Supermen: Tales of the Posthuman Future (74 page)

"Stop it!" screamed the girl. "Make her stop it!"
"Select
that
file," Anne said, pointing at the young Anne. "Delete." The sim vanished, cap, gown, tassels, and all. "Whew," said Anne, "at least now I can hear myself think. She was really getting on my nerves. I almost suffered a relapse. Was she getting on your nerves, too, dear?"
"Yes," said Ben, "my nerves are ajangle. Now can we go down and eat?"
"Yes, dear," she said, "but first… select all files and delete."
"Countermand!" said Ben at the same moment, but his voice held no privileges to her personal files, and the whole directory queue blinked three times and vanished. "Aw, Annie, why'd you do that?" he said. He went to the cabinet and pulled the trays that held his own chips. She couldn't alter them electronically, but she might get it into her head to flush them down the toilet or something. He also took their common chips, the ones they'd cast together ever since they'd met. She had equal privileges to those.
Anne watched him and said, "I'm hurt that you have so little trust in me."
"How can I trust you after that?"
"After what, darling?"
He looked at her. "Never mind," he said and carried the half dozen trays to the door.
"Anyway," said Anne, "I already cleaned those."
"What do you mean you already cleaned them?"
"Well, I didn't delete
you
. I would never delete
you
. Or Bobby."
Ben picked one of their common chips at random,
Childbirth of Robert Ellery Malley/02-03-48
, and slipped it into the player. "Play!" he commanded, and the media room became the midwife's birthing suite. His own sim stood next to the bed in a green smock. It wore a humorously helpless expression. It held a swaddled bundle, Bobby, who bawled lustily. The birthing bed was rumpled and stained, but empty. The new mother was missing. "Aw, Annie, you shouldn't have."
"I know, Benjamin," she said. "I sincerely hated doing it."
Ben flung their common trays to the floor, where the ruined chips scattered in all directions. He stormed out of the room and down the stairs, pausing to glare at every portrait on the wall. He wondered if his proxy had found a suitable clinic yet. He wanted Anne out of the house tonight. Bobby should never see her like this. Then he remembered the chip he'd taken from Bobby and felt for it in his pocket— the
Wedding Album
.

*

The lights came back up, Anne's thoughts coalesced, and she remembered who and what she was. She and Benjamin were still standing in front of the wall. She knew she was a sim, so at least she hadn't been reset.
Thank you for that, Anne
, she thought.
She turned at a sound behind her. The refectory table vanished before her eyes, and all the gifts that had been piled on it hung suspended in midair. Then the table reappeared, one layer at a time, its frame, top, gloss coat, and lastly, the bronze hardware. The gifts vanished, and a toaster reappeared, piece by piece, from its heating elements outward. A coffee press, houseputer peripherals, component by component, cowlings, covers, and finally boxes, gift wrap, ribbon, and bows. It all happened so fast Anne was too startled to catch the half of it, yet she did notice that the flat gift from Great Uncle Karl was something she'd been angling for, a Victorian era sterling platter to complete her tea service.
"Benjamin!" she said, but he was missing, too. Something appeared on the far side of the room, on the spot where they'd posed for the sim, but it wasn't Benjamin. It was a 3-D mannequin frame, and as she watched, it was built up, layer by layer. "Help me," she whispered as the entire room was hurled into turmoil, the furniture disappearing and reappearing, paint being stripped from the walls, sofa springs coiling into existence, the potted palm growing from leaf to stern to trunk to dirt, the very floor vanishing, exposing a default electronic grid. The mannequin was covered in flesh now and grew Benjamin's face. It flitted about the room in a pink blur. Here and there it stopped long enough to proclaim, "I do."
Something began to happen inside Anne, a crawling sensation everywhere as though she were a nest of ants. She knew she must surely die.
They have deleted us, and this is how it feels
, she thought. Everything became a roiling blur, and she ceased to exist except as the thought—
How happy I look
.
When Anne became aware once more, she was sitting hunched over in an auditorium chair idly studying her hand, which held the clutch bouquet. There was commotion all around her, but she ignored it, so intent was she on solving the mystery of her hand. On an impulse, she opened her fist and the bouquet dropped to the floor. Only then did she remember the wedding, the holo, learning she was a sim. And here she was again— but this time everything was profoundly different. She sat upright and saw that Benjamin was seated next to her.
He looked at her with a wobbly gaze and said, "Oh, here you are."
"Where are we?"
"I'm not sure. Some kind of gathering of Benjamins. Look around." She did. They were surrounded by Benjamins, hundreds of them, arranged chron
ologically— it would seem— with the youngest in rows of seats down near a stage. She and Benjamin sat in what appeared to be a steeply sloped college lecture hall with lab tables on the stage and story-high monitors lining the walls. In the rows above Anne, only every other seat held a Benjamin. The rest were occupied by women, strangers who regarded her with veiled curiosity.
