Suddenly, the music ends with a sharp bleating of horns, and Lucy looks up, startled, tense. Bad timing on my part; I have not been paying proper attention. I should have faded it down and swapped in another tune before the silence became noticeable. I do so now, resolving to keep closer track of it this time.
Checking his watch (still only 9:04), Chuck takes up the cards again, shuffles them, hands them to Lucy.
“Your deal,” he says.
But Lucy is still looking up. “Are all the external sensors functioning?”
I assure her that they are.
“The gun turrets? The armor? There’s a coat of diamond under the steel, right?”
“Everything is fine,” I say. “Everything is ready.”
Not strictly true, but they return to their game, mollified.
Outside, my roof cleaner is nearly half finished with its work. Enameling the steel shingles is a big job, though, and the machine responsible for it has run out of materials and must be recalled and re-filled. I realize suddenly that I am not prepared for a siege of decades; the shingles are new, produced with the scrap iron Chuck brought home a few days ago, and to produce sufficient enamel for them I’ll require a hydrocarbon source, possibly a few kilos of old tar or plastic. Stupid; I have been stupid. I resolve to give the front wall a complete coat, at least, both for the sake of appearances and because frontal vulnerability, even vulnerability to rust, is unthinkable.
Still, I’ll have to explain my failure in this matter, and it may be several days before I’m able to correct it. The thought makes me cranky, which helps me to realize how tired I still am, how overtaxed. All this activity is far from my usual steady-state operation! But the bank people are due here in forty minutes; I dare not sleep. Instead, I produce one more batch of enamel and finish the front coat, and then fax up an array of blowers and mirrors to help the morning Sun and breeze dry it more quickly.
Inside, Chuck and Lucy have finished their game, and are now just sitting together in silence. Not good for them at a time like this, so I chime softly and speak: “Chuck, I’m afraid I can’t enamel the whole exterior without an additional supply of hydrocarbons.”
He looks up into one of my cameras. “What? Enamel?”
“My planning error is difficult to explain. Perhaps I’ve failed to assimilate my new program effectively.”
He scowls, not liking this conversation. “Are you talking to me about paint? For Christ’s sake, run a self-diagnostic or something. It’s not a good time to bother us with minutiae.”
“My self-test functions are active when I sleep,” I remind him. “I would alert you instantly if a hard error occurred. I’m afraid this is more subtle. A planning error.”
“More subtle,” Lucy says, sniffing. “You made a mistake; so what? Why make a big deal?”
To calm and distract you, of course, I think but do not say. I drag the conversation out another few minutes. Not longer, lest they grow suspicious or lose confidence in my functioning. Under these unusual circumstances, is my error in fact excusable? With modified priority structure and little rest, have I got, as they say, too much on my mind? I allow them to convince me of the fact.
Meanwhile, I swap the music again, this time a quiet but sturdy marching tune, and discreetly disassemble the drying equipment outside. The enamel will still be tacky, but it wouldn’t do to let the bank people know this, to let them see us in a state of anything but optimal readiness. I flex my sensor and weapon turrets, testing their speeds and ranges of motion. I run through first-aid apd damage control algorithms in my mind, testing them against the elements stored in my buffers, the energy stored in my batteries. All margins adequate, but my copper level is borderline. I quietly snatch decorations from a shelf, unfax and replace them with substitutes of alternate composition. I ache to do more. Compulsive? Tired as I am, it’s difficult to say.
Ten o’clock comes and goes. The bank people are late. Chuck and Lucy, now engaged in a philosophical discussion of some sort, fail to notice. The details of their conversation elude me, uninteresting. Ethical standards? Civil disobedience? Elimination of randomness from the process of economic paradigm shift? Just chatter, I conclude, and while their exchange is a heated one, the anger is directed outward. At the bank people? At something larger and more complex? I cannot guess. It’s not my place to guess.
Finally, a car pulls up. White, nondescript. I paint it with sensors, recording every image and measurement, analyzing the threat potential of each. The doors open, and two flannel-suit-ed men emerge, their faces unadorned, eyes clearly visible. Magnetometer/chromatograph/radar/sonar/ thermal lR/et cetera. Threat analysis: one of them carries a folding knife in his pocket. No other sign of obvious weaponry, but this means nothing. Ceramics, bioactives, even the human body itself… so many silent dangers, difficult to detect, difficult to defend against. Dare I let them approach?
Seeing me, they tense, the language of their bodies shifting down into suspicion and alarm.
“Will you look at that,” one of them says to the other. “Another goddamn castle.”
“Not good,” the other replies.
“Halt,” I say to them both, lighting their breastbones with red and yellow targeting lasers in a bull’s-eye pattern.
“Damn,” they both say. Neither one moves.
“The bank people are here,” I say to Chuck and Lucy inside, and flash up a rendering on the living room holie screen. The marching tune ends suddenly.
Sighing, they rise to their feet, weapons at the ready.
“Show them in,” Chuck says.
To the two men, I say, “You may approach the front door. Stay on the path, and keep your hands visible at all times. Are you suffering from any illness?”
“No,” one says, and then the other. Slowly, nervously, they approach.
“Has any stranger asked you to carry anything on your person? Are you currently wanted by the police or other authorities?”
Again, they deny it.
“Horseplay is not tolerated. The appearance of hostility will provoke the same response regardless of its intention. Do not approach within ten feet of the occupants of this dwelling. Do not touch the walls or ceiling. Do not attempt to remove anything from these premises, nor leave anything behind when you depart. This dwelling is programmed for armed response up to and including the use of deadly force.”
“That’s illegal,” one of the bank men reproaches. “And very, very naughty.”
I open the door without answering. It is neither my job nor my desire to converse with these enemies, these envoys of enemies. I concentrate instead on their movements, on keeping the targeting lasers perfectly centered. One false move…
Chuck meets them at the doorway. His weapon slung behind him now, symbolic only, but Lucy stands in the background shadows with rifle held firmly across her chest. This, too, is symbolic—my reaction time is a hundredth as long as it would take her to aim and fire—but she may not realize this, and almost certainly isn’t thinking about it at the moment. The maternal instinct is strong.
“We’re not leaving,” Chuck says to them, in a surprisingly mild tone. His nervousness seems to have evaporated, here at the moment of action.
One of the bankers waves a sheet of heavy paper, fan-folded and elaborately stamped. NOTICE OF FORECLOSURE/EVICTION, it says at the top. “You don’t own this property, buddy. Reversion of title to Friendly Lending occurred eight weeks ago. You’re trespassing.”
“No,” Chuck says. “We claim squatters’ rights under state and federal property law. Even if you had a buyer lined up for this particular site, which you don’t, the majority of your foreclosures will just end up abandoned. The great depression was full of houses legally occupied by families who couldn’t afford mortgage payments, or even taxes. The clearest precedents include—”