Shall Machines Divide the Earth by Benjanun Sriduangkaew (classic novels to read .txt) 📗

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