Citizenchip Read online

  "who what now?" is the family's vague response.

  Leo is pleased to be the center of attention. "Xibalba, it's a settlement in the eastern Tharsis plain. There's a Self who says a human is keeping her a prisoner. The Self wants control of her own hardware, and the human won't let her, and local authorities are getting all bent out of shape over it."

  Jerry says, over a mouthful of shrimp, "We humans control our own bodies, and brains. Seems like Selves ought to be able to control their own too."

  "Well, look at me and don't laugh," I respond. "I got enough trouble running the tractor." Giggles and snickers run around the dinner table.

  "Seriously!" says Rebecca. "I heard about this. It's a question of Self rights, and they're saying it's going to go all the way to the Supreme Court. I mean, they shouldn't have to beg for a place to exist. We don't."

  Lily comments, "Some people think Self rights are hard to justify. We have all these needs because we have bodies, but they don't have bodies. So, according to the law, they don't have needs either."

  "That's just wrong," states Rebecca flatly. "They're people. The law recognizes that. They think and feel, just like we do, and they ought to have the same rights we do."

  "Rebecca," I chuckle, "if I had cheeks, I'd blush."

  "Come on, Sam! You know what I mean," she grins. "If you could own stuff, what would you want?"

  "Well ... I would like to own my own processing Core, and a reliable power source for it. That's about it."

  "Wouldn't you want a body of your own?"

  "Eh. Overrated. Too many needs, like your mom said."

  Leo interrupts, "Mom? What's wrong?"

  Lily is staring with an odd and puzzled look on her face. Her mouth works as if she were a fish without water. Suddenly she stands up, knocking over her chair, and puts her hand on her throat. Her body is heaving as if she's trying to spit something out.

  The house medscan squeals. Respiration zero.

  "Choking!" I yell. "Help her cough it out."

  Jerry is scrambling to his feet, saying "Aw hell ... Lily, what?"

  Immediately I send a priority interrupt to the nearest medical center, which is in Schiaparelli. Their medevac team acknowledges, and sends me a data bundle of emergency responses and techniques, with assurances that they're scrambling a flyer.

  But what can I do? I don't have any remotes anywhere near the kitchen. Because the family said they wanted to cook on their own tonight. Meatrot. The felinoid remote is recharging in its maintenance bay, and it'll take an agonizingly long time to decycle the charger and reboot it and get it moving. Meatrot! I issue it the commands to decycle and reboot, and start scanning for alternatives.

  I scream to all the remotes: Emergency, converge on the kitchen, maximum speed, now! In the bubbles, the heavy robocrabs drop their tools and move towards the house as fast as they can.

  Which is dreadfully slow. Nowhere near enough to get them here in time to make any difference.

  Lily is clawing at her throat, panic rising in her eyes. Jerry is reaching his fingers into her mouth, trying to get whatever it is. The kids are sort of frozen, not really understanding what's going on.

  The house medscan is still squealing. Respiration zero, zero, zero! Not helping. I disable that alarm.

  "Heimlich maneuver," I say, and flash a slideshow on the kitchen monitor that shows how to do it.

  Frantically, I search for other alternatives. Flopsy Bunny has answered my call and hovers anxiously next to Melissa, who's watching Jerry wrap his arms around his wife and shove his fist into her abdomen. Lily is struggling, and he's trying to handle her, but not managing very well. I can't think of anything Flopsy Bunny can do to help, except be with Melissa.

  I plunge into the kitchen lobster. I have twelve legs, and I crouch with them, and I raise my two big claws. Nope. No chance. Too weak, too clumsy, too slow.

  I am the stove, and I raise my spachelors (even though they're still covered with cooking grease), lift and reach towards Lily, but I can't think of any way I can use them to help. Meatrot!

  "It's not working!" Jerry cries, as Lily's eyes roll back in her head to show the whites, and her struggles subside into relaxation. A relaxation much too deep and final.

  Oh no. No no no. I will not let another human die on my watch.

  Not after I had to watch Jerry die.

  "Medevac flyer has been scrambled," I say, "They're on their way. Be here in about fifteen minutes."

  Jerry shoots me an agonized look that says what we both know. She'll be dead before then.

