Suzhen discovers that she would, indeed, rather freshen up first. A domestic drone may cook but it will not ask that, anticipate that she is tired and grimy from three hours of travel. It could be coded to acknowledge those things, given a simulacrum of personality, but she’s never bothered; it seems pathetic to want that of a machine, something only lonely people would do. Only she has become one of those people, and though Samsara’s rules say that all ways of life—solitaire or pair or multitudinous—are equally valid, it is difficult not to feel that she has failed. It isn’t even that she needs to worry about frailty in old age. The state will take care of her, she’ll always have a domestic drone with medical modules appended to it, a warm caring voice if she opts for that. Even her mother’s voice, should she require. All her days will be comfortable. She can live to a hundred eighty, two hundred. The reward of embracing Samsara. Partnership was socially required once, a convention for survival. Not any longer.
Mid-shower, Vipada calls. Suzhen keeps the visual off on her end. “Yes,” she says. Her head is craned far back for the cilia to massage and lather her scalp. Her vision is one half bathroom ceiling, one half Vipada lounging in her sofa.
“I’m co-hosting a wedding. Pretty traditional affair. Two spouses. Well, they’re both married already, so this will be their second simultaneous marriage. I picked the caterer. The food’s to die for, I promise.”
“I don’t think I know either of the betrothed. Or any of the guests.”
“Well, you don’t. But—”
“You need warm bodies to fill the seats.” Suzhen shuts her eyes, blotting out the ceiling, but Vipada’s face remains projected across her datasphere. The cilia have washed off shampoo, are reaching for the conditioner. Coconut, its cloying sweetness tempered with grapefruit. “I’m not that good a choice, being outside your social circles, your industry even.”
“You can bring a plus one.” Bargaining. “Plus two. Both the food and the drinks will be fantastic. We’re holding it at a vineyard out in the Tianzi Peninsula.”
Access to which is not easy to come by, Suzhen will grant that. A vineyard. “I’ll let you know. Is tomorrow in time for the guest list?”
“Tomorrow is fine.” Vipada beams and blows her a kiss. “I owe you one. Wear something Taheen made, if you do come?”
Dictatorial on dress code, even for a favor, intent on the event looking picturesque—everyone must exhibit their best. Suzhen towels off. She puts on a plain, fluffy robe. For the first week of sharing her space with Ovuha, she never appeared in the kitchen or living room less than fully dressed, but she’s grown lax.
Today Ovuha has deep-fried puffs filled with shredded white radish and honeyed pork, crispy and delicately layered. Miraculously it is not even slightly greasy. She doubts Vipada’s catering will match it.
“There’s something I saw today,” Ovuha is saying. “Could I ask you about it?”
“Go on.”
“Samsara descended.”
Her pulse jabs, unreasonably. “It happens now and again. A kind of holiday.” Holy day. “A piece of Samsara spends the day with you, taking care of you.” Stronger than any drugs, more potent than any orgasm, the endocrine system held in thrall.
Ovuha sweeps up crumbs of pastry into a spoon and licks them clean, a flash of tongue. It is oddly childlike, to relish the crumbs so much, the unhealthy part of a meal. “What is that like?”
“For a day, you forget that you’ve ever been alone.” Or that there is a past, or that there is a future; the mind becomes capable only of warmth and ecstasy and the present. The worst is the wound left behind when Samsara is gone, the return of autonoetic consciousness, the knowledge that sublimity has passed. “It can be transcendent. I’ve had the privilege once.” An experience she would die to repeat, and die to avoid. Too much of herself subsumed, too much given. It is not an act of receiving a benediction but an act of yielding will and identity to Samsara far more deeply than any calibrating session.
The finest twitch of the mouth. “It sounds very special, a blessing to aspire to, one day. No wonder my coworker abandoned me, my company’s hardly any competition. Does this happen much?”
Suzhen closes her chopsticks over the last pastry. It is an art in itself to pick one up without destroying the puff halfway to the mouth. “Not that often, twice a year, maybe. It’s not regular and the location’s almost random.” What is rare and unpredictable is precious. Manufactured scarcity, like so much else. When the reward is infrequent and arbitrary, humans—like rats—pull the lever until their fingers wear down to nubs. “I’m going to ask you something. Were you ever in combat roles, back on Gurudah?” She doesn’t soften the question, doesn’t work up to it. Simply she fires it, shutting off opportunity to escape, to prepare.
“Oh. That’s all? Yes, I was, of course. Out in the—” Ovuha splays her fingers, as though trying to approximate the shape of poverty. “Out in the colonies, everyone multi-tasks. Each according to their ability. We were protected, to be sure, but sometimes there was fighting. Gurudah wasn’t the richest place but we had more comforts than some, and there were raids on our stores.”
“You didn’t disclose that before.”
Ovuha sets her chopsticks down. “I didn’t think of it as important—rather like disclosing that I did odd jobs. But I see what you mean. Should I report myself?”
Suzhen does not, quite, take that at face value. It is a particular omission, and Ovuha would have known such a thing makes her military-adjacent. And Bhanu could still be right. “No need. I’ll see to that if it’s required. It was just a thought that came to me, and speaking of stray thoughts—how would you like to attend a party? It’s held at a vineyard.”
“You remember.” Ovuha leans forward a little, her expression caught between laughter and reservation. The province of the eternally cautious. “I’m sorry, do you even like vineyards? It was just something that came to mind at the time.”
“Vineyards are fine and this one is in Tianzi Peninsula, so it’s bound to be amazing. And I want the person who invited me to owe me a favor—I don’t like her very much. She’ll expect me to bring another Bureau agent, somebody staid, and I want to surprise her.”
Ovuha grins. It looks almost out of place on so composed a countenance, this wideness of the mouth, this show of the teeth, mischievous and delighted. It pares away years. “Is there anything else?”
“It’s a wedding. The guest list will mostly be artists, designers, actors and their hangers-on. Taheen will probably be there.” Suzhen catches a passing betta, cupping it in her palm. It wriggles, cool and dry on her skin. “I categorically dislike career creatives.” Taheen being the unique exception.
Ovuha is chuckling now, a low thrum. “I’ll look my best. I believe I know how to make creatives intrigued and envious of your arm decoration.”
“You are my guest, not a decoration,” Suzhen says, though she realizes that is precisely what she wants. To irritate Vipada by having someone on her arm who is exciting, unreachable. “It may even be good for your job prospects. Networking.”
“As long as I don’t let on my residency status.”
“I’ll vet potential patrons with Taheen.” She opens her hand, lets the betta swim away. It darts to rejoin a school vector. Like anything, its natural arc is to seek belonging. “You won’t have to pretend to like the other guests or even be that polite. Contempt might make them that much more interested.”