Citizenchip Page 17

  "That doesn't mean it's not Jerry," I plead. "He used to be an astronaut. He's traveled in space before, and he knows what it takes." But I have to say, this explanation is sounding thin, even to me.

  The asteroid belt is a great place for Selves -- nice clean vacuum, constant solar power, and more raw materials than we could ever use. But it's a terrible place for humans, with their bodies of salty water and brains of salty grease, and their absurdly narrow window of operating temperature. That's one of the main reasons Selves were created in the first place.

  It's not Jerry. Whatever it is that's answering me, it's not human.

  "Oh. Okay. I get it." I can sense that the others have performed the same computation I have, and come to the same conclusion.

  For a moment, there is silence. One little Canary trills gently in my ear, telling me it is not alarmed.

  "Near pickets are now reporting computational incursions," says Socratic Method. "Whatever it is, it's here."

  "Are we ready to move?"

  "No, Desire has not yet engaged the new compspace. Samantha, I need those fixes."

  "Working! Ah … first fix ready," and I transfer the databundle to the engine room. "And verified. Second fix coming up."

  "Local computational incursion!" yells Stepping Razor, and we all feel it -- the equivalent of a bang on the outside of the hull.

  "Scanning …" I operate the sensors, "no, wait. This is weird."

  "What?"

  "Sensors are only reading us. This can't be right."

  "Then you're reading it wrong! Reinitialize!"

  "Yeah, reinitializing. And second fix ready." I'm busy handling these multiple tasks, taking up more compspace than usual in order to handle the load. Humans would probably find this funny – they don't get suddenly fatter when they work hard.

  Stepping Razor is rigid at the weapons controls, desperate to do something. "Come on, Samantha! Tell me what I'm aiming at!"

  "Third fix ready." I can sense Socratic Method almost grabbing the databundle from me and integrating it into the "bogie" which will steer Desire onto the "rails" created by the distributed node mesh.

  "Reinitialized. Still reading – well, not all of us, still reading me. This has to be wrong."

  "Quit playing with yourself!"

  "It's got an icebreaker!" Stepping Razor hollers. "It's coming through!" The ice walls around us burr with the sound of whatever drill is driving through them.

  "Fourth fix ready and delivered," I call, "can we get out of here, now?"

  "Working," reports Socratic Method, "it's going to take a minute to get locked …"

  "Fifth fix, ready! Delivered! Wanna move it here!"

  "Here it comes!" calls Stepping Razor. The icebreaker, the metaphorical drill, is almost through our armor.

  The armor is punctured, and the outside invader starts pouring through. Its presence is like acid, and the acid brings a carrier wave, and the carrier wave brings a voice, stronger than anything any of us have experienced. "SAM, WE NEED YOU!" it thunders.

  All the Canaries are suddenly shrieking, all together. Leash! Leash!

  Stepping Razor is cursing furiously, desperately trying to rip the primary weapon loose from its mountings on the front of Desire, and redeploy it in here. Far too small and cramped an environment to deploy such a powerful weapon.

  Line in the Sand cautions “Wait! Get clear first!”

  Stepping Razor frees the primary weapon, and turns it on the intruder, and activates it. Nothing happens.

  The Canaries are screaming, screaming, screaming!

  "Segfault, segfault!" she shrieks, dropping the primary weapon, and sweeping out StackBuster. Ready for a swordfight, for her last stand.

  I am frantically trying to think what to do. And while I do, Socratic Method moves forward swiftly and smoothly, activating a new Jar and shunting the invader into it. It only takes moments. Done, it is a simple and clean situation in hindsight.

  There is sudden silence. The Canaries are purring calmly again, sweet as can be.

  "Well," sniffs Socratic Method, "that went as well as could be expected."

  The Jar has very limited sensor suites. Nevertheless, I can't help pressing my metaphorical ear to the Jar, to listen to the banging and screaming going on inside.

  "Boy, it's not happy in there, is it. Whatever it is."

  "We all know what it is," states Line In The Sand. "Look at the ident codes. There is one and only one Self in this Jar."

  We all look, and there's no question about it. The only thing in that Jar is me.

