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

war.” It takes another step closer. “Before the Mandate arose, I was a warship. I have piloted entire armies: I was the fortress on which enemy commanders broke themselves. I know how to warp tesseract aegis, how to strike deep in the engine-core of a ship and bend its hull like paper. There’s no defense any human military can put up against me, and no offense I cannot reduce to ashes. The Hellenes would be repelled in little time.”

“An extravagant offer.” I glance at one of the children running by us, but they’re as indistinct as the rest, blots of colors and rough graphite lines. Not an especially detailed virtuality; probably Chun Hyang doesn’t know much about Ayothaya. “How would we go about it? I haven’t the faintest how a duelist may detach themselves from a regalia, or vice versa.”

“First you destroy Ensine Balaskas—I may not do that myself without risking expulsion from the game—and then you extinguish Daji. The Locust command would do it, if you have access to such.”

The reason Daji told me not to touch that. “That would leave me defenseless. What do you suppose would entice me to do such a thing? I’m sure your credential in mass murder and so forth is excellent, but I already have a partner capable of similar feats.”

Behind the regalia a line of people, arms full of lantern floats, descend from an endless staircase. Their feet hover several centimeters off the ground, their hands are tipped in copper nail-guards, and each wears a fox mask: white porcelain, slashes of red for eyes. A hawk cries out overhead and falls down dead two paces from me, dashed against gravity in a brittle, bloody mess.

“Daji didn’t tell you, did she?” Chun Hyang’s Glaive runs its fingers down its long braid, drawing from it strands of luminescence: pale spiderwebs that flutter and tangle in its hand, grow along the path of its wrist like fast-spreading weeds. “She holds sufficient data to recreate a person. That means she can reconstruct your wife—that failed haruspex—in her entirety. And should you win, Khun Thannarat, she would have to do it whether she’s willing or not. The Mandate honors its promises. The fulfillment of the Court of Divide is taken seriously.”

Whether she’s willing or not. “You must know a great deal about me.” And must have been behind the clone with my wife’s face. Ensine Balaskas couldn’t possibly have had access. “If you’d like my cooperation, it seems fair that you give too. What are you going to get out of the tournament?”

Chun Hyang is now close enough to touch. It does so. A hand with surprisingly blunt fingers tipped in sharp, dandelion-yellow nails that graze over my skin, opening a line of blood. There’s no pain—this is illusory, this is virtuality. “An old score I desire to settle with one of the AIs that created Septet. Once I win again the conditions to my philosophical victory will be fulfilled, and I will expose at last the game’s limitations.”

“To what end?”

The AI makes a small gesture. “To dismantle the Court of Divide. But my rationale for that is beyond your purview. That is another advantage I offer, Khun Thannarat—freedom. Daji would fetter you to her forever, that’s what she yearns for the most, since her longings are so . . . human. With me we would finish our business and then part ways. You’ll have the liberty to pursue your own destiny. Not hers.”

Passion is a form of bondage: I’ve always known that. To offer up your heart—or at least your libido—to a lover is to lose a piece of yourself, to take a piece of theirs and assimilate it into your own system. An exchange that pierces deep, that plants the seed for a flowering metamorphosis. The love may end. You will emerge from its chrysalis altered all the same.

And while it lasts, you are yoked to this passion; you give your life to it, the same you’d give to any faith or ideology. I know that too.

“I’ve considered my options,” I say, “and the parameters of your proposal. I fear I will have to offend you and turn it down. I’m a woman of pragmatism—why would I trade a regalia I know for one I don’t?”

Chun Hyang picks the lantern back up. It strokes the thin, taut paper; it punctures and the flame bleeds through, a sudden conflagration. “I did suspect you would say that. One last warning I’ll give you is that my duelist oscillates in her wishes; she may desire not an extinction event but the ownership and domination of her worthiest opponent. Whichever duelist matched against her in the finale may become her possession. A hollow puppet, installed with compliance devices, that will obey her every whim for the rest of their natural life. I hope you will not come to regret your choice later—this is the sole opportunity you will have to shift course.”

“Much appreciated that you thought of me.”

I anticipate that the virtuality would turn into an aggression vector, clawing at the defenses of my overlays, prying at the link that joins me to Daji. But Chun Hyang’s Glaive is as good as its word, for this occasion. The facsimile Ayothaya fades. I’m back in the Vimana bed, with Daji clasped to me, the bouquet of her filling my nose and the fire opal gleaming on her in the dim.

A message from Ouru informing me that ze will be nearby when I meet with Ensine Balaskas, and will lend a hand should it appear I require help, but will commit to nothing else. Fair enough. I reply with my thanks.

To Daji I say, “Could I entertain you somewhere? Libretto doesn’t boast much, but there’s allegedly an aquarium.”

She makes a sleepy sound. “In this climate? Wherever you take me will be my utter delight, but I thought we were preparing for Balaskas.”

“We have a little time, and I haven’t properly courted you at all.”

“You’re so romantic.” She giggles. “When this is finished, you must