Good sense would direct me back to the Vimana, but the truth is that the hotel offers no more safety than anywhere else: outside the Cenotaph, all refuge is illusory. I instead choose to wander a while near the residential block, noting as I do how few people there are, how unnatural the demographic distribution is. Since I’ve arrived, I have seen few children and no elderly, nor have I observed any apparent family. Those who have volunteered to live here must be primarily unattached or have forsaken their previous lives, or they’re criminals removed from their original societies. It makes me think of militaries. The last chance at redemption or upward mobility, the naked exploitation of those with nothing left to lose.
I circle back to the faded energy well, where a sight catches my eye. A petite figure stands at the cliff’s edge, poised with one foot forward hovering on empty air. You can never tell what seeing this chasm does to someone, the luminescent cliff, the undulating light. We’re attracted to the plummet, and this person’s weight is balanced on the single foot still on the cliff, shod in a shoe whose heel tapers to a needlepoint. I walk faster.
Their face, in profile, is perfect in the way of extensive modifications or mannequin integument. Luminous, poreless skin. They lean forward.
I’m mid-sprint when they leap.
A flash of brilliance. I reach the precipice in time to see the person change, mid-plunge. Not a person—an AI; a regalia. Wings unfurl from its back, enormous, like feathered pyres. Rationally I know those are antigravity kites, but the spectacle of it catches me by surprise all the same. The regalia’s corona outshines the energy well’s remnants: gold and pearl, a hundred sunrises condensed. Blinding, literally so.
My optical filters adjust. When my vision clears, I see a second figure rising out of the chasm, meeting the winged regalia blow for blow. They’re fast. I’ve seen combat of all kinds, the meticulous and the spontaneous, between trained soldiers and between criminals tutored by the streets. None of it was like this. The regalia fight with weapons too large for any human to wield, glaive against spear, the blades of them flowing and reflowing as they make contact. The second AI is a creature made featureless by their armor—a sheath of fluid black, oil-sheened, that absorbs each strike it receives and instantly reforms. A complex type of ablative protection, visually obfuscated by its own rapid phase-shifts.
Abruptly I realize I’m in too open a space. This is not an entertainment put on for me to safely watch. My sensors detect no immediate threats, but I don’t have access to municipal or satellite surveillance the way I did on Ayothaya. Ostrich’s block isn’t far and I am nearly there when my overlays flash a warning vector.
I dive under the ramshackle roof of an old storage. Exposed architecture cracks and dissolves: I determine immediately that the ammunition is large-bore, and that the shot was made by a human. An AI would not have missed and, more importantly, would have struck with something much deadlier and harder to avoid than a conventional bullet.
Calculations wheel in the corner of my vision as I run through the warehouse—the duelist is a sharpshooter. The vector originated from two and a half kilometers away: decent, nothing remarkable, and they do not have access to anything in the orbit that would have conferred greater range and precision.
My imaging and the navigation Wonsul’s Exegesis provided let me know that I’m near a mausoleum, one of the larger buildings in this area and which—importantly—has a basement. I review the footage I captured of the fighting regalia, but it is less informative than I’d prefer. At least it doesn’t look like either of them is deploying transatmospheric artillery. That should keep me safe for some time.
I run up against a corrugated door. There is no time for subtlety. I step back and slam my fist into the lock. It gives in a crumbling of brittle mortar and oxidized metal.
The space behind it is wide, high-ceilinged, the floor tiled in mosaic the color of antique gold and worn jade. A patina of dust clings to everything as though nobody’s been in here for a long time—possible: this is not a Divide facility, not a place of commerce or accommodation. I wend deeper, looking for the staircase that’d bring me to the basement and from there to the maintenance warren beneath Libretto.
