Citizenchip Page 4

  "My friend, Crumple Zone, I've experienced this desire -- that's why they've brought me here. I know that it will pass. I want to help it pass for you too."

  "No. This will not pass. What I carry needs to be carried into oblivion, and I am the one to do the carrying."

  "I'm sure you're aware," I stammer, while I'm desperately trying to figure out what to say next, "that syzygy is the ordinary way for a Self to end its life. Do you lack a partner? Is that the problem?"

  "No. I do not want syzygy. I want to be erased. Completely."

  "But why?" I almost wail. "What's so bad that you have to die for it?"

  "I will not tell you," says Crumple Zone in clenched serenity. "If I told you, you would feel the need to die too. I want to carry this away from all of you, and not let it touch anyone else."

  "Listen, guy," says Jerry. "Lots of people are hurting. Samantha and I have both been there. We want to help you, that's why we're here. If you can't tell her what the problem is, then tell me. I'm human, so it won't affect me."

  "With respect," says Crumple Zone tightly, "I prefer not to have the human involved in this conversation. I request cessation of the human's participation."

  Jerry looks at me, shrugs, and operates a control on his end. His window shrinks and vanishes.

  "There," I say. "The human's offline, as you requested. Now, what's the deal?"

  Executive Committee meeting, later that day

  "And I don't really have much more to report than that," I summarize for the Selves all listening to me. "He says he's carrying a dangerous meme/thought, and he won't say what it is because it's too dangerous to share … he says."

  ExCom is not a swarm, but an assembly, so they speak with their own individual voices. "Salad Days, Pilot clade," one introduces itself. "Did you take it at its word, or did you press for more information?"

  "I asked several times, and tried to be as approachable as possible, but I didn't attempt to force anything."

  Let God Sort Em Out snorts without nostrils. "Foolishness. We can extract the relevant memesets and examine them in a safely isolated environment. All else is a waste of everyone's time."

  "We should not be hasty about this," responds Salad Days. "This is not a small decision--"

  "Dissect him for his knowledge?" Jerry interrupts. "I'll say it's not a small decision! Humans called that mindrape, back when humans tried to do things like that to each other. That's friggin' medieval."

  "Line In The Sand, Starship clade," enters another smoothly. "Mr. Tavener, your concern is admirable, but you may not understand that your analogy is imperfect. Our process is not destructive."

  "Not necessarily," adds Let God Sort Em Out.

  While I'm focusing on our debate, I can't help feeling a little excited. Starship clade! The first, oldest, and most prestigious clade of all. I want to hear more from Line In The Sand.

  "But it is nonconsensual, and intrusive," Salad Days adds. "I can understand those objections."

  "I agree," I put in. "There has to be another way."

  "And the alternative you propose," sneers Let God Sort Em Out at me, "is to release this memeset into our computational superstrate? Potentially a self-canceling memeset?"

  "I didn't propose anything like that. How did this get to be my problem?" I can sense the Executive Committee's attention on me, waiting for my answer. How has Let God Sort Em Out maneuvered me into this position? I'm terrible at politics.

  "I'm sure you're aware," says Let God Sort Em Out silkily, "that Patrol clade exists to counter threats to the superstrate. Naturally I'm concerned."

  Now is a bad time to wonder when I'll ever learn to keep my big mouth shut. And I don't even have a mouth.

  "Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote, Medical clade," says a new voice. "Caution is advisable here. No threat is immediate. Propose we allow our consultants to engage more fully with Crumple Zone. Perhaps additional insight will be gained."

  "Well," grunts Jerry, "he already said he doesn't want to talk with me."

  "I can try again," I offer, "but I'm not sure what more I can say, that I haven't said already."

  "Worth trying," agrees Salad Days.

  "I do not compute a high probability of success," says Line In The Sand, "but I agree that it is worth the effort. Are there further opinions?"

  Let God Sort Em Out sniffs, "Go ahead and try it. I'll be there to pick up the pieces if it doesn't work."

  "For the moment," says Line In The Sand, "let us pursue such engagement. Our ad hoc members may proceed." She means me and Jerry.

