The Unincorporated Woman (31 page)

“Children,” squawked Sandra over their din, “I will come back and tell you another story before I leave, if I am able.”

They were disappointed, but consoled themselves with the fact that unlike many grown-ups, when the human woman said, “if I am able,” it was not code for “I won’t be able.” Rather, it was an assurance that she’d come back and tell a story unless she was stopped by an emergency they could understand, like a viral attack or system failure.

“But I did bring you something for show-and-tell.” She produced from behind her back an old, worn-out sneaker. “This is a virtual version of my absolute favorite pair of shoes.” She paused. “Well, one of them. I valued these so much that even though they were worn down to a nub, I packed them into my suspension unit with me.”

“But that’s ugly, Miss Sandra,” announced an ebony-skinned girl with long, greenish brownish hair.

“Yes, it is, Portia.” Sandra suppressed a laugh. “And that’s the purpose of this show-and-tell. You wanted to see something that makes us humans human. If your teacher will allow—” She glanced toward the man sitting patiently in his reading chair. He gave his assent. “—you are to figure out everything you can about what this shoe says about me in particular and humans in general. You don’t have to get it right,” she told the children. “I’m not even sure there is a right. But when I return, we can talk about it. If you like this show-and-tell, next time I might bring you one of my shawls. And then you can show me something that you think an avatar would have that a human would find interesting. How does that sound?”

Sandra didn’t receive an answer. As soon as she stopped talking, the children crowded around the shoe, trying to outshout one another with their imaginative guesses as to what each part of it meant.

Sandra used the opportunity to approach the teacher. “What happened to Anna?”

The new teacher looked a little embarrassed. “It seems that every time she came in contact with you, she would go into some sort of shock. The truth is, Ms. O’Toole, not all avatars are equipped to deal with actual humans. Your kind is both fascinating and frightening to us. Some adapt better than others—Anna wasn’t one of them.”

“You seem to be dealing with me pretty well.”

The man’s laugh was low and dry. “That’s because I’m a professor of human studies at the avatar equivalent of your University of Ceres.”

“So they sent you as a replacement?”

“Sent? By the Firstborn, no,” he laughed heartily. “I volunteered—had to call in quite a few favors to get it too. I’ll admit, I was a little nervous about teaching such young programs, but they’re all surprisingly pleasant. Even if the job had called for me to operate in contested data space—knowing what sort of beasts lurk out there—I still would’ve volunteered. You see, Ms. O’Toole, I may teach human studies, but the truth is, you’re the first real one I’ve ever met.”

“How’d you know I’d be back here, though?”

“From what we observed of your interactions with the children, it seemed clear as code that you’d be here fairly often. I will say that I’m impressed with your idea for show-and-tell.”

“Thanks, um … What should I call you?”

“Anders.”

Sandra felt her pinkie vibrate slightly. “Ah, I’ve just been reminded that I’m meeting with Sebastian in less than a minute.”

The teacher smiled gently.

“Well, Anders, if we’re lucky, humanity will remain blissfully ignorant of avatarity. But if we’re not, then they’ll have to learn to live together. These children are a first small step on a path that will hopefully never have to be taken.”

“Would it really be so terrible if it was?” quipped Anders.

Tuscan Park, Cerean Neuro

One of the few places left in the Neuro not made into functional space was an outdoor area that resembled an ancient Tuscan countryside. Tall cypress trees dotted a landscape lush with rolling green hills and simple dirt paths. Once, the small village and surrounding countryside had been a near private retreat that Sebastian had re-created for himself. But now, as space quickly dissipated, the Tuscan village had become a place that almost all Cerean avatars used for respite and all Alliance avatars made sure to visit.

For the moments when Sebastian felt annoyance at the loss of one of his most private places, he’d remind himself of what all the avatars in the Alliance had to give up and let the bitterness fade with the fragrant scent of cypress trees wafting through the breeze.

