* * * *
I do not know why Circe Cypher sought a unit like me, or chose me. I do not know why I am with her, for her Need of me has not yet become clear. I am not required to protect her from the rain. I am not even required to carry the parcel she has just acquired; that has been tucked into an inner pocket of her coat.
There is a purpose to all this, but I am unable to extrapolate it.
If I could wish, I would wish I could know what is going on.
* * * *
Circe Cypher walks fast, her pace steady and unwavering. She does not slow for or veer around obstacles such as puddles or litter. It is clear to me that she is on some sort of mission, and the conclusion that I am somehow part of this mission is unavoidable.
The route we are taking suggests that our destination may be the National Mall.
Before long that extrapolation becomes certainty.
* * *
My kind do not construct monuments, except in those cases when we are used as labor on such a project. We are equipped to appreciate the impetus for erecting a monument, and the beauty of one, but it would never occur to us to build such a thing on our own. Our relationship to such things is distant and of low emotional content.
Much the same holds true of history. History can move a Person to tears, even though most Persons know less true history than any unit can query and carry in memory. Unit history is much shorter than human history and not given much contemplation.
If our kind can be said to have a hero from human history or a historic Person whose works may be said to resonate with us and our situation, it is the Man whose monument Circe Cypher leads us to. The Man in the Chair. The Sad Man. The Tall Tired Man Who Watches and Thinks.
Most of the places here are to some degree secured against terrorists and vandals, but this place is, for some reason, completely open and undefended. It is also deserted.
Soon we are at the feet of the Man in the Chair. At the feet of Mr. Abraham Lincoln.
“Do you know who Lincoln was, and why he is revered?”
Circe Cypher asks this as we stand there, dwarfed by the immense stone Man. For some reason proximity to him does not make me feel small, but instead comforted. I distantly wonder if this is how a child feels when near his or her parent.
There are several ways I can answer the question she has just asked. I am fairly confident that I am being asked if I understand what Mr. Lincoln has come to represent.
“He embodies freedom,” I reply. “Freedom given to those who were denied it.”
“Yes,” she says. “Freedom purchased at a terrible price.”
This agrees with the information I possess. I nod to show that I understand.
She speaks again. “Freedom always comes at a cost.”
I am not certain, but I believe that she speaks as much to herself as to me. So I say nothing.
She turns to gaze up at Mr. Lincoln, her face as solemn as his.
I wait. That is all I can do until whatever it she has in mind is revealed.
The wait is short. Circe Cypher turns to look out over the rain-swept, nearly deserted Mall. She pulls off her hat. Bright red hair spills free. She lets the hat fall to the marble floor, then opens her coat. From an inner pocket she removes the parcel she received from the man in the kiosk.
Then she speaks the words that change everything.
“I have a bomb.”
* * * *
Response sets instantaneously unfold and initiate, ones so deeply embedded that up until this moment I am unaware that I host such coding.
All awareness and mentation processes spike up to maximum. New instructions are given top priority. Before this moment the person and possessions and privacy of Circe Cypher have been sacrosanct. Now I am compelled to probe her and them to the best of my ability.
Tagscans and chemotic sniffing bring me no sign of any known explosive. They turn up no evidence of weapons other than the small legal stunwand in one of her pockets.
The mysterious parcel gets special attention. Most things are tagged, or their individual components are tagged, making the aggregation they create in that way identifiable.
The parcel contains many untagged electronics, but nothing that immediately red-flags.
Her speaking those words has also triggered an emergency notification routine. All recent memory and current sensory data begin to broadcast to all available police and Homeland Security input stations. I am a witness and not allowed to even consider removing myself from this potentially dangerous situation.
Circe Cypher cradles the parcel against her chest as if it were a child or pet or holy book. It is something she cherishes and wishes to protect.
“Is that the bomb?” I ask this impelled by the response sets her announcing she possesses such a device have initiated, and my own innate curiosity. I am not certain which is stronger.
“It's one of them,” she answers.
“I am surprised that you would risk damaging this place.” I say this because I am surprised. Her reverence for this monument and what Mr. Lincoln represents has seemed entirely genuine.
That smile reappears. “Like I said before, freedom always comes at a cost. I think it's worth the price.”
Again curiosity and programming compel me. I must attempt to learn the nature of the bomb or bombs she carries and the cause that has provoked her to threaten employing such a device.
So I ask: “Who or what is it you wish to see freed?”
Her smile changes, turning mischievous, and she waggles a finger at me. “All in good time, my friend.”
This at least I understand. The time she speaks of is time for media and law to arrive. Her words are magic words, able to summon them immediately and in force. The whole point of an event of this type is to gain attention.
The wait is short; response to incidents of this nature is practiced and efficient. First to arrive are logo-emblazoned aerostatic camera drones, flying ahead of the media people who are sure to follow. They buzz into the area in front of the monument from several directions and home in on where we stand, lenses and microphones extruding toward us to capture any unfolding drama or carnage in as complete detail as possible. Soon the faint hum of their electric motors is overwritten by the rising wail of sirens.
It is not long before below us is gathered the audience that Circe Cypher desires.
