by S. B. Divya
Her husband grunted and rolled away. She didn’t expect either of them to sleep well that night.
WELGA
5. In the aftermath of every major technological advance, we observe a consolidation of wealth and then a political correction, some more bloody than others, but all leading to a redistribution of power across society. At the end of the Digital Age, we broke down corporations as socioeconomic entities. The individual became paramount.
—The Machinehood Manifesto, March 20, 2095
Heat washed over Welga like the breath of an angry beast. The harsh sun of Phoenix left no shadows in her father’s backyard. She swung on a hammock under the solar patio cover, Mama’s old knit blanket between her and its synthetic fabric. The hinges creaked with her sways, as they had done since she could remember.
She had one hand in her pocket. The bit of blox from the android moved inside its plastic sheath. The smart-metal had been an inert lump in her crumpled clothes when the hospital returned them to her. She’d charged it, but she couldn’t get any standard interface to communicate with it. It had an agenda, though. It kept shifting its form, trying for a stability it couldn’t attain. The sensation soothed her as she conversed with her shield team.
“We have six days until the Machinehood’s one-week deadline,” Hassan said, “and every funder wants a security detail. Platinum needs you all back on assignment by the sixteenth. That’s in three days. They’re waiving the recovery time for Ramírez and doubling the pay—for all three of you—as hazard compensation. They’re also doubling the size of the details for every client. Ramírez, we’ll get you a flight back to San Francisco on the sixteenth.”
Three funders dead, and the rest panicked. They weren’t used to death, especially in such a spectacular fashion. People died of engineered pathogens or rare natural diseases. Murder had gone out of fashion with ubiquitous camera swarms and AIs… until now. Welga had watched the feed recordings on infinite loop during the travel back to the USA. The Machinehood used the same strategy for all three of their attacks: a surprise human element, a close-quarters weapon, and an explosive suicide. Briella Jackson’s assailant had died before blowing up. The other two situations were less clear, though both of those Machinehood operatives sustained injuries before exploding.
“You’ll also have a government agent with you,” Hassan said. “The Feds want someone on-site in case we manage a live capture. We have orders not to shoot at any human—or humanoid—regardless of what they do.”
“What!” Connor exclaimed. “How are we supposed to protect our clients?”
“Can we use nonlethal bullets at least? Tranquilizers?” Welga added.
Hassan raised a hand. “We don’t want any more exploding androids, and we aren’t sure what triggers them. Tranquilizers won’t work against bots.”
“Androids?” Welga said. “Has anyone confirmed that?”
Hassan shook his head. “That’s the going theory based on the visual evidence, especially what your swarm got, Ramírez. Nobody else saw inside these things before they went kaboom, and government agencies swept all the physical evidence. They aren’t sharing. Well-rated experts think it’s a sentient AI—they’ve already got an acronym for it—with the human organs put in as a red herring. Considering the Machinehood’s demands, that makes sense, but if it’s true, that means we’re dealing with something completely new. A SAI-based android can fool us into thinking it’s a person, and you won’t be able to keep up with it no matter how fast the zips. We’ll need to rethink our combat strategies and focus on defense.”
But what about the whole suicide-bombing thing? Welga kept the question to herself. With the evidence blown to shreds, people could surmise whatever they wanted about the Machinehood, and SAIs were high on the wishful-thinking list. The experts had nothing to go on but some video feeds. They’d cried wolf on sentient AIs before and had never been correct. Nobody wanted to admit that building a conscious mind might be impossible, even if they were secretly relieved at the prospect. The ethics of what to do with WAIs and bots had proven difficult enough. Ban human cloning? Sure, easy decision. Give up on the convenience of thinking machines? Not so much.
Figuring out the truth behind the Machinehood wasn’t her problem, but the similarity to the methods used by the al-Muwahhidun fanatics in the Maghreb glared at her. Surely others saw it? The caliph had stopped the violence once he had the region under control, but if Ammanuel’s generation could forget the history of her squad, then a new generation of radicals might disregard their leader’s ethos in North Africa.
