Now Will Machines Devour the Stars (Machine Mandate Book 5), page 3
When it’s no longer possible to delay the inevitable, Anoushka thrusts until the prosthesis bottoms out. Her sweat trickles down to Numadesi’s breasts as she leans in, and this time she savages them: gripping, pinching, biting hard.
Her wife writhes, gasping her name in hoarse, harsh cries. Her own climax arrives soon after, all tectonic force, and she pulls Numadesi up against her. They heave together, thrashing on the sheets.
Anoushka eases Numadesi’s legs off her gently and disengages the prosthetic. Its parts turn quiet and inert, releasing Numadesi’s thighs and hips.
Numadesi shivers from aftershocks, her eyes half-lidded. “There’s paint on your lips.”
She touches her mouth; her finger comes away smudged with gold. “So there is. Evidence that I’ve just devoured a perfect meal, fit for the gods.”
Her wife grins, eyes bright, fingers skimming where Anoushka has left teeth marks. Gold, too, rims her gaze. “Each day I wake, I would think I’ve already devoted my utmost to you, submitted myself entire. Yet each time my lord would prove me wrong, showing me that my worship is not yet comprehensive, that there’s another gate within myself to open wide before you.”
“The stars to my sun.” Words that have the cadence of ritual, but that is the way of their marriage, an echo of how they first met in a golden city of secrets and ceremonies.
“Yes.” Numadesi holds Anoushka’s hand in both of hers. “Always.”
Chapter Three
In an office the Seven of Shatter captain has reserved for her, Anoushka sits in a nondescript chair, at a nondescript desk. Dark, muted colors: the captains go out of their way to see that the décor does not offend. Not that she offends easily, but she appreciates the thought. For a time she sorts through outstanding reports, requests, recruitment tallies. Numadesi has filtered out those that can be delegated or automated, leaving only the most crucial that requires Anoushka’s attention. She skims the filtered ones regardless—nothing amiss, nothing that needs authorization Numadesi couldn’t give or deny. Her wife does not hold any official rank, but is all the same instrumental to the Armada’s day-to-day administration.
Once she trusted two to perform this work, to make decisions in her absence. Now she trusts only one.
She marks a few reports and files them away for further notice: a number of campaigns that were in the black but which incurred more losses in personnel and equipment than she’d like, a handful of covert operations that skirted the edge of satisfactory parameters. The Amaryllis rarely accepts the latter category of commissions now, but when it does she prefers that her operatives don’t come this close to discovery, to giving the game away. Even she may not always act with impunity.
Her cortisol and adrenaline levels are nothing out of the ordinary; in sheer biometrics she is calm, at rest. But Xuejiao’s ghost doesn’t quite fade. In the past two years it has haunted her, true to Xuejiao’s final threat, final curse. You’ll remember me; I will be a wound within you forever. Your flesh will be my cenotaph. Not forever, but longer than Anoushka would like.
In all her life she has never been weak. She has never bent; she has never broken. Brittleness does not become her.
An analysis of her harrier is no more informative than Saamiye’s autopsy. There are traces of tampering with the ship’s surveillance, though no evidence of physical entry. It must have happened while she was at Imhaan’s, but the station’s systems have likewise been infiltrated. There is no other enemy who could have done this, for all that Amaryllis systems and vessels have been hardened against AIs. Protection against machines is an arms race, and one difficult to win even for the Armada. Refining firewalls and backlash algorithms can only go so far.
She gestures the door open. Her chief engineer Criseyde comes through. Ze belongs to the ranks of Amaryllis officers who have taken full advantage of body revision on the offer: optics mounted in the back of zer neck, a webbing of dragonfly dermals across zer scalp, thin iridescent carapace across zer shoulders and torso. Two arms of the conventional sort and two smaller ones folded at their waist, tipped with hands that can retract and transform into delicate tools. The looks of a haruspex, without quite being one.
“It was a cluster of AIs,” ze says without preamble. “They must know we keep a growing index of their signatures, because when they operated it was as a composite, meaning I can’t cross-reference to find out their exact identities. Judging by combined processing power, three to five AIs.”
