by S. B. Divya
“We’re getting reports—” Olafson’s voice cut off midsentence.
Welga’s visual froze. The video streams dropped out. The news-feed text jittered and vanished.
“Loss of network,” Por Qué said in a mechanical tone.
Welga turned to Olafson. “How’s your…?” She didn’t bother to finish the question. The baffled frowns on every face answered it.
Voices rose all around them. Swarms drifted and crashed into one another. Welga flung an arm up to shield her face from the debris. In the clear blue sky, high above, bright lights flashed like stars and trailed across the sky. The network constellations—high-altitude drones and low Earth-orbit satellites alike—were falling.
NITHYA
Type of Work: Content Verification
Estimated Time: 4 hours
Payment: 2.57 Global Trading Coin
Description: Review instructional videos for high-density balcony gardens to verify that content stays on-topic and is free from harmful language or imagery. Evaluate clarity of communication, audio, and video.
—MicroWork Job Listings, Quality Rating 3.7/5
“Amma! Amma!”
Carma’s excited shout pulled Nithya from the latest Synaxel simulation results. She’d been grasping at every free minute to work, even without flow, to make up for Zeli’s absence. It took her mind off the silent treatment from Luis. He has every right to be angry at you. Be glad he didn’t file for divorce on the spot. Would he leave her? If they divorced, he could stay in Phoenix and help his father. What if he didn’t come back? What would she tell Carma? On top of all that, the ever-present threat of the Machinehood loomed. They’d attacked again, and funding around the globe had started to dry up. Welga and Connor had gotten caught up in another firefight. At least it had happened close to their home this time.
“The cake came!” Carma said.
Nithya brushed her work from her visual and exited her alcove.
Carma ran to her and twirled. “Look at my braids!” she crowed in Tamil. “Bhairavi Paatti did them!”
Slender garlands of fat, white jasmine buds wove through two braids that merged into one. Nithya leaned over and inhaled. The divine must move through jasmine. What else could explain its heady scent?
“Very nice,” Nithya said, also in Tamil. They spoke English only if Luis was around.
“A person brought the cake today. Isn’t that funny?”
Nithya tried to smile. She didn’t tell Carma that people’s paranoia about the Machinehood explained the unusual delivery method. A round cake sat on the dining table, resplendent with white frosting and a large number eight outlined in red icing roses.
“Do you like it?” Nithya asked.
“It’s so beautiful!”
“Good. Let’s keep it in the fridge until the party.”
As Nithya entrusted the cake to the kitchen WAI, Sita spoke in her ear. “You have a high-priority call request from an unknown person regarding your Synaxel database access.”
“Aiyo!” Of all the inconvenient times!
“What is it?” Aunty asked.
“Sorry, Chitthi, I have to take this call.”
“But Amma, it’s time to decorate for my party!” Carma protested.
“I’ll be quick. While you’re waiting, you can call your papa. He’s probably still awake.”
Luis owed Carma a birthday wish anyway. Let him struggle with putting on a happy face for their child, too. Nithya hurried into the alcove, turned on privacy mode, and took the call. The earnest face of a light-skinned, middle-aged man with sandy blond hair appeared in her visual. She blinked in surprise, having expected it to be the lawyer from USBGA. This was not Felix Anderson.
“Good you took the call,” this man said without any greeting.
He spoke English with an accent she couldn’t place. South American or European, perhaps.
“I don’t have a lot of time, but I came across your blocked access requests.” His eyes shifted to the side and back. “Synaxel isn’t letting you see that data because they’re under investigation and they don’t want that disclosed. Their lead bioethicist quit a year ago.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward the camera. “This goes way beyond Synaxel. I gather from your latest queries that you’re beginning to understand that, too. Your agent will receive a file from an anonymous source. Read it. You’re a smart person. Follow the bread crumbs in there.”
He ended the call before Nithya could say a word. This is too much right now. Her mind felt like it was on the opposite of flow, whatever that would be. Mush? A drug that made it impossible to hold on to a thought.
Sita spoke in her ear. “Do you authorize receipt of a file from an anonymous sender?”
“Yes,” Nithya said.
Part of her wanted to take a pill and delve into the file. Would it solve the mystery of Welga’s malady? Or was it malicious, something from the Machinehood? But that was paranoid thinking. Why would that group care about her or her inquiries into Synaxel?
Never mind all that right now! It’s Carma’s birthday.
“Sita, break down my alcove and make some small tables and chairs for the children.”
“Are you finished with work?” Carma said.
“Yes. Let’s decorate for the party.”
“Papa didn’t answer, but he sent me this picture. Look!”
Oscar and Luis stood in front of an interior wall with a still-wet coat of paint, their faces contorted into silliness. Luis had air-scrawled Happy Birthday and drawn a heart around their image.
Aunty grumbled in Hindi to hide the meaning from Carma. “He could have sung a song at least.”
“He must be asleep or on a gig,” Nithya replied, also in Hindi.
Gig didn’t have a translation from English, so Carma picked up the word. “Papa is always working.”
