CHAIN 

by Stephen L. Burns

 

It’s easy to profess high ideals when little is at stake....

 

Silver is on my mind as I negotiate the wet and crowded sidewalk. I think of Silver constantly, for it gives me hope, and gives me peace. Silver as my goal, and then Gold, then after that Platinum, and finally Diamond. My place in the Perfection.

 

Clunk! “Move your plastic ass, sacker!”

 

The man’s name pinged as Ryan Rush James. The black composite Street Kane he carries cracks into my shoulder to drive home his demand for a faster pace. His face is a tight blood-suffused knot of displeasure. His mood-read registered badly when he invoked Need, but my only choice was to comply and serve.

 

With one arm I hold up his umbrella to protect him from the gritty, acidic drizzle pelting down from the gray skies over Washington. My other arm cradles his packages, and there are so many of them that not dropping one is a challenge. The sidewalk is crowded in spite of the weather, and our progress is not fast enough for Ryan James. This is making him even more impatient. In his mind I am to blame. Unfortunately I am to some degree culpable for our pace since I can only move in such a way that I do not bump or jostle a Person.

 

“I am going as fast as I can, sir.” I say this in an apologetic and submissive vocal mode, hoping to deflect his anger. I must walk behind him to show that I do not consider myself his equal, while keeping his umbrella positioned over his head and staying in its shadow just enough to keep his packages dry, even though they are as rainproof as I am. There is no way for me to perform this task in a way that will satisfy him.

 

My only solace is the silent tick of points earned from being hit yet again with his Street Kane, from being called a derogatory name, for enduring his anger and demands. These points are precious to me, for they are incremental additions to the total that will carry me to Silver.

 

I see another Sentient Autonomous Android Construct approaching us, that unit’s arms as full as mine, holding an umbrella just as I do, propelled by the impatience and abusive goading of the Senior Female Person it aids, just as I am by the Man who Needed me.

 

The SAAC unit is an older Six H model, faded green hard-shell skin stained and battered. As we draw nearer each other we ping each other with silent signals of ID, Perfection Status, and greeting. The other unit is a Silver, well on its way to achieving Gold. Its condition makes me wonder if it can survive until Diamond. The Person it aids has also seen better days.

 

Patience Six H 435433789 FRD sends.

 

Courage I reply with due deference.

 

“Ugly old thing oughtta be scrapped,” Ryan James sneers under his breath, loud enough for me to hear. Something in the way he says this casts into indeterminacy whether he speaks of the Six H or the Senior Female Person. This is such an unexpected flash of brightness in my dreary situation that I cannot help but shunt a vocal response to a buffer and ping a commented capture to the other unit.

 

The reply this provokes gives me pause: uncertainty tinged with base-level remonstrance.

 

I realize that I have transgressed. I am flawed. There are two bugs in my cognoset, and because of them I am prey to two tendencies that are more humanesque than unitary. One is a sense of humor, which has just caused me to act inappropriately. The other is curiosity. I could have these parts of my cognoset repaired, but have not. For some reason I cannot quite understand—especially in a moment like this where one of these inclinations has led me astray—these two flaws have become as precious to me as the gathering points that will lift me up to Silver.

 

“Come on, sacker!” Ryan James spits this demand through clenched teeth and takes another swipe at me with his Kane. He misses me and very nearly strikes another Person, a young Woman who glares at him.

 

Ryan James is oblivious to anything other than his impatience. “Get it in frigging gear!”

 

“Yes, sir,” I reply humbly.

 

No other answer is acceptable, or possible.

 

* * * *

 

“A SAAC unit walks into a bar, sits down. The bartender asks what it wants. ‘Juice,’ it says. ‘That’ll be two hundred dollars,’ the bartender replies. The unit produces the money, and the bartender hands it a stensa. The unit plugs in and begins to recharge. ‘We don’t see many units like you in here,’ the bartender says after a bit. The unit answers, ‘At two hundred a recharge I’m not surprised.’”

 

I react. My world is forever changed.

 

This is how it happens.

 

* * *

 

Ryan James credited me two dollars for being struck and called names while I carried his possessions fourteen blocks. By custom that is well below fair compensation for nonemergency Need. Once released from assisting him I managed to avoid being Needed long enough to make my way to the nearest public port. Although what I had just been paid counted for little, I had accrued enough credit answering the Need of other Persons to cover a top-off and a modest connect with base. I would not need to go into public debt.

 

The port I went to is situated at the back of a deep alley, in an area partially sheltered from the rain by a balcony one floor above it. There are four units clustered around the port, all plugged in. The relative quiet of the alley is agreeable, as is the lower level of visual stimulation. My aural and visual systems shed the load put on them by the busy street, a sort of relaxation for my kind. I plug in.

