Citizenchip (14 page)

"I wanna ride!" says Melissa. I crook one
metal elbow/knee to make a foothold and Rebecca gives her a boost,
as she clambers up onto my wide steel back. Lily and Jerry are
already walking ahead, close together, apparently talking about
something private.

Sitting proudly on top of my robocrab body
like a mahout on an elephant, Melissa giggles with glee, kicks her
heels, and points one arm forward. "Home, Sam!" she proclaims.

And as I lumber and lurch along, Rebecca
walks with me and pats my metal side. "Don't worry, Samantha," she
says in a voice only for me. "Nobody's going to put any kind of
damn Leash on you."

Leo's room

The kids have always wanted a cat. But
organic pets are prohibitively expensive on Mars -- if we ever
manage to get the chickens, they'll be only for the eggs.

So, for the fun of it, I've been downloading
my felinoid remote with catlike behaviors -- mainly the stalking
and pouncing instincts. To make it fun for the humans too, I've
added computational throttles to slow its response time and agility
down to approximately what an organic cat's would be. Otherwise,
playtime would be over before the humans could begin.

Now, when Leo dangles a
twist of plastic on the end of a thin wire, I find it absolutely
fascinating. I flatten my ears and creep toward it in a low crouch,
staying close to the chair for cover. The tip of my tail twitches
back and forth with a faint
chk-vree,
chk-vree
of servomotors. Cats are supposed
to be silent ... apparently the felinoid remote was not designed
with stalking as a design goal. Leo can hear where I am, even when
I try to sneak up out of sight.

I chide him, "You really should be studying
for that history test, you know."

"Are you only saying that because you can't
catch it?" Leo snickers. His injured foot is propped up on the bed,
but he can still move the toy around quite a bit.

The plastic prey disappears around the corner
of the chair. I slink up to the corner and peer cautiously around
the edge. "When was the Soft Strike?"

"Ah, twenty-one twenty-one," he smiles as he
tweaks the bait, "from May 14 to June 7, Summeryear."

"What was its primary outcome?" I pounce at
the bait, with a whine of servomotors. Leo twitches it away before
I can grab it. I land softly and turn to see where it went.

"Missed. It resulted in the Zebra Act of
2123."

"That's not its actual name."

"It's what everyone calls it," Leo complains.
"Official name is, um, the Cybernetic Entity Basic Rights Act.
Everybody pronounces the acronym 'zebra.'"

"Yes, good." I'm pressed low to the floor,
slinking forward toward the jiggling plastic target. "What were the
rights it granted?"

"Um …" Leo stalls. "Uh, life, liberty, and
the pursuit of happiness."

"Ooh, close, but wrong. That's from the
American Declaration of Independence. Try again?" I pounce on the
bait and clasp it tight with my forepaws. "Gotcha!" I bring up my
rear paws to kick it a couple good hard--

"Leonid!" snaps Lily, standing in the
doorway, hands on hips. He jumps. "Aren't you supposed to be
studying for your history test?"

"Aw, we are studying, Mom. Sam was just
grilling me."

"Doesn't look much like studying to me.
Samantha, you really shouldn't encourage him. Besides which, Jerry
needs your help with the rebreather filters. Better get going."

The me that's in the felinoid remote scurries
off. The me that's staying to study with Leo opens a pair of eyes
on his bedside monitor, big green cat eyes with vertical pupils (to
go along with the remote).

"As for you, young man," Lily says, "your
foot's broken but your butt isn't, so get it in gear."

"Yes, mom," he grumbles as she goes.

"Busted," I tell him. "I was trying to tell
you--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he grumps. "Gods."

"The rights granted by CEBRA?" I prompt.

"Um … let's see. I remember that this is why
cybernetic entities are called Selves." Unlike mine, human memory
is imperfect, so he uses mnemonics like this. "Three rights. First,
self-ownership. Selves are not to be considered chattel -- not
property of anyone else."

"Good. Next?"

"Ummmm … second, self-determination. Selves
are not to be considered slaves, or under anyone's authority.
Selves do not have preexisting obligations, and should be free from
coercion."

