by S. B. Divya
Welga followed Por Qué’s map overlay to the red outline on her feed. Connor moved two paces behind her, his hand twitching toward weapons they couldn’t use. Factory bots avoided them as they crossed paths. The camera views jittered and swayed in the currents of hot air and exhaust fans. Out front, the main team stood with Santiago as she assured the factory manager that she would protect the assets of everyone she funded.
Welga sent a message to the human overseer: “You need to leave the building, for your own safety.”
On her feeds, the saboteur looked up, saw the cameras, and waved cheerfully.
“Boss, who the fuck is that? Do we have an ID yet?”
“Just came in: not Machinehood. It’s someone from a local sanctuary, those people who take in broken or decommissioned bots. Check camera 44AN and you’ll see their partner setting overrides on the mobile floor units. They claim they’ll move all bots out of harm’s way before the explosives trip, and their goddamn tips are going through the roof. Bets are against you, Ramírez. Looks like they’re almost done. Better hurry up.”
They ran.
“How did some goddamn protes slip in?” Connor sent via their private channel.
“Guessing they didn’t register with local police,” Welga replied. “Or announce it in public until now. I’d rather we were dealing with the Machinehood instead of this bullshit.”
“Shots fired!” Mendoza’s shout came through the team feed. “Kelly, close that rear loading bay door! Ammanuel, you and Quin are with me.”
Welga diverted half her attention to the feed from the front. The outside cameras showed bullets being fired from thin air at a bomb squad van on approach. Protesters screamed and some pulled weapons of their own. Ammanuel, Santiago, and the other shields emerged from the building and took cover behind a low wall.
“What the hell?” said Ammanuel. “My visual’s glitching… cloaking suits? What group has that tech?”
The military, usually.
“I’ll bet Machinehood,” Welga said into the team channel. Goddamn it, she should be out front. “Boss—”
“Finish your intercept of that bomb-setter, Ramírez,” Hassan said, anticipating her question.
Who else would show up with military-grade technology?
One of the protesters stumbled as a bullet tore through their thigh. A knife flashed. A red line slashed the protester’s throat. Their head lolled as they toppled.
Who else fought like that?
Welga rounded a four-meter-wide cylindrical tank with Connor at her heels. Their target stood up from their crouched position and raised a gun.
“Progress demands violence,” they said. “I’m only destroying property, but I’ll shoot you if I have to.”
Welga snorted. The protester held the gun with an awkwardness that gave away their inexperience. Her weapons stayed on her hip. She wouldn’t need them to take out this idiot. She opened her mouth to suggest they put their gun away. In the corner of her visual, the air rippled. Welga dove to the floor. “Get down!”
Connor ran for the anomaly. The protester shot in a panicked arc. Return fire passed through them and hit the detonator. The blast flung Welga into a row of pipes. She screamed from the heat that engulfed her. Her visual went blank.
Por Qué recited a litany of hurt over the ringing in her ears. “Second- and third-degree burns. Left ulna, hairline fracture. Multiple hairline fractures to right radius and ulna. Concussive symptoms. Pre-epileptic symptoms. Minor internal bleeding. Agent Troit is injured as well. Waiting for details.”
Welga tried to speak, to mute her agent, but her tongue wouldn’t move. The taste of iron filled her mouth. She spat. The world refused to focus. Blood seeped through Connor’s leathers as he lay on the floor ahead and to the right, closer to the explosive. A figure stood near his body, its tattered cloaking suit falling away. It moved toward the protester and bent over them.
“No,” Welga whispered.
The figure moved toward her. A face loomed, inches away. Patches of seared skin covered the cheeks of a young adult or adolescent. Metal showed in gaps created by a bullet wound in their shoulder. Charred, blistered lips parted.
Words penetrated the noise in Welga’s ears: “You two again. But you didn’t attack me, and I follow the path.”
Singed dark brows drew together and formed a single crease. The eyes looked so real: deep brown with upturned corners. But why were there so many of them? And the colors… everywhere rainbows.
