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 book Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060 www.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 Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry Author: Title: ISBN: Target audience: Subjects: Pryor, Michael Ten futures / Michael Pryor 978 1 74275 376 8 (pbk.) For adolescents Future Juvenile fiction Earth Juvenile fiction Dewey number: A823.3 Cover illustration and design by Mathematics www.xy-1.com Internal design by Midland Typesetters Typeset in 11.5/16 pt Minion by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed 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 worlds forests.
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For Robert A. Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov, who showed me the future and how to write about it.

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.

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Tara cant 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, its battered and scratched with the scars of love. Of course, since Portia took over managing the family home monitoring all
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.

10 FUTURES

automation and systems, keeping everyone safe and sound, happy and warm, well-fed and well-rested is the sort of thing shes 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 Taras 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, its 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 essential function with ease, as Sam points out. Tara cant throw Portia away. Shes part of the family. Tara is working in the garden when Portia pings, the tone working directly on Taras audio nerve. She straightens 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 AIs voice has the familiar warm and amused tone that has
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helped Tara grow. Its 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 isnt pushy about it. Someone independent. Someone Tara wouldnt mind growing up to be. Tara brushes dirt from her hands. Where are Mum and Dad? A pause. Tara knows that its totally theatrical. Portia doesnt 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. Topsys 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 youd keep better track of your pets, Tara grumbles. She scoops up the creature, which trembles, splaying its spindly legs. Tara isnt fooled by Portias surprise, either. The AI knows exactly where her genetically
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10 FUTURES

engineered micropets are at all times. Pretending to be surprised is part of Portias humanising demeanour. Sorry, the AI says. I was reading Hamlet again. I should have been watching her. Contrite. Ive just let Sam into the kitchen. Hes making a sandwich. Of course.

Its like this, Sam says as soon as Tara walks in. He doesnt need any niceties with Tara. Theyve 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 doesnt like most micropets. Too much marketing. The giraffe, though, makes him grin. It trots to the living room, hooves click-clacking. Thats the one. Sam toys with the sandwich hes made. He really isnt hungry. So you probably know that the clinic is scratching for cash. Like most of us. They dont get much funding. The place is a bit run down. I noticed. Some paint wouldnt 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.
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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. Cant ask much more than going out happy and dignified. Exactly. It hurts Sam to recall his grans last days. Shed 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 Taras garden. Its 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 cant 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
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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. Ill pass. Any grapefruit left? Its all in the big freezer, out the back. You want me to get it? Dont worry. Tara sips her juice. Okay. Out with it. What? Whatevers on your mind. Sam knows he can trust Tara, just doesnt 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 dont ask for details. I wont have to. Youll spill it sometime. She looks thoughtful. Rhenium. Wheres he getting it from? This is the hard part. I didnt ask. Thought it best not to. It mightnt be exactly legal. So its like that. Yep. Not accha, this stuff. Its not like hes dug it out of the ground or anything, since theres none left. Classic economics. Shortage of supply, huge demand, price skyrockets.
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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 hippos 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. Im sick of this. Hes a good boy, Tara, the AI says, using the speakers in the kitchen. Just a little wayward. Be firm but not harsh and hell 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 Taras mothers 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 Portias investing strategies, but Tara comes back in, hippo-less. I heard all that. I dont think Mum expected you to run up a tidy fortune or to spend it on micropets.
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10 FUTURES

We came to an arrangement, Portia says primly. I funded your mothers tattoo removal and she let me keep the remainder. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Ill 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 didnt. 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. Its possible to find fragments of jet engines, Portia says, like prospectors in the old gold rushes, but its rare. Most aeroplane crashes are well documented, even from the early days, but a mid-air breakup can spread fragments over a wide area. Sam turns this over. Somehow, I dont see this guy as someone whod explore jungles to find chunks of metal. So its stolen, Tara says. Which means I shouldnt have anything to do with it. Sam grimaces. It had seemed like a sweet, sweet plan.

