by S. B. Divya
“Sita, extract the embedded video from this. Pass phrase, ‘stupid WAI.’ ” What an awful thing to say to her agent. “Sorry.”
“Apology accepted. I’ve isolated the footage. Would you like to see it now?”
“Yes.”
Zeli’s drone video showed the body of a dead man in the white uniform of the al-Muwahhidun in Maghreb. Any citizen of the empire—trader or soldier—who left its inner boundary wore the same. One leg ended in a bloody mess above the knee. A stomach-churning gash ran through his midsection. The audio picked up the noise of fighting. Smoke obscured half the image. The microdrone descended toward the body. Something metallic glinted from beneath the man’s skin. Nithya leaned forward instinctively, caught herself when it didn’t work. Zeli must have been controlling the drone manually, because it flew to where Nithya wanted a better look. As the camera neared, the details blurred, but the metal appeared to sit inside his stomach. A loud popping noise came from the right, and the video ended.
How did she get this? The empire’s border defenses made it hard to capture and upload any digital information.
Nithya sent a message to her teammate: You said you took this video yourself?
The answer came immediately: Yes. Pure luck having my camera there.
If Zeli got caught with this footage, she could be in danger from the al-Muwahhidun. Nithya hoped the girl’s microdrone couldn’t get traced back to her. Generic models were common in developing countries, cheap single-use devices in particular. If Zeli had used one, she shouldn’t be in immediate danger. But if this video gets out to the public, someone might trace it to her… or me.
Nithya couldn’t ignore the resemblance of the caliph’s man to the Machinehood attackers. She had to get the video to Welga, but she didn’t have a secure link to her sister-in-law. She could use a memoryless scatter channel, but she had to set it up with Welga first. A quick expansion of Welga’s feed showed her sister-in-law asleep in bed.
“Sita, leave a message with Welga’s agent. Tell her I’m sending an encrypted file from a colleague in Senegal. It has some footage that she might find interesting. The password is… the name of Luis’s favorite stuffed animal.”
The one that her husband kept in a sealed bag in the back of their old, non-reconfigurable static cabinet. He wouldn’t even let Carma play with it. She hoped Welga would remember its name, too.
With that out of the way, Nithya pulled up a list of gigs. One day of rating and reviewing items had quenched her enthusiasm for the task. I want myself back on flow, thinking, working, earning. How would she convince Luis? His view on abortion relied on his Catholic faith. Her gods were more practical, weighing the suffering of the parents against that of the unborn. Her government, as well. If she could circumvent the Arizona permission requirement, she could pretend she’d had a miscarriage and all would be well, but she could think of no way around it. Somehow, she had to change her husband’s mind.
WELGA
6. In the name of freedom of labor, we have left the individual at the mercy of the oligarchy (by which we mean not only the political power holders, but the financial ones). While it’s true that labor can move more freely and more globally than ever before, the availability of work (paid work) has destabilized. We have moved from working your own land to working for a wealthy family all your life to working for a corporation all your life to working years at a time to working half a dozen different small jobs every day.
—The Machinehood Manifesto, March 20, 2095
Welga needed to beat the shit out of somebody. She had one more day in Phoenix, and her body had healed enough to get restless. She took it out on the repurposed mech that squatted in the middle of her father’s backyard. Oscar had loaded it with a simple combat-WAI, and Welga had wrapped padding around its limbs to keep from injuring herself further. Judging by her viewers’ enjoyment, the result was crude but effective.
Her muscles burned as she punched, kicked, and spun around the bot. It didn’t have the controls to attack, but it moved to dodge her blows. A duo-zip worked her reaction time. Sweat soaked her clothes. The fabric did great at cooling and evaporation, but it couldn’t compete with the heat of Phoenix. She’d put her hair up in a tight coil with a black band at her forehead. It didn’t hurt that the updo flattered her neck and shoulders.