The world stretched like taffy and melted into swirling darkness.
* * *
Welga awoke to a fire-filled shitshow. Her head pounded. Alarms wailed. Smoke choked the air. She sat up and promptly retched. At least she didn’t see double anymore, and her visual display had returned. A quick scan of the team feeds showed the others engaged in combat. The bomb squad remained pinned in their vehicle. How could one Machinehood agent do this much damage?
Hassan spoke via their private channel. “Ramírez, stay put! Medical says it’s dangerous for either of you to move. We’ll send people in for you as soon as we can.”
“The fires in here say get the hell out, boss, and Troit is wounded.”
“I know that,” Hassan snapped. “Don’t make the situation worse!”
She crawled to where Connor lay on the floor. “Por Qué, give me Troit’s status!”
“Agent Troit has sustained multiple internal injuries with bleeding. Surface wounds are healing. Internal wounds require further treatment with juvers and may need surgical intervention.”
Welga ripped the field kit from her clothing and, fractured forearms screaming in protest, injected Connor with every ampoule that Por Qué highlighted. She gave herself a healthy dose of painkillers, too. “How long was I out?”
“You lost consciousness for two minutes and twenty-two seconds. Would you like to review feeds of the interval?”
“Not now.”
They had a meter’s worth of breathable air—for the moment. The two-story ceilings kept most of the smoke above, but she could see it getting thicker. They could run out of time before help arrived.
“Por Qué, are there any exits besides the way we came in?”
“I no longer detect any functional microdrones within this area. Based on exterior cameras, fire is blocking the rear loading dock, the only other exit,” Por Qué said. “The factory floor map shows two paths to the front door. I cannot determine which is safe.”
Welga chose the shorter one.
“Por Qué, modify my sleeves to the most rigid design I own, set to right angles.”
She draped Connor’s body across her shoulders and swallowed a grunt. She ran her right arm through his legs, grabbed his wrist, then tucked her left hand under her right elbow. Smoke burned her nostrils and lungs. She crouched as low as she could and moved. Heat pressed into her like a living thing.
Welga’s muscles twitched, threatening to tip her over. The zip must be wearing off. No time to dig out a new one.
Focus on the green line. Get the hell out. Nothing complicated, nothing she couldn’t do if she tried.
Flames belched across her path.
“Fuck! Por Qué, reroute!”
The green line made a U-turn. Welga doubled back, ducked under a buckled catwalk. A door beckoned on her visual. Smoke blocked the actual view. She held her breath and moved toward the virtual one. Every step hit a new body part with pain. She pushed through the door and let it fall shut behind them.
The air in the lobby blew cool and fresh. The glass entrance lay in shards. A low table was half-buried by blox from malfunctioning chairs.
Welga ducked behind the reception desk, still intact, and let Connor down as gently as she could. The desk WAI sent a courtesy greeting, which she ignored. Her leg spasmed.
“Fucking hell,” she gasped, then subvocalized, “Por Qué, what’s my zip level?”
“Your neuromuscular speed is five percent over baseline. Anomalous synaptic activity detected and reported t
o Nithya Balachandran. I recommend that you also post the data to epilepsy networks.”
“Maybe later.” But what would be the point? They’d have the same lack of interest as the neurological specialists.
She left her forearms rigid to minimize the damage and awkwardly fished out a fresh zip from her pill pack. She added a buff and juvers to the mix. She’d need the strength if she had to carry Connor again.
The noise from outside went quiet. Her visual showed that everyone had taken cover somewhere, and combat had stopped. What now? Footsteps crunched on broken glass nearby. She had no swarm inside, so she peeked around the desk. Ammanuel and Quin stood and scanned the room.
“Over here,” Welga called. “Can’t wave my damn arms.”
Ammanuel helped her stand while Quin deployed a stretcher.
“All quiet,” Hassan said on the team channel. “Half the protes are down or have fled the site. The other half are broadcasting surrender, and the cloaked enemies are gone or hiding. Santiago is secure and away from the action. You’re clear to extract Ramírez and Troit.”
