“An extravagant offer.” I gather a handful of her hair and inhale. Still rose and pomegranate, tinged with sangria. A notification blinks in the corner of my vision. The Vimana’s. “Let me get the door.” I unclasp the harness and leave the prosthesis in Daji’s keeping—she raises an eyebrow and murmurs something about remote access. The fox climbs onto my shoulder.
There’s no one at the door; on the floor is a sealed envelope, black striped with gold. The suite’s security feed shows me that no one has been in this part of the corridor. An AI must have made the delivery.
I open the door partway. The fox trots out to retrieve the envelope and returns with the paper in its mouth. Nothing explosive or toxic that I can detect, says Daji. No anti-cybernetic payload, no anything that could harm you. From material composition this appears to be plain paper. Black ink: carbon, solvent, surfactant, the usual.
All the same I put on my gloves before touching the thing. Conventional adhesive. Perfectly good paper, the envelope stiff and the letter within thick and sumptuous. Neat handwriting; Cyrillic script. My overlays translate: Felicitations to the late-coming duelist partnered to the regalia of roses. I am sure you know who I am—my reputation must precede me. Unlike most who join the Court of Divide I have no wish, save to pursue the purest form of conversation: combat. I sense that you have instincts not unlike mine, a connoisseur of the soldier’s ataraxia. Let us meet honestly and test ourselves, duelist against duelist and regalia against regalia. I’ve attached a place and time.
Yours, Ensine Balaskas.
Recadat meets her lover in a dining orchard where pollen glitters like gold and tourmaline, and the air is redolent with frangipani and persimmons. Foliage both true and artificial cups the restaurant in a palm of boughs and canopies, though they don’t entirely mask Cadenza’s hot, muddy stench. Her lover’s table perches on a stretch of obsidian that juts out from the building’s flank, and though there are railings—translucent, barely visible—she feels as she sits down that they’re at the edge of a precipice, a vast plummet. Sixteen floors aboveground and fatal.
Her lover has already started in on their meal. The cut of meat on their plate is so raw that it rests in a puddle of its own death, like fresh kill, and they’re cutting slices so thin and fine that it should not be possible with a table knife. They lift one morsel to their mouth, swallow it whole. The meat is tender, well-marbled, glistening with blood and marinade. Salt, she guesses, and flecks of spice she does not recognize. The dish is as far from Ayothayan cuisine as it can be.
“Have you had a good outing?” They lick a red blot off their full lips. Today they’ve painted their mouth the shade of graphite. “What good fortune that you weren’t there when the arena was struck.”
“Did you do it?”
A small chuckle—it rings the mesh of chimes they wear like sealing talismans around their throat. “You know I didn’t. I would never harm a woman who occupies so much of your thought.”
“She doesn’t—”
They take hold of Recadat’s wrist, a fingernail in duochrome digging into her flesh. Not painful. Enough to interrupt her sentence. “What news from Ayothaya?”
She composes herself. “Another town burned. Someone had the bright idea to try armed resistance. That didn’t go well, the Hellenes outgunned them completely.” And are not prone to leniency. She wishes she could have told the insurgents to choose differently; to coordinate with other efforts, to bear with the state of atrocity. To wait. She wishes she could send secret messages, but Septet is closed to outside networks. The only news she can get from Ayothaya is via Mandate-sanctioned information brokers, coming neither cheap nor fast.
“Detective Thannarat didn’t give you updates?”
“She must have made detours before coming here, to get prepped and armed, to gather everything she’d need for Septet. Her information’s no more recent than mine.”
Her lover spears another slice of meat, this one thicker, the shape of it making her think of a tongue. They eat the morsel immaculately. “Do you really believe that? Does she behave or sound like a patriot?”
Recadat brushes an insect off her sleeve. A gnat. There was an excess of mosquitoes where she came from, and she used to have a phobia as a child that extended to all bugs: the way their bodies could release unseen horrors, pustulent liquid and larvae and egg sacs. Insect promiscuity. Her cheeks itch. “You don’t have to be a patriot to want a home to go back to.”
