by S. B. Divya
“It’s the best way to avoid tipping our hand. If the al-Muwahhidun suspect how much we know, they’ll call back their people, and we’ll lose any chance of a capture.”
A multi-container truck rumbled past them. Once upon a time, a distractible human would have driven it. The risks people had lived with, especially in the days before a pill could heal half your body, sent a shiver down Welga’s spine. How long before the panic-induced shortages brought the world back to that state? And what would the Machinehood do next? Because no way in hell would all bot and WAI production cease in the next twelve hours.
The car moved off the expressway. Olafson glanced at Welga.
“Let me send you an outfit that looks more… agent-like,” he said.
A sober, charcoal-gray pantsuit design appeared in her visual. She fought the urge to wince as the cloth reformatted across her tender new skin. The basic version had been more comfortable and about as boring as the suit. Her skin still showed mottled pink patches. Getting it back to brown wasn’t a process that could be accelerated—yet. Somebody must be funding that effort.
She took a duo-zip along with her daily regimen of microbials, juvers, and disinfectants as recommended by medical.
Olafson arched a brow. “You going to be okay?”
“I’m not taking the pain drugs so my head stays clear. My forearm splints should release by our arrival time.” She angled her chin at the outline of the weapon in his pocket. “You ready to use that?”
“I’m hoping I don’t have to, but I do my hours at the practice range.”
Welga carried three types of weapons—a regular gun, a sticky gun, and a tranquilizer gun. Olafson had only the third, probably a good thing under the circumstances. Defensive fire ought to remain her job.
* * *
Mitchell Smith lived in one of those pseudo-organic communal living spaces that some called “revived” suburban housing. Century-old static houses stood in a state of disrepair worse than her childhood home, their roofs missing tiles like gaps in teeth. Dynamic, blox-based rooms stuck out in odd places. Fences that used to separate the properties lay in pieces. Windows had been replaced in haphazard fashion with solar glass or left open to the elements. People called it outside-in living. Maximum nature, minimal privacy.
Bots were everywhere—moving with purpose, parked, or standing in half-broken states. Signposts proclaimed the area a “bot sanctuary” and laid out terms that prohibited any violence against the machines. They drove past a two-story house whose sprawling yard was covered with first-generation kitchens and obsolete single-purpose units—floor cleaners, clothes folders, washers, dryers—as well as broken-winged drones, and even some rusted vehicles.
“What the hell do you think they’re saving these for?” Welga said. “Memorabilia?”
Olafson snorted. “I don’t know, but they must love the Machinehood’s manifesto if this is how they treat bots.”
“Seems like a waste not to recycle them into functional units.”
They approached the house where Smith lived. A small group of children played on the weedy lawn, getting an early start to beat the day’s heat. They stopped to stare at her and Olafson when they exited the car, the only powered vehicle in sight. A dog barked, its tail wagging, as an older child held it by the collar. The front doorway stood empty of an actual door.
A lean man wearing pants and shirt in basic beige, with graying blond hair and blue eyes, approached them when they entered.
“Please be welcome. I’m Mitchell Smith. We have some seating in the kitchen, if you’ll follow me, and a privacy threshold there.” He ushered them with a pale, age-spotted hand.
The entryway to the kitchen had a zapper, but the tray held only a few microdrones. This neighborhood had little attraction for the tipping public. A kitchen unit had replaced the old appliances, and the cabinets had been converted into open hydroponic trays. Piped sunlight shone from fiber-optic tubes and filled the room with natural color. Mint, oregano, and thyme scented the air.
Welga sat and slipped off her shoes. The soles of her feet cooled as they rested on the grass floor. Olafson deployed their privacy measures—bug detectors, signal jammers, and voice cancellers. Smith raised an eyebrow but kept silent as Olafson worked. They’d advised the doctor on when to expect them and what agency they represented, but not their reason for coming.
