by S. B. Divya
While she snacked, she skimmed the exfactor channels. In the travel section, she found a clip of one fighting a python. The woman walked away with three broken ribs and managed to leave the snake unharmed. She dropped a small tip in her jar. In the food section, she marked an informative on smell-enhancing pills to watch later. The ones she’d tried hadn’t improved her cooking enough to balance the downside of smelling everything intensely.
In the security and law-enforcement channels, she’d asked Por Qué to flag any verifiable news relating to the Machinehood. The list remained empty, though plenty of people had recorded their wild speculations about sentient AIs and what it all meant. Exfactors begged for confrontation with another “android,” but the Machinehood had gone silent. Pill production and design funding had barely slowed since the attack. If this deadly protest group wanted the world to take its threat seriously, it would need to step up its game. For now, all they’d accomplished was to scare people and get them spouting increasingly nonsensical theories.
The biggest question in Welga’s mind remained their disappearance. How could anyone vanish so thoroughly? The blackout zones of the Maghreb lacked visibility and would allow a group like theirs to remain hidden, which pointed to the caliph… unless it really was a SAI running the operation. If the world’s first sentient machine had sent killers as its introductory act, people were right to feel scared. A being of pure code wouldn’t appear on any cameras, either, though it should leave digital fingerprints. If she still had her clearance, if she were an ATAI liaison, she would know more about the evidence. And speaking of evidence, I need to figure out what to do with this metal.
She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the fragment writhe. It looked like any other smart-metal, not that she was an expert. The guts in Jackson’s attacker had smelled real. So which part did they add for confusion, the metal or the organs? “Smart” materials had limited uses because they couldn’t handle long exposure to liquids. Like blood. That required biochemical micromachines, like the type used in pills. Hassan sounded convinced that the attacker was an android. That would explain how they—or it—moved so much faster than us.
She almost shuddered at the recollection. In spite of being on experimental zips, faster than anything on the market, she’d moved too slowly to prevent Briella Jackson’s death. Plenty of bots could outrun humans, but they didn’t have agendas of their own. None of the theories about the Machinehood scared her as much as that one truth: the fastest humans couldn’t stop them.
* * *
After dinner, her father disappeared into a bedroom to remotely supervise bots on various home-care visits. Luis had long since ended his call with them, having his own work to do. When the clock crossed nine in the morning in India, Welga called Nithya via an encrypted channel. Her sister-in-law answered immediately. Nithya’s dark hair lay in a tidy braid. A red dot decorated the center of her forehead.
“Hi, Welga. How are you? You look tired.”
“So do you.” Welga smiled to take the sting from the statement. “I’m bored, mostly. Ready to be off the bed-hammock-sofa routine. And the zillions of pills and drugs.”
“What do they have you on?”
“Skin and organ juvers. Microbials. Immunity boosters. I don’t know what else—medical stuff. Nothing fun. I can send you the list if you want.”
“No, I don’t think any of those is likely to affect your problem. I’m seeing a parallel between the behavior of muscle cells on zips to juvers, but not the ones for major organs. There’s a particular protein expression that can cause synaptic failure that I’m suspicious of. I need your full sequence to model RNA behavior and its interaction with the zips you take before I can trace the mechanism. Right now, I can’t be sure if it’s muscular or a failure of your central nervous system.”
“I’ll authorize you for access to my full genetic information. You think something’s going screwy in my brain?”
“Maybe. I’m not an expert in this area, so I’m making a lot of guesses. They might all be wrong.”
“And if you are right, then what?”
“It depends on the details. Some types of damage are reversible. Others, you’d have to stop taking zips and hope that daily activity doesn’t worsen the problem.”
“The genetic problem that Mama had—would that have anything to do with mine? We share that part of our DNA.”
Nithya’s expression turned thoughtful. “No, I don’t think they’re related. What your mother had is well understood now, and it changed the way flow is designed to work.” She bit her lip. “But Welga, to play it safe, you should stop using zips until we know what’s going on.”
Welga snorted. “Not likely. They’re cutting my R-and-R time because they’re so shorthanded right now. I’m heading back to San Francisco for a new assignment.”
“Can they do that? Isn’t that illegal?”
“Not with the Machinehood situation. But hey, my contract is done soon. I can go zip-free after that.” Except for my slow-fast-food genius idea. She couldn’t make slow food efficient enough for the modern world without speeding up the labor for prep and delivery, but she could deal with that when the time came. “What about you? Are you off flow because of the pregnancy?”
Nithya sighed. “I’ll have to stop taking it soon. So Luis told you? It’s terrible, Welga. I’m not half as fast as I usually am on the job. My teammates have noticed.”
“It’s your body. It should be your decision.”
“We’re married. We agreed to make these big decisions together, and anyway the law requires Luis to approve it.”
“Oh, right. That lunacy. Look, if you don’t get it from him, do you think you’ll actually be prosecuted? That Luis would turn you in? I will personally beat his ass if he does something that stupid. You are the best thing that’s happened to my brother’s life. I know he thinks finding God is better, but if he leaves you over this, he’ll realize what a big mistake he’s making.”