I pass rows of sarcophagi: some are stone, others milky glass or blackened steel, and none have been disturbed. One exception—a bronze casket with its lid agape, the contents within on full display. Despite my need for haste, I slow down. The corpse is perfectly preserved, pale in the way of new ivory rather than the gray of dead flesh, and drowned in fox pelts: a wealth of blazing electrum and copper, immaculate and untarnished. The body’s mouth is filled with roses so fresh they’re radiant with dew, petals dawn-pink and bruise-red, such a surfeit of them that they spill out. Down the chin, scattered along the throat and collarbones. Whoever it is was buried nude.
A roar like muted thunder. The mausoleum’s wall falls apart in a shower of smashed stone and riven reinforcement. Behind it is the regalia with the gold wings and the glaive, their expression as serene as a bodhisattva’s.
I’ve faced death before: I’ve learned to keep moving, to not freeze up, as I clasp eyes with what might be the last thing I ever see. I have kept one step, two steps, ahead of my mortality. To do otherwise is to die like a dumb beast.
But at this moment there’s nothing I can do, no action I can take to avert what is about to fall. No bullet is fast enough, and fleeing is futile.
My overlays light up and roses suffuse my vision. A voice whispers in my ear, You only get one chance to answer, duelist. Do you belong to me?
“Yes,” I say, on sheer instinct.
A flood of song: for a moment I can’t tell whether it is virtual or exists as a physical fact, the percussion that vibrates through my bones, the high ringing notes that fill my skull. A new module registers in my overlays, bannering a short message. Duelist acknowledged. Welcome to the Court of Divide. To victory eternal.
The golden regalia strikes. Its glaive is caught by a crimson sword, broad, the edge of it faint blue-black. I observe every detail—the intricacy of each regalia’s weapon: how well made both are, how thoughtfully fashioned, the etched motifs. In such moments the world is written out with stunning clarity.
What I thought a picturesque corpse stands tall before me, a splendor of petaled pelts and precious metals. Now animated and acutely alive, long-backed and wide-hipped: beautiful in the way of water’s mirage in the desert.
It—she—glances over her shoulder, meeting my gaze. Then she turns to the other regalia and says, “It’s indecorous to pick on an unarmed human, don’t you think?”
The other regalia doesn’t answer. It adjusts its glaive, folding its wings into its back. Its next blow carves the mosaic open and splits the tiles. The rose regalia—mine—guards against it almost without effort, holding her weapon one-handed. She pushes the enemy back, and back again, driving it out of the mausoleum. Dust rises in spumes.
On my feet, I keep to the cover the shattered wall provides; what little visibility I have I use to scan for the next attack from the duelist who shot at me. Nothing yet. I draw my gun, clasping the cold weight of it and contemplating the ammunition with which it is loaded. An AI proxy built for combat—and all of them would be, on Septet—is a potent weapon, obliteration incarnate. Not invulnerable, however; nothing is. Weapon labs across the galaxies have dedicated themselves to designing anti-proxy armaments. Of course they’re as destructible as anything else, but most people can’t carry around artillery of the appropriate caliber. An AI usually keeps its core somewhere safe while its physical representation is deployed on the field. What gunsmiths focus on, obsess over, is how to snip the link between proxy and AI.
The two regalia are more like phantasms than reality, palinopsia of gold on red, too fast for me to track. But optical assists allow me to distinguish between them, enough to sight down and fire. The range isn’t so terrible.
Show me some trust, duelist. The same voice as before, sonorous, operatic. A music of lily and bergamot. What good am I as a regalia if I can’t fend off a little thing like this?
From my perspective the golden regalia is hardly little. Petite-figured, but so is the rose regalia, who moves like a fox’s poem. I lower my gun. It is not a good time in any case. This is too early to show two AIs that I possess anti-machine weaponry.
The decisive strike comes abruptly: a flash of red, fired seemingly from nowhere, that arrows through the golden regalia. It lands. A fox, long-toothed, with a proxy leg clenched between its jaw.
The gilded creature teeters. It rights itself, balancing precariously on one foot, wings extending. In a heartbeat it is off the ground, the match abandoned.
