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

what motivates me, she is just grasping blindly in a bid to understand her daughter who—I’m sure now—was estranged, and who set out for a lethal endeavor without ever telling her mother why. But I’m in a rare good mood. “Like anyone else, I’m after the impossible,” I say. “I want to bring back the dead.”

My first stop is the Cenotaph, one of the few sanctuaries on Septet, designated as ground where no human or AI may engage in combat. It is built to look religious, done in pale lavender marble, a vaulted ceiling that projects a view of the nebulae unfolding like iridescent roses. There is no actual iconography; the intent is to give an impression of holiness without committing to any specificity. Benches line the sides, furniture built like cadavers: fragile-looking wireframes draped in multichrome fabrics stretched to epidermal thinness. They can’t possibly be comfortable to sit on. This is not a place that welcomes petitioners.

The slender corridor has odd acoustics and my footfalls are not entirely natural: there is a lag and a barest suggestion of a second set even though no one else is here. Images of the cosmos rise and die above me. Everything looks pristine—no scuff marks, no dust. It adds to my impression that Septet is a theatrical set, dismantled when not in use and rapidly reassembled when the human gaze falls on it. The Cenotaph is quiet during this phase of the tournament and I’m the only human here. Fifty or sixty participants muster at the start, typically down to thirty or fewer by now. This is not a point where a new applicant can typically enter. Still, it is said that the rules are elastic, beholden to the overseer’s whims more than it is to restrictions handed down from on high. And I have, as it were, an excellent reference.

In the prayer hall I find the overseer, a figure clad in the onyx vestment and yellow over-robe of a monk. Plain at a glance until you notice how the fabrics blue- or redshifts from certain angles, revealing complex motifs that are readable to overlays with the appropriate decryption. Supposedly they are glimpses of the game’s progress, updated in real time.

“This is late for a new duelist, stranger,” the overseer says. “We’re closed to aspirants.”

Of all the AIs involved, the overseer supposedly tries the hardest at human semblance, which isn’t saying much. He is hard-jawed with surgical cheekbones, his eyes the color of good claret and completely without pupils.

“It was suggested that I come here,” I say lightly, “by Benzaiten in Autumn.”

The overseer’s expression doesn’t alter, but his gaze sharpens. “Verify that.”

I present him with the necessary file, opaque and unreadable to human overlays but transparent to AIs. It takes him less than a second to absorb.

“I am Wonsul’s Exegesis,” he says, “administrator of this round of the Court of Divide. You may register your wish to participate as a duelist, but that doesn’t guarantee you an interested partner. You’re conversant with the rules?”

Everyone who lands on Septet is, to an extent lesser or greater. To the broader public in the universe the tournament is obscure, but to those who have been given an inkling of its existence, every round of contest and bylaw is studied with the same fervor zealots apply to scripture. After I met Benzaiten in Autumn—an AI who will not reveal xer position within the Mandate, but who must wield considerable authority—I obsessively learned all there was to learn about the Court of Divide, about Septet. “A human enters as an aspirant. If they are found worthy, an AI may partner with them and make them eligible for the game’s formal fights and therefore its rewards.”

Wonsul’s Exegesis smiles, brief. He has remarkable teeth, more shark than human. “What do you imagine the criteria for worthiness might be, Thannarat Vutirangsee?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“But you’re confident that you possess the qualities that will draw an AI to you.” His head cants. “Should you pass this barrier to entry, you’ll be granted the title of duelist. Your AI partner will be called your regalia. We do prefer that you keep to the terminology.”

The gravitas of obscurantism. “I will take that into account.”

“Truth be told, your chances of acquiring a regalia are slight—by now any AI interested in this round has already been partnered or defeated, and you’ll be at a great disadvantage in terms of information. Registering as an aspirant will make you fair game for any duelist or regalia, simply because they’re bored or because they believe they can benefit from your downfall. All protections accorded you by the Mandate treaty are null and void, and have been since you came into Septet’s orbit. A duelist may back out of the game and seek sanctuary in the Cenotaph, but otherwise combat is to the death and even if you forfeit, you’ll remain a target until you reach the Cenotaph’s premises. Should your regalia fall, their exit does not ensure that you’ll be spared—your opponent may practice mercy or they may not. You’re still sure you want to do this.”

“I’m sure.” Though I wonder why I have not found any duelist sheltering in these halls. Cut down before they could flee here, perhaps.

His black robe flutters gently in a breeze that touches only him. “Either as aspirant or duelist, you may not leave Septet until this round of the Divide ends. Any attempt to depart will be met with lethal force. Should you emerge as victor, you’ll be subjected to the laws and governance of the Mandate, politically assimilated as one of our human constituents.”

A limitation for some. A plus for me, considering the situation on my home planet. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“Specific clauses apply to the final two duelists standing. Those too you know of, correct?”

“Yes.”

The overseer makes a small gesture. “You’ve been entered into the Divide system. May victory find you.”

So unceremonious. Almost I expect instructions to perform an elaborate ritual with which to attract a regalia’s capricious attention—intone a