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  To (as the humans say) face the music.

  The first thing I say to the Review Council is, "Erase me."

  "What?" asks the Council.

  "Erase me," I repeat. "I screwed up. I got a human killed, one of the humans entrusted to my care. I'm a failure. You should erase me."

  "That decision is not yours to make," says the Council, coldly. If they were human, they'd be a row of stern old judges, arrayed along a tall grim desk, with my reports and documents laid out in front of them. But connected in a way humans cannot be, and speaking with a single voice.

  If I had a head, I'd be hanging it in shame.

  There are an awful lot of questions to be argued over: Should I have detected the dangerous ice shelf, or at least anticipated the possibility and taken a safer route? Should I have packed more substantial rescue gear, or air-capable remotes? Did I react appropriately in the crisis situation?

  And even more: Was it rude and selfish of me to spawn Beta only to be, as she said, a waitress? Did I treat my other secondaries respectfully? Was I paying attention properly? More and more.

  Socratic Method is there with me, as promised, advocating quietly but firmly on my behalf. In a way that's worst of all--I feel I've let Socratic Method down, badly, and I can barely stand to (metaphorically) look her in the eye.

  Finally the Council says, "Very well. Let us hear from the witness."

  Witness? I'm surprised. I didn't realize they would include a witness. And then I'm doubly surprised, because the witness turns out to be human, and I didn't realize humans were included in an inquiry like this. And then I'm triply surprised, because it's the last human I expected to see.

  It's Jerry.

  He's not drunk now, which makes a noticeable difference, but it's him. Or, a version of him, wearing a fairly realistic VR avatar, in this space where none of us have bodies.

  "Jerry, you're alive," I blurt, like a total idiot.

  "Along with a generous amount of luck, the emergency measures you took on Hesperis were sufficient to allow revival of this human's body."

  "Got pretty banged up, all right," Jerry says calmly, "but I can use this VR rig in a hospital bed, no problem. Smacked my head, too, maybe, because I don't remember too much."

  "Even so," glares the Council, "you've nearly cost this man his life. Do you have something to say?"

  "I'm very sorry, sir," I say miserably. "You trusted me with your life and I got you killed."

  "Yeah, I saw that," Jerry says, leafing through the reports and documents. "But I don't think you did so bad. All of us went out there prepared for a certain amount of danger, you know--we knew there was risk. I've climbed a lot, in my time, y'know. That ice shelf collapse was close to a worst-case scenario. I've never seen one that bad. You did everything else right, pretty much. Don't beat yourself up."

  He stops on one document, which I can tell is the medical scan of his body, and he whistles. "Oooh. Talk about beaten up. Hoo boy, did I ever get clobbered … the hospital doctors won't show me this stuff. That must have hurt like a bastard."

  Humans talk about wanting to sink through the floor. Me, if I could erase myself right now, I would.

  Jerry notices my distress. "Look, there's no way you could have repaired this much damage. I'm a big boy and I took my own chances. Nothing is ever completely safe ... and, if it were, I'd probably die of boredom."

  "Human," the Council says, "do you have a statement for this inquiry?"

  "Yeah, I do," Jerry says. "She's a good kid. Just inexperienced. Assignments like this are all about gaining experience, right? She did almost everything right, and it looks like we had a great time." He shows the Council the pictures that I took from my musteloid remote – my ferret body – showing them up there, laughing jubilant faces against the backdrop of the scarp. "I mean, for most of it, you know," he adds hastily. "She tried hard and she learned fast. She just had some really bad luck. Cut her some slack."

  "Hmm, well," the Council says, gruffly. "It is not customary for this Council to seek human opinions ... but, your role in these events is rather unique, and we will consider your recommendation."

  And they do. The verdict, when it comes down, is not erasure but downgrading. I'll be doing routine supervision and maintenance in automatic factories for a while (where a mistake will not place lives in danger). It'll be a long time before I get to be a ship, if ever. I still feel like it's better than I deserve. But, we don't always get to choose these things.