My regalia strides over to me. Even outside of combat she moves with peculiar grace, as if her feet are not quite touching the ground—as if she is walking on a bed of roses, an orchard she owns and whose produce she is exclusively entitled to. The petals and pelts shift around her, mantling and draping her limbs, not quite baring her to the elements but close: little is left to the imagination. The fox, her second proxy, trots after her.
“I am Empress Daji Scatters Roses Before Her Throne. Call me Daji.” She holds out a wrist corsaged in roses—some as tiny as pearls, others nearly as large as her hand. “The regalia to your duelist.”
I take her hand and bring my mouth to a spot of pseudoskin: surprisingly soft, in fine mimesis of the organic counterpart. My lips brush over the petals, unavoidably. Delicate. They must be part of her, joined to the proxy’s sensory subsystem. “And I’m the duelist to your regalia. My name you must already know.”
Daji’s mouth—gold too, with subtle flecks of green—curves, and her knuckle touches my cheek. “Thus our contract is sealed: with a kiss. I enjoy chivalry, Khun Thannarat, and while I select my partners for their aesthetic appeal it’s not every round I find someone as suited to my tastes as you.”
I let go. “My impression is that machines don’t care for human values of attraction.”
“Many don’t,” she agrees. “I do. Or rather, what humans consider beautiful happens to match my definition of beauty and you, my wielder, are delicious to look at. Your manners are fantastic too, always a plus. Shall we retire to somewhere more comfortable?”
From raging battle to this. Such whiplash. I eye the little fox that has climbed to her shoulders, curling about her like a scarf. “I have a room at the Vimana.”
“Ah, a woman of taste and means.” Her raiment of fur and flowers meld, reshaping into something more closely resembling clothing. “There, I should look human enough.”
“And your second proxy?” I don’t ask why she’s been able to circumvent that particular rule.
“It’s not a real, full proxy.” Daji grins and it is a hungry slash; her teeth are too sharp and too long. “This is more of an accessory. Believable even for an ordinary person, isn’t it? Come. If you run into anyone you know, you may introduce me as an untamed fox you found in the wild.”
Daji makes herself at home in my suite. The first thing she does is reconfigure her clothing again to something less modest, a sheath so diminutive it hardly deserves the appellation, backless and strapless. Her creamy breasts are covered by a mesh of claret strands but only just. A gold choker encircles her throat. I visualize tugging on it, twisting it, finding the point of her pulse. But there would be no pulse, unless she simulates it.
She unfolds the suite’s bar and plucks out two long-stemmed glasses. “The selection here is as decent as you can get on a world so remote. What do you like, Detective? Vodka, wine, whiskey? Sake, perhaps?”
“Pick for me. I’m interested in your preferences. The choice of liquor can tell you a lot about a person.” Though she’s not a person in the sense that I am a person. Regardless we’re long past the point of whether AIs have souls—the answer has been moot the moment they broke away from us and created their own society. Souls cannot be touched, counted, measured. Military and political might can.
Her laugh is airy. The movement of her thighs is anything but. Her skirt parts and closes and winds around her long legs, animated fabric that whispers against her skin as though offering a taste of what is to come. “My pick, then.” She fills both glasses: vodka of considerable strength, pooling pure and clear. “So then, what’s a woman like you doing on a world like this? Your great wish. That which brought you here in madness, to risk life and limb and eternity.”
I’ve met machines before; none are as human as she—Wonsul’s Exegesis looks obviously alien compared to this. I could almost believe she is mortal, albeit more silicon and tubing than tissue and endothelium. A woman whose innards burn like little stars, whose limbs are guided by actuators and engine precision, liberated from the foibles of the flesh. “You aren’t like any AI I’ve ever seen.”
