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

It sounds like an oath or a marriage vow. I gather her to me and imagine what it’d be like, to be wedded to an AI. “There’s something I’d like to see.”

She must have read my intent, for her face turns still. “It’s not classified, no. But why would you want to?”

“I want to look, up close, at what’s in store if I falter. Reminders are useful. They give you discipline.”

“Fine.” Daji purses her lips. “Before we go, I want to give you extra protection.”

Her fox proxy climbs into my lap and begins to stretch and flatten, malleable as mercury. It is slightly unnerving to watch, though it happens fast, fluvial nanites twisting and reshaping until the proxy splits in perfect mitosis. When it is done, the fox has turned into a pair of gloves, matte black with subtle redshift whorls.

“They’re better than military-grade,” she says. “And they’re less conspicuous than carrying a little fox around.”

I pick one glove up, bending a finger, feeling the texture. It makes me think of carbyne, though far more supple; I try not to think about where the fox’s fangs and claws went, or how this transmutation appears to defy the conservation of mass. “You want me to wear you so my hands are inside you at all times?”

“That proxy doesn’t have that sort of sensory receptors, I’m not doing this to fulfill a fetish.” Daji taps her chin. “Although now that you mention it, I could implement some arrays . . . ”

The gloves, of course, are a perfect fit.

The place I want to see is located in Libretto’s center, part of the complex that holds the Cenotaph: sacrosanct to attacks, accessible only to duelists. Fifth floor, the exterior of it clad in fractal glass so that when I look at it all I can see is an infinity of reflections. The door is unguarded. Deceptive—anyone who should not be here would have been removed long before they reach this corridor. Holographic letters mark the facility simply as The Gallery.

Entering it is like stepping inside a glacier. A hall that appears to outsize its exterior, though I know that’s illusory—even the Mandate must obey the laws of physics. The illumination is mentholated and relentless. To the left of me is a door marked Domestic Life, to the right is Competitive Spirit, and ahead are Engaging in Art and Human Gaze. They are plain labels, nonthreatening, the same as one might see at any corporate office.

“You don’t need to look at this,” Daji says from behind me. “It really is not necessary.”

“Discipline.” I touch the door labeled Domestic Life. “As I said.”

A room, warmly lit, with a window that looks out to a black shore and a sea the color of engine fuel. The table is set for three. One person is chopping up shallots and garlic; another is plating noodles, and a third has sat down to dine. After a time it becomes obvious they never do more than this—an infinity of shallots and garlic are produced from a synthesizer, the chopped-up ones are conveyed and fed back so they can be extruded again. The person with the kitchen knife chops and chops without ever moving on to another task. The same goes with the noodle-plating. The one idle person always leans forward slightly, as if anticipating the meal, arranging and rearranging the spoon and chopsticks. Over and over. None of them show signs of fatigue or boredom.

I pick up the spoon and set it aside. The person continues. I take away the chopsticks. They go on to move empty air around the table. I expect that if I take away the noodle or cutting board both of the others will behave likewise, perpetually plating and chopping nothing. Their expressions are serene, with the unnaturally crystalline gazes of those up to their gills in narcotics or—as is the case—lobotomized.

“Do their parameters,” I say into the sound of chopsticks clicking and knife rapping on the cutting board, “have to be quite this limited?”

Daji stands against the window, her arms crossed. “Their isocortices were disabled. That means no higher functions, and they now run on simple routines they’re assigned.”

Recognition arrives, deeply belated. The person handling the noodles—which miraculously have not turned to mush—has a face I’ve seen before, an interstellar athlete or pilot or possibly an actor; I have a good head for features but not necessarily for the purposes attached when those don’t concern me. A celebrity either way, I must’ve glimpsed them in an entertainment or broadcast.

I stare into the celebrity’s face, wondering what brought them here. They must’ve been close to victory, one of the last two standing, to have been harvested for this exhibit. The Mandate breaks defeated duelists open like ripe fruits; anything and everything can be done to them. Even so to bear witness to it, to have the evidence before my eyes and ears, is something else. It seems senseless—I can’t see what could be gotten out of forcing braindead carcasses to perform these vacant scripts. Cruelty. Payback. “Can you,” I say to Daji, “puppeteer any of them?”

“Detective.” Her voice is edged.

“Well?”

“I have access.” The line of her mouth has grown thinner and thinner.

The celebrity blinks and straightens with borrowed awareness. Their features shift into sharp irritation as they put their hands on their hips. “Happy?” they say with Daji’s inflections.

I study the marionette’s face a little longer. Yes: you can almost believe this is a real person with their own volition, Daji’s control has made them that much more lifelike. “It will do. Thank you.”

The instant Daji lets go, the former celebrity returns to their business of arranging utensils. The change is abrupt and absolute, expression turning blank, will turning slack and then absent entirely. I’ve seen people in shell shock look more present.

Competitive Spirit turns out to be two people locked in combat, seemingly to the death. Unarmed but both are doing their best to strangle, claw, and bite the life out of each other. “Amygdala edits to promote