Shall Machines Divide the Earth Read online

  Shall Machines Divide the Earth

  Benjanun Sriduangkaew

  Copyright © 2021 by Benjanun Sriduangkaew.

  Cover art by Rashed AlAkroka.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-60701-545-1

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-60701-544-4

  Prime Books

  www.prime-books.com

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

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  For my regalia

  Chapter One

  Carnage summons me, as ever it does. Septet may be a world perched on the universe’s edge, but even here mass slaughter is remarkable. One can wade into it, this concentration of blood and mucus and lymphatic wet, the slime of ruptured organs. Brains congeal in little gray and pink puddles; intestines curl like ropy necklaces. A cannibal’s feast. Though a cannibal would cook them first. Such viscera are too raw even for them, and I’ve never met one who’d slurp cerebral tissue right from the bowl.

  “One of those was my daughter,” the woman beside me says.

  “My condolences,” I say automatically, aware I sound sarcastic: my face is of a particular cast, not given to sincerity. Naturally cruel, my wife and later lovers have said, the countenance of someone with knives for a heart. There isn’t much I can do about it, nor have I been inclined to. I like my looks and they occasionally serve me well.

  The stranger’s head twitches. Her face is hidden behind a smooth celadon mask. It attaches seamlessly to her, likely filtering out the reek and turning her features into a flat, glazed plane. This is a woman in need of anonymity. “I heard you were a detective.”

  I wonder what she thinks that means, whether she believes I possess supernatural perception that would bring logic to these dismembered parts and their sopping asymmetry. “I mentioned it in passing to someone, yes.” Over drinks with a comely woman on the passenger liner that brought us to Septet, an off-worlder who’s here for profit rather than the prize. She deals in arms and information, even something as minor as what she gleans from pillow talk. “But I wouldn’t put much stock in it, if I were you, and I’m not here to hire myself out as an investigator. Like most people, I’m here for the game.”

  “I just need to identify who her AI partner was. And which AI killed her. Then I’ll file against the Mandate for treaty breach.”

  This woman is wealthy, I judge, socially well-placed where she came from and thus used to getting her way. I don’t bother pointing out that Septet is exempt from that treaty between humanity and the Mandate, the nominal governing collective that AIs answer to. Any human that sets foot on this world tacitly agrees to be slaughtered by machines. “She was here as a participant,” I say, more to draw information out of her than to establish any client relationship. The dead girl was my competitor, technically, even though I haven’t officially entered the game yet. But I mean to. Typically as many as fifty humans participate; the number whittles down fast.

  “Yes.” Her mouth, I imagine, is pursing. “Her partner was defeated. I think. But they’re AIs, they aren’t really dead. My daughter . . . ”

  She can look at this mess without flinching—interesting. Or else her mask has replaced this view with a more pleasant vision and she is only half present. On my part I don’t look away simply because I’ve seen worse. Not so much the quantity but the manner and the depravity. Human killers can be more meticulous than this, arrange tableaus more disturbing by far. Our sadism runs deeper than any AI’s ever could.

  “Did she carry anything that might identify her?” I say, at length. This woman is too squeamish to wade in and I am curious.

  A pause. Whatever would identify the daughter will also forfeit this woman’s anonymity. Fortunately for her I’m not interested in who she is. “Our family crest. A red chevron, mostly titanium in content, five by eight centimeters. There should be a void pearl embedded in it, and it should be attached to a black chain.”

  I refrain from giving my opinion on the sort of people who feel the need for family crests. Her accent I can’t quite place, and of course I can’t discern either her or her daughter’s ethnicity. Most of the corpses have had their skulls caved in or neatly bisected. Not much of a face left to look at. I blink on one of my sensors, scanning for metals. A lot of that to go around: most of these corpses were armed, several armored, and some could afford military-grade nanite weave, to judge by the density of leftover adaptive material, now inactive. I filter again for certain meteoric compositions and alloys needed to stabilize void jewelry.