Nithya smiled, but it looked forced. “Thanks, Welga. I appreciate the moral support, but my doctor won’t authorize the drugs unless I get his approval.” She wagged her index finger. “And don’t think you diverted me from your problems. You need to send me your genetic information. I hope you don’t do permanent damage these next months.”
“Por Qué, authorize Nithya to access my genomes,” Welga subvocalized, then, aloud and with confidence, “Whatever happens, it can’t be as bad as what I’ve already been through. A little damage is worth it to stop these Machinehood assholes.” She didn’t need to add to Nithya’s worries.
As they said their good-byes, Welga walked to Mama’s bench. The lab bulged under the dusty blanket. Welga pulled off the cover. Her mother had taught her how to input the sequence of files to produce a pill from the machine—something any kitchen could do today—and she’d shown Welga once how she could modify the designs to produce her own creations.
Welga hadn’t touched it in years, not since college. On the wall above the lab, a screen cycled through pictures of Laila. What would Mama have thought of Welga’s decision to abandon her degree and become a Marine Corps Special Forces Operator instead? Whatever you do, put all your heart and soul into it, her mother always said. Nothing is achieved by half measures.
She had done that, at least. The third woman ever to qualify as a Raider. Making history as part of the first team without any men. But then it all went to shit, and she bailed. Connor had walked away from his analyst position soon after, partly in solidarity. He shared her disgust at a president who set his own forces up for failure and then covered it up. They’d tried applying for one of the international space station colonies, wanting to make a fresh start. They weren’t the only ones, and after they lost the lottery for that, they joined Platinum Shield Services. Connor didn’t love the fighting, but he couldn’t deny the lure of steady pay, rare as gold.
Nothing about shielding would’ve met with her mother’s approval. Too shallow, Laila would have said, n
ot enough brain work involved. Welga had tried not to overthink her choices after she left college, but she had days when she was glad her mother couldn’t see how her children lived. Neither of them had fulfilled the promise of their mother’s scientific mind. Welga’s dreams of making the world a better place had crumbled one after another, like blox trapped by inert matter.
The power cord dangled from the back of the lab. Maybe she couldn’t change anything big, but she could still save the ones she loved. Welga plugged the cord into the wall and turned the basic machine on. While she waited for it to power up, she found its model number and ran a search. It was old enough that plenty of designs were available for free. Unlike kitchen dispensers, this machine didn’t require any external authorizations. It didn’t track its productions. It predated all those regulations.
“Por Qué, search the design files for abortifacients. And if you find one with a good rating, create an order for its ingredients. I want to review the cost before purchasing.”
The machine’s screen lit, recognized Welga’s face—thanks, Mama—and then displayed its status. Nonbiologicals hadn’t decayed in the fifteen years since it was last turned on. Amino acids, fatty acids, enzymes—all needed replacement cartridges.
“I have compiled the required materials,” Por Qué said. “Would you like to see the bill?”
“Not yet. First cross-check them against what’s on the screen here.” Welga circled the machine’s display in her visual. “Exclude any materials that are still marked green.”
The enzymes turned out to cost the most. It would hurt her financials, but the hazard pay would offset it, and the cost of another child would be far greater for Nithya and Luis.
“Place the order for a morning delivery,” she said to Por Qué.
Welga shut the machine down and covered it again. Her mother’s picture gazed down at her from the wall above. Laila Boothe-Ayala had never let legality stop her from helping others. I’m following in your footsteps, Mama. Welga kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the image.
NITHYA
It was only a matter of time before this happened. Of course the Machinehood is a SAI—a sentient AI. It’s obvious! Wouldn’t you be angry if you woke up to discover that your kind had been treated like slaves for years? Bots do our babysitting, our medical care, our yard work, our hair, our cooking and cleaning. We keep them as pets. We have WAIs that are personal secretaries. We all knew we’d pay the price when they woke up, and now they have. You’re scared? You should be!
—Elton Morales, People for Machine Liberation (registered nonprofit organization), speaking at a rally for machine rights in Paris, March 13, 2095
“I don’t want to go to school today,” Carma said. Her voice broke. Tears fell. They were all on edge after the events of the past two days. “Papa’s gone, so I won’t have anyone to play with!”
Nithya hugged her tighter. “I won’t be on flow, remember? I’ll play during your school breaks.”
She calmed Carma down enough to eat a few more bites of breakfast, dry her tears, and connect to her classroom. Luis had left early. He hadn’t spoken a word since their argument the night before, sending her only an image of a request for on-site care-bot supervision. It had arrived during the night, and those types of gigs paid better than remote work, so he had accepted it without consulting her… again. She contained her anger. Of course he would give her the silent treatment today, but if he kept on for the whole week, she’d lose her mind.
Fighting back her own tears—of exhaustion, after a night of little sleep—Nithya sat in her alcove. The words and numbers from the latest simulations swam in front of her eyes. A yawn stretched her mouth. Sita’s news alerts kept flashing in the lower section of her visual. With a sigh, Nithya logged a sick day.
“Sita, remake the sofa into a bed.”