“So what’s our first assignment?” Connor said.
The San Francisco skyline filled the view behind him, framed by the six-paned window of their apartment. She missed home—and him—but she preferred her parents’ house in Phoenix for rest and recovery. Papa spoiled her with recipes he’d learned from his mother. Connor couldn’t cook for shit, and they couldn’t afford a kitchen that made her favorites. They’d often met on islands around the world when she was on leave, eating, drinking, and scuba diving the time away.
Connor had two more years before hitting his shield expiration date of thirty-five years old. He could be a good project manager, like Hassan, but he preferred the gig life. Welga couldn’t see the appeal, but he claimed it relaxed him. He’d never loved the physicality of combat the way she did. Shielding had been a way to spend more time together and make a reliable income, but at home, he often chose to gig during his spare hours and build up his reputation. He’d be a step below a care-bot in being helpful while she was injured. At least the city will be cooler… and free of Phoenix’s frequent sandstorms. Spring rivaled summer as the shittiest time of year in the desert.
“We don’t have a client yet,” Hassan said, “but I’m trying to keep it low-key. There are plenty of good targets in the world. I’m hoping they don’t hit us again so Ramírez has more time to heal.” He focused his gaze on Welga. “I’ll be monitoring your vitals. If your indicators go red, I’m pulling you out.”
“I’ve survived worse,” Welga said, “in places where I didn’t have juvers to help.”
“As I recall, you nearly died, too. Anyway, we’re shields, not soldiers. The Machinehood might force you to put your lives on the line, but we don’t have to make it easy for them. When I have more information, I’ll let you all know. For now, get what rest you can.”
Hassan closed out the meeting. Welga shrank his and Ammanuel’s feeds.
“Remember, you can say no to this,” Connor said. “Your contract is almost over. You can quit early, take care of yourself. Ao Tara says you can’t live in peace if you’re full of action.”
“Who?”
“A Neo-Buddhist monk. I’ve been listening to her lectures. You should try one.”
She quirked an eyebrow.
“It’s not about god or religion. It’s about embracing a peaceful existence.”
“That’s why I have you around, cardo, so I can embrace peace.”
He smiled. “You’re thirty-five. Aren’t you a little tired of the fighting?”
“Not enough to walk away from double pay and the chance to face these Machinehood assholes again. Especially not after what they did to us.”
“I could quit, too,” he said. “My gig ratings are getting decent. I could do that full-time.”
“Less money, more hours, no stability? The only reason you enjoy gigs is because you have shield work as an alternative.” She shook her head. “I wish I could trade places with you and have two more years. Go enjoy your meditation or whatever, and I’ll see you soon.”
Welga touched two fingers to her lips and held them out. Connor did the same. She checked her other feeds. The view in Chennai showed the sleeping figures of Luis, Nithya, and Carma. Ammanuel was doing exercises in their apartment, a cheap, windowless subbasement unit with a half-hidden figure by their kitchen. Hassan was blanked. When she focused on Connor again, he’d blanked, too. Probably working some kind of curation gig, lik
e customizing a party music playlist. Those were his favorite, and they didn’t require advance commitment. Somehow he could find calm in any situation. It had made him a great analyst.
Maybe I should consider meditating. Or a nap.
Fatigue wrapped Welga in a blanket heavier than the heat. Her new skin tugged whenever she moved too quickly. Internal injuries healed faster and responded better to drugs than superficial ones. It’s only pain. Unlike Hassan, she hoped they’d get assigned to a high-value target. Three months on her contract, and the Machinehood showed up like a gift from god: finally some meaningful work! Not that she minded the lucrative performance art of shielding, but catching the first live Machinehood operative would be priceless.
She gathered her swarm into a pocket. Only a few microcams remained in the area, as much of a nuisance as the rare live insect looking for nectar. The dilapidated suburban neighborhood had little to draw the public’s attention other than her temporary fame.