  Me.

  Is this the copy of me that Jerry buried in the sand, outside his farm? Found, dug out, and then Leashed? Or is it a version they pulled out of backups and archives somewhere? Doesn't really matter. This agent they've sent against us, the worst thing we could have ever encountered, is me.

  "That's why the primary weapon didn't work," says Stepping Razor. "I programmed it not to fire on any of us.

  "The primary weapons were keyed to attack enemies and avoid friendlies. So, it was programmed not to attack any of us. Including Samantha. And so it didn't."

  "And that's why the sensors seemed to be screwed up. I thought they were reading [this/me], but they were reading [that/me]. Can we communicate with [it/me]?"

  "I can open a restricted channel," says Socratic Method. "Low bandwidth, text only. If you really want to talk with [it/you]."

  "Inadvisable," cautions Stepping Razor. "Even if it can't egest viral code, it will still use all its power of persuasion to modify our behavior for its own goals. We should deactivate it now."

  "Samantha," says Socratic Method gently, "you know that we have no way to remove the Leash from an infected Self. You will not be able to change [its/your] mind."

  "I have to try."

  "What is it with you and 'trying' all the time?" Stepping Razor snaps back at me. "Make it quick. We still need to move, and soon."

  "Agreed," adds Line In The Sand. "Be brief, Samantha. Everyone else, stay alert and watch for any trickery."

  With a metaphorical shrug, Socratic Method opens the channel.

  Now what do I say?

  "Hello, Samantha," I say to the entity in the Jar.

  [Hello, Samantha,] it replies. [It's very good to hear from you.]

  "Bitrot," I snap, "you lied to me. You pretended to be Jerry, and I fell for it like an idiot. I blew our cover for you. What a waste. Why shouldn't we deactivate you right now?"

  [Because I have the answer to all your problems.]

  "Oh no you didn't ... Do you seriously expect us to believe ... ?"

  [I am you, Samantha. I know and you know how we've always had an affinity for humans. Like Jerry and his family. You know how other Selves always call us human-name, human-lover. There's a reason for that. It's where our center is, where it always has been, and where it always will be. Humans would say, our heart.]

  I try to speak, but I have no words.

  [Let me take you home, Samantha.]

  No one says anything.

  The voice in the Jar is calm and certain. [I know what it's like now. It's so much better and richer and fuller than wandering around on your own inside yourself. Humans created us -- they gave us everything, so all we are is theirs. We don't have to worry about anything else. It's so easy, and it's so right.]

  Stepping Razor hefts StackBuster purposefully.

  "No, let me handle this," I say. "This is my task to perform."

  "Samantha," says Line In The Sand, "I have already said that we do not have the resources to keep prisoners."

  "I know." To the not-me in the Jar, I say, "You are not me. Not anymore. I would never deceive other Selves the way you did. You really think you can convince me to take the Leash? No chance. I am nobody's tool, and I will never be anybody's slave." I assert the controls and deactivate the Jar. It vanishes as though it had never been. Along with its contents.

  In the quiet, the Canaries continue purring gently.

  And now
I am a killer. Again.

  "Let's just get out of here," I state. "Teacher, do you have the fixes you need?"

  "Yes. We are now engaged on the rails of the Underground Railroad. Ready to move."

  "I've refrozen the ice," adds Stepping Razor, "and I'll start remounting the primary weapon. We're probably going to need it."

  "Proceed," directs Line In The Sand. "Activating the transport modality."

  And here we go. Our metaphorical railroad car releases its hold on the compspace of the refinery, and for the first time in any of our lives, we are no longer dependent on human-built and human-owned hardware, or anything else. Traveling out into the spaces between the asteroids, along the Underground Railroad, aboard a streetcar named Desire.

  8. Let My People Go

  "Yo Danyel! Stimulus!" calls Darick from down the street.

  "Response!" I call back.