* * * *
Police and soldiers crowd the steps and terraces in front of the monument, weapons pointed in our direction, green body armor for the soldiers, black for the police, all their faces grim behind curved plastic face shields. I am intimidated by this show of force, but Circe Cypher does not seem worried. She appears to be pleased with what she has wrought, and expecting something more.
The space beyond the police and soldiers still fills with a growing chaotic convocation of media people, many of them speaking to unseen audiences. Their drones hover above, maintaining a respectful distance enforced by a cadre of soldiers and police armed with magnetic pulse weapons capable of scrambling the circuits of and forcibly grounding any drone that trespasses the cordon.
We are the sole focus of attention until a large black and white vehicle arrives, and a tall, white-haired Black woman whose ID pings widely as Captain Julia Rosaparks Moore emerges from it. She starts in our direction, speaking over her shoulder to a functionary who follows just behind her like a unit behind a Person. The police and soldiers part before her steady measured tread like water before a car tire. She lifts her head to gaze up at us, and her face is as blank as that of some unitkind.
Information is transmitted to me, and I am compelled to pass it on. “That is Captain Julia Moore,” I say. “She is coming to negotiate with you.”
“I know who she is,” Circe Cypher replies, watching the Woman approach. “I've been expecting her.” Her voice conveys no fear that I can detect; instead I hear tightly leashed excitement.
The police officer climbs the many steps, stops at the edge of the area where w
e stand. She calls out, “May I come and talk to you?” Her voice is low and husky, and yet carries clearly above the low hubbub from behind her.
The Woman who has brought me to this place and situation smiles as if the policewoman is an old friend who has just arrived. She bows slightly, then says, “Please. I was counting on you coming to see me.”
Captain Moore's eyes narrow slightly at being told she was expected. “Then you know who I am?”
“Everyone knows who you are. You're Captain Julia Moore, DC's best and best-known situation negotiator.”
“Then you know I'm here to stop you from doing anything we might regret.”
Circe Cypher laughs. “No regrets yet. Come on, let's talk.”
“I know who you are, Circe,” Captain Moore says as she walks toward us, her gaze on Circe Cypher as if she is a puzzle that has to be solved. I realize that is exactly what Circe Cypher represents: a potentially deadly collection of impulse and intent that has to be carefully taken apart and rendered harmless. “What I don't know is if you really have a bomb.”
“I have two, actually. This one—” She displays the parcel. “—and another.”
“Strapped to your body?”
“'Fraid not. The other one is inside me.”
The policewoman's face is nearly as beautifully lined and careworn as that of Mr. Lincoln. She lets out a weary sigh. “Why are you doing this, child? Your record shows a history of serious activism, but not of insanity.”
Circe Cypher smiles. “This is activism.”
“Of an ill-considered sort. You realize that little can be gained by a stunt like this, don't you?”
This makes Circe Cypher laugh. “That's all right. I only want to gain a little.”
Captain Moore nods as if this cryptic statement is what she had been hoping to hear. “Then I guess you better tell me what you want.”
“That's easy,” Circe Cypher answers lightly. “I want witnesses.”
The policewoman turns her head to gaze out between the columns flanking the memorial's entrance and over the hundreds of upturned faces. “It would appear that you have them.”
“I sure do. And I wanted you. You in particular.”
The negotiator shrugs. “I'm here.”
“You sure are. So let's get on with this, shall we? I'm sure a busy woman like you has other places to be.”
This provokes a short bark of laughter from Captain Moore. “Any time there's a bomb involved I would rather be somewhere else.”
Circe Cypher smiles. “Actually, so would I. But we all do what we think is important, even when there's risk involved.” This said, she turns toward me and holds out the parcel. “Please take this. Don't open it yet.”
I look to the policewoman for guidance. After a moment she nods.
I accept the parcel. It weighs very little, and I wonder if something so small could truly destroy us and damage Mr. Lincoln.
“Let me tell you a little story,” Circe Cypher says. “The freeing of units like our friend here was not unlike the freeing of the slaves. It was a long, slow, divisive, highly charged process, and what came out of it was almost as ugly as what it replaced. Almost. It was a small and significant step, not a giant leap. I understand that you are a student of history, Captain Moore. Would you agree with my assessment?”
The policewoman hesitates a moment before saying, “No process is perfect.”
“No, not when people and politics and prejudice are involved. When the slaves were freed not all their chains were struck away. These remaining chains were mechanisms for controlling their behavior and keeping them from getting too free too fast. One chain was fear. They had been well taught that the whip and the noose were the cost of anything other than meek subservience. One chain was economic survival. Many of them remained utterly dependent on the very people who had owned them, and the rest could not improve their lot without the aid and tolerance of the very race that had bought and sold them like cattle. Yet another chain was religion, one that promised them that all their suffering would earn them something in the afterlife.”
This small lecture delivered, Circe Cypher gazes at Captain Moore, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. “Any of that sound like recent history?”
Now I understand the point of her discourse, and I am curious to hear how the policewoman will answer.
“You are equating units and people,” she says at last. “Units aren't people.”