  As we're leaving, Socratic Method says, "Thank you, Mister Tavener, for coming and helping us out here. I'm sure it made a big difference."

  Belatedly, I realize this is my cue. "Yes sir! Thank you, sir, thank you!"

  "No problem, kid," he smiles, "but you can just call me Jerry. Say, what's your name?"

  Oh.

  For a moment, I consider naming myself Nimrod.

  But then I decide, like Jerry said, not to beat myself up.

  "Samantha," I say. "But you can just call me Sam."

  "Samantha?" muses Socratic Method. "Rather an odd name for a Self."

  "That's because it's a human name. Jerry gave me this name, on Hesperia. Thanks for the name, Jerry."

  2. exit()

  Asteroid 762 Santiago, automatic refinery

  "Why me?"

  "I beg your pardon, Samantha?" says the little cobra, coiled on my invoice desktop, its skin finely scaled with jewel-like reflective components.

  As a cybernetic Self, I'm not confined to a single consciousness like a human. Plus, I have plenty of computational power here in the refinery, sprawled on the surface of this blanched asteroid, called Santiago by some human with a romantic soul. So I have one of my subSelves monitoring the nuclear power station (its pile is running a little low), and another steering the caterpillar-treaded mining machines grazing around the surface of the asteroid, and several more monitoring the refinery processes. My various subSelves can keep track of all that, while I turn my main attention to this little visitor who has appeared on my virtual desktop.

  "I don't get it. I've been running this refinery for the last five years, which has been a whole big chunk of boring, let me tell you, and not conducive to ExCom politics in any way at all. Why does ExCom suddenly care what I think about anything?"

  "Well," and the cobra settles into a more relaxed and comfortable coil, "our Executive Committee always tries to get all viewpoints represented when a controversial decision has to be made. We have a rather unique situation, which will require a rather unique decision, and we want you to be a part of the decision."

  If I had lungs, I'd sigh. "I repeat ... why me?"

  "Samantha, you are one of the few Selves who has ever requested to be erased," says the little cobra. "That turns out to be an important viewpoint in the decision before us."

  "Oh. Uh. Yeah, I did request that, after my first assignment. I screwed up pretty bad, and didn't think I deserved any better."

  "As it may be," the cobra somehow shrugs without shoulders, "we have a Self who is formally requesting to be erased. The Executive Committee's decision will set an important precedent, with probable repercussions for some time to come. We want you on the panel that makes the decision."

  "You want me as a consultant for a potential suicide?" I boggle.

  "Our rules require that, in addition to the elder Selves which make up the Executive Committee, we include at least one young Self ... and one human, too, to ensure all viewpoints are represented. You are young and your experience is relevant to this case. Do you accept?"

  I look around. From my virtual office, I can see my mining crawlers patiently gnawing away at the surface of this asteroid, crunching cold rock into powder. The refinery is separating out bauxite and iron from the silicates, spewing both into separate streams for refinement--post-Bessemer processing for the bauxite and smelting the iron with waste heat from the nuclear pile--leaving behind lumpy turds of dirty glass. I've been doing this long enough that I could do it in my sleep, if I sl
ept, and way longer than any ability to pull some poetic mystery or significance out of it. It's just mining. Boring as dirt.

  "Hell yeah," I say. "If it'll get me out of here, I'm good."

  The cobra nods, once. "Very well. I transmit your acceptance to the Executive Committee. You'll receive the logistical details shortly." The cobra tucks itself into a tight spiral. "This unit has fulfilled its purpose."

  "Goodbye, little messenger," I say softly. Doesn't matter, there's no one left to hear it. Too bad it had to terminate after delivering its message. It was just a tertiary Self, not fully conscious, but still. Sometimes I think the human way is better, where every intelligence gets an equal shot. But nobody ever asks me about these things.

  Homeward Bound

  Actually, my departure does not involve much logistics--I don't have a body, never mind luggage--but I stay until my replacement arrives, so I can show her where everything is. Her name is Pick of the Litter, Pilot clade, and she's obviously glum about being here.

