“It doesn’t,” they say, laughing again. “But I’ve never set out to do any such thing. I’m not a political person and don’t pretend to be. What I want to do is create exquisite costumes to put on exquisite bodies. Listen, I met an actor. She’s fantastic at what she does and terribly your type, artistically and personally. Why don’t I set up an introduction?”
“I’m busy.” In her ear the guidance pushes her to accept.
“Nonsense. I’m calling her. Hold on.”
Taheen disappears into their backroom, leaving her alone with the mannequins, the excess of fabric and the gemstone assistants. Aquamarine approaches, asking if she’d like a smoke or something to drink. They all speak with variations on a single voice, the voice of Taheen’s parent. Suzhen knows this because they sat in the same selection lobby, the only two children there at the time. Taheen was orphaned much sooner than she, left to fend for themselves while still probationary, then adopted by an eccentric painter. Taheen doesn’t speak much of those years, and Suzhen expects there is a reason the automata do not speak with the painter’s voice. They are the only fellow ex-potentiate she has stayed in touch with. Someone to whom she can speak openly because there is no need to hide the fact of her history.
(Not that they share with each other which wasteland world they were from, what their parents used to do, who they used to be; whether they left family or friends behind, inasmuch as children remember those. Neither she nor Taheen shares whether their world or station was conquered by the Peace Guard first or if their parents preemptively fled. But otherwise, openly.)
When Taheen returns, it is with a triumphant smirk. “I’ve arranged it. There will be a play and this actress is the lead. Seats are sold out, but what do I care for rules? You’ll make time for it, yes?”
“You know I would because it’s you doing the asking. But I’d rather watch you make clothes.”
They click their tongue. “Yes, I’m phenomenal and so are my designs, but you need people. My clothes don’t talk. My drones don’t count.”
She stares at Rutile, at its glittering gaze and the bland sweetness of its countenance. “Don’t they? But they’re lovely.” As lovely as Taheen, though she has never been able to say that, somehow; it seems like belaboring the obvious—the way it would be to say the sun is bright or that dharma is righteous.
“You’re looking sad again. I do hate that.” They sit by her, patting their lap. “I’ll distract you and then you can go have a proper social outing. Come here.”
Suzhen does. It is comfort offered, and she has never been able to turn that away, not from Taheen. Rather the opposite. This is what she hungers for, her only vice. The lines of their body are long and patrician, and she falls into them as a puzzle-piece might fall into its slot: such is the force of habit, of attraction. They kiss her gently, they have always been careful as though they believe she is sugar and fired earth, prone to cracking or dissolving at the slightest pressure. She has never dissuaded them, has never admitted she wants more force. That they would do this for her is boon enough, a benison of touch that holds—for a time—the weight of her past at bay. An aegis, a prayer, an act close to holy.
Taheen smells of lemongrass. A scent she’s come to associate with good sex, the best sex.
Between their thumb and forefinger they roll one of her nipples, and lick down across her collarbones. She cups their breast in turn, kneading, then plunging her hand down to undo their jeweled sarong. In nudity Taheen is a vision. On Anatta, citizens are entitled to the body of their desire, skeleton and flesh and features answering precisely to individual needs and wants. Whether Taheen has received modification she will never know—and she will not ask—but she’s always thought the shape of them is god-made, divinely mandated. That glorious expanse of hips, those wide thighs hardened from exercise, which she kisses and licks and worships. More animated calligraphy shimmers around their knees, scrolling round and round, distorting and warping into golden shadows.
Her eyes clench shut as they sip sweat off her throat, her nipples. When they enter her it is slow and impossibly tender, and she responds as she ever does, wrapping her limbs around them and moving with them: two tides in concert.
Much better than the virtual lover, the simple AI. Much better than anyone else she’s ever been with: they have the spark, the element that is missing from any other, the fire that ignites her own. For a time they lie entangled, Taheen still deep in her. Musk in the air. Suzhen breathes deep and knows that she cannot have this person, not beyond the physical—they are star-fire and she is clay. This is a favor, an obligation, done for whatever reason that prevents Taheen from dismissing her as a failed social appendage and at last casting her aside. But they are so solid against her that she does not want to think of that, not now, not yet. After a union like this, she wants to whisper her gratitude like prayer. Except that would break the delicate equilibrium between the two of them. Taheen would not brook her thanks, might even be embarrassed by it.
They separate. Taheen lets her stay in the circle of their arms a little longer and she nestles her cheek against the curve of their throat.
“My clients would never expect me to do anything so vulgar right in the gallery,” they murmur. Their chuckle travels down, vibrating against her jaw. “They think I treat this place like a temple. I let them—it’s more amusing.”
She wants, desperately, to keep them here. To remain against the soft-hard planes of their flesh, to join them in the sheets. “It’s a good thing you don’t have human help to walk in on such activities.” Which they must do with plenty others: she knows for a fact that at any time, they have four to five lovers, occasionally several at once in bed. Most, she imagines, do not have her baggage.
Taheen rises, eventually: they have a project to complete. They’ve never asked her to stay the night and she has taken the hint. If there is anything she has learned on Anatta, it is to take what she’s given and ask for no more. She pushes herself upright. The drone assistants have discreetly disappeared, did not stay to spectate.
Suzhen turns to the news, for the same reason she might scratch at a scab, push at an aching tooth. There, the facts and the figures. How much incoming population they can expect from the Thorn’s newly liberated subjects, how off-world facilities have been prepared to hold them—most on satellites, a few on more distant outposts. This will be the largest influx of asylum seekers in Suzhen’s lifetime—she checks Bureau statistics and finds that it will be the largest influx period. And if the Thorn’s fall means inevitable defeat of the other remaining warlord, if that means more displaced populations…
Is it any of her problem, she thinks, when she is no more than a cog. She is not one of Samsara’s chosen administrators, she does not make or modify policy. Her history is what it is: commonplace, dull. It does not empower her or even equip her to do her work better. It does not let her do good. There are regulations, there is process, and she follows them like any other.
Perhaps Taheen is right; perhaps after Ovuha, she should consider a career change.
On the news a human officer comes on, a man with a crooked snub nose, dressed in Interior Defense black. In a tone of complete piety, he announces that every last civilian freed from the Thorn’s dominion will be made welcome, that the doors of benediction will be thrown wide. A lie, but Suzhen never expects more.
Chapter Three
There is a solid delay between Suzhen ringing the door and Ovuha answering it. Ovuha is in—she can track the potentiate’s location in real time. She could simply override the door, but she opts not to. The access she commands to Ovuha’s existence is comprehensive. No point salting the wound.