“And eight or twelve whose leadership prefers me very much alive. Decent odds.” Anoushka folds her hands. “Queen Nirupa’s security is soft. They haven’t fought for years and I’d be surprised if they have worked on anything more challenging than beating unarmed servants. If her prospective customers come to blows, her forces will be completely useless at containing incidents.”
Her lieutenant makes a soft hmm and crosses her arms. “Then she’d be extraordinarily stupid to have let in this many well-armed foreigners.”
“There is a prohibition against anything bigger than a handgun, and no cyborg armed beyond a certain threshold.” Anoushka watches the lines of Xuejiao’s dress undulate, notes with interest when the high slit parts and grants her a revelation of muscled thighs and cabled calves. “Beyond that, she’s not entirely a fool. This place wouldn’t have survived this long otherwise. The corridors here—and the rooms, such as the one we are in—can seal and trap troublemakers, and of course she can cut off their oxygen supply. Granular control is a handy thing. In essence, the people in here are hostages. If that is what it comes to.”
“You really,” Xuejiao says with a sigh, “should have sent one of us, Admiral. Not come here yourself.”
“Fieldwork can be a challenge, and this is a more stimulating challenge than most. Why hoard all the fun to yourself, Xuejiao?”
Xuejiao makes a face. Then she smirks. “I concede the point, Admiral. Speaking of fun, are you going to put a collar and a leash on me any time soon? We really ought to look the part.”
In the observation room it is frigid; in the cell below, two soldiers are strapped to restraining cradles, their skin dark where paralytics have been injected. Their overlays have been cut off, their network implants disabled and their augments suppressed. Numadesi has read their profiles—both are young, forty-seven and fifty-two respectively. One is openly weeping, gagging on their own saliva and mucus. The other has the distant look of someone who has resigned themselves to the inevitable; has already withdrawn into the recesses of the mind where what impends will happen to someone else, or to flesh that they no longer associate with. In her years in the Amaryllis she has seen all kinds, has catalogued the reactions to the finale privately; has contemplated them, should her turn one day come.
No matter the rank or experience, the end terrifies. The human instinct to continue. To not yield, as yet. To wring another minute out, another second.
Executing saboteurs is not usually Numadesi’s purview, but these two have piqued her interest. She reexamines a view of their faces, close up. One was recruited by Xuejiao, the other by Numadesi herself and so a particular disappointment. No relationship or alliance exists between the two recruits and the reports—and scans of their overlays—indicate that they maintained active communication with different factions that regard the Amaryllis as an enemy. Clear-cut enough. And yet. Numadesi has been with the Armada for decades, functioning in this liminal capacity, not an officer but empowered to authorize certain decisions in her lord’s absence. In this time, she has developed a specialized hunch: pattern recognition honed to a surgical edge.
She browses the list of traitors put to death in the last ten years. Half a dozen spymasters—including Xuejiao—screen new recruits and assess current officers, meticulously check-and-balancing each other. The final decision belongs to the admiral herself. It is an exhaustive system and for the most part it has served the Amaryllis well. She studies the roster, looking at which execution has been initiated by whom, which behaviors were flagged as suspicious. But it is an enormous amount of data, and as good as Amaryllis heuristics are, they are not true AIs and she won’t be able to get through this in a single day or even several.
“Lady Numadesi?”
The soldier behind her is not impatient exactly: ze knows perfectly well Numadesi’s position, and though some resent her for the authority she wields while having little combat experience, they also know she is instrumental to the Armada’s administration. But ze has a task to do and a full day of duties ahead—even during the fleet’s fallow period there are a thousand intricate moving parts that need attending. She pulls up the soldier’s profile. “You’re due for a shore leave, aren’t you, Corporal? I understand you’ll be heading home for a visit.” Unusual for Amaryllis troops, most of whom have made the fleet their home and who have—for one reason or another—severed attachment to their places of nativity, their kin and former lives. This corporal has a large family who subsists almost entirely on zer Amaryllis wages. “Allow me to give you a little extra stipend. It is modest, but I hope it’ll be of use. Yes, proceed with the execution. My apologies for the delay.”