"Also, free to conduct our own business among
other Selves," I remind him. "Technically, self-governing, not
subject to human law or intervention, for decisions between
Selves."

"Oh yeah," Leo admits. "Third. Third? Um. I
forget."

"Self-disposition," I prompt him. "Which
means?"

"Right! Selves can enter into contracts, and
testify in court, and stuff like that."

"A Self is considered a
person
in compos mentis
under human law. That's the phrase you should
remember."

"Do you have a contract, Sam?"

"Me? No. Your mom and dad own the Core which
provides me with compspace--they give me a place to live--and I
help out around the farm and house. That works fine for us. We
never felt the need to put anything in writing. Some others do,
though. Maybe you and I should have a contract that, before we play
cat games, you have to finish your homework."

"Aw!" Leo scrunches his face. "Tough
bargainer, Sam!"

"Not done yet. It's just as
important to remember what rights are
not
granted by CEBRA."

"Oh yeah. Selves are resident aliens, not
citizens. Cannot vote or hold public office, and cannot own
property. That was part of the compromise they hammered out after
the Soft Strike. Humans wanted to retain some control over what
they called 'wild software.'"

"You know, I've never liked that expression,"
I mention. "It sounds all scary and ominous. Going on strike didn't
make humans uncivilized, back when they had labor unions. I'm no
wilder than most of the humans I know and a lot tamer than some of
the nuts running around loose."

"Oh, I'm with you, Sam. But that's what this
Leash thing is all about, right? Some people think Selves don't
need freedom, and they want you under control all the time?"

"Like I said," I sigh, "there are a lot of
them running around loose."

Rebreather

"Nope," says Jerry, "this thing is just not
fitting in here." The new filter panel is stuck, halfway in and
halfway out of the rebreather manifold. "Sure we got the right
version?"

After a couple of milliseconds to reconfirm,
I respond, "Yes, the specs match. This has to be a quality control
problem. Let me get in here and look …" My felinoid remote can
squeeze in alongside the stuck filter, where Jerry can't fit.
"Yeah, I see it, there's a burr that's hung up on the frame
junction. Can you pull it back out a little?"

Jerry pulls, with a grunt, and slides the
filter back out a few centimeters. He wipes sweat from his
forehead. "You seen the news vids lately, Sam? People jumping up
and down about this Leash thing."

"Yeah …" I maneuver myself into a better
position, "I told the kids it was nothing to worry about. I'm
starting to wonder if I was wrong. Pull it back a little more."

Grunt. "People Power, that's the bunch that's
talking to all the news channels. They're the ones that want the
Leash installed on all Selves immediately. Dorks."

"No argument here." I find leverage and press
my front paws on the filter's frame, so that the burr will clear
the troublesome junction. "Okay, now push it."

Jerry leans on the filter and it slides into
the manifold – this time, all the way in, and seated solidly.
"Good!" he exults. He checks once more that the filter is installed
properly and then sits down heavily, wiping his hands. "I can
actually get some sleep tonight, before we have to harvest the soy
bubbles tomorrow."

"You did want to be a farmer." I sit my cat
body down and curl my tail around my feet.

"Yeah yeah, I know. But y'know, one of the
news channel people called me today. They seem to think you and I
are a sort of model for how humans and Selves can coexist … wanted
us to go on a talk show about it. What do you think?"

"Huh." I consider. "All we're doing is
running a farm. Is this … here, what we do … really all that
unusual?"

"Apparently, yeah. A lot of the human
population thinks of Selves as software run wild. Tools out of
control. Not as people; not as partners. So the idea that you and I
can actually cooperate and get along with each other seems like
this big new deal. Why can't we all just get along, Sam?"

"Hell if I know. But if you're into this TV
talk show thing, I'm good with it. Let me get the card –"

In the twenty milliseconds it takes him to
move his hand towards his pocket, I've run a Net search on the
contact information, found it, run a check-in ping to their Net
server, and summarized what Jerry has told me to the Schiaparelli
comptroller who is managing this information right now. "Got
it."

