“Thank you, my love, but that will no longer be necessary.”
She looks at him, wide-eyed. “I said I would set you free,” he says, his voice soft, gentle, “and tonight is the night. Tonight is the end of all your labours, all your misery. It is time for you to emerge into the world and be the queen you have always been.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Prince of Gurgaon Megapolis chooses his bride tonight, as you said. You will be that bride.”
She laughs, the first time in years.
“Look at me,” she says simply.
“You must go to the swayamvar and win his heart,” he says, as if she has not spoken. “But you must leave him before midnight, before the moment of choosing. You must make him want you and seek you out. Then and then alone can he truly love you, and we need him to love you if you are ever to find happiness.”
“But…”
He presses a button, and a glass cabinet rises out of the floor, smoke streaming from its sides. Inside the cabinet is the most exquisite woman in the world. Her skin is dark and glistening, her eyes large and liquid, her body ripe and succulent. She is made to be desired, Helen, Urvashi, Aisha Qandisha, Chin-Lien combined in one form. She waits, warm constructskin perfection, every man’s desire. Even Sonalika’s heart skips a beat, nanobots grumbling as they resume their positions along her arteries. Her master stares at his creation for a while, then turns to her.
“There will be a car and a chauffeur, and various other signs of affluence,” he says. “But remember, you must leave before midnight. You cannot marry him tonight.”
He gestures towards the woman’s body in the cabinet, and it splits neatly in half. It is hollow.
“Now, my love, the body transfer will be very painful,” he says. “But you are used to pain, are you not? A small price to pay for eternal freedom and happiness, I think.”
She nods, shivering, and steps forwards bravely as needles spring out of his fingertips.
Banners of light stream between the tower-tops of Gurgaon Megapolis as the Prince’s wedding party skims over the superhighway on its way to the Amphitheatre, huge laser-lit barges full of bhangrango-dancing revellers high on incredibly expensive drugs following the Prince as he sits aloft a rhinophant, his turban bejewelled, the ceremonial sword in his hand slick with his sweat. The Prince is bored, playing video games inside his head on his B-Box, watching the world beyond his eyes through his exquisitely engineered third eye. His advisers scurry around him, their thoughtphones glittering as they talk in sharp staccato bursts, briefing newstertainers, placing bids on likely candidates, buying and selling stocks in their companies. The procession reaches the Amphitheatre, and the Prince steps inside to deafening cheers, drums, conch-shells, flowers, confetti, perfumes, pheromone sprays, commercial breaks, streakers, dancers, paparazzi. The Prince ignores them all. He knows who he’s supposed to marry, and she’s not even here yet; the flight from Super Ultra Beijing has been slightly delayed owing to a terrorist attack sponsored by his ex-fiancée. But there is still time. In the meantime, though, there are plenty of lush young fillies to romp with and make false promises to, and the Prince hasn’t just injected himself with a whole litre of Phall-o-matic for nothing.
His minders make way, and he is immediately swarmed by a horde of eager potential princesses. He takes his time, squeezing a breast here, prodding a buttock there, his flute of Herwine miraculously undisturbed as he gropes his potential brides and they grope him right back. And then he sees Sonalika, dancing by herself in a corner, her plan completely forgotten as she enjoys herself for the first time in her life, and time stops.
“I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you in my whole life,” gasps the Prince, alone with Sonalika, his minders around them in a tight circle. He is sweating profusely, his drug-propelled arousal making his ornate pyjamas more difficult to wear by the second. “Ever wanted to make love to a Prince?”
Sonalika smiles, and he’s dazzled; her every movement electrifies him. She shakes her head. “It’s very crowded in here,” she says. “I think I’ll go outside. Enjoy your wedding.”
“Do not dare to insult me, girl,” snaps the Prince, pride overcoming lust. “I’ll have you butchered. Why are you here, if you don’t want to marry me?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her eyes somewhere else, somewhere far away. “I was enjoying the party, and I thought I wanted to marry you. I thought it might make me happy, and the gods know I need a change, but you know what? I think I’m going to leave. Thanks. And don’t follow me or anything, it won’t end well.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No.” She smiles and pats his cheek. “Look, forget you ever saw me. You’re clearly an obnoxious prick, but even you don’t deserve what I would bring you. And besides, I’m far too old for you.”
She tries to slide between two mountainous bodyguards and meets resistance. She considers breaking through but knows better than to create a scene.
“Vizier,” says the Prince of Gurgaon Megapolis quietly, holding out his hand.
A vizier appears. “Un-Moksha,” says the Prince. He is handed a red pill, which he swallows with a grimace.
“I apologise for everything I have said to you thus far,” he says after the convulsions have subsided. “I would like to get to know you better—no touching, of course—and I don’t have much time because I will have to choose a bride at midnight. So, no pressure, but would you mind a little conversation in private?”
Sonalika shrugs. It is 11pm.
They have their private conversation, and she decides she wants to marry the Prince after all. He seems nice in spite of everything, and it is certainly relevant that he possesses every material object she has ever longed for. Unfortunately, though, he is not presently wearing a watch.
The plan is very simple, Indra. Sonalika is incapable of actual reproduction, of course, but it is feasible to consider a fusion of what is left of her human DNA with the samples that her husband will doubtless be enthusiastic to provide. It will take immense skill, of course; I will have to supervise fertilisation and hybridisation personally. I will cultivate a batch of part-human constructs, keeping my father’s bloodline alive while ensuring there is enough human in the products to evade the scanners. Some of these children will be female, and for these I will build new bodies, each designed to appeal to a particular head of state, for whom the process will be replicated. Within a hundred years, I see no reason I should not be in charge of every major world government. And then I shall construct dominance by either legislation or force, whichever is optimal. A simple plan, but a beautiful one, I think. And I will reward Sonalika for her efforts by officially marrying her on the day I emerge from this prison. Happiness for everyone, and rather neatly done, I think.
And besides all this, there is also the large army of simpler, purely non-human constructs I have built on the lower levels of this prison, but you are obviously aware of their existence. Their function is simple: should any of Sonalika’s children ever feel the urge to oppose me, and a direct war becomes necessary, they will rise up and do their very best to destroy every human in the world. This is a better backup plan than any leader, human or otherwise, in this world has ever had, and will add substantial weight to my plans of eventual public deification. Here, Indra, is a simple remote activation device. Keep it safe. Should any ill fate befall me (and this is extremely unlikely, but one must always consider the stochastic element) I want you to release this new construct army upon the world and make sure they remember to fear the name Narayan once again. Now, you must excuse me, I do believe Sonalika has returned.