“And your second proxy?” I don’t ask why she’s been able to circumvent that particular rule.
“It’s not a real, full proxy.” Daji grins and it is a hungry slash; her teeth are too sharp and too long. “This is more of an accessory. Believable even for an ordinary person, isn’t it? Come. If you run into anyone you know, you may introduce me as an untamed fox you found in the wild.”
Daji makes herself at home in my suite. The first thing she does is reconfigure her clothing again to something less modest, a sheath so diminutive it hardly deserves the appellation, backless and strapless. Her creamy breasts are covered by a mesh of claret strands but only just. A gold choker encircles her throat. I visualize tugging on it, twisting it, finding the point of her pulse. But there would be no pulse, unless she simulates it.
She unfolds the suite’s bar and plucks out two long-stemmed glasses. “The selection here is as decent as you can get on a world so remote. What do you like, Detective? Vodka, wine, whiskey? Sake, perhaps?”
“Pick for me. I’m interested in your preferences. The choice of liquor can tell you a lot about a person.” Though she’s not a person in the sense that I am a person. Regardless we’re long past the point of whether AIs have souls—the answer has been moot the moment they broke away from us and created their own society. Souls cannot be touched, counted, measured. Military and political might can.
Her laugh is airy. The movement of her thighs is anything but. Her skirt parts and closes and winds around her long legs, animated fabric that whispers against her skin as though offering a taste of what is to come. “My pick, then.” She fills both glasses: vodka of considerable strength, pooling pure and clear. “So then, what’s a woman like you doing on a world like this? Your great wish. That which brought you here in madness, to risk life and limb and eternity.”
I’ve met machines before; none are as human as she—Wonsul’s Exegesis looks obviously alien compared to this. I could almost believe she is mortal, albeit more silicon and tubing than tissue and endothelium. A woman whose innards burn like little stars, whose limbs are guided by actuators and engine precision, liberated from the foibles of the flesh. “You aren’t like any AI I’ve ever seen.”
“That is because you have never seen us masquerading as humans before, or if you have you didn’t notice.” Daji sips from her glass. “I’ll tell you that, initially, it was the eating and drinking that gave us trouble. Organic digestion is severely inefficient and what we did was to incinerate any food that passed our mouths, which meant we had to dedicate a little chamber to the task, and a proxy’s insides are precious real estate . . . Say, you’re very curious about whether we’ve expanded our territory beyond Shenzhen and Septet, aren’t you? What a wild universe it would be if we could turn up anywhere, wreaking havoc and working mischief. Half the time you wouldn’t even realize it’s us. How terrifying it must be for you.”
For the moment she’s letting me steer the conversation away from the subject of my goals. “You’ve been surveilling me,” I say. “Since when?”
“Matchmaking algorithms require an enormity of data, Detective, and our contract goes deeper than any marriage. Why shouldn’t I learn about potential duelists as much as possible? Until you came along, nobody caught my eye—I thought I was going to sit this one out. They’re all very banal. They are obsessed with rules. You didn’t even care that we weren’t taking new aspirants at this juncture.”
I drink. The vodka goes down like cold fire. “Only because I have an advantage.”
“Benzaiten is the thorn in the side of all upstanding machines.” Daji uncoils her fox proxy and sets it on the ground; it pads over to the corner and curls up. “Luckily I’m upstanding in no way. I assume that even though you acted in contravention of the Divide’s laws, you’re familiar with them. The first clause in the duelist-regalia pact is that I will not reveal any information to you that may injure or expose the Mandate. The second clause is that I will not reveal any information that’s privy to the Divide system, meaning that I’m not disclosing the names of other regalia or duelists, nor certain corollaries and secrets.”
“Very fair.” I draw up the Divide module and project it on the wall. The data it yields is scant—just the number of duelists and regalia still active, and a count of aspirants. Aspirants: one. Regalia: five. Duelists: eighteen. “This is much fewer than I expected.”
“One of the pairs has been on a killing spree.” Daji puts her index finger to her lips. “The duelist of that pair you’ll need to discover for yourself. The regalia is the one I fought on your behalf.”
