Nithya called up the ten newest feeds on the topic. The first claimed that the Malaysian government had developed smart-metal organs in the sixties and kept it secret. For thirty years? Laughably wrong considering that no macro-scale smart-matter existed until a decade later, and those consisted of non-biocompatible material. She marked it with a cross. The second, a video, showed how blood vessels could grow into a smart-metal matrix. That took her fifteen minutes to watch, then another twenty to check the claims against other sources. She gave it a check mark and moved on.

Fractions of coin dribbled in for each item she reviewed. WAIs aggregated responses like hers and weighted them based on a person’s level of expertise, the topic, and prior accuracy. Luis often gigged this way for subjects relating to rocketry and mechanical engineering. Having had more practice, he could review faster than Nithya, gaining him some real earnings.

Would it be easier to do this all the time? On a day like this, it seemed so, but the reliable payments from her Synaxel project eased the strain on their finances. If she only worked gigs, too, they’d have to enroll Carma in a less costly school, reduce their energy load, and possibly move to a smaller flat. On a sick day, though, she could earn a little income this way. Every penny counts, as her grandparents used to say.

A wave of nausea washed over Nithya as she put two hard-boiled eggs on Carma’s lunch plate. Her daughter chattered away about her plans for the afternoon, when her friend’s minder-bot would take them to the park. How quickly she’d recovered from the tragedy two days before. If only the adult mind were so resilient—or forgetful!

Nithya caught every third word as she skimmed the latest test results for the Synaxel project and decided what to order for lunch.

“Sita, have the kitchen make me a bowl of yogurt with some ginger pickle.”

Anything to calm her stomach in the battle against pregnancy hormones.

A message popped up from her Synaxel teammate, Zeli. “Are you dying or what? Call me. The WAI for this project is driving me bonkers.” Zeli’s fine-boned Senegalese face scrunched in an expression of skepticism that only a seventeen-year-old could master.

Nithya debated lying again about being sick, but she needed their game designer to stay with the team. Would telling the truth accomplish that or would it scare the girl off?

“Sita, enable camera and call Zeli.”

“There you are! Salaam alaikoum, Nithya. You don’t look half-dead… but you do look like shit.” Zeli grinned.

“Namaste, Zeli.” Nithya returned the smile. “I’m not sleeping well.”

“What’s the matter with you anyway?”

Nithya tried, but the words refused to come out.

“Oh, you blanker, you’re pregnant!”

“What! How—?”