Shall Machines Divide the Earth

by Benjanun Sriduangkaew

  From anyone else I’d find the question offensive; from her it is merely natural. We had a push-pull relationship, blunt and inquisitive in some matters and closed off in others. “I’m particular. One woman at a time.” A lie: Recadat tempted me. As close as I ever got to risking my marriage. Ironic that something else entirely led to my divorce.

  “You can be such a monk,” she murmurs, which is rich coming from someone who lived in near-celibacy. “I wish I’d gotten to know Eurydice better—I got the impression she didn’t like law enforcement and only tolerated your job because she was head over heels . . . Well. Enough about the past. So, the other duelists. The one you’ll want to keep an eye on is Ouru, family name unknown, origins unknown. Zer regalia is Houyi’s Chariot, a proxy masked and armored in blue-black. No idea what it looks like underneath. About your height give or take a couple centimeters, their build a lot like yours. Other duelists might even think you’re Houyi in disguise.”

  Ouru, I would guess, was the one who shot at me near the energy well. “What in particular makes zer stand out?”

  Recadat makes a face. “I lost my regalia to zer. But ze’s vicious and completely willing to kill.”

  “I don’t imagine anyone here is not willing to kill. I saw Houyi’s Chariot fighting a small regalia, golden armor, wings. Any idea about that one?”

  “Chun Hyang’s Glaive,” she says. “Extremely destructive, partnered to a woman named Ensine Balaskas. They’re the ones who have been slaughtering duelists and aspirants at a fast clip. Might even have caught a few non-participants, actually, though it can be hard to tell.”

  “Are there hidden benefits to murdering random bystanders?” I contemplate, for a microsecond or so, whether I’d be willing to try if it gives me a leg up in the game.

  “Not that I know of. My read of Balaskas is that she’s just a common serial murderer.”

  Spree murderer, but I don’t correct her. I’m not here to be a criminology pedant and besides, she’s had more official experience. “She killed a man from the Vatican, a woman from One Thousand Erhus, and what I assumed was a coterie of allied duelists.”

  Recadat shakes her head. “They grouped up to challenge Balaskas. I told them it was a terrible idea. One thing I’ll say for Ensine Balaskas is that she’s predictable—if she wants someone dead, she sends a calling card to invite them to a match. You could have a field day building her criminal profile.”

  The kind of killer who fancies herself an artist: the disembowelment and mutilation must have been a part of that conceit. “I look forward to receiving mine. I assume she’s the likeliest to come for me first.” Given that I eluded her regalia out in the energy wells. “Say—you’re staying in the Vimana, aren’t you? It could be useful if we’re close by. Would you consider relocating to my floor, maybe to an adjacent suite? We should be able to open an interconnection.”

  Inside my robe, the fox grazes my elbow with its teeth. Extremely sharp, a promise.

  For no reason I can discern, Recadat looks down and away. Gaze darting anywhere but me. “I’m only a couple floors below yours. Proximate enough—I’d make a terrible roommate. Have you seen how I deal with my laundry?”

  “As you like.” The fox settles. My arm is safe for the moment. “Would you mind telling me the name of your fallen regalia?”

  She gives me a look. “You want to have the entire picture—you always did. His name was Gwalchmei Bears Lilies. My bad luck to have acquired a regalia so poor, but here we are. Better luck with yours, Thannarat.”

  Two overrides appear in my Divide module as she leaves. I give them a cursory look, wondering why Recadat turned so short with me. Perhaps Gwalchmei—what a mouthful—is a sore spot.

  I turn my attention back to Ostrich’s notes. He has recorded previous victors here and there, names unfamiliar to me, like Captain Erisant of the Seven-Sung Fleet and some soldier from Mahakala. I focus on the regalia. Daji appears several times, as does Chun Hyang’s Glaive. The comprehensiveness of his files—almost a cheat sheet, encyclopedic—makes me wonder why no duelist has killed him to prevent competitors from obtaining this, but then I realize he must live under the overseer’s protection. For one reason or another, his faithful chronicling serves the Mandate’s purposes. His accounts corroborate Daji’s boasts: that she’s fought many times and most of her duelists have won or at least survived.

