Citizen D

by wade coleman

He was gonna say ‘not smart enough.’

  “You’re staring,” Gage says. “Does that mean you’re thinking?”

  “Remembering,” I reply. Robots won’t stand for a one-word answer, even though they give them all the time.

  “Could you elaborate?” Gage asks.

  “High school graduation,” I answer, knowing that this will not satisfy him.

  “That must have been very exciting,” Gage says.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, I’m not the excitable type.”

  “Okay, I understand that. How did you feel?”

  “I was sad because I couldn’t go to college.”

  “Yes, I see that now. You have good GPA and motivated student. What did you want to study?”

  “Ancient,” I say.

  “Ancient?” Gage asks.

  “Yes, Ancient, the language.”

  “I understand now. The metal tablets found on Mars. You want to read them.”

  “Yeah, I want to read and write Ancient.”

  “Okay, how would you go about that?”

  “Well… I could learn how to write the letters.”

  CHAPTER 6

  I’m sitting at my desk practicing letters. I use a broad felt pen and draw a square. It’s one of the letters in Ancient.

  Three universities have studies in Ancient: Oxford, New York, Sorbonne and Cairo University. Students must sign a confidentiality agreement to study Ancient Martian.

  I can’t make bloody heads or tails of the letters. Seven letters look like the English O. One is an regular O. Another O seemslike the Greek Thetaθ. Another one looks like PhiΦ, but the vertical line doesn’t poke through. A few more have squiggly tales like a Q, but the squiggle points in different directions.

  I did some research on the Martian Tablets. They’re an alloy aluminum. A total of a little over a million letters on 311 tablets. There are forty letters. Right now, I’m practicing the symbol that looks like a backward lower case “r.”

  “Your handwriting is improving,” Gage says while pretending to clean.

  I say nothing and continue with my letters.

  Gage wheels over. “Your hand is cramping.”

  I hand him my right hand, and he massages it while I continue making my letters with my left.

  Gage has been my robot helper for the last two months. He knows I don’t talk much, so he’s used to me not responding.

  “What did the Rabbi tell you?” Gage asks.

  “He thinks the letter that looks like the X is the Hebrew Alephא.” I draw it. “And the letter that looks like a backwardr is Reshר.” I draw it for him.

  “How about the one that looks like a plus sign?”

  “He thinks that’s a Phoenician Taw.”

  “Three people that told you the same thing,” Gage says.

  “I’ll call the letters A, R, and T for now.”

  I finish using the piece of paper and rip it off the tablet.

  Gage takes the paper and puts it in a metal box with a slot on top.

  Still writing left-handed on the new sheet, I ask, “Explain to me again why paper and plastic bags are controlled items?”

  “Do you know this will be the sixteenth time I told you?”

  “Yes,” I say and practice one of the five variations of the Ancient R.

  “Adam, why do you want to hear the same story again? You have an excellent memory; you could probably tell it yourself.”

  “I like stories that I know the ending. That way there are no surprises. Besides, you won’t let me watch TV.”

  “I’m trying to encourage you to talk more,” Gage says.

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “People make small talk. It’s how people get to know each other on a subconscious level before sharing the more intimate details of their life.”

  “My life is boring,” I reply. “The story of paper is interesting.”

  Gage sighs. “There’s a finite amount of space on Earth. We must make room for each species of plants and animal, so they have a place to live.”

  That means we have to move people into smaller spaces. That’s why real estate or land is so expensive. Worldwide, there are thousands of acres of books that need to be scanned in and preserved before recycling the paper. Before we create any more paper, we have to get rid of the old paper first. That’s the law.”

  “Who is the law?”

  “The world government,” Gage replies. “Didn’t you learn civics in high school?”

  “Class D citizens can’t vote, so we don’t take those classes.”

  “It’s time,” Gage says and stops massaging my hand.

  A month has passed, and I have an appointment with Dr. Kline. I get up and head to the door with Gage following me.

  “Doctor Kline is a good guy. He’s just a little arrogant at times.”

  I shrug and “I never noticed,” and then opening the door to my apartment.

  “Of course you don’t,” Gage replies and shuts the door behind me.

  I get in the elevator and head down to the lobby. Most of the residents of Damien Court are class C and D citizens. About half our patients of the Royal Hospital and the rest have jobs.

  Class C citizens are class D citizens with jobs. Somehow, they got to the next level.

  I walk north up Cavell Street and finger the gift card in my hand. It’s the one the emergency room crew found stuffed halfway up my ass. It has 22,500 credits on it.

  Actors on reality TV shows get paid depending on their ratings. I put on a good show. Since I watched a lot of TV, so I know what sells: violence, pretentiousness, and vulgarity.

  Pretentiousness is one of my new vocabulary words a day. Gage likes words. He likes saying random words in iambic pentameter.

  My ability to take a punch and swing my dick made for excellent ratings. It could be my next super-power. Whenever I did something weird, Zane called it a super-power.

  I turn left on Stepney Way and walk inside where a screen tells me to go to the third floor. On the wall, lights shaped like arrows lead me to a door, and I step inside. Dr. Kline is looking at his tablet. He motions for me to sit.

