Machinehood

by S. B. Divya

  “What happened?” Ammanuel asked. “Did they die?”

  “No, we saved their ass,” Hassan said. He’d been on point at the time, not a desk man. “Protesters, on the other hand, send bots in their place because they’re cheap. If they’re a well-funded cause, they’ll use ones with exteriors that look standard but have guts made of smart-metal. Keep your weapons loaded with sticky pellets and your bullets stowed.”

  “Is this typical?”

  Welga almost laughed at Ammanuel’s expression. When she’d started shield work, she’d been as naive about its realities.

  “Yes. Human shields cost more, but we’re good publicity for our clients,” Hassan said. “When we get hurt, people feel bad about it, and they see our pain as a penalty for the client. We humanize them. Protesting is the art of agitating for your cause without causing real harm, which would be bad for the protesters’ reputations. They want attention and donations. We want to show that our client is only defending themself and feels the protesters’ pain.”

  “We don’t ever shoot to kill, not protes, not exfactors,” Welga said. “That would create a lousy image for our clients. The camera swarms catch everything, and the public—barring a few sick exceptions—doesn’t like to watch real people die. We always carry basic field kits. Just because the protesters send bots doesn’t mean we don’t get injured. The audience likes to see us struggle. Makes it more exciting to watch. The primary thing to remember is that we aren’t going into combat. We’re performing a service, key word perform. We need to fight pretty, we need to destroy our attackers, we need to bleed—a little—and we need to keep the client clean. Oh, and remember to smile for the cameras. You get more tips that way.” A reminder blinked in Welga’s visual. “Go time on zips.”

  She fished her pill case out of her pocket. The rectangular box had worn down at the edges, but the initials S.M.B. were still clearly engraved on the metal cover. It had been a gift from Welga’s grandfather to his wife, and Grandma had pressed it into Welga’s hand when she moved to a nursing home.

  I’m done with candy, she’d said. You use it for whatever you want.

  Fifteen years later, it still smelled faintly of mints.

  “Don’t waste your time on that stuff,” Hassan said. His basso rumble held the lilt of a smile. “Ammanuel has some gifts for you all, courtesy of Jackson’s research team.”

  “You’re putting us on experimental stuff?” Welga said.

  “Not experimental. Cutting-edge. It’s been tested.”

  Ammanuel shrugged and then loosed the grin playing around their lips. In their outstretched hand lay three white pills that looked like every other zip: round in shape, about four millimeters in diameter, thin enough to lie beneath the tongue.

  “Twenty-five times increase in neuromuscular speed,” they said. “With a ten-minute onset and a one-hour half-life.”

  “Holy shit,” said Connor and Welga at the same time.

  Welga grabbed one.

  “Troit, since you won’t have a chance to calibrate to these, you’re on bodyguard,” Hassan said. “Ramírez, take point. Ammanuel, you’re rear. Based on purchase patterns, intel says you’re likely to get hit by retrofitted service bots at the convention center. Simple weaponry. Last year Jackson was approached en route to private meetings. They left her alone for mealtimes and speaking appearances, so you should be clear outside of transit times.”

  Not surprising. Crowded public spaces required far more care to avoid injuring bystanders. As Hassan continued the briefing, Welga pulled up the feeds from their ops center. Platinum Shield Services had people in rooms throughout this hotel and the convention center—operators who’d checked in several nights before to avoid correlation with Jackson’s arrival. Subterfuge in modern times was challenging, what with ubiquitous tiny flying cameras recording every move, but Platinum had plenty of security details working the Neurochemical Investors Conference. They used numbers and finances to their advantage. They didn’t need secrecy.

  Privacy had gone the way of the dodo during Welga’s childhood. Some part of her always remembered the cameras. In Marrakech, the caliph’s network blackout had unsettled her more than the potential for violence—the lack of communication, the inability to see and hear what others were doing. It would take a million lifetimes to watch every minute of every public feed, but she had a sense of security knowing that she could look out for her people, and they’d do the same. Losing that had felt like walking around with one shoe: doable but not at all comfortable.

