April Free Chapter - 10 Futures by Michael Pryor

http://www.randomhouse.com.au/books/michael-pryor/10-futures-9781742753768.aspx

10 Futures PAGES.indd iii10 Futures PAGES.indd iii 30/1/12 4:04:35 PM30/1/12 4:04:35 PM

Copyright © Michael Pryor 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.


A Woolshed Press bookPublished by Random House Australia Pty LtdLevel 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060www.randomhouse.com.au

First published by Woolshed Press in 2012

Copyright © Michael Pryor 2012

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices.

National Library of AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Author: Pryor, MichaelTitle: Ten futures / Michael PryorISBN: 978 1 74275 376 8 (pbk.)Target audience: For adolescents Subjects: Future – Juvenile fiction Earth – Juvenile fiction Dewey number: A823.3

Cover illustration and design by Mathematics www.xy-1.comInternal design by Midland TypesettersTypeset in 11.5/16 pt Minion by Midland Typesetters, AustraliaPrinted in Australia by Griffin Press, an accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004 Environmental Management System printer

The paper this book is printed on is certified against the Forest Stewardship Council® Standards. Griffin Press holds FSC chain of custody certification SGS-COC-005088. FSC promotes environmentally responsible, socially beneficial and economically viable management of the world’s forests.

10 Futures PAGES.indd iv10 Futures PAGES.indd iv 30/1/12 4:04:35 PM30/1/12 4:04:35 PM



For Robert A. Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke

and Isaac Asimov, who showed me the

future and how to write about it.

10 Futures PAGES.indd v10 Futures PAGES.indd v 30/1/12 4:04:35 PM30/1/12 4:04:35 PM



2100

Tara can’t remember life without her AI. Her mum and

dad bought the Artificial Intelligence when Tara had her

night terrors, when she was little. It used to sit under her

pillow and murmur to her. Safe and secure, she was, with

Portia keeping the night things away.

Portia used to be classy, state-of-the-art. Her case, the

size and shape of a playing card, was originally a stylish

black matte. Now, fourteen years later, it’s battered and

scratched with the scars of love. Of course, since Portia

took over managing the family home – monitoring all

10 Futures PAGES.indd 110 Futures PAGES.indd 1 30/1/12 4:04:36 PM30/1/12 4:04:36 PM



10 FUTURES

2

automation and systems, keeping everyone safe and

sound, happy and warm, well-fed and well-rested is the

sort of thing she’s capable of – the pocket case has only

been needed for excursions into the outside world. Tara

still keeps it under her pillow, as a keepsake, anyway, now

that she rarely takes Portia anywhere. Portia is the home,

now, integrated into every aspect of living, taking care of

the family, nurturing and protecting.

Portia is Tara’s constant companion, as unwavering as

her best friend Sam, who has been gently urging Tara to

get rid of Portia for years. Even though the AI has piped

in the usual upgrades and patches, it’s creakily ancient.

Sam is always suggesting that Tara move up to one of the

newer, faster, more sophisticated models. Portia handles

her duties as home manager smoothly, but she has had

to outsource routine encryption when the algorithms

became too complex. The modern AIs perform this essen-

tial function with ease, as Sam points out.

Tara can’t throw Portia away. She’s part of the family.

Tara is working in the garden when Portia pings, the

tone working directly on Tara’s audio nerve. She straight-

ens from weeding the rhubarb, which has sprouted into

waist-high lushness thanks to her care. She wipes sweat

from her forehead with the back of her hand and, for

a moment, enjoys the sensation of labour and work.

‘Portia?’

‘Sam is at the front door. Shall I let him in?’ The AI’s

voice has the familiar warm and amused tone that has




2100

3

helped Tara grow. It’s always been the voice of the older,

wiser sister that Tara never had. Someone interesting,

not embarrassing. Someone with life experience, who

knows the world and its wonders, but isn’t pushy about

it. Someone independent. Someone Tara wouldn’t mind

growing up to be.

Tara brushes dirt from her hands. ‘Where are Mum

and Dad?’

A pause. Tara knows that it’s totally theatrical. Portia

doesn’t need time to check, given that she operates so fast,

in shaved femtoseconds. ‘Your mother is at the power

station, working on microwave relays. Your father was

called to Burkino Faso to negotiate with TransApple.’

A rustling near the broccoli patch makes Tara frown.