Cameras swarmed in the hot air. Crowd feedback on her setup ranged from amusement to derision. People left tips along with notes encouraging Welga to try new moves. A few openly asked if she had any information on the Machinehood. She didn’t tell them about the video from Nithya’s coworker. Eastern Senegal was on the front lines of the caliph’s ever-expanding borders, and the dead body in the feed had an undeniable resemblance to the Machinehood’s androids. That a random teenager had managed to catch the evidence meant they’d gotten sloppy with their border security. Maybe the al-Muwahhidun had more important concerns? The Machinehood needed a hiding spot. The Maghreb was a blackout zone, and if any place had the technology to produce those androids, it was there. The pieces fit, but why would the caliph pretend to be a SAI out to destroy humanity’s way of life?
He’d held ambitions to set up an empire since the beginning, “to bring peace, prosperity, and enlightenment to a modern Islamic caliphate.” He’d styled his ideals after the Abbasid dynasty, and his nonviolent but strict approach had found followers hungry for an end to the violence in North Africa and the Middle East. Early intel had shown that he rose from the biogenetic renaissance that revitalized the region’s economy. It explained his love for VeeMods and distaste for bots. Since consolidating his base of power in Marrakech, he’d expanded carefully, ensuring that no satellite could spy on his land and no microcameras penetrated beyond a buffer zone at the border. Was he finally ready to make a move on the global stage? Did her government know about the possible connection to the Machinehood?
She now had two pieces of evidence relating to the attacks. San Francisco had a secure facility for the JIA. Maybe she could walk this stuff there and get it safely into the right hands. She couldn’t trust any other method of delivery, not with something this sensitive, and Nithya’s coworker had endangered herself enough already. But Welga hadn’t set foot in an agency building in seven years. Her stomach knotted at the thought. They probably don’t need my information, anyway, and why would they listen to me now if they didn’t before? She could wait until the liaison showed up for their shield team and show them everything instead.
Welga sent a roundhouse kick at the dummy’s “shoulder.” She imagined it was a Machinehood operative. If she practiced enough, maybe she could react faster.
Fast enough that she wouldn’t have to watch another client die.
“Your heart rate and core temperature are nearing maximum recommended values,” Por Qué said.
“I’ll take a ten-minute break.”
Por Qué turned off the dummy’s WAI as Welga dropped into the hammock. She sipped at a glass of icy hibiscus tea. The dust storm had scoured the outer paneling of the house, leaving behind whorls like fingerprints. If only the Machinehood had left more behind.
Welga had Por Qué looking out for data, but her agent was only as effective as her queries, and she didn’t know what she was searching for. Gathering information by making connections, talking to people, earning their trust—that was what Captain Travis had taught her about intelligence work. It never leaves you, not entirely, he’d said. Some part of your brain will cross-check conversations, track behavior, put information together in unusual ways that no WAI can. Using force should be your last resort.
The enemy had come straight to their floor. They’d dodged Welga to go for Jackson. Murder. Assassination. How old-fashioned. You couldn’t get away with that when the cameras were rolling. Some news-seeking gigster would find you out, always. So it was a suicide mission all along. Why didn’t the body explode sooner?
She recalled the arm moving, trying to dig out. Dead by the time she arrived, though. Was that it? Explosio
n triggered by loss of pulse, as Hassan had indicated? But if it were an android, a bot rather than a human, then it wouldn’t have a pulse.
Welga’s leg twitched. “Por Qué, what’s my recovery status?”
“Lactic acid is within tolerance. Heart rate is twenty percent over baseline. Blood sugar is medium-low. UV exposure is seventy-five percent of maximum. Per your medical team’s recommendations, you should spend the next fifteen minutes on flexibility and range of motion.”
“I’ll do that.”
“I’ve sent the data associated with your tremor to Nithya Balachandran, as you previously authorized. Based on the latest event, the involuntary neuromuscular activity occurs when your zip level drops below twenty percent effectiveness relative to baseline.”
“Thanks, Por Qué. I’m sure she’ll find that interesting.”