“Thank you for taking the time to speak with us, Dr. Smith,” Olafson began. “This conversation will be recorded and held confidential. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Did you treat Jun-ha Park?”
“I did.”
“And as part of that, did you collect his genetic information?”
“Of course. There’s no other way to treat a person in modern times. I anonymized it before releasing it into the public record, since he was a minor, but his case was unusual, rare. We needed to have as many people see it as possible.”
“It must have been difficult,” Olafson said, “treating a child whose chances of survival were so slim.”
Smith’s gaze went distant. “Yes, especially considering his mother. She was a bioethicist and wanted to stay within well-tested bounds. Once they left the country, European standards of care took precedence, and then… I’m sure you already know that Jun passed away and that a lawsuit followed.”
“We’re aware,” Welga said. “So you weren’t involved in his care at that stage?”
Smith shook his head. “I don’t know what happened to change his mother’s mind. She was adamant against using experimental biogenetics on her son, but that final course of treatment was exactly that. I would have counseled her against it—strongly.”
“Did you participate in the experimental therapy?”
“Absolutely not. I heard about it after the fact, during the legal proceedings.”
“You published papers with two other authors. Did either of them work on it?”
“Not that I know of. We collaborated because they had local cases who were similar to my patient. I’ve heard rumors from colleagues in Europe that the experimental tech was originally developed in North Africa. I don’t know if they disclosed that as part of the lawsuit.”
Welga nodded calmly to hide her disappointment. If Smith was telling the truth, he wouldn’t be their link to the al-Muwahhidun. Judging by his demeanor as well as his house, he hadn’t profited off black-market sales, which meant he probably wasn’t lying.
“Do you know who conducted the treatment in Europe?” Olafson asked.
Mitchell Smith shook his head. “I’ll send you what I have, but if Jun’s parents went to the gray market, my information may not help you. Can’t you access the documents from the suit against SK Partners? That should have names.”
“We’re working on it,” Welga lied, though she caught Olafson’s gaze. He could make the request. “What about Jun’s younger sister?” she asked. “Was she symptomatic as well?”
“No, not at all. We tried using her genome to correct for Jun’s disorder, but we weren’t able to isolate all the relevant genes. Interestingly, they both showed markers for strong adaptation to mechanization. That’s one of the reasons we tried mech-tech as a treatment option for Jun.”
“What kind of markers?” Welga kept her voice even, but her heart leaped at adaptation to mechanization. Could they be the rare DNA segments that matched the blood from the Machinehood operative’s fragment?
“Genes that allow the body to accept foreign objects, both implanted and interfaced, with a lower likelihood of rejection. Jun and his sister had that in common, but his autoimmune disorder overwhelmed them. Ultimately, his body rejected the mech-tech and itself.”
“Could we get a copy of his sister’s genomic record?”
“I’ll need authorization to release that, as she was a minor at the time. We’ve never published it.”
“Naturally. You’ve been very ethical,” Olafson said.
The conversation paused as their agents trans
ferred the required information.
“Por Qué,” Welga subvocalized, “check the incoming genome against the special segments from Jun-ha Park and the blood sample.”
Her agent popped an image into her visual ten seconds later: the android, Jun-ha Park, and his sister all had perfect matches in those segments. She copied the information to Olafson with the message: These are the same sequences found in the sample from the dead Machinehood operative in Chennai! A triple match. No way that’s a coincidence.
Smith cocked his head at them. “What exactly is this about? I assumed you were here to follow up on the malpractice suit, but I don’t see how the sister’s genome is relevant.”
Olafson smiled. “I’m afraid we can’t disclose the nature of our investigation, but thank you for your time and cooperation. Would you mind if we look around your house?”
“Well, no, but—I mean, of course, you’re welcome to. To look around,” Smith stammered. “I have an examination room in the back, where I see patients. It’s locked, but I can open it.”
“Yes, please,” said Olafson.
As Welga followed Olafson and Smith, a message lit up her visual field: The Machinehood sees all. We are prepared.
