There are questions, then.
Ovuha does not hurry to them; she leaves them alone, knowing that the answers will come when Suzhen is ready. But she does think, as Suzhen paces naked around the cabin, of the Warlord of the Mirror and marvels at this bend of fortune. Of course Ovuha and her sleeper agents could not have been the only ones—Lieutenant Bhanu is testament—and that does explain. She watches the lines of tendons move in Suzhen’s limbs and back, their gliding rhythm and their voluptuous interplay with skin. It is a ridiculous line of thought, in these circumstances and in the time allotted to them, but she is hard-pressed to imagine a sight more arresting.
“You have to explain,” Suzhen says without looking at her, “what you have been doing.”
“In detention, mostly.” Ovuha is tempted to stay there, nestling in the warmth Suzhen left behind. The sheets are superb quality, thin and adaptive. Rich turquoise with a duochrome coral shimmer. “I broke myself out, Samsara caught me, the rest you know. And you, how have you been?”
An odd emotion crosses Suzhen’s features. “I quit my work at the Bureau and Samsara assigned me to… this place. You made Atam cry. One of Taheen’s models.” She eyes the silk puddle that Ovuha has peeled off her and left by the bed. She moves as though to retrieve it and put it on, but hesitates. Not a matter of modesty; it is a wish for distance from what they’ve just done together. “Xie cried right in front of me. It was terrible. I had no idea what to do, I can’t handle weepy people.”
“I expect you never cry in front of another person.”
“Not since I was little. Would you? You’re the warlord. The scourge of the wasteland worlds, the mighty general who haunted the nightmares of her nemeses.” A low flush creeps up Suzhen’s cheeks. “When you were the Thorn—which you still are, I suppose—did you always wear a mask?”
“Yes. Why?”
“When I was younger, I imagined what it’d be like to unmask a warlord. Whether the person underneath would look ordinary or hideous or so stunning I’d lose my breath.” Suzhen bends to pick up her robe, holding it against herself, and circles back to the bed. “There’s something about it. It felt like challenging a creature omnipotent and immortal, and demonic besides. I wondered if after removing the mask, the warlord would strike me down or somehow fall before me in defeat.”
The fantasy of unmasking, Ovuha thinks; she almost wishes she’d picked up the helm on that mannequin corpse. A prop for Suzhen. “Consider me defeated. I’m at your mercy.”
“I want…” Suzhen stops herself. “Not now. I need to go find Taheen.”
They get dressed; Ovuha half-expects Suzhen to disappear into the bathroom, to scrub herself and therefore forget the sex as soon as she can. But like her Suzhen cleans up only as necessary and then emerges to take stock of what they have, the practical minutiae. The cabin is supplied well, but the quantity is meant to last a month for a single person. There is a heat range for cooking, a mid-sized fabricator, several drones. Water and food are of little concern, being where they are, and the fabricator can take care of the clothes. In theory, they could remain here indefinitely.
“You’re a fugitive whose location Samsara knows exactly,” Suzhen says as she roots through her wardrobe, selecting for herself sensible clothes. “This forest is one of Samsara’s blind spots, so Interior Defense doesn’t come here. But Samsara has others—I’m not the only one working in this capacity. Do you understand?” She thrusts an armored body sheath at Ovuha.
Ovuha puts the armor on; it is sleek and contours to her. A dark shell with panels for sidearms, the surface of it built to disperse and absorb impact. “I’m aware of the ghost liminals. My ancestors mapped them out, actually, and brought that knowledge with them to Mahakala—but that’s a story for another time. So Samsara’s entrusted a number of citizens with this information; what kind of personnel are they?”
“I’ve never met them or been told who they are. The jungle is large, but not that large. A single person who knows what they’re looking for, with a drone contingent, can cover it fast. And I…” Suzhen grimaces. “I can’t really go back. Even if I could I would have to abandon you.”
“You could. I can fend for myself.”
“I’m not deserting you a second time. Not even after what you did to Taheen.”
That should not move her so much, this unadorned statement, but it does and it is like being speared with light. Ovuha reaches for and catches Suzhen’s hand, and brushes her lips across the knuckles. “I don’t deserve you, but I will try to make up for it.”
She takes weapons, a second suit of armor, ammunition from the cabin’s store and what she brought back with her from the lunar base. Klesa directs them to find Taheen at a brook, the susurrus of it an interruption in the jungle’s otherwise total quiet. They stand by the bank, not turning around even though they must have heard Suzhen and Ovuha coming. Their back is straight, their hands tight at their sides. “Are you aware of the conditioning I received when the previous Thorn sent me here, Warlord?”
Suzhen’s mouth has closed into a thin, hard line. She has stepped a few paces away from them both, offering nothing in either word or gesture.
“I’m aware,” Ovuha says, alert to the fact she is on trial. “I underwent some of that myself to resist interrogation, but I appreciate it’s very little alike.”
“Part of the procedure revised my psychological profile. To ensure that once I’m on Anatta, I wouldn’t form attachments. No family, no long-term romantic relationships. Those would have gotten in the way, wouldn’t they, when the warlord comes and awakens me.” They pivot on their heels. “Well? Are you going to say you didn’t know about that part, my lord? Or that you were a child yourself at the time and had no say in it, or that you’d never have committed such an atrocity? Maybe you’ll justify it by saying I consented at fourteen so I have no cause to complain now.”
“I wouldn’t say any of that. I knew we had to send a child or two who wouldn’t rouse suspicion. Were I in power at the time, I might’ve made this same decision.” She holds her hands up, palms open. “My predecessor was not blameless and neither am I. The circumstances force our hands. If you wish, I’ll submit to your judgment when all this is done. Once Samsara has been neutralized and Mahakala is safe, there’ll be no more need for the Thorn.”
Their chin lifts, contemptuous. “And what will that mean? I may mete out any punishment?”
“Anything.”
Taheen’s shoulders unwind a fraction. “We will see about that.”
“Now that you children have reconciled your differences.” Klesa’s voice is a low, syrupy thrum. “Let us plan our next steps. Once Samsara realizes I’m active, she will do everything she can to rectify the fact. I’ve left a few copies of myself in the outside network, back in Indriya and Himmapan, most must’ve been eliminated by now. Still, one or two fragments might survive for me to synchronize with. What is your intention, Warlord of the Thorn? To break Samsara’s ascendance, yes, and then what? You’ll return to Mahakala and continue your administration in peace?”
Ovuha offers Taheen the second suit of armor, a gun, a long adaptive knife. Then she works with her own. She passes her hand over the armor’s panels, sliding the gun into one of them, the spare ammunition into another. There is even room for a first-aid kit, and she adds that to her store. Lighter, despite the added freight, and likely stronger than what she is used to without sacrificing mobility. She stretches her arms, flexes her fingers—the material has spread to cover her hands, and she finds she loses little tactile sensitivity through the gloves. “I’m open to suggestions, Klesa. Is it not the case that you were made to do just that? Counsel humanity to a greater, more refined state.”