Recadat leaves for her own room toward midnight. I almost ask her to stay, and know she would if I do. In the end I stop myself from saying anything, from indicating at all that I understood her. Instead I acted oblivious until she was gone; what else was there to do. Perhaps if I pretend I did not notice. Perhaps if I pretend that ten years ago I felt nothing for her. This way the cracks can be papered over.
To Daji I say, “I’m surprised you showed yourself to Recadat.”
“I like to mark my territory—it’s important for other women to know what is mine, and that I have the teeth to defend the fact. You know why she’s upset, don’t you?”
“I couldn’t possibly imagine why.”
She plays with one of the particulate grapes, pinching it between her fingers; juices run down her palm then disappear into nothing. “Oh, Detective, how did ever you survive without feminine intuition?”
“I’m a woman,” I say mildly, though I know what she means. There are women like me and Recadat, and there are women like Daji. The hard and the soft, the steel and the satin. “So what, according to your honed feminine intuition, got under Recadat’s skin?”
Her smirk is vulpine. “Haven’t you known her a long time? You should be able to answer that question.”
“We were colleagues and field partners, yes.”
“Tell me,” Daji says, “how you really felt about her all those years ago.”
I’ve never been in a position to feel interrogated; I do now. It’s not my habit to unburden myself, voluntarily or not. Thannarat, I’ve always . . . “Is it truly pertinent?”
“I’m particular. And I don’t share.”
So yielding in bed; so aggressive out of it. Were she any other woman, I’d have rebuked her, reminded her that I do not need her as much as she does me—that is the case for most of my casual relationships. “I was attracted to Recadat. I hid it well—I was not going to hurt my wife that way—and Recadat never noticed how I felt or pretended not to.”
“Or she returned your feelings.” Daji’s tone is carefully neutral. “But kept it to herself out of respect for your marriage.”
I know that, now; I can still feel Recadat’s fingers digging into my shirt. Holding on the way she’d hold onto a lifeline. Holding on the same way she did when I carried her out of that basement. I want to protect this, I remember thinking, because she was the only one I could save that terrible night.
“If you choose her,” my regalia goes on, “then I’ll not stand in the way of it. She’s important to you and now you have the liberty to pursue her. I’ll still fulfill my duties to you in the Divide.”
Here is a little piece of fiction I told myself: after Eurydice divorced me, I didn’t reach out to Recadat because by then, I’d taken on one client too many that belonged on the wrong side of the law. Contact with me—at that point a private investigator who consorted with criminals—would have jeopardized Recadat’s career. When I’m more honest with myself I know the truth is far less practical, far less altruistic. I didn’t want to come to her weak and broken by grief. I am the shield. I am the fortress. It is not in me to seek refuge in others. Pride stopped me from having what I had wanted for so long.
Ten years against a single second. Long nights at stakeouts and pre-dawn drinks in disreputable bars, against a woman who appeared to me as an exquisite corpse and upended my imagination.
“I’m not throwing you away.” Air passes into me like knives, but that soon eases. Decisions cannot be postponed forever. In the field it is reached on the brink of microseconds, the difference between being behind cover and having your skull riddled with bullets. “I won’t exchange you for what might be, when I already have what is.”
Daji takes my hand, holding it tight. “I’ll strive to be worthy of you. I’ll be your utmost, your lodestar, your weapon. Always I’ll submit to you, yield to you in all things.”
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 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 boy once, that was in her twenties.”
Recadat toys with the restaurant’s physical menu, a resin plate where items propel themselves back and forth, jellyfish sentence fragments. “You have this effect; you turn women single-minded. Speaking of which, some of the duelists I talked to fell for their regalia. Ouru too, if you can credit the thought. Must be something in the water, or in the game at any rate. Maybe the Divide module brainwashes us a little bit. Subliminal. How are you with—her?”
“Daji is . . . very.” My mouth twitches. “Does that apply to Balaskas? Falling for her regalia?”
“Who knows? She’s a sociopath.”
“You know that term’s clinically meaningless.”
“Pedant,” she says, smirking. “Anyway, I didn’t get you out here just to lunch and look at plants. I’ve been trailing Ensine Balaskas. She comes here every other day, at around the same time. Nothing if not predictable. Could be that this place reminds her of home, wherever that is.” Recadat nods at the balcony, at the view of the cascading currents below, waters running in shades of dawn.