  “I’m reviewing Gage’s latest report.” He looks at it and smiles, then chuckles. He puts down the tablet. “I can say now you’re on the road to a full recovery. At the rate you’re progressing, that should take four to six months.”

  He looks at me and studies my face.

  I study him studying my face.

  “That’s good news,” he says.

  “Yes, it is. That means in six months I’ll be returning to my old apartment.”

  He looks down. “Yes, son, that’s right. I wish there were more I could do for you.”

  “There is,” I say and study his expression. Both of his eyebrows go up and then he lowers them. He must have seen something on my face because he looks at me and smiles.

  “Alright, let’s hear your pitch.”

  “I need a computer that no one can steal from me.”

  “For your research into Ancient Martian?” he asks.

  “Yes. Now I have access to the Royal Hospital computer and internet portal. After physical therapy, I won’t have access to paper. I need a computer.”

  I hold out the gift card. I did some research. “You can replace my skull with synthetic bone and put in a one cubic centimeter computer.”

  He takes the gift card, scans it and looks at the screen. “You know you’re trying to bribe me with less than a week’s pay?”

  “Is that a no?” I ask.

  “You can buy a ten cubic centimeter computer for five hundred credits. For another credit, you can get a cable and plug it into any TV set. Then you have a monitor, voice commands and access to the net.”

  “If you leave valuables in your room, it’s stolen,” I reply to the doctor. “If you take it with you, it’s only a matter of time before some gang shakes you down and finds it.”

  I look him in the eye and furro
w my eyebrows. Gage says that the facial expression means serious. So I furrow my eyebrows to by empathetic and say, “If I lose my computer, I’ve lost all my research and have to start all over again.”

  He raises one eyebrow. “This isn’t a ploy to get a synthetic skull so you can hit harder?”

  I thought he might ask that question, so I thought up the answer in advance.

  “I need my brains to decipher Ancient, I reply.”

  Dr. Kline scratches his chin.

  He’s thinking. Gage has been showing me faces while I try to figure out what emotion the faces show. When I started a month ago, I was doing slightly better than chance, except for the expression of anger. I got 100% on that one.

  “What are you thinking about?” Dr. Kline says.

  “Faces.”

  He nods for me to go on.

  “Figuring out emotions on faces and using that information when communicating.”

  “How’s that going?” he asks.

  “It’s fucking exhausting.”

  He smiles and nods. “Alright, I’ll put in a new skull and computer. But first, I want to see you smile.”

  I smile.

  “Okay, stop that. That’s a grimace; it looks like you’re having a bowel movement.” He types on his tablet. “Assuming Gage teaches you how to smile, I’m charging your gift card three thousand credits for material costs for the procedure.” He hands the card back.

  Dr. Kline stands up, and I get up to go.

  “I’ll see you in a month.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Today is graduation day. That’s what Gage calls it. It’s my last day in a five hundred square foot apartment with a desk, chair, and paper. I can’t even take one piece of paper back home. Everything gets recycled.

  I take a long hot shower and then dress, thinking about what has happened over the last six months.

  Doctor Kline put in the new skull bones and a one cubic centimeter computer. He also replaced my ear bones. So my ear bones talk to the skull bones which communicate to my computer.

  The doctor also replaced my optic nerves with synth nerves. They are just like regular optic nerves except they grow connections to the synth bone in my skull. Now my eyeballs are connected to the computer.

  I have a typing program installed on the computer. The computer sends a signal to the eyes, and I see a translucent keyboard. I can type sixty words per minute. It’s part of my hand and eye coordination therapy. That’s how Doctor Kline filled it out on the paperwork. I don’t know why they call it paperwork because they don’t fill out papers. Doctors just push buttons on their tablets.

  The weird part is my eyes talk to computers. The data crystal in my head uses my eyes to transmit information to the crystals on the other side of the big screen TV. If you think about it, these crystals form a massive silicon matrix connected by light.

  I did an internet search. There’s a little over a square kilometer of computer crystals. I wonder if it’s self-aware?

  I wonder what the crystals talk about? Computers should have their own YouTube channel. That way humans can see what the computers find interesting.

  It’s these new brain cells; I keep have random thoughts.

  Maybe this vast silica crystal wants to spread out, and that’s why the A.I. at Royal Hospital approved my skull computer. All these new brain cells are asking a lot of questions and no answers.

  I look in the mirror and smile; I have perfect teeth. My mouth crinkles up, but my eyes remain neutral. The muscles around the eyes have atrophied from lack of use.

  I walk out into the kitchen where Gage has made breakfast. The eggs are eyes and bacon is shaped like a happy face. I smile at Gage.

  “That’s good, that’s very good,” he says and smiles back.

  I eat my breakfast.

  “I’ve enjoyed serving you. I’ve never met a human who didn’t lie to me. It’s probably because you haven’t spoken a total of twenty minutes in the last six months.”

  I continue eating.

  “But you do keep secrets. You didn’t tell the whole truth about the skull computer.”

  I shrug and clean my plate.

  “You’ve been reading books on poker and blackjack odds,” Gage says.

  “It’s not illegal to gamble.”