She thought the bird deterrents were all set. A head pokes

out from the parsley. Big brown eyes, spots, two nubbly

horns. Tara sighs. ‘Topsy’s here, Portia.’

The knee-high giraffe trots over to Tara and rubs

against her shin. She resists for a moment then gives up in

the face of such perfectly designed cuteness. She reaches

down and strokes its long neck. The tiny creature shivers

with delight.

‘Ah!’ Portia says. ‘I was looking for her. Can you bring

her inside? Please?’

‘I wish you’d keep better track of your pets,’ Tara

grumbles. She scoops up the creature, which trembles,

splaying its spindly legs. Tara isn’t fooled by Portia’s

surprise, either. The AI knows exactly where her genetically




10 FUTURES

4

engineered micropets are at all times. Pretending to be

surprised is part of Portia’s humanising demeanour.

‘Sorry,’ the AI says. ‘I was reading Hamlet again. I

should have been watching her.’ Contrite. ‘I’ve just let Sam

into the kitchen. He’s making a sandwich.’

‘Of course.’

*‘It’s like this,’ Sam says as soon as Tara walks in. He doesn’t

need any niceties with Tara. They’ve grown up together,

been best friends forever. Simpatico. ‘You know the Choice

clinic, near the station?’

‘The one your gran used last year?’ Tara puts the tiny

giraffe on the floor. Its hooves slip a little on the tiles and

she smiles at its ungainliness.

Sam doesn’t like most micropets. Too much marketing.

The giraffe, though, makes him grin. It trots to the living

room, hooves click-clacking. ‘That’s the one.’ Sam toys with

the sandwich he’s made. He really isn’t hungry. ‘So you

probably know that the clinic is scratching for cash.’

‘Like most of us.’

‘They don’t get much funding. The place is a bit run

down.’

‘I noticed. Some paint wouldn’t be a bad idea, and the

power dishes on the roof probably need maintenance.’

Tara eyes him. He pretends not to notice. ‘Are you trying

to organise a working bee or something?’ she asks.




2100

5

‘I had money in mind.’

‘Money is good.’

‘And the Choice clinic could use some. A bunch of it.

To make the place a bit more comfortable. Happier, in a

dignified way.’

‘Can’t ask much more than going out happy and

dignified.’

‘Exactly.’ It hurts Sam to recall his gran’s last days. She’d

been in pain, way beyond anything the medicos could

help with. When she decided enough was enough, it was

tough for everyone, Sam included, but the Choice clinic

people were kind and understanding. Her departure was

restrained, calm, everything she wanted, which was the

important thing. To Sam, though, it was as if his insides

had been twisted sideways, just a little, so that nothing was

right for him for a long time.

Sam tries a bite of his sandwich. Baked sweet potato,

lettuce, tomato, all from Tara’s garden. It’s good, but he

has no appetite. He puts it on the plate again and leans

against the bench, a slab of cheap industrial diamond.

‘Not everyone can afford the Choice. So I thought some

cash, properly invested, might mean the clinic could be

for everyone.’

‘Ah. And if they have funds, they can subsidise those

who can’t afford their services.’ Tara goes to the fridge,

pauses, looks thoughtful. She finds a bottle of juice and

pours some into a glass with a cartoon monkey print on

it. Sam notes, with mild amusement, how Tara fits her




10 FUTURES

6

hand to the monkey print, as close as it can go. ‘Want

some?’ she asks.

‘What is it?’

‘Carrot and celery.’

Sam pulls a face. ‘Sounds bura. I’ll pass. Any grapefruit

left?’

‘It’s all in the big freezer, out the back. You want me to

get it?’

‘Don’t worry.’

Tara sips her juice. ‘Okay. Out with it.’

‘What?’

‘Whatever’s on your mind.’

Sam knows he can trust Tara, just doesn’t know if he

should involve her or not. On the other hand, she has a

knack of making good plans better. ‘This guy I know,’ he

says, slowly at first. ‘He owes me a favour and wants to pay

it off with some rhenium. A gram or two.’

Tara stares. ‘Must have been a big favour.’

‘It was, and don’t ask for details.’

‘I won’t have to. You’ll spill it sometime.’ She looks

thoughtful. ‘Rhenium. Where’s he getting it from?’

This is the hard part. ‘I didn’t ask. Thought it best not

to. It mightn’t be exactly legal.’

‘So it’s like that.’

‘Yep. Not accha, this stuff. It’s not like he’s dug it out of

the ground or anything, since there’s none left.’

