“Sita, print Zeli’s message and ten sheets of blank paper.”

Nithya rummaged in the storage cabinet and found a pencil and an ink pen that had long since dried up. She took the printed sheets to her small desk, which still held the massive document from the anonymous source, then remembered that she had yet to see the results of the latest simulation on Welga’s condition, the one she’d run the night before.

“Sita, print the tabulation from last night’s simulation. Fastest setting!”

An alert flashed that Welga had been involved in another bombing, possibly engaged with the Machinehood. Nithya prioritized the display in her visual. Welga and some others stood next to a figure wrapped in a metallic blanket. A building burned in the background.

Five pages into the report, the power cut out, along with the feeds around Welga. Nithya slid the sheets from the printer.

She took the pages to the balcony for more light and gasped at the sky.

“Oh my God.”

Carma and Bhairavi Chitthi glanced her way, then moved to stand beside her. Her daughter’s small hand slipped into hers.

“What is that, Amma? It looks like falling stars.”

“The network constellations. Someone has destroyed them.”

WELGA

22. We create bots and WAIs, but much as with human children, we have no right to own them. We must stop treating them like mindless machines, or else we are all complicit in sociopathic behavior. Worse, we have arrived at an economic equilibrium with them such that the majority of humanity is treated like slave labor, too.

—The Machinehood Manifesto, March 20, 2095

Welga shook Dakini. “What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing. How can I? I can’t communicate through this wrap.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. Shouts sounded from down the street, followed by the crunch of metal.

Olafson approached them and spoke softly to Welga. “Let’s get Dakini back to headquarters and see if we can pry some useful information out of them.”

“My name is Khandro, and you may refer to me as ‘she,’ ” Dakini said.

“Fine,” Welga said, and lifted her. “Let’s go.”

Their vehicle’s doors remained locked at their approach.

Olafson swore. “It won’t open because it’s off-line.”

Welga subvocalized, “Por Qué, broadcast a request for a vehicle with manual override.”

“Unable to broadcast. Loss of network.”

Of course. Welga had a moment of cognitive dissonance. Where was she? She shook her head like a wet dog. This is America, not the Maghreb. But the network blackout had the same effect. Without the connection, Por Qué was limited to the hardware within Welga’s body. Not only had Welga lost the ability to reach out to other people, she’d lost the part of her agent that sounded natural. All attempts at communications—other than speaking out loud—would fail.

She took a deep breath and yelled, “Does anyone in the area have a manual vehicle?”