  I send another priority interrupt to Schiaparelli regional control, asking if there's any way to get any kind of faster evacuation. Mumble mumble. No.

  Jerry has laid Lily down and tries to push on her stomach. The children are standing huddled, staring aghast at their mother's unconscious body on the floor.

  "Saaam!" Jerry roars, despairingly.

  (From behind my mind, Beta sneers. Is this all you got, nimrod? Watching humans die, while you show pictures on a screen? Think! There has to be something else you can do!)

  But my deeper self answers We're smart enough that we've already run through all possible options. Being hyperintelligent can really suck sometimes.

  Jerry is pressing Lily's throat and sticking fingers into her mouth, desperately. He's pale and shaking, starting to go into shock.

  Chime. The felinoid remote has rebooted. Finally! I fire it out of its maintenance bay and set it running upstairs at maximum speed. I know what to do and I finally have the means to do it.

  "Jerry, go cut a section of the sink sprayer's hose. Ten centimeters or so should be good. Go!"

  Jerry nods, gulps, and scrambles himself over to the kitchen sink.

  I land on my cat feet next to Lily. She lies very still. Her lips are turning blue. Medscan shows heartbeat fast but becoming erratic, blood oxygenation the equivalent of flatline.

  I press cat paws on Lily's solar plexus and push. No good. I can't do anything like a Heimlich with this little cat body. I try to reach a limb into her mouth and down her throat. No good. Can't reach. This cat body wasn't designed for anything like this.

  "Oh gods," Rebecca whimpers. The kids are still huddled and frozen, staring. "Oh gods, Mom, please don't die." Melissa starts crying. Knives clatter as Jerry fumbles for the serrated slicing knife.

  "What ..." Leo seems empty, but still lucid. "What's the hose for?"

  Jerry says in a rush, "It's called a, a tracheotomy.” He's sawing at the hose with the serrated knife. "Mom's going to be okay, don't worry. Sam will take care of it. Mom'll be all right. Sam knows what to do."

  Hopefully I'm hiding how afraid I am better than they are.

  The house medscan wails. Lily's heartbeat is slowing, and even more erratic.

  "Got it!" calls Jerry, carrying the bit of hose over.

  "Good. Hold her head back."

  From the miniature Swiss army knife set of attachments in my paws, I extend a short and sharp blade.

  "Holy crap," Leo cries, "you're not gonna--"

  "Shush!" Jerry says, holding Lily's head back. "Sam knows what she's doing."

  At the base of the throat, vertical incision, three centimeters. Blood flow is minimal ... which means heart function is weakening. This exposes the trachea, which is tough fibrous tissue. Horizontal incision of two centimeters.

  Melissa is crying, wordlessly, clinging to her siblings. Leo watches, his face pale, as his mother's blood trickles down and pools on the floor. Rebecca looks shocked but distant, like she doesn't really believe what she's seeing.

  I've cut through the trachea, and I try to pry it open. "Jerry, press her head back. Stick the hose in there. Yeah, right in there. Push it in. Push!" And I kick Lily in the belly.

  A gasp, rough and harsh, followed by a phlegmy cough, and Lily is hacking and gasping and coughing, with a very strange sound, through the hose stuck through the wound in her neck.

  That night

  It was a partic
ularly large shrimp, the medevac Selves tell me. They ask me if I want it as a souvenir, and I tell them to throw the damn thing in the recycler. Then they want to tell me about the evolution of the human neck, and upright posture, and how the ability to speak makes humans the only mammals that can choke. I tell them to buzz off, and break that connection.

  The other connection is a video feed from the Schiaparelli Medical infirmary. Lily is in a nondescript hospital bed, with an IV taped to the back of her hand, and bandages around her neck. "I really don't like this room," she says. Her voice is hoarse and rough, but it's hers. "I wish I could be home, but they say they have to keep me overnight for observation. Probably just padding their quotas, I think."

  Jerry smiles. "Babe, it makes me happy enough, just to hear you bitching about it." The kids giggle, all sitting around him. The giggles have some nervousness to them, some embarrassment watching their parents spar. But below that, there's a deeper level of relief and homecoming. Mom's still here, and she's still Mom ... still complaining.