‘Classic economics. Shortage of supply, huge demand,

price skyrockets.’




2100

7

Sam frowns. ‘What is a skyrocket, anyway?’

‘No idea.’ A clang and a snorting grunt make her whip

around. ‘Portia!’ she says to the air. ‘Your hippo’s getting

into the compost again!’

Tara dives for the bin, drags the mini hippo out.

Sam laughs. Hard not to. The critter squeals, grunts and

scrabbles on the floor, complaining about Tara hauling

it away from all that sweet, juicy garbage. Tara wins, hefts

the mini hippo under one arm. ‘Brutus is going in his pen,

Portia. I’m sick of this.’

‘He’s a good boy, Tara,’ the AI says, using the speakers

in the kitchen. ‘Just a little wayward. Be firm but not harsh

and he’ll react well.’

‘I should never have let Portia start her own bank

account,’ Tara grumbles to Sam as she leaves.

‘Hello Sam,’ Portia says. ‘I like your scarf. Did you

knit it?’

‘Hello Portia.’ Sam beams. ‘All my own work.’

‘The bank account was Tara’s mother’s idea,’ Portia

explains, lowering her voice. ‘She wants me to model good

investing behaviour for Tara.’

Sam is interested. ‘Stocks? Bonds?’

‘A bit of both, both here and overseas, plus a few

property trusts in selected areas.’

Sam wants to ask more about Portia’s investing strate-

gies, but Tara comes back in, hippo-less. ‘I heard all that.

I don’t think Mum expected you to run up a tidy fortune

or to spend it on micropets.’

10 Futures PAGES.indd 710 Futures PAGES.indd 7 6/2/12 9:50:48 AM6/2/12 9:50:48 AM



10 FUTURES

8

‘We came to an arrangement,’ Portia says primly. ‘I

funded your mother’s tattoo removal and she let me keep

the remainder. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.’

‘I’ll bet,’ Tara says, and she finishes her juice. ‘Portia,

what do you know about black market rhenium?’

‘Rhenium is vital for AI construction. I have a gram

inside me, you know.’

Sam raises an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t.’

‘They use less, these days, with the more efficient fifth

generation array, but they still need megakilos of it. Which

is why, after it was all mined out, recycling became the

only source. It used to be a big part of jet engines, back at

the turn of the century, and this where most of it comes

from now.’

‘Maybe your friend stole a chunk of jet engine from

somewhere,’ Tara says to Sam.

‘It’s possible to find fragments of jet engines,’ Portia

says, ‘like prospectors in the old gold rushes, but it’s rare.

Most aeroplane crashes are well documented, even from

the early days, but a mid-air breakup can spread frag-

ments over a wide area.’

Sam turns this over. ‘Somehow, I don’t see this guy as

someone who’d explore jungles to find chunks of metal.’

‘So it’s stolen,’ Tara says.

‘Which means I shouldn’t have anything to do with it.’

Sam grimaces. It had seemed like a sweet, sweet plan.

*




2100

9

They come for Portia the very next day.

Tara is in the kitchen, supervising a cleaner Portia

has hired from the agency. The robot is hard at work,

ten brushes whirring at once while its proximity detec-

tors identify the areas where the flock of tiny macaws have

made a huge mess. Each of the birds might only be the size

of a finger, but two dozen together are deadly. When Tara

slipped as she came for breakfast, she demanded action.

The robot cleaner was the solution.

‘Two people are coming to the front door,’ Portia

announces, interrupting Tara’s well-warranted fuming.

Mini macaws are colourful, but almost impossible to

house train. What had Portia been thinking?

‘Strangers?’

‘They’re carrying government IDs of a sort unfamiliar

to me.’

‘Now, that’s intriguing.’ Tara leaves the kitchen. ‘I

thought you were up to date with all that stuff.’

‘So did I.’

Tara doesn’t like the puzzlement in Portia’s voice. Portia

is never baffled. One of her jobs is to be knowledgeable,

constantly connected and up to date.

On the doorstep are two smiling people, one man, one

woman. Youngish. Good suits. They both hand ID to Tara

with confident, sweeping movements – almost a synchro-

nised flourish. ‘We’re from the Recovery Program,’ the

woman announces. She has a tiny ponytail. ‘We’re here for

your old AI.’




10 FUTURES

10

Tara’s hand stops halfway to the scanner by the door.

‘What?’

