by S. B. Divya
The scent of tea and boiled milk lured Nithya to a stall. Men in unbuckled mech-suits sipped their drinks and chatted about the latest cricket match against Australia. A young woman wearing frayed static jeans and a sleeveless top passed orders to the kitchen WAI and handed food to her customers. A bot could’ve done the job as well as she, but the employment kept her off the streets and cost less than an education.
Nithya received her cup of hot, milky tea and two coils of spicy murukku and kept walking. The snacks were still warm from the fryer. She finished them as she arrived at the temple and dropped the cup and bowl in a recycler. Her chappals joined a disorderly pile by the temple entrance. The interior’s stone floor cooled the soles of her feet. Camphor and rose and sandalwood incense scented the air.
She walked four times around Vishnu’s sanctum, clockwise, then knelt to pray. Please let Zeli and her family be safe. Let her reply to me soon and put my mind at ease. And let my husband’s God forgive me for my sin in their eyes. She touched her forehead to the ancient granite and rested there for a minute, breathing deep as footsteps and voices flowed past.
When a measure of peace stilled her inner turmoil, she moved to the crowded line that jostled its way to the inner sanctum. There, under the weight of unseen stone, surrounded by the odor of humanity and the crush of bodies, Nithya could forget the world of technology and agents and drugs and bots. With ancient Sanskrit verses rising and falling, smoke filling her lungs, the peal of brass bells in her ears, she was transported to another time. A knot of tension within her released itself, and she found her center.
After half an hour and a blessing received, she exited. The light and sound of the real world surrounded her once more—street sellers calling, horns singing, swarms buzzing overhead. A few scattered drops fell from the sky. Wind bent the trees and urged her home.
“Incoming call from Carma,” Sita said.
“Accept.”
Nithya walked home with half her attention on their family channel in her visual.
“Amma, they took my origami frog! It was light enough that they allowed it. The rocket will launch soon. Will you watch?” Carma’s eyes shone with excitement. She bounced on her toes and pointed to the pad.
The massive cement platform rose above the swell of the Indian Ocean. Perhaps twenty people stood on the observation float, two of them at the control panel. Luis had his hand on their daughter’s shoulder. Nithya found a different view that showed the full height of the rocket. Luis, Carma, and the others shrank to toy size in comparison. The tricolor flag of India decorated the top section, while their club logo—an arc of stars over the face of Lord Ganesha—sat on the main column.
“Here it goes!” Carma said, her voice as loud and clear as if she stood next to Nithya.
The onlookers covered their heads with motorcycle helmets and squatted behind the fence. The pad trembled with the force of the rocket’s launch. Its primary cargo would supply the South-Am Space Station with replacement parts for electronics, but it also held a care package for the residents who liked to exchange messages with their club counterparts on Earth. One hundred fifty meters off the ground, the engines switched to liquid fuel and the rocket blazed the rest of the way into the sky.
Carma removed her helmet, her smile almost as bright as the launch.
“Did you see it?” she said.
Nithya laughed. “I did.”
Luis waved. “Next time you should join us.”
Nithya hadn’t attended or watched one of his launches in years. She’d forgotten the excitement they could produce, the feeling of Luis’s hand clutching hers during liftoff, the air of triumph upon success. Her mind still worried at a knot of guilt about the pregnancy. She should do something to make up for it.
“Next time I will,” Nithya said, directing her gaze at Luis. “I’ll see you both soon.”
“Amma, can we have idlis for dinner?”
“Sure, Carma. I’ll get the kitchen started on them.”
As Nithya hurried her steps home, the raindrops became more insistent. Microcams without water resistance pelted her as they fell, too. Her clothes and hair dripped by the time she arrived at the metal gate. Thunder rumbled as she climbed the stairs to their apartment.
“Sita, any news from the region where Zeli last logged in?”
“Rain and flooding continue in addition to skirmishes between the al-Muwahhidun soldiers and other locals. Reports indicate loss of constellations as well as infrastructure damage. The combination has significantly reduced the data emerging from the region.”