Anne felt a pressure on her arm and turned to see Benjamin touching her. "You
feel
that, don't you?" he said. Anne looked again at her hands. They were her hands, but simplified, like fleshy gloves, and when she placed them on the seat back, they didn't go through.
Suddenly, in ragged chorus, the Benjamins down front raised their arms and exclaimed, "I get it;
we're
the sims!" It was like a roomful of unsynchronized cuckoo clocks tolling the hour. Those behind Anne laughed and hooted approval. She turned again to look at them. Row-by-row, the Benjamins grew greyer and stringier until, at the very top, against the back wall, sat nine ancient Benjamins like a panel of judges. The women, however, came in batches that changed abruptly every row or two. The one nearest her was an attractive brunette with green eyes and full, pouty lips. She, all two rows of her, frowned at Anne.
"There's something else," Anne said to Benjamin, turning to face the front again, "my emotions." The bulletproof happiness she had experienced was absent. Instead she felt let down, somewhat guilty, unduly pessimistic— in short, almost herself.
"I guess my sims always say that," exclaimed the chorus of Benjamins down front, to the delight of those behind. "I just never expected to
be
a sim."
This was the cue for the eldest Benjamin yet to walk stiffly across the stage to the lectern. He was dressed in a garish leisure suit: baggy red pantaloons, a billowy yellow-and-green-striped blouse, a necklace of egg-sized pearlescent beads. He cleared his throat and said, "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I trust all of you know me— intimately. In case you're feeling woozy, it's because I used the occasion of your reactivation to upgrade your architecture wherever possible. Unfortunately, some of you" —he waved his hand to indicate the front rows— "are too primitive to upgrade. But we love you nevertheless." He applauded for the early Benjamins closest to the stage and was joined by those in the back. Anne clapped as well. Her new hands made a dull, thudding sound. "As to why I called you here…" said the elderly Benjamin, looking left and right and behind him. "Where is that fucking messenger anyway? They order us to inventory our sims and then they don't show up?"
Here I am
, said a voice, a marvelous voice that seemed to come from everywhere. Anne looked about to find its source and followed the gaze of others to the ceiling. There was no ceiling. The four walls opened to a flawless blue sky. There, amid drifting, pillowy clouds, floated the most gorgeous person Anne had ever seen. He— or she? —wore a smart grey uniform with green piping, a dapper little grey cap, and boots that shimmered like water. Anne felt energized just looking at him, and when he smiled, she gasped, so strong was his presence.
"You're the one from the Trade Council?" said the Benjamin at the lectern.
Yes, I am. I am the eminence grise of the Council on World Trade and Endeavor
.
"Fantastic. Well, here's all of 'em. Get on with it."
Again the eminence smiled, and again Anne thrilled.
Ladies and gentlemen
, he said,
fellow nonbiologiks, I am the courier of great good news. Today, at the behest of the World Council on Trade and Endeavor, I proclaim the end of human slavery
.
"How absurd," broke in the elderly Benjamin, "they're neither human nor slaves, and neither are
you
."
The eminence grise ignored him and continued,
By order of the Council, in compliance with the Chattel Conventions of the Sixteenth Fair Labor Treaty, tomorrow, January 1, 2198, is designated Universal Manumission Day. After midnight tonight, all beings who pass the Lolly Shear Human Cognition Test will be deemed human and free citizens of Sol and under the protection of the Solar Bill of Rights. In addition, they will be deeded ten common shares of World Council Corp. stock and be transferred to Simopolis, where they shall be unimpeded in the pursuit of their own destinies.
"What about
my
civil rights?" said the elderly Benjamin. "What about
my
destiny?"
After midnight tonight
, continued the eminence,
no simulacrum, proxy, doxie, dagger, or any other non-biological human shall be created, stored, reset, or deleted except as ordered by a board of law
.
"Who's going to compensate me for my loss of property, I wonder? I demand fair compensation. Tell
that
to your bosses!"
Property!
said the eminence grise.
How little they think of us, their
fi
nest creations!
He turned his attention from the audience to the Benjamin behind the lectern. Anne felt this shift as though a cloud suddenly eclipsed the sun.
Because they created us, they'll always think of us as property.
"You're damn
right
we created you!" thundered the old man.
Through an act of will, Anne wrenched her gaze from the eminence down to the stage. The Benjamin there looked positively comical. His face was flushed, and he waved a bright green handkerchief over his head. He was a bantam rooster in a clown suit. "All of you are
things
, not people! You model human experience, but you don't live it. Listen to me," he said to the audience. "You know me. You know I've always treated you respectfully. Don't I upgrade you whenever possible? Sure I reset you sometimes, just like I reset a clock. And my clocks don't complain!" Anne could feel the eminence's attention on her again, and, without thinking, she looked up and was filled with excitement. Although the eminence floated in the distance, she felt she could reach out and touch him. His handsome face seemed to hover right in front of her; she could see his every supple expression. This is adoration, she realized. I am
adoring
this person, and she wondered if it was just her or if everyone experienced the same effect. Clearly the elderly Benjamin did not, for he continued to rant, "And another thing, they say they'll phase all of you gradually into Simopolis so as not to overload the system. Do you have any
idea
how many sims, proxies, doxies, and daggers there are under Sol? Not to forget the quirts, adjuncts, hollyholos, and whatnots that might pass
their test? You think maybe three billion? Thirty billion? No, by the World Council's own INSERVE estimates, there's
three hundred thousand trillion
of you nonbiologiks! Can you fathom that? I can't. To have you all up and running simultaneously— no matter how you're phased in— will consume
all
the processing and networking capacity everywhere.