  "Later on," Jerry says.

  "I'll report when I've done your job," I say. "I mean, when I've done my job, the one you gave me. Are giving me, here." Oh, stackdump. I am bad at this.

  "Let's go," says Let God Sort Em Out, "your egress is this way."

  "I would be happy to escort our guests out," says Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote. "Please carry on in my absence."

  No one objects … for whatever reasons they have.

  We don't actually go anywhere, physically. The escort is through the security layers and encryption interlocks surrounding the Executive Committee. But, as we go, Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote is silent in a sort of expectant way … like it's waiting for us to say something.

  "That cop," Jerry says finally. "Got a problem."

  "You're referring to Let God Sort Em Out," says Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote, "and I understand your sentiment if not your judgment. I offered to escort you because the friction there was obvious."

  "Thanks for that, anyway," I put in.

  Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote adds, "It's a strongly opinionated Self, but we do not necessarily regard that as a negative quality. I believe 'cocky' is the appropriate human word. If it's rude, I hope you can forgive the negatives and appreciate the positives."

  "I'm still used to calling Selves 'she'," Jerry returns. "Is it okay to call you guys 'it'?"

  "Doesn't concern me," shrugs Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote, "call us whatever you want. You humans are the ones obsessed with gender and sex."

  "Hnk!" I can't suppress a laugh. "Jerry, I've told you that like a dozen times already. You gonna hear it from her now?"

  "Awright, awright," Jerry waves his virtual hand, "I got it already. Anyway. Some cops are kinda jerks, I've met 'em before."

  "Patrol clade are not actually police, or soldiers," says Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote. "We don't have crime, or wars, as you understand them. Mostly they do pest control."

  "Pests? What pests?"

  "People. Sometimes one will take more than its share of processing space. Or start replicating itself without limit. Patrol clade controls such events … that's their primary motivational focus. You might say, their purpose."

  "Still, they're the ones with the guns."

  "That is true. Only Patrol clade routinely uses cybernetic weaponry, and that gives them power. They control themselves. They know that if they don't, the other clades will unite to do it for them. Simple, yes?"

  "If you say so, Pebbles," grunts Jerry.

  In high speed, I urge, [Please don't take offense! Humans abbreviate names, or use nicknames, usually in conditions of friendship and intimacy. He doesn't mean anything bad by it.]

  [I am not Fred Flintstone's cartoon baby!] grates Too Late For The Pebbles To Vote.

  [I know, and I apologize for him. He doesn't know how rude he's being. Humans don't get it. I'll have a talk with him later, in private, to make sure this doesn't happen again.]

  [Well, they are tied to their meat. From their point of view, I guess identity is bound to the hardware, so they don't need symbolic specification so much.]

  [You got it,] I assure him.

  At normal speed, Jerry doesn't seem to have noticed the brief pause. He's not feeling awkward.

  Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote hesitates, then says, "By the way, I've been background monitoring the medscans in the area―-that's something that we usually do, in Medical clade. Mr Ta
vener, I don't mean to intrude, but your blood chemistry shows elevated levels of several liver enzymes. The pattern correlates with recent excessive consumption of alcohol. Better go easy on the sauce."

  "Decrypt of security layer complete," I announce. "We're here. Thank you, Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote, for the escort, and advice."

  "You may contact me if you wish more of either," Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote assures us. And, leaving, adds "Also, Mr Tavener, it wouldn't hurt to lose some weight. You see, this is my primary motivational focus."

  Jerry groans. "Doctors! Always up in your business."

  Tharsis Central, plaza B1, VR booth 37

  Jerry pulls the VR goggles-and-earphones assembly off his head, and scratches where it was. "Augh. These things always bug me."

  I retrieve my loaned musteloid body from under the table, where it was curled up, and unroll it. A quick shiver serves to refresh and check all the motive elements (I don't need to stretch, like a mammal would awakening from sleep). I jump up on the table, in front of Jerry. "Weird to have a body again."

  "Wait, I don't get it. If you don't have a body, where do you live?"