We don’t have long to wait. The gate between two waterfalls opens and a woman glides in, clad in a dress that appears to have been spun out of smoke, shod in shoes with impractically high heels—from here it seems they taper to near-needlepoint and add at least eleven centimeters to her height. Ensine holds in one hand a thick copper chain. At its other end is a figure in tattered white and gold, their head obscured by a hood and visor. Even from a distance it’s clear that this person is not lucid. They move with a drugged, uncertain gait and Ensine has to jerk the leash to make them turn a corner.
Something about the figure. Familiarity throbs as sharp as a thorn deep in my palm. Adrenaline spikes, prescient, even though I don’t know yet what for.
Pain sears my optic nerves. It takes a moment to recognize this as backlash from the neural link that connects me to Daji. AIs don’t have involuntary reactions—my fox gloves are inert—but something’s wrong. Daji?
Her response is slow to come. Yes.
What’s going on? Upset—she is upset. The sight of the drugged person has gotten under her skin. I didn’t even realize such drastic emotion was possible for an AI. Daji doesn’t answer, though the link stabilizes.
“That’s her human pet,” Recadat is saying. “Makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? Illegally trafficked, I’d guess, not that that means anything around here. I have never seen what the person looks like, she keeps them covered up. Thannarat, are you all right?”
My vision rebalances. Recadat noticed my reaction—it must have been visible, a twitch of the head, a pinching of the expression. “I’m fine. You know her habits and likely where she’s accommodated; what’s stopping you from dropping a Retribution strike on her?”
“If she survives, she’ll come straight for me, and I don’t have any regalia left. And I don’t know where she’s based—I only found her here by sheer coincidence.”
I try not to show that I’m attempting to calm down. Occasionally I wish I’d installed an endocrinal control, a switch that would allow me to adjust cortisol and adrenaline levels at will—to mute or bring on the instinct to fight. But you can develop a terrible dependence, and I’ve seen too many police officers or ex-soldiers broken by it, hollowed out to a husk. “Fair enough.”
Ensine Balaskas and her pet reappear once more, a glimpse seen between the metal of a trellis and the shimmering fronds of a palm with low-hanging fruits. She reaches for her captive, removes the visor impossibly gently, and then yanks the hood back with abrupt violence. This time I go cold. This time it is not Daji who reacts.
The slim waist, the rounded shoulders. The face. The face that I’ve seen over and over, near and far, next to me when I went to sleep and next to me when I woke up. Bare or under cosmetics, and once beneath the golden veil she wore at our wedding. Those high cheekbones, that tight nose, that broad plump mouth.
Did you hear about the haruspex program? She was showing me an image: a cyborg with moonstone skin and antlers growing out of their zygomatic arches, shoulders draped in golden scales, arms clad in exoskeleton. They’re so gorgeous, each of them a unique work of art. But you know, if I became one I’d like to keep my face. We could be a matched pair, both with perfectly human faces. We’d stick out like sore thumbs and scandalize them all.
I had looked up, only half-interested; already dismissive because I knew what the initiative entailed, that it was too new to risk. Early adopters never won. And for all my interest in machines, I never wanted to lose my autonomy and volition. You’d become state property of Shenzhen. Is that worth it?
Eurydice gave me a long, sly look. I wouldn’t understand the significance of it until much later. Some things are worth any price, my wonderful wife. Would you bleed for love?
My laugh was short, nearly derisive. Depends. Depends on the person, on the kind of love. Doesn’t that apply to everything?
I was a detective. I prided myself on quickly grasping the hinge on which a person turns, the wet sanguinary core they hide from their family and friends, from the public eye. I could decipher an entire personality—the pattern of action, the decision-making process, the trauma or ease that might have informed them—within an hour of talking to a suspect or witness. How good I was at my work; how inept I was at home. I could not comprehend my wife even though the evidence was there right under my nose. Pages that I never cared to read because in my arrogance I believed I already knew the book inside out.
Ensine Balaskas tugs on the leash attached to the thing that looks like my wife, the puppet shell that might be all that remains of my wife. Ensine laughs, the noise like razors on glass, and pulls again. The two of them move into a labyrinth of flora, and soon they disappear from view.