  Hassan flicked Jackson’s schedule into their visuals. It showed a private meeting halfway across town in an hour, then a keynote address at the conference, a short break, and more events. Their client had rented a room in the hotel adjacent to the convention center for rest and virtual meetings. The exterior arrival areas in both locations had broad driveways and plazas—good places to attack if they weren’t crowded. Hallways to and from her events could be trouble spots, too. Jackson—and the current shield team—would be done for the day by five o’clock, at which point they could return to the hotel. A second pair of shields would take the night shift, a formality since protest groups rarely worked nights. Local viewers did most of the tipping, and people didn’t tip while asleep.

  “You’ll need extra time to calibrate to these new zips,” Hassan said. “Good luck and have a good time.”

  Welga pulled two different juvers from her case, a thin pink square for superficial wounds and an oval brown one for internal bleeding. She placed them under her tongue along with the new zip. She ignored the blue and green buffs. Those affected muscle strength and stamina, neither of which she’d needed much since her days in the service. Shield work required grace more than brute force.

  Ten minutes later, her body buzzed. The designers swore that humans couldn’t feel the effects of zips—it wasn’t like the mental high from chemical drugs or flow pills—but Welga could tell when they hit. A sort of restless energy filled her limbs, like when she’d been sitting still for too long and needed to stretch.

  Ammanuel shared a new training routine with her. They spent fifteen minutes going through a set of exercises specified by the pill’s designers to help calibrate the microelectronics with their physiology. Ammanuel had faster reaction times by an average of one-tenth of a second, according to her agent’s measurements. She’d need to train longer to catch up to them.

  “Calibration complete. Clear to proceed,” Por Qué announced.

  Welga checked their gear and motioned to Ammanuel to do the same. The items lay where she’d left them the night before, but she took no chances. She examined every piece before attaching it to her clothes. A swarm cartridge, electromagnetic disruptor, and fifty-round magazines went on her chest and thighs. She put the two loaded sticky guns on her hips and slung a loop of smoke bombs across her chest, then tucked a dynamic blade against her lower back. Close-quarter combat didn’t happen often, but when attackers came at them with hand weapons, they responded in style. Not only was it more fun, it played better for the viewers.

  Ammanuel kitted out the same as her. Ammanuel’s skin tone was a shade darker than Welga’s medium-brown, and their hair was a brilliant yellow, but the two of them made an almost matched pair in size: nearly one hundred eighty centimeters in height, broad shoulders, narrow hips.

  “Remember, smoke bombs have to be authorized by the boss,” she said. “And the EMD is mainly for show. Nobody in Platinum’s history has had to use it, but the feeds like us to carry them. Makes us seem more badass than we already are.” Welga smiled at the tension lines on Ammanuel’s face. “Don’t worry, basic! They always give you easy assignments at first.”

  Ammanuel snorted. “It’s not the fighting that concerns me. It’s the performance. I’m not used to putting on a show.”

  “Just act like you’re sexy as hell.”

  “Who needs to act?” Ammanuel grinned.

  “That’s the spirit.”

  They went through their commu
nications check as they walked to the elevator that accessed the upper stories. Encrypted channels went to each other and everyone on the assignment. The public feeds had picked up on their activity, too, and people spread the word that they were on the move. Welga waved at the swarm above them and nudged Ammanuel to do the same.

  As the elevator doors closed, the car deployed its own privacy defenses. Any microdrone that didn’t have her or Ammanuel’s signature fell to the floor, taken out by an equally small targeting device. The rest of the world had to wait until they returned to a less exclusive area.

  They stepped out into a receiving room with glass-blown ornaments and life-size statues of Hindu deities. Connor stood in front of an ornately carved rosewood door. Their three camera swarms merged and swirled above their heads like gnats greeting long-lost friends. Briella Jackson emerged, her expression blank and glazed under the influence of flow. She blinked rapidly, wiped at the air in front of her, and then focused on Welga.

  Then, to Welga’s astonishment, Jackson held out a manicured hand, shaking each of theirs in turn. Clients had no reason to acknowledge their presence and usually ignored their shields.

  “Thank you for being here. You all look wonderful,” Jackson said, measuring the pace of her words with care.