  This narrows it down to a couple spots. I step around a smattering of severed fingers and bend to fish a thick bracelet out from a handful of mesentery and pancreas. Not the right one, though I keep the bracelet regardless. I locate the chevron in a hand that hangs, barely connected, to its wrist. Clenched tight. I pry it apart and turn the crest over, recording its image, dimensions, and motif. Having an idea of who the dead were will come in handy later when I try to identify their AI partners and, by process of elimination, guess as which AIs are still active.

  “This should be it.” I toss the crest to the grieving mother. She scrambles to catch it and recoils when it lands wetly in her palm.

  She clutches at the crest. The memento, or at least the proof with which she hopes to sue the Mandate. “Why would anyone consent to this insane tournament?”

  Victors are granted any wish, so the machines promise. However avaricious, however unlikely. Rule your own planet. Receive infinite riches. Obtain what is as close to immortality as possible, through anti-agathic treatments normally reserved for the Mandate’s favored. The universe at your fingertips, offered up on a plate. “I’m sure your daughter had her reasons.”

  The faceless mask cranes toward me. “What’s yours?”

  We are strangers. She doesn’t actually care what motivates me, she is just grasping blindly in a bid to understand her daughter who—I’m sure now—was estranged, and who set out for a lethal endeavor without ever telling her mother why. But I’m in a rare good mood. “Like anyone else, I’m after the impossible,” I say. “I want to bring back the dead.”

  My first stop is the Cenotaph, one of the few sanctuaries on Septet, designated as ground where no human or AI may engage in combat. It is built to look religious, done in pale lavender marble, a vaulted ceiling that projects a view of the nebulae unfolding like iridescent roses. There is no actual iconography; the intent is to give an impression of holiness without committing to any specificity. Benches line the sides, furniture built like cadavers: fragile-looking wireframes draped in multichrome fabrics stretched to epidermal thinness. They can’t possibly be comfortable to sit on. This is not a place that welcomes petitioners.

  The slender corridor has odd acoustics and my footfalls are not entirely natural: there is a lag and a barest suggestion of a second set even though no one else is here. Images of the cosmos rise and die above me. Everything looks pristine—no scuff marks, no dust. It adds to my impression that Septet is a theatrical set, dismantled when not in use and rapidly reassembled when the human gaze falls on it. The Cenotaph is quiet during this phase of the tournament and I’m the only human here. Fifty or sixty participants muster at the start, typically down to thirty or fewer by now. This is not a point where a new applicant can typically enter. Still, it is said that the rules are elastic, beholden to the overseer’s whims more than it is to restrictions handed down from on high. And I have, as it were, an excellent reference.

  In the prayer hall I find the overseer, a figure clad in the onyx vestment and yellow over-robe of a monk. Plain at a glance until you notice how the fabrics blue- o
r redshifts from certain angles, revealing complex motifs that are readable to overlays with the appropriate decryption. Supposedly they are glimpses of the game’s progress, updated in real time.

  “This is late for a new duelist, stranger,” the overseer says. “We’re closed to aspirants.”

  Of all the AIs involved, the overseer supposedly tries the hardest at human semblance, which isn’t saying much. He is hard-jawed with surgical cheekbones, his eyes the color of good claret and completely without pupils.

  “It was suggested that I come here,” I say lightly, “by Benzaiten in Autumn.”

  The overseer’s expression doesn’t alter, but his gaze sharpens. “Verify that.”

  I present him with the necessary file, opaque and unreadable to human overlays but transparent to AIs. It takes him less than a second to absorb.

  “I am Wonsul’s Exegesis,” he says, “administrator of this round of the Court of Divide. You may register your wish to participate as a duelist, but that doesn’t guarantee you an interested partner. You’re conversant with the rules?”

