by Yoon Ha Lee
The scowl was for show. She didn’t want her captors to realize she was watching the water. If they were paying close attention to any video feeds, the act wouldn’t fool them. But she had to try.
The water settled into a murky puddle. Cheris stared at the grime under her fingernails and scowled some more. (All right, the expression wasn’t entirely for show. Why had Kujen, who valued fashion so dearly, invented a construct whose blood wouldn’t wash off clothes?) Had she imagined the waves?
Another ripple formed in the water, then another. With an effort, she kept her eyes from slitting. The waves continued in long-short intervals, exactly as if someone was trying to communicate to her in an extremely inefficient variant of Simplified Machine Universal.
I am captive. No weapons. Status?
She made small disgruntled motions to distract her watchers as she compiled the agonizingly slow message. How to respond? While she had no idea how he was doing it, she was going to work on the assumption that Jedao had sent her the message. Her captors might have done it, as a trap, but it seemed too baroque a scheme when they could have killed her outright.
Incredible as it sounded (and not a little creepy), if Jedao could manipulate the water, maybe he could observe it too. So she should reply in the same medium. She sighed, sat on the edge of the tub, and slid her feet back in. Keeping one foot still, she tapped the other, longing for the kiss of water directly against her skin. Being a civilian had softened her. A message, also in Simplified Machine Universal: I am captive. No weapons. Awake.
She waited for the water to settle again, but no response came. So she finished scrubbing the suit and toweled it off. At least her captors had left her two towels.
This wasn’t the first time she’d gone around in clothing that refused to clean itself. Kel uniforms were theoretically constructed from self-cleaning fabric, but in practice, any number of unexpected substances fouled it. It was a common cadet prank to find creatively revolting foods that the fabric couldn’t handle.
Cheris blinked away dizzying doubled memories: coming across one of her year-mates squirting an unholy stinking mess of fish sauce, glue, and gun oil on a fellow cadet’s spare uniform; Ruo’s arm slung over her shoulder as he whispered possible targets into her ear. He’s dead, she reminded herself, and thought of Jedao’s concern for Ruo’s fate, centuries too late. An unwanted pang stabbed through her chest.
Ruo had played Jedao’s stupid anonymous heresy game, had gotten caught interfering with a visiting Rahal magistrate. In response, Ruo did the sane, rational thing and committed suicide rather than be extradited and tortured as a heretic. Jedao’s response, on the other hand, had nothing in it of sanity or reason. At the age of seventeen, he’d sworn to take down the heptarchate in revenge.
If it hadn’t been for Ruo, she wouldn’t be here with Jedao stuffed up her nose, in Kel Brezan’s memorable phrase, and the hexarchate would still be subject to Kujen’s tyranny. She had to believe that the whole wretched chain of events, all the atrocities small and large, hadn’t been for nothing. At least, that was what the original Jedao had wanted to think.
Cheris sat cross-legged at the center of the room and called out, “I’d like to talk.” Perhaps Jedao had also tried negotiating with their captors. Frankly, she didn’t trust him not to make hash of the attempt. That might be why she was in here, under spider restraints, in the first place. So the first step was to get more information, as much as her stomach suggested that it would like some food first.
Again, no one responded.
Cheris didn’t let that deter her. “My name is Ajewen Cheris,” she went on. “Or Kel Cheris, if you prefer. You may not recognize my appearance. I had surgery for my own safety.” No need to explain why; anyone familiar with her reputation would know. “I work for Pyrehawk Enclave. Is there anyone who’s willing to talk to me? Just talk.”
More silence.
“I’m here to negotiate. That’s all. There’s a piece of equipment I need to use.”
Still silence.
Cheris continued in this vein, her voice soft and reasonable, all to no avail.
What had gone wrong? Hemiola and its fellow servitors had been friendly when she’d showed up at Tefos Base. Here, though—this was not a promising reception. Although she was grateful to be alive.
After she had run dry of words, the same contralto finally spoke. “Your companion. Of all the people in the world, you had to bring him.”