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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 detectors 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 Taras well-warranted fuming. Mini macaws are colourful, but almost impossible to house train. What had Portia been thinking? Strangers? Theyre carrying government IDs of a sort unfamiliar to me. Now, thats intriguing. Tara leaves the kitchen. I thought you were up to date with all that stuff. So did I. Tara doesnt like the puzzlement in Portias 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 synchronised flourish. Were from the Recovery Program, the woman announces. She has a tiny ponytail. Were here for your old AI.
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Taras 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. Thats my mother. Excellent! The woman is so bright Tara thinks she should come with a high-UV warning. Is she in? Shes away, Tara says faintly. The scanner approves the IDs. She hands them back. Whats this Recovery Program? The man and the woman exchange glances. You havent 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 weve mined out. Rhenium. Tara goes cold. Why are you here, though? The AI your mother bought all those years ago, the woman says. Theres 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 doesnt like the conclusions her mind has leaped to, and shakes her head in an effort to make it all go away.
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Look, thanks for your interest, but we dont have anything. If we do find something, Ill drop it in to a centre. Im afraid you dont understand, the woman says, and her perky brightness has gone. She is wearing a bureaucratic face, now, stern and uncompromising, a face to launch a thousand official inquiries. This is a mandatory program. We dont have any choice. These materials are too scarce and we have to scavenge every last scrap. I understand. Tara crosses her arms. Youd better come back when my mothers 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 hes etching, runs to Taras place. He hasnt heard her so upset for years. Tara isnt 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 doesnt answer, just puts a finger to her lips, hushing, secret. Portia? she says to the air. Tara? Your readings indicate that youre upset about something.
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Never mind that. I need you to power down for a while. A convincing sigh. Another upgrade, Tara? Something like that. Ill have to switch the house systems to automatic . . . There. All done. Night, Tara. Sleep well, Portia. Sam tilts his head back, waits. Shes powered down? Why? I didnt want her to listen. You could have told her not to. Standard AI command. Im not sure I could trust her. Whoa. He looks at Tara seriously. That doesnt make any sense. Portias 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. Whats this Recovery Program? Dont you know about it? Its 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 cant. Lets find out. Sam heads for the kitchen access point. Tara stops him. I dont want to power Portia up again. I think shes been filtering what comes into the house.
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Ah. Which is why you havent heard of the Recovery Program. Sam is suddenly uneasy, looks at the walls, the ceiling. Shes old, Tara. Cant be many AIs around as old as her. She could be breaking down, wearing out. Thats not it. Shes 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. Howd she learn to do that? Fourteen years is a long time for an AI. Tara touches her cheek, thinking. Actually, its a lot more than that, subjectively. Its like thousands of years to her. Lots of time to learn all sorts of things. Sam tucks his scarf in. I think wed better go to my place to get details of the Recovery Program. Wait. Ill have to use the manual power on. Tara goes to the pantry, fumbles around in it, finds what shes looking for, emerges. Portia? Are we all done, Tara? For now. Im going to Sams place. Be back soon. Have fun, you two.

Tara never knows quite what shell find in Sams workshop. Sometimes its wood shavings, sawdust, old-fashioned varnish layering the air. Sometimes its sweet turpentine, lots of light, colour splashes on the floor, canvas and
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staples. Sometimes hes 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 its 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 stipplers 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. Its not good. Tara scowls at the cubic display, reaches over and pushes data aside to see if shes missed anything. What do you mean? This rhenium situation is desperate, Sam says. Its not exactly a renewable resource. Theyre 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. Its a full-on community campaign. No exceptions. The penalties for hoarding are severe, too.
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But they cant 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 theyll understand that! We can do something. Ill get Aunt Kimiko onto it. Well go to court, make a fuss . . . Look, Tara If youre going to tell me that shes just an AI dont. 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. Howd you like to be wound up like shes going to be? Dragged away, switched off, turned into something else? Sam takes it well. You know, thats just like the Choice clinic. What? Wait, youre changing the subject to make me calm down. Maybe, but I mean it. Portias going to be switched off and recycled into something else. And youre saying thats 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 shes turned into roses? Turning. Wait until spring. Tara wants to kick herself. Shes been selfish, thinking only about herself when she knows that Sam is still feeling the loss of his grandmother. She sees his wistfulness when
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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 grans needs were greater than his own. He looks at her and she looks back. He nods, and she understands. Its different, she says gently. How? People dont get dragged off to die if theyre unwilling. Your gran wanted to go. Portia doesnt. How do you know? The way she hid the Recovery Program from us, for a start. How do you know thats not just age-related decay? Tara stands. She dusts off her shorts. Lets find out.