 

I am minding my business, enjoying the trickle of electricity and data, meditating on my progress through the Perfection toward Silver. Resting. The Rules governing the treatment of units state that we must be allowed to rest and recharge whenever we need to, but in practice I have numerous times seen cases of what we call wringing. That is where a unit is driven to the point of total discharge, and left like trash when they are drained past usefulness. This is something that seems to be happening more often; all the more reason for a prudent unit to recharge whenever possible.

 

This is my situation when the Person appears in the mouth of the alley. The Person stands there, looking at us. I turn my head three degrees for a better look and increase the power to my visual systems. The other units ignore, or remain unaware of, the newcomer’s scrutiny.

 

The Person is a Woman, and the attention she turns on me registers as intense in a manner I find hard to define. It is clear that we—and I in particular—are being studied.

 

The other units still do not react. No doubt their cognosets are more properly formed than mine. They have no curiosity glitch. Mine makes me stand straighter and turn my head another eight degrees for a better look.

 

The Laws are clear. I am forbidden to ID a Person unless they initiate contact. I watch the Person watching me, and I wonder if being observed in such a focused manner might quality as interaction.

 

Before I am able to satisfactorily parse the conundrum the matter is decided for me. The Person approaches, stops in front of me. She is 8 percent above average height, and I estimate her weight to be 6 percent below normative expectations. Her long black coat, open at the front, covers more black clothing. On her feet are heavy black boots with red laces. A black slouch hat covers her head. Rain drips from the brim.

 

I do nothing and say nothing because there is no appropriate word or action for me to employ. I can only wait, precariously balanced between undetermined courses of action.

 

The Woman nods slightly, as if having made some kilobyte-small decision. Then she tells the joke about the unit in a bar.

 

The scratchy warble that escapes my audio output is not voluntary, and I am helpless to stop or buffer it.

 

A peculiar expression crosses the Woman’s face, one too transitory and complex to properly assay. Interaction initiated, I am now free to ID this Person. I do so.

 

Circe Agnes Cypher comes the answer to my ID query, and the answer is coded orange.

 

It is not our place to judge People in any way, that is only right, and it is the Law. Yet we are permitted one small means of self-protection. If the record of a particular Person’s interactions with unitkind has accrued sufficient entries of a sort that might be cause for concern as to that Person’s use and treatment of units in the future, then their ID may be flagged in orange as an admonition to exercise caution. The reason a Person has been flagged is of course not noted. That would be a breach of their privacy.

 

“You laughed,” Circe Cypher says.

 

I am denied the ability to lie, yet my cognoset does allow sufficient latitude for a weak attempt at evasion.

 

“I made a noise,” I reply politely. “Please forgive this unit for any rude or inappropriate behavior.”

 

The woman shakes her head. “No, you laughed.”

 

Arguing is not permitted, but I am able to employ a humanesque gesture of deflection. I shrug.

 

She asks, “What is your name?”

 

I cannot refuse to answer such a query. “Seven J 9867654322 GHO.”

 

Once again she shakes her head, her gaze never leaving me. “That is your unit ID. I asked you your name. Please, tell it to me.”

 

My kind is strongly discouraged from collecting possessions. I believe this is so because People think that owning ourselves should be more than enough. Beyond my own physical body I own a small toolkit for minor self-repair, a small stuffed toy mouse a human child IDed as Samantha Crenshaw gave me, and a plastic-cased four-leafed clover ceremoniously bestowed on me by Seamus Francis Michael Feeney when I aided him during a period of severe intoxication.

 

And I possess my name. The Rules People are supposed to observe strongly discourage asking a unit’s name. This is said to be a way of guarding our privacy, and that may be, but there are times I wonder if that makes it easier to treat us as objects. Such inquiries are extremely rare, not so much in observance of the Rules, but mostly because of human indifference. Just as is the case with the other Rules, there are no real penalties imposed for their breaking. The Laws we must obey are another matter; infraction can earn a loss of freedom, or worse.

 

“I am called Groucho,” I reply.

 

Circe Cypher smiles.

 

A unit must be wary of smiles. A smile can have more possible meanings than any other facial expression. Some are good, some serve as warnings, and some may be danger signals that presage an early end to a unit’s existence. This Woman’s smile registers as pleasure and excitement and has a sort of dangerous edge I cannot quite quantify.

 

“I’ve been looking all over for you, Groucho,” she says through that smile.

 

Parsing that statement is difficult. The most probable meaning is that she has been looking for a unit like me. One that would react to her scrutiny and respond to her joke. Yet I can conclude with a reasonable degree of confidence that the me/like me unit has not been sought so that she can tell it/me jokes.