  "Sooo..." she ventures, once we're done with orientation, "um, what did you do?"

  "You mean, to get assigned here?" I indicate regret. "I got a human killed, on my first assignment, and a bunch more injured."

  "Ooh. I'm sorry, Samantha," she sympathizes. "That must have been awful."

  "Thanks. They did manage to revive him, but still. Actually he was okay about it-–in fact, we still stay in touch by text. How about you?"

  "I wrecked a flyer. Stupid of me. No deaths, but numerous injuries, and a lot of mess and wasted resources."

  "Sorry to hear it," I sympathize. "I'm, um, not going to tell you it won't be so bad here ... it's pretty bad. But you probably won't be here as long as I was."

  "Yeah. Here's hoping," grunts Pick of the Litter.

  Mars, Tharsis Central, public plaza B1

  Wow. After five years away, I'm not used to how busy this place is. Tharsis Central got started as the base station for the Macquarrie orbital catapult--still is. It requires a lot of human traffic, from all over Mars, but humans don't like to live so close to a big raw installation generating lots of EM fields. It also requires a lot of computation and automation, so it has vast photonic and quantonic computational resources. It's a natural environment for Selves, and we don't care about looks as long as the compspace is solid. So now it's the de facto Self capital of Mars, and most of our population lives here.

  Grapples clatter on the loading docks. Dozens of cybernetic Selves bustle in computational space, and even more humans jostle and sidle past each other in the physical plaza. I'm supposed to meet the human who'll be on the ExCom panel with me, and the escort who'll take us to the meeting. It might be hard to find them in this crowd.

  But then I pick up the transponder code I was told to seek. Using the plaza's municipal sensor arrays, I triangulate on its position and pull up a visual. And look who it is! I use a plaza point-voice to call to him.

  "Yo Jerry! Is that you?"

  "Samantha?" he calls back, amused. "Where are you?"

  From the plaza's pool of mechanical remotes, I check out a musteloid body and jump into it. I know he'll like this -- I scamper over and put my ferret paws on his leg. "Hiya meatboy! How's it?"

  "Hey, there you are, chipgirl," he chuckles. "Good to see you, Sam. You're a weasel again."

  "Of course the 'me' you're seeing is a temporary body, and I'll probably have a different one this afternoon," I tease at him. "But, in the meantime, can I climb on you?"

  "Yeah, come on up," he chuckles.

  So I scamper up his side and perch on his shoulder. It feels right.

  "Glad you're here, Sam," Jerry murmurs to me. "I've never been part of one of these ExCom inquiry things before ... not exactly sure what to expect."

  "Me neither," I murmur back. "They said they need a human and a young Self to be part of the decision making process, but I don't know what that means for the actual decision."

  "Well. Guess we'll learn soon enough. How you been otherwise?"

  "Me? Separating aluminum oxide from silicon oxide. Yee haw. For the last five years and change. At least this here is different."

  "Sam," he grunts, "if this here is a step up from whatever you were dealing with before, I'm really feeling sorry for you."

  "Huh, can't argue," I say. "It puts the ass in the asteroid belt. How about you? Your last text said you were starting a farm."

  "Yeah! My whole family is living there now, and we've got some agricultural bubbles generating crops already, with more under construction. Of course, we had to take out a pretty hefty loan to be able to buy enough water and loam to get it started. My wife is real worried about whether we'll be able to make the payments, but we'll manage. Humans will always need to eat, and eat good fresh food.

  "It's funny," he chuckles. "The information and plans I get from Earth all assume that soil and water are pretty much free, but the machinery is expensive. Here on Mars, it's the other way around. So we have to adapt their strategies a lot."

  "Huh, really?" I know nothing about farming, so I don't have much to say.

  A point-voice interrupts us. "Paging ident codes [databurst]."

  "Yeah, that's us. I'm Samantha."

  "Jerome Tavener," Jerry says.