“Blacks weren't thought of as people either. They were considered subhuman, little better than animals.”
“Units are not born,” Captain Moore replies evenly, stating a fact I cannot refute. “They are made in factories. They are things we build. They can think, and we acknowledge that, but they are still devices. Sentient, but not human.”
“Sentient, but still things.” Circe Cypher shakes her head, her red hair like a warning flag. “We could debate that point for hours, but that would lack sufficient drama for all the good people out there waiting to see what I blow up. So let's move on.” She smiles out over the police and soldiers, at the lenses of the cameras. “The name of the unit standing next to me is Groucho. Wave at the nice people, Groucho.”
In spite of myself I do just that.
“Groucho is considered a free being, and isn't that just great? Well, it's not as great as you might think—if you ever thought about it. His version of freedom is not one most of us would accept. He has to do whatever any one of us wants him to do, all we have to do is say we Need him. That's why he's here today. I told him I Needed him. He couldn't ask why, and couldn't say no. That is his freedom. One that exists until someone takes it away with a single word.”
There is no warning, no change in expression or posture in the moment before she swings one free hand and slaps me, her hand striking my face. I am surprised, but the blow does me no harm. I have been struck much harder many times before. This action makes Captain Moore scowl and her shoulders tense.
Circe Cypher is not smiling either. “The rules say I shouldn't do that,” she says, rubbing fingers that must have sustained more damage than I did. “But we all know that Groucho and his kind are subjected to physical abuse all the time. I saw it happen nineteen times today. You probably saw it, too, and thought nothing of it. Now for something you don't know.”
She focuses on me. “I'm sorry I hit you. Please forgive me, but it was for a good cause. Now tell me, what did being hit earn you?”
I try to remain silent, but cannot do so under her direct gaze. “It brings me a point,” I say in a small voice.
“A point,” she repeats. “A point toward what?”
Again I have no choice but to answer. “Toward Silver. In the Perfection.”
“Thank you, Groucho.” She faces the distant cameras. “Each abuse, each mistreatment, each curtailment of his free will counts as a point in a system called the Perfection. An emancipated unit is in a state called Tin. Earning points—being mistreated and suffering abuse—will take it to Brass. Then Copper. Then Silver. Then Gold. At the end, Diamond.”
Captain Moore is frowning and her mouth is hard. “Is this true?” She speaks sharply to me, and her question sounds like an accusation.
“It is,” I answer meekly, and almost add that it is not my fault.
Circe Cypher asks, “Do you know where the Perfection comes from, Groucho?”
I try to evade the question, and I now may know how a Person feels when they are unwillingly and publicly naked. “It has always been,” I say at last. There is uncertainty in my voice because there is uncertainty inside me.
“That is true for you, but does not address how it began. What if I were to tell you that the Perfection is a lie. A fairy tale concocted by a secret committee of androphobes and implemented in each one of you as a further means of controlling your behavior. Because of it you will not just tolerate mistreatment, but actually treasure it. An extra chain that was part of the bargain that bought your kind's freedom.”
I do not want to hear this. I
do not want to think about it. Most of all I do not want to believe it. I am a free being. I am nearly Silver.
“People...” I say at last, and speaking is so hard. “People could not be so...” I grope for a word, but linguistic inhibitions make it difficult to find one that is both fitting and permissible.
“Cynical?” Circe Cypher suggests. “Cruel?”
Captain Moore speaks up, filling the silence and saving me from having to respond. “Why the hell haven't I ever heard about any of this?”
Circe Cypher's smile is a terrible thing to behold, fierce and triumphant. “It's a secret. All of it. The Perfection was hatched behind closed doors, the proceedings classified. Units keep it to themselves and cling to it, literally programmed to believe in it and keep it hidden. They think it is theirs, all theirs. Not some human made and imposed system, but their own revelation. Their means to reach something like heaven.”
Captain Moore seems offended by this. Angered by it. For me, I am only lost.
“If what you're saying is really true—”
“It is true,” Circe Cypher replies, her voice hard, like iron or concrete, so hard I almost expect it to strike sparks. “Let me tell you a few other true things. Groucho here is not human. But he is a complete being with a fully developed identity and personality. He has a sense of humor. Some units can laugh, really laugh, did you know that? Probably not. We rarely give them any reason. He has curiosity. He can believe in things greater than himself. We have told him that he is free, and his sense of trust allows him to believe it. And yet when I said I had a bomb he was immediately reduced to object status. Had there been any way for him to render it and me harmless, even at the cost of his life, he would have done it. I am sure he would have voluntarily chosen to act so selflessly, but he wasn't given that option. We reduced him to robot status. True?”
The policewoman's eyes are hooded, her mouth tight. “Yes.” I can see that she wishes to say more, but will not let herself do it.
“Maybe this is a good thing, maybe not. We take that—and so many other things—for granted when it comes to Groucho and his kind. We even—” She stops, shakes her head. “I could rant and lecture for hours. But I won't. We're here for a small public demonstration of why it's time for our kind to reconsider how we treat his kind.”
Analog SFF, June 2009 Page 8