  Is she on the same zip as us? As they walked her to the elevator, Jackson’s strides picked up speed along with theirs. I’ll be damned. That made two firsts for one of their clients. Made sense that a funder would want to advertise their product, but few did.

  They exited at the rear of the building. Tips began to trickle in from viewers as soon as they emerged. Sultry heat enveloped them like dragon breath. They strode toward the car waiting at the curb.

  The street teemed with people and vehicles. Some hauled laden baskets on their backs, others rode motorbikes. Trailer-bots and auto-trucks in primary colors blared coded horns as they navigated the crowd. Two stray brown cows twitched their tails and lounged on the shoulder. A cylindrical, matte-gray bot rolled down the street toward them, its outline showing red in Welga’s visual. The tag OPPORTUNITY FOR ALL floated above it.

  In the lead, Welga drew her weapon and shot it. The bot shattered. Its shards dissolved into a pile of blox on the street. They climbed into the car.

  “That was easy.” Ammanuel’s voice sounded in Welga’s ear, and the words appeared in their team channel. Their lips, however, barely moved.

  “The word you’re looking for is ‘boring,’ ” Welga countered. She subvocalized, too, so their chatter didn’t distract their client. “Notice the small tips, for us and the group that sent the bot. That’s why they’re a low-ranking prote in spite of their message. Let’s hope the others do better.”

  “Better?” Ammanuel echoed. “You want them to hurt us?”

  “A little, sure. They have to make this challenging or people won’t care. The protes are doing this for attention, to get tips for their cause and keep agitating for change. We’re expected to get tips, too. Almost a third of my shield income comes from the public. If they don’t help us put on a good show, we all lose.”

  Jackson took a flow after she buckled in. Her hands twitched, and her lips moved in silent communication. The car wove through traffic, priority horn blaring. Lesser vehicles and foot traffic gave way. Chill air blasted the interior. Goose bumps rose on Welga’s skin as her sweat evaporated.

  Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the entry of a sprawling office complex. A solid metal gate swung open to let them in. The anachronism wouldn’t stop Jackson’s attackers. Welga craned her head against the one-way glass window. Three delivery drones flew over the gate. A fourth drone of the same size trailed them. The face of goddess Kali glared from its belly, her red tongue exposed, her chest decorated with a necklace of severed heads. That had to be the least original image to plaster on an attack drone. Por Qué tagged it as belonging to Death to Bots. Amateurs. Slogan text danced around it in Welga’s visual: Humanity Before Bots; Power to the Proletariat; Pills Are Worse Than Poverty!

  Kali’s face split as the belly opened and disgorged half a dozen cubical blox.

  Anyone with a halfway decent agent had been forewarned of the incoming protest action and had either left the area or tagged themselves to appear gray on a visual overlay. Injuring a marked nonparticipant, whether intentional or not, would bring criminal charges. The publicity of a protest made it easy to review camera feeds and assign blame. Platinum would fire a sloppy shield faster than an exfactor on zips. Clients didn’t like being associated with causing injury to anyone, especially bystanders.

  Their car stopped in the broad, circular driveway.

  Welga sprang out, sticky gun in hand, and aimed at the drone. It landed on the ground with a satisfying crunch. Swarms of microdrones gathered above the area like a cloud of mosquitoes. Welga launched some extras of her own from her cartridge.

  “Por Qué, maintain standard combat formation on my swarm views,” she subvocalized. She couldn’t rely on the public feeds, which would follow the action that most interested viewers.

  The cubes rebuilt themselves into mobile turret-bots, buying her and Ammanuel time to take cover. They used the two columns that held up the portico, Ammanuel behind one and Welga behind the other. Bullets were ineffectual against machines built from self-assembling blox. Sticky pellets flew from their guns instead. They tore apart a few of the turrets, wrapping the smart-metal with inert material. The fragments twitched and flopped on the ground like bloodless severed limbs.

  The intact bots needed no such tricks against her organic body. Regular bullets flew at Welga, sending plaster flying from the column that shielded her. The protesters would pay for that damage. Idiots. Using cheap bot hardware would dig into their earnings.

