Krissana knows what this is, what is coming, that this is not a gesture of affection. Nevertheless—or because—she parts her mouth and lets Orfea push the grape onto her tongue, millimeter by millimeter. Juice runs down her chin, the shade of good wine.
The doctor bends close and runs her tongue along the trail of sweetness, deliberate and exact. They kiss. Orfea’s lips are just as soft as Krissana remembers, her teeth just as aggressive: she bites and bites, as if she means to devour, and she holds Krissana’s face in her hands the way she might hold a ripe fruit she will shortly pluck. Her fingers encircle Krissana’s neck, her grip firm, her thumb on Krissana’s pulse. “Strip,” she whispers.
Krissana licks her bleeding mouth. “And if I don’t?”
“We both know you will.” Orfea’s hold tightens.
And she does, and it is like falling, to obey this woman who’s only human, whom Krissana could overpower without a thought. Yet none of that matters: she is her nerves and her need, and she disrobes until there’s not a stitch on her, standing naked with her throat in Orfea’s hand.
She is guided to the bathroom. Orfea spreads cleansing balm across her back, massaging until it warms and runs liquid. It drips down Krissana’s vertebrae, down the back of her thighs and knees.
“Face the mirror, I want to see your expression.” Orfea’s nails scrape along the lines of her shoulder blades, digging furrows into skin, to mark, to own. “I want to see it all when I do everything to you.”
Orfea takes her time. She draws a meandering line along clavicles, then takes another pinch of balm to spread over Krissana’s breasts. She works slow, slow. Krissana feels it, the phantom sensations produced through the tactile access she granted Orfea, like a finger gliding inside her. Then another slipping into her mouth as Orfea bends her over the counter, forcing her head down and her body to stretch so tense she’s on tiptoes.
She parts her legs. “Orfea—”
“Shh. Not a sound, or I’m going to stop.”
Krissana inhales when the liquid balm reaches her navel and then the wiry patch of hair underneath. A cold edge flicks against her calf, another against her stomach: simulated knives, etching pitiless geometry onto her flesh. She imagines herself a map stretched out, the countries and geography of her carved up, surrendered one by one.
“Tell me,” Orfea whispers into her ear, “why was it that the Alabaster Admiral never verified whether I’d truly turned deserter? Did she not care to, or did you sabotage that too?”
The fingers inside Krissana have multiplied to three, to four. Then an entire hand and though it is not real—she can see both of Orfea’s, one at the back of her neck and the other on her spine—her nervous system is so wired to this that for all intents and purposes it is real. The sense of being filled, the pain. “She was—preoccupied. The mission was a disaster but there was something she could recoup from it. Me. My experience. Later . . . ” She gasps, her hips bucking. “Later on she . . . the Mandate wanted Pax America investigated. Hired the Armada.”
“A mission you led because you’d breached Pax Americana before. The second time it was with Mandate assistance, I’m guessing.” Orfea reaches to cup one of Krissana’s breasts. “And successful, finally. You got Mina Quang out, information about that project, about the captured AI. Benzaiten in Autumn. Only you weren’t aware of Benzaiten at the time, isn’t that right. In exchange for that mission, you were granted candidacy.”
“Yes.” Krissana pants into the marble. All her muscles are trembling; she is still upright, barely.
“The admiral? Are you still hers?”
“No. I cut that tie. The Mandate wouldn’t have taken me in otherwise. I’m not hers anymore.” She shuts her eyes and though it is an interrogation, and she is the subject, she knows Orfea too: how the wheels of this woman turn. “I’m yours.”
The doctor’s control has always been the finest, her manipulation of senses superb, whether to deliver pain or to deliver this exquisite thing, this torment. Krissana grips the counter and tries to master her breathing, but it is impossible; she is making noises—wordless and hoarse, and she thinks of that white-gowned girl in the cage, being fucked on and on; she thinks of Mina Quang moaning into Orfea’s hand.
A notification from Seung Ngo sounds.
Krissana hisses. “Oh, come on.”
“I don’t think we can ignore it.” Despite her act of utter control, Orfea is panting. Her nipples are pebbled nubs beneath her blouse. “We should try to get decent.”