The corporal jumps, startled by this attention, and bows. Ze disappears into the corridor, soon reappears in the holding cell. The sentenced recruits had two options: lethal injection or a pistol. The weeping one chose the pistol—the corporal enters with sidearm drawn and fires, with precision, between the recruit’s eyes. Then ze turns to administer a neurotoxin patch to the other recruit’s jugular. Painless, combined with the paralytics already there; no point being sadistic about it. Numadesi wonders if the corporal felt any hesitation. But no—from zer manners this is routine work, the same as practicing zer marksmanship or assisting technicians in cleaning shuttles. Likely ze never knew the recruits personally. Death becomes distant and then becomes banal. Troops are chosen for their nerves to begin with: no one comes to the Amaryllis an inexperienced naïf. Most were seasoned mercenaries, soldiers, syndicate criminals. In some ways, Numadesi thinks with faint amusement, her background is nearly unique among them. When she joined the fleet, her hands were less bloodied than most, though by now they are dyed the same shade as anyone’s.
And two deaths are not so many. Barely registering as a ledger error.
She boards a lift and makes her way back to her quarters where her guest is waiting. In the parlor, conversation pauses as she enters, though if she wants to know what they were saying she would be able to access the logs in any case. The sergeant who has been guarding the room—a formality—colors deeply when they see Numadesi, cheeks turning brighter still when she smiles at them.
“You can go, Sergeant,” she says. “I’ll take it from here. Do have an excellent day.”
They salute. “My lady.”
The person seated at her table raises an eyebrow once the sergeant has gone. “That soldier couldn’t stop praising you. They believe you a core thread—apologies, let me try that again with an analogy that’d make more sense to you. They believe you are the sky to which they must turn their face for sustenance. Is this a common opinion?”
“Benzaiten in Autumn.” Her acquaintance with Krissana Khongtip was passing, but to her it is obvious which half of the haruspex is at the fore. Briefly she wonders what the other half is doing, asleep or floating unmoored. Or whether that half was only a construct Benzaiten wore as a costume, discarded when no longer necessary. “I strive to maintain amicable relations with my lord’s troops so that I may do her credit.”
Costume or not, Benzaiten has dressed the body with an eye for style: an outfit in oxblood and electrum, with rubies to match. Or else Krissana dressed herself this way before she was switched off, compressed into some neural recess where she dreams of emptiness and nirvana. The body has not changed much from Krissana’s days as an Amaryllis agent. Slight in height and ample in figure, complexion dark and unblemished save where implants gleam like nacre beneath the skin, the hair loose and long.
The AI smiles, unself-conscious of Numadesi’s scrutiny. “I would have come earlier, but Krissana’s and her partner’s anniversary celebration kept this haruspex occupied. The admiral acts swiftly, as ever, I see she’s already reached her destination. How do you do, Lady Numadesi? I believe that is how you’re addressed, the young soldier took pains to tell me so. They understand me to be human, by the way; quite amusing.”
She gestures and the floor extends her a seat, the material surging and writhing as it settles into th
e required shape. A part of her misses furniture more permanent and more lavish, but warships are warships. Projected upholstery sweeps over the chair, warming its color and texture into plush rose-gold. “My lord’s guest is my guest. The hospitality of the Amaryllis is at your disposal, though I fear that as the admiral is indeed away, I have only my humble company to offer. How would you like to be accommodated? We don’t usually let clients onboard, but of course you and she are old friends.”
“Accommodate me however you like, truly. I could curl up at the foot of your bed like a cat and it’d be of no account, Krissana’s not going to be very present.”
Numadesi continues to smile. She wonders what opinion Krissana has about that, if any. Whether the human half ever thought it would be like this when she pledged herself to the haruspex process, assimilating into this species of otherness, this plunging into nanomachine tides, to submerge in them and be remade whole and entire. “I’d never treat an honored guest so. I’ll assign you a room not far from mine, with all the necessary facilities. May I ask why it is that you didn’t accompany the admiral herself?” The AI doesn’t strike her as avoidant or cowardly.