“That is because you have never seen us masquerading as humans before, or if you have you didn’t notice.” Daji sips from her glass. “I’ll tell you that, initially, it was the eating and drinking that gave us trouble. Organic digestion is severely inefficient and what we did was to incinerate any food that passed our mouths, which meant we had to dedicate a little chamber to the task, and a proxy’s insides are precious real estate . . . Say, you’re very curious about whether we’ve expanded our territory beyond Shenzhen and Septet, aren’t you? What a wild universe it would be if we could turn up anywhere, wreaking havoc and working mischief. Half the time you wouldn’t even realize it’s us. How terrifying it must be for you.”
For the moment she’s letting me steer the conversation away from the subject of my goals. “You’ve been surveilling me,” I say. “Since when?”
“Matchmaking algorithms require an enormity of data, Detective, and our contract goes deeper than any marriage. Why shouldn’t I learn about potential duelists as much as possible? Until you came along, nobody caught my eye—I thought I was going to sit this one out. They’re all very banal. They are obsessed with rules. You didn’t even care that we weren’t taking new aspirants at this juncture.”
I drink. The vodka goes down like cold fire. “Only because I have an advantage.”
“Benzaiten is the thorn in the side of all upstanding machines.” Daji uncoils her fox proxy and sets it on the ground; it pads over to the corner and curls up. “Luckily I’m upstanding in no way. I assume that even though you acted in contravention of the Divide’s laws, you’re familiar with them. The first clause in the duelist-regalia pact is that I will not reveal any information to you that may injure or expose the Mandate. The second clause is that I will not reveal any information that’s privy to the Divide system, meaning that I’m not disclosing the names of other regalia or duelists, nor certain corollaries and secrets.”
“Very fair.” I draw up the Divide module and project it on the wall. The data it yields is scant—just the number of duelists and regalia still active, and a count of aspirants. Aspirants: one. Regalia: five. Duelists: eighteen. “This is much fewer than I expected.”
“One of the pairs has been on a killing spree.” Daji puts her index finger to her lips. “The duelist of that pair you’ll need to discover for yourself. The regalia is the one I fought on your behalf.”
“How potent are you in combat, compared to the rest of the surviving regalia?”
“My, I could take that question as an insult.” She holds up her hand, examining her fingernails. “Five times I’ve participated in the Court of Divide. Two times I’ve guided my duelist to victory; two times I’ve guided them to survival, sparing them the loser’s fate. As regalia go, I’m a true prize, Detective.”
I look at her, taking in the entirety of her. Machines may lie. She could be boasting and I will never be able to verify it. “My understanding,” I say, “is that as the game progresses, duelists may compete in ceremonies that grant them or their regalia access to Septet’s offensive systems. Armaments, orbital scans, long-range artillery.”
“And you think I’ve missed out on those, putting me at a disadvantage. I plan to surprise you.” The AI steps close, taking the empty glass from my hand. She turns the rim of it along the line of my throat. “I plan to surprise you a lot. Oh, and you did make contact with a defeated duelist, didn’t you? Wring her dry for information—I recommend it. As long as you don’t seduce her all the way into this room.”
An oddly chiding tone. “Because you value privacy?”
“Oh, Detective, you can be so coy. Will you want to shower and rest? It must’ve been a long day for you.”
I could say that I’m not tired, but the truth is that I’m far from fresh and in any case Daji is already sliding off my overcoat: she’s made the decision for me. The way she removes my coat is deliberate, as though she’s unpeeling a gift she’s long anticipated. Up close, the difference in height between us is even starker. I’m a hundred eighty-nine centimeters and her proxy is barely one sixty, perhaps to have a small profile in battle. But at a glance she looks delicate, and her pale fingers—gliding over the armored panels of my shirt—belong on a pianist or harpist.
“I can undress myself.” My voice is a little thick. Ridiculous. She is an AI.
Her hand pauses on the buckle of my belt, thumb hooked into the waistband of my trousers. “You’re sure you don’t want me to join you in the bath? I imagine there are things in your luggage and wardrobe you don’t want me to poke at.”
