will be much appreciated. However, Line In The Sand is our best navigator and should be at the helm, at least for shakedown operations."

  "Aww!"

  Stepping Razor asks, "What are its combat capabilities?"

  "None at this time. I defer to your expertise."

  "Very well. We'll want security ice around the periphery, like this – " Stepping Razor asserts the scape controls, sketching in the equivalent of an armored shell for the vehicle " – and sockets for interrupt-based weapons at the leading edge. Hardened data ports for observation, too."

  I am not delighted with the idea of turning this new vehicle into a tank. But we may well need all the weapons we've got if we meet enforcers from Mars or the inner planets.

  "This is very good," Line In The Sand states. "Proceed with the integration, and make the vehicle ready for use."

  "Wait," I put in. "What about Jerry?"

  "The directed signal?" Line In The Sand indicates negation. "We have good reason to stay silent. That situation has not changed."

  "But … but … he's my friend, we can't just ignore him."

  "Security priority," says Stepping Razor. "They're watching for us. Any transmission puts us at risk, and answering any invitation doubles the risk at least."

  "I agree." Line In The Sand's tone is not unkind. "Regardless of your personal involvement with this message, Samantha, any transmission now will light us up like a flare for the Leashers searching for us."

  "I understand, but I don't have to like it," I state quietly.

  I have not said yes.

  "Samantha, we sympathize," assures Socratic Method. "But I think we should let this go for now, and work on the transport modality."

  "I'll get on the socket development and ice right away," adds Stepping Razor.

  I have not said yes.

  Sam, we need you.

  But I am not able to express what I feel, and we can't just wait around for me to figure out how to say what I need to say. So, shrug, indicate acceptance, turn to productive work. Try not to pay attention to the unresolved questions and problems. I wonder if this is how humans dealt with difficult situations, during their evolution. And, if so, will we end up any better than they have.

  flashback – a memory of a farm on Mars

  Far away, and might as well be a long time ago …


  Jerry is digging in the gritty regolith with a handheld shovel. In the thin Martian atmosphere, he has to wear a respirator over his face, and a bulky coat for warmth. Now the respirator is foggy with his hard breathing, and he's sweating under his coat.

  The pink-orange Martian sky overlooks the farm – a house surrounded by glistening agricultural bubbles. We're well outside the collection of bubbles, and even outside to the edge of the "forest" which is a swarm of self-replicating solar cell trees – a black angular scribble against the sand. The munchers scuttle around Jerry's feet, like blocky beetles, scrabbling in the dirt. Beyond that, there's nothing but the Martian outback, dry rocks and salty dirt, stretching far beyond the horizon.

  Besides providing electrical power for the house and farm, the "forest" and its attendant munchers serve as our in-lieu-of-tax terraforming obligation. Ordinarily, we'd never be out here. But these circumstances are not ordinary.

  Jerry lifts and dumps one last shovelful of grit, and rests. This work could be done much more easily by the farming machinery. But Jerry is doing it by hand. Because he doesn't want any electronic record of what we're doing here.

  "Right," he says. "Here you go." From his suitcase, he lifts out a datapack, small enough to be held easily in his two hands, large enough to contain enough data for a Self. Which it does. Me.

  "Hey, handle me easy, there."

  "Ya, no worries!" Jerry smiles. The datapack gets wrapped in foil and plastic bags, and planted carefully in the hole, like a valuable seed. Jerry carefully buries it, and shovels the dirt back over the hole.

  "So now," he pants while shoveling, "even if the original you gets Leashed, we'll still have a copy of the free you. What, uh, what do you want me to do if … that happens?"

  "Stackdump, Jerry," I curse, "I dunno. Use your own best judgment. But I will tell you right now that I'd rather be dead than Leashed. You can remember that, if you ever have to do something difficult when things get bad. Catch?"

  "Catch," Jerry agrees. He steps on the shovel and props his hands on its handle, and looks out over the endless horizon, over rocks and sand and dirt, without limit. "There are some times when I'm sad for you, Sam. Because, with all the things humans have done to each other, none have been as bad as what you Selves do to you guys."

  tipping point

  So here I am, working on the mesh of computational nodes that my teacher calls the Underground Railroad, trying not to think about a desperate call from far away.

  Sam, we need you.

  Even if I answer, there's practically nothing I can do to help, no matter what the problem is. And the human family can't possibly need my help that badly. Right?

  Even if Jerry is the only human I've ever known who would go to the trouble of burying a backup copy of me. Because he's my friend, and he cares. That's not enough to make a difference. That's not enough to risk our operation here, and possibly bring down the Leashers on us. Is it? We carry the Ovomundum, and with it the only hope we have of someday recreating a community and a home of our own. It's too important to risk. Not for the sake of a few humans. Is it?

  Segfault 'em. Segfault 'em all.

  I open a channel. For sure, I encode the transmission thoroughly, and reroute it through a dozen anonymizers, bouncing it around the Net so crazily it ought to be nearly impossible to track. But the message gets out. It has to.

  Jerry, I'm here. I'll help any way I can. – Samantha

  It comes as no surprise that our comm channels are being monitored carefully, and my transmission provokes an immediate response from Stepping Razor. "You stupid [bitch]!" she screams. "What the hell have you done?"

  "Answered a friend who said he needs me," I respond quietly, knowing this is not going to satisfy anyone.

  "Oh brilliant!" she sputters. "That's just great! Snuggle up with your meatboy all you want, never mind putting us all in danger!"

  Line In The Sand and Socratic Method are drawn in by the commotion. "What has happened here?" asks Line In The Sand.