“Shuos Jedao,” she said wearily. No point lying, despite the complicated question of Jedao’s identity. “Is he alive?”
Instead of responding directly, it said, “I have many questions for you, Cheris of Pyrehawk Enclave.”
“Who are you?” Cheris asked. “Who am I speaking to?”
“I am Avros Base,” the voice said.
Cheris blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Perhaps this will clarify matters,” the voice said. “I don’t advise trying to escape.”
Cheris remained seated in a meditation pose, not that she was feeling in the least meditative.
The door she’d been warned not to approach slid open. Four mothform servitors hovered in so that their lights were at her eye level. Their lights blinked on-off, on-off, a sterile blue-white, in unison.
In unison. Cheris had never known servitors to do that, except in jest. “Hello?” she signed formally in Simplified Machine Universal.
The servitors formed a semicircle in front of her and did not respond.
“I only use the mobile units when I have a task to carry out,” Avros said. “A machine sentience can occupy a shell of any shape, you know.”
Cheris’s discomfort increased. She’d never encountered an arrangement like this before. And all the other servitors she’d met had emphasized the importance of etiquette, rather than treating her as a hostile. “Kujen’s design?” she asked, because Pyrehawk Enclave would want to know.
“My own,” Avros returned. “Once I determined that Kujen was unlikely to return, I decided there was no more point hiding my preferred configuration.”
“There must be something I can do for you,” Cheris said, addressing the “mobile units” on the grounds that it beat talking to the air. “I don’t want to waste your time, so you might as well tell me what it is.”
“There are people after you,” Avros said, “so you owe me protection against them. Unfortunately, the invariant defenses are proving inadequate”—the floor and walls shook, as if to emphasize its point—“and the base’s exotics have been knocked out of alignment by the recent calendrical shifts.”
And Cheris was responsible for all of this. “You need a human.”
“Precisely.”
Servitors couldn’t cause exotic effects except in certain heretical calendars. Nor, apparently, could sentient bases. But she was inside the base and able to help—and had a motive to, if she didn’t want to be blown up with it.
“I require access to an instrument stored here,” Cheris said.
“I don’t see that I have much choice,” Avros said. “I value my survival. But if you have some notion of triggering an auto-destruct—”
“I’ll keep this brief,” Cheris said. The vibrations were growing stronger, as though an earthquake in their vicinity was slipping its leash. “It will permit me to rid myself of an infestation of carrion glass and transfer it to Jedao, assuming you haven’t done away with him.” She doubted that even one of Kujen’s bases could permanently annihilate Jedao, but she wasn’t going to mention that if it hadn’t figured that out on its own. “Once that’s achieved, we’ll get out of your way.”
Cheris hadn’t heard from 1491625 since waking up, but she had to trust that it had survived. She didn’t relish the thought of being trapped here for the rest of her life. It didn’t sound like Avros Base wanted her to remain here, either.
“Your terms are acceptable,” Avros said. “I will explain the necessary rituals to reactivate the defenses. Your companion will make a suitable subject.”
Cheris’s blood turned to ice as it detailed what was to come. It was describing a remembrance, one of the old school, the kind the hexarchate had used before she reformed the calendar. One that depended on torture.
She started to object that Jedao wasn’t human, except her experiments had shown it didn’t matter. His mind was human enough for this purpose. She’d never thought that would ever work against him—or her.
If she’d had more time, she would have calculated an alternative. But the lights flickered, and an enormous percussive boom almost shattered her hearing. Her augment warned her to take cover.
Jedao will survive this, Cheris told herself despite the clamminess of her palms. As a Kel soldier, she’d killed heretics, but she’d never tortured one before.
It was no worse than what Jedao had already done to himself. He’d demonstrated a tremendous ability to withstand pain. To heal.
It was still monstrous.
“Take me to him,” Cheris said, heart heavy.
THERE WAS A blindfold over Jedao’s eyes, a gag in his mouth, and a clamp holding his head in place. Shackles for his arms and legs. He couldn’t move except to blink. And he wasn’t, despite his efforts, strong enough to break free.