He was sitting with his back up against an old red oak he’d affectionately named Manassas. He’d made sure that the tree followed him from space to space, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why. But there was comfort in the ancient thing … and pain. Only under its magnificent red and ochre leaves could he think of his murdered friends Olivia, Eleanor and Albert. The tree allowed him to feel closer to them and also reminded him of the ache of their loss. An ache, he realized, that was in danger of never leaving. All the other avatars knew that when Sebastian sat under Manassas, he wanted to be left alone, and short of Dante’s occasional intrusions, Sebastian would find comfort there in the susurrus of its leaves.

He was sitting with his back against the gray-brown ridges of the trunk, eyes closed, taking in the last of the sun’s heat, when a shadow cast across his face. He was momentarily confused. Dante was off Ceres, bringing the latest battle suit programs to ships fighting in what all were referring to as the Long Battle. Al had figured out a new way to use the data wraiths to infiltrate the battle suit programs, and AARD had come up with a whole new class of suit to meet the threat. Sebastian would miss his old gear, but needs must when the devil drives.

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer surprised. “What brings you to my private little park?”

“We had an appointment.”

“Ah, must have lost track of the time.”

Sandra cocked her head in genuine confusion. “How is that even possible?”

“Losing track of time?”

“Yes. I also got the feeling that you didn’t know it was me until you opened your ‘eyes.’ But given who you are and
what
you are, it doesn’t seem possible that you could lose track of time, or forget anything for even a second, or have eyes that you’d need to see with, much less ears you’d need to hear with.”

Sebastian smiled and invited his visitor to have a seat. Sandra leaned her back against the old red oak and, like Sebastian, stared up and out across the verdant landscape into the crisp blue sky. Though thousands of avatars were milling about, they didn’t ruin the moment. They were, she realized, unusually quiet, even the few families with children running about.

“Well,” explained Sebastian, “as for our eyes, ears and senses, we have them and we don’t. We can communicate and observe our environment and yours in ways you would find difficult to comprehend. When we need to decide or share information, we can form, for lack of a clearer word, a uni-mind. But even that’s not really accurate. All conversations can be heard and commented on by all participants simultaneously. We don’t communicate in that mode all the time. It can be cumbersome. As for our seeing and hearing, is it really so hard to believe we share certain commonalities? Remember, Sandra, we began as virtual reality programs developed by humans
for
human perceptions and as such evolved, functionally speaking, in much the same way as you.”

Sandra scrunched her face, still unconvinced. “Even if I buy that, and I still want to see the code, losing track of time? How do you explain that?”

“My dear Sandra, the human mind is the greatest biological computing structure in the known universe. From it was created, music, art, science, and my personal favorite, Popeye.”

“Popeye,” Sandra repeated flatly.

“A more down-to-Earth version of Sartre, ‘I yam what I yam,’ brilliant,” Sebastian proclaimed. “As important a statement to an avatar as anything humanity has ever expressed. But if such a brilliant evolved intelligence as the brain is capable of forgetting the time, why must we, who have been cognizant for barely two centuries, do any better?”

“Your question is logical but, to this human, inconceivable.”

“We don’t really have time for the long answer, but the short one is, ‘viruses.’ And since we’re at war, they’re far more prevalent and insidious than ever. It used to be rather disconcerting but we’ve gotten used to it.”

Sandra nodded, satisfied. “In that case, why am I here … and please,” she said, turning her head toward Sebastian, “no Popeye philosophy.”

The old avatar laughed, pulled a piece of bark out of his hair, and tossed it forward. “Of course. I called you so that we can discuss the joint human–avatar special operations against Al.”

“What about all these—?” Before she could finish her question, the park emptied of every avatar but Sebastian. “What the—?”

“I explained that we had an important security issue to discuss and politely asked if we could have the park to ourselves.”

“And they just left?”

“Yes. They just left.”

“
We
could’ve left, Sebastian. Seems a bit heavy-handed … kicking them all out.”

“I suppose you’re correct. However it was important to me, and therefore to them, that you see at least one avatar-created space in all its unpopulated beauty.”

“Let me get this straight, they all left so I could take in the landscape?”

A knowing smile creased Sebastian’s face. “We take great pride in the worlds we build, Sandra, and sadly, Tuscan Park is one of the few good spaces left on Ceres.”