“Or a single powerful one?”
The androgyne makes a gesture; the dragonfly gossamer on the back of zer hand shimmers, ringing faintly. “It’s not Benzaiten in Autumn. I know xer signature very well, even on forked instances. Xer parameters are . . . unique.”
And Criseyde’s had a great deal of time, as well as samples, to study Benzaiten. Not to mention the multitude of AI proxies—sadly none of Benzaiten’s—Anoushka has captured and sent zer to vivisect over the years. All destroyed since: physical evidence means the Mandate may be impelled to steal them back. She nods. “But the corpse looks completely human?”
“I defer to Doctor Saamiye in matters of the flesh,” ze says without inflection. “But I’m going to need to analyze the body’s implants for myself, for remnant arrays and network vestiges. My speculation is that this may be a particular group of AIs rather than the entirety of the Mandate. They wouldn’t want to anger you—you scare them too much.”
Anoushka smiles faintly. “You may overestimate their capacity for fear.”
“I’m as close to an AI psychologist as you can get, Admiral.” Criseyde crosses zer arms. “The Amaryllis stands a real chance of leveling Shenzhen Sphere, and you’re possibly the only human alive who knows where they put their hideouts.”
“All the more reason to get rid of me.” Though that is simplistic: Xuejiao’s likeness is about destabilizing her, not removing her by brute means.
“The Mandate will never reach an accord on anything of that scale. And you have too many allies there.”
“More like I have business contacts there that would prefer not to see me removed,” Anoushka says. “Very well, we’ll work on the assumption that it’s a handful of machines rather than the whole of Shenzhen. How are you coming along on hardening our systems?”
Ze half-grimaces. “The simulations will take time, and we’ll never match them in sheer speed. I should have a preliminary defense ready in thirty hours.”
Not fast enough, especially if another attack is imminent. Faster than most engineers can manage. “Get on it. You’re the best of what humanity has got on that front.”
Criseyde snorts. “No need to flatter me, Admiral, you’re my commander. See if you can negotiate with Benzaiten to make me into a haruspex one day, though.”
There is no point staying on alert: hypervigilance is its own category of tactical failure. Few engineers are Criseyde’s equal, and ze has proven that zer team can mount defenses against individual Mandate machines. A few AIs remain that Anoushka could contact, but she does not want to alert her enemies as yet. Whatever they’re planning is going to be a long game, the same as any AI scheme. And she has a duel to officiate.
Recreation takes up an entire deck, a fact consistent on every Amaryllis ship, only the size varying: enormous for a dreadnought, less so for a frigate. Most armies limit access, and limit the types of activities available. She chooses otherwise—all Amaryllis personnel, support or combat, may use the deck as long as they have available time slots. There are small gardens, gyms, a pool, several multi-purpose halls that have been put to every conceivable use: waltz, ballet, stage plays.
It is one of these halls that she enters. The place is already set up by the time she arrives, the distant ceiling done in art-deco facets, part of the floor raised into dais that host two seats: one is occupied by Numadesi, and she takes up the other. The rest of the hall is taken up by a platform, its corners marked by demarcations that the fighters cannot cross without forfeiting the duel.
Both stand ready. An infantry captain and a ship captain who have raised a dispute over a recent operation, one that involved boarding the enemy vessel to retrieve a target. It was successful and the client was satisfied, but evidently the two captains ran into a strategic incompatibility. Normally such things might fester. In formal duels, they’re lanced quickly, cleanly: a venting of resentment before it can develop into a grudge.
The captains are a mismatch: one heavily augmented, broad, taller than Anoushka herself; the other barely a hundred eighty centimeters, xer cybernetics limited to prosthetic legs. A razor confronting a boulder. Both step onto the stage at a signal from Anoushka.