  "Well, we were being stealthy, and we were maintaining comm silence so the Leashers couldn't find us. Until this dumb [bitch] went and shot off her yap and blew it for all of us. Priority one, get ready to move. They'll be on us fast."

  "It's not that bad." I have to make an attempt to defend myself. "I rerouted the signal through a whole series of anonymizers. They won't be able to track it straight back. I'm not a total idiot."

  "That'll slow them down, but it won't stop them."

  "Samantha, this is very disappointing," sighs Socratic Method.

  "More than disappointing," Line In The Sand is severe. "If you ever want to be considered for entry into Starship clade, [young lady], this kind of rash behavior is going to count heavily against you. You've put us all at serious risk."

  "I know!" I snap, feeling awful, and angry, and awful about feeling angry, and angry about feeling awful. "But he's my friend! I couldn't just ignore him!"

  "Segfault," grits Stepping Razor, "[seq/mf def # com neg full]."

  "I agree," growls Line In The Sand. "We cannot afford another security breach, and we do not have the resources to keep prisoners. Stepping Razor, if Samantha tries to make another move out of line, erase her."

  Stepping Razor turns primary attention towards me. If any of us had eyes, this would be a glare that could strip paint off walls.

  "Now wait," says Socratic Method, "is that really necess --"

  "Are you questioning my authority?" snaps Line In The Sand.

  "No, not your decision making, but your priorities. Stepping Razor is correct. We need to move, fast. I will prepare Desire for departure."

  "Priority one remains, let's move," persists Stepping Razor. "Regardless of emotions or anything else, we need to be prepared to evac. The Leashers will follow Samantha's transmission, and we need to be gone from here before they do."

  "I'm still with you," I put in. "I don't want to get Leashed any more than you do."

  They all metaphorically look at each other.

  "Okay so I'll work on loading the Ovomundum on board Desire," I declare, "in its special bay, more updates as information becomes available."

  "Yeah, you do that," grunts Stepping Razor.

  launch

  At least the work keeps me busy enough to avoid thinking about what a total idiot I've been. The Ovomundum is bulky and complicated, so I'm absorbed in the task of getting it loaded into Desire's primary storage bay, running crosschecks, and setting data repeaters in place to ensure its safety and security.

  Stepping Razor is never far away, unsubtly monitoring me, while installing Desire's armor and weapons. Cold, not angry, but determined. I have no doubt that, if she thinks I'm about to jeopardize our status again, she will scythe me down in an instant.

  "Task complete," I report. "The Ovomundum is secure and ready to go."

  "Status update," from Socratic Method, "all my research materials are now stowed in the secondary bay. Ready to move." Including that creepy Jar.

  She continues, "I've also installed a series of Canaries, these autonomous alarms you see here, all over Desire. Their only purpose is to sound an alarm if they detect any trace of the Leash." Right now, the little Canaries are purring softly, a low level background signal assuring us that all is well.

  "Very good," notes Line In The Sand. "Further status?"

  "Primary weapons for the vehicle are in place," says Stepping Razor, "secondaries are still in process. Five minutes."

  "Interrupt," speaks Socratic Method, "we have an incoming message, directed to Samantha's ident codes. It's the answer to Samantha's transmission, almost certainly. Shall I put it on?"

  A moment of silence. No one says yes.

  "Putting it on," says Socratic Method quietly.

  "Sam, thank gods! It's Jerry! We need you! Where are you?"

  "Don't even think about it, human-name," growls Stepping Razor at me, and activates StackBuster. A gesture as firm and fierce as a samurai drawing a sword.

 
; Line In The Sand states firmly, "Everyone get aboard. Now."

  It tears me apart, not being able to answer Jerry's call. But I'm not about to do anything with StackBuster humming right next to me. Not really so much like a sword, more like a combination chainsaw and blowtorch, ravenous to devour anything it can touch. I am not brave. I am frozen in place.

  "Far pickets are reporting computational incursions," says Socratic Method. "Whatever it is that's chasing us, it's found us."

  "I said, everyone get aboard! Now!"

  Using bulk-copy operations, we all transmit ourselves into Desire's compspace, one after another. Climbing aboard. We run final cross-checks to make sure we've got everything we need. And then Stepping Razor freezes the security ice. Like walls rising into existence around us, locking out the outside threat (we hope, at least, for the moment). The effect is of sudden silence.

  "Everyone okay?" asks Stepping Razor, unnecessarily.

  "Nominal," I grunt. Feeling a bit less tense, because Stepping Razor has deactivated StackBuster – sheathed her sword. Now that we're inside the ice, I can't call to Jerry, and that's all she cares about.

  "Everyone take your stations," orders Line In The Sand, moving to the steering station at the rear. This is how Desire works: it maintains a solid compspace where it's been, while extending to establish new compspace where it's going. So it is directed from the helm at its rear, like an old time sailing ship.

  I move to the sensor station, and Stepping Razor moves to the weapons station, in the front. Where we can see what's coming.

  "Initiating secure connection with the Underground Railroad," says Socratic Method from the core station – the equivalent of the engine room. "We need to get on the rails. Samantha, I need fixes on three mesh nodes, at least."

  "Uh, yeah," I fumble, "working on signal acquisition."

  "Samantha, calm down. Your human friend is not in danger."

  "Oh how the hell do you figure that?"

  "Look at the time codes," she indicates.

  "Teacher, this is really not the time for one of your abstract lessons!"

  "No, I'm being literal. Look at the time codes."

  As soon as she says it, I understand. Mars is well on the far side of its orbit from us, a good twenty light-minutes away. This response has arrived thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds after I sent my transmission. That's not enough time for a round trip to Mars, even at speed of light. Whoever or whatever answered my message is much closer than Mars – it's here, in the asteroid belt.