Shall Machines Divide the Earth (Machine Mandate, #3)

by Benjanun Sriduangkaew

In the link she shares with her lover, images unfold: life-size, so that in her vision their table is suddenly surrounded by a battalion of Thannarat. Some clothed, others much less so. The hard bulk of her, the physique of a mountain, unyielding and permanent: Thannarat’s back makes her think of boulders. Even the bare shoulders captivate—the potency they promise, the suggestion of what she is capable of. Recadat wrenches her gaze away from a glimpse of wiry hair between two thick thighs ridged with cybernetic connectors. “Stop that.” “They’re approximations. Did I err in my extrapolation of her musculoskeletal structure? Perhaps she has more scars, interesting ones that arrest your eyes? You could show me your own simulacra. Over the years you must’ve made several for private use, imbued them with rudimentary heuristics and linked them to your sensory arrays. To simulate what it might be like to lie with the woman you long for the most.” “I’ve done no such thing.” Completely disrespectful, utterly violating. She never even considered it. “My poor Recadat,” they murmur, dismissing Thannarat’s doppelgangers, “not even an outlet for all that pent-up frustration. It’s not as if you are sworn to chastity, given everything you let me do to you in bed and how much you enjoy it, the sounds you make—” “Stop that,” Recadat says again, cheeks blistering.

Recadat gets up. She strides to the table, and once she’s close both the man and woman look up at her, startled—perplexed. There is no hint of recognition in his face that she’s a threat, and he still looks surprised when the muzzle of her gun enters his field of vision. The impact of the shot sends him reeling back. Instantly gone. The human skull is not designed to withstand such force, and he appears unaugmented. His companion screams, scrambling away as blood leaks and soaks the table, its spotless cloth, the meal they’ve just shared.

She holsters her gun, stepping away from the corpse, and waits for the duelist count to go down. A full minute passes. The count stays at eleven. Impossible—the system updates within seconds, if not the very moment the duelist’s brain terminates and the final shred of consciousness succumbs. Recadat stands there, turning cold as her lover sidles up behind her, placing a snakeskin-gloved hand in the small of her back. “My bad,” they purr against her neck. “Even I make mistakes, jewel. But it is as I said, everyone who lives on Septet consents to this potential fate. Don’t think anything of it. No one is going to. Are you hungry? Let me treat you; I trust the kitchen staff hasn’t evacuated.”

I work my arms and shoulders until they’re supple, until my rotator cuffs and ulnas turn like well-oiled cogs and my muscles run as warm as a faultless engine. There is a careful balance to strike when most of one’s body is cybernetics—the organic parts must also be maintained, and there’s only so much my nanites can do. Metabolism, maintenance of the viscera, streamlining somatic processes. But to stay in fighting trim I still need to contribute my part.

Daji brings me towels and a tray of drinks. She’s gone out of her way to put on a Vimana uniform, though her version is a little less modest—the neckline plunges deeper, the hemline floats shorter. Maroon stockings, burnished with hints of copper, sheathe her legs. “You’re such a vision,” she murmurs as she wipes me down, lingering on the dark seams where flesh blends into musculoskeletal couplings. “Do you suppose I could clean up all this salt with my tongue? It seems wasted on towels.”

ceylon. I sip from each cup. Strong and fragrant, richly flavored, each full of bitter complexity. “I’m surprised you brought me such sober things, not cocktails.” “I considered that but I got distracted when I found coconut rum in your suite’s sideboard.” She wrinkles her nose. “I thought of throwing it out, but on the off chance that you might enjoy such a freakish and unlovely concoction . . . ” The idea an AI would have such specific dislikes amuses me. “And here I thought I was going to have you lap it up from between my thighs.” Half-teasing.

I set down one of the cups and put my knuckles under her chin. “My regalia. You’re such a hungry little thing.” “Exclusively for you.” Daji’s hand strokes my bicep, circles around to my back; she cups her palm over a shoulder blade. “Look at you. Your musculature is made to be serviced by my mouth. In prehistoric times you’d be thought a demigod, a hero born of woman and divine flame.” “And you’re an immortal seductress out of myth. The populace would throw themselves into boiling cauldrons if it’d amuse you. You would be declared the most gorgeous in all the land.” I cradle her jawline. It’s so easy to fall into this, to fall into her; more than that I want to. “Still would be; I like to think I’m a good judge of feminine beauty and no one I’ve ever met compares to you.” “Flatterer.” But her smile is wide and genuine; guileless. Or it would be, if she were human. She sits down at my feet and puts her head on my thigh, heedless of the sweat-soaked fabric. I stroke her head as I would a pet, surveying the mostly-empty gym, wondering how much we could get away with.