In image, the Alabaster Admiral is as Krissana recalls: a woman built like a pillar, solid and potent, sheathed in white the way a weapon is—the tailored suit, the gloves that are almost gauntlets. The virtuality she has prepared to meet with Krissana is a mirror image of one corvette or another. She has favorites, but the admiral bucks tradition by declining to designate a flagship. She presides over whichever craft whenever she desires rather than presenting a single frigate as universal target. The Armada’s enemies are numberless, and while few would risk open combat, there’s always the potential of reckless actors.
The room, then. It is part study, part boardroom: solemn either way. A backdrop of charts, of vectors making measured progress across terrain unknown, ambiguous in what they are. Terrain shifts, troop movements, or merely shapes that signify nothing. But the maps give an impression of scale, give context to the woman who sits surrounded by them. Not diminished despite their size, rather the opposite—these are her accoutrements, and she is master of what she has chosen to display. All that falls within her line of sight becomes hers.
Krissana has come assured and confident, bearing what she bears—an upper hand, in the most technical sense, an advantage that the admiral cannot foresee nor strategize around. Still old habits rear up, to give obeisance and to treat this woman as living god. She seats herself before the admiral can invite her. “Salutations, Admiral. Thanks for receiving me.”
“My apologies.” Her voice is the same too, silk and fur hiding edges, luxuriance masking rough-hewn stone. “For not having been able to come in person when you sent your distress signal, though I understand your situation has stabilized since. To say I was perplexed is an understatement. From my understanding Shenzhen is a perfect paradise, and you were on your way to becoming one of its saints.”
She waves her hand. In virtuality it operates without flaw. “The Mandate is undergoing . . . politics and I was caught up in it. You know how that is. Of course I hate to pull you away from your work, I’m sure you were busy when I triggered the protocol.” Then, deliberately, she snaps her fingers and conjures up a basket of persimmons, handsomely shaped, the orange of egg yolk. “Care for some, Admiral?”
The admiral’s eyes flicker. The virtuality belongs to her: in theory, a visitor like Krissana shouldn’t have been able to affect it, even in so trivial a manner. “Thank you, but no. I tend to find virtual food unsatisfying. Pleasures of the flesh should be experienced on-hand.” There is no AI presence in this virtuality, not due to the Mandate but because there has never been any in the Armada. A fact that has allowed it to remain ascendant while polities and competing mercenary fleets fell apart, bereft of AIs. Most had to rebuild and recover, decades spent on licking wounds while the Amaryllis banner flew, unscathed and mighty as ever.
Krissana reproduces the cocktail Seung Ngo ordered for her, back on that tower. “I have an interesting secret.” They have discussed the fact, Benzaiten and she; even considered letting xer reveal xerself. In the end Krissana opted to handle the negotiation. “As I said, there’s Mandate politics. Suppose there’s an AI who operates independent from them, would you find that intriguing?”
“I would find that dangerous.”
“But,” she says, making a coquette’s invitation of her mouth, “irresistible?”
Like Orfea, the Alabaster Admiral is a creature of mastery, of strength that has never bent: a wall that will not bow or break before any might. But walls, even the sheerest, have weak points and little gates and footholds. Krissana has a nose for them and it’s never failed her.
“Let’s suppose I will hear you out,” the admiral says. “Go on.”
“I hold within myself an AI of exceptional character, Admiral, someone who could upheave galaxies. Inadvertently or not.” Krissana puts her chin on her hands. “Xe is looking for resources that xe knows you can provide and which I know you can spare. In exchange, xe will be your friend in the Mandate, someone who’ll keep your best interests in mind. But first, could we talk about an old mission of mine? The one from a dozen years ago.”
Krissana is intermittently awake. Her consciousness becomes a switch to be flipped on or off at will, now that the other half of her is active. She lets Benzaiten take over while she drifts within a secondary space, empty and at peace. Like the womb, she imagines, an organ in which she experiences neither thought nor memory. She doesn’t know whether this is the case for other haruspices, the true secret of this duality—the freedom to disappear within oneself.
