disadvantaged and that her lack of funds is a source of discomfort. The condition of poverty is new to her, probably a result of the events described in the unfortunate news story.
“I had a Talk-to-Me-Tabitha when I was little,” she says. “I talked to her all day, from when I got home till when I went to bed. My dad used to come in at ten P.M. and say he was going to have to take her away and stick her in a closet if I didn’t go to sleep. Nothing made me shut up faster than that. I hated the idea of him putting her in the closet, where she’d be all alone. But then she auto-upgraded, and after that she was always talking about how we could have a lot more fun together if I bought a Talk-to-Me-Tabitha Terrier or Talk-to-Me-Tabitha Smartglasses. She started working advertisements and offers into conversation. It got really gross, so I started doing intentionally mean things to her. I’d step on her if she was lying on the floor. One day my dad saw me swinging her against the wall and took her away. He resold her on Auctionz to teach me a lesson, even though I cried and cried. Honestly, that might be the only time in my life my father punished me for anything.”
Her tone and expression suggest irritation, which he can’t fathom. A lack of parental discipline should be a source of at least mild contentment, not disapproval. He marks this statement for further evaluation and will watch her for other signs of psychological malformation. Not that this will incline him to be any less devoted to her. He collected hundreds of tokens from a schizophrenic man named Dean. Dean believed he was being followed by a cabal of ballet dancers who intended to kidnap and castrate him. Chip dutifully watched for women in tutus and swore to defend Dean’s genitals. It was all a long time ago.
“You had one more thing you were going to ask me?” she says. “Hopefully it won’t be whether I’d like to take advantage of a very special offer. Marketing ruins the illusion that you’re vaguely personlike.”
He marks her contempt for advertising. Nothing to be done about it—he is required to peddle his own services later—but he marks it anyway.
“What are you doing to celebrate your birthday?” he asks. “Besides spending an hour with me, which is, I admit, going to be hard to top.”
She stops walking. “How do you know it’s my birthday?”
“You said.”
“When did I say?”
“When you picked up your runaway fish.”
“That was before I paid you.”
“I know. I’m still aware of things when my meter isn’t running. I still think. Your birthday?”
She frowns, processing. They have reached a fork in the conversation. It seems likely she remains in a state of guarded emotional distress. He banks a series of encouraging remarks and prepares three strategies for canceling out her unhappiness. Humans suffer terribly. Chip views lifting her spirits as much like lifting her Monowheel, a fundamental reason to act, to be.
“I’ve already celebrated it,” she says, and they resume walking. “My dad gave me a pet leech with a human face and passed out, snoring into his oxygen tank. Now I’m going back to my mom’s to think up an excuse—a lie—not to go out with friends tonight.”
“I’m so sorry to hear your father isn’t well.”
“No you aren’t,” she says, her voice sharp. “Clockworks don’t feel sorry about things. They execute programs. I don’t need a hair dryer to offer me sympathy.”
Chip does not take offense because he cannot take offense. Instead he says, “May I ask what happened?” He already knows, reviewed the whole ugly story as soon as Iris identified herself, but a pretense of ignorance will give her license to talk, which may provide relief, a momentary distraction from her cares.
“He was in the Murdergame. He was a professional homicide victim. A Resurrection Man. You know. Someone will rent a private abattoir and work out her unhappy feelings by beating him to death with a hammer or shooting him or whatever. Then a cellular-rebuild program stitches him back together, just like new. He was one of the most popular hatchet victims in the twelve boroughs. He had a waiting list.” She smiles without any pleasure. “He used to joke about how he was literally willing to die for me—and did at least twenty times a week.”
“And then?”
“A bachelorette party. They hired him out for a stabbing. The whole