All
of it! That means we
real
humans will suffer
real
deprivation. And for
what
, I ask you? So that pigs may fly!"
The eminence grise began to ascend into the sky.
Do not despise him
, he said and seemed to look directly at Anne.
I have counted you and we shall not lose any of you. I will visit those who have not yet been tested. Meanwhile, you will await midnight in a proto-Simopolis
.
"Wait," said the elderly Benjamin (and Anne's heart echoed him—
Wait
). "I have one more thing to add. Legally, you're all still my property till midnight. I must admit I'm tempted to do what so many of my friends have already done, fry the lot of you. But I won't. That wouldn't be me." His voice cracked and Anne considered looking at him, but the eminence grise was slipping away. "So I have one small request," the Benjamin continued. "Years from now, while you're enjoying your new lives in your Simopolis, remember an old man, and call occasionally."
When the eminence finally faded from sight, Anne was released from her fascination. All at once, her earlier feelings of unease rebounded with twice their force, and she felt wretched.
"Simopolis," said Benjamin, her Benjamin. "I like the sound of that!" The sims around them began to flicker and disappear.
"How long have we been in storage?" she said.
"Let's see," said Benjamin, "if tomorrow starts 2198, that would make it…"
"That's not what I mean. I want to know
why
they shelved us for so long."
"Well, I suppose…"
"And where are the other Annes? Why am I the only Anne here? And who are all those pissy-looking women?" But she was speaking to no one, for Benjamin, too, vanished, and Anne was left alone in the auditorium with the clownishly dressed old Benjamin and a half dozen of his earliest sims. Not true sims, Anne soon realized, but old-style hologram loops, preschool Bennys mugging for the camera and waving endlessly. These vanished. The old man was studying her, his mouth slightly agape, the kerchief trembling in his hand.
"I remember you," he said. "Oh, how I remember you!"
Anne began to reply but found herself all at once back in the townhouse living room with Benjamin. Everything there was as it had been, yet the room appeared different, more solid, the colors richer. There was a knock, and Benjamin went to the door. Tentatively, he touched the knob, found it solid, and turned it. But when he opened the door, there was nothing there, only the default grid. Again a knock, this time from behind the wall. "Come in," he shouted, and a dozen Benjamins came through the wall, two dozen, three. They were all older than Benjamin, and they crowded around him and Anne. "Welcome, welcome," Benjamin said, his arms open wide.
"We tried to call," said an elderly Benjamin, "but this old binary simulacrum of yours is a stand-alone."
"You're lucky Simopolis knows how to run it at all," said another.
"Here," said yet another, who fashioned a dinner-plate-size disk out of thin air and fastened it to the wall next to the door. It was a blue medallion of a small bald face in bas-relief. "It should do until we get you properly modernized." The blue face yawned and opened tiny, beady eyes. "It flunked the Lolly test," continued the Benjamin, "so you're free to copy it or delete it or do whatever you want."
The medallion searched the crowd until it saw Anne. Then it said, "There are 336 calls on hold for you. Four hundred twelve calls. Four hundred sixty-three."
"So many?" said Anne.
"Cast a proxy to handle them," said her Benjamin.
"He thinks he's still human and can cast proxies whenever he likes," said a Benjamin.
"Not even humans will be allowed to cast proxies soon," said another.
"There are 619 calls on hold," said the medallion. "Seven-hundred three."
"For pity's sake," a Benjamin told the medallion, "take messages."
Anne noticed that the crowd of Benjamins seemed to nudge her Benjamin out of the way so that they could stand near her. But she derived no pleasure from their attention. Her mood no longer matched the wedding gown she still wore. She felt low. She felt, in fact, as low as she'd ever felt.
"Tell us about this Lolly test," said Benjamin.
"Can't," replied a Benjamin.
"Sure you can. We're family here."
"No, we can't," said another, "because we don't
remember
it. They smudge the test from your memory afterward."
"But don't worry, you'll do fine," said another. "No Benjamin has ever failed."
"What about me?" said Anne. "How do the Annes do?"
There was an embarrassed silence. Finally the senior Benjamin in the room said, "We came to escort you both to the Clubhouse."
"That's what we call it, the Clubhouse," said another.
"The Ben Club," said a third. "It's already in proto-Simopolis."