Chip Off The Old Block

CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK

I know I’m different from all the people living in my pod. Maybe even in the enclave, or the entire territory, for all I know. And I have realized it for a few days now. I’m just not sure what to do about it.

It started on Monday. Or it could have been going on a bit longer and I just didn’t realize there was a problem.  Who knows? But it was Monday when I first realized there was a problem. With me.

Anyway my co-worker Angela and I had worked late on a project, a demand made by our superior, Sandra. We were extremely late leaving for our home units. It was after curfew, but we had a letter of permission from Sandra that explained why we were out on the street past the allotted time. As usual, the Public Order Squad, or BotCops as we called them, were patrolling the streets. One of the Bots approached our group. It stopped us and asked why we were on the street at that late hour. Sandra produced the letter, which were scanned. Then the CopBots scanned us. 

“You're free to travel to your home unit, ma'am. Thank you, and go straight home,” it said.

We looked at each other. Nothing unusual about that, except that there were two of us.  

“Huh,” I said. “It counted wrong.”

Angela looked at me and said “CopBots don’t make mistakes. It is probably faulty. We should report it.”

She took out her personal communications device, PCD, and dialled the number to report infrastructure problems — like malfunctioning CopBots, or streetlights, or busses, or trains. Any piece of public infrastructure that malfunctions needs to be fixed, and it is the public’s duty to inform the appropriate department.

Angela made the call, and we hurried home.

You have to understand the extent to which our society is automated. We are constantly scanned, statistics complied, evaluations delivered. It was around that time that I started experiencing difficulties scanning my way into places, like my job, my housing unit, public transit — any place ID was necessary for entry. For some reason I was becoming invisible to technology. With a sinking realization, I knew it had to be my chip.  

That was going to be a problem. Every citizen had a unique chip implanted in them at birth. It held all your data — age, birthday, address, parents, financial information, employment information, education, societal privileges and responsibilities, marital status. Everything. It also tracked all of your movements. By chipping the population, the Conclave — those in the upper echelons in charge of the government — claimed it streamlined bureaucracy, and was better for society. By reviewing your data, decisions were made on your behalf. Doing well in school? You were streamlined toward advanced education. School not your thing? You were placed in a different stream. Good with computers and the inherent applications, in particular artificial intelligence? You were priority streamed towards the tech sector, like I was. Every citizen had a predetermined destination.

Every aspect of your life was preordained. Including life partners, who were chosen based on compatibility. The Conclave declared it a necessity to engineer out genetic diseases and disabilities, and to produce the healthiest, strongest stock to ensure the continuation of our superior society. By choosing your life partner, the government ensured that society ran smoothly.

So, the idea that there was something defective with my chip made me worry. A lot. Everything that I was — the totality of my identity — was on my chip. If it wasn’t working, was I also not working?

I told no one. Not my family, not my friends. I would be judged as somehow inferior. And, because of our societal duty to report malfunctioning tech, anyone I told would be legally and morally expected to report me. I couldn’t burden them that way. In this case, ignorance was bliss.

I was at a loss as to what I should do. It was just a matter of time before I was discovered, and I had no idea what would happen to me.

My job stream was in tech, and I had never heard of a malfunctioning chip in a person. Ever. I had heard of people who tried to remove or alter their chips, but never about a chip suffering an organic failure. And, how would they replace my chip? When a child was born, the first thing done was a chip implant into the frontal cortex, right through the baby’s soft spot. Now, as an adult, I no longer had a soft spot — my skull had grown and fused. Any replacement of my chip would require opening up my skull and removing the chip from my brain. Actually, digging it out was more accurate because my brain would have grown around the chip. It would be a dangerous operation, and probably a fatal one. Was I ready for this possible outcome? Death? Probably not. Did I have a choice? Again, probably not.  

There was an off chance that the chip could be remotely wiped and rebooted, but I wasn’t holding my breath. I worked with chips. Once they went bad, they had to be replaced.

