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

Thannarat. Some clothed, others much less so. The hard bulk of her, the physique of a mountain, unyielding and permanent: Thannarat’s back makes her think of boulders. Even the bare shoulders captivate—the potency they promise, the suggestion of what she is capable of. Recadat wrenches her gaze away from a glimpse of wiry hair between two thick thighs ridged with cybernetic connectors. “Stop that.”

“They’re approximations. Did I err in my extrapolation of her musculoskeletal structure? Perhaps she has more scars, interesting ones that arrest your eyes? You could show me your own simulacra. Over the years you must’ve made several for private use, imbued them with rudimentary heuristics and linked them to your sensory arrays. To simulate what it might be like to lie with the woman you long for the most.”

“I’ve done no such thing.” Completely disrespectful, utterly violating. She never even considered it.

“My poor Recadat,” they murmur, dismissing Thannarat’s doppelgangers, “not even an outlet for all that pent-up frustration. It’s not as if you are sworn to chastity, given everything you let me do to you in bed and how much you enjoy it, the sounds you make—”

“Stop that,” Recadat says again, cheeks blistering. The nearest table is far away enough that she hopes they didn’t overhear. Two young people, a couple she thinks, one in tuxedo and the other in an adapted hanfu. Excellent tailoring; she would know, having invested a good deal in her own wardrobe. On Septet marks of wealth are ubiquitous—signifiers of poverty are confined to border residences—but there is no real commerce beyond tourist attractions. She can’t make sense of the world’s economy, if it even has one. All of it seems pantomimed. “Have you found more duelists? I’ve been busy.”

Her lover refills their glass, seemingly just so they can swirl it, that liquor the sumptuous color of brass. They peer at her over the wine-wet rim. “Why do you think I asked to meet here? The table behind you—the one in the tuxedo—that is a duelist. He is without a regalia. Nevertheless it’s best to cull the herd, wouldn’t you agree. The fewer pieces on the board, the cleaner things shall be.”

“Do you want to shadow him or shall I?” She’s done that so many times on Septet. As if her career in public security never ended, a seamless continuation. Stalking a suspect. Stakeouts.

Their eyes widen. “Why? You can kill him where he sits. It saves so much time and we have such a long list to work our way down.”

Recadat glances at that table. Situated far enough they cannot eavesdrop: that has different significance now. Neither the supposed duelist nor his companion appears threatening, though she knows that is deceptive. Duelists can be anyone, look like anything. “In broad daylight?”

“This is Septet, my jewel. All violence is permitted. Everyone has agreed to death and ought to defend themselves accordingly, take the appropriate precautions. Who sits down to dine unarmed? You’d never be so complacent. Detective Thannarat wouldn’t be either. Oh, think of this as helping her.”

“I’m not going to just walk over and shoot someone in the head.”

“You can sit right here and shoot him in the head, Recadat. The range is nothing and you’ve got perfectly outstanding aim.”

Recadat’s breath scrapes through her teeth. Her lover has not yet been wrong, has singled out duelists with the unerring precision of a hawk. She looks at the remains of their meal, now reduced to a thin smear, every shred of meat put away. “And his companion?”

“She’s an ordinary Septet citizen, insofar as this place has a citizenry.”

The pair is twenty-two, twenty-five at most—practically adolescent. She can hardly remember being that young. Her hope is that they are not related or in love: it’s easier to carry this out if she imagines they are coworkers, casual acquaintances, something brief and impermanent. Few tables in the orchard are filled, and she knows neither patrons nor staff will stop her. There’s no public security here, no authority to appeal to. Wonsul’s Exegesis will intervene only if Divide rules are being broken. Homicide is beyond his jurisdiction or, she suspects, his interest. What do machines care for morals or human lives.

Despite everything, she’s never committed such an act. That she has the capability is not in question: she dislikes violence and yet has found herself prodigious at it. Adrenaline suspends her doubt, enables her to do what is necessary in the moment even if afterward she might regret it. But on Septet there is no social contract; there is only the savage demand of the Divide, the reduction of people to feral beasts.

Recadat gets up. She strides to the table, and once she’s close both the man and woman look up at her, startled—perplexed. There is no hint of recognition in his face that she’s a threat, and he still looks surprised when the muzzle of her gun enters his field of vision. The impact of the shot sends him reeling back. Instantly gone. The human skull is not designed to withstand such force, and he appears unaugmented.

His companion screams, scrambling away as blood leaks and soaks the table, its spotless cloth, the meal they’ve just shared. Escargot and foie gras, plated with a truly fine eye, postmodern and architectural. All those tessellated layers. She thinks of leaving a large tip, a compliment to the chef.

The woman flees. The other tables are now empty. They know what is going on, and that there is no recourse: to stay is to risk a duelist’s bloodthirst, and they would assume she has her regalia about. She holsters her gun, stepping away from the corpse, and waits for the duelist count to go down.

A full minute passes. The count stays at eleven. Impossible—the system updates within seconds, if not the very moment the duelist’s brain terminates and the final shred of consciousness succumbs.

Recadat stands there, turning cold as her lover sidles up behind her, placing a snakeskin-gloved hand in the small of her back.

“My bad,” they purr against her