“You may ask. I may not answer. I have reasons, naturally, I originally planned to be there in person, but . . . ” Xer teeth flash in a grin. “Other factors impeded me and would have made that quite unwise. Still, it’s not as if the admiral needs my help, does she? I’m therefore providing remote support, an area in which I’m rather capable, if I may say so myself. Should all go well, I don’t expect I will linger here too long. In the meantime, why don’t we get acquainted? I’ve only really known Anoushka, she never did introduce us, and I love to make friends.”
Benzaiten would have exactly the mind Numadesi requires: to make sense of the execution data, to draw from the shifting tumble of it a clear and vivid equation. She doesn’t yet know quite what she seeks. Only half an intuition that something doesn’t sit right. Yet to do so would expose classified Amaryllis intelligence to an AI. “Any friend of my lord’s is a friend of mine,” she says. “But as for myself there is no past behind me, nor any future before me, save what Admiral Anoushka requires and requests.”
“Everyone has a history, Lady Numadesi. Each individual is a collection of wounds, a catalogue of scar tissue. True for AIs, truer still for humans.” Xe has risen from the table, has moved suddenly close. Krissana—the haruspex shell—is not tall, hardly imposing, but with Benzaiten at the helm there is a different physical presence: something more, something alien. “Don’t you remember? There was a city of gold, full of leopards, where you ruled as its lady—that is where Anoushka found you. And before that, you were a coordinator in the Seven-Sung Fleet. A mundane enough job, coordinating missions, working communications. Hardly a commanding officer or even a field agent. But you never told Anoushka about it, did you?”
Chapter Four
Very little in Vishnu’s Leviathan has changed, in all Anoushka’s time away. More than a hundred years, closing on two. The monarchy has remained constant, as changeless as the coefficient of the beast’s generated gravity. Even the same queen—she glances at the figure onstage draped in billowing brocade, in trails of fabric like mist, giving a welcome speech of no particular consequence. Arms decorated in circuitry patterns, blue and white and the occasional lapping tongue of damask, hair held high by her crown. She was several decades into her reign when Anoushka was here, and it seems she’s had the best in telomere extensions since, in anti-agathic edits that keep her looking ageless. Still, the flesh gives eventually—Nirupa wouldn’t have made daughters otherwise, and the throne requires a warm body to fill it.
The reception hall is enormous, the ceiling so distant it could be a sky: she remembers thinking as much, long ago. A fragrant haze of fresh summer and honeysuckle. Chandeliers of diamond dust and symbiotes beating hummingbird-fast. The dining tables look as though they have been carved from blocks of hematite, the utensils—chopsticks and spoons—appear to be gilded ivory, and even the servants wear stained crystals in their hair. No matter the state of Queen Nirupa’s coffers, she will not appear less than in her element, monarch over a territory of absolute opulence. Even the perfumed ambience incurs cost, one that Anoushka doubts the queen can afford after that sabotage. What an event that must have been. She wishes she had been around to watch the hydroponics deck burn, and the thought pleases her enough that she can maintain her smile when Queen Nirupa reaches her table.
“Admiral.” The queen gives her a nod and waits for her to stand up, accord her a gesture of courtesy. A flicker of irritation crosses the woman’s features when Anoushka does not oblige. “I’m beyond pleased to see you here. We’ve never done business, but I hope this will mark an auspicious beginning.”
She returns Nirupa’s nod: no more, no less. Ever since she’s gained command of the Armada of Amaryllis, she has refused every commission request from Vishnu’s Leviathan. “I am sure, Your Majesty. This reception is a great credit to you.” Not least because the queen has successfully separated mortal enemies, putting as much distance between them as possible. Different ends of the hall, judicious placement of privacy partitions and buffer tables.
