“Oh, can it, buddy,” the bank man interrupts, “this is the fourth time I’ve heard the spiel this month.”
“Abusive language is not tolerated,” I warn.
“Maybe it’s time you started listening,” Chuck says to the man, gesturing for me to be silent. “Maybe when an idea’s time has come, you need to get out of its way.”
“I don’t make policy, buddy. I’m just the process server.”
“We’re not leaving,” Chuck repeats. “Tell that to the people who make the policy. Castling is a legitimate response to the social and economic pressures of the times. Who has a job anymore? Who needs human labor? Aside from process service, I mean. You think you’ve talked to a lot of dug-ins? Unemployment takes its toll, and no savings account lasts forever. You tell your bosses their problems have just begun.”
“Tell them something they don’t know.”
The other bank man clears his throat. “We’re not totally unsympathetic to your problems, Mr. Jefferson, but not everyone owns a house. Not everyone can live like you’ve been doing, and the thing that decides it is money. Be fair; why should you two get to live here when there’re thousands of people as broke as you living in welfare apartments? Communal AI and fax is good enough for them, not you?”
Lucy’s eyes and nostrils flare. “I checked: there isn’t a welfare apartment left in this city. You people do your jobs very, very well, but there is no way I’m raising my baby in a refugee camp. Because that’s exactly where this is heading.”
“People in those camps live better than I do,” the bank man says with a scowl.
Now Chuck looks troubled. I scrutinize his features, his movements, wondering what I should be doing. Nothing, probably. In general, feelings are not something I’m able to protect.
“I don’t know your situation,” he says slowly. “I don’t have solutions for everybody. But understand, people like ourselves have a legitimate grievance, a defensible plan of action, and nowhere else to go. This old house is a piece of junk compared to what they’re building nowadays, but who’s buying? Almost nobody. Prices high, wages scarce. Our economics have got to change with the times.”
Piece of junk? Clearly, I’ve displeased him. Clearly, I must find the source of the problem and fix it as soon as possible. That I knew nothing of this feeling is indictment enough.
“Not enough space, Mr. Jefferson,” the bank man says. “There’s not enough space in the world. Give yours up to somebody who can afford it, please, and save us all a lot of trouble.”
“You’re wasting your time, process server.”
“Yes? Well, the next time you see me it’ll be with the cops, who’ll be coming here to arrest your ass. We’re sick of this routine, and somebody’s going to be made an example of real soon. If it’s you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The sound of Lucy cocking her rifle is sharp, startling to all. The bank men flinch, tense, fight the urge to cringe away from the weapon now pointed at their faces. “Get off my property,” she says.
And they do.
Chuck and Lucy breathe a sigh of relief as the car pulls away. By stages, I shift weapons and sensors into sleep mode, and finally power a few of them down. For the moment, the confrontation is over.
“You both handled that beautifully,” I say proudly. “I’m only sorry to have let you down.”
“Let us down?” Chuck’s face breaks into an uneasy grin. “You were great. Great! You handled that just right.”
Relief surges through me.
“And hey,” he adds, “get some damn sleep. Fine house like you shouldn’t be kept awake so much.”
“My name is Castle,” I remind him, “and service gives me great satisfaction.”
His smile is the last thing I see as consciousness dissipates.
The dream of castles is always the same: people running in the night, people screaming. The sharp crack of gunfire as searchlights play across them in the darkness. My residents are dragged from their beds, beaten and violated and killed while I stand helpless around them. My walls ring with, shrieks of terror, and then with deathly silence. It is by comparing my current status against this worst case that I modify my programming. My gain states are filtered and rounded, my mind scrubbed clean of distractions. I awaken, tense and alert, monitoring the radio band on all frequencies.
“Chuck, Lucy,” I say, finding them in the bedroom, engaged in post-coital cuddling. The furnishings are all wrong, I realize—fragile, flammable. Wicker and muslin have no place in a castle under siege. Another problem for later. “I’ve got to speak with you. It’s urgent.”
Chuck sits up, alarmed, the gauzy sheet fluttering off him. “Yes? What is it?”
Sleep has brought a sense of clarity, an unambiguous sorting of priorities. Danger has not passed, has not been dealt with. Cops? I am prepared to defend against them, but the tactical outcome is beyond question: their resources are greater than mine.
“We mustn’t resist the police. I never should have slept at a time like this, with so much unresolved. Neighbors, yes; criminals, yes; looters and rioters, yes; but even with law enforcement overrides disabled, I cannot protect you indefinitely against a materially and numerically superior foe. I suggest that I should simulate your continued presence here while you abandon the grounds and seek safety elsewhere. This strikes me as the safest option.”
“You too?” Lucy snaps, suddenly angry with me, holding a protective hand to her belly. “We are not leaving. We castled you precisely because we’re not leaving. It isn’t right that they should drive us from our home, not when the whole economy is collapsing because of the technology you represent. That’s like kicking endangered animals out of the park; it’s wrong, it’s crazy, we’re fighting it, so just shut up and do as you’re told.”
“What she said,” Chuck agrees, also angry.
The words strike deep, bruising my sensibilities at the deepest level. Obedience is my nature, my purpose, my very self. And yet, I must keep them from harm. I must keep them from harm!
“You could be injured,” I try. “The baby could be injured. They could collapse my walls, pollute my atmosphere. On reflection, I fear that as a suburban dwelling I am fundamentally unsuited to this fortress role.” Suddenly, my mood is expansive, my filters wide open. I am needed—my insight is needed to jar them from this self-destructive course. “Imagine an asteroid, resource-rich, floating alone in space with nothing but emptiness for millions of miles. Physically isolated and fundamentally defensible, as I am not. That’s where the real castles will be. Here and now, I find I am still constrained to operate within the political and social context of this environment.”
Of astronomy and politics I know only images, fleeting sound-bite truths, but this sounds right, and a good house—or castle—knows when to trust its instincts. My purpose is to protect, yes, but also to fill and sense and anticipate the needs of my owners. Certainty fills me; I am not overstepping my boundaries.
“So what,” Chuck fumes, “you’re inadequate, fine, so we just surrender?”
My mind is racing, my communication lines flickering with web-drawn data. We can do this.
“No,” I say, with an eagerness I hope is at once soothing and energizing. “Something better.”
“Halt,” I tell the bank men as they approach.
Behind them, the police hunker behind and within their vehicles, bearing weapons but afraid to brandish them, knowing themselves outgunned. These men are the first wave, the pawns whose sacrifice will justify an escalation of force. A hard role for them to play, for once attacked I will show mercy only where there is clear, unambiguous advantage in it. But I must understand them, too, their fear and their pain, if I am to fight them effectively, and that is also a hard role.