“How potent are you in combat, compared to the rest of the surviving regalia?”
“My, I could take that question as an insult.” She holds up her hand, examining her fingernails. “Five times I’ve participated in the Court of Divide. Two times I’ve guided my duelist to victory; two times I’ve guided them to survival, sparing them the loser’s fate. As regalia go, I’m a true prize, Detective.”
I look at her, taking in the entirety of her. Machines may lie. She could be boasting and I will never be able to verify it. “My understanding,” I say, “is that as the game progresses, duelists may compete in ceremonies that grant them or their regalia access to Septet’s offensive systems. Armaments, orbital scans, long-range artillery.”
“And you think I’ve missed out on those, putting me at a disadvantage. I plan to surprise you.” The AI steps close, taking the empty glass from my hand. She turns the rim of it along the line of my throat. “I plan to surprise you a lot. Oh, and you did make contact with a defeated duelist, didn’t you? Wring her dry for information—I recommend it. As long as you don’t seduce her all the way into this room.”
An oddly chiding tone. “Because you value privacy?”
“Oh, Detective, you can be so coy. Will you want to shower and rest? It must’ve been a long day for you.”
I could say that I’m not tired, but the truth is that I’m far from fresh and in any case Daji is already sliding off my overcoat: she’s made the decision for me. The way she removes my coat is deliberate, as though she’s unpeeling a gift she’s long anticipated. Up close, the difference in height between us is even starker. I’m a hundred eighty-nine centimeters and her proxy is barely one sixty, perhaps to have a small profile in battle. But at a glance she looks delicate, and her pale fingers—gliding over the armored panels of my shirt—belong on a pianist or harpist.
“I can undress myself.” My voice is a little thick. Ridiculous. She is an AI.
Her hand pauses on the buckle of my belt, thumb hooked into the waistband of my trousers. “You’re sure you don’t want me to join you in the bath? I imagine there are things in your luggage and wardrobe you don’t want me to poke at.”
“You can peruse whatever you like.” Not a single spot on Septet is hidden from the Mandate: the contents of my luggage have already been scanned and recorded by the Vimana’s surveillance and therefore visible to Wonsul’s Exegesis. Whether Daji finds my specialized ammunition offensive I will discover in time.
By habit I shower thoroughly and quickly, the product of a profession where I was often roused out of bed in the middle of the night to attend urgent cases. Once I’m clean, I put on a touch of cologne. Mildly absurd before bed, but I am vain in my own ways.
I return to the bedroom in boxer briefs and a Vimana robe—deep brown with hints of garnet, the fabric silken—to find Daji has taken up the bed, reclining half-covered in the sheets. What I can see of her is bare entirely. No more diminutive sheath, though the choker remains.
“Should I gallantly offer to sleep on the couch?”
She raises her head from where it is propped on the pillow. “Certainly not, you know I don’t need to rest. I’ve been keeping this warm for you. Climb on in, Detective. I’m excellent at providing comfort in bed, you can think of me as a sleep therapy device.”
I stay where I am, crossing my arms. “Why this?”
Her head cranes from s
ide to side; I’m treated to the spectacle of the cords in her throat in motion, the way they draw the eye to the siren song of her neck. Where it descends to join the shoulders, where the collarbones bloom like fruits that must be tasted, licked, bitten. “For the duration of this contest, Detective, I want you to belong to me entirely or to no one at all. And when I say entirely, I mean that. In all possible ways.”
My pulse rises. My imagination sparks; I tamp that down—here more than ever I cannot let my libido do the thinking. “Machines don’t congress with humans.” There are rumors, naturally there would be.
“A handful does. Am I not comely in your eyes?” She tosses her head; again that tactical accentuation of her throat—here is her invitation, come get it if you dare.
I do not, as yet, dare. “We’ve only just met. And I do need the sleep.”
Her gilded mouth pulls into a moue. “I shall be patient. I may remain in bed?”
First the demand then the concession, the push then the pull. It is alluring, calculated to be so. “Of course. This isn’t sanctuary ground; how else would you guard me?”