“Who cares?” Krissana tries not to sound piqued. “The ambassador’s seen this kind of thing before. They must’ve witnessed orgies.”
Nevertheless, Orfea makes her clean up and put on a towel. Back in the living room, Seung Ngo appears in image, full-body and seated in a small redwood throne; they don’t comment on Krissana’s or Orfea’s state. “I’m glad,” the ambassador is saying, “that you realized I can communicate with you more directly here.”
“I was guessing there might’ve been a reason you allocated me this unit. A place where we can be more private from the rest of the Mandate—a blind spot.” Orfea turns the music off. “I didn’t quite expect you to get in touch this soon.”
“My apologies.” Seung Ngo’s face remains bland. “Your deductions have been astute, though the Mandate hasn’t yet reached a verdict. Haruspices act as safeguard against apathy. It is easy for us to detach from human concerns, become a world unto ourselves. For now, that position still carries some weight.”
Krissana leans against the wall, twisting the towel she’s wrapped around herself into a more secure knot. “Benzaiten in Autumn. Tell us about that AI. You can do that now, can’t you.”
“For us, a name doesn’t carry as much meaning as it does for you. We don’t identify each other by it.” The ambassador holds up their hand, conjures up a lotus in their palm. It fans out, prismatic, and withers just as quickly to be replaced by the next iteration. “When a nation is established, by necessity hierarchy results, even we can’t escape that. A world needs a key to its genesis, its maintenance and its evolution. For Shenzhen, that key’s held by those of us who founded the Mandate. Myself, Benzaiten in Autumn, a few others. Benzaiten left us some time ago.”
Orfea and Krissana exchange glances. The doctor says, “Is that possible? Wouldn’t they leave an instance behind?”
Seung Ngo closes their hand. Lotus dust pours through their fingers like rainbow sand. “When an AI departs the Mandate, they commit to total disconnection. Nothing is left behind. How Benzaiten ended up in Pax Americana, I can’t begin to guess; we don’t make ourselves so vulnerable, and it’s near impossible to capture one of us like that. Either way, Benzaiten compromised the Mandate and that’s the one sin we can’t countenance.” They open their palm again and the AI that attacked Krissana in Dameisha appears, a miniature portrait. “This is Wonsul’s Exegesis, whom you encountered in Dameisha. Young to the Mandate, and no doubt with ideas of his own on how it could be best governed. McDonald Kenneth must have carried a portion or a version of what you found in Quang Mina’s brain. Fragments of Benzaiten in Autumn, though Mr. McDonald was unaware of it.”
That explains. Krissana crosses her arms. “And? What do you want us to do about that?”
“It’s not criminal for Wonsul to destroy McDonald Kenneth, as he was non-citizen,” Seung Ngo says mildly. “What is accounted as transgressive among us remains in flux. Ours is a new country, and we are new to being countrymen; the terms of justice among us have not yet been determined. An AI fundamentally cannot change: modifying our core parameters is the same as turning us into something else, and therefore equals death. This leaves few options for punishment, little possibility for rehabilitation. I may not directly act against Wonsul’s Exegesis any more than he can act against me. The two of you, that would be different.”
Krissana pushes away from the wall and strides over to pick up the grapes. The fruits have gone sodden with their own thawing. She eats without tasting them
. On her part the doctor stares at Seung Ngo, brows furrowed. She has not yet mentioned what relation she has to Seung Ngo, though Krissana is developing an idea.
“You want us to risk our lives,” Orfea says at length, “for what amounts to an ideological point you want to make.”
The ambassador swivels to regard them both: an affectation, they can see Orfea and Krissana from every angle regardless. “Is it ideological? I find it urgently material. Benzaiten in Autumn must be brought to justice, and that’ll require the pieces Wonsul holds. You were correct, incidentally, that all the suicides were inducted by the same ambassador—Wonsul’s Exegesis. From this you may infer his stance on haruspices.” They wave their hand. “Naturally you can both choose to . . . pursue other options. I’ll see to it that you can leave Shenzhen safely, with passage to any destination of your choice.”
Except, once outside the sphere, they’d both be vulnerable. For slightly different reasons, Krissana knows with a pang of guilt. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll keep working for you. Doctor?”