  “What happens if the gambling house finds out you’re using a computer?”

  “You never gamble at a gambling house. That’s what Zane said; the odds were against you. The best odds were a curbside game of craps with drunks. Just bet against the pass line.”

  “So… where do you gamble?” Gage asks.

  “Coffee shops. People rent a table, drink coffee and play cards all day. Some places play with real credits. I can make some extra cash for upgrades.”

  “It’s good to see you have goals,” Gage says. “And you do have an excellent poker face.”

  “Yeah… for the first time since high school, I have something to look forward to when I get up.”

  I pick up my possessions: a change of clothes, cell phone, and a pocket computer. “Thanks for everything.”

  “You have come a long way in a short amount of time,” he says and shakes my hand.

  I try to think of something nice to say. “You cut perfect squares in peanut butter sandwiches. You’re good at compensating for the thickness of the peanut butter-bread boundary layer to get the corners just right.”

  “You noticed.”

  “Details like that just jump out at me,” I say, and I pick up the bag.

  Gage opens the door, and we bump fist on my way out.

  I don’t bother to look back. I have to get my head ready for what’s next, returning to the D citizen ghetto. Where gangs shake you down, and violence is the favorite past time.

  I bought a ten cubic centimeter computer as a bribe. You can’t come back from medical leave without something fancy to steal. I even left on the price tag so they can trade it in for something they like.

  It’s the little things you provide to the neighborhood bullies to keep them happy and not beating your ass.

  I hop on a trolley that’s heading for Ilford. Class D districts house one hundred thousand people in a square mile. Once a violent offender serves his prison time, he’s demoted to a D citizen and ends up here.

  The C districts are five thousand per square mile. Class B is three thousand. I couldn’t find any information on class A districts.

  I put my hand on the computer in my pocket. Computers are rated by volume. The brain of a computer is the crystal that fits into a slot. The one cubic centimeter of silica-carbon-oxygen crystal flashes light signals back and forth to other crystals inside the computer frame. A 1 cc computer can handle most standalone programs. To run an artificial personality, you need what’s in my pocket – a ten cc computer.

  The trolley gets closer to Ilford; you can tell by the number of people in the streets. The closer I get to home, the fatter they get. Their faces are set in a scowl or maybe pain.

  I tuck my bag with a change of clothes tight under my arm and step off the trolley. Within a few seconds, I’m in the flow of the foot traffic. After a few blocks, I walk into the neat rows and columns of forty story high rises. Through a maze of identical buildings, my feet take me home: HR1348.

  I walk in the front door and head to the elevator. I press the button and wait. Two large men stand behind me. I know them. They’re part of the 48 gang. The last two numbers of our building are the gang name. Once they add the new skyscrapers, the number of buildings goes over a thousand. They’ll have to change the system when that happens.

  I get in the elevator, and they follow. “Adam-177, it’s been what…?”

  “Six months,” I say.

  “I saw your beat down,” the smaller man says. “Inspiring to see just how much punishment a body can take… and now you’re a picture of health.”

  “Yeah, Harry’s crew cracked open my head like a fucking melon.”

  “No shit,” the guy on the left says.
>
  I smile. “Look at my teeth. All fake.”

  “Those are nice teeth,” the small man says, and the elevator door opens. They step out onto the 35th floor and follow me to my room.

  “Notice how your door isn’t kicked in?” The biggest guy says. That’s because we knew were on vacation. Now that your back, it’s time to get caught up.” He looks at the bulge in my pocket.

  I reach in and take the computer out.

  The smaller man takes it.

  “It’s for my therapy,” I mutter as the obligatory protest.

  “If you want more therapy, we can send you back.” The small guy says.

  After the exchange of goods for not getting your ass kicked, they leave. I put my hand on the reader and the door clicks. I open it and walk inside.

  It smells like stale whiskey. That’s because bottles litter the floor. I survey my small flat. The tile is sticky with the stuff, so I stop in my tracks.

  I think for a minute. I don’t remember the last time I’ve cleaned my room. Living with Gage has given my standards.

  I turn around and push the intercom button. “Hello, HR1348.”

  “Hello, Adam-177,” the buildings A.I. says. “How can I help you?”

  “I’d like my room clean… please.”

  “Yes, Adam,” a pleasant woman's voice says. “That will be twenty credits. May I charge your account?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Take everything except the bed, clothes, and headphones to the trash.”

  “Why don’t you go to the media room and wait,” the A.I. says, “Once they finish, I’ll send a text.”

  “Thank you. Do you have a name?”

  “I like ‘Mother.’”

  “Okay, Mother, I’ll be in the media room. Where is that?”

  “Every floor has a media room where you can access the internet, watch movies and play games. Just turn right and walk past the elevators. It’s halfway down the hall on the left.

  I leave my bag of clothes on the bed and walk back into the hallway. I haven’t had a reason to go online since high school. Gage made me set up an email account. He said it would help me connect with people.

  Dr. Kline said the part of my brain that connects the two halves was ‘thin.’ He injected more cells along the length plus a bunch of other spots where the tests said the signals passing through the brain was slow - or something like that.