“It is true that you’ve known her for so long while I don’t know her at all, except through your accounting. My judgment of her character could be incorrect.” They empty their long-stemmed glass in a single draw and still make that look surgical rather than sloppy. “Yet she doesn’t strike me as driven by a sense of home. What you and she have come here to do requires that you’re ready to confront the limits of your mortal coil. My impression, however, is that she has nothing in particular to return to, no piece of Ayothaya she’d die to preserve. What do you think?”
“Of course she does. Everyone has something.” But if pressed, she wouldn’t be able to name any for Thannarat other than Eurydice, and that’s gone. She admired that in her senior partner, that core of absolute independence, unburdened by attachment. No place for softness, no chink in the armor. A force of nature more than a human being.
“A world is so little, Recadat. What matters is passion. That is what propels people to great deeds, to terrible carnage. To hate or love is the true fuel behind human motive. You’ll immolate yourself for it and march forward even as you burn.”
In the link she shares with her lover, images unfold: life-size, so that in her vision their table is suddenly surrounded by a battalion of Thannarat. Some clothed, others much less so. The hard bulk of her, the physique of a mountain, unyielding and permanent: Thannarat’s back makes her think of boulders. Even the bare shoulders captivate—the potency they promise, the suggestion of what she is capable of. Recadat wrenches her gaze away from a glimpse of wiry hair between two thick thighs ridged with cybernetic connectors. “Stop that.”
“They’re approximations. Did I err in my extrapolation of her musculoskeletal structure? Perhaps she has more scars, interesting ones that arrest your eyes? You could show me your own simulacra. Over the years you must’ve made several for private use, imbued them with rudimentary heuristics and linked them to your sensory arrays. To simulate what it might be like to lie with the woman you long for the most.”
“I’ve done no such thing.” Completely disrespectful, utterly violating. She never even considered it.
“My poor Recadat,” they murmur, dismissing Thannarat’s doppelgangers, “not even an outlet for all that pent-up frustration. It’s not as if you are sworn to chastity, given everything you let me do to you in bed and how much you enjoy it, the sounds you make—”
“Stop that,” Recadat says again, cheeks blistering. The nearest table is far away enough that she hopes they didn’t overhear. Two young people, a couple she thinks, one in tuxedo and the other in an adapted hanfu. Excellent tailoring; she would know, having invested a good deal in her own wardrobe. On Septet marks of wealth are ubiquitous—signifiers of poverty are confined to border residences—but there is no real commerce beyond tourist attractions. She can’t make sense of the world’s economy, if it even has one. All of it seems pantomimed. “Have you found more duelists? I’ve been busy.”
Her lover refills their glass, seemingly just so they can swirl it, that liquor the sumptuous color of brass. They peer at her over the wine-wet rim. “Why do you think I asked to meet here? The table behind you—the one in the tuxedo—that is a duelist. He is without a regalia. Nevertheless it’s best to cull the herd, wouldn’t you agree. The fewer pieces on the board, the cleaner things shall be.”
“Do you want to shadow him or shall I?” She’s done that so many times on Septet. As if her career in public security never ended, a seamless continuation. Stalking a suspect. Stakeouts.
Their eyes widen. “
Why? You can kill him where he sits. It saves so much time and we have such a long list to work our way down.”
Recadat glances at that table. Situated far enough they cannot eavesdrop: that has different significance now. Neither the supposed duelist nor his companion appears threatening, though she knows that is deceptive. Duelists can be anyone, look like anything. “In broad daylight?”
“This is Septet, my jewel. All violence is permitted. Everyone has agreed to death and ought to defend themselves accordingly, take the appropriate precautions. Who sits down to dine unarmed? You’d never be so complacent. Detective Thannarat wouldn’t be either. Oh, think of this as helping her.”
“I’m not going to just walk over and shoot someone in the head.”
“You can sit right here and shoot him in the head, Recadat. The range is nothing and you’ve got perfectly outstanding aim.”
Recadat’s breath scrapes through her teeth. Her lover has not yet been wrong, has singled out duelists with the unerring precision of a hawk. She looks at the remains of their meal, now reduced to a thin smear, every shred of meat put away. “And his companion?”