  Seven times Chun Hyang’s Glaive has joined the Divide. Seven times it has won.

  Improbable. Not that Ostrich has a reason to lie, and yet like any other information I gather on Septet it is challenging to verify. I may pay him another visit, just in case. He has not recorded anything on Houyi’s Chariot or Gwalchmei Bears Lilies—this round might be their debuts.

  I put the file away and review Recadat’s. The folder includes what Ensine Balaskas and Ouru look like. I compare those to what I saw at the tearoom. No match, either in patrons or staff; a shame.

  “I don’t imagine you could organize these files for me,” I say to Daji. “A little indexing assistance.”

  The fox twitches against me. Coral petals flutter through my overlays. I only do that for duelists I’ve gotten very, very close to, Detective. And we’re not close, are we? As you said, we’ve just met. Now that Recadat, you two must have been awfully close. You should ask her to index her files better.

  “Did you practice sulking or are you a natural at it?”

  She does not dignify that with an answer; the fox proxy darts out of my robe, disappearing back into the suite.

  An announcement unfurls in the Divide module as I’m browsing the Vimana breakfast menu. Wonsul’s Exegesis has declared the final sub-contest to obtain an override, to take place in the city of Cadenza. Duelists who wish to compete are prohibited from bringing or receiving direct assistance from their regalia.

  I order my food and finish eating quickly. There is a shuttle to Cadenza leaving in a couple hours. Daji remains in bed, her back turned to me, her head artfully arranged. I stop by, run my hand through the dark tributaries of her hair, and kiss her shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.” If she wants me to treat her like a human woman, I can oblige. Maybe even AIs enjoy roleplaying.

  The fox proxy licks my hand, rubbing its velvet face against my palm. All is forgiven, for now.

  Chapter Three

  The shuttle to Cadenza is more crowded than I would expect, filled with people who look ordinary enough, just commuting. I find my seat and settle in, surveying the other rows. Eighteen duelists remain, seven without regalia and five with. A fair number would be aboard this shuttle; many would know each other’s face already, and Ouru would recognize mine through zer regalia.

  Ze does a good job of appearing nondescript—a honeyed complexion undecorated by dermals or scars, a face that could belong anywhere, plain well-fitted kurta and pants. Southeast Asian, I’d say, and therefore ze might have come from any number of polities; we have that in common. Tiny earrings, white gold or electrum; no rings or bracelets that would get in the way in combat. Zer hands are spatulate, lightly callused around the thumbs. Ambidextrous.

  I lean across my seat. “I’m Thannarat.” My name offered as goodwill. “I don’t suppose we could talk?”

  Ouru doesn’t pretend surprise. “More privately, please.”

  We open a link. I fold my hands and make a show of looking out the window, to a view of Septet’s ruinscape. There is not much forestry in this part of the equator, and the land is a vastness of jaundiced earth broken up by those impossible skeletons. A few look reptilian while others look like they could have been chimeras, horned and long-hoofed but with inexplicable primate features.

  You’re the new duelist. The last one. How did you survive Chun Hyang’s Glaive?

  The usual way, I inform zer, by not dying. I trust Houyi’s Chariot is well?

  Ze unwraps a protein bar—it smells surprisingly good, savory with shallots and dried meats—and begins to eat. Houyi is the only remaining regalia who stands a chance of contesting C
hun Hyang. That should inform your forthcoming decisions.

  My smile is slow. In my fogged reflection in the window, it looks like a gash. I don’t bother demanding redress for zer attempt to snipe me down. Certainly I’ll take it into account. May I ask why you spared the duelist Recadat?

  Ouru’s head twitches. Ah. She’s the one who told you about me. I imagine she didn’t tell you that we had a falling out due to an ideological difference and then she turned on me. Once she understood that she could not take me down in combat, she reached a deal with me: I’d spare her in exchange for her destroying her own regalia.

  So much for Gwalchmei Bears Lilies. How did she do that to a proxy?

  Ze bites off half the protein bar. An override, how else? If I were you, I wouldn’t trust Recadat. To do this to your own regalia is an act of terrible perfidy.

