The news made it seem like the latter. People had fallen evenly across the divide of whether the Machinehood portended death or takeover by a SAI. Neither would end well. The most paranoid people had shut off anything with a WAI—including their agents—and stopped taking pills because of their microelectronics.

Nithya tried to remember life without Sita’s assistance. Her childhood had been that way, but she had so few responsibilities then. Now, even Carma had her own agent, though God knew what for. And life before daily pill regimens—that she could not forget, not when the poorest of the poor still lived, and often died, that way. With tabletop bioengineering came wave after wave of designer microbes. Treatments appeared close on their heels, but centralized production and distribution were too slow. The only way to stay healthy was to print the antidotes at home.

“Lunch is ready to eat,” Sita announced.

Luis waved at Nithya from a corner of her visual. The tea shop at the end of their street stood behind him.

“Almost home,” her husband said. “Are you feeling better today?” He’d left before sunrise for another rocket club meeting.

“Much better. Less pain, almost no bleeding.”

“Good. Do you have time to eat lunch with me and Carma?”

“I’ll make time.”

Luis had a smile that could melt hard candy. His solicitousness since the abortion was unimpeachable, which only made her feel more guilty. How could she maintain this lie of omission? Yes, she had done it to protect him, as she did with serious matters for Carma, but Luis was an adult. He shouldn’t need protection from the world’s evils… or his wife’s.

She sighed and went inside to set the table.

Carma emerged from her school alcove and launched into a chirpy conversation about the new singing lessons next month. She sat down to her meal as Luis walked in the door. He kissed his daughter’s cheek before going to wash up.

“Amma, can I do some reading work while I eat?”

Nithya nodded. Carma slipped her virtuality goggles on. By the time her daughter became a teenager, maybe everyone would have implants like Welga’s. No need to remove and charge your interactive devices every night, but no way to turn off the world, either. Perhaps humanity only pretended at separation from technology.

A message popped up in the upper left of Nithya’s visual from her project manager, Peter Yeorn. She expanded it.

“Your recent petition to access Synaxel’s database has been reviewed and denied,” he said. A frown creased his brow. “I don’t see the relevance to your current project. Please drop the queries. If you can’t complete the project without them, I may need to terminate your contract and hire someone who can. Your group has already missed several deadlines. We cannot afford distractions right now.”