“She’s an ordinary Septet citizen, insofar as this place has a citizenry.”
The pair is twenty-two, twenty-five at most—practically adolescent. She can hardly remember being that young. Her hope is that they are not related or in love: it’s easier to carry this out if she imagines they are coworkers, casual acquaintances, something brief and impermanent. Few tables in the orchard are filled, and she knows neither patrons nor staff will stop her. There’s no public security here, no authority to appeal to. Wonsul’s Exegesis will intervene only if Divide rules are being broken. Homicide is beyond his jurisdiction or, she suspects, his interest. What do machines care for morals or human lives.
Despite everything, she’s never committed such an act. That she has the capability is not in question: she dislikes violence and yet has found herself prodigious at it. Adrenaline suspends her doubt, enables her to do what is necessary in the moment even if afterward she might regret it. But on Septet there is no social contract; there is only the savage demand of the Divide, the reduction of people to feral beasts.
Recadat gets up. She strides to the table, and once she’s close both the man and woman look up at her, startled—perplexed. There is no hint of recognition in his face that she’s a threat, and he still looks surprised when the muzzle of her gun enters his field of vision. The impact of the shot sends him reeling back. Instantly gone. The human skull is not designed to withstand such force, and he appears unaugmented.
His companion screams, scrambling away as blood leaks and soaks the table, its spotless cloth, the meal they’ve just shared. Escargot and foie gras, plated with a truly fine eye, postmodern and architectural. All those tessellated layers. She thinks of leaving a large tip, a compliment to the chef.
The woman flees. The other tables are now empty. They know what is going on, and that there is no recourse: to stay is to risk a duelist’s bloodthirst, and they would assume she has her regalia about. She holsters her gun, stepping away from the corpse, and waits for the duelist count to go down.
A full minute passes. The count stays at eleven. Impossible—the system updates within seconds, if not the very moment the duelist’s brain terminates and the final shred of consciousness succumbs.
Recadat stands there, turning cold as her lover sidles up behind her, placing a snakeskin-gloved hand in the small of her back.
“My bad,” they purr against her neck. “Even I make mistakes, jewel. But it is as I said, everyone who lives on Septet consents to this potential fate. Don’t think anything of it. No one is going to. Are you hungry? Let me treat you; I trust the kitchen staff hasn’t evacuated.”
Chapter Four
The air in the gym is frigid, and few other guests are about. Various machines line the sides, several resembling torture contraptions and medical cradles more than they do exercise instruments. Privacy spheres veil several. The space is so wide, all paneled wood and a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, that no one needs to be within twenty meters of each other if they don’t want to—which is how I prefer it. I attract no particular attention as I go through warm-up routines: in some places baring your chest in public is risqué or criminal, but Septet is not one of them.
I work my arms and shoulders until they’re supple, until my rotator cuffs and ulnas turn like well-oiled cogs and my muscles run as warm as a faultless engine. There is a careful balance to strike when most of one’s body is cybernetics—the organic parts must also be maintained, and there’s only so much my nanites can do. Metabolism, maintenance of the viscera, streamlining somatic processes. But to stay in fighting trim I still need to contribute my part.
The pull-up machine registers my body mass as I touch it, adjusting for my muscle index and my cybernetic-to-organic ratio. I grip the bar overhead, adjust my form, and begin. In my former profession, officers often prioritized their legs, but for recreation I’ve found it most satisfying to pit myself against gravity. The line of exertion I can feel clearly down my arms, shoulders, spine; my entire body works and bends itself to this one single goal. I pull. I pull until my feet are off the ground, and hold. Half a minute before I lower myself. The next time I hold a little longer, until I do so for a full minute in the air, aloft only by the power of my hands and arms. It demands the entire apparatus of the body, it stretches every tendon. Ascend, descend. Unnecessary thoughts recede: endorphins cleanse the mind, leaving my senses and perception with the clarity of new glass, of a clear morning.
I move on to leg lifts: less strenuous, since from the knees down I’m cybernetic. By the time I’m done, sweat soaks my breasts and stomach, collecting in the crooks of my elbows, the backs of my knees. Nanites flood through my augmentation couplings, lowering temperature where the pseudoskin doesn’t vent excess heat.