  Welga’s muscles vibrated every time she darted out to fire at the turrets. A bullet grazed her arm. Another passed through her left side. She stumbled and recovered. The juvers in her system knitted her skin. The pills also did something internally so she wouldn’t bleed out. She didn’t care how so long as it kept her in the fight.

  With each new wound, her tip jar balance increased. Each bot she took out earned her more, too. Connor never left his jar up during a fight—he said he found it distracting—but it gave Welga a fierce joy to watch the coin flow in.

  She and Ammanuel shot through the final attack bot at the same time. Piles of writhing metal littered the driveway. Blood stained the white plaster columns. Cleaner bots emerged from a shed on the far side, deeming the danger over. Welga agreed.

  “Clear to move the client,” she subvocalized on the team channel.

  Connor escorted Jackson from the car through the doors. She and Ammanuel followed. As soon they registered the fight over, the offers flooded in: video editing, special effects packages, custom soundtracks. For an especially good fight, Welga would spend the coin to get her feeds turned into a coherent narrative. Not everyone had the time to watch live, and they would tip well for an entertaining product, but this one hadn’t come close to being worth the cost.

  “Ignore all,” Welga subvocalized to Por Qué.

  The building’s WAI unlocked the doors into the lobby and sent directions for a room adjacent to Jackson’s meeting. Connor stood guard in the hallway with three other shields, none from Platinum. Welga expanded his and Jackson’s feeds in her visual while sitting for her medical with Ammanuel.

  Two medic-bots and a human supervisor entered to examine them. Por Qué displayed the exchange of information with Welga’s medic-bot. Welga skimmed it—a request for delivery of her vital signals, which Por Qué provided—then shifted her attention to her tips. Once a month, she transferred some coin to her parents’ account. With Papa’s health deteriorating, he had reduced his gigs. The extra money from Welga meant he could keep the house repaired against Phoenix’s brutal sandstorms.

  The medic-bot clamped her arm and injected the usual comedown cocktail: a flush to dissolve any pill-based microelectronics, microbials to boost healing,
and minerals to replace those she’d used up. It applied a local anesthetic around the bullet wound and used two of its arms to immobilize her torso.

  “Please stay still,” the medic-bot said in American-accented English, having identified Welga’s place of origin.

  As the bot performed its surgery, she activated the audio on her private channel to Connor. “Remember, we have dinner tonight at my brother’s,” she subvocalized. “He wants to see me for my birthday. I’m told that Carma helped with the cake.”

  Her seven-year-old niece had a solid artistic streak, though her enthusiasm for sugary frosting led her to go a little overboard.

  “Carma’s the best,” Connor said, “but I hope we aren’t staying too late. We need time for tonight’s birthday special.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Connor had adopted her family as his own soon after they’d become a couple. Her father said he liked quiet men, and Connor spent more time in his own head than anyone she knew. He bonded with her brother, Luis, over a mutual love for rocketry, and with Luis’s wife over Indian food. Welga suspected that he kept a closer watch on their feeds than she did.

  As the medic finished up her stitches, Welga nodded at Ammanuel, who sat for their own surgical repairs across the room. They had done well for their first time. Nothing worth lavish praise, but she’d be an asshole not to give them some acknowledgment. She called up their public tip jar. The balance hadn’t shifted by much.

  “Nicely done, basic,” she said aloud. “We’ll turn you into a expert-rated shield yet.”

  With enough time, Ammanuel would build a dedicated fan base, like hers and Connor’s, some of whom might like to watch tonight’s birthday rendezvous. People used to be ridiculously shy about their personal lives. Bodies did what they did. Her parents had made her cover her knees when they dragged her to Mass, and they told her she’d understand when she was older, but that hadn’t happened. Ironically, her parents’ generation had been the first to deploy camera swarms. They’d been in every public space since Welga could remember, and plenty of homes, too. Door thresholds couldn’t catch every microcamera, and many people in Europe and North America didn’t even bother with them. No one had time to watch every couple have sex. Hell, most people weren’t worth watching. Shields, however, had to look good, and there was no sense wasting an opportunity to earn tips while having fun.