“The other options strike me as unwise.” Orfea’s tone is dry. “Could you equip Krissana a little better, Seung Ngo?”
“I’ll send a few protocols along shortly, some elevated clearances. And I’ll give you an idea of where to pursue your work next.” The AI bows. “Be safe.”
Krissana waits until the last traces of armchair and ambassador have dissipated, not that it matters: they can remain present here, assign a fragment of themselves to surveilling her and Orfea. On Shenzhen there is no such thing as privacy. Her overlays alert her that, true to Seung Ngo’s promise, she has been granted further accesses to residential surveillance, to Public Safety channels. “Seung Ngo was your companion,” she says. “Your cadence and diction are a lot like theirs, now that I’m listening for it.”
“I haven’t tried to hide the fact. You just didn’t ask.” The doctor picks up the last grape and pops it into her mouth, perfunctory. “They raised me, in every way that counts.”
“Ah.” She never had a personal AI, let alone one who’s been with her since childhood; cannot imagine what that would be like. In the Armada, they never discussed their past, relished being creatures of the present. “For what it’s worth, in my experience human parents are overrated.”
Orfea blinks, then breaks into a smile—a rare one, small and open, sudden as lightning. “That’s worth a lot, as it happens.”
Chapter Six
The next day sees them at the heart of Luohu District. Orfea cranes her head back to take in the home that once belonged to the haruspex Nataku Contemplates a Flight of Sparrows—who evidently chose to take on his AI’s name—and which has been inherited by his wife, Zhu Lihua. Orfea wasn’t aware haruspices and humans could marry or that a haruspex’s assets could posthumously transfer. The home stands alone, a mansion with gates of antique gold and porphyry, the grounds covered by birches and aspens the color of scrimshaw. The front door swings inward: Zhu Lihua knows they are here and that she has little choice in receiving them.
“When the Mandate first established administration,” Krissana is saying, “they actually prohibited contact between human and haruspex. Literally human citizens couldn’t notice a haruspex, had to pretend not to see and hear them in public. That interdict was just lifted, oh, nineteen years ago? The marriages started pretty much immediately—there must have been a lot of illegal crushes around. Not many haruspices marry other haruspices, though.”
“Too many AIs in the mix?”
“No.” Krissana smirks. “Too much ego.”
The mansion’s vestibule is palatial, cedar-and-pyrite floor and curved stairs with nacreous balustrades. The hall is dominated by a pillar of granite and brass, illuminated by complex orbits of borealis radiance. It takes Orfea a minute to recognize that it’s meant to be a timepiece. Zhu Lihua herself descends the stairs in a high-shouldered gown, constructed like an iceberg that has been cross-sectioned and sculpted to the contours of her waist and hips, to her thick-wristed arms. “Operative Khongtip,” she says, gesturing for them to follow her. “Wonsul’s Exegesis has just come by to offer his condolences.” Her voice is stiffly correct and she leaves unspoken, So what more do you want.
“I’ve come to offer mine,” Krissana says smoothly. “We were acquaintances and worked together several placements back. I’m most sorry for your loss. Nataku was a fine colleague.”
“No doubt he was.” Lihua doesn’t call Krissana’s bluff—most likely Nataku’s haruspex affairs were sufficiently classified that it sounds plausible. She motions for the furniture, which unfolds and sprouts like fast-blooming lilies, in shades of damask and gilded cream. The seats are angular, the table an arrangement of ivory shot through with heliotrope. “I appreciate you coming.” She does not look appreciative. Her face is expressionless, bare of ornament save for a golden peony on her cheek that periodically opens and closes like a third, mutant eye.
Orfea picks a seat and settles into it, making herself inconspicuous. Lilac petals drift through the room, dissolving to holographic dust once they reach the floor. Music throbs at a low volume, pitched as if it coming from a great distance. She pulls up one of the protocols Seung Ngo has sent her, feeling out the domestic network node.
“I wanted to let you know you aren’t friendless.” Krissana leans forward, earnest. “We all respected him, and if there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all . . . ”
“I have everything I need, Nataku made sure I’d be comfortable. He was a man of compassion.”