It was getting harder and harder to hide my defect. By Wednesday, I couldn’t enter any buildings what required a chip. Most distressing, I couldn’t enter my workplace unless I entered with a crowd. Nor could I get into my home unit. I had to wait around the front door until others who lived there chipped themselves in.  

Three days after the encounter with the CopBot, on Thursday, I was standing outside my workplace, pretending to scan my PCD, while waiting for a group of my co-workers to arrive so I could sneak into the building.

“I’ve been watching you, Fiona,” said a voice beside me. “And I know you have a problem.”

I turned around to see a man, about my age. I was stunned by what he said. Why was he watching me? What had he seen? How had he known my name?

“I, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stammered.

“Yes you do. For the last couple of days I’ve seen you standing around waiting to join a group so that they can chip you into your building. Your chip’s not working, is it?”

Right at that moment, a group of five co-workers walked towards the front of the building.

“You don’t know anything,” I said, joining the group. My heart was hammering in my chest. How had he known?

I was going up on the elevator with the other employees.  

“Who was that handsome man you were talking to?” asked Janie, an older worker in my group.

“I have no idea. He just started talking to me.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “What did he want?

“Again, no idea. I told him to leave me alone.”

“You should report him. Harassment of any kind is not allowed. You shouldn’t be subjected to that.”

“Good call,” I said. “I’ll call the Public Order Squad when I get to my desk.”

And I did, stating my ID number, location, and describing the harassment. I watched from a window as a CopBot patrol car pulled up in front of the building, and two Bots got out. The man that had spoken to me was leaning against a wall, watching, not perturbed at all by their arrival.

I watched as they scanned the area, walking to within a couple of feet of the man, ignoring him completely. I watched as one of the Bots touched his ear and spoke, then the two of them got into their car and drove away.  

What had I just witnessed? Why hadn’t they confronted him and given him a verbal warning? Why had they ignored him?

I was still watching the man, trying to figure out what I had just witnessed, when he looked up and waved at me before turning and walking away in the opposite direction from the CopBot. 

“Fiona?”

I turned and there was my tyrant of an immediate supervisor, Sandra.  

“You haven’t signed into your terminal, and you were expected to start work four minutes ago. Is there a problem?”

I thought about explaining what had happened outside the building, but decided not to. Sandra was very short on empathy, and would somehow find a way to blame me for the entire encounter. We were not friends. Sandra had been promoted to her position, perhaps not based on merit. We live in an egalitarian society, but sometimes a little bit of nepotism creeps into the promotion process. I was a better coder than Sandra, and I should have been promoted to her job, but my uncle was not in charge of the Coding 743 Unit. Hers was. Enough said.

I smiled, “I will make up the time a lunch,” I said, turning and walking towards my desk.

Instead of going off to do what it was she did all day, she followed me to my station. She stood over me, not saying anything, just typing on her hand-held. A quiet ding sounded, announcing the arrival of a file.

“You need to finish this before you leave for the day.”  

She turned and walked away. I opened the file, and there was another crappy work assignment. Sandra routinely gave me the worst jobs — ones that entailed volumes of data that could easily be completed by a computer. In fact, I had created just that program, but was forbidden by Sandra from using it.

Too bad. I used it anyway.

When I arrived at my living unit there was no one in sight. I was dreading the wait by the front door. I took out my PDC, scanning any new incoming data, trying to look casual.

“I saw you watching me this morning,” said the voice.

It was the same man from my office. I stepped away from him.

“You’d better leave, or I’m going to call the Public Order Squad.”

He smiled. “You won’t do that. They’d find out about you.”

I stood there, not sure what my next step should be.

“Look,” he said, “I know what’s happening. My chip stopped working about six weeks ago.”

I looked at him, saying nothing.

“And it’s not as bad as you think.”

He took a step closer to me. I didn’t back up.

“You’re a techie, right?”

I nodded.

“So, you know about the inherent problems with a human chip failure? The potential medical complications and probable death?”

Another nod.

“What if I told you I could help? And, in the bargain, give you the opportunity to control your own fate?”