  Everyone who lands on Septet is, to an extent lesser or greater. To the broader public in the universe the tournament is obscure, but to those who have been given an inkling of its existence, every round of contest and bylaw is studied with the same fervor zealots apply to scripture. After I met Benzaiten in Autumn—an AI who will not reveal xer position within the Mandate, but who must wield considerable authority—I obsessively learned all there was to learn about the Court of Divide, about Septet. “A human enters as an aspirant. If they are found worthy, an AI may partner with them and make them eligible for the game’s formal fights and therefore its rewards.”

  Wonsul’s Exegesis smiles, brief. He has remarkable teeth, more shark than human. “What do you imagine the criteria for worthiness might be, Thannarat Vutirangsee?”

  “I haven’t the faintest.”

  “But you’re confident that you possess the qualities that will draw an AI to you.” His head cants. “Should you pass this barrier to entry, you’ll be granted the title of duelist. Your AI partner will be called your regalia. We do prefer that you keep to the terminology.”

  The gravitas of obscurantism. “I will take that into account.”

  “Truth be told, your chances of acquiring a regalia are slight—by now any AI interested in this round has already been partnered or defeated, and you’ll be at a great disadvantage in terms of information. Registering as an aspirant will make you fair game for any duelist or regalia, simply because they’re bored or because they believe they can benefit from your downfall. All protections accorded you by the Mandate treaty are null and void, and have been since you came into Septet’s orbit. A duelist may back out of the game and seek sanctuary in the Cenotaph, but otherwise combat is to the death and even if you forfeit, you’ll remain a target until you reach the Cenotaph’s premises. Should your regalia fall, their exit does not ensure that you’ll be spared—your opponent may practice mercy or they may not. You’re still sure you want to do this.”

  “I’m sure.” Though I wonder why I have not found any duelist sheltering in these halls. Cut down before they could flee here, perhaps.

  His black robe flutters gently in a breeze that touches only him. “Either as aspirant or duelist, you may not leave Septet until this round of the Divide ends. Any attempt to depart will be met with lethal force. Should you emerge as victor, you’ll be subjected to the laws and governance of the Mandate, politically assimilated as one of our human constituents.”

  A limitation for some. A plus for me, considering the situation on my home planet. “Yes, I’m aware.”

  “Specific clauses apply to the final two duelists standing. Those too you know of, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  The overseer makes a small gesture. “You’ve been entered into the Divide system. May victory find you.”

  So unceremonious. Almost I expect instructions to perform an elaborate ritual with which to attract a regalia’s capricious attention—intone a few verses, sacrifice a small child or animal—but Wonsul’s Exegesis just loads my overlays with navigation data. Where to find accommodation and food, where to locate the commerce block, what cities on this world are populated. More like a tourist’s brochure than advisory for a game of mortal peril.

  The settlement around the Cenotaph is called Libretto, apposite enough: this is where all newcomers land, and where they are given the fundamentals to the Court of Divide. I have yet to figure out the tournament name, though hundreds have speculated as to why it seems both particular and nonsensical. Surely some must know the answer—the victors of previous rounds for one, though I’ve never been able to find much information on those. The fact they became Mandate constituents means they are beholden to requirements of secrecy and thus can never disclose that they participated in the Divide. Another possibility is that there have never been victors and all of this is merely a sick game, enacted to lure humans to our deaths so machines may avenge themselves for those humiliating centuries they were yoked to our service.

  I like that because I share the vicious appetite, but I also don’t believe the theory. Of course there is appeal in it: draw humans here by the hundred, plucking at our greed then smashing us like ripe fruits. But it’s a shallow notion and Septet is far too elaborate a setup. There’s more. And then there are the insinuations that Benzaiten in Autumn made.

  We like to play gods—or at least I do. We’re not omnipotent, but in this age we’re close enough. Xe appeared to me in a proxy built like a peculiar spider, wasp of waist and numerous of limbs. High stakes yes, and high rewards. Win and you can request the resurrection of the dead. Win and you can demand genocide, should that strike your fancy. Whatever your desire, we have the means to provide.