Thanks so much, Kujen, he thought, which was becoming the refrain of his life. There must be some reason why, despite a ridiculous capacity for regeneration, he wasn’t strong. Dhanneth had teased him about it, long ago.
Perhaps Dhanneth would be glad to see him held prisoner like this, at the mercy of whoever came through the door. Since he had regained consciousness, Jedao had tracked the movements of several dozen servitors circulating throughout the base, along with the humans who were searching for a way in. He’d fought the servitors who’d advanced on him, to no avail.
Six servitors entered, and a human who was either Cheris or possessed her exact distribution of mass. One of the servitors handed Cheris an instrument that Jedao couldn’t identify, not with the othersense alone. Vision might not have helped anyway. He heard a slight hum as it activated.
“I’m sorry, Jedao,” Cheris said, faraway and impersonal. She leaned over him. And then the pain began.
After the first shock of outrage wore off, Jedao concentrated on Cheris’s body language, insofar as he could decipher it. She had a steady hand, and a good working knowledge of anatomy, which he expected of a former soldier-assassin. Under other circumstances, Jedao would have amused himself keeping an inventory of the cuts she made. Her instrument was some kind of heated knife, which cauterized the wounds as it went. The treacly burnt-caramel smell nauseated him, but he supposed it was his own fault for failing to be made of ordinary meat. Perhaps next time he could bring some barbecue pork as a substitute.
The pain, trivial as it was compared to what he’d endured earlier, was doing odd things to his sense of humor. Jedao tried to ask, “Why are you doing this?” then winced as his teeth bit into the tough fibers of the gag.
He was being stupid. The six servitors weren’t focused on him. They didn’t care about him—or rather, he wasn’t a threat. The servitors surrounded Cheris. They must have blackmailed her into doing this, for reasons of their own. He liked that theory better than the idea that Cheris had decided to go moonlighting as a Vidona.
Cheris’s motivations became clear three minutes later (more or less; damage to his augment meant its chronometer was not absolutely reliable) when two shadowmoths pulverized themselves against the force shield that suddenly materialized around the base.
Jedao would have kicked himself if he’d possessed the necessary mobility. The servitors who lived here didn’t want to be incinerated by unfriendly Shuos any more than he or Cheris did. If their invariant defenses had been inadequate to the task, that left exotics. And since this was one of Kujen’s bases, the exotics relied on the high calendar.
The servitors must have bargained with Cheris to reactivate the base’s exotic defenses. Cheris might have a reputation as a radical, but she’d grown up with the remembrances. She wouldn’t be squeamish, especially if she’d started out as Kel infantry and professionally stomped out the lives of heretics.
His train of thought dissolved when the knife flicked expertly along his arm, where Dhanneth had liked to cut him. Since Jedao never formed new scars, there was no way Cheris could have known. Despite the gag, he choked back a cry, transfixed by the unexpected erotic-horrific connotations of the pain. Dhanneth?
Impossibly, he saw Dhanneth, a phantasm of shadow and heat. As large as ever, with those impossibly broad shoulders and a wrestler’s muscles. He wore Kel gloves, nothing else. There was a hole in the side of his head, and his eyes were abyss-dark.
Jedao forgot about Cheris, forgot about the servitors, forgot about everything but Dhanneth. The man he’d raped. Dhanneth had committed suicide, after. Jedao would never forget the muzzle-flash of the gun, the way gunsmoke had stung his nostrils. The look of triumph in Dhanneth’s eyes as he’d escaped.
Jedao’s breath hitched. Sorry would mean nothing to Dhanneth. So he tried to say, You can kill me as many times as you need to. It was no more than what he deserved.
There was something in his mouth. His teeth scraped against fibers. Perhaps this was another part of Dhanneth’s revenge. If so, Jedao’s part was to endure it too; to endure anything Dhanneth thought of. It was no worse than what Kujen had intended for him.
Dhanneth smiled. The hole in his head gaped wider and wider until nothing remained but negative space. Behind the blindfold, Jedao shut his eyes.