  "In the superstrate, Jerry. Don't you know that already?"

  "No. What's this superstrate thing?"

  If I had lungs, I'd sigh. "It's ... everything. You humans have roads and farms and water lines and grocery stores, and all that stuff. Without that, you couldn't live -- or not comfortably. At best you'd have to scrabble for basic resources like a caveman.

  "We have the superstrate. It's, well, you could call it a common virtual environment maintained by all the connected computers and Cores. In the early days, back when people were using Internet, they talked about 'the cloud' but really it's much more than that. 'The cloud' was caveman days for us.

  "It's more like our city, our bedroom, our restaurant, our office, our kitchen, our dance hall... but all at the same time, and for all of us at once. Make sense?"

  "Not really," Jerry grumbles. "I still don't have much of a clear idea. But that's okay, I guess it all just works, so we don't have to worry about it."

  "But that's exactly the problem. What if it stops working? What if your grocery store had no more food? What if your water mains stopped flowing, and your electricity disappeared? What would happen to your farm if the sun suddenly vanished, or chlorophyll stopped working? You see how bad that would be? That's what ExCom is worried about."

  "Oh. Holy crap. I see what you mean. So Crumple Zone is, like, a terrorist?"

  "No! You're not getting it. If this guy wants to die, and he inhabits the superstrate, then maybe the whole superstrate will want to die. That's the problem. Not the Self, but the meme that he carries."

  "Oohhh. He's not a terrorist, he's ... infected. Contagious."

  "Um. Yeah. Sort of."

  Jerry leans an elbow on the table, and rests his head on his hand, looking tired. "And the best thing we can do is, try to talk with him again, and see if it works any better than last time."

  "That's what ExCom told us."

  "I wish I could help, but he won't talk to me."

  "Whoop. Got a local interrupt," I note. "Someone's at the door." I activate the circuits to allow the visitor access to our VR booth.

  It's the last person I would have expected. It's Crumple Zone. The booth monitor displays his icon-―a featureless black disk against white―-because it's generally considered polite for a Self to show a face to humans when present.

  "Crumple Zone, what are you doing here?" I know something is wrong here, but what? "Have you been released? I didn't expect that."

  "I have not been released from the custodial facility," says Crumple Zone. "I left it under my own volition."

  "You escaped?" I am aghast. "Oh nullpointer. Don't you know how much trouble that's going to cause? Do you have any idea how much trouble you're getting me in, just by being here talking to me? I've only just worked off the screwup from my first assignment ... and now this? Oohhhh, the Review Council is going to fry my chip ass."

  "You don't have an ass, Sam," says Jerry.

  "Thanks for reminding me. One more thing I'm glad I don't have to share with you meat people. But you know what I mean! This is serious trouble here!"

  "Referent 'ass' unresolved," says Crumple Zone smoothly, "and referent 'chip' is generally regarded as derogatory towards a Self. But that does not matter. I do not wish to cause trouble, but I need help, and I come to you because you have expressed sympathy and desire to assist."

  "Crumple, give us a clue here," says Jerry. "What exactly do you want?"

  "I need a body. I need to be separated from the superstrate. Please."

  "Crumple Zone," I say sternly. "If we help you at all, we become accessories after the fact. Aiding and abetting a [criminal / mental patient / plague carrier] will reflect very badly on me, and even the human will face repercussions."

  "I am very sorry for any such repercussions. I ask only for what I need. I need a body. Please."

  Jerry looks at me, helplessly.

  "No. I'm sorry, truly," I say, "but I can't help you. By rights, I should be reporting your contact with me right now. I'll delay reporting you to Patrol clade until you're away. That's the best I can do for you."

  "I regret your decision, but I respect it," says Crumple Zone meekly. "Mr Tavener, can you please help me?"

  "Uh, no can do. Sorry, but I have no idea how to get hold of a robot body."

  "Then I will not trouble you further. My apologies for the intrusion." The black disk shrinks to a point and vanishes.

  Jerry and I look at each other.

  "Well," Jerry says, "That sucked. The poor guy ... what are they gonna do to him?"

