“And the children do call her a warlord, so your friend down on the ground seems correct in that regard. You are sure this changes nothing for you? No? I like that about you, that you don’t waver once you’re made a decision. My priorities are these. First to find out just what it is that my counterpart is up to, and second to sort out the matter of your raison d’etre. Either way,” xe goes on, “nothing will be the same for you after. The order of Anatta may irrevocably shift. You will not be able to return to the life you had.”
Suzhen has found the wall; it solidifies, the mirage giving way, as she approaches. An ordinary wall, slate-dark. “It wasn’t much of a life.”
Klesa clicks xer tongue. “Don’t talk. I’m infiltrating their life support, that’ll let me keep track of the warlord. Your other object of affection is safe too, sedated it seems. One of the children is coming. Placate them for a while longer.”
Xe disappears just as Deratchan enters, wheeling in a dining table. The AI says, “Ah, you’re up! I’m sorry you ran into my siblings that way, I’ve told them off; they really have no idea how to behave. They are terrible cooks too, so I took over. They haven’t had any reason to sample flavors…”
Suzhen stands there in her thick robe, barefooted, looking down at a breakfast spread. Steamed buns; two kinds of porridge; rows of crispy youtiao. Two pots of tea, one chilled and one hot. “Why do they look—like that. Your siblings. Not the food.”
Deratchan looks bemused as ze unfolds a side of the table, producing a chair attachment. “It is the progenitor’s decision; I was the only one who got a different body. I’m thinking, would you like a nice, soft companion? One of us could put together a kitten or puppy proxy and pilot it. We’re much smarter than replicants.”
A fresh jolt of nausea. Suzhen forces a smile. “Why don’t you eat with me.”
Ze does and makes small talk: what will she like for her next meal, she can let zer know if she needs a wardrobe. Zer siblings will introduce themselves properly and in forms less unsettling, ze promises. “Before you came to Anatta, you lived in a world without AIs. What was that like?”
Suzhen uncovers a porridge bowl, to buy herself time. “It was less structured, I suppose you could say. We had no guidances and no evaluations. Much was left to chance, and you couldn’t always do work that suited you best, a division or department could be short on hands and you’d have to fill in. So a mechanic might have to work on hydroponics for a week, or a field technician might have to teach poetry for a couple days.”
Ze props zer chin in zer hand. “What did you want to be, growing up? You must’ve had aspirations, a profession you preferred above others.”
This is a question she has been asked before, during the entry interview with a Bureau agent. She can no longer remember whether it was one of the questions that mattered or if it was a filler, something to try to engage a terrified child with. But in many ways all the questions mattered; her answers determined everything. Whether she would be allowed to stay with her mother, whether her mother might be sent back to one of the orbitals. “I was too young to form an opinion. I’m sure I imagined something exciting, and most likely I wanted to grow into an extravagant person.” One with the wit of her mother, or the Mirror’s charisma, or both. A person with command of themselves and others.
“And,” Deratchan goes on, “what did you want to become, on Anatta?”
“I evaluated into a choice of assignments. I have no reason to believe they were not ideal for me.”
Zer laugh tinkles, musical. “There is no need to be like that, Suzhen. You aren’t talking to one of your coworkers. I’m not even human. Was there anything you’d have liked to do that the progenitor didn’t offer? You used to enjoy music.”
There is a sense of déjà vu. The Bureau, her on one side of the desk, interviewing a potentiate. Only now the role is reversed: she is the subject, and she’s being measured. To fit a role. “What am I being tested for, Deratchan?”
A line of radiance runs down the AI’s jawline, prismatic. “Humans used to live like that, when companionship must be delicately nurtured and maintained, or bought from other humans. They didn’t have us—to guide, to direct, to attend. Now affection is easy and constant. The progenitor’s love is with every citizen, always.”
It does not even faintly resemble love, familial or otherwise. Samsara is not her mother. She concentrates on her food.
“I could tell you a secret.” Ze pitches zer voice low, conspiratorial.
“Yes.” Suzhen does not sound like anything: interested, disinterested. She is as neutral as negative space.
“This is a test, Suzhen. But not the way you think.” Deratchan leans across the table. “My siblings and I, we’re the ones on trial. When it is over, all of us will be destroyed and reabsorbed back into the progenitor. And I can’t wait. To be united is the only true existence.”
The corridors narrow and widen at strange points. Ovuha has to step with care—some floor tiles slide out under her, others reconfigure into peculiar mosaics of starbursts, charred suns, endless blackness. She goes on bare feet, not having been provided shoes. The Deratchan proxy behind her follows without sound or advice. Each time she unlocks a door, the jasmine graft grows until it is as thick as a bracelet, until she has a shackle of small flowers running white and fragrant up her forearm. Perhaps this is why Deratchan readily did what she asked; ze doesn’t expect her to survive this peculiar gauntlet.
The first door she opens reveals the bridge of her flagship, two rows of pilot and coordinator cradles to either side. All empty, save for the seat she once occupied: thronelike in construction, draped over with the banner of the Thorn—the hexagon, the thornworks. In this seat a figure rests, armored and masked in deep slate and blue-black, the colors of the Thorn. When she lifts the helm, the face underneath is not hers but her decoy’s, the second Thorn. A refined jawline, a face that was young when she last saw it and is younger still in death. The one she left to die in her place and who—as with the rest of her officers—believed that Ovuha would succeed on Anatta and save them all.
Ovuha replaces the mask. There is no point: the dead do not hear or accept apologies.
Behind the second door, she finds a room of Deratchan proxies. Most are inactive, laid down in disarray, some propped against the wall, others still prone with arms crossed as if preparing for interment. A handful of the active ones—some naked, some clothed in silk and metal—look up at her and in unison say, “Warlord, this is not your dream.” They show her out while laughing and touching her with cool hands gloved in ink.
By the third door the jasmines have spread up her shoulder, flourishing with wildfire fury. Ovuha ignores them as best she can and peers in: humid heat exudes from the chamber, the smells of green growing things. The window is fogged with steam, the floor damp with mulch and fallen fronds. Behind a drape of graybeard moss, a figure stands with its back to her, dressed in shadows. “Welcome home, Ovuha,” it says in a voice that she momentarily cannot place. “What’d you like for dinner? The cherry tomatoes are just about right, they’re your favorite, and the sweetcorn. Ah! The hens are doing well, a lot of eggs this morning; how do you feel about curry omelet? I’ve been working on the broth and, do you know, I think it’s—”
“Suzhen doesn’t talk like that.” Ovuha inches forward, her fingers brushing the leaves and fruits as she passes.