I dim the light further as I get in until it is near-dark. Truth be told, it’s been so long since I spent the night with anyone. My trysts since my divorce have been numerous: women are doors and I am a key that turns many locks. But I would send them away once the deed—and aftercare, if any is needed—is done. Having another body in bed as I settle in for rest is different, vulnerable.
Then again, what lies next to me can slaughter dozens of humans without trying. Asleep or awake, I’m vulnerable to her just the same.
Her arm snakes around me from behind as she tucks herself against me, and even through the fabric, I can feel that externally she has emulated human epidermis without flaw. Soft breasts against my spine, soft hand against my belly. I wonder at her anatomy and immediately quash that idea.
“Oakmoss and ambergris,” she murmurs against my shoulder. “Such a fine, rich choice. Is this your sole cologne?”
“Typically I carry one. Yes.”
“There’s a perfumer in this building. They make a mix that will suit you excellently—saffron, oud, and heart of violet; quite striking. Plus another one that is mostly vetiver . . . you must let me buy you a sampler or three.”
“Are you this attentive to all your duelists?”
“All? No, only one and even then she was not a duelist. A favored human, that’s all.”
“What happened to her?”
“She became lost.” Daji’s hand withdraws. “Go to sleep, Detective. By your circadian data you need six hours to be fully rested, and I want you to be at your best.”
I wake up to a call tinkling gently in my overlays. Six in the morning, beginning of dawn. The curtains part a sliver at my command and Septet’s sun peers in, dappling the bed and the soft floor in ovals and oblongs. My regalia remains at my side, to all appearances asleep. The fox proxy though is active and follows me to the bathroom to watch me clean my mouth and rinse my face. I let Recadat know we’ll meet in my private lounge, a perk for Vimana guests who pay for sufficiently expensive suites.
Daji’s lesser body has made itself small enough to climb into my robe and nestle in one of its inner pockets. I look at the bed askance, but the primary proxy remains stubbornly unresponsive, chest rising and falling to simulate deep sleep. “Not a morning person,” I say aloud and stroke down the fox’s head, its spine, its feast of textural extravagance. More luxurious than silk or velour, similar to how nacre might feel if it’s spun into a pelt.
The temperature in the lounge is warmer than I’d like, subject to an algorithmic whim of the Vimana. I shrug the robe partially off, make myself comfortable on one of the large chairs, and wait for the air to cool.
Recadat is punctual. She stops short when she sees my state of undress. “Can’t you put on some clothes?”
“I’m clothed. You’ve seen me actually naked before.” Was there, in fact, when I lost both my legs. She was the one who gave me covering fire and dragged me to the medics. An entire quarter of the city was a warzone that night from a syndicate dispute gone out of control.
“Different context. I can’t believe you went and got yourself even more scars.”
I pass my hand over my chest, where a rope of pale tissue crosses between my breasts. “I enjoy having them—think of them as combat medals.” The only ones I’ve had corrected and removed were those that interfered with nerve or muscle function. Recadat has a different view; she has had all of hers erased.
My old partner snorts as she drops into a chaise lounge. “Sometimes you talk like an ex-soldier, not an ex-cop.”
“There isn’t a lot of difference between the military and public safety.” Both being state-sanctioned agents of ruin, frequently indiscriminate and occasionally interchangeable. Institutions of violence differ only in budget and uniforms.
Recadat makes a noise that tells me she knows exactly what I mean, and that she vehemently disagrees with my perspective. Her belief is that public security keeps the peace whereas the army breaks it. “What’s been happening in your life, anyway? I know you got a divorce but not much else.”
That must’ve slipped onto the grapevine somehow, even though I cut contact with former colleagues after handing in my resignation and disabling my badge. “Eurydice is gone.”
She startles. “During the invasion?”
“No, she left Ayothaya long before the Hellenes happened. Maybe she knew something we didn’t.” But I say this dryly, not particularly meaning it. Eurydice was not saved where she went.