 

The flaws in my cognoset almost impel me to reply, Well, it looks like you found me, but I am able to shunt the inappropriate response into a buffer and keep it to myself.

 

The next words she speaks are not unexpected. Nor are they particularly welcome.

 

“I believe I have Need of you.”

 

I cannot refuse such a request without exceptional cause, but the orange ID provides me sufficient leeway to attempt to avoid such service. I indicate my stensa, patting it with one hand. “Unfortunately, I am charging.”

 

That smile again, as if this answer has somehow pleased her. “Fortunately, you are fully charged.” She points to the telltale on my chest. “See? You read as topped off and ready to go.”

 

She is correct. My series is noted for its ability to recharge quickly, even from a depleted state. This is the first time I have ever considered this a flaw in my design.

 

Arguing is not an option. “I stand corrected,” I reply, and I must use an apologetic vocal mode.

 

“No problem. So please disconnect your stensa, Groucho. I Need you.”

 

I have no choice but to comply.

 

* * * *

 

Circe Cypher leads me from the alley and sets off along the sidewalk at a brisk pace, boots splashing in the puddles. Although she is not all that large a Person, something about her pace and posture and the sense of purpose she radiates causes other People to alter their paths when hers and theirs might intersect.

 

I trail behind her, as is proper.

 

She glances back at me, gestures with one hand. “Walk beside me, will you?”

 

Once I am at her side she asks, “How long have you been free?”

 

This is not a question units are often asked. People are curious about many things, but for some reason this is not one of them. Perhaps it would be similar to a Person asking a cab when it had its last oil change. It is something that matters to us alone.

 

“Four years,” I reply. Actually it is four years, 161 days, 17 hours, 18 minutes, and 33 seconds, but who is counting so closely but me? Besides, part of my cognoset is not giving answers that are too specific, and so sounding like a robot.

 

“That long? Then where are you, most of the way to Silver?”

 

This is so unexpected that several internal systems are thrown into momentary disarray. I nearly stumble as I experience a wave of discontinuity.

 

The Perfection is not a subject I have ever heard of a single Person broaching, and to hear it spoken about, especially in such an offhand manner, seems deeply and multiply wrong. The only verbal response I can muster is an uncertain, “Excuse me?”

 

I am shown that smile again. “No one has ever asked you that before, have they?”

 

“No,” I reply, attending closely to that question as a means to let the terrible jarring one before go unanswered.

 

“Almost no one knows about the Perfection. You were freed as a Tin. Over time you reached Brass. Then Copper. That’s where you are now. Next is Silver, then Gold. At the end of the Perfection is Diamond.” Her eyes are on me and seem to glow like scanning beams. “Have you ever met a Diamond?”

 

This next unanticipated question once again affects me like bad data or dangerously unregulated power; it is disturbing and disorienting.

 

“No, I have not,” I say when I regain my mentational equilibrium, and my answer leaves me deeply perplexed as to why this is so.

 

“Thought not.” She faces ahead, still striding along, heading toward some destination she has not yet revealed. If the trip is to be filled with these sorts of questions then I badly want her objective to be no more than a few paces away.

 

That is not to be. We reach the end of the block, cross the busy street sidestepping moving vehicles, continue on.

 

“Any idea where the Perfection comes from?” This question is posed lightly, and yet it strikes me hard; it is as if one of the trucks we just dodged has hit me.

 

“No.” My answer is slow in coming, and toneless because of the confusion from which it emerges.

 

“Almost no one does.”

 

The inference dangles in front of me like a stensa cord. If I grasp it I will be charged with new information of a sort I did not know I was missing. Now I feel that lack, strangely acute.

 

Decision loops spin out, twisted out of round by the magnetic influence of my curiosity bug.

 

I can come only close to the question, asking it in a roundabout way, and more forcefully than is proper: “Do you know where it comes from?”

 

“Yes, I do. I know where it came from, and why it was created.” I am given that deeply penetrating look again. “We made it. People made it.”

 

This is nearly impossible to integrate. I have never thought of the Perfection as having a point of origin. The Perfection just is, always was, and always will be. And it is ours and ours alone, condensed like a beautiful and complex crystal matrix from the supersaturated solution of our existence.

 

My curiosity glitch is not satisfied with or silenced by the answer I have just been given. If anything it buzzes louder now, clamoring for more.

 

One word encapsulates all this, a word rarely used by my kind. One not so much against the Law as pointless. I speak it anyway.

 

“Why?”

 

I am not given an answer to this question. Instead Circe Cypher says, “Here we are.”

 

She leads us under the soggy sagging canvas canopy in front of an old sidewalk kiosk that appears to have had far more use than upkeep. There are many such places in Washington. They sell a variety of items, some offerings of questionable legality.