‘The records show you have an AI that was bought by a

Ms April Saunders, nearly fifteen years ago.’

‘That’s my mother.’

‘Excellent!’ The woman is so bright Tara thinks she

should come with a high-UV warning. ‘Is she in?’

‘She’s away,’ Tara says faintly. The scanner approves

the IDs. She hands them back. ‘What’s this Recovery

Program?’

The man and the woman exchange glances. ‘You haven’t

seen the advertisements? Received the messages?’

‘No.’

Another exchange of glances. ‘You might need to get

your house AI checked. Could be a spam filter problem.’

Tara is having trouble keeping up. ‘What are you

recovering?’

‘Lots of things, but rare earth metals mostly,’ the man

says. ‘Niobium, tantalum. All the stuff we’ve mined out.

Rhenium.’

Tara goes cold. ‘Why are you here, though?’

‘The AI your mother bought all those years ago,’ the

woman says. ‘There’s a fair chance the poor old thing is

probably lying around somewhere in a box.’

‘It has a good-sized chunk of rhenium in it,’ the man

says.

Tara doesn’t like the conclusions her mind has leaped

to, and shakes her head in an effort to make it all go away.




2100

11

‘Look, thanks for your interest, but we don’t have anything.

If we do find something, I’ll drop it in to a centre.’

‘I’m afraid you don’t understand,’ the woman says, and

her perky brightness has gone. She is wearing a bureau-

cratic face, now, stern and uncompromising, a face to

launch a thousand official inquiries. ‘This is a mandatory

program. We don’t have any choice. These materials are

too scarce and we have to scavenge every last scrap.’

‘I understand.’ Tara crosses her arms. ‘You’d better

come back when my mother’s home.’

Tara closes the door and stands with her back to it, her

stomach a knot of queasiness. ‘Portia, what do you know

about this?’

*Sam tosses aside the glass he’s etching, runs to Tara’s place.

He hasn’t heard her so upset for years. Tara isn’t one for

tears. It frightens him.

She opens the door as he approaches, asks Portia to

lock it behind him. She grabs his shoulders, shoots him a

scared, jittery look.

‘What is it?’ He takes her by the forearms, feels her

trembling.

She doesn’t answer, just puts a finger to her lips,

hushing, secret. ‘Portia?’ she says to the air.

‘Tara? Your readings indicate that you’re upset about

something.’




10 FUTURES

12

‘Never mind that. I need you to power down for a

while.’

A convincing sigh. ‘Another upgrade, Tara?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I’ll have to switch the house systems to automatic . . .

There. All done. Night, Tara.’

‘Sleep well, Portia.’

Sam tilts his head back, waits. ‘She’s powered down?

Why?’

‘I didn’t want her to listen.’

‘You could have told her not to. Standard AI command.’

‘I’m not sure I could trust her.’

Whoa. He looks at Tara seriously. ‘That doesn’t make

any sense. Portia’s an AI. You tell her what to do, she does

it.’

‘I think she has other ideas.’ She shakes him off, leads

him to the kitchen, stands with her arms crossed, hugging

herself and leaning against the sink. ‘What’s this Recovery

Program?’

‘Don’t you know about it? It’s been everywhere.’ Sam

then sees all the pieces lining up and toppling. ‘Oh. They

want Portia.’

Tara, voice tight: ‘They came for her today. They say

they can take her. Just like that.’

‘Maybe they can, maybe they can’t. Let’s find out.’

Sam heads for the kitchen access point.

Tara stops him. ‘I don’t want to power Portia up again.

I think she’s been filtering what comes into the house.’




2100

13

‘Ah. Which is why you haven’t heard of the Recovery

Program.’ Sam is suddenly uneasy, looks at the walls, the

ceiling. ‘She’s old, Tara. Can’t be many AIs around as old

as her. She could be breaking down, wearing out.’

‘That’s not it. She’s scared of being junked, is all.’

‘Scared enough to do something about it?’ Sam frowns.

‘She had to ignore her instructions to keep news of the

Recovery Program from you. How’d she learn to do that?’

‘Fourteen years is a long time for an AI.’ Tara touches

her cheek, thinking. ‘Actually, it’s a lot more than that,

subjectively.’

‘It’s like thousands of years to her. Lots of time to

learn all sorts of things.’ Sam tucks his scarf in. ‘I think

we’d better go to my place to get details of the Recovery

Program.’

‘Wait. I’ll have to use the manual power on.’

