Now Will Machines Hollow the Beast Benjanun Sriduangkaew (love story books to read .TXT) 📖

The corporal jumps, startled by this attention, and bows. Ze disappears into the corridor, soon reappears in the holding cell. The sentenced recruits had two options: lethal injection or a pistol. The weeping one chose the pistol—the corporal enters with sidearm drawn and fires, with precision, between the recruit’s eyes. Then ze turns to administer a neurotoxin patch to the other recruit’s jugular. Painless, combined with the paralytics already there; no point being sadistic about it. Numadesi wonders if the corporal felt any hesitation. But no—from zer manners this is routine work, the same as practicing zer marksmanship or assisting technicians in cleaning shuttles. Likely ze never knew the recruits personally. Death becomes distant and then becomes banal. Troops are chosen for their nerves to begin with: no one comes to the Amaryllis an inexperienced naïf. Most were seasoned mercenaries, soldiers, syndicate criminals. In some ways, Numadesi thinks with faint amusement, her background is nearly unique among them. When she joined the fleet, her hands were less bloodied than most, though by now they are dyed the same shade as anyone’s.

And two deaths are not so many. Barely registering as a ledger error.

She boards a lift and makes her way back to her quarters where her guest is waiting. In the parlor, conversation pauses as she enters, though if she wants to know what they were saying she would be able to access the logs in any case. The sergeant who has been guarding the room—a formality—colors deeply when they see Numadesi, cheeks turning brighter still when she smiles at them.

“You can go, Sergeant,” she says. “I’ll take it from here. Do have an excellent day.”

They salute. “My lady.”

The person seated at her table raises an eyebrow once the sergeant has gone. “That soldier couldn’t stop praising you. They believe you a core thread—apologies, let me try that again with an analogy that’d make more sense to you. They believe you are the sky to which they must turn their face for sustenance. Is this a common opinion?”

“Benzaiten in Autumn.” Her acquaintance with Krissana Khongtip was passing, but to her it is obvious which half of the haruspex is at the fore. Briefly she wonders what the other half is doing, asleep or floating unmoored. Or whether that half was only a construct Benzaiten wore as a costume, discarded when no longer necessary. “I strive to maintain amicable relations with my lord’s troops so that I may do her credit.”

Costume or not, Benzaiten has dressed the body with an eye for style: an outfit in oxblood and electrum, with rubies to match. Or else Krissana dressed herself this way before she was switched off, compressed into some neural recess where she dreams of emptiness and nirvana. The body has not changed much from Krissana’s days as an Amaryllis agent. Slight in height and ample in figure, complexion dark and unblemished save where implants gleam like nacre beneath the skin, the hair loose and long.

The AI smiles, unself-conscious of Numadesi’s scrutiny. “I would have come earlier, but Krissana’s and her partner’s anniversary celebration kept this haruspex occupied. The admiral acts swiftly, as ever, I see she’s already reached her destination. How do you do, Lady Numadesi? I believe that is how you’re addressed, the young soldier took pains to tell me so. They understand me to be human, by the way; quite amusing.”

She gestures and the floor extends her a seat, the material surging and writhing as it settles into the required shape. A part of her misses furniture more permanent and more lavish, but warships are warships. Projected upholstery sweeps over the chair, warming its color and texture into plush rose-gold. “My lord’s guest is my guest. The hospitality of the Amaryllis is at your disposal, though I fear that as the admiral is indeed away, I have only my humble company to offer. How would you like to be accommodated? We don’t usually let clients onboard, but of course you and she are old friends.”

“Accommodate me however you like, truly. I could curl up at the foot of your bed like a cat and it’d be of no account, Krissana’s not going to be very present.”

Numadesi continues to smile. She wonders what opinion Krissana has about that, if any. Whether the human half ever thought it would be like this when she pledged herself to the haruspex process, assimilating into this species of otherness, this plunging into nanomachine tides, to submerge in them and be remade whole and entire. “I’d never treat an honored guest so. I’ll assign you a room not far from mine, with all the necessary facilities. May I ask why it is that you didn’t accompany the admiral herself?” The AI doesn’t strike her as avoidant or cowardly.

“You may ask. I may not answer. I have reasons, naturally, I originally planned to be there in person, but . . . ” Xer teeth flash in a grin. “Other factors impeded me and would have made that quite unwise. Still, it’s not as if the admiral needs my help, does she? I’m therefore providing remote support, an area in which I’m rather capable, if I may say so myself. Should all go well, I don’t expect I will linger here too long. In the meantime, why don’t we get acquainted? I’ve only really known Anoushka, she never did introduce us, and I love to make friends.”

Benzaiten would have exactly the mind Numadesi requires: to make sense of the execution data, to draw from the shifting tumble of it a clear and vivid equation. She doesn’t yet know quite what she seeks. Only half an intuition that something doesn’t sit right. Yet to do so would expose classified Amaryllis intelligence to an AI. “Any friend of my lord’s is a friend of mine,” she says. “But as for myself there is no past behind me, nor any future before me, save what Admiral