She exchanged a glance with Olafson.
“Get the kids away from the house!” she yelled. She grabbed the doctor’s arm and shoved him toward Olafson. “No time to explain!”
Olafson pulled the stumbling man toward the front door and scooped up an errant child along the way. Welga ran up the stairs, checking every room and closet. She listened as Olafson corralled everyone outside.
“Make sure you stay in the middle part of the road,” he instructed. “Dr. Smith, is anyone else in the house?”
“My partner, Kevin!”
“Ramírez—”
“I’ll find him,” Welga replied, already moving.
Kevin lay in the back bedroom, his frail form and a nearby wheeled care-bot telling her all she needed to know. Welga scooped the man up under his shoulders and knees.
His eyelids flew open. “What—”
“Emergency,” Welga huffed as she ran down and out with him.
Olafson was herding the children farther from the house. Two little ones wailed in protest or fear. She and Kevin joined them as explosives roared to life. The ground shook. All of them cried out as glass and debris rained over them. Drone swarms gathered overhead in the aftermath. Sirens wailed in the distance.
Welga watched the feeds as they waited for emergency services. Mitchell Smith held his partner’s hand and consoled the tearful children.
“Was it the Machinehood?” asked a wide-eyed preteen.
“We don’t know,” Olafson said.
Yes, we do. Olafson’s look inside had told her he’d received the same message. Somehow the Machinehood knew they were here. She examined Smith’s face. His expression and posture implied the same level of shock as everyone else. He hadn’t expected this, and he hadn’t given her and Olafson away.
“Where’s Jacqueline?” asked another child.
“She arrived yesterday,” Smith explained to Welga and Olafson. He glanced over the crowd of people emerging from nearby homes, then turned back with worry lining his face. “One of my transient teenagers, on her way south to Florida. I don’t see her.”
“I’m going to check for other explosives,” Welga said. She projected so the crowd would hear her. “Everyone stay here! I’ll search for Jacqueline, too. Dr. Smith, if you could highlight her in some recent feeds, that would be helpful.”
Smoke belched from Smith’s house as flames began to lick the upper story. Welga gave the structure a wide margin in case of falling debris. She moved down the right side yard. When had the Machinehood set the explosive charges? While they were talking to Smith—which would imply that they had tracked her and Olafson to the house—or before they arrived? The Machinehood had access to public medical records. What if they came here thinking Smith would hide them because of his connection to Josephine Lee? Or maybe he was a convenient pawn. No one knew what the Machinehood operatives looked like. The one in the refinery could pass for an older adolescent. What if they’d hidden here in plain sight?
Welga sent Olafson another encrypted message: Maybe the Machinehood got here before we did.
He replied: The missing Jacqueline, perhaps? Olafson had followed the same train of thought as her own.
“Por Qué, activate my camo-detector,” Welga subvocalized. “Place marks based on my focal point when I hard-blink.”
Her military tech might be old, but it was better than nothing. Camouflage suits relied on visual perception tricks that a good image-processing WAI could counteract. As Welga’s lenses adjusted, a blur moved in her peripheral vision. She kept her gaze straight. The blur went behind a hedge in the backyard of the adjacent house. Welga turned to face the intact structure, pretending to examine the wall for explosives.
Local law enforcement, including the bomb squad, showed up on her visual overlay, still eight kilometers away. Two exfactors wearing brilliantly colored uniforms popped up, too, only three kilometers from the house. Damn. She didn’t need them interfering, but she couldn’t call them off without giving her intention away to the operative. Three more meters and she’d be in range to fire a tranquilizer at the blur’s last marked location.
The searing heat and flames triggered memories from the refinery: the smoke in the back of her throat, the singed face of the Machinehood’s operative, their lips moving. Those brown eyes boring into hers—would she see them again here?
In a rush, she recalled their words: You didn’t attack me, and I follow the path.