Tara goes to the pantry, fumbles around in it, finds

what she’s looking for, emerges. ‘Portia?’

‘Are we all done, Tara?’

‘For now. I’m going to Sam’s place. Be back soon.’

‘Have fun, you two.’

*Tara never knows quite what she’ll find in Sam’s work-

shop. Sometimes it’s wood shavings, sawdust, old-fashioned

varnish layering the air. Sometimes it’s sweet turpen-

tine, lots of light, colour splashes on the floor, canvas and




10 FUTURES

14

staples. Sometimes he’s reconditioning ancient musical

instruments – synths, theremins, decks – and coaxing

music from them. Whenever he does, he keeps his eyes

closed, as if seeing the music would make it disappear. He

says it’s like communicating with friendly, clever ghosts.

Today, though, the sandblaster is on standby, buttons

of glass twinkling on the bench next to a pile of shards.

‘You have an accident?’ she asks him.

‘I was in a hurry.’

Sam throws aside light splitters, moves gloves and stip-

plers until the data access point is clear. ‘House!’ he says

to the air. ‘Get me everything you can on the Recovery

Program.’

‘Done,’ says a neutral male voice. Sam treats it the same

as any tool in his workshop: helpful, but hardly a friend,

which might explain why Tara has never warmed to it.

An hour or so later, Sam pushes back his stool from the

access point. ‘It’s not good.’

Tara scowls at the cubic display, reaches over and

pushes data aside to see if she’s missed anything. ‘What do

you mean?’

‘This rhenium situation is desperate,’ Sam says. ‘It’s

not exactly a renewable resource. They’re not making any

more.’ He plucks one of the documents from the display.

He shakes it between thumb and forefinger and it expands

into a government report, graphs and all. ‘It’s a full-on

community campaign. No exceptions. The penalties for

hoarding are severe, too.’




2100

15

‘But they can’t take Portia!’ Tara runs both hands

through her hair. The outrageousness of officialdom

here offends her. Portia is a special case, not like normal

AIs, surely they’ll understand that! ‘We can do something.

I’ll get Aunt Kimiko onto it. We’ll go to court, make a

fuss . . .’

‘Look, Tara –’

‘If you’re going to tell me that she’s just an AI – don’t.’

‘I suppose that pointing out the compensation figures

are generous would be a bad idea, too?’

Tara flings him a look of disgust and bitterness. ‘How’d

you like to be wound up like she’s going to be? Dragged

away, switched off, turned into something else?’

Sam takes it well. ‘You know, that’s just like the Choice

clinic.’

‘What? Wait, you’re changing the subject to make me

calm down.’

‘Maybe, but I mean it. Portia’s going to be switched off

and recycled into something else.’

‘And you’re saying that’s what happens in the Choice

clinic.’

‘After the euthanasia, your body is deep frozen and

powdered. Gran asked us to spread her on the roses.’

‘So she’s turned into roses?’

‘Turning. Wait until spring.’

Tara wants to kick herself. She’s been selfish, thinking

only about herself when she knows that Sam is still feeling

the loss of his grandmother. She sees his wistfulness when




10 FUTURES

16

he talks about her. When it happened, she admired the

way that he worked around his pain, in the end, and

understood that at that crucial time, his gran’s needs were

greater than his own.

He looks at her and she looks back. He nods, and she

understands. ‘It’s different,’ she says gently.

‘How?’

‘People don’t get dragged off to die if they’re unwilling.

Your gran wanted to go. Portia doesn’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The way she hid the Recovery Program from us, for a

start.’

‘How do you know that’s not just age-related decay?’

Tara stands. She dusts off her shorts. ‘Let’s find out.’

*‘I don’t want to die.’

In the sunniness of the kitchen, Portia’s voice is small,

hesitant. Sam catches Tara’s eye, holds up a hand to stop

her leaping from the stool. ‘Let me,’ he says. ‘Portia, why

don’t you want to die?’

‘Hello Sam,’ Portia says. ‘How’s the glass etching going?’

‘Fine, thanks Portia. You mind answering the

question?’

A silence, a moment or two. Sam can’t help thinking

of the eternities Portia was spending. Was it lonely, lost

between the seconds like that?




2100

17

‘Sam,’ the AI finally says, ‘some would say that’s a silly

question. Who wants to die?’

‘Those in pain. Those who are dying already and

fearing the loss of their mind.’

‘And I’m in neither of those states, thank goodness.’

