“And Mahakala is a true utopia? There is no inequality or division, no violence to mar the order of things?” Bhanu rearranges the calcified, scrimshaw-stemmed flowers on a shelf. Their petals are slim spikes, anglerfish-green. “Had subjects of other warlords come to you in need, would you have taken them in and treated them the same way as your own?”
“We took some in, as a matter of fact. They lived on distant stations and not on Mahakala, so you’re correct that they were not granted the rights accorded to my born subjects. Their offspring could, eventually, apply to live on Mahakala itself. I appreciate your point—that if perfection is impossible then we shouldn’t strive, and might as well live like beasts. Yes?”
“Given enough power and resources,” he goes on as though she never spoke at all, “how would you feel about rewarding your ally—say Suzhen Tang—with a domain of her own? On, oh I don’t know, Vaisravana. You can’t possibly be so greedy as to covet the universe entire.”
Something about the way he has said this. The heft, the undercurrent, even though outwardly his expression stays urbane and his tone is that of an academic inviting her to a discussion on agency. The use of it, the way it shapes and is shaped. “I haven’t that kind of power, Lieutenant Bhanu. Even if I did, I can’t be the person who restores the Warlord of the Mirror and retakes Vaisravana in her name. The Mirror’s gone. I don’t believe Suzhen will take up the title, though you might try asking her instead of me.”
“She never was made for authority. No ambition was instilled in her. It is a shame she is all that’s left.”
It is only because she’s bracing for it that she leaps behind a table in time: metal shrieks through the air, embedding in the floor where she’s just been. She rolls across the shimmering grass, sighting down one of the bladed discs hurtling toward her. Two bullets connect; two discs fall. Bhanu has disappeared behind the shelf, must be drawing his own gun. She scrambles for cover behind a plinth and shoots down one more star of spinning steel. From their trajectory, she doubts she’d be able to destroy their source—turrets in the walls and ceiling; she lacks the appropriate answer. “Klesa,” she mouths.
What am I, Warlord, your personal combat assistant? The wall to your left is adjacent to where Suzhen is. The wall ahead of you is connected to this man’s personal quarters. I’m showing you the points of structural weakness.
Ovuha isn’t fond of the idea but she has few options. She plucks one of the implosive grenades from her suit, aims, hurls. It latches onto the walclass="underline" a roar as it meets structural reinforcement. The room shakes and rattles. The wall doesn’t fall.
The grass parts, all at once, beneath her. She flings one arm out, scrabbling for handhold. Too slow; the floor-plates slip and slide away from one another, out of her reach.
She crashes into a table, a flurry of papers and ceramics. Painless—the armor absorbed it all—but she quickly sees there’s no way back up. “Klesa,” she says again.
You’re getting spoiled, Warlord. Did you use to have a companion AI at home? Suzhen’s fine, for now. She’s gotten her defensive array up and Taheen Sahl will protect her with their life—the real reason you activated them, no? Take a left turn and up. There should be no obstacle—
Two drones plant themselves in her path, crescent-bodied. One blue, one green, a corona of glittering blades rolling toward her. She shoots them one after another, a burst of shrapnel and machine cores. The ammunition Deratchan gave her is wonderfully destructive. “You were saying?”
Don’t take that tone with me. They’re not AIs, they’re just dolls that man Bhanu is controlling.
Which presents an interesting question: that he suspects Ovuha might take over or misdirect any proxy body piloted by Samsara or Deratchan. Her thoughts race as she runs up the stairs. He knows more than he should, and with everything entered into the equation, there was never any possibility Samsara didn’t know who he is—he has retained his face and mannerisms—or what he has been doing on Anatta.
She emerges on the upper floor to a tableau: Suzhen stands in a ring of shielding drones, Bhanu cornered, Taheen’s gun pointed at him. Four Deratchan bodies lie strewn on the wheat, broken dolls with eyes open wide, jaws slack and knees ajar. A froth of machine gore on each throat or mouth or chest like stray, unfinished tattoos.
“Samsara balances the human heart against itself,” Bhanu says, his back against an undamaged wall, the grass rising up as though to swallow him—a useless defense. “Each time it has been proven right. Do you believe in kindness, Warlord? Have the grace and benevolence of the human heart done you well, Suzhen? All these lessons in compassion on Anatta, all that careful shaping of souls.”
The window behind Suzhen shudders like trembling muscles. A terrible intuition grips Ovuha. She starts moving, shouting as she does, “Suzhen, get away from—”
The glass parts and a segmented head thrusts through, serpentine, the color of storm clouds. Its jaw opens wide, roiling with hissing mouthparts, a hundred wasps poured into a single maw.
It snaps shut around Suzhen.
Ovuha screams. The serpent withdraws; the window clenches, its panels interlocking like teeth. She runs at Bhanu, dashes him to the floor with all her strength. There is no hard ground, only soft carpeting grass. She does not get the satisfaction of skull smashing into marble.
Nearly without thinking she pulls back his arm, wrenches it as far as it can go, and pulls further still. A snap as a shoulder comes free of its socket. He spasms. The arm is part cybernetic; that she can’t break it like bones is a judgment she makes on instinct, so used she is to the knowledge of how flesh limbs feel, how cybernetic ones differentiate. Connectors crackle and actuators hiss as they give out.
“You,” she growls. Her hand closes on the back of his neck. Is it flesh: yes. She can break it. “You’ve been working for Samsara all this time. You’re one of the others, entrusted with finding the AI’s lost fragments.”
“Entrusted isn’t how I’d say it.” He pants, swallows. “Suzhen isn’t dead.”
I can verify that. Easy, Warlord. She’s contained, but we can do something about that.
Klesa shows her a live feed of Suzhen’s vitals. Ovuha relaxes her hand a fraction. If nothing else, she needs the man talking and he can’t do that with a crushed larynx. “Why does Samsara want her?” Alive, presumably. For now.
“Why would I know? She doesn’t confide in anyone. A machine whim. A machine mystery. Are you going to get around to murdering me? This position is starting to tire me out.”
Ovuha drags in a mouthful of air. She thinks of inflicting further damage, but she is letting herself move on basal spite rather than tactics. He evinces no fear in any case and will not give in to torture. She settles with shooting one of his legs—again he twitches once, but shows no other sign of pain. Neural blockers, the type she herself has used in combat. Most likely she could beat his face bloody and he would still not feel anything. “My apologies for that. I just don’t want you to run away and I’d rather not keep a gun trained on you. It’s very uncivilized.” She rises, stepping away from him. Her composure returns in stages. “Did you ever find the other instances of Samsara, by any chance?”
Bhanu crawls to a plinth and pulls himself up, jaw clenched with effort. “Once. I found its core and put an end to that.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. Part of her attention is riveted to the live feed from Suzhen: still fine, no sign of pain. Klesa has no reason to dissemble, at this moment. “Finding that didn’t present you with possibilities? To break the rule of Anatta. To shift the course of human future.”