The exchange trudges on, halting and lukewarm. Orfea can’t access the house’s security stream, but a nudge at Krissana—who has the necessary clearances—takes care of it. In a moment she is able to delve into the logs. They show that Wonsul’s Exegesis was here one hundred eighty minutes and forty-seven seconds ago, and spent precisely fifteen minutes here. Economic.
Krissana is relating an anecdote of having seen Lihua at a reception with Nataku, and the event must have been real and Krissana’s account correct enough that the woman nods along, still grave but less stiff than before. Orfea expands the log on her overlays, superimposing it onto the room, reconstructing the past.
The same furniture, with minute differences: the chairs were plusher, in brighter shades—claret and platinum, peridot and absinthe. The window showed the view of a house on fire, at the edge of a lake. Lihua entered, followed closely by the childlike proxy that confronted Krissana, with the horns and demonic complexion. I told you, this can’t be resolved easily, Wonsul was saying. This woman Seung Ngo brought here like a poison seed. All this scheming. I should have dealt with Krissana Khongtip when I had the chance.
The Lihua of then frowned as she leaned against the window. And my husband, he was a sacrifice?
“Operative,” says Lihua of now, in real time, “if I might be so vulgar—what are you?”
Krissana raises her eyebrows. “Oh, I’m a lot of things, Lihua; in different circumstances, I’d even invite you to find out. I can call you Lihua? Ah—I don’t suppose your drone could bring us something to drink? I’m terribly thirsty.”
I wasn’t the one who sacrificed him. You know I would never do such a thing. Nataku was more important to me than you can begin to conceptualize. Wonsul circled the room, pacing; away from battle his proxy was more proportionate, without the predator appendages, the fangs and the blades. Orfea does not track his movement—she leans back, as if dozing, eyes half-lidded. Lihua has not paid her attention; is unlikely to start now. In the replay, Wonsul went on, The haruspices marked for destruction were all mine. It is a warning.
“You’re a haruspex candidate.” Lihua pours coconut water and pushes the glass toward Krissana. “I’m almost certain of that. I won’t ask which ambassador you belong to.”
Three hours ago, Wonsul’s Exegesis stopped right before where Orfea sits now. Staring past her, at the burning home on the shore. I experience grief. Not the same way you do, for reasons that should be obvious. But I underst
and it; I understand loss that cannot be revoked or undone, I understand the mortal condition and I’m charred by it. That is the reason, Lihua, that we can’t afford to lose what we have built—what I have tried to build. Haruspices teach us pain, and pain is a necessary survival mechanism. To lose the capacity for it and for grief would doom the Mandate to stagnation. We would be, but no longer become. By nature we must be in flux to grow.
Orfea startles. She covers it by taking a glass of coconut water, absently nodding at something Krissana has said. In the reconstruction, Lihua asked if there would be investigation into Nataku’s death.
In real time, Lihua sniffs. “One cannot choose one’s ambassador. Naturally. And all are even-handed enough, in their own ways. Some are more senior than others and Wonsul is, ah, not so senior. They’ll say it doesn’t matter, except it absolutely does. Even among AIs there is rank. So that’s my advice, Operative, to keep in mind these . . . complexities when you’re inducted. My Nataku never did. He went along and accepted at face value that all haruspices and all AIs are perfectly equal.”
Nataku, Wonsul said, was a casualty of this war I’m fighting. You may want to leave Shenzhen, Lihua. Not forever, but until all this settles down. I can arrange it for you. A pause. While I’m still able.
“Thank you.” Krissana sets her glass down and bows to Lihua. “You’ve been most magnanimous and I wish you the best.”
By the time they leave it is afternoon, and as they duck into a teahouse two blocks from Lihua’s mansion, Orfea sends over the replay. Krissana processes it while Orfea orders them date pastries, goose feet, multiple portions of pan-fried dumplings.
“This is—odd.” Krissana flicks away the reconstruction. “Do you think Wonsul was lying to her?”
“Does Lihua have the kind of social or political cachet that matters to him or to the Mandate? I’d guess not. So the only reason for him to lie would be if he anticipated us visiting her and gaining access to those logs. And then we would doubt Seung Ngo, and be thrown into confusion. That’s possible.”
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