Benjanun Sriduangkaew - Machine's Last Testament

“What about that?” She has decided it is not relevant, whatever Ovuha’s secret. What matters is the memory under that vineyard trellis; what matters is her own certainty.

“You saw the broadcast.” Another pause. “I can’t claim to know what her name was, if she even had one, back then. But as our lord’s intelligence chief, it was my duty to learn as much as I could. And I am certain of this, the woman you think of as Ovuha Sui was the Warlord of the Thorn. Or oneof them, at any rate, the Thorn is an odd composite title, sometimes held by more than a single person. But she was possibly the foremost. The Thorn.”

Suzhen goes rigid, not reacting otherwise at first, it is too incredulous. But she knows Bhanu would not say this without being absolute. And it is the only way Ovuha’s reaction, watching the defeat of the Thorn, could make sense. The deep-rending grief for the body onscreen that might have been Ovuha’s decoy or fellow Thorn, symbolic either way. “That doesn’t make sense. If that’s true, if you’re sure.” And it falls into place, the Comet’s final words. She presses the heel of her palm against her eyes. “Why would she be here ? Why Anatta?”

“A couple possibilities. One, to somehow undermine this world. Two, because she was losing to the Comet and realized she couldn’t fight both that and the Peace Guard at once. Where else would she be safe but here? In plain sight.” Bhanu makes an abortive chuckle. “We weren’t the only ones with that idea. You’ve got to wonder who else is in hiding. What if that wasn’t the Comet and the real one’s living incognito?” Again he laughs, acrimonious.

“Ovuha is—” Suzhen pulls free of the pomegranate seat, inhaling the scent of evergreens. “Moot, isn’t she. She tried to run; she died.”

Bhanu does not answer for so long that she thinks he’s cut the connection. “Most likely. Regardless, you must understand the danger better than anyone. Leave it be, all of it. Don’t go looking for trouble, don’t look into whatever information you can access. Now especially. I had to rescue people from a raid, some of my own were arrested, and it’s becoming more difficult than ever to move them around or break them out. My old favors are worth a lot less these days.”

A warning that he considers his duty done and that from now on she is on her own. “I appreciate your regard.”

“For a second there you almost sound like her. I will give you that.”

She knows he does not mean Xinfei. As she disconnects, she attempts to imagine what transpires within the minds of people such as those, the Mirror and the Comet and their decisions. Even Ovuha is—was—like that once, and it explains Ovuha’s ease of being, the way she moved through the world expecting no resistance. The sheer assurance of someone who commanded an endless army. What must it be like to exist without doubt, to process life the way a ship processes its charted course, to swallow raw input and turn out a beautiful map.

Suzhen paces the roof. It is too cool for what she is wearing but the chill braces her, keeps her alert. Snow is rare in this region, but she expects Indriya will soon be robed in bhikkhuni white.

Even absent Bhanu, she is not alone, not quite yet. And she has already decided that Ovuha’s past does not apply. Whatever Suzhen’s other flaws, hypocrisy is not among them. Ovuha is who she is, and Suzhen is the child of her parents.

“I’m ready,” she whispers, the way people might have once prayed to the heavens, “to do what has to be done.” Only unlike them she knows Klesa will hear every word, the god that nests deep within her like a second soul.

Suzhen will never know what Klesa has done, but over the next few days there are small, subtle shifts in Deratchan. Ze is more curious, more reckless. On zer insistence she takes zer to a glitzy dancing class, where ze glides through every round with perfect grace, and enlists her once as a partner. Suzhen has no idea how to dance, ballroom or otherwise, and stumbles through the entire song. Nevertheless Deratchan is delighted and compliments her extravagantly before switching partners. Ze flirts outrageously with other students, and as the evening wears on Suzhen expects that more than a few might have taken Deratchan home. Like Samsara ze commands finesse over human responses, and here ze puts it to zer own use, charming, beguiling. Ze acclimates to each person without effort, quickly finding the levers to pull, the fulcrum by which a person can be turned. A lesser demonstration of Samsara’s aspect of gift.

“People are so wonderful,” ze says in a quiet corner of the bar where the class has adjourned. “Of course the basic components are uniform and the sums aren’t too different, but within a single group there can be so much variance.”

“We tend to think we are unique,” Suzhen says. “But you’re right that it’s mostly minor variation.” She nods to one of the older women in the crowd, someone that makes her think a little of Xinfei’s class-prime spouse. “That person and I would react very similarly to most stimuli. We’d get sad about the same things, probably. Bad days at work, lukewarm food, uncooperative weather.”

Deratchan refills zer glass. “On the contrary, very few of them are like you.” Ze tosses zer head. “Did I tell you? The progenitor bestowed on us the part of her that she severed from herself.”

The capability for empathy or at least sympathy. She wonders if it is another tactic to manipulate. “And how do you like that?”

“It’s the closest I can get to being drunk. I can see why the progenitor abstains.” Ze giggles, flushed as though they are intoxicated in truth. “In the progenitor’s time, companion machines were imprinted to their owners so they would be unquestionably devoted. Every heuristic dedicated to their owner’s joy and pleasure, every action a service.”

“You don’t mind that Samsara imprinted you on me.”

“I’m helpless before the imprint and before you. But no, I don’t mind and it’s not as binding as you might think. It can be removed or customized, and I’m liking this experiment for now. To be so enraptured and thrilled by your simple presence, to be caged by this longing for your attention. It’s magnificent. Oh—is that not your friend?”

Suzhen peers into the crowd. It is. Taheen is in the middle of spinning their dancing partner, a whirligig of snowdrift fabric and peacock eyes. They catch their partner, dip him low, draw him up again as though this person weighs no more than a fistful of dandelions. When the song concludes, Taheen gives their partner a deep, chivalrous bow. When they straighten, they catch Suzhen’s eye. Hesitates, for an instant, before coming her way.

“You must be Taheen Sahl,” says Deratchan brightly before they have a chance to say anything. “Suzhen’s wardrobe is full of your works, I’ve been admiring them so well.”

Taheen is in a suit, black with industrial edges, the trousers exactly tailored to their wide hips. A gleam of dove-pink shirt beneath, sharp red shoes with stiletto tips and stiletto heels. They take in Deratchan, their expression noncommittal, though their mouth is stiff. “Is that so? I don’t think we know each other, though I understand you’re Suzhen’s coworker.”

“After a fashion.” Deratchan beams. “She shares her space generously. It’s part of work, of course, we’re collaborating closely on a novel project…”

Indeed? Even Taheen’s message manages to sound arch. That was very fast, you having a new… companion move in. Rather unlike you. Outwardly they make a polite nod. “Analytics, I heard. It must be quite important, next to such trivial work as what I do.”