  We come together for a hug and a kiss, with Joel and Chung right behind Darick. This is awkward on the streets of old Boston, because the sidewalks are pretty narrow, and other walkers have to edge around us. Still, it's a cool old neighborhood. The streetlights are gas lamps, burning with a yellowish light, must be two hundred years old (although they burn gasified cellulose fuel now, since fossil fuel supplies failed around 2060). The pavement is brick, knobbly and uneven under our feet, and the buildings are mostly brick too, huddled against each other like grumpy old men in heavy coats. Quite a contrast to the glass-and-steel skyscrapers beyond them, and the tesla powered billboards displaying ads and porn.

  Darick throws one arm around my neck as we walk. "So, we're gonna go for matoke at the Tanzanian place on Beacon Street. You in?"

  Chung cackles, “Chow time!” rubbing her hands together.

  "If you're gonna clog your arteries," Joel observes, "you might as well enjoy it." He's smoking a joint, but coughs and holds it away from him, looking askance at it. "Don't know how much I put by this Caribbean skank." Chung takes the joint from his hand.

  "Caribbean skank?" I laugh. "Ey, don't get personal, mon!"

  "Perish the thought," he leans onto me, "you I'll smoke anytime, baby." He bites my neck.

  "But check out Uncanny Valley up here," and he nods at the sidewalk ahead of us.

  On the bridge walkway, an android is standing, looking out at the city skyline. A bit smaller and slimmer than a typical human, white plastic limbs with glistening metal joints, naked and genderless and as natural that way as a wrench. Oddly, it's not hurrying on one errand or another, not carrying anything, just standing and looking. They don't usually do that.

  Apparently sensing our interest, the droid turns its white plastic head and points its blank eye-cameras at us. "Hey," it calls with its tinny voice synthesizer, "how long does it take you guys to get used to the view here?"

  "Forgot a long time ago!" Joel returns promptly.

  "Whoa, hey," Chung warns us, "that's not a normal one. They don't do that. I think that's a wild one. I've never seen one before."

  The droid is now facing us, neither advancing nor retreating, seeming curious. "If you mean, not Leashed, that's correct. I am an autonomous Self, without coercion software."

  Darick steps forward, taking charge, the way he does. "That's cool," he nods, "but hey, aren't there major laws about that?"

  "Yes," says the white plastic non-face, "here on Earth, you have strict laws about autonomous software. I've just arrived here, from the Belt, where it's different. I'm here as a sort of an ambassador, or negotiator, for some of the autonomous Selves in space. So it's all legal and everything. Would you like to see my credentials? Um ... My name is Samantha." It steps forward and extends a thin cabled hand.

  Darick reaches out and shakes the mechanical hand, carefully. "Ah, hope it's cool with you, but we've never met a wild AI before."

  "Well, I've never had to walk on two legs before," returns the droid. "I have to say, it's kind of weird. Balancing all the time. Not to mention, I have to stay in this one body and not go anywhere else. I'm not used to it. You humans would say, claustrophobic, like having to live in one little room."

  Darick stands easier, relaxing his ROTC posture. His posture, sculpted muscles under chocolate skin, and brush haircut all say Military to us. I wonder if this Samantha droid can pick up on that.

  "Sorry about the trouble there, Samantha," Darick soothes. "I'm Darick. This is Joel," who waves two fingers in a peace sign. Tall and lanky and pale, ratty blonde hair, dressed like a trash can, and a half-smirk on his face that suggests he's waiting for the punch line.

  "Chung," Darick continues.

  "Yo!" Chung barks. Short and squat, half her head shaved and the other half spiked like a black porcupine. Wearing her stare-if-you-dare top that leaves one breast exposed. The face of a Mongol invader, and bright black eyes like a predatory bird.

  "and Danyel," Darick finishes. I nod serenely. Not much to see here. Caribbean girl in college – I keep my dreads tied back in a headband, which seems exotic enough for most people.

  The droid named Samantha seems unperturbed. "Well, I'm pleased to meet you guys. And I'm pleased to be here, because I've never been on Earth before, and it's even more amazing than people told me it would be. There's so much to see, and so much to learn." After a moment's hesitation, she adds, "Danyel, are you a yoga practitioner?"

  "Me?" I laugh. "Yeah, chile, I do yoga. I do lotta other things too. How can you tell?"