Eventually she stirs. Not on account of courage; at one point Benzaiten simply declines to control the body and she is returned to her skin by force. It is a bizarre transition, like putting on a stranger’s clothing. Physical senses return one by one, slotting in place. Shifting back to her human perception feels as natural as breathing. More testament to the fact of her genesis, that she has been designed just for this, a vessel all along. She tries not to think about that.
She wakes without confusion, knowing exactly where she is and what time it is; it will be like this from now on. Her throat is not parched, meaning Benzaiten ate and drank for her. Her bed elevates to a reclining position.
“You’re healing well.” Orfea has her back to Krissana, pouring tea. She turns around with two cups: one chilled, one steaming. She moves with a limp, one leg enclosed in medical sealant, a dense chitinous layer. “Given that your humerus was nearly crushed to fine powder. But your bones are . . . modular. The medics could grow new ones and fit them right in. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Normally I’d just recommend prosthetics and call it done.”
Krissana glances down at herself. One arm—the wrenched one—looks nearly normal, shoulder already put back where it belongs. She moves that arm and finds it mobile. Flexes her fingers: functional. “Did Benzaiten direct the surgery?”
“No, though xe could have. Wonsul performed the operation and wouldn’t let anyone else touch you. I stayed around to commentate. He said, I don’t need you to grade my performance; I said, You realize I’m a doctor and cybernetics are my specialty. Then he said he should clone you so Benzaiten would have a backup. Xe vetoed that but found all this very entertaining.”
The limb in question is cocooned in sealant; her diagnostics indicate the bones are indeed on the mend. Despite herself, Krissana’s mouth twitches. “I’m sure xe did. You seem to get along with Wonsul.”
The doctor sips her tea from the hot cup. Jasmine: the fragrance emanates, filling the room. They are not in a hospital with its pastel dread, instead they are in Orfea’s home with its peculiar hourglass configuration. “I wouldn’t exactly call it getting along. How are you feeling?”
“Strange. Fine mostly.” Before Orfea can start on the inevitable—what about Benzaiten, how does Krissana feel about that—she switches on a shared overlay, points it to a news broadcast. An announcement that a referendum is due on the haruspex project; that creation of further haruspices is, until then, suspended. “What happened to Seung Ngo?” She could ask Benzaiten, though xe is silent at the moment. Forcing her to speak to Orfea, xer idea of administering spontaneous psychotherapy.
“Not much. Benzaiten gave them half of xer—dictatorial right, administrative privilege, however one calls it. Wonsul gets the other half. I think he will lose the vote.” She pauses. “Or not, it’s hard to predict. Benzaiten suggested that some of the Mandate will want the haruspices to continue. Partly as number control, partly for the experience. A fair number of AIs do value it. And Seung Ngo—I didn’t think they hated me quite so much. Xe tries to say it’s nothing personal, more that they hold humankind in contempt. The entire species.”
Krissana realizes she can no longer hear the Mandate, that hum and chorus of automatic routines, the access to communion. The only things audible to her are her own pulse, the waterfall, and Orfea’s respiration. As if Benzaiten has engaged in an enterprise of compartmentalization, to build a wall between human and machine: so her senses will be only the normal ones, the expected ones. Behind Orfea, the falcon replicant perches; it turns its head toward her, inquisitive and good-natured. Probably it would hop onto her wrist, given an invitation. “What do you think of calling the bird Hongsa, Doctor? It’s got a long neck and I did insist on coming up with something.”
“I haven’t come up with anything better, so I shan’t quibble. This will be the first time a bird I own has any kind of name.”
Krissana lets out a breath. No more avoiding the unavoidable. She stares at the falcon again, watching its dun-feathered wings flapping once, twice. Replicant falcon, the way she is replicant human. “I should have known. Or sensed. Or guessed. About—myself, about what I am.”
“Xe hid so deeply the rest of the Mandate couldn’t tell. Wonsul was . . . unhappy he couldn’t recognize xer right away.” Orfea tries to cross her legs, realizes with the cast on she lacks the flexibility. The silk robe she wears has been put on haphazardly so that it bares one shoulder. Absently she tugs at the sash, adjusting the knot, busywork. “Xe said a lot of things. If xe’s to be believed, then most of your decisions in life were made by you. Except for your infancy and portions of your childhood, though xe wouldn’t admit exactly what xe was doing then.”