“And you should be happy for that,” Nithya chided. “It helps put food in your mouth. Go change your dress, Carma. You can wear your new pavadai again when we finish putting up decorations. It’s made from static silk. I don’t want you to get it dirty.”
After Carma closed the bathroom door, Aunty launched. “I don’t know why you defend your husband’s lifestyle. I suppose that’s a modern woman’s duty, eh? To earn the money, take care of the children, and support her husband. What kind of world we are living in! Do you know how we had to fight to stay unmarried? Even though we could earn our keep, our parents thought it was too scandalous or too dangerous or some nonsense. And here you are, giving it all up.”
Nithya held up a hand. “Enough, Chitthi, please.”
Her aunt’s expression turned shrewd. “What’s the matter? Did you have a fight with Luis?”
“And if we did, so what? He’s my husband. I decided to marry him, and that’s enough talk about this. I have to get the flat ready for the party.”
“Okay, do whatever you please.” Her aunt settled into the sofa and blanked into her visual.
At least Nithya would have silence from that corner. She made sure Sita had the contact information for all the party guests’ agents, then opened a tall storage cabinet. Where were last year’s static decorations? Nowhere in reach. Rather than wasting energy making a step stool, she dragged over a dining chair and stood on it. Every coin counted now. She pulled out a dusty box with neatly packed party items. As she stuck a birthday banner to the wall, she studiously ignored the newly arrived file glowing in the lower corner of her visual. Tonight, after the party, I’ll look it over.
* * *
By the time Nithya placed the last item of garbage into the bin, the other two members of the household had fallen asleep. Bhairavi Chitthi snored. Carma cuddled a new furpet bot from a wealthy school chum. Thank God they’d paid her school fees through the year end; otherwise Carma’s access to the top-tier educational program would end.
The birthday party had been a success. Other than Carma’s occasional pouts at her father’s absence, the festivities provided Nithya with a good distraction fro
m her other problems. The cake tasted as delicious as it looked, and the children—in person and virtual—had enjoyed the games Nithya had chosen.
She washed her hands, took a mug of tea from the kitchen dispenser, and sat at the table. She propped her feet up on the opposite chair and flexed them. Hosting parties took more energy than they had in her younger days. She blew on the hot, milky liquid, sipped, then placed a flow under her tongue.
“Sita, send the anonymous file qxu34ty38208zz to the printer.”
“At the minimum readable text size, this document collection will require eighty-two percent of the raw pulp in the printer. Do you still wish to print it?”
“Yes.”
Opening the file in her visual meant that a hacker could more easily gain access. Of course, any determined person would be able to crack her passwords and the file’s encryption, but there was no sense making their task simpler. Nithya pulled the warm sheaf from the dispenser.
She read:
To my colleagues and superiors,
With a heavy heart, I tender my resignation from the European Union Biogenetics Administration, effective December 20, 2090. It’s been my great pleasure to serve with this team of intelligent, passionate, and highly qualified bioethicists and policy makers for the past eleven years, but recent events have left me with a sense of frustration.
I have spent my life working to ensure the safety, efficacy, and accessibility of biochemical and biogenetic compounds for human consumption. The decades of unregulated development left deep scars on societies around the world, marks that we bear today, and yet they have faded sufficiently that oversight and regulation lack the enforcement that makes such policies effective.
The recent exposure of problematic designs issued to consumers by funders such as Kwan-Shin, Synaxel, and Gynitek have left me disappointed and disgruntled. These businesses have short-cut the testing process, flouted the spirit of bioethical regulations, and knowingly put people in harm’s way for no reason other than profit motive. They rushed out custom pill designs to those most vulnerable because they had the lowest cost margins. This in spite of the returns they gain from mass-market generics.
My team discovered clear evidence of negligence leading to bodily harm, and yet this governing body (and others) are unable to take action against these funders because the legislative and executive branches are too corrupt or cowardly to move against them. A regulatory body is useless without sharp teeth to enforce its dictates. We can issue recommendations until satellites fall from the sky, but to what end? I cannot stand by and watch as we repeat the mistakes of our parents and grandparents.
I am under no illusion that one woman’s indignant resignation will change the world, but I have fought my entire life for these ends, and I can only hope that my reputation is sufficient to stir others to action in my stead.
Respectfully,
Josephine Lee
The passage “discovered clear evidence of negligence” was highlighted. The next page contained a report titled, “A Review of Simulation Data from Custom Pill Design and Testing.” Nithya read the introductory paragraph.
The exhaustive testing required by International Code 562.1, for intracellular nanomachine and drug delivery systems, commonly knows as micropills, is not being applied to the newer classes of these that involve algorithmic and gene-based customization for individuals and small groups. At the time the original statutes were written, such personalized capability did not exist or was not practical to implement. This review will show evidence from funded projects that cost-cutting measures led to insufficient testing. Although this body has not been able to follow up with every consumer of custom pills, a significant number have filed Requests for Investigation due to health problems that correlate with outcomes shown by the limited testing done during pill development.
Pages upon pages of summaries and reports from projects around the world followed the damning introduction. Nithya reeled at the number of cases where the test simulations were inconclusive at best and potentially dangerous at worst. Bloody hell. Synaxel must have blocked her data access because it showed problematic designs being sold on the market. She would bet the last of her money that this explained the synaptic fatigue afflicting Welga.