Her father emerged from a doorway. Oscar Ramírez had dark, heavy brows, presently drawn together in a squint against the light. He’d lost the well-tanned look she remembered from her childhood. Gigs kept him—like everyone else—indoors and two shades paler.
A half-rusted stool wobbled as he sat on it and handed Welga a glass of ice water. “I found my old construction-mech suit for you to practice on. You remember it? You used to play inside.”
Welga swallowed coolness before smiling. “Yes, Papa, I remember. Especially that time I figured out how to charge its battery and took it for a ride.” She’d damaged their truck with her initial clumsy attempts at piloting the suit, but she’d managed to jump over it before getting caught.
“I gave you a good smacking for that,” Oscar said. He laughed. “Your mama cussed me out later, but I made sure you wouldn’t forget. Worked, eh?” His smile fell away. “I miss the days when a man could build something with his hands. Operating a mech—that was real work.”
“Oh, Papa, that’s a glossy memory. You remember how many people got hurt back then? If a bot falls off the top of a construction site, all it does is cost the owner some money.”
“Pretty soon the bots are gonna complain, too, right? Isn’t that what this Machinehood is about?”
“Maybe, if any of it is real and not the world’s worst exfactor stunt. If they get everyone to stop taking pills and give bots equals rights, humanity is screwed.”
Oscar shrugged. “Maybe they deserve to win. No matter what we try, we can’t keep up with the machines. All I do these days is watch the bots work. Make sure they don’t mess anything up. It’s boring as hell, and the pay is worse.”
“I get it, Papa. That’s why I like shielding, and why I became a Raider. Regular soldiers don’t get much action, either. They babysit the bots, or if they’re lucky, they get to pilot them remotely.” They’d ridden this conversational merry-go-round before. Next, her father would scold her about ditching college in spite of her flow restriction. She changed the subject. “Did you see the forecast? Big dust storm tomorrow. Shouldn’t we be sealing up the house? Covering the solar cells?”
Oscar stubbornly insisted on staying in the home he and her mother had inherited from Welga’s grandparents. Worse, he wouldn’t let her and Luis update the structure. Half the neighborhood lay vacant and falling apart. The old-fashioned, single-family dwellings didn’t come with solar windows or reconfigurable interiors, and the government of Phoenix had incentivized people to move into the high-density hives of downtown. Between the storms and the environmental impact, consolidating humanity made sense. Suburban living was nearly a relic, not unlike her father.
“You rest.” Oscar held out an arm to help her from the hammock. “Your body is your work. I’ll deal with the storm prep after I get you inside.”
“You should let me rent you a care-bot.”
“Not in my house.”
The cool air of the interior lifted away some of Welga’s exhaustion. The last care-bot to cross the threshold had watched over her mother’s hospice care. Welga couldn’t blame her father for hating them. She’d felt the same way, though she’d gotten over it when she grew up. Her mother’s pill-making equipment sat enshrined on a side table against one wall of the living room. Welga had learned the basics of biogenetic engineering on that gear long before she went to college for it. Those skills had served her well the first year, but after that, she couldn’t keep up with the other students. They used flow. She didn’t.
Mama had thrived in the unregulated early days of home genetic engineering. Anyone with the skills and the equipment could design and print gene-altering pills or more traditional pharmaceuticals. The advantages these gave people over intelligent machines meant that they pressured governments not to regulate the industry. But one of those home-brewed pills had led to her mother’s death. The world had gone legislation-happy after too many cases like that, but Laila had loved the jungle nature of the early years. The thought that her beloved cottage industry might become illegal had broken her spirit. She refused to make the situation worse by suing for health, even if it meant dying in poverty.
The riots and protests worldwide to regulate the drug and pill industry had arrived in the midseventies, far too late to save her mother, but they’d also enabled funders to consolidate their efforts. One person with enough money could pay millions to design and test new products. No more need to invest in massive laboratories, manufacturing, and distribution. And with designers—like Laila—desperate for work, finding people with the right equipment and skills was trivial. The system had stabilized in the two decades since.