  Never mind that Ouru drove her to it in the first place, though I can see what ze means. A point of honor: your life or your regalia’s. Then again Gwalchmei merely lost a proxy, not his entire existence—the disparity in risk between duelist and regalia is enormous. I press zer for more details on the loser’s fate, but ze is not forthcoming, busying zerself with zer little meal. All ze offers is, Try the Gallery.

  We land in good time. Cadenza is a city of gnarled obsidian spires and high robed walls, bracketed by a body of water that brachiates across the ground. Briars and orchids drape the balconies and walkways, striping the streets in green shadows. The Divide system informs me that the sub-contest will begin within the day but nothing more specific. I keep an eye on the duelist and regalia counts, and keep my hand ready on the draw. I’m more vulnerable to attacks than ever, and I have already revealed myself as a duelist while on the shuttle.

  The rule against bringing your regalia doesn’t forbid me to stay within a certain radius of you, comes Daji’s voice. In fact, that rule doesn’t kick in until you enter the arena proper. I’m watching over you, Detective. In case you get the idea of debauching some pretty young thing in Cadenza.

  “I have standards,” I murmur under my breath. Cadenza’s denizens have a look I can only call swampy—stooped by the indignities of living in this place, perpetually damp, with hair that makes me think of marsh weeds. The climate here is horrendously humid.

  The arena could be anywhere—from the city map I would guess either the stadium in the center or the megastructure in Cadenza’s eastern half, an enormous edifice that looms almost as high as the skeletal beasts beyond the walls. I stroll about, sticking to places with good cover where I won’t be easy mark for a sniper. Ouru could make another attempt.

  A storefront draws my eye. Mostly antiques, with one panel devoted to jewelry: elaborate crowns and necklaces of dynastic designs, tiny void jewelry settings, miniature tableaus made from semiprecious stones and ivory. What catches my attention is a single fire opal. Six point five carats, according to my overlays, suspended in a little cube without any setting. It reminds me of Eurydice. This would have been to her tastes.

  On impulse—not quite yet knowing what for—I purchase the fire opal. The price is not low, but the proprietor is excited with the Vatican bracelet, and in the end I have to pay little.

  I exit the shop to find Recadat waiting for me. Reliably punctual: she didn’t board the same shuttle I did—she would’ve been recognized by Ouru and the rest—and so she arrived later, but not by much. She cuts a spare figure beneath a spread of orchids, a single point of efficiency amidst the tropical excess. When I teased her about being popular with women, I meant it—she has the needlepoint look of a stiletto, the trim glistening threat of something slender and utterly deadly. My opposite. When we first got to know each other I was surprised at how squeamish she could be in her philosophy and naivety, because on the field she was savagely competent. Tiger-spirited, almost a different person.

  When she looks up, her gaze zeroes in on my purchase. “Who’s that for?” The question is surprisingly sharp before it softens into something more playful: “You did pick up a woman! I knew it.”

  “It’s just some bauble. I might wish to look at a fine object in my spare time.” I put the fire opal away. “We should get moving.”

  Wonsul’s voice sounds in my ear promptly, directing me toward the megastructure. He specifies the route and adds that any deviation from it will disqualify me. Sensible: each duelist will receive their own instruction, such that our paths will never cross before we reach the arena. I nod to Recadat. She will not enter the sub-contest, but will provide me with support. No part of the rules forbids such cooperation.

  Up close, the place is even larger than it looked from above, the dimensions of it so gargantuan that the entire block is cast in jade shadow. Overgrowth swathes the banked walls and the bent columns, frothing out of cracked stone like ichor. I enter through a little gate Wonsul points me to.

  It shuts behind me. Past that awaits a cavernous chamber and a single cage; inside the cage, a child of ten or twelve. Sedated. A first-aid kit lies on the ground.

  “Duelists.” Wonsul’s voice emits from everywhere, every nook and cranny serving as his mouthpiece. “Be informed that this arena is not a sanctuary zone. One of you will have found a child. That shall be your objective: to win, bring her to the arena’s center. If you lose her or eliminate her yourself, you forfeit the contest. If you leave the arena’s bounds, you forfeit the contest. As with all other ceremonies, this is a duel to the death; all means may be utilized to achieve your goals, outside of using your regalia. May victory find you.”