Her muscles had cooled to stone and trembled with the effort of getting off the hammock. She rolled the training-dummy contraption into the garage. Nothing left in the open would last long in Phoenix’s dust storms.
Footsteps crunched toward her as she emerged. They belonged to someone dressed casually in jeans, a T-shirt, and a cap pulled low over a bearded face. Too slender to be Hassan, and why would he be here anyway? Welga stepped back into the shadows and took another duo-zip. People who arrived unannounced with obscured faces were rarely on a friendly visit.
“Por Qué, send a private request for ID,” she murmured. Worth a shot before she jumped them.
“They’ve replied with the name Arvindh Olafson, trans male, using male pronouns, employed by the Joint Intelligence Agency,” Por Qué said.
“Oh, shit,” Welga said to her former colleague as he stepped forward. She’d worked with quite a few JIA officers when she was an ATAI Specialist for MARSOC, and she hadn’t seen Olafson since the fallout after Marrakech.
He grinned and came close. Now she could see his familiar, shocking-blue eyes. Dark brown waves of hair brushed his shoulders. “Hello to you, too, Ramírez.”
“It’s good to see you, I think.” Welga glanced at the cameras swarming above and said, “I used to work with this gorgeous creature.” She met Arvindh’s gaze again. “Guessing this isn’t a social call. Should we go inside?”
“Please.”
Oscar had stepped out for an in-person supervisor gig, so they had the house to themselves. Welga led Olafson to her bedroom and waited as he deployed countersurveillance measures. Thresholds got rid of standard microdrones, but smaller, dust-size devices could float in undetected.
“Clear,” he said, and sat on the bed.
Welga took a chair. She tucked her legs under to hide any shakes that decided to show up. “Are you the government liaison for our shield team?”
“Actually, I’m here to offer you that job.”
“You’re—what?” Her head started shaking no before she could speak. She had promised herself—and Connor—that she wouldn’t go back. The agency held nothing for her but ghosts.
“Hear me out, Ramírez. We found some interesting evidence on the operative that hit Kuan.” That attack had taken place in Boston, on US soil. “Integrated smart-matter. VeeMod stuff. You know who’s usually behind that.”
“Integrated? As in biocompatible?”
Olafson nodded. “That’s what we suspect, though we don’t have confirmation. Nothing’s come out of the gray or black market to prove it, but we’re still searching. The Machinehood used generic attack bots, hacked the hotel maintenance crew, and flew single-use camera swarms. A three-point coordinated attack, and they covered all their tracks. That broadcast message bounced like a fucking pinball—hit every continent, comms satellite, and space station multiple times, twenty-four-state quantum encryption, the works.”
“I get it. The Machinehood has deep pockets. The caliph likes his VeeMods. I figured the name might be a cover for al-Muwahhidun, but what’s their goal? Why go after pills instead of bots?”
No one had a greater interest in voluntary modification of human bodies than the caliph. His empire did not believe in externalized technology. They eschewed bots, network stellas, microdrones—all the modern conveniences, with the exception of human-compatible biogenetics. Olafson, and the entire JIA, knew this better than Welga, so if anyone had the answer, he would.
Her friend steepled his fingers in front of his face. “I need to read you in before I can tell you that.” He sighed at her expression. “Come on, Ramírez, it’s been seven years and two elections, and a very different administration sits in the Oval Office now. Things have changed.”
“Bullshit. I already got the briefing that we can’t use lethal force against the Machinehood. Sounds to me like our fearless leaders have learned nothing.”
“We need one of their operatives alive and talking.”
“At what cost? How many more deaths?”