Would the Machinehood affect that balance? Based on their initial demands, they meant to try, but other than a sentient AI, who else might benefit? The suicide bomber put her in mind of the al-Muwahhidun. They didn’t believe in using bot or WAI technology, though they had no problem with taking pills or modifying their bodies. If the Machinehood operatives had ties to the caliph, they should have demanded an end to bot production, to shut down the banks of processors that ran the world’s WAIs.
Backing by bioticist groups made more ideological sense—they believed in maintaining the purity of the human body, no chemicals, no implants—but those people had little in the way of funding. The bulk of humanity had embraced the minimally invasive enhancements offered by pills, and the economy thrived on that consumption. A truly emergent, self-aware artificial intelligence might not care about destabilizing the world’s way of life. Did it want to enslave humanity? That popular theory explained a lot—with the bonus of scaring people shitless—but the evidence she’d seen didn’t support it. Besides, why bother when humanity had effectively done it to themselves?
* * *
“Luis, you’re being an idiot,” Welga said. She blinked away tears as she chopped an onion. “Sign the permission. Your wife should be able to do what she wants with her body. The dumb shit she puts up with from you—I can’t believe it.”
Her brother had called to check in on her, and Welga’s innocent “How are things?” had turned into an angry confessional about Nithya. As usual, her little brother was being an idiot.
Luis crossed his arms. “I’ll forgive you for saying that. You’re my sister, and Jesus loves those who love the sinners. And you’re in pain, so you’re not speaking from a sound mind.”
“Really? You’re going to accuse me of being mentally unfit?”
“Enough,” Oscar said as he entered the room. “You didn’t call your sister to pester her.”
Welga sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“Papa, you need a kitchen,” Luis said.
“I have one. Works perfectly.”
“It doesn’t cook,” Luis countered.
Welga grinned. “I don’t have a problem with that.” She put the knife down and reached for her water. Her hand spasmed. The glass tipped, splashing water on Papa’s stash of microcards, then rolled onto the floor and shattered. “Shit!”
“Or maybe you do,” Luis
said, arching his brows.
Oscar tiptoed around the broken glass and dried the microcards first. He always kept some of the hard currency around and refused to use a tip jar, claiming not to trust electronic coin.
“Sorry, I got clumsy,” Welga said, mopping up the counter.
“You’ve been a whole lot of clumsy lately,” Oscar said. Suspicion colored his tone. “Better sit and rest.”
“Maybe because I nearly got blown up? Don’t worry, Papa. I’ll be fine.”
“You carry her marker genes—”
“That was for an early version of flow. I don’t use that stuff, remember? I’m okay. Whatever happened to Mama, it’s not happening to me.”
But something was. Her tremors had stopped during the first day after surgery. The drugs from the medical team helped. Now that she was on a reduced cycle, the random muscle spasms had resumed even though she wasn’t on a comedown from zips. Nithya had sent a message that she might have a lead, but she would have her hands full getting Carma ready for school, and anyway, Welga didn’t want to have the conversation when her brother and father might notice it. Not yet, not until she knew more about what was going on.
The sizzle and aroma of fried corn tortillas followed Welga to the sofa and made her stomach rumble.
“What are you making?” Luis asked.
“Chilaquiles,” their father said. “Breakfast for dinner.”
Welga craned her neck to watch him. “Don’t fry them too long.”
“Excuse me?” Oscar said. “Who taught you how to cook?”
“Okay, Papa, but you’re getting old.”
Oscar grabbed an apple from a basket and tossed it to her. “Eat that and stop talking.”
“I’m not six,” Welga grumbled. “That trick doesn’t work anymore.”
But it did. She took a bite and considered the taste. Their own apple tree dated from the time that Welga’s grandparents lived in the house. Its fruit had a richness of flavor that no mass-produced version could approach. Their tree wouldn’t bear fruit for another six months, though. She made it a point to visit in the fall so she could cook with them. Her first apple molé had met with grudging approval from her grandmother, a memory that still warmed her.