“You can peruse whatever you like.” Not a single spot on Septet is hidden from the Mandate: the contents of my luggage have already been scanned and recorded by the Vimana’s surveillance and therefore visible to Wonsul’s Exegesis. Whether Daji finds my specialized ammunition offensive I will discover in time.
By habit I shower thoroughly and quickly, the product of a profession where I was often roused out of bed in the middle of the night to attend urgent cases. Once I’m clean, I put on a touch of cologne. Mildly absurd before bed, but I am vain in my own ways.
I return to the bedroom in boxer briefs and a Vimana robe—deep brown with hints of garnet, the fabric silken—to find Daji has taken up the bed, reclining half-covered in the sheets. What I can see of her is bare entirely. No more diminutive sheath, though the choker remains.
“Should I gallantly offer to sleep on the couch?”
She raises her head from where it is propped on the pillow. “Certainly not, you know I don’t need to rest. I’ve been keeping this warm for you. Climb on in, Detective. I’m excellent at providing comfort in bed, you can think of me as a sleep therapy device.”
I stay where I am, crossing my arms. “Why this?”
Her head cranes from side to side; I’m treated to the spectacle of the cords in her throat in motion, the way they draw the eye to the siren song of her neck. Where it descends to join the shoulders, where the collarbones bloom like fruits that must be tasted, licked, bitten. “For the duration of this contest, Detective, I want you to belong to me entirely or to no one at all. And when I say entirely, I mean that. In all possible ways.”
My pulse rises. My imagination sparks; I tamp that down—here more than ever I cannot let my libido do the thinking. “Machines don’t congress with humans.” There are rumors, naturally there would be.
“A handful does. Am I not comely in your eyes?” She tosses her head; again that tactical accentuation of her throat—here is her invitation, come get it if you dare.
I do not, as yet, dare. “We’ve only just met. And I do need the sleep.”
Her gilded mouth pulls into a moue. “I shall be patient. I may remain in bed?”
First the demand then the concession, the push then the pull. It is alluring, calculated to be so. “Of course. This isn’t sanctuary ground; how else would you guard me?”
I dim the light further as I get in until it is near-dark. Truth be told, it’s been so long since I spent the night with anyone. My trysts since my divorce have been numerous: women are doors and I am a key that turns many locks. But I would send them away once the deed—and aftercare, if any is needed—is done. Having another body in bed as I settle in for rest is different, vulnerable.
Then again, what lies next to me can slaughter dozens of humans without trying. Asleep or awake, I’m vulnerable to her just the same.
Her arm snakes around me from behind as she tucks herself against me, and even through the fabric, I can feel that externally she has emulated human epidermis without flaw. Soft breasts against my spine, soft hand against my belly. I wonder at her anatomy and immediately quash that idea.
“Oakmoss and ambergris,” she murmurs against my shoulder. “Such a fine, rich choice. Is this your sole cologne?”
“Typically I carry one. Yes.”
“There’s a perfumer in this building. They make a mix that will suit you excellently—saffron, oud, and heart of violet; quite striking. Plus another one that is mostly vetiver . . . you must let me buy you a sampler or three.”
“Are you this attentive to all your duelists?”
“All? No, only one and even then she was not a duelist. A favored human, that’s all.”
“What happened to her?”
“She became lost.” Daji’s hand withdraws. “Go to sleep, Detective. By your circadian data you need six hours to be fully rested, and I want you to be at your best.”
I wake up to a call tinkling gently in my overlays. Six in the morning, beginning of dawn. The curtains part a sliver at my command and Septet’s sun peers in, dappling the bed and the soft floor in ovals and oblongs. My regalia remains at my side, to all appearances asleep. The fox proxy though is active and follows me to the bathroom to watch me clean my mouth and rinse my face. I let Recadat know we’ll meet in my private lounge, a perk for Vimana guests who pay for sufficiently expensive suites.
Daji’s lesser body has made itself small enough to climb into my robe and nestle in one of its inner pockets. I look at the bed askance, but the primary proxy remains stubbornly unresponsive, chest rising and falling to simulate deep sleep. “Not a morning person,” I say aloud and stroke down the fox’s head, its spine, its feast of textural extravagance. More luxurious than silk or velour, similar to how nacre might feel if it’s spun into a pelt.