What path? Buddhists followed an eightfold path. What did Neo-Buddhists believe in? Ao Tara said they wanted peace. Josephine Lee’s journal mentioned nonviolence. The al-Muwahhidun only acted defensively.
She sent a message to Olafson: Did the Machinehood operatives always make the first move?
He bounced it to headquarters. A minute later, he sent back: The answer is mixed. They attacked on the initial wave, but after that, someone else shot at them first. Hell of a thing to notice, Ramírez! What made you think of it?
I’ll explain later. Welga sidled toward the blurred spot as it shifted behind a rusted swing set. She hard-blinked a new mark. “Por Qué, do I still have that blanket from the Santiago job?”
“In your outer left jacket pocket,” her agent replied.
Welga pulled out the metallic mesh. It could pass for a heat shield, but if she wore it, her own comms might get blocked. She shook it open and draped it across her back, like a cape. She caught a glimpse of herself in a news feed. Greasy hair in a practical ponytail, basic-issue agency suit. No one would mistake her for a superhero.
“This side looks clear. I’m going to check the yard,” she announced out loud.
A broadcast message to all in the vicinity flashed across her visual: HOLSTER ALL WEAPONS. DO NOT FIRE. DO NOT ENGAGE IN CLOSE-QUARTERS COMBAT. Alerts erupted in her periphery.
“Por Qué, mute all public channels and visuals,” Welga subvocalized.
She moved at an angle past the play set. The blur shifted, too, heading out of her periphery and toward the burning house. Welga turned slowly, scanning the surroundings like she didn’t know what she was looking for.
Let me get a little closer.
Welga took four steps. The blur froze.
Mark.
Move.
Closer.
Almost… there!
Welga whipped the blackout material off and threw it at the blurry spot. It draped over something at head height. She leaped across the meters separating them and wrapped her arms around them.
“Mesh sealed,” Por Qué announced.
The smart-fabric formed a stretchy straitjacket that snugged the operative’s limbs to their body. They were short, barely reaching Welga’s chin, with a slight frame. She lifted them and waddled toward the increasingly large group on the street. The weight wouldn’t have bothe
red her if her healing skin hadn’t tugged so much.
“At last you understood.” The voice that came through the wrap was muffled, with a high register. “I thought you’d give me a reason to end your life today, especially after I provoked you. Poor Dr. Smith. I’m sorry I repayed his generosity by destroying the house.”
“Who are you?” Welga said. She held tight to the operative. “What are you doing here?”
The onlookers stood quietly and listened to their exchange. Based on the statistics in Welga’s visual, so did a significant number of adult Americans in their region.
“I am Dakini, and I needed a place to stay. I bring the liberation.”
“Fuck! Are you going to explode?”
Dakini shook—laughing. “No, you haven’t even scratched me. I’m not close to dying. Also, this covering blocks my comms, which means they can’t trigger the switch.”
Christ, the Machinehood puts a kill switch in their operatives!
“Are you human or AI?” one of the exfactors yelled from a rooftop, their voice echoing from a nearby dronecam.
“I’m Dakini. We’re human and AI and bot, all coexisting in one body. The Machinehood doesn’t recognize a difference, as written in our manifesto. You failed to stop harming humanity. You continued the production and consumption of biogenetic material. You persisted in your reliance on WAI and bot slave labor. Now you’ll face the consequences we promised.”
Welga tightened her arms around Dakini, as if that would stop whatever was about to happen. She scanned every camera view in her visual but saw nothing interesting.
“Olafson, what’s going on?” Welga subvocalized. “Anything from headquarters? Por Qué, enable my public comms.”
Olafson’s voice sounded in her ear. “A few new reports of attacks from overseas. Explosions at manufacturing sites, same as before. We’re the only ones with a live capture so far. Headquarters wants us back now.”
“Understood.”
Police officers in mech-suits and bomb-detection bots fanned out between the houses.
“You won’t find anyone here but me,” Dakini said. “No more explosives.”