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

Ouru must have warmed up elsewhere, for ze slips at once into the water. In there ze looks born to it, moving under the currents with naga elegance. I could imagine scales on zer, piscine gills.

“You’re watching zer a little too intently, Detective.” Daji rubs my knee. “I’m right here.”

“Ze’s not my type; too androgynous. It’s useful to know the enemy, isn’t that so?”

“You can study your enemy without staring at zer bare skin.”

“There isn’t much to see,” I say mildly. “My appreciation of zer is entirely respectful.”

I finish my tea. Ouru completes zer laps, gets out of the water, and stretches out beneath an enormous palm frond the color of crocoite. Our connection establishes and I’m pulled into zer virtuality.

When I join zer it is within the image of a Theravada temple, a prayer hall of convex gold ceiling and suspended paper talismans plated in silver. Several Buddhas, reclining or seated beneath bodhi trees with rose-gold and copper canopies. It may be cultural training—I attended temples not unlike this in my youth—but to me this speaks of spirituality far more sincerely than the Cenotaph and Wonsul’s monk costume.

Ouru is waiting for me in the scriptorium, holding in zer hand a long, pleated scroll made of sapphire paper. Ze nods at me. “Thanks for being reasonable.” Then, as if seeing me or rather my body’s specifications for the first time, “You’re mostly prosthetic. Is that by necessity or by choice?”

“I could take that as a very rude question.” From one of the shelves I pluck a hand-bound volume: a theological text that addresses different, syncretic versions of the Siddhartha myth. One has him, the holy prince, as always having been an androgyne. “It’s by choice. I could have had my limbs regrown, but I preferred cybernetics.”

“Hell of an upkeep.”

“Fine once you’ve acclimated; better if you have the means to ease the procedures.” I nod at the virtual setting. “You’re devout?”

“Yes. Just not the pacifistic kind. Judging by your name and accent, you must’ve grown up somewhere Theravada-majority as well.” Ze folds up the scroll and returns it to its place. “You’re working with Recadat, correct? I’m surprised she would let you talk to me. That’s a single-minded young woman.”

“What caused your falling out?”

Ouru’s chuckle is like abacus beads. “She believed her need nobler than mine and that I ought to give way to her when the game has whittled down to the two of us. Each of us believes our cause is the most just or the most urgent, no? I regret that I ever gave her the impression I’d yield victory to her—I don’t like parting ways in acrimony. But it is what it is.”

I run my fingers over the volume in my hand, appreciating the fine detail: the textural arrays, the faint smell of old paper. “What’s your goal, then?” The great wish, the desire that burns so bright in Ouru’s soul that ze would risk zerself in unfathomable machine schemes.

“I could just not tell you. But it’s no secret—I told Recadat. I’d like to become a haruspex.”

Why is everyone obsessed with that, I wonder. The advantages are attractive enough now that—allegedly—the process has been perfected: no more botches like Eurydice. A haruspex is revered on Shenzhen, granted not just comfort but every available privilege. Access to the cutting edge of anti-agathic extension, as close to immortal as a human can get. That was one of the draws for Eurydice; she wanted to live forever. “Bypassing the usual petition process, including Shenzhen’s prohibitive immigration control, I’m guessing.”

“Precisely. The usual process—well, they take few applicants, the criteria are vague and nebulous. This way it’s guaranteed.” Ze gestures toward the far end of the scriptorium, at a window lit by an emerging sunrise. “I don’t intend to lose. Under no circumstances will I forfeit. Do you understand, Khun Thannarat?”

At the window a figure coalesces, blue-black smoke solidifying into a silhouette and then a clear shape—Houyi’s Chariot. My first good look at the regalia. Broad-shouldered and about my height, as Recadat said. Their face remains hidden, save for a visor through which their eyes burn like twin reactors.

“I admire when a person has a clear objective they work toward.” I nod. “Ensine Balaskas has sent me her calling card.”

“Then I anticipate you and your regalia will soon be destroyed. My condolences in advance.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” My eyes remain on Houyi’s Chariot, drawn to the outline of them limned by oil-slick corposant. “Not very talkative, are they?”

“Houyi talks when they deem the world fit to hear their voice.” Ouru gives zer regalia a small fond smile. The expression transforms an unremarkable face into a tender portrait. “Now, you’re going to ask for my cooperation against Ensine. My answer is no.”

“My regalia is Empress Daji Scatters Roses Before Her Throne.”

A small twitch from Houyi. “So she’s back in the game, I didn’t think she would join this round.” Their voice is like a slow rockslide. “Ouru, consider her proposal. Daji is unusual.”

Ouru lets out a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “Coming from you that is high praise. Nevertheless, there can only be one victor. I can’t share the prize.”

The regalia makes a small, inscrutable gesture. “Daji used to be a haruspex.”

That I didn’t anticipate, though it’d explain why my treasure of roses and pelts acts human so well—she used to share a body with one. Ouru widens zer eyes, expression turning thoughtful. Speculative.

“I’ll ask her if she would vouch for your haruspex application,” I offer Ouru. “Put it on the table, though I can’t promise anything absolute. Houyi—what happens to regalia whose duelists have died or forfeited?”

For a moment I expect the AI would not answer. Then they say, “Unattached regalia may not engage in combat without being partnered to a duelist, and they may seek a new duelist to bind themselves to. Ouru and I have been eliminating a number of them.”

Five regalia remain. Only two are unknown