The temperature in the lounge is warmer than I’d like, subject to an algorithmic whim of the Vimana. I shrug the robe partially off, make myself comfortable on one of the large chairs, and wait for the air to cool.
Recadat is punctual. She stops short when she sees my state of undress. “Can’t you put on some clothes?”
“I’m clothed. You’ve seen me actually naked before.” Was there, in fact, when I lost both my legs. She was the one who gave me covering fire and dragged me to the medics. An entire quarter of the city was a warzone that night from a syndicate dispute gone out of control.
“Different context. I can’t believe you went and got yourself even more scars.”
I pass my hand over my chest, where a rope of pale tissue crosses between my breasts. “I enjoy having them—think of them as combat medals.” The only ones I’ve had corrected and removed were those that interfered with nerve or muscle function. Recadat has a different view; she has had all of hers erased.
My old partner snorts as she drops into a chaise lounge. “Sometimes you talk like an ex-soldier, not an ex-cop.”
“There isn’t a lot of difference between the military and public safety.” Both being state-sanctioned agents of ruin, frequently indiscriminate and occasionally interchangeable. Institutions of violence differ only in budget and uniforms.
Recadat makes a noise that tells me she knows exactly what I mean, and that she vehemently disagrees with my perspective. Her belief is that public security keeps the peace whereas the army breaks it. “What’s been happening in your life, anyway? I know you got a divorce but not much else.”
That must’ve slipped onto the grapevine somehow, even though I cut contact with former colleagues after handing in my resignation and disabling my badge. “Eurydice is gone.”
She startles. “During the invasion?”
“No, she left Ayothaya long before the Hellenes happened. Maybe she knew something we didn’t.” But I say this dryly, not particularly meaning it. Eurydice was not saved where she went.
“I’m sorry.” Recadat twists her small hands in her lap. She’s never been good at informing next-of-kin that their spouse or relation has been reduced to a casualty statistic—too much empathy. On my part I’ve always made it quick: the boil needs to be lanced, as it were, and no one—other than Recadat—goes into public security to become grief counselors. “I know you loved her completely. Thoroughly.”
“Not enough,” I say. “Not as much as she deserved. I was never any good at marriage.” Had coasted, before that, on the ease of temporary trysts. The flash burn of passion, not the steadiness of matrimony.
Recadat looks like she wants to say something, but she refrains. For no logical reason I watch her delicate fingers and think of Eurydice’s, even though these two have nothing in common. My ex-wife was nearly as tall as I am whereas Recadat is petite, a hundred fifty-five. Not fragile: she’s sinewy and economic. Eurydice was more like a rose apple, ripe and luscious. My tastes range widely, but I try not to think of Recadat in those terms anymore. Especially now, when I cannot afford the distraction.
“So.” She shifts in her seat, crossing her legs. “Did you get a regalia?”
“Yes.” I don’t ask how she guessed; both of us read people for a living. “Do you hold duelist overrides?”
“Well, don’t you get things done fast. A whole regalia one day after landing.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Allow me to make a little guess. Your AI looks like a pretty woman. Slinky legs, tiny dress, hair down to their haunch. You have a type.”
“I have more than one type.” I never strayed from the bounds of marriage, but Recadat witnessed me appreciating women of a particular style and bearing often enough. Even if she did not quite notice me appreciating her in that manner, or was kind enough to pretend obliviousness because she did not return it. “And AIs can look however they want, Recadat. The overrides?”
“I’ve got three—I can give you two; I’m keeping one just in case, maybe I’ll even need it to rescue youin a pinch.”
“Works for me.” The fox inside my robe nibbles at my hip, not breaking skin but clearly irate. “We discussed the other duelists in passing; care to tell me a bit more? I want to work with a full deck.”