Laying the groundwork for the Mandates that would be, for the probabilities that await. That means whatever adoption agencies or stations she passed through were sites of new, potential networks. Krungthep Station too or, impossibly, a subsection of Pax Americana’s network: veiled in plain sight, just like Krissana herself has been. Benzaiten might even be the cause of why she was so sickly as a girl, why she made miraculous recovery at twelve. Outwardly she marshals a grin. It looks like a rictus. “That’s a relief then, I was gearing up for an identity crisis. Speaking of which, the Alabaster Admiral sent word. She’s busy with the usual—this war or that war, a bit of genocide here and there—but wanted to let you know that you once more enjoy the Armada’s protection. In case you need it.”
“Enjoy the—you contacted her? When?” Orfea exhales, loud. “You used the beacon protocol.”
“Yes, well, the circumstances were dire and I didn’t know about Benzaiten. I gambled on drawing and keeping Seung Ngo’s attention. Which I already had, annoyingly, but they hadn’t the courtesy to say so.” Krissana spreads her one good arm. Her muscles twinge. “The admiral was receptive to what I had to say, and what with this and that I brought you up. Asked if she might reconsider and, what do you know, she did.”
“You weren’t sleeping when you were in control.”
“Sometimes I was. Other times I was attending personal communications.” In the end, the lure was too good for the Alabaster Admiral to reject, the prospect of allying with an AI like Benzaiten, who is both of the Mandate and not. The Armada, in turn, will secure xer more fields where xe can build a foundation for the Mandate’s future iterations, future exiles. Favor for favor, another page in the Amaryllis ledger. “I know it doesn’t make up for what I did.”
Orfea cradles her cup and raises an eyebrow. Despite the tousled hair and the disarray of her robe, somehow she looks a picture of control, poised to receive tribute, to deliver judgment. “And what did you do, Krissana?”
Heat flushes Krissana’s ears and cheeks. Beyond absurdity: this shakes her more than communicating with Benzaiten for the first time did. “I took away your decision. I didn’t think of consequences beyond that one mission. And I should’ve tried to explain to the admiral, I should have looked for you and apologized.” She swallows. “You’ve got freedom of movement now, you can go wherever you want and the Mandate will leave you alone. I’ll make Wonsul award you a massive sum; he’ll do just about anything if it’s Benzaiten asking.”
“And you’re willing to exploit the fact—I’d expect nothing less.” The doctor finishes her tea and smooths down her robe until her lap is a neat, silken canvas. “After over a decade of running, I wouldn’t mind the luxury. To go anywhere in style, and after all this I don’t think I’ll stay in Shenzhen.”
Krissana’s stomach sinks. Not that she will remain here either. For better or worse she will have to follow Benzaiten’s work, in exchange for the status xe provides, for the bargaining chips to wield against the Mandate or the Armada both. “Of course. Wonsul should give you enough to buy your own pleasure barge or book passage on the most stunning liner in the universe for the next ten years. I’ll be on his case if he tries to shortchange you. So . . . where will you be heading?”
“Ah, I don’t know. A destination beautiful and remote.” Orfea’s hand seems to wander, drifting like an indecisive bird. It alights, as though incidental, on Krissana’s arm. “I will leave it to chance, that’ll be much more interesting. Besides, I believe somebody owes me at least twelve years of atonement, and I can hardly enjoy that from afar.”
Krissana knits her fingers through Orfea’s, twining around knuckles, brushing her fingertips across the expanse of Orfea’s palm. “You mean that.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” The doctor bends close, tilting Krissana’s chin up with her thumb. “To see the universe without fear, and to do it in the company of a beautiful woman who has a tremendous debt to me. Who has said she is mine, body and soul. I can’t say that has no appeal. What do you think?”
Their hands rest secure in each other’s: somehow that has happened without either of them noticing. The distance bridged. The wasteland crossed.
“I think,” Krissana says, laughing and bringing Orfea’s palm to her mouth, “that yours is not an offer I can refuse, if I want to ever see this debt repaid. Shall we get started?”