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

aggression, pheromonal changes to mark each other as enemies,” Daji tells me, grimacing. “The room’s flooded with neutralizing gas every so and so, to prevent anything fatal.”

It is sick, I could say, though I knew that coming in. Engaging in Art offers a lone person chiseling a wall that instantly reforms and repairs itself. The Divide module, chattier than usual, lets me know that this empty shell used to be a sculptor who wished to become the most sought-after artist in their galactic sector. Human Gaze contains a person in military uniform staring at deconstructed engine parts, a table scattered with gears and cogs and wheels, primitive clockwork. They were, supposedly, once a soldier in the Armada of Amaryllis.

The final exhibit is called Cerebral Pursuits, a chamber full of brains kept in glass tanks. After everything this makes me burst into laughter—it is so peculiarly absurdist, anticlimactic nearly, even as Daji grows tenser. I leave the Gallery saying, “That was instructive.”

“It was not. You found it ghastly.”

“Yes,” I say amicably, “but it’s useful to keep sight of what I stand to lose. If it comes to that, will you come visit and puppeteer me occasionally?”

Her hand shoots out, gripping my wrist. “Don’t you dare joke about that. I’ll save you from this even if I have to burn up my core. I’ll sacrifice anything to keep you from those rooms. And we’ll triumph regardless; don’t you believe in me?”

“Utterly.” I think of the Vimana’s staff, that wedding party in the lobby, even the woman I slept with on the passenger liner. “How many people on this world are marionettes?”

Daji’s fingers tighten. Humans are visual creatures—with how fine-featured she’s made her proxy, it is easy to forget she can grind my metacarpals to dust. “Duelists get a lot of leeway, but some questions even you shouldn’t ask.”

“Of course.” I close my hand over hers—my hand, which is gloved in her. The intimacy, nearly obscene, that can only be had with a machine. “You don’t need to risk your core for me.”

“I risk what I please, Detective.” Her mouth quirks; she is on firm ground once more. “I want to give you all of me. We’ll be everything together. You are limitless for me. I will be mortal for you.”

The next morning Recadat messages me to meet her at the ecodome in western Libretto, if I’d like more information on Ensine Balaskas.

The ecodome is a construct of diamantine steel, its exterior opaque and paneled. I take a lift to the highest floor. Inside it is temperate, damp with the smell of rain but not humid the way Cadenza is, cooled by well-directed breezes. High foliage, fragrant blooming vines, a wealth of orchids. The most pleasant environment I’ve seen on Septet. This is a glimpse of what one may have in Shenzhen, temptation dangled before the deprived, the aspiring.

I find Recadat in a mezzanine bistro. Her table is laden with cups of cold sake, perspiring, and plates of food—all untouched. Glutinous rice in little pyramids, studded with marinaded pork and gingko nuts; steamers of siu mai and braised goose feet; a platter of desserts. Lemon curd and matcha choux creams, butterfly pea cakes, taiyaki piled high with egg floss.

“I can’t believe you remember what food I liked,” I say as I sit down. “A veritable feast.”

“I don’t forget details. You know that, old partner.” Recadat watches me, her chin propped in her hand. “Everyone looks at you and expects your diet to be pure carnivore. Raw meat and gristle and marrow. Like you’d snap your jaw around a beautiful woman’s throat and tear her open, and she’d thank you for it.”

“I like to defy expectations.” I smooth down the front of my coat. “And I haven’t tried cannibalism yet, beautiful women or not. Ah, cannibals—do you remember the vampire cult?”

She laughs and sips her sake. “Yeah. Imagine getting augments so you can pretend you’re vampires and lamias. Takes all kinds, but it was real dedication. At least they didn’t kill too many, just what, a dozen between the lot?”

There’s a level of comfort, camaraderie born of sheer duration. We’ll always be able to reminisce together. I’ve eased her back into it and, despite the danger it represents, I’ve missed this closeness. “When we get home we’re going to have to catch up. Drinks on me.” Then, because I have an unbreakable habit of picking at scabs, I add, “Last night, back at the hotel—”

Her expression flickers, the slightest spasm of the mouth. Her left thumb jerks against the sake cup as though she’s been lightly electrocuted. “Sorry. It’s just—you’re a piece of Ayothaya, the only one that I know for sure escaped and survived. I was feeling low and homesick; I embarrassed myself completely. You like your women with riper figures, anyway, and I’d look terrible in a qipao or cocktail gown.”

Not unequivocal, but she’s given me an out. The path of least resistance is the most convenient for all of us. “You look just fine the way you are. But you have nothing to apologize for.”

Her smile is small, rueful. But she seems as relieved as I am to steer the conversation elsewhere. “I have to say, when we first met I couldn’t imagine you having tiny pastries either. And then you still, somehow, make eating these look . . . ”

“Angry?” I take one of the small taiyaki. It’s stuffed with black sesame paste. These things have to be eaten in a single bite—the filling spills everywhere otherwise. “Famished? It’s just my face. You know I was born glaring.”

“You were born solemn and grew into a wolf. All black muzzle and predator eyes.” She picks up one of the choux creams, eats it in a single bite like I do. “Before I met you, I used to chase a particular kind of men—fragile and pleasant to look at, but useless. You made me realize I preferred women.”

“You never did tell me that.” I raise an eyebrow. “Funny, Eurydice said something similar—she was engaged to a