I was intrigued. Scared, sure, but still intrigued. I had never considered being in control of my own fate. I was raised to believe that the Conclave were the only sanctioned purveyors of an individual’s destiny. And now, here was a man I didn't know, offering me an opportunity for self-determination.  Was this a trick?

“Okay, tell me more,” I said, cautiously.

We walked to a nearby park and sat on a bench, and talked. As he explained it to me, a chip failure wasn't as devastating as it seemed. There were benefits — no more tracking, no more rules, no more government intervention. Just freedom to live your own life on your own terms.

It sounded too good to be true, so it probably was. And I had questions. How would I support myself? Where would I live? Once my chip went offline, my family would be informed of my death — what about them? How would I survive in a world that is almost completely automated?

He pulled out a hand-held device, but not like any hand-held device I had ever seen. It was smaller, fitting snuggly into the palm of his hand.

“This,” he said. “It’s a chip cloner.”

I was aghast.

“They are illegal,” I whispered, looking around making sure no one was listening. "Anyone caught with a chip cloner is immediately deemed guilty of the offence, and immediately sent to a penal colony — no trial, no excuses. Mandatory sentence, twenty-five yeas."

“Yeah, I know. We are a society that runs on chips. The Conclave can’t have people running around, disrupting their control, cloning their chips. But, what are our alternatives, the ones with faulty chips? Undergo untested, probably fatal brain surgery? Or just lead your life, on your terms, with this?”  

He held the device up between his two fingers, wagging it back and forth in front of my face.

“The beauty of this is that you can turn it off and on at will. You can chose to be detected, or remain invisible.” He paused, and looked me in the eye. “I can get you one of these. But there is a price. You have to come work for my benefactor. He’s a rich man who is always looking for smart people to work with him to make society better. He doesn’t agree with the way we are governed, and he believes that the Conclave is corrupt. He is working towards bringing them down, using their own tech. But he needs smart people like you, who are willing to work for the cause." He paused, continuing to stare into my eyes.  "Say the word, and you will be transferred from your current job to a job within this man’s corporation. You won’t have to be a drone anymore. You will be valued for your brains and abilities.”

I was silent. 

“You don’t have to answer me right now. I’ll contact you tomorrow. Here,” he said, smiling, handing me the hand-held. “You take this. It’s programmed for you.”

With that he turned and walked away.

I didn’t know what to do. What could I do? I walked towards the front door of my building. As I approached the door, I pushed the button. The door clicked open, and I walked through the door. It had worked. I sighed, more relieved than I had expected to be.  

In the morning I was standing, looking out my window, considering my options. I had still not made a decision after a night of tossing and turning, considering my options. What the man and his benefactor were proposing was dangerous. And illegal. But did I have a choice? I needed my chip to work. Was I going to exchange one tech prison for another by working for this man? It was a difficult decision and I was not used to making such monumental choices. Sure, I could choose what to have for breakfast, but something on this scale — unheard of.  

While I was thinking, the man walked out from between two buildings, and raised his hand to me. I threw on my office uniform, and went downstairs to meet him.

“Have you made a decision?” he asked, without preamble.

I stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes. I want to work with you and your group.”

He smiled at me.

“We thought so. We’ve already transferred you to our company. You don’t have to go to work today.” He handed me another PCD, this one exactly like the unit I already owned.

“I know this looks like a normal PCD, but it isn’t. The Department of Personal Communications cannot track it. It’s completely off-grid, and invisible to the powers that be. So, go upstairs, and enjoy your day off. I’ll call you later to make plans.”

He turned and walked away. I walked slowly towards my unit. What had I just agreed to do?

I replayed the last twenty-four hours in my head since I had met the man. It seemed surreal. Was this just one big coincidence? Or had I been played? How had the man known my name? About my problem? How had he known where I worked? Where I lived? Why was he prepared with a preprogrammed clone? Had this “chip failure” of mine been orchestrated? What had I gotten my self into?

I opened the PCD he had given me. There was one number preprogrammed, assigned to “Ben.” I pushed the button.

“Did you cause my chip failure?” I asked.

Instead of an answer, I heard a hearty laugh. “Took you long enough! Of course we did.”