She reads aloud their grievances. The audience tenses; the duels are a spectator sport that serves certain communal needs and never fails to draw a sizable crowd. Bets will have been made, not sanctioned by Anoushka but permitted as long as they are private. By such metered leniency is an army of enormous number administered. And the occasion is a good opportunity to survey her officers’ moods, their opinions on recent successes or near-misses or defeats, a complement to the personnel reports Numadesi gives her each day.
Anoushka meets each captain’s eyes before she declares, “You may begin.”
The two combatants salute her. Then they draw—knives, and not the blunted sort. Medical attention is at hand, and while the fight is not to the death it is understood that the duel does not end until one of them admits defeat or can no longer stand. She may call for a stop, if she wishes; no point losing perfectly good soldiers. Both captains regard one another for a weighted minute, and decide at the same precise second to engage.
Much is made of combat. In truth the mechanics of it are savagely rote. There are only so many permutations to the act of ending a life; the human body has countless points of vulnerability, yet some organs are more efficient to crush or perforate than others, and Anoushka does not promote incompetent fighters to officers. The duelists are fast, and they know one another’s way, with such intimacy that speaks to prior sparring or a close relationship. She does not forbid fraternizing between officers of equal ranks, or between combat and noncombat personnel, so long as certain bylaws are adhered to.
Soon the disparity in technique emerges. The infantry captain commands greater reach, brute power, perhaps even stamina. The ship captain is aware of this and makes use of xer speed, drawing from the enhanced footwork xer prosthetic legs offer; xe will end it before xe tires out and the infantry captain can overwhelm xer.
“Who are you betting on, my lord?” Numadesi whispers to Anoushka.
The duel’s trajectory can still shift, but beyond a threshold the course is set. Even so: “One of them is about to surprise the other.”
The infantry captain has toppled to one knee, the pseudoskin on their arm shredded to untidy rags. They catch the next knife-thrust on their palm: the blade stabs clean through, bringing a new blue-black splatter of coolant.
They reach with their other hand, grasping their opponent by the jaw, and slams their head into xer nose. The breaking of cartilage is audible from where Anoushka sits. Numadesi gives a pleased murmur. Most don’t believe she appreciates technique as much as Anoushka, and she’s kept up the appearance of being the gentler between the two of them, more removed from the gore.
When it becomes obvious the ship officer isn’t going to get up, Anoushka descends to the stage and declares the infantry captain the victor. She grips the fallen soldier under the arms—xe groans—and hauls xer onto the gurney. The winner wipes sweat off their brow, their opponent’s blood and coolant smearing on pseudoskin, before turning to salute Anoushka and Numadesi. They linger for a few seconds longer than necessary then, abashed, strides over to their cheering subordinates.
“I think they were hoping for an invitation,” Numadesi says once the audience has dispersed. “Not to your tastes, my lord?”
On rare occasion, Anoushka takes a duelist to bed. It is a fraught choice, and she does it only when she judges it wise: taking a short-term lover or concubine from among the noncombat personnel is one thing, taking an officer is quite another. “They are, but the timing’s poor. Did either appeal to you much?”
Numadesi’s mouth turns feline. “The ship captain’s a virgin.”
“You do love deflowering someone almost as much as you love planting flowers.”
“What can I say, my lord, you can only debauch a virgin once. And xe’s pleasant on the eye. It is so fortunate that I don’t interfere with the command chain when I take an officer to bed. But, since neither of us are doing that, does the scent of exertion not rouse you a little—the adrenaline, the blood on the floor?”
Anoushka tosses her head and laughs. “It’s a shame I wasn’t a virgin when I courted you.”
“Oh, then you’d have won me over within a day instead of three.” Numadesi seals the hall’s entrances as she takes Anoushka’s hand, leading her back to their seats. “On the other hand, I would have missed out on the chance to enjoy your virility in all its seasoned glory . . . ”
“My lady with the insatiable appetites.” She lets Numadesi push her into the throne-like chair, undo and open her trousers; no matter how many decades have passed, and how many times they’ve done this together, there is ever a thrill to the sight of Numadesi kneeling between her legs, to Numadesi’s breath on her thighs.
