“Gramps, you’re dead! You’re a lazarus, a personality-construct chip shoved into a casing of metal and plastic and God knows what. Certainly nothing with a right to run my life."

(Personality-construct from 'Killing Gramps' by Ann K. Schwader)

The eyes did not change expression. Pivoting its ’chair away from her, the lazarus headed for the living room’s front window at a fast walking speed.

Phillipa nearly panicked. If the thing had fritzed, there was no way of stopping it from — what? Biomechanical suicide via the twentieth floor? Maybe a lazarus couldn’t survive being told what it was.

Centimeters away from the window, the lazarus thumbed a remote button on the ’chair’s armrest. One wide pane slid open as ’chair and passenger sailed into a clear afternoon sky, the ’chair’s nullgrav adjusting to the drop.