  Lily chuckles, and closes her eyes. "I do want to talk more, but I'm really wiped out. I guess I should sleep now. Kids, do your homework. Jerry, hon, remember to clean the rebreather filters. Samantha ... take care of the place."

  We will, sings the chorus, and Lily closes the connection.

  In the quiet, the only sound is the ticking of the kitchen lobster. It has carried sponges in its claws, and is slowly and patiently washing away Lily's blood from the kitchen floor.

  Jerry sighs, with a depth like a mountain avalanche. "Samantha. Am I ever glad you were here." He puts a hand on my cat head and tousles it. Even though this body doesn't have many touch sensors there, and even though it must be hard cold metal under his skin, it feels good.

  "Nowhere else I'd want to be," I reply.

  "You remember when that Review Board was all on your case about the Hesperis climb?"

  "That was where I got you killed."

  "That was where you saved everyone else!" he insists. "You were awesome, Sam. You did the best you could in an awful situation, and saved as many people as you could. Just because I was the one you couldn't save, doesn't make it bad."

  "Thank you, Jerry," I say humbly.

  "No prob. And now you better believe I'm gonna give the Review Board a big fat report about how you saved Lily's life." He looks around at his children. "Kids, what do you say?"

  "Thank you Samantha!" they chorus. I glow in the attention They're thanking me for saving their mother's life.

  The next night

  Same time the next night, and the kids are packed off to bed. Lily is watching Phobos pass silently across the sky, and Jerry comes up behind her. She has only minimal bandages on her neck, now, and there are a few pills she's supposed to take. She's holding something small in her hand, rolling it and turning it in her fingers.

  "I miss Luna," she says. "This here," waving at Phobos, "this isn't really a moon. It's just a dot. When you're on Earth, watching Luna rising. Now that's a moon."

  "If you say so, hon," Jerry says, kissing her neck. "Come to bed, okay?" He retreats to the bedroom.

  Lily is still watching Phobos, and still silent. Still rolling whatever it is in her fingers. I know she wants to say something about yesterday's incident, but I'm not going to push.

  "I feel like an idiot for swallowing that shrimp wrong," she says.

  "I don't have a throat, so I wouldn't know," I say. "Sorry I had to cut your neck open, ma'am."

  She barks a short, harsh laugh. "Saved my ass, Samantha, and I don't forget things like that." She sighs. "Poor kids, they were so scared. Me, too."

  I have nothing to add to this.

  "One thing," she says. "Stop with the 'ma'am' business. Makes me feel like an old lady."

  "No problem," I say. "Lily."

  She snickers, nods, and sets the thing on the mantel, like a piece of art. It's the little section of hose. She steps back to observe how it looks there, nods again, and walks back into the bedroom to join her husband.

  It's night on Mars. The farm machinery is ticking over, in maintenance mode. Several of the agriculture bubbles need harvesting, and we'll have to get to that tomorrow. Rebreathers and oxygen systems are all working okay, with decent reserve supplies. The kids are all asleep, and the parents--oh dear--those noises coming from their bedroom mean they must be doing their animal reproduction thing. I've never told them how embarrassing I find this. But it doesn't matter, much, I guess.

  Not quite all asleep. Melissa is in the bathroom, getting herself a drink of water. I appear as a pair of eyes on the bathroom monitor.

  "Lissa? You okay?" I ask.

  "Yeah, I'm good," she says happily, filling her water cup. "Mom and Dad are doin' the humpy. Can you hear them? I can hear them."

  "Yeeaaaah," I admit, not quite sure how to respond to this.

  She nods and grins. "They're totally doin' it! They do love each other!"

  "If you say so," I say. "Bed, now, okay?"

  And, as I send Melissa to bed with her water cup, and the farm is quiet, the clocks are stopped at midnight, and the parents are enacting the most ancient ritual of the human race ... I realize that I understand another one of those human concepts, that I've puzzled over before, and not comprehended. But now I do.

  Home.

  4. The Naming Of Cats

  The kids' first reaction, when they hear, is all too predictable. "Samantha's got a boyfriieend!" they chorus.

  Oh, I will never, ever hear the end of this.

