Citizenchip (5 page)

"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 blushes, "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."

"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.
P
erhaps 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 Tavener, 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."