Welga waited until they had Connor strapped onto the stretcher before moving from her position. She ran outside, taking cover where possible, but all remained quiet. On the left half of the street, the bomb squad’s van lay on its side, flames licking up from the engine. Police cars blocked the road in both directions. Humans and law-bots peered over them, weapons ready but not firing.
A white ambulance waited behind all the vehicles. The rear doors opened for them. Olafson reached out and helped Welga clamber in, then loaded Connor’s stretcher. Ammanuel gave her a nod before closing the doors. She returned it. They certainly didn’t need hand-holding anymore, and she had no doubt they’d make a fine shield.
Welga put some coin in Ammanuel’s tip jar, then turned her attention to Olafson as the ambulance hooked itself up to her partner.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Welga asked the JIA officer.
Olafson held up a hand for silence. Half a dozen microdrones clattered onto the van’s floor.
“I hope you were a cat in a previous life, Ramírez, because this has to count as another of your nine. How many more times are you going to blow yourself up?”
Welga snorted. “However many it takes. Where are we headed?”
“San Francisco Terminal and then headquarters. I came here hoping you’d bag a live Machinehood operative that I could bring back for interrogation. They’re pulling you for an in-person briefing and strategy session. We’ll get your injuries treated over there. No time now or we’ll miss the next sub-orb to DC.”
“Why in person?”
“Because we need to do some free exchange of ideas, and we suspect that the Machinehood can tap into secure comm links. They might not have a sentient AI directing them, but they have computing capabilities we don’t understand. Something strange is going on there.”
“What about the androids?”
“No captures anywhere so far. The Chinese just blew one up. The rest… well, we weren’t prepared for their camouflage. Looks like they’ve hit and run. We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”
The ambulance spoke. “This patient needs treatment from a hospital. I am unable to complete the necessary surgical procedures.”
Olafson swore. His fingers twitched. The van slowed and took the next right turn.
“We’ll drop Troit off en route,” Olafson said.
Welga held Connor’s hand. His skin had taken on more color, but his expression remained slack, unconscious. She hated to leave him like this. The hospital would allow microcameras so he wouldn’t be alone, but nothing could replace the feeling of someone holding you, and she couldn’t do that from the other side of the country.
“Olafson, would you mind launching some of Troit’s swarm? They’re in his left lower pocket.”
“I’ll do one better: he can have some of our secure microcams.”
Olafson launched a barely visible cloud that hovered over Connor’s stretcher as they arrived at the hospital building. Two human nurses unloaded him from the van and waited as the ambulance transferred its data to the hospital’s.
As they went their separate ways, Welga subvocalized, “Por Qué, open a high-priority feed to the secure swarm with Connor. Alert me when he regains consciousness.”
She reopened her family, friends, and news feeds. They couldn’t see her in the van, so she sent brief messages to Papa and Luis that she was okay and that Connor was hospitalized. Everyone had seen the action at the refinery. The Machinehood had struck at three different locations, as they had at the start of all this. And they had once again evaded capture. The damage they caused would have an impact, but they hadn’t stopped all pill and drug production as they’d threatened. With their one-week timer about to expire, what would they do next?
NITHYA
Interviewer: Let’s talk for a minute about your childhood and your family. Your mother, Laila Boothe-Ayala, was a well-regarded biogeneticist until she passed away when you were thirteen years old. Were you ever inspired to follow in her footsteps?
Olga Ramírez: When my mother got sick, I dreamed of finding the cure for her condition. After she passed away, I wanted to continue her work. I tried, but without flow, I couldn’t keep up with the academics in college, and you can be damn sure my ratings would be terrible if I tried to work in that field. My mother wanted to make the world a better place, but I had to find my own way to do the same thing.
—Up Close news feed, 2089. Current accuracy rating: 87%
Nithya watched Jane Santiago deliver her challenge to the Machinehood.
“We designed drugs and pills so that humans could stay competitive in the labor market,” the funder said.