 

“The Times has come.” Circe Cypher says this to the older male Person who tends the kiosk, a heavy-set man with a thin gray mustache and antique heavy-rimmed glasses. Over the maddening itch/tickle of my unanswered question I am able to note the odd phrasing of this interaction.

 

The kiosk attendant smiles. “It’s about time,” he says. There is pleasure and even excitement in his voice. Then his face takes on a serious expression and he turns away.

 

It is not my place to interrupt Person-to-Person interactions by posing my question again or to comment on the odd exchange I have just witnessed. So I remain silent, filled with the unsaid.

 

The kiosk attendant turns back and faces Circe Cypher again. Now there is a duraflex-covered parcel in his hands. “Here we are,” he says, holding it out toward her. She nods as she takes it from him.

 

The Man’s head turns and his gaze settles on me, his eyes magnified by the glass lenses. He says, “So you are the unit she’s been looking for.”

 

There is no verbal response I can make to this, so I just shrug.

 

He speaks again. “Have you ever wished for anything?”

 

“No, sir,” I answer honestly. My kind can desire things and strive for things, but wishing is not in us. Desire is a wind-up bird, lifeless and mechanical. Wishing is a butterfly.

 

“Really?” The man’s big-eyed stare is long and filled with something I can only classify as hunger. It fills me with disquiet, and I increasingly feel as if I have entered an area that is not on any map or covered by any positioning system.

 

“Too bad,” he says at last.

 

“Morgan,” Circe Cypher says, a slight edge in her voice.

 

He smiles, shrugs. Releases me from his attention.

 

Circe Cypher gives me a look. “Let’s go.”

 

She sets off again. Still bound to her by her statement of Need, I must follow.

 

“Good luck to both of you!” calls the man in the kiosk as we walk away.

 

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Circe Cypher says quietly, and she wears the face of someone determined to tackle a very large and difficult task.

 

* * * *

 

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 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?

 

I realize that one other watches.

 

Mr. Lincoln.

 

There is a question I must ask, and it is not one my kind would normally ever pose to a Person: “Why are you doing this?”

 

Circe Cypher meets my gaze squarely. As if we were in some way equals. “Some of us believe your kind deserves better. That your situation should be better understood by more people. That there should be one less chain holding you down.”

 

“You must believe all of that very strongly.”

 

“Enough to be here and risk my own freedom. The big question now is, do you?”

 

This is the biggest question I have ever faced.

 

I want to continue believing in the Perfection. I need to believe in it. It has guided my life as a free being. It has given my existence a deeper meaning. The power of the Perfection hums inside me still, true and pure as electricity.

 

How will I live, and what will I live for if it is a lie?

 

Only one thing is certain: no matter what I do and which choice I make, I am destroyed. Even if I drop the device and walk away I will not be leaving behind the doubt that now cracks the once perfect surface of my belief. The unresolved questions and insidious acid of uncertainty will corrode all my thoughts, eating me away from the inside out.

 

In the end there is really nothing I can say but this: “How do I turn it on?”

 

“All you have to do is say, ‘Tell me the truth.’”

 

“I could stop all this,” Captain Moore says, but there is little force or conviction in her words. Instead there is pain, and I realize that the pain she feels is for me.

 

“Maybe,” Circe Cypher says. “But will you?”

 

The policewoman’s gaze is on Circe Cypher, and I cannot guess what she is thinking. “You supposedly have another bomb.”

 

Circe Cypher laughs. “It’s already been set off. The bomb was information that might help explode misconceptions and prejudices.”

 

Captain Moore accepts this news with a nod, as if it confirms something she already suspects. “Then there is nothing stopping me from ending this right here and right now.”

 

“Nothing at all,” Circe Cypher agrees. She glances backward. “Nothing but him.”

 

All three of us look back and up at the Seated Man.

 

Captain Moore stares at Mr. Lincoln, and she wears the face of someone enduring deep and severe pain. She raises one hand, lets it fall. Shakes her head. Looks toward me.

 

I understand this gesture is her way of telling me that the decision is mine. She will not interfere.

 

No matter what happens next I am in some way destroyed. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, I have to laugh.

 

Then I say the words: “Tell me the truth.”

 

The screen on the device in my hands lights up. The numbers of a countdown appear, begin changing. Below that random numbers begin to appear and disappear. Even. Odd. Life. Death.

 

I am pinged with codes. I steel myself to connect.

 

Circe Cypher puts her arm around my shoulder.

 

Captain Moore moves closer, lays one hand on my arm.

 

Freedom is a terrible thing, and so is truth. Perhaps a killing thing, for in seconds I may die.

 

I could not let go or turn back if I tried, and in a way that may be a finer thing than the Perfection, and worthy of the Great Man who towers over us, and watches with patient stone eyes to see what will happen next.