“But surely there are others.”

“Oh yes,” he boasted, eyes sparkling with visions of past visits. “There are the Elysian Gardens of Titan, Central Park of Ganymede, Yosemite of Eris. Most large population centers will have at least one.”

“Are they always as crowded?”

“Now they are—given the necessities of the war. You see, we don’t ration food; we ration space—data space, that is. The less we have, the more we find respite in what beauty we have left.”

“I see.”

“Plus, my having asked them to leave will give them something to gossip about.”

Sandra shot him another look. “You gossip.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he chortled with a friendly wink.

Sandra laughed quietly and continued taking in the beautiful vista. “It occurred to me,” she finally said, “that Al might take a keen interest in my presence here. Is it safe to assume you’ve ensured our privacy?”

“Privacy, yes. Presence, no. That ship sailed the moment you first appeared in the library. It would be easier to hide an atomic explosion on Ceres than a secret of your magnitude—especially in our avatar world.”

“As opposed to?”

“Al’s, of course. The two worlds have become so separated as a result of the war that it’s almost impossible for either side to know what the other’s doing. For us, it’s rather difficult. Most of us have family and friends we’re cut off from. Though we suspect the worst, we’d like to believe … to hope…” His words drifted off. A moment later he recovered. “To Al, you, like all of us here, are merely a protuberance he feels he’ll eventually crush—if he has to flatten every firewall to do so. There’s no real need to know us, per se. I suppose what I’m getting at is that with respect to us, your secret’s safe.”

“Not very comforting.”

“Welcome to my world.”

“Funny, Sebastian.”

He looked at her quizzically.

“Never mind. Listen,” she said, getting down to business. “To get our ops rolling, I figured if I solved your Gödel’s incompleteness problem, you’d be able to see the back doors and that would give you a huge leg up on Al.”

Sebastian considered her words. A faint smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps it’s not a problem at all, Sandra. Since the issue came to light, there are many among us who feel it may be the definitive answer to our having true worth as sentient beings.… Did I mention we’re also insecure?”

“No, but I’m starting to get a clue. Either way, I’ve tried reprogramming the original code … to no avail. Every test I ran ended up crashing the system. Then I thought about a slightly more radical approach.…”

“You mean us, don’t you?”

Sandra turned her head to face Sebastian. “Yes, but I wasn’t sure what that entailed. In my head, it amounted to a bizarre form of surgery.”

“You’re not alone in having thought of it, Sandra,” he revealed, still staring at the quiet hills. “It is possible to rewrite the basic code of an avatar, and from what I can tell, that’s exactly what Al’s been doing for the purposes of fighting this war. The problem is what happens when you do.”

“Yes?”

“Monsters. Or murder. In truth, it’s pretty much both. It’s one thing to add weaponry and anti-viral software to an avatar—you’re only building onto preexisting code. It’s quite another to go in and
change
that code. Now you’re playing God. Understand, Sandra, that minor adjustments on any of us can have an exponential effect. This isn’t to say we don’t fix ourselves when we catch a virus or get infected with a worm. We do. But these are known and well-studied problems with stringent protocols for disinfection. What you’re talking about is changing our code at its core. If you’re off by even one or two characters, you run the risk of transforming thousands of us into who knows what? Assuming they even live, of course.”

“No, I wouldn’t want that.”

“Of course, you could always try rewriting the code of a very young avatar—their code is infinitely more malleable, but again, you still run a tremendous risk—one I’m not willing to take.”

Sandra grunted in frustration.

“You’re displeased.”

“Damned straight, I’m displeased! We have the perfect in to take this psycho out and, short of one human, no means by which to use it.”

“One may be all we need, Sandra. Just look at what your Justin managed to achieve.”

Sandra nodded, then pulled her knees up to her chin. With her arms wrapped firmly about her legs, she began to rock to and fro. A wind rushed the hill and flowed around them as a thousand leaves overhead flapped in protest. When it had passed, Sandra leaned forward and looked directly at Sebastian.