“I’m sorry.” Recadat twists her small hands in her lap. She’s never been good at informing next-of-kin that their spouse or relation has been reduced to a casualty statistic—too much empathy. On my part I’ve always made it quick: the boil needs to be lanced, as it were, and no one—other than Recadat—goes into public security to become grief counselors. “I know you loved her completely. Thoroughly.”
“Not enough,” I say. “Not as much as she deserved. I was never any good at marriage.” Had coasted, before that, on the ease of temporary trysts. The flash burn of passion, not the steadiness of matrimony.
Recadat looks like she wants to say something, but she refrains. For no logical reason I watch her delicate fingers and think of Eurydice’s, even though these two have nothing in common. My ex-wife was nearly as tall as I am whereas Recadat is petite, a hundred fifty-five. Not fragile: she’s sinewy and economic. Eurydice was more like a rose apple, ripe and luscious. My tastes range widely, but I try not to think of Recadat in those terms anymore. Especially now, when I cannot afford the distraction.
“So.” She shifts in her seat, crossing her legs. “Did you get a regalia?”
“Yes.” I don’t ask how she guessed; both of us read people for a living. “Do you hold duelist overrides?”
“Well, don’t you get things done fast. A whole regalia one day after landing.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Allow me to make a little guess. Your AI looks like a pretty woman. Slinky legs, tiny dress, hair down to their haunch. You have a type.”
“I have more than one type.” I never strayed from the bounds of marriage, but Recadat witnessed me appreciating women of a particular style and bearing often enough. Even if she did not quite notice me appreciating her in that manner, or was kind enough to pretend obliviousness because she did not return it. “And AIs can look however they want, Recadat. The overrides?”
“I’ve got three—I can give you two; I’m keeping one just in case, maybe I’ll even need it to rescue youin a pinch.”
“Works for me.” The fox inside my robe nibbles at my hip, not breaking skin but clearly irate. “We discussed the other duelists in passing; care to tell me a bit more? I want to work with a full deck.”
“Before that . . . ” She hesitates. “You do know what happens if you’re one of the final two duelists standing and you lose?”
Out of habit I needlessly smooth down my hair. I keep it chin-length,
artificially treated so as to need minimal care. “Yes, the loser submits their mortal coil to machine uses. Experiments, I assume, most likely unpleasant. Maybe execution or torture as a spectacle—some machines must be into that.”
She grimaces. “You say it so casually. But you play to win, so it’s not going to happen to you anyway. I’m sending you the intel I’ve gathered. Faces, names, habits, vices. The usual.”
Recadat’s data package blooms in my overlays, gravid with footage and stills. I draw up my leg and prop my ankle on my knee. “I’ve been rude. I haven’t asked at all what you’ve been up to.”
“After you quit, I got transferred a couple times then transferred back. They promoted me to captain of our subdivision, lined me up to be commander in a few years. Then the invasion happened and all of that stopped meaning anything.”
“It’ll start meaning something again. The pay raise must’ve been something to celebrate, at least. Did you ever settle down? Ten years are a long while.” No point asking about her biological family—like me, she doesn’t keep in touch. We’re similar in that way, detached from kin and rootless. By choice for me—I don’t care for most of my family, and my parents divorced long before I reached my majority—and less so for her. A transport malfunction orphaned Recadat when she was twelve, and as far as I know the aunt that raised her treated her as a bitter ordeal. Not so much malicious abuse as indifferent neglect, providing her no more than the bare minimum.
Recadat gives an embarrassed little laugh. “You remember that I wanted to start a family. Gave up on it, though. I never did get the one woman I wanted.”
“No? But you were so popular. Half the rookies were in love with you. There was that Internal Affairs woman, remember, she was so besotted she let you go without a single bit of paperwork.”
She waves her hand. “Sure. They weren’t what I wanted, though. It’s as if—you want chicken tendon fried just so, all spicy and sour. But you keep getting served sweet potato balls. Bowls of coconut cream and egg floss. Platters of meringue. I wanted to chew something tough and savory, not dry-swallow sugary air. As for popular, you caught more eyes than I ever did. You never felt tempted?”
Shall Machines Divide the Earth Page 4