“I’ll tell you this much—we don’t know what their endgame is. The situation could get a lot worse than a few dead funders. If they manage to disrupt pill production, more people will die without them attacking anyone. You know how the caliph likes to work.” His expression turned grim. “Look, I wouldn’t try to talk you back if I didn’t believe that we needed you. I know how you think—or how you used to. ATAI Specialist Ramírez would do whatever it took to find the Machinehood and make sure they didn’t deliver on their threat. Your team in Marrakech got closer to the caliph than any since. Everyone who gets past the front lines disappears into the empire and never comes back. He hasn’t given us an excuse to go in with full force, but this might be our opening. The commander in chief wants it. So does the Senate. We can get the authorization for war if we have the right evidence, but we need people on the ground to get it. People who know how to operate in blackout zones, people who can work without WAIs or bots assisting them. People like you.”
“I’m immune to flattery.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Goddamn it, Olafson, I’m too old to make history twice.”
“Spare me. You’re thirty-five. That’s not old.”
“Platinum thinks so.”
“That’s because they value what you look like. We need you to be fit and smart, not pretty. Besides, what is it you’re going to do next? Chop vegetables? Stew meats? Don’t you care what happens to innocent American lives?”
“Fuck you. I will always be faithful to the people of this country.”
It was the ones in charge that she didn’t trust. What if the government set her up to fail another time? With the cameras off—as they were under the caliph’s rule—accountability went to zero. Would they place her with a special ops team? What would those soldiers think of her history? And what about her promise to Connor? He’d left the JIA a month after she’d quit, sharing her disgust at a Congress and president who wouldn’t let them do their job. They’d promised each other not to go back to that life, scraping together a decent income from shield work. As much as she hated gigs, they were better than compromising her morals.
“Your clearance is good for one more year,” Olafson said. “You can start now as a consultant, help us bring down the Machinehood, and cancel your contract anytime. I can’t make you a permanent hire as an analyst, not with you being flow-restricted. Does that make the offer more palatable?”
A year of working for the government again. But a different group at the top, said one part of her mind. All politicians are the same, countered another. The first part replayed the attack on Jackson. You wanted to be the first to capture a Machinehood operative. What difference does it really make whether you’re employed by Platinum or the US government? What are you afraid of?
Christ, sometimes she hated when she made sense.
She was scared, of course, not for her own life but for the people she loved and the others she had served. She could’ve run at the enemy—screaming, weaponless—and let them end it seven years ago, but she chose to live. She’d forced herself to face weapons again as a shield. Maybe it was time to go back to
the Maghreb and put her squad’s ghosts to rest, too, to finish what they’d started.
Por Qué spoke in her ear. “Arvindh Olafson has sent you a contract. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes,” Welga muttered.
Olafson had spoken the truth: the contract lasted as long as the time remaining on her clearance and was nonbinding. A slight smile played around the corners of his mouth. He had her, and he damn well knew it.
Too out of shape to rejoin the special forces. Too old to look good as a shield. Too genetically flawed to take flow. If the JIA offered her a way to make a difference in the world, to save lives, how could she say no? Doubly so if it meant getting closure for the events in Marrakech. Could she trust the government not to fuck this up a second time? Maybe it didn’t matter. If she had a chance to do it right… Connor would understand, wouldn’t he? He’d do the same in her position. They’d made a promise to each other, but this went beyond keeping her word.
She subvocalized, “Por Qué, append my signature to the contract and return it.”
Olafson grinned and extended a hand. “Welcome to Operation Organica.”
She shook it. “Now answer my question: Why would the al-Muwahhidun murder three funders in full view of the world? The caliph tries to maintain a veneer of nonviolence. He’ll demolish infrastructure, let children starve, but he won’t kill people except in self-defense. Or at least he didn’t used to. Has something changed in the Maghreb?”
“Good question, and as far as we know, nothing has. They’re still playing sabotage-and-run in North Africa along the front lines, but who else could do what the Machinehood did? Who has the technology? And who would risk their economy by threatening funders? Our analysts are looking into it, but they keep coming up with the al-Muwahhidun as the source.”
“I need to show you something. Do you have a tether?”
Olafson cocked an eyebrow but said nothing as he pulled one from his pocket. The wired connection would ensure the most secure transfer of Zeli’s video. She waited as he watched, gaze blanked, and then his forehead creased into a frown.