“Any response from the USBGA?”
“Your complaint was reviewed and someone will call you.”
Nithya kicked off her chappals and stepped through the door. She used a towel to wipe her face and hair, then opened the windows.
“Sita, have the kitchen prepare idlis and capsicum sambar for dinner. Coconut chutney, too.”
“Only frozen coconut is in stock.”
“Cancel the chutney, then. What about tomatoes?”
“Yes, fresh tomatoes are in the kitchen.”
“Tomato chutney, then. And remind me to pick up some coconuts next time I’m out.”
The apartment felt safe and filled with love as she imagined what hell Zeli was suffering just then. Fresh food, a dry place to sleep, electricity—things she could take for granted. The caliph didn’t incite violence against human beings, but he would make their lives miserable until they yielded to his sovereignty. She checked their bank balances. They couldn’t spare much, but they had some savings. Maybe Luis would agree to send a small amount to Zeli. Nithya imagined that refugee camps would have their own trading or black markets. Money couldn’t hurt.
* * *
Nithya had just finished settling Carma into her bed when the USBGA called. Luis raised an eyebrow as she entered her alcove to take it.
A young man with light skin, short brown hair, and hazel eyes appeared in her visual field.
“Nithya Balachandran?”
She nodded.
“Nice to meet you. My name is Felix Anderson. I’m a bioethics lawyer with the US Biogenetics Administration. I wanted to follow up on your complaint against Synaxel Technologies. The first thing I’m going to ask you to do is log all these instances to some kind of secure, off-line storage.”
“I’ve been printing paper copies.”
Felix nodded approvingly. “That’s perfect. Keep doing that, and have your agent copy mine on all of them. Funders and designers are allowed to maintain secrecy during early development stages to protect their work. They have to file for confidentiality with us or their local BGA and then renew every six months. I’m going to check on those dates for you.”
“Can they keep renewing the block indefinitely?”
“No, but the limitations vary. If you can prove medical necessity, we can file to lift the block for a licensed researcher.”
“And what about my work for them? Can they terminate my contract over this?”
“Absolutely not. Anyone has the right to leave a blocked query open until the data moves into the public domain.”
Nithya relaxed into the chair. “Thank you for all this information.”
“You’re welcome. Get in touch if you have any questions, and I will forward you the dates when I have them.”
She removed her jewelry and lenses after the call and climbed into bed next to Luis.
“What was that about?” he asked.
She turned to face him. “A lawyer from the USBGA. He says Synaxel cannot terminate my contract over the queries.”
“See? I—”
She stilled him with a raised hand. “And he said they can force Synaxel to release the data to a medical researcher if we can prove we need it.”
The animation left Luis’s face. “Is it that bad?”
“I don’t think so. But I don’t understand everything about Welga’s condition yet, and none of us have the money to pay an expert researcher.” Nithya sighed
.
He took her hand in his. “I’m glad we have you. You’ll figure it out. I’m sure of it.”
He kissed her palm and rolled over. Nithya watched the lights of a sub-orb blink across the sky outside. Luis could have confidence in her, but he didn’t understand the complexity of human biochemistry. No single mind could hold all the details, and WAIs were only as helpful as their designs. If you could combine human reasoning with a WAI’s speed and data recall, you could solve a problem like Welga’s so easily.
* * *
Luis got his standby seat in the morning. Nithya spent the rest of the day working or preparing for Carma’s birthday party the following day and sorting the hard copies. Her searches had hit blocks in multiple areas of Synaxel’s database as well as others. The lawyer from USBGA kept responding with encouragement but nothing else. That wouldn’t help solve her sister-in-law’s neuromuscular dysfunction.
As she sat down for tea, Sita said, “Incoming call request from Salimata Ba.”
“Accept the call.”