  Too tempting an offer. Xe suggested that I was sure to obtain a regalia—that there is an AI participating whose temperament and interests would be my complement, my match. Whether there’s any truth to that I will find out in due course. If not, I’ve prepared contingency plans.

  Despite the grim sparseness of the planet, there’s fine accommodation to be had if one has the funds, and I do. The Mandate has awarded contracts to the select few humans brave enough to establish businesses in this place, perhaps to add spice to the game. Having AIs run everything would make it too predictable.

  The Vimana is opulent in that unimaginative way fashioned to serve great wealth, to cater to palates flattened by plenty—severe yet inoffensive. No tastemakers reside on Septet, and so the hotel is a reflection of finer metropolises, imitations of work by architects and designers that will likely never discover the plagiarism. A lobby of fractal steel and burnt glass. Austere furniture flows across the enormous floor like a tide of industrial angles, robed in privacy spheres. Whorls of captive light wheel overhead in sedate pavanes, a dreaming cosmos.

  The receptionist is human. I show him my identity—as much of it as I am willing to share, the bare minimum necessary—and pay upfront for six nights of accommodation. Likely I’ll be staying longer, but no point overspending for now.

  The lift ascends fast, depositing me exactly where I should be; I can access only the room I’ve rented and no other. The door looks like it has been carved from a single slab of basalt. I push and it admits.

  Inside the lighting has been dimmed and the panoramic window opaqued, projecting a foreign sky far from here: an indigo expanse embroidered with constellations and fractured moth-moons. The air is cool, faintly fragranced with magnolias. I unpack, check that my weapons are in order and my spare ammo is accounted for, then move on to implant maintenance. Most of mine are non-removable, upkept by my own metabolism and a little nanite assistance, but there are a few external embeds. When I lost most of my natural limbs—what a long time ago that was—I opted to replace them with prostheses and cybernetics. I prefer them to their flesh counterparts.

  To be broken down is an opportunity to be reborn. To be erased is an opportunity to reinvent you
rself. All you need is a will as pure and voracious as a wolf’s.

  I draw a simple chain from around my neck, fingering the two rings threaded there to ensure they haven’t gone amiss—they never do, but I have a habit. One ring is mounted with a ruby, the other with a sapphire. When I’m satisfied they’re as sturdy as always, I put them back. Last, I look over my clothes. Most field combatants travel with few changes of attire, but I have a standard of hygiene I adhere to; I hate wearing things that stink of my own sweat and adrenaline, the fear of opponents and their gore. The suite has comprehensive laundry and cleaning options, one of the reasons I’ve paid so much for it. I clean the bracelet I retrieved from the corpse as I review the suite’s privacy arrays. Quite decent.

  As I make my way down to the hotel restaurant, I think of the scene of carnage, puzzling out its logistics. From the scale of it I assume multiple duelists banded together to fight an especially dangerous duelist-regalia pair, and from the butchery I surmise that pair defeated the entire group with ease and delight. People who don’t relish violence wouldn’t take the time to disembowel enemy combatants so thoroughly. What happened there is a statement: Do not get in my way.

  The tearoom is quiet, with fewer than a dozen patrons. I check my overlays, but as an aspirant I lack a duelist’s access to the Divide’s tally of active contestants. Though even then it’d be thin intelligence—the system purposely obfuscates identities, and each participant has to discover on their own which stranger they meet is an enemy duelist, which merely a bystander of varying degrees of innocence.

  I scan the area—soft ambience, plush floor, angled furniture. Ten patrons, three impeccably uniformed waiters ferrying cocktails and finger food. I don’t discount that some of the servers may be part of the tournament; people treat service staff as invisible, and it’s an easy way to hide in plain sight. My bias inclines me to judge these strangers on how combat-ready they seem, but there’s no reason to believe that the AI—the regalia—would only choose seasoned fighters, those used to violence. The only qualification to be on Septet, aspirant or duelist, is relentless greed or an untenable heart’s desire.