Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

“Most interesting!” Waldens agreed. “I doubt they will approve the designation.”

“I am prepared to wager whatever my financial adviser will permit, that they will approve it,” Stile said. “It is, after all, a Citizen’s right to designate whom he pleases.”

“Ah, yes—but a robot is not a ‘whom’ but an ‘it.’ Only recognized people can inherit Citizenship.”

“Is there a law to that effect?”

“Why, I assume so. It is certainly custom.”

Now Mellon arrived. Stile quickly acquainted him with the situation. “How much will you let me bet?” he asked, knowing that Mellon, as a self-willed machine in touch with the network of his kind, would have a dear notion of the legalistic background.

But the serf hesitated. “Sir, this is an imponderable. The decision of the panel is advisory, without binding force. If there is a continuing challenge, a formal court will be convened—“

“Come off it, serf!” Waldens snapped. “We’re only bet ting on this particular decision. What the court does later will be grist for another wager. How much Protonite can Stile afford to risk?”

“He has limited me to one hundred grams,” Stile said, catching Sheen’s covert affirmative signal. That meant the machines had researched the issue, and believed the odds were with Stile. He should win this bet. But he was going to play it carefully.

“A hundred grams!” Waldens laughed. “I did not come all the way here in person for such minor action!”

“I regret that my estate is as yet minimal,” Stile said. “But it is growing; I have won all bets made so far. I assure you that I have an appetite for larger bets—when I can afford them. I plan to increase my estate enormously.”

“All right. Stile. You’re peanuts, but I like your spirit. Should be good entertainment here. I’ll play along with a small bet now—but I’ll expect a big one later, if you’re in shape for it. Shall we compromise at half a kilo now?”

Mellon looked pained, but under Walden’s glare he slowly acquiesced. “Half a kilogram of Protonite,” Stile agreed, putting on a pale face himself. Five hundred grams was half the ransom of a Citizen, and more than half Stile’s entire available amount for betting. His fortune stood at 1,219 grams, but he had to hold 250 for living expenses. What he was laying on the line now was enough to buy a hundred sophisticated robots like Sheen and Mellon, or to endow the tenure of Eve hundred serfs. All in a single bet—which his opponent considered to be a minor figure, a nuisance indulged in only for entertainment! Meanwhile, other Citizens had arrived, intrigued by the issue. Novelty was a precious commodity among those who had everything. Two paired off, taking the two sides with matching half-kilo bets. Two more bet on whether there would be an immediate appeal of the panel’s recommendation, whatever it was. Citizens certainly loved to gamble!

The prior case cleared, and it was Stile’s turn before the panel. “It has been brought to our attention that you propose to designate a humanoid robot as your heir to Citizenship,” the presiding Citizen said. “Do you care to present your rationale?”

Stile knew this had to be good. These were not objective machines but subjective people, which was why there could be no certainty about the decision. The wrong words could foul it up. “I am a very recent Citizen, whose life has been threatened by calamitous events; I am conscious of my mortality and wish to provide for the continuation of my estate. Therefore I have designated as my heir the person who is closest to me in Proton: my prospective wife, the Lady Sheen, here.” He indicated Sheen, who cast her eyes down demurely.

“She happens to be a lady robot. As you surely know, robots are sophisticated today; she is hardly distinguishable from a living person in ordinary interactions. She can eat and sleep and initiate complex sequences. She can even evince bad temper.”

“The typical woman,” the presiding Citizen agreed with a brief smile. “Please come to the point.”

“Sheen has saved my life on more than one occasion, and she means more to me than any other person here. I have made her my chief of staff and am satisfied with the manner in which she is running my estate. I want to make our association more binding. Unless there is a regulation preventing the designation of one’s wife as one’s heir, I see no problem.”

The three panelists deliberated. “There is no precedent,” the presiding Citizen said. “No one has designated a robot before. Machines do well enough as staff members, concubines, stand-ins, and such, but seldom is one married and never have we had a nonhuman Citizen.”

“If an alien creature won the Tourney one year, would it be granted Citizenship?” Stile asked.

“Of course. Good point,” the Citizen said, nodding. “But robots are not permitted to participate in the Game, so can not win the Tourney.”

“Do you mean to tell me that a frog-eyed, tentacular mass of slime from the farthest wash of the galaxy can be a Citizen—but this woman can not?” Stile demanded, again indicating Sheen.

The Citizens of the panel and of the group of bettors looked at Sheen, considering her as a person. She stood there bravely, smooth chin elevated, green eyes bright, her light brown hair flowing down her backside. Her face and figure were exquisitely female. There was even a slight flush at her throat. She had been created beautiful; in this moment she was splendid.

“But a robot has no human feeling,” another panelist said.

“How many Citizens do?” Stile asked.

The bettors laughed. “Good shot!” Waldens muttered. The panelists did not respond to the humor. “A robot has no personal volition,” the presiding Citizen said. “A robot is not alive.”

This was awkward territory. Stile had promised not to give away the nature of the self-willed machines, who did indeed have personal volition. But he saw a way through. “Sheen is a very special robot, the top of her class of machine,” he said. “Her brain is half digital, half analog, much as is the human brain, figuratively. Two hemispheres, with differing modes of operation. She approximates human consciousness and initiative as closely as a machine can. She has been programmed to resemble a living woman in all things, to think of herself as possessing the cares and concerns of life. She believes she has feeling and volition, because this is the nature of her program and her construction.” As he spoke, he remembered his first discussion with Sheen on this subject, before he discovered the frame of Phaze. He had chided her on her illusion of consciousness, and she had challenged him to prove he had free will. She had won her point, and he had come to love her as a person-a robot person. He had tended to forget, since his marriage to the Lady Blue, how deep his feeling for Sheen was. Now he was swinging back to her. He truly believed she was a real person, whose mechanism happened to differ from his own but resulted in the same kind of personality.

“Many creatures have illusions,” a panelist remarked.

‘This is no necessary onus for Citizenship.” Stile saw that more would be required to overcome their prejudice. He would have to do a thing he did not like. “Sheen, how do you feel about me?” he asked.

“I love you, sir,” she said.

“But you know I can not truly love a machine.”

“I know, sir.”

“And you are a machine.”

“Yes, sir”

“I will marry you and designate you as my heir to Citizenship, but I will not love you as man to woman. You know it is a marriage of convenience.”

“I know, sir.”

“Why do you submit to this indignity?”

“Because she wants Citizenship!” a Citizen exclaimed. He was one of the ones betting against the acceptance of the heir designation.