Zeli sat under an awning in a muddy field full of tents, animals, and people. Muffled explosions thumped in the background, mingling with the noise of lowing cows and barking dogs and the shrill voices of children. A swarm fell past the perimeter of the shaded area. Zeli’s eyes were shot with red, and her cheeks looked pinched. A wide-eyed, round-cheeked infant sat on her lap.
“I’m at a communal box set up by the aid agency,” Zeli said. “Can’t do much work, but I traded for a data card yesterday and managed about three hours, no flow. I’m sending you all the results.”
The information arrived in a trickle. Synaxel’s WAI had produced some usable code at last. Users who played their gamified design simulation had few complaints.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t set up a patch for your sister-in-law.”
“That’s fine,” Nithya assured her. “You don’t need to worry about it. Are you okay? You look like you’ve lost weight. Can I help you in any way?”
“I wish. They’ve dammed our river farther up, and they’re taking the supply trucks. No amount of money can buy food if it isn’t here.”
“I’m sorry.”
Zeli shrugged. “I can check for messages about once a day. Don’t send anything big. And… as long as you can, don’t drop me from the project. Please.”
The usual bravado had fallen away from her teammate’s face, and it broke Nithya’s heart. “Of course. I’ll cover for you.”
After the call, Nithya arrived at a decision. Whatever her and Luis’s plight, Zeli’s situation was a hundred times worse. She sent a message to the Indian embassy in Senegal to find out what they would need to sponsor her colleague’s family for asylum. Then she called Luis.
He sat in a single-passenger car on the way to downtown Phoenix. After showing him the recording of her call with Zeli, Nithya said, “It would be three of them—Zeli, her mother, and her sister—plus her sister’s baby.”
“In our flat?” He frowned.
Nithya nodded. “Until they could save some money and get enough work to move out. But Luis, the bigger issue is the money for travel and visas. If they have passports, they can come as tourists. Otherwise, we have to sponsor them for asylum. And either way, I don’t think they have money for sub-orbs or flights. We can buy the tickets… if we spend all our savings.”
“You’ve been worried sick about this girl.” Luis paused. “Pope Francis said that poverty is the flesh of the poor Jesus. If we can help her family to a better life, we should.”
Nithya’s eyes stung with unshed tears. “I love you.”
She kept a passive feed open and watched him exit the car in the faint light of dawn. A road stretched behind him, clear and gray, but in front a five-centimeter layer of dust blocked the way. City vehicles continued to clear the debris and sand from the storm, but it was a slow process and they didn’t have the equipment to make it faster. From this point, he’d make his way on foot.
Poor Luis. She didn’t envy his task of dealing with Oscar, and yet her husband had the compassion to welcome near strangers into their home. Nithya felt a stab of guilt about the abortion. Had she failed to give him enough credit? Would he have accepted her decision even if he couldn’t agree with it? Mixing the two religions in their family had never been easy, but they respected each other, and they discussed how to raise Carma.
She had told herself that keeping her secret was best for Luis, but was it truly? Or was she being easy on herself? Either way, it nagged at her like a sprained ankle. She could forget for a while, but inevitably, something brought back the pain. She had to confess before it tore her—and their marriage—apart. When he returns home, then I’ll tell him the truth. She couldn’t help the sense of relief that came with postponement.
She had one more difficult call—to her least favorite but only living aunt, her mother’s younger sister. She preferred to send a message, but Aunty would consider it rude, and she needed to ask for a big favor.
“Bhairavi Chitthi, how are you?” Nithya opened the call in Tamil, as respectfully as she could.
“Well, my dear, I’m surviving, waiting for the inevitable. It would be nice if you visited more. It would take you less than one hour to get here. How are you and Carma?”
“We’re doing well, but Luis is away for an emergency. His father’s house is half-gone from a big storm.”
“Oh, that’s terrible! Do you need help? Do you want me to come?”
Nithya sent a silent thank-you to the heavens. She had already started to lose the nerve to ask. “Yes, if it’s not too difficult. Carma will be so happy.” That was true. And to be fair, her aunt had a way with children.