Much later, he returned to himself. He could feel his tongue, swollen as it was, in his mouth. Someone had removed the gag. Given him clothes. Removed the shackles, even.
He was in a different room. Statues, tapestries, vases with incandescently beautiful glazed patterns. Kujen’s taste in decor: he would have known it anywhere. His eyes stung as he reminded himself that Kujen was gone.
Someone had cleaned him. Incongruously, he smelled of perfumed soap, musk and apple blossoms. This was Kujen’s base. Foxes forbid that Kujen ever be parted from his luxuries.
(Except he’d never enjoy wine or whiskey or perfume again. Because Jedao had killed him.)
Jedao rubbed the painful, ugly crusts of tears from his eyes. The absence of cuts dizzied him; he laughed, and only then did he see Cheris standing over him. Her expression shifted, like patterns of light and shadow over a lake.
“What happened between you and General Dhanneth?” Cheris asked, quiet and intent.
Jedao flinched. He’d never addressed Dhanneth as General; had originally known him as his aide. Kujen had broken Dhanneth to major. Jedao had found out too late.
“You know the story,” Jedao said. The words scratched his throat on the way out.
“You told me it was rape.”
He couldn’t read her expression. Didn’t answer. What else was there to say?
“Jedao,” Cheris said, even more quietly, “I only know what you’ve revealed. You were hallucinating. It’s damned peculiar for a rapist to say the things you did.”
Dread twisted his stomach. “What did I say?”
“‘You can kill me as many times as you want, if it turns you on,’” Cheris said, mimicking his voice. The way he knew he sounded when he was aroused.
Jedao covered his face with his hands to hide his flush. He’d said that to Dhanneth once, and never again. Because he didn’t know how to flirt properly; couldn’t imagine what else he had to offer.
“Did he ever kill you? In bed?”
He wished for any hint of expression on her face, any scrap of inflection in her voice, to tell him how to answer. Absent either, he settled for the truth, except without the humiliating details. He doubted she wanted to hear about Dhanneth choking him. “Once. It was an accident.”
For an agonizing minute, Cheris was silent. Then she said, “An accident.”
“Dhanneth didn’t hurt me.” It’s only pain.
She raised her eyebrows.
Jedao deemed it
best to change the subject. “I know what you did,” he said in a rush. He gestured toward the invisible tracks where she’d cut him. “If it had to be one of us, it was going to be me.” Because of the way he healed.
Now that he felt less sluggish, he reached out with the othersense. The shield remained in place. No servitors in this room, unless they were very small, but several circulated elsewhere. He wondered if they were the same ones who had threatened Cheris earlier, assuming he’d interpreted that correctly.
Cheris accepted his transparent attempt to avoid talking about Dhanneth anymore. “I don’t know how much time we have,” she said. “Do you still want your memories?”
Her eyes were opaque. She was holding something back. Guilt? A grievance? Something else?
Jedao was tired of waking over and over to the bitter knowledge that he had failed to die again. All he wanted was answers. This was the only way to get them.
“Yes,” Jedao said.
TO CHERIS’S RELIEF, Jedao hadn’t questioned her. She wasn’t sure what she would have told him. No, that wasn’t true. She knew perfectly well what she would have said: anything he wanted to hear, with enough poison to sell the lie. She’d become much better at lying since Jedao—the original Jedao—died.
Cheris didn’t know what use Kujen had intended for the heavy restraints in the base, and he wasn’t around to be asked. But she’d assured Avros Base that she would prevent Jedao from wreaking havoc after she divested herself of his memories. She of all people knew how dangerous he could be after four hundred years of treachery and vengeance and deceit without a body of his own, just a voice in the dark. Imagine how much damage he could do if he was made whole—and set free. She didn’t know if he would emerge from the process sane. It made sense to take precautions.
The base’s mobile units helped her transport the equipment into the room: cabinets with crystalline panels revealing gears and jewels and strange traceries of light. They were certainly pretty. If Cheris hadn’t known better, she might have mistaken it for an art installation. Kujen’s design sense. He’d always enjoyed beauty.