She cups the back of Numadesi’s head, gently at first, then clutching tighter as Numadesi brings to bear the weaponry of her mouth. The tactics are familiar, yet each time Anoushka is defenseless, the fortress of her quickly breached. Her jaw and calves tense; she thrusts her hips against her wife, the bend of her spine taut. She holds herself on the edge as long as she can.
Numadesi looks up, nose and chin glistening. Her tongue darts out. “You lasted much longer than usual.”
“You did tease me about my virility; I had something to prove.” Anoushka wipes her thumb across her wife’s lips, then leans down to claim Numadesi’s mouth. “A god’s only as good as her altar.”
They tidy up, not that it will be hard to tell for anyone they pass what the admiral and her wife have been doing in the locked hall. As close to public congress as they ever have had, aboard their ships. Occasionally Numadesi tempts her to more, but the post and title of admiral have certain prerequisites. Control demonstrated at all times, in every aspect. Primally satisfying as it would be to fuck her wife in the corridors, it evinces a lapse. The one time she was almost swayed was when Xuejiao—
“My lord.” Numadesi touches her brow to the crook of Anoushka’s neck. “You’re thinking about her. Is it that creature which has been made in her likeness?”
“It will pass. She does not have an eternal claim on me.”
“The heart is not always easy to command.”
She strokes Numadesi’s long, thick braid; she pushes away the memory of her wedding to the traitor, Xuejiao in her veils. The little red bird-bride. “You are my heart.”
“Rather I am its sibyl, which is nearly the same, and a role with which I’m content. All I require is that you allow me to salve you.” Numadesi’s head twitches. “Ah. There appears to be a shipment I must see to—the one I told you about?”
“The one with a new toy for Criseyde.” Meaning a captured proxy, this one—incredibly—taken from a Pax Americana outpost, now held as cargo on a frigate. The identity and origins of the AI are unspecified, but Amaryllis intelligence operatives are always on the lookout. Another piece to aid in building countermeasures against machines.
Her wife smirks. “Quite. Ze often complains that they’re too damaged to be of use, so here’s hoping this one will be to zer liking. I will be back very soon, my lord. Think of me while I’m away.”
Chapter Four
Anoushka is mid-shower when her wife returns. Numadesi enters the bathroom naked and glides into the stall. “A little help with your back?” she purrs.
“As if I’m going to say no. You’re back early.”
Numadesi lathers up her hands. “That has better not be a complaint. It went well; all is in order. I have conveyed the contraband safely to Criseyde’s hands. Looks intact, even.”
They clean each other; when it is Anoushka’s turn she makes sure her fingers reach every spot—between the breasts, between the thighs, along the stomach and haunches. Her wife wiggles against her, eelish and slick.
Once they’re dressed, they part ways for the day’s work. Numadesi goes to her task of personnel administration, for which she has a delicate touch: the velvet glove to the admiral’s tungsten fist. Anoushka turns to her office. Routine has its place, and the point of psychological terrorism is to destroy that, to unseat her so that she jumps at shadows and forgets to distinguish between true and false signs of threat.
One urgent situation pings her, just then. An operation coming apart at the seams, her corvettes and harriers wrapped in thermal briars, caught in the jaw of enemy fusillades. She does not bother chastising the commanding offer. Instead she takes over, unfurling the tactical feeds of the ships on site across her vision. A tally of losses already incurred; of reinforcements and estimated time of arrival. The arithmetic is simple—whether the effort to salvage the operation will be worth it, whether the entire commission should be written off. For the present she judges that it can still be saved; too many vessels would be wasted otherwise. She generates the necessary simulations, inputs the variables, and begins relaying commands. Granular ones: formation shifts, the angle of artillery, the specific points at which the briars may be weakened by the implosion of ablative plating. She sacrifices a harrier, burning out its reactor core—the crew on it self-destructs without question, meeting their mortality with the knowledge that they were doomed in any case before she stepped in. Death that serves a purpose is preferable. To some soldiers it is the most precious coin, the ideal.