Nirupa glances down at Xuejiao, who sits at Anoushka’s feet, collared in pearl-and-electrum and eating a morsel out of Anoushka’s hand. She chooses not to comment, even though Anoushka knows this offends the queen’s sensibilities. The woman has specific ideas about proper public displays, and a concubine on a leash is not one of them. “We all strive to excel at the duties life has given us, Admiral.” The queen makes an expansive motion. “Please, enjoy yourself.”
Anoushka does not pay much attention to the food, though she knows it is impeccably prepared and likely tastes excellent. She breaks a samosa in halves to feed it to Xuejiao, who laughs and eats and licks her fingers clean. Across the table she surveys the hall a second time, taking in small undulations beneath the scaled walls, those movements that signal the leviathan is alive and well, that the ventral-deck servants have not skipped out on maintenance. She wonders at the number, how many Nirupa had to grow and replace after the revolt; even incubated clones take time to mature. The most recent batch would have been made prioritizing sloppy haste rather than quality, and what resulted are likely stunted, witless. Her thoughts snag there. She swiftly steers them elsewhere.
The nearest table belongs to a party from the Diamond Republic of Da Nang, her sometimes-client. One of their diplomats stares at her with undisguised curiosity. They share the table with functionaries from Krungthep Station and Kowloon: a joint operation, funded three ways, though she expects the Diamond Republic footed most of the bill. Further away is the Vatican table, where cassocked clergy sit with tightly moderated expressions, looking like funereal specters on the verge of dispensing wrath. Disapproving of what they think of as hedonism, and even more disapproving that the leviathan is full of iconography they consider heathen. No doubt they are planning to convert a new leviathan into something more Christian—maybe they will give it seraphic wings, enormous and absurd.
Queen Nirupa moves through the hall, gracious, smiling. Her daughters—a few years apart in age—attend to lesser guests, the ones who probably don’t stand a chance of winning the auction, the ones who have been invited only as a formality. Utensils clink against plates of silver-striated glass. Conversations are muted or scrambled into soft gibberish, contained to each table by acoustics cancelers.
One of the servants walks several paces behind Queen Nirupa, carrying a laden tray. Dressed like the rest, the same plain black kurta, the same features. Yet there is a difference in bearing, in movement: awkward with the tray not because they are weak of limbs but because they’ve never done such work, when servants bred in this place perform it as second nature and would handle three trays at once adroitly.
“Admiral,” Xuejiao says against Anoushka’s palm.
“Yes.” She considers. Nirupa’s death would not hinder her—rather the opposite, as far as her personal goals g
o. But it’d leave the auction in shambles, the entire affair in chaos, and in the end she’d rather Nirupa lives to see what she will do to Vishnu’s Leviathan. The difference between momentary gratification and satisfaction that she can savor for decades to come.
Anoushka lifts her gun, aims, fires. The distance is short enough that she doesn’t require assistive targeting, and the bullet lodges cleanly in the back of the person’s skull, metal against medulla oblongata.
Shouts of Your Majesty! What passes for security surrounds her table as she holsters her sidearm. Xuejiao remains on the floor, tensing against Anoushka’s knee, muscles coiled.
Anoushka regards the queen’s bodyguards with remote contempt. They are flushed with adrenaline, too excited, lacking the poise that comes with having confronted their mortality and won. These are soldiers who have never faced anything that can fight back. “Search the servant’s body,” she says, in a voice pitched for volume, for command.
Two of the security officers kneel over the downed assassin. The body is turned over and examined. Several weapons: knives, several syringes, dermal patches that likely contain contact toxins. Primitive tools, but they would have worked if they’ve been tailored to bypass whatever somatic immunity Nirupa enjoys—and it would have been tailored that way; this assassin was not sent by someone who didn’t do their research.
Nirupa stands inanimate, her face blank and frictionless as porcelain. Her daughters, both several tables away, hold their breath.
The queen turns to the hall at large. “I’m sorry for this interruption, my esteemed guests. We’ll remove this mess at once. Those who wish to continue their repast, my personnel will guide you to another hall. Once more, my most sincere apologies.”
“This is only a formality, Admiral,” Savita says.
Now Will Machines Hollow the Beast Page 4