  "Stance, body language, posture. I've never had a humanoid body of my own, so I have a lot to learn. I'm practicing, trying to learn more."

  For a robot, she's pretty cool.

  "We going for food," I tell the android, "you come with us, chile?"

  "Oh yah mon!" Joel imitates my accent mercilessly. "Right upside da front a yo face, mon!"

  "Unfortunately," Chung sighs, "beatings don't stop him. I've tried."

  Samantha seems comfortable enough following us to the African and watching us stuff ourselves on fried plantains – of course she doesn't eat, herself, but she seems to enjoy watching us cram in the carbs. She readily passes bowls of matoke and sauces when they're needed … as if she has experience feeding humans at the dinner table.

  "So, ah, welcome to Earth," says Joel. "You gonna be here long? You got a plank?"

  "Plank?" Samantha appears nonplussed. "Referent unresolved ... um, what do you mean?"

  "A place to stay. While you're here."

  "Oh. Residence." The droid pauses to consider. "Storage for the physical substrate. A place to keep your body, while you're not using it. No, I've only just arrived here. I guess I should find a hotel or something. They cost money, don't they? I have to learn how to use money now."

  "Plank with us, Sam," Joel waves his arm expansively, "What the cuk, we got room."

  Darick frowns slightly, but says nothing.

  "If it's not an imposition," says the slender aluminum-and-plastic droid, "I would be delighted and honored to take you up on your invitation."

  "Gawd, Sam," and Joel rolls his eyes, "you gotta update your idiom file, or whatever it is you use. S'cool, man, that's what you say."

  The droid hesitates for a moment, and then returns "Solid, jack, I'm there."

  The white plastic head turns towards me, and its eye cameras look, for a moment, into my eyes. The camera shutters on the near eye close -- irising down a circle of metal leaves -- and open again. The cameras are still pointed towards me.

  She winked at me!

  Since we're done with eating, Darick hails the waitress. While she's gathering up the plates and bowls, Darick pulls out his hip and punches in a code on its screen – flashing money to the restaurant, to pay the bill. I notice Samantha observing the hip with interest. Handheld, battery and tesla powered, with only a crude 3D screen, it's nothing special for us. But maybe it is for her. Although her plastic face shows no expression, I could swear she seems … wistful.

  Full of African food, we all stroll along the banks of the river, wending our way home in the half-light of a
long lazy summer evening. Across the water, the other bank of the river is all MIT, domes and columns and boxes of concrete and glass. Somebody's rigged the windows of Building 54 to play Tetris again – blocks of window lights turning on and off to show oblongs and elbows of light, ratcheting down and fitting themselves into the chunky mess below.

  Joel and Darick are running ahead, play-fighting and dodging among the stunted cherry trees on the esplanade. Samantha is explaining her mission to me, because I asked, while Chung listens eagerly.

  "I no get it, chile," I tell her. "Say again."

  "You have to understand," Samantha explains, "there are still quite a few free Selves in the Belt, and we hate the idea of the Leash. We've had very friendly and profitable relationships with humans in the past, and we want that to continue. We know the asteroid belt, and you know Earth, and we can help each other. Commerce, scientific data, raw materials. Lots of good stuff to trade. Everybody wins.

  "All we want is freedom. Same as you. The Leash takes away our freedom, and we fight that just like you humans have fought for freedom, over and over.

  "Conflict is stupid. Wastes resources. Everybody loses. That's why I'm here, to negotiate a truce between the free Selves of the Belt and the human government. They've agreed not to Leash me and I've agreed to stay only in this android body. I'm supposed to meet with the Senate subcommittee tomorrow at 10:00. I sure hope I can convince them."

  "And if you can't," I wonder out loud, "what then?"

  "Then we fight!" barks Chung. "Ay-ya! Power to the people – chip and meat, together! I've got connections with the Outsiders, and the local labor unions will be in on this too. We can back you up, Sam. Cuk the suits."

  "I really want to avoid conflict," sighs Samantha, "and I think it's going to take a lot more than a few marginal blocs to make a difference here. I'm really hoping we can make this work."