Nithya swallowed a gulp of tea, grateful for the soothing warmth as it slid down her throat. It counteracted the roulette ride of anguish her life had taken lately.
Focus. Keep your mind on the report.
She wasn’t used to doing analysis without her agent, but she didn’t dare to access Sita for this. A stranger had sent the document. If he had noticed her queries, then others—more dangerous and powerful others—might pay attention to her, too.
Nithya blinked as sleep blurred her eyes. How could she feel tired when so much adrenaline coursed through her blood? The document in her hands could prove intentional negligence and false claims on the part of the biggest drug and pill funders in the world. And yet, the resignation letter from Josephine Lee indicated that they couldn’t be prosecuted, not under the laws of 2090. Nithya doubted much had changed since then, but with the right information, perhaps lives could be saved, including Welga’s.
She called up the last version of the simulation game framework from Zeli in her visual. She paged through the malfeasance data, pausing whenever Synaxel appeared in the text, until she found an entry on custom zips—a summary, no numbers. She needed raw data. She kept turning pages, unwilling to give up hope until the last… and there, four sheets before the bottom of the stack, an appendix had the details she needed.
Nithya entered the parameters from the paper into Zeli’s tool and set any unspecified variables to scan across typical ranges. The simulation wouldn’t finish until morning. She could do nothing more for now, and knew she ought to sleep. Her body was still recovering from pregnancy.
She stood, stretched, and tiptoed past the beds to open the balcony door. The patter of rain interleaved the space between her aunt’s snores. She stepped out and filled her lungs as a stray breeze broke through the hives of Chennai, carrying with it the perfume of night-blooming jasmine mingled with petrichor. The primal scents eased the tension in her neck and shoulder muscles.
Spray cooled her skin, though the air remained sultry. She stayed on the balcony, watching lights move on the streets and wink between the leaves of distant trees, until her body swayed with exhaustion. She avoided the time displayed in her visual. When morning arrived, she would deal with her lack of sleep as she had for years: one sluggish thought at a time.
* * *
Monday morning brought a data center’s worth of distraction: the Machinehood had delivered a second ultimatum—this time to stop the use of bots and WAIs—and published a lengthy manifesto. Nithya didn’t waste time reading it and skimmed the expert analyses. According to the protest groups who’d spent years arguing for machine rights, the Machinehood’s manifesto spoke truth. Panic had raged through other parts of the world while she slept. New acts of vandalism and attacks on high-level funders peppered the global news feeds. Protesters claimed responsibility for much of the violence. They would support the Machinehood’s cause, liberate all bots and WAIs. Their attacks, thankfully, hadn’t resulted in deaths—except for their own. Protesters being killed… what is the world coming to? We’ve lost decades of progress in one week!
Just before lunch, Synaxel froze her project along with millions of others due to the Machinehood threat. Nithya sat back in her chair, appalled at their capitulation. As contractors, they wouldn’t get paid unless they worked. How long would this go on? She and Luis had set aside some savings, enough to last them through a few lean months, but many could not afford even that much. Zeli remained incommunicado. In one bright spot of news, the embassy in India had approved temporary asylum for Zeli and her family, until the border between Senegal and the empire could be secured. Nithya passed the information to Zeli’s address along with an offer to transfer money for travel. If Zeli accepted it, she’d have no savings le
ft, but they could go a month without paying bills, two if they must. Surely Synaxel would resume her project before then?
After lunch, Nithya worked on the dirty dishes from the birthday party. Her time was her own now. Wash by hand in the bathroom sink or spend the energy to put in them in the kitchen’s cleaner? With the project funds frozen, she opted for the former. Their dirty clothes, on the other hand, couldn’t go through water. After her bath, she chose a hand-me-down static salwar kameez and wished she had something in Carma’s size. Her daughter’s clothes went into the cleaner. Thankfully, Bhairavi Chitthi didn’t wear dynamic cloth—because it irritated her skin, she said—and she handwashed her own.
With the chores done, Nithya sat in her alcove to work on Welga’s condition. Before the simulation results finished loading into her visual, Carma called out, “No more school today.”
Aiyo! Now what?
“I’ll see about it,” Nithya responded.
All private WAI-based educational systems had shut down due to the global funding freeze and subsequent market crashes. Dread crept into Nithya’s stomach. Had the world lost its mind? Banks had frozen all balances for twenty-four hours. The threat of sentient artificial intelligence had been realized, some experts claimed, and no WAI could be trusted to behave correctly. The kitchen. She banished the ridiculous thought from her head. Nobody would bother to hack their unit… would they? And what about Sita? Were their agents no longer reliable?
Nithya exited the alcove. Aunty caught her eye across the room, her hand hovering near the power switch for the kitchen. Nithya nodded. She reached for her right earring and turned Sita off, then went to her daughter.
“There’s some trouble with the networks and WAIs right now,” Nithya explained as she manipulated Carma’s jewelry.
“Can I play?”
“Yes, but you’ll have to use your static toys.”
“Those are so boring! Can I go to Soumya’s house?”