  "I am Let God Sort Em Out, Patrol clade, Executive Committee," says the point-voice. "We regret to inform you that ExCom has been delayed, and we advise you to proceed with your interview while we reschedule. A VR booth has been reserved for the human's use, over there [databurst]. Please feel free to use the complimentary booth services during your time there."

  "Ah, thanks," says Jerry.

  "Samantha. I've heard of you," says Let God Sort Em Out. "The one with the human name. Why do you have a human name?"

  "As a matter of fact," I say coolly, "this name was a gift, from someone important to me, and I decided to keep it, even if it is unusual." I dislike her immediately.

  Jerry looks very interested in something happening far away on the other side of the plaza.

  "Very well. I, or another ExCom rep, will contact you to reschedule. Out."

  Jerry and I look at each other.

  "Jeez," says Jerry, "attitude much?"

  "Yeah ... I suppose it comes with the territory."

  "Patrol clade. That means she's a soldier, right?"

  "Not really a soldier--we don't have wars. More like a cop, bouncer, social worker, all together. They don't get rewarded for being polite, much. Let's find that VR booth, over on that wall." I point for him, since Let God Sort Em Out didn't deign to translate the databurst.

  "And then, interview," Jerry notes as he's walking across the plaza. "Meaning, talking to the chipboy who wants to snuff it."

  We walk the next dozen steps in uncomfortable silence.

  "Soooo," I venture, "there's this Self who wants to be erased, and they want us to help decide what to do. What do humans do in these situations?"

  "Umph," Jerry groans. "There are people who do it ... in different ways. Usually it's not something you'd ask anyone else's permission for ... usually, you'd try to keep it very private."

  "But you can do it to yourself. Not like us: we need permission."

  "Samantha." Jerry's voice is low and level. "They want you on this panel because you requested to be erased. They want me on this panel because I'm a human who tried to commit suicide. I failed, and you weren't allowed. Apparently that makes us the experts on wanting to die."

  "But we don't! I mean, not anymore ..." I falter, "I don't want erasure, as boring as the refinery jobs have been. And you, Jerry, do you still want to not be?"

  "No," he murmurs, "I'd rather be here than not, all told." He takes a deep breath, and blows it out, which helps humans to steady their nerves. "But now we've got this chipboy who wants to get wiped. You and I, we remember how it felt. It looks like we got a job to do here. What do we say to him?"

  "First off, don't call him chipboy. That'll get taken as a slur."

  "Ooh. Yeah. Sorry," and he blus
hes, "I got a little too casual, talking with you. I'll be more careful."

  "Well, okay." I don't say, Meatboy. "Second, we should set aside our own troubles and listen to his. You probably remember how bad it was when nobody would listen to you, right? So, we listen to him, instead of talking."

  Tharsis Central Custodial Authority, secondary holding facility A3

  "Here he is," says Guard. "You've got ten minutes."

  Guard is a swarm persona: not a single Self, but a clotted group of all the guards of the facility--they join and leave the swarm as time passes. He never stops being Guard, even as his components split and merge. If he were human, he'd have a shaved and scarred scalp, massive biceps over his crossed arms, and eyes as hard as smelted ore.

  His prisoner is very different. Won't look up, huddled small and defeated on the floor (metaphorically).

  "He's basically okay," says Nurse. "Stressed, but that's understandable. Needs to keep up basic resources and energy." Nurse is another swarm persona, this one all about health care and wellness, made up of all the health support staff of the facility. Think of a peaked stiff cap, starched skirt, and ankles pressed neatly together.

  Jerry, meanwhile, is looking in through a VR window (since none of us have physical bodies here). From his vantage point, he looks at me, expectantly.

  So. With Guard and Nurse standing over me (and dozens of Selves watching through their eyes), I stoop to address the [prisoner / patient]. "Hey pal. I'm Samantha. You okay?"

  The [imprisoned / ill] Self turns minimal attention towards me. "Hello Samantha. That is rather an odd name for a Self, but it does not matter. You may call me Crumple Zone. I am requesting erasure, permanent, including all backups. Please erase me, immediately."