“Before that . . . ” She hesitates. “You do know what happens if you’re one of the final two duelists standing and you lose?”
Out of habit I needlessly smooth down my hair. I keep it chin-length, artificially treated so as to need minimal care. “Yes, the loser submits their mortal coil to machine uses. Experiments, I assume, most likely unpleasant. Maybe execution or torture as a spectacle—some machines must be into that.”
She grimaces. “You say it so casually. But you play to win, so it’s not going to happen to you anyway. I’m sending you the intel I’ve gathered. Faces, names, habits, vices. The usual.”
Recadat’s data package blooms in my overlays, gravid with footage and stills. I draw up my leg and prop my ankle on my knee. “I’ve been rude. I haven’t asked at all what you’ve been up to.”
“After you quit, I got transferred a couple times then transferred back. They promoted me to captain of our subdivision, lined me up to be commander in a few years. Then the invasion happened and all of that stopped meaning anything.”
“It’ll start meaning something again. The pay raise must’ve been something to celebrate, at least. Did you ever settle down? Ten years are a long while.” No point asking about her biological family—like me, she doesn’t keep in touch. We’re similar in that way, detached from kin and rootless. By choice for me—I don’t care for most of my family, and my parents divorced long before I reached my majority—and less so for her. A transport malfunction orphaned Recadat when she was twelve, and as far as I know the aunt that raised her treated her as a bitter ordeal. Not so much malicious abuse as indifferent neglect, providing her no more than the bare minimum.
Recadat gives an embarrassed little laugh. “You remember that I wanted to start a family. Gave up on it, though. I never did get the one woman I wanted.”
“No? But you were so popular. Half the rookies were in love with you. There was that Internal Affairs woman, remember, she was so besotted she let you go without a single bit of paperwork.”
She waves her hand. “Sure. They weren’t what I wanted, though. It’s as if—you want chicken tendon fried just so, all spicy and sour. But you keep getting served sweet potato balls. Bowls of coconut cream and egg floss. Platters of meringue. I wanted to chew something tough and savory, not dry-swallow sugary air. As for popular, you caught more eyes than I ever did. You never felt tempted?”
From anyone else I’d find the question offensive; from her it is merely natural. We had a push-pull relationship, blunt and inquisitive in some matters and closed off in others. “I’m particular. One woman at a time.” A lie: Recadat tempted me. As close as I ever got to risking my marriage. Ironic that something else entirely led to my divorce.
“You can be such a monk,” she murmurs, which is rich coming from someone who lived in near-celibacy. “I wish I’d gotten to know Eurydice better—I got the impression she didn’t like law enforcement and only tolerated your job because she was head over heels . . . Well. Enough about the past. So, the other duelists. The one you’ll want to keep an eye on is Ouru, family name unknown, origins unknown. Zer regalia is Houyi’s Chariot, a proxy masked and armored in blue-black. No idea what it looks like underneath. About your height give or take a couple centimeters, their build a lot like yours. Other duelists might even think you’re Houyi in disguise.”
Ouru, I would guess, was the one who shot at me near the energy well. “What in particular makes zer stand out?”
Recadat makes a face. “I lost my regalia to zer. But ze’s vicious and completely willing to kill.”
“I don’t imagine anyone here is not willing to kill. I saw Houyi’s Chariot fighting a small regalia, golden armor, wings. Any idea about that one?”
“Chun Hyang’s Glaive,” she says. “Extremely destructive, partnered to a woman named Ensine Balaskas. They’re the ones who have been slaughtering duelists and aspirants at a fast clip. Might even have caught a few non-participants, actually, though it can be hard to tell.”
“Are there hidden benefits to murdering random bystanders?” I contemplate, for a microsecond or so, whether I’d be willing to try if it gives me a leg up in the game.
“Not that I know of. My read of Balaskas is that she’s just a common serial murderer.”