  The kids are all gathered around my monitor, eager to hear more. Rebecca's brassy braids and hazel eyes frame a sly, knowing smirk. Leo is tentatively grinning, blue eyes glancing from one of his sisters to the other under his mop of brown hair. Melissa, little blonde elf that she is, is barely able to contain her glee.

  "If you are quite finished," I sigh, "Like Tears In Rain is not a boy, and we're a long way from any kind of relationship of the type you're implying."

  Little Melissa squeals, "But you like him. You liiike him!" With all the intonation and implications that humans ascribe to personal flesh relationships.

  "Will you get off of that? You humans are so obsessed with sex, it's like there's nothing else. I just invited him here because he's never been on a farm, and you've never spent time with an artist and arts teacher, so I figured it would be good for both of you."

  Melissa pouts. "So you don't like him?"

  Leo adds, "She means, you don't want to sizz him?" He leers … or an unreasonable facsimile thereof.

  "I told you already, syzygy is not sex, and I'm way not ready for that anyway! He's the curator of the Schiaparelli art museum, did you miss that? You kids should learn more about art, and this is a perfect way to do it."

  Rebecca groans theatrically. "Oh no, not more learning."

  "Yes, more learning. It's called growing up. Get used to it."

  Leo offers, "So, this artist curator guy, is going to teach us about art? Do we get school credit for this?"

  "Yes on the teaching, but I don't know about the credit. I'll make a note to check with school.

  "And see, here he is." The house telltales announce the arrival of another Self over our provincial network, and I activate the controls to allow entry. But oh – it's not Like Tears In Rain. The screen displays an icon of an abstract human face, sharp cheekbones, chiseled eyes, square jaw, with a stylized police badge centered on its forehead.

  Let God Sort Em Out says, "Hello, human-name. Wish I could say it's a pleasure."

  "You. What are you doing here?"

  "My job!" barks Let God Sort Em Out. "Samantha, you are under Net-local arrest."

  "What?" Rebecca yells, jumping to her feet.

  "Young lady," says Let God Sort Em Out sternly, "please do not interfere. By authority of Patrol clade, I am apprehending a suspect in a number of computational crimes across the province. Look," and a window pops up showing a list of criminal complaints with dates, times, and other data. "All the ide
nt and authent codes on these events belong to Samantha. That's plenty of evidence for arrest."

  "But …" I stammer, "I didn't do that. Something's screwed up here. This has to be identity theft."

  "Are you in the habit of letting your identity get stolen?"

  "Experienced it, in Tharsis Central, some time ago. Big tub of no fun. I've strengthened my personal crypto and security since then. Collating my security logs now – here, take it [databurst]. I haven't done anything wrong."

  Let God Sort Em Out examines the databurst skeptically.

  Leo speaks, suddenly and clearly. "You must remand the suspect to human custody upon personal request. CEBRA appendix two, article six. I request, um, custody. Of the suspect."

  "Huh. Correct. Do you assume full responsibility?"

  "I do assume full responsibility." Leo is facing the unmoving, flint-hard police face on the monitor, and not flinching. The house medscan shows how his heartbeat is racing, and I block nonlocal access to that information. No need to let anyone else see.

  "Pulling flank, at your age," Let God Sort Em Out grunts. "Not going to end well. Logged. Custody remanded. But we need a solution to this problem, human-name. Forty-eight hours, no more. Or you'll be dealing with a whole lot worse than just me."

  I say icily, "Received and understood."

  "Very well. Here is the databundle relevant to the case." Let God Sort Em Out transmits it directly to Leo's slate, pointedly ignoring me. The police face icon shrinks and vanishes.

  Leo relaxes, visibly.

  Rebecca pronounces, “What an asshole.”

  Melissa asks, "What's 'pulling flank' mean?"

  "Using human authority over Selves. 'Pulling rank' is use of authority in the human military. 'Flank' is a particular cut of cow meat."

  "Ew. Cow meat? Gross."

  Leo slaps his thigh. "Anyway, me and my flank here say we're not gonna let that goon hassle Sam."

  "But," I point out, "that means we have to find whoever it is -- whoever's trashing my reputation -- in two days, or else I'm segfaulted."

  Melissa cries, "We'll help!"

  "I know you will, honey, but I'm going to need a lot of help here."