  I open the first-aid kit and fish out a neutralizing tab. Keeping the child—almost certainly an AI proxy piloted by Wonsul’s Exegesis—unconscious would minimize mess, but I have nothing I can fashion into a sling, and fighting one-handed is suicidal. To make sure of all my options, I heft the child up: light enough for me to carry, should it come to that. The kit also contains a sedative patch, in case I need to put her back to sleep. Considerate.

  The override Recadat transferred me offers three options: Retribution, which calls down an orbital strike. Seer, which gives me access to satellites that would let me map the area and monitor other participants for a few minutes. The final option is labeled simply Bulwark. It requires triple-factor authentication—from myself, and the rest from my regalia. Daji doesn’t answer when I inquire.

  No jamming in the area. I pluck from my belt a tiny casket and pour out a handful of swarmbots no larger than poppy seeds. They fleet through cracks in the stone, and in a moment I have a visual of my part of the arena. Recadat’s overlays hail mine and we establish a synchronization link: she’s brought her own scouts and their view expand mine as they spread and cover more ground. The arena is densely but haphazardly built, seraphinite-colored chambers stacked on top of each other, connected by the occasional stairway and passage. I’ve been put into one of the lower levels and the openings and gaps between floors means I’ll be easy pickings for duelists who have entered through one of the higher tiers.

  My destination is a round little gazebo, accessible by two narrow catwalks exposed to the elements and also to other duelists. One of whom is heading toward me. I don’t see Ouru; ze must be in a part of the arena my bots and Recadat’s haven’t reached yet.

  The first duelist coming for me is a short, stocky man situated several levels above. Well-armed and evidently equipped with reconnaissance gear similar to mine. Reckless: he doesn’t anticipate that other contestants would have scouted the area too.

  He’s climbing down a ladder when a shot takes him out. Precisely placed: it enters the back of his skull and punches cleanly through the medulla oblongata. Consciousness shuts down nearly instantly—a painless way to go, but looks ignoble all the same. Comical almost, how the muscles spasm in its last throes, how the collapse looks more like a puppet’s than a person’s.

  The count of active duelists ticks down. Seventeen.

  I open the cage, retrieve the child, and administer the tab that’ll flush out the sedative. She comes awake with a
jerk and a cough—convincing, for an AI proxy. When she meets my eyes, her gaze is vacant. I don’t let Recadat view my visual feed. She’s soft and would err on the side of assuming that this is a human child.

  “On your feet,” I say. The child obeys. Good; the AI has decided to spare me play-acted hysterics. “You’re to follow me. Closely. Can you do that?”

  She nods. I don’t have sensors with biotelemetry functions, though a proxy can emulate human vital signs in any case—the only way to know for sure is to cut the chassis open. Her movements are stiff and heavy. That will be an issue.

  I venture out the corridor, keeping an eye on what my scouts are sending me. I take a stairway and ascend without event, the child in tow. I can avoid the other duelists, though not for long. Two are directly above me, moving in parallel passages so that when I exit into the open air—a natural chokepoint—they’d be flanking me.

  You doing all right in there, Thannarat? Recadat’s frown is almost perceptible through the connection, even though we share no visual except the bots’.

  Fine, considering. Keep expanding our range. The bots can do more than scout. As I move toward the chokepoint, I direct a stream of them toward one of the duelists, a wide-hipped man. Some cyborgs with military-grade defenses have personal dampener fields that’d have shorted out the bots; this person is not one of them. My swarmers streak into his ears and nose, puncture the wet surface tension of an eyeball and release a vitreous flood. The human face is a vulnerable entryway, full of unprotected orifices. Each offers up an open channel to the gossamer barrier of the meninges, the trembling isthmuses of cranial nerves, the artful whorls of the cerebrum. A little time in forensics is worth years of medical education. Mathematics and physics too, for fluid travel and splatter vectors—projecting where the blood will land after a gunshot, a knife slash, a switchblade stab. Everything has its own signature.