Spree murderer, but I don’t correct her. I’m not here to be a criminology pedant and besides, she’s had more official experience. “She killed a man from the Vatican, a woman from One Thousand Erhus, and what I assumed was a coterie of allied duelists.”
Recadat shakes her head. “They grouped up to challenge Balaskas. I told them it was a terrible idea. One thing I’ll say for Ensine Balaskas is that she’s predictable—if she wants someone dead, she sends a calling card to invite them to a match. You could have a field day building her criminal profile.”
The kind of killer who fancies herself an artist: the disembowelment and mutilation must have been a part of that conceit. “I look forward to receiving mine. I assume she’s the likeliest to come for me first.” Given that I eluded her regalia out in the energy wells. “Say—you’re staying in the Vimana, aren’t you? It could be useful if we’re close by. Would you consider relocating to my floor, maybe to an adjacent suite? We should be able to open an interconnection.”
Inside my robe, the fox grazes my elbow with its teeth. Extremely sharp, a promise.
For no reason I can discern, Recadat looks down and away. Gaze darting anywhere but me. “I’m only a couple floors below yours. Proximate enough—I’d make a terrible roommate. Have you seen how I deal with my laundry?”
“As you like.” The fox settles. My arm is safe for the moment. “Would you mind telling me the name of your fallen regalia?”
She gives me a look. “You want to have the entire picture—you always did. His name was Gwalchmei Bears Lilies. My bad luck to have acquired a regalia so poor, but here we are. Better luck with yours, Thannarat.”
Two overrides appear in my Divide module as she leaves. I give them a cursory look, wondering why Recadat turned so short with me. Perhaps Gwalchmei—what a mouthful—is a sore spot.
I turn my attention back to Ostrich’s notes. He has recorded previous victors here and there, names unfamiliar to me, like Captain Erisant of the Seven-Sung Fleet and some soldier from Mahakala. I focus on the regalia. Daji appears several times, as does Chun Hyang’s Glaive. The comprehensiveness of his files—almost a cheat sheet, encyclopedic—makes me wonder why no duelist has killed him to prevent competitors from obtaining this, but then I realize he must live under the overseer’s protection. For one reason or another, his faithful chronicling serves the Mandate’s purposes. His accounts corroborate Daji’s boasts: that she’s fought many times and most of her duelists have won or at least survived.
Seven times Chun Hyang’s Glaive has joined the Divide. Seven times it has won.
Improbable. Not that Ostrich has a reason to lie, and yet like any other information I gather on Septet it is challenging to verify. I may pay him another visit, just in case. He has not recorded anything on Houyi’s Chariot or Gwalchmei Bears Lilies—this round might be their debuts.
I put the file away and review Recadat’s. The folder includes what Ensine Balaskas and Ouru look like. I compare those to what I saw at the tearoom. No match, either in patrons or staff; a shame.
“I don’t imagine you could organize these files for me,” I say to Daji. “A little indexing assistance.”
The fox twitches against me. Coral petals flutter through my overlays. I only do that for duelists I’ve gotten very, very close to, Detective. And we’re not close, are we? As you said, we’ve just met. Now that Recadat, you two must have been awfully close. You should ask her to index her files better.
“Did you practice sulking or are you a natural at it?”
She does not dignify that with an answer; the fox proxy darts out of my robe, disappearing back into the suite.
An announcement unfurls in the Divide module as I’m browsing the Vimana breakfast menu. Wonsul’s Exegesis has declared the final sub-contest to obtain an override, to take place in the city of Cadenza. Duelists who wish to compete are prohibited from bringing or receiving direct assistance from their regalia.
I order my food and finish eating quickly. There is a shuttle to Cadenza leaving in a couple hours. Daji remains in bed, her back turned to me, her head artfully arranged. I stop by, run my hand through the dark tributaries of her hair, and kiss her shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.” If she wants me to treat her like a human woman, I can oblige. Maybe even AIs enjoy roleplaying.
The fox proxy licks my hand, rubbing its velvet face against my palm. All is forgiven, for now.