Into the New Millennium: Trailblazing Tales From Analog Science Fiction and Fact, 2000 - 2010 (68 page)

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 we 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."

This said, she indicates the parcel I hold in my hands. It is then that I realize I have it clutched tightly to my midsection, and why. I hold it that way so if it is a bomb I will absorb as much of the explosion as possible. I do not remember deciding to do this, and cannot say for sure if it has been done from concern for others or pure programming. This makes me feel empty and even more lost.

"Would you please open that up so we can see what's inside?"

I comply. Inside is a clearly homemade device the size of a small book. There is a blank screen on one face, and nothing else to reveal its nature. The tagged components I can read still have not given me enough information to discern its purpose.

"Not a very big bomb," Captain Moore comments in a dry, arch tone.

Circe Cypher chuckles. "Depends on how you define damage."

I am impelled to ask the obvious question: "What kind of bomb is it?"

She beams at me approvingly. "Curiosity. Good. Strong curiosity. But how strong?"

There is no answer I can make to this. If there is a scale for measuring such a quality I do not know it. I stare at the device wondering why it is that someone who has seemed to like me has put such a dangerous object in my hands.

"Groucho?"

I look up at her. "Yes?"

"That's an information bomb. If you turn it on it will ping you with codes that will give you access to the classified files about the creation of the Perfection. In other words, if you turn it on you and everyone else will receive the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"That the Perfection is . . ." It is difficult for me to say the word, and I must make a second try to get it out. "That it is a lie."

"Yes," she answers gently. "But."

My humor bug tweaks a noise from me. I laugh, then say, "Why was I afraid you were going to say that?"

"Why indeed? The
but
is this: When you turn it on a timer starts, along with a random number generator. If the number that comes up when the timer stops is even, nothing will happen. If the number is odd, then a small but very powerful magnetic pulse emitter will be triggered right after the information has been accessed. Do you understand what that means?"

I nod. "It means that the truth could cost me my life."

"That is correct. The pulse will wipe away all memory and identity. You, the sentient being named Groucho, will cease to exist."

Captain Moore has been silent, listening impassively. Now she speaks up. "You don't have to do this." She speaks to me, and there is an unexpected and yet unmistakable kindness in her voice.

Is this true? Could I walk away from the truth? Go back to my life and slow rise through the Perfection?

I am watched as I ponder this. By these two Women. By the police and soldiers below. By the lenses of the cameras and the eyes of the media people. By however many million viewers they are reaching. Perhaps even by some of my own kind, for how often does one of us make the news?