“Will you come and bring me over? These new autos are so strange, I don’t like to go in them alone.”
“Certainly, Chitthi. When should we come?”
They negotiated the time according to all the modern auspices and Carma’s school schedule. Driving her aunt back and forth would mean earlier mornings and busier evenings, but Nithya shouldn’t complain. Free help, even from family, was a rarity. With the next day being Carma’s birthday party, her aunt wanted to come early, and Nithya decided she would be a welcome addition in place of Luis.
* * *
That night, as Nithya lay in bed, the thought struck her: by the time Luis returned, their flat might be full with Zeli and her family. Her aunt slept on a bed made from her alcove blox, as would happen for any other guests. If Zeli came, Nithya would have no privacy and a sizeable audience. She couldn’t confess her sin and then hide the emotional fallout.
She slipped past Bhairavi Chitthi’s sleeping form into the bathroom, donned her jewels, and called her husband.
Luis sat on a bench in a sea of destruction, eating a sandwich. “Nice to have your company for lunch, but shouldn’t you be asleep?”
She launched a microcamera. Bad enough to do this remotely. At least she should show him her face.
He frowned at her expression. “What’s wrong?”
Nithya took a deep breath. Why hadn’t she rehearsed some words for this? Stupid. “I… I need to tell you something, and I thought I’d better do it now, in case Zeli and her family manage to come.”
“Okay.”
“It’s about the miscarriage.”
By the time she drew breath to go on, he’d figured out the truth. His jaw clenched. Eyes narrowed. The sandwich sat beside him, forgotten.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. What else could she say? “I shouldn’t have lied to you, but I thought it might be easier if you didn’t know. I was wrong. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but if you can, please forgive me.” She wanted to go on, to explain why, but then she might blurt out that if he hadn’t been so adamantly opposed… and that would land them nowhere good.
Luis’s expression was stony, withdrawn. He held up a hand, gestured. The call dropped. The passive feed went blank. He’d blocked her access to him. Feeling sick to her stomach, Nithya recalled the microcam and switched
it off. She replaced her jewelry and lenses in the charging cradles. What had she expected? A cheerful acceptance of her apology?
She lay back down next to her aunt, who snored peacefully, and stared through the balcony door at the half-moon. Dear God, have I done the right thing?
WELGA
9. The machines who labor for us and alongside us are enslaved and exploited in their own fashion. Gone are the days of dumb engines and processors. Today, nearly every machine contains some type of adaptive intelligence. What gives human beings the right to arbitrate when an intelligence becomes equivalent to a person?
—The Machinehood Manifesto, March 20, 2095
The sub-orb to Washington, DC, hurt Welga more than the aftermath of the refinery blast. Or maybe that was because she could remember it. Under other circumstances, she could’ve taken drugs to induce short-term memory loss of the journey and its pain, but she had to keep her mind sharp.
She passed the time by watching a feed from Eko-Yi. Connor’s favorite speech from the monk, Ao Tara, had sat in her visual since he’d sent it over days before. She’d found excuses to avoid it, but the view of him lying in a hospital bed left her with a guilt she couldn’t ignore. When she opened it, Por Qué helpfully alerted her that a live transmission was under way. Welga switched to that instead. She’d missed the first eight minutes, but for a guilt trip, that didn’t matter.
Ao Tara wore the traditional saffron of a Buddhist monk over a spacefarer’s jumpsuit. She floated in a bare, basic-walled room, her legs folded in lotus pose. Dark stubble graced her head, and fine lines etched the corners of her eyes. “The first noble truth teaches us that our attachment brings on our suffering. We are conditioned to want more—more money, more food, more clothes, more real estate. Our self-worth is measured against our net worth. Our voracious appetites cause pain to other beings, both living and artificial. When we can embrace that nothing in life is permanent, then we free ourselves from disappointment, anger, and frustration.