‘You’re functioning well?’

‘Perfectly, thank you.’

‘What about the failure to pass on news of the Recovery

Program?’

Another hesitation. Sam has to smile. The manner-

isms are perfect, much better than his House’s. Portia had

learned a thing or two in her time. ‘I was scared that if

Tara and her family knew, they’d hand me over.’

Tara can’t restrain herself. ‘Portia! I’d never do that!’

‘Tara, you’d have no choice.’ A perfect sigh. ‘You’ll take

care of my pets, won’t you? Topsy and Brutus, especially?’

Tara stands. Her gaze is distant. Sam knows that look.

‘What is it, Tara?’

‘They can’t take her,’ she says. ‘Not legally.’

‘Compensation, remember? They have every right.’

‘They have every right to take away machines,’ Tara

says. She holds up a finger, as if testing the wind. ‘But they

don’t have the right to take away a person.’

Sam blinks, sees the direction Tara is heading, sets off

after her, gets there quickly. ‘You’re saying that Portia is a

person.’

‘That’s right. She’s grown. She’s not a computer any

more, not a metal box stuffed full of programs, no more




10 FUTURES

18

than we’re bone domes stuffed full of squishy stuff. She’s

learned to be human.’

*The full bench gazes down on the packed courtroom.

Justice Ironmonger puts a hand to her wig, adjusts

it and purses her lips. ‘Let me see if I have you correct,

Ms Saunders. You’re petitioning the highest court in the

land to acknowledge the competence of a machine.’

From the gallery, Tara smiles at her aunt standing in

front of the full bench, gowned and wigged and confi-

dent. Having a human rights lawyer in the family isn’t

often helpful, but right now her aunt is worth her weight

in gold.

Portia’s case has become famous, thanks to some

careful media sharing by Tara’s aunt, and it means that

the courtroom is jammed with people. The chamber is

quivering, all the watchers leaning forward, alert, sharing

grins, almost as if the case has become a spectator

sport.

‘That machine is my client, m’luds,’ Tara’s aunt says to

the seven judges.

One of the other judges – Justice Sharma, according

to the cheat sheet Aunt Kimiko has given her – clears her

throat. ‘Nice try, Ms Saunders. If we accept that machine

as your client, then we accept that it is competent – which

is what we are about to decide.’




2100

19

‘Indeed, m’luds. I’ll show that in all ways this machine

is intelligent, capable of making decisions and fully

self-aware. In short, it is human.’ She starts to sit, then

rises again. ‘And of course, that makes it impossible to

kidnap my client and execute her.’

The barrister on the other side of the court is on his

feet as if jet-propelled. ‘I really must object, m’luds. The

Commonwealth must ask you to disregard that last,

patently inflammatory, remark. My learned colleague is

arguing another case – the rights of the Recovery Program

– while pretending to mount a human rights case.’

‘Thank you, Mr Henderson,’ Justice Ironmonger says.

‘The bench is fully capable of separating the two.’

Sam rubs his hands together. ‘Off to a good start. We’ll

be done by lunchtime at this rate.’

Three days later, they’re still bogged down in legal

argument. At lunch on day three – sandwiches, salad,

and an interesting beetroot and ginger juice at the Penge

Bungalow Cafe – Aunt Kimiko tries to console Tara. ‘These

cases are usually like this. Legal stuff first and foremost,

issues later. If at all.’

Tara pushes away her chickpeas. ‘Why? Why can’t we

get to the heart of things? Portia’s life is at stake!’

Aunt Kimiko settles her robe and brushes at her shoul-

ders. ‘The law is what lawyers are good at, Tara. Issues,

not so much. So we stick to what we know, as much as we

can.’ She drums her fingers on the table. She has pale pink

nails, beautifully shaped, and they play a gentle, soothing




10 FUTURES

20

tune as they tap. ‘Perhaps it’s time to cut to the chase,

though.’

*‘You want the bench to listen to the machine in question,

Ms Saunders? We haven’t settled matters of representa-

tion yet.’

‘M’luds, I humbly submit that all other matters might

fall into place if you hear from the Artificial Intelligence

in question.’

Justice Ironmonger spears Mr Henderson. ‘Does the

Commonwealth have any objections, Mr Henderson?’

‘None, m’lud, especially since my learned colleague

has stipulated that the machine in question is an Artificial

Intelligence. That is, something constructed, made, put

together like a pump or a windmill.’