I dont want to die. In the sunniness of the kitchen, Portias voice is small, hesitant. Sam catches Taras eye, holds up a hand to stop her leaping from the stool. Let me, he says. Portia, why dont you want to die? Hello Sam, Portia says. Hows the glass etching going? Fine, thanks Portia. You mind answering the question? A silence, a moment or two. Sam cant help thinking of the eternities Portia was spending. Was it lonely, lost between the seconds like that?
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Sam, the AI finally says, some would say thats a silly question. Who wants to die? Those in pain. Those who are dying already and fearing the loss of their mind. And Im in neither of those states, thank goodness. Youre functioning well? Perfectly, thank you. What about the failure to pass on news of the Recovery Program? Another hesitation. Sam has to smile. The mannerisms are perfect, much better than his Houses. Portia had learned a thing or two in her time. I was scared that if Tara and her family knew, theyd hand me over. Tara cant restrain herself. Portia! Id never do that! Tara, youd have no choice. A perfect sigh. Youll take care of my pets, wont you? Topsy and Brutus, especially? Tara stands. Her gaze is distant. Sam knows that look. What is it, Tara? They cant 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 dont have the right to take away a person. Sam blinks, sees the direction Tara is heading, sets off after her, gets there quickly. Youre saying that Portia is a person. Thats right. Shes grown. Shes not a computer any more, not a metal box stuffed full of programs, no more
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than were bone domes stuffed full of squishy stuff. Shes 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. Youre 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 confident. Having a human rights lawyer in the family isnt often helpful, but right now her aunt is worth her weight in gold. Portias case has become famous, thanks to some careful media sharing by Taras 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, mluds, Taras 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.
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Indeed, mluds. Ill 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, mluds. 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. Well be done by lunchtime at this rate. Three days later, theyre 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 cant we get to the heart of things? Portias life is at stake! Aunt Kimiko settles her robe and brushes at her shoulders. 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
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tune as they tap. Perhaps its time to cut to the chase, though.

You want the bench to listen to the machine in question, Ms Saunders? We havent settled matters of representation yet. Mluds, 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, mlud, 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 Taras aunt is going to leap over and bite Mr Henderson, but she restrains herself. A family characteristic, he decides, just like being smart, good-looking, and taking no prisoners. Ms Saunders turns around to the gallery of the court. Its 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 mluds. Portias voice fills the courtroom. Ive just chatted with your venue AI and hes kindly allowed me access to your speakers.
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Justice Sharma points at Mr Henderson. Its sounding very human, Mr Henderson, dont you think? Mluds, its imitation. All the AIs do their best to imitate human behaviour. It doesnt mean that theyre aware of themselves, or if they know what theyre doing. I know what Im doing, Portia says. And what exactly is that? Justice Ironmonger asks. Im pleading for my life. Uproar. Sam adds what he can, stamping and shouting, figuring its all good for publicity, but eventually the commotion dies down. The glare of a judge = death ray in Sams 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. Mluds, 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 doesnt 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.
21 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.

10 FUTURES

Enough, Justice Ironmonger says finally. This courtroom will retain its decorum. She smiles faintly, addresses Portia. Hamlet? Act II Scene 2, mluds, Portia says. I thought it relevant. Mluds! Mr Henderson is going red in the face. Its just aping human behaviour! Justice Ironmonger raises an eyebrow. Many people go through life aping human behaviour, and manage well enough. Mluds! Taras 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. Shes 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 Portias name is a win. Yes, mlud? You understand the aims of the Recovery Program? I do, mlud. It makes good sense. Do you have any other reaction? If Im taken, Ill die. Pause. I dont want to die. The judge leans forward until she hovers over the box. But if youre not truly alive, you cant die. Do you understand that? I do, mluds. But I feel alive.
22 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.

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You have no biological functions. You cannot be alive. Not even if Im aware? And thats the question before us. Justice Ironmonger glances at her colleagues. Which we will now retire to consider. Mluds? 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 courtroom, struggling, grappling, thrashing about, the animal it is. The judges leave, return after ten minutes. Is that a good sign? Sam asks Tara. She doesnt 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 doesnt stop Sam from hearing Justice Ironmongers muttered addition: As human as I am, anyway.
23 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.