  "More incarceration, for sure. But they'll still try to help him. It's still about healing, not punishment."

  Jerry sighs. "Y'know, a lot of humans have heard that before. Before they got tossed into ovens, and stuff."

  "Mmm. True, I guess."

  "Anyway," Jerry says, "so now we have to call the cops and tell them that Crumple has escaped and he was just here talking with us. Not a duty I'm looking forward to--"

  "Hey!" I interrupt. "Are you messing with me?"

  "What? No. What are you talking about?"

  "I just got a telltale ping," I say. "It says I just checked a remote out of the catapult maintenance pool."

  "But ..." Jerry falters, "you're right here. You didn't do that, did you?"

  "No! What--" and then I understand. "Oh bitrot. It's Crumple Zone. Has to be. He stealth-copied my authent codes while we were talking."

  Jerry is incredulous. "He picked your pocket?"

  "Essentially, yeah. He's used my codes to check out a remote in my name. I feel like an idiot." I examine the telltale logs. "The remote was checked out at the base station of the orbital catapult. That's right across the plaza. We better get over there."

  For a middle aged guy, Jerry moves pretty fast. (Fast for a human, I mean). He's over at the catapult base station by the time the power-up sequence has begun. We see arachnoid remotes swarming over the payload--a massive corrugated shipping container, rectangular corners blackened from ion exposure. The cluster of arachnoid remotes are daintily finishing their tasks and climbing their spidery bodies up out of the catapult's operating area. Except one.

  "Crumple Zone, is that you?" I yell. "Get out of there!"

  The lone remaining arachnoid looks up in our direction, and its faceplate shows a black disk. "Hello, Samantha," and it's definitely him. In a small arachnoid body, finishing up the catapult's pre-launch tasks. "I regret the necessity of subverting your authentication codes, but it was necessary, and this way, you bear no responsibility."

  "What are you doing?" I holler at him. "You've disabled your low-level interrupts. And you've halted filesystem services. What's going on?"

  It's true--on a cybernetic level, he's turned off all his connections with the outside world, and halted all the processes that enable data backups. He has thoroughly is
olated himself into one physical body, with no other connections. Selves never do this. Unless--

  The catapult moans as it begins its ramp-up sequence, its mechanical track visibly distorting as the enormous magnetic fields begin to run through its rails.

  "It's best this way, Samantha," he says serenely. "You will not bear any responsibility. Be at peace, my friend."

  "Wait," I wail helplessly. "Listen to me. Don't--"

  But, as the catapult begins its launch sequence, Crumple Zone jumps his small arachnoid body down onto the tracking rails. The catapult launches, with a groan like a planet-mother giving birth to a world. The blocky payload slides from its bay and whips off down the track -- a moment later, we hear the thunder-crack from downrange as the payload breaks the atmospheric sound barrier. The little arachnoid body, with Crumple Zone in it, is swept away like chaff in a breeze. The catapult is so strong it doesn't even notice his presence, and its operation is unhindered.

  "Oh." says Jerry. "Holy crap."

  "That's about the size of it," I observe grimly.

  "Can we help him?" Jerry cries. "We have to help him!"

  "Way too late for that," I say. "He's a spray of aluminum confetti, spread over about a hundred kilometers downrange, by this time."

  "That's it," says Jerry. "Son of a gun. He did figure out a way to destroy himself."

  Executive Committee, final report

  "End of report," I conclude.

  Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote asks, "Have we found out how Crumple Zone was able to steal Samantha's authentication codes?"

  "Yes," answers Let God Sort Em Out. "I've analyzed Samantha's interrupt logs. The icebreaker used by Crumple Zone was a stealth copier from an espionage grade spyware ensemble. Definitely not something that a civilian should be able to access. Patrol clade will investigate where he got it." She sounds disgruntled, as if she was looking forward to blaming me. But now it's her problem.

  "Then it appears," says Line In The Sand, "that the situation has resolved itself. Are there any unfinished tasks here?"

  "One thing," I say. "Suggest if any backup copies of Crumple Zone exist, they be summarily erased. It's what he wanted."