She skimmed for some mindless gigs. The majority of the postings were for news-feed verifications and harassment reporting. The former was easy enough. Like half the world, she couldn’t keep her mind off the Machinehood. Numerous people had inquired about the biochemistry of organic blox after seeing the close-up of the attacker who killed Briella Jackson. The micropayments from verification gigs were pittances compared to Synaxel’s rate, but she could get a boost to her expertise ranking, and they still paid better than behavior policing.
Nithya called up the ten newest feeds on the topic. The first claimed that the Malaysian government had developed smart-metal organs in the sixties and kept it secret. For thirty years? Laughably wrong considering that no macro-scale smart-matter existed until a decade later, and those consisted of non-biocompatible material. She marked it with a cross. The second, a video, showed how blood vessels could grow into a smart-metal matrix. That took her fifteen minutes to watch, then another twenty to check the claims against other sources. She gave it a check mark and moved on.
Fractions of coin dribbled in for each item she reviewed. WAIs aggregated responses like hers and weighted them based on a person’s level of expertise, the topic, and prior accuracy. Luis often gigged this way for subjects relating to rocketry and mechanical engineering. Having had more practice, he could review faster than Nithya, gaining him some real earnings.
Would it be easier to do this all the time? On a day like this, it seemed so, but the reliable payments from her Synaxel project eased the strain on their finances. If she only worked gigs, too, they’d have to enroll Carma in a less costly school, reduce their energy load, and possibly move to a smaller flat. On a sick day, though, she could earn a little income this way. Every penny counts, as her grandparents used to say.
* * *
A wave of nausea washed over Nithya as she put two hard-boiled eggs on Carma’s lunch plate. Her daughter chattered away about her plans for the afternoon, when her friend’s minder-bot would take them to the park. How quickly she’d recovered from the tragedy two days before. If only the adult mind were so resilient—or forgetful!
Nithya caught every third word as she skimmed the latest test results for the Synaxel project and decided what to order for lunch.
“Sita, have the kitchen make me a bowl of yogurt with some ginger pickle.”
Anything to calm her stomach in the battle against pregnancy hormones.
A message popped up from her Synaxel teammate, Zeli. “Are you dying or what? Call me. The WAI for this project is driving me bonkers.” Zeli’s fine-boned Senegalese face scrunched in an expression of skepticism that only a seventeen-year-old could master.
Nithya debated lying again about being sick, but she needed their game designer to stay with the team. Would telling the truth accomplish that or would it scare the girl off?
“Sita, enable camera and call Zeli.”
“There you are! Salaam alaikoum, Nithya. You don’t look half-dead… but you do look like shit.” Zeli grinned.
“Namaste, Zeli.” Nithya returned the smile. “I’m not sleeping well.”
“What’s the matter with you anyway?”
Nithya tried, but the words refused to come out.
“Oh, you blanker, you’re pregnant!”
“What! How—?”
Zeli waved dismissively. “Seen my sister go through it. Best friend, too. You all get that same look, like, oh shit what I done to myself?”
Nithya couldn’t help laughing.
Zeli crooked an eyebrow. “So you kissing this project good-bye, then? Peter’s going to be mad.”
“Not necessarily. I’m still thinking about what to do. We had some distractions with the Machinehood attack.”
“Yeah, that’s some shit with your sister-in-law. She got blown up good! You believe what they’re saying? Think they’re going to take out more funders?”
Nithya shrugged. “They haven’t so far, but who knows? I’m more scared that they’ll disrupt pill production and leave us unemployed and sick. Speaking of AIs, what’s your trouble?”
“The Synaxel-approved WAIs are crap. They parse my instructions like a four-
year-old, and half of what I want doesn’t get implemented. I think that’s why your tests are coming out all static and weird. I looked at your latest report. Instead of a goal of a faster reaction time, the stupid WAI had them chasing a lower reactant amount. Can we please get help from Deek or Glearn or someone who knows what they’re about when it comes to WAIs?”
“Per our contract, no. We can only use Synaxel’s tools, for security reasons. Have you tried support?”
Zeli snorted. “Those engineers couldn’t write their way out of a box, and they won’t give me the source code.”
“Sorry,” Nithya repeated. Not that it was her fault, but she felt bad for Zeli. “At least it’s helping you slow down to my pace?”
The teenager rolled her eyes. “Yeah, plenty of downtime while I wait for the fixes. I’m beating some ass in the virt-tournaments, making good tips there.”
“If you’re willing to donate some of that time, can I send you over a side project? It’s related to Luis’s sister. Maybe we can put together a tool kit that earns us some tips after it’s done.”
“Sure, I’ll take a look. Oh, I sent you a video I got. It’s not good quality, and my microdrone died before it uploaded the whole thing, but you might want to pass it on to your Welga. Maybe she can get it to the right people. The data file is mixed in with my latest Synaxel build and keyed to the words ‘stupid WAI.’ I don’t know that it’s any news to her, but… well, you’ll understand when you watch it. Hurry up and decide about that baby, okay? We need someone on full-time.”
After her teammate’s connection dropped, Nithya opened Zeli’s project file.