Daji brings me towels and a tray of drinks. She’s gone out of her way to put on a Vimana uniform, though her version is a little less modest—the neckline plunges deeper, the hemline floats shorter. Maroon stockings, burnished with hints of copper, sheathe her legs. “You’re such a vision,” she murmurs as she wipes me down, lingering on the dark seams where flesh blends into musculoskeletal couplings. “Do you suppose I could clean up all this salt with my tongue? It seems wasted on towels.”
“This is a little public. And my sweat contains trace coolant.” Not that she’d have issue ingesting that. The drinks she brought are chilled tea: assam, oolong, ceylon. I sip from each cup. Strong and fragrant, richly flavored, each full of bitter complexity. “I’m surprised you brought me such sober things, not cocktails.”
“I considered that but I got distracted when I found coconut rum in your suite’s sideboard.” She wrinkles her nose. “I thought of throwing it out, but on the off chance that you might enjoy such a freakish and unlovely concoction . . . ”
The idea an AI would have such specific dislikes amuses me. “And here I thought I was going to have you lap it up from between my thighs.” Half-teasing. I don’t know, yet, what to do about intimacy with Daji. Whether it should continue, whether I should indulge myself and her. I’m tending toward yes. Daji is less complicated than Recadat.
“Even for such a treat I’ll not stoop to coconut-flavored anything. I can make parts of my proxy dispense liquor, if you wish. I just need to learn what you like if I’m going to mix cocktails.”
An image, incredibly vivid, flashes through my mind. Of drinking sake straight from her mouth, or vodka from between her breasts and other such outlandish things. I set down one of the cups and put my knuckles under her chin. “My regalia. You’re such a hungry little thing.”
“Exclusively for you.” Daji’s hand strokes my bicep, circles around to my back; she cups her palm over a shoulder blade. “Look at you. Your musculature is made to be serviced by my mouth. In prehistoric times you’d be thought a demigod, a hero born of woman and divine flame.”
“And you’re an immortal
seductress out of myth. The populace would throw themselves into boiling cauldrons if it’d amuse you. You would be declared the most gorgeous in all the land.” I cradle her jawline. It’s so easy to fall into this, to fall into her; more than that I want to. “Still would be; I like to think I’m a good judge of feminine beauty and no one I’ve ever met compares to you.”
“Flatterer.” But her smile is wide and genuine; guileless. Or it would be, if she were human. She sits down at my feet and puts her head on my thigh, heedless of the sweat-soaked fabric. I stroke her head as I would a pet, surveying the mostly-empty gym, wondering how much we could get away with.
Through the glass wall I spot a familiar figure stepping out to the pool—Ouru. Ze’s in a nacreous bodysuit, midriff and ankles bared. Ze is slightly soft around the middle, pleasant to look at, zer lower half a runner’s physique. Thighs and calves like the trunks of well-fed trees. Ze is not looking my way, though I have no doubt ze is aware of me. Zer regalia would be watching out for zer, as mine is.
Ouru must have warmed up elsewhere, for ze slips at once into the water. In there ze looks born to it, moving under the currents with naga elegance. I could imagine scales on zer, piscine gills.
“You’re watching zer a little too intently, Detective.” Daji rubs my knee. “I’m right here.”
“Ze’s not my type; too androgynous. It’s useful to know the enemy, isn’t that so?”
“You can study your enemy without staring at zer bare skin.”
“There isn’t much to see,” I say mildly. “My appreciation of zer is entirely respectful.”
I finish my tea. Ouru completes zer laps, gets out of the water, and stretches out beneath an enormous palm frond the color of crocoite. Our connection establishes and I’m pulled into zer virtuality.
When I join zer it is within the image of a Theravada temple, a prayer hall of convex gold ceiling and suspended paper talismans plated in silver. Several Buddhas, reclining or seated beneath bodhi trees with rose-gold and copper canopies. It may be cultural training—I attended temples not unlike this in my youth—but to me this speaks of spirituality far more sincerely than the Cenotaph and Wonsul’s monk costume.
Shall Machines Divide the Earth Page 7