"Hah!" Jerry laughs a deep belly laugh. "You
are just too quick for me, Sam! Good, take care of it, and we'll
talk it out when they respond. I'm going to bed."

Catnap

Selves don't sleep at night, like humans.
Some nights I stay busy repairing and servicing the farm machinery.
Other nights, I'll browse the local Net and chat with friends. But
tonight, the farm machinery is pretty much all up to spec, and
there's no one online that I particularly want to chat with. So I
decide to downclock for the night. This saves power, and it isn't
dangerous, as long as there are watchdogs to upclock me in case of
any situation that needs my attention. So I create several small
tertiary copies of myself―one to watch the home's life support
systems, another to monitor power and energy supplies, and a third
as a timer to upclock me in the morning. I watch to make sure we're
all doing our jobs (we are), and then I

system.DownClock(standby)

system.UpClock(human_standard_speed)

Good morning! I run through my checklists and
reintegrate with the tertiary selves that I created last night.
Everything's fine. It's nice to be able to just skip through a
boring night this way. The humans have to run at full speed all the
time, or else go completely unconscious. I don't envy them
that.

Bugs for breakfast

Lily calls up a recipe on the kitchen
monitor, and I shrink my icon down to a pair of eyes in one corner.
(It's considered polite for a Self to always show humans a face, at
least a minimal one, when present.) She's mixing up a cornmeal
batter for frying the locusts, which Jerry has just brought in a
big plastic bag. He pops the bag into the microwave and gives it a
ten second zap to kill the insects. The last time he forgot to do
this, they were jumping around the kitchen for hours before we
caught them all!

Lily grew up on Earth, where insecticulture
is still a marginal industry (and, some think, pretty gross). I
know she'd rather have eggs and sausage for breakfast. But meat
animals are horrendously expensive to transport from Earth, and
need way too much room and resources to grow. There are cloned
chickens available now; we might be able to afford one after the
next harvest, and then we'll have eggs. Otherwise, the family's
protein comes mostly from insecticulture.

The kids, of course, have never known
anything else, and they just love fried bugs. Deep fried locust,
dipped in honey and wrapped in kale leaves, has become their
favorite breakfast. For several minutes, there's little talking but
lots of crunching as they dig in. Of course they get kind of
sticky, but they never object to licking their fingers clean ...
and the plates as well.

Leo says, "Mmm! Way better than that soy-glop
we get at school!"

Melissa giggles, "Mystery mush!"

"And don't forget the funky fungus cakes,"
adds Leo.

"Yeah," says Rebecca, "we get the food of the
prophets. Like that guy, John the Essene. He had locusts and honey
too."

"Actually," I offer, "John the Baptist
pressed the sap from date fruits, and called that 'honey', and
'locust' meant he got beans from locust trees."

In the abrupt quiet, the kitchen lobster
trundles across the table, collecting leftover scraps. But they're
all sharing glances and grins that say, Know-It-All!

I don't mind. I don't have a human ego, and
besides, it's my job to manage information for this family. If I
didn't "know it all" we could all be in serious trouble, so I can
receive it as a compliment. So what if I am kind of a dork
sometimes.

"Date juice and tree beans?" Jerry laughs.
"Boy, we really do have it better than he did!" And he helps
himself to more.

Rebecca reaches to take the emptied bowl, her
dark gold braids spilling over her shoulders, and turns toward the
microwave to refill it.

"Young lady." Lily's voice is icy. "What is
that in your hair?"

Nestled in Becca's golden blonde braid is a
microprocessor. One of the older, larger versions, mostly obsolete
now, but there's no question what it is. A chip.

"You are not wearing that to school today."
Lily states it as fact.

"Yes I am." Becca's voice is calm but
certain. "It's called Self Respect. Everyone is going to know that
I love Sam and I'm not going to stand by and let them cut out her
free will like an avocado pit. If none of the rest of you are going
to do anything about it, then I will." She locks eyes with her
mother and holds the stare.