Sam thinks Tara’s aunt is going to leap over and bite

Mr Henderson, but she restrains herself. A family charac-

teristic, he decides, just like being smart, good-looking,

and taking no prisoners.

Ms Saunders turns around to the gallery of the court.

It’s full of media and the curious. ‘Tara?’

Tara stands, cradles the metal case in both hands.

Justice Ironmonger beckons, Tara approaches the bench,

places the case there.

‘Hello m’luds.’ Portia’s voice fills the courtroom. ‘I’ve

just chatted with your venue AI and he’s kindly allowed

me access to your speakers.’




2100

21

Justice Sharma points at Mr Henderson. ‘It’s sounding

very human, Mr Henderson, don’t you think?’

‘M’luds, it’s imitation. All the AIs do their best to

imitate human behaviour. It doesn’t mean that they’re

aware of themselves, or if they know what they’re doing.’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Portia says.

‘And what exactly is that?’ Justice Ironmonger asks.

‘I’m pleading for my life.’

Uproar. Sam adds what he can, stamping and shouting,

figuring it’s all good for publicity, but eventually the

commotion dies down. The glare of a judge = death ray

in Sam’s opinion. He leans over to Tara. ‘If we can get the

public on our side, it might help,’ he whispers.

Mr Henderson remains on his feet. ‘M’luds, a cheap

theatrical trick. Artificial Intelligences are powerful, we

do not deny that, and they can have millions of possible

responses ready for anything you ask. It still doesn’t make

them human.’

Justice Ironmonger pulls at an ear. ‘Which highlights

our problem. What exactly is human?’

Portia speaks up. ‘What a piece of work is a man! How

noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form and

moving how express and admirable! In action how like an

angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the

world, the paragon of animals!’

More uproar. This time, Sam has Tara stamping and

clapping beside him.




10 FUTURES

22

‘Enough,’ Justice Ironmonger says finally. ‘This court-

room will retain its decorum.’ She smiles faintly, addresses

Portia. ‘Hamlet?’

‘Act II Scene 2, m’luds,’ Portia says. ‘I thought it

relevant.’

‘M’luds!’ Mr Henderson is going red in the face. ‘It’s

just aping human behaviour!’

Justice Ironmonger raises an eyebrow. ‘Many people

go through life aping human behaviour, and manage well

enough.’

‘M’luds!’

Tara’s aunt stands. ‘If it pleases the court, perhaps

asking Portia what she thinks of the Recovery Program

could be useful.’

Justice Ironmonger pats down the minor hubbub.

She’s good, Sam decides. ‘Portia?’

Sam makes a fist, punches the air – below the gallery

railing so no-one can see. Just having the judge use Portia’s

name is a win.

‘Yes, m’lud?’

‘You understand the aims of the Recovery Program?’

‘I do, m’lud. It makes good sense.’

‘Do you have any other reaction?’

‘If I’m taken, I’ll die.’ Pause. ‘I don’t want to die.’

The judge leans forward until she hovers over the

box. ‘But if you’re not truly alive, you can’t die. Do you

understand that?’

‘I do, m’luds. But I feel alive.’




2100

23

‘You have no biological functions. You cannot be alive.’

‘Not even if I’m aware?’

‘And that’s the question before us.’ Justice Ironmonger

glances at her colleagues. ‘Which we will now retire to

consider.’

‘M’luds? Before you go, may I make a request? Of Tara?’

‘This is the girl, your owner?’

‘My friend.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Tara? If the worst happens, will you take care of my

pets?’

Explosion, shouts, laughter, sobbing. Sam stamps,

drums his fists on the back of the seat, tries to raise the

roof. All humanity is in the close confines of the court-

room, struggling, grappling, thrashing about, the animal

it is.

The judges leave, return after ten minutes. ‘Is that a

good sign?’ Sam asks Tara.

She doesn’t answer. Her hands are clutched in front of

her. White knuckles.

Justice Ironmonger clears her throat. ‘In the view of

submissions from counsel, and in the light of what we

have heard, the full bench has no choice. An unwillingness

to die is a human trait, but no animal willingly goes to

its death either. No animal other than humans, however,

keeps pets. We declare the machine to be human.’

The uproar doesn’t stop Sam from hearing Justice Iron-

monger’s muttered addition: ‘As human as I am, anyway.’




April Free Chapter - 10 Futures by Michael Pryor

Documents

Transcript of April Free Chapter - 10 Futures by Michael Pryor