Shall Machines Divide the Earth by Benjanun Sriduangkaew (list of e readers txt) 📕

don’t ask how she guessed; both of us read people for a living. “Do you hold duelist overrides?”

“Well, don’t you get things done fast. A whole regalia one day after landing.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Allow me to make a little guess. Your AI looks like a pretty woman. Slinky legs, tiny dress, hair down to their haunch. You have a type.”

“I have more than one type.” I never strayed from the bounds of marriage, but Recadat witnessed me appreciating women of a particular style and bearing often enough. Even if she did not quite notice me appreciating her in that manner, or was kind enough to pretend obliviousness because she did not return it. “And AIs can look however they want, Recadat. The overrides?”

“I’ve got three—I can give you two; I’m keeping one just in case, maybe I’ll even need it to rescue youin a pinch.”

“Works for me.” The fox inside my robe nibbles at my hip, not breaking skin but clearly irate. “We discussed the other duelists in passing; care to tell me a bit more? I want to work with a full deck.”

“Before that . . . ” She hesitates. “You do know what happens if you’re one of the final two duelists standing and you lose?”

Out of habit I needlessly smooth down my hair. I keep it chin-length, artificially treated so as to need minimal care. “Yes, the loser submits their mortal coil to machine uses. Experiments, I assume, most likely unpleasant. Maybe execution or torture as a spectacle—some machines must be into that.”

She grimaces. “You say it so casually. But you play to win, so it’s not going to happen to you anyway. I’m sending you the intel I’ve gathered. Faces, names, habits, vices. The usual.”

Recadat’s data package blooms in my overlays, gravid with footage and stills. I draw up my leg and prop my ankle on my knee. “I’ve been rude. I haven’t asked at all what you’ve been up to.”

“After you quit, I got transferred a couple times then transferred back. They promoted me to captain of our subdivision, lined me up to be commander in a few years. Then the invasion happened and all of that stopped meaning anything.”

“It’ll start meaning something again. The pay raise must’ve been something to celebrate, at least. Did you ever settle down? Ten years are a long while.” No point asking about her biological family—like me, she doesn’t keep in touch. We’re similar in that way, detached from kin and rootless. By choice for me—I don’t care for most of my family, and my parents divorced long before I reached my majority—and less so for her. A transport malfunction orphaned Recadat when she was twelve, and as far as I know the aunt that raised her treated her as a bitter ordeal. Not so much malicious abuse as indifferent neglect, providing her no more than the bare minimum.

Recadat gives an embarrassed little laugh. “You remember that I wanted to start a family. Gave up on it, though. I never did get the one woman I wanted.”

“No? But you were so popular. Half the rookies were in love with you. There was that Internal Affairs woman, remember, she was so besotted she let you go without a single bit of paperwork.”

She waves her hand. “Sure. They weren’t what I wanted, though. It’s as if—you want chicken tendon fried just so, all spicy and sour. But you keep getting served sweet potato balls. Bowls of coconut cream and egg floss. Platters of meringue. I wanted to chew something tough and savory, not dry-swallow sugary air. As for popular, you caught more eyes than I ever did. You never felt tempted?”

From anyone else I’d find the question offensive; from her it is merely natural. We had a push-pull relationship, blunt and inquisitive in some matters and closed off in others. “I’m particular. One woman at a time.” A lie: Recadat tempted me. As close as I ever got to risking my marriage. Ironic that something else entirely led to my divorce.

“You can be such a monk,” she murmurs, which is rich coming from someone who lived in near-celibacy. “I wish I’d gotten to know Eurydice better—I got the impression she didn’t like law enforcement and only tolerated your job because she was head over heels . . . Well. Enough about the past. So, the other duelists. The one you’ll want to keep an eye on is Ouru, family name unknown, origins unknown. Zer regalia is Houyi’s Chariot, a proxy masked and armored in blue-black. No idea what it looks like underneath. About your height give or take a couple centimeters, their build a lot like yours. Other duelists might even think you’re Houyi in disguise.”

Ouru, I would guess, was the one who shot at me near the energy well. “What in particular makes zer stand out?”

Recadat makes a face. “I lost my regalia to zer. But ze’s vicious and completely willing to kill.”

“I don’t imagine anyone here is not willing to kill. I saw Houyi’s Chariot fighting a small regalia, golden armor, wings. Any idea about that one?”

“Chun Hyang’s Glaive,” she says. “Extremely destructive, partnered to a woman named Ensine Balaskas. They’re the ones who have been slaughtering duelists and aspirants at a fast clip. Might even have caught a few non-participants, actually, though it can be hard to tell.”

“Are there hidden benefits to murdering random bystanders?” I contemplate, for a microsecond or so, whether I’d be willing to try if it gives me a leg up in the game.

“Not that I know of. My read of Balaskas is that she’s just a common serial murderer.”

Spree murderer, but I don’t correct her. I’m not here to be a criminology pedant and besides, she’s had more official experience. “She killed a man from the Vatican, a woman from One Thousand Erhus, and what I assumed was a coterie of allied duelists.”

Recadat shakes her head. “They grouped up to challenge Balaskas. I told them it was a terrible idea. One thing I’ll say for Ensine Balaskas is