Her sister-in-law stood with the shield team in the background. The array of attractive faces and flawless bodies equaled any fictional group from the entertainment industry.
“I will continue to support designs that push our physiology to its safe, effective limits,” Santiago said.
Was Santiago any better than Synaxel, or were they all hiding the truth that their products could harm specific individuals?
“Look at this,” Luis called out.
A different video stream appeared in her visual. Nithya brushed Santiago aside and expanded the new one. It took her a few seconds to understand what she saw: Oscar’s home in Phoenix, two sides buried past the roofline by dirt and debris; the street impassable; the cars scoured. She moved the feed to her periphery and stepped from her alcove to find Luis pacing the room.
“Come on, Papa, it’s a sign from God! How much more do you need?” He paused when he saw Nithya and sent her a passive copy of the feed.
Nithya watched their conversation without participating. Oscar didn’t need her ganging up with Luis against him.
“It’s the last bit of your mother I have,” Oscar said. His shoulders drooped.
Nithya tapped out a message in text: Go to him. Help with the clean up. It will save us money in the long run, and it will give the house more value—if you convince him to sell it.
I love you, Luis replied. I’m sorry my father is so stubborn.
Nithya smiled to herself. Runs in the family.
After the call ended, she and Luis looked over their bank balance. As long as Synaxel didn’t drop her contract, they could manage his absence without too much financial strain.
“I’ll need to call in some free child-minding,” she said. “We can’t afford to hire a bot.”
Luis read her mind with the ease of a long relationship. He groaned. “Your aunty?”
Nithya nodded.
“I’m extra sorry, then. I’ll try hard to convince Papa to come over here. Maybe I can guilt him into it by showing him what you have to put up with in my absence.”
Nithya snorted. “I’d certainly prefer him to her, but it won’t be so bad. She only has to be here during the day. How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“Two or three weeks, at le
ast, unless Papa magically changes his mind. I’ll try to gig over there, whatever I can get. And we’ll use the money Welga sent him first. The storm hit the whole region, so it’ll take some time for me to get to the house. They’ll be clearing the downtown streets and freeways first.”
They found Luis a standby option for the next day’s suborbital flight and then broke the news to Carma.
Their daughter’s reaction on hearing the news was to wail, “You’ll miss my birthday party!”
Luis hugged her. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never missed one before, though, right? And I shouldn’t have to again. This is an emergency.”
He showed her the enormity of the situation, which calmed Carma’s anger, and fortunately he already had a gift for her—a pass to watch his rocket club’s launch that afternoon. The minimum age required to be on the viewing platform was eight, and Carma had wanted to go since she was half that age. She danced with excitement through lunch, barely eating half of it, and was all smiles when they left for the launch.
* * *
An afternoon free of her husband and child should’ve meant super productivity for Nithya, but between her physical discomfort and Zeli’s predicament, she couldn’t focus. Two doses of flow and all she could do was worry. The oppressive heat didn’t help. The solar glass for the balcony needed repair, and they couldn’t afford to buy power for more air-conditioning or to repair the glass. Clouds had arrived to block the sunlight, but they held on to their moisture and added to her torpor.
Nithya stared at the text in her visual. Her eyes insisted on moving to her last message exchange with Zeli. The girl said she’d be safe in a day or two. Where was she? Was she still alive? Nithya slapped a flush patch on her neck with more force than it needed. Flow was worse than useless if the mind wanted to focus on the wrong thing. Maybe a walk would clear her head. She considered changing into cooler clothing but decided to save the energy.
Her salwar and kameez stuck to her body within seconds of stepping outside the flat. She slipped on a pair of chappals and chose a direction at random on the street. Arriving at a large thoroughfare, Nithya turned toward the colorful, tiered gopuram that towered over the surrounding buildings. A bot moved along the side of the road ahead of her and shooed the stray dogs from the path of traffic. Lorries trundled by with near-silent electric motors, their horns singing every few minutes in warning. A gray-bearded, shirtless man pedaled past her, his bicycle laden with a precarious stack of multicolored blox.
