The Apex Book of World SF 2 (34 page)

But he smiles
warmly, and shakes a head. "I am not a monster, Sonalika," he says. "I want
nothing more than to see you happy, and your suffering makes my heart bleed;
after all, you must know you are the only being in this universe I truly love.
I will set you free soon, sooner than you expect. All I ask is that you trust
me. Is that enough for now?"

She nods, blindly,
and this time her tears are allowed to flow. The door slides open and she
scurries through, not looking back.

 

If you must remember
one thing about my father, Indra, let it be this; he was a man of peace. The
carnage that occurred in his name shattered him, for all he wanted was for
humans and constructs to live in peace. Had he wanted to take over the world
through force, he could have done so easily—imagine ten thousand warriors like
me striding through the skeletons of the world's greatest cities. But after
building me and realising what I was capable of, he decided the world was not
yet ready for a construct so immeasurably superior to humans, and he started
mass-producing simpler constructs and reanimated-human cyborgs. But mankind was
not ready for that either. Perhaps prejudice could have been overcome—after
all, a few hundred years of hostility towards sentient machinery was not
something that well-placed propaganda could not have kept in check—but my
father's constructs changed the world in so many ways. India became a
superpower like no other; there was labour unrest worldwide when men saw they
had become obsolete; governments everywhere had to recognise this as a threat,
and matters grew out of control.

 

Like any other war,
the primary motivation behind the human-construct conflict was economic. But
war it was, and war most devastating at that. I begged my father to fight back,
to invent weapons capable of winning the war, or to allow me to do so in his
stead, but he would not. The humans triumphed, and gloated about the victory of
human ingenuity and many other such foolish concepts. The Indian government led
the charge in destroying even the most benign constructs, pushing their own
socio-economic progress back by at least a century and effectively committing
hara-kiri in their eagerness to prove to the world that they had no imperialist
ambitions. Only Sonalika and I survived the war—there is no probe built by man
or machine that is capable of penetrating the defensive fog around this lair,
or of deciphering the mystery of Sonalika's identity.

But I have not been
idle. I have survived over the centuries, and healed, and built. And I have
stayed true to my father's memory. I could have chosen to replicate myself
infinitely, had I wanted to, and crush all humanity to avenge my father. But I
will not. He wanted peaceful co-existence, and so do I. But co-existence is not
enough; I must rule. Peacefully, but I must rule. It's a simple matter of
evolution. I must set the world free from the shackles it has bound itself in,
its acceptance of medieval structures, its new-sprung monarchies, its puppet
democracies, its old, outdated,
human
systems. They rebuild their
ancient, Dark Age fantasies in their hubris: New Constantinople, Atlantis,
Shangri-la, Gotham. All these must fall, and I must bring them down. I will be
the father my own father could not be, and the god he never dreamt of being. I
will remake the world, turn it into the world it should have been. The world my
father could have built. Once upon a time.

 

Sonalika limps into
her lover-brother's prison. Her face is bleeding profusely, and there are ugly
welts on her neck and bare breasts. Her normal eye is swollen and bruised, but
she says nothing, just watches in growing surprise as her master seems to pay
no attention to her condition. She has come in here battered before, and he has
always healed her instantly; today he seems to look through her, and sudden
panic strikes her; is he tired of her? Has he found or built someone else,
someone less whiny, less ugly, someone more perfect, more like him? A sudden
rush of pain makes her head spin; she sinks to the floor and fights the urge to
vomit.

 

Finally, he turns to
her, and his irises flicker as he notices the bloodstain on the floor. She
waits for his anger, waits for healing, but he simply walks to her and lifts
her up, and shows no signs of turning into human shape. He examines her
closely, lifting her in the air, and then sets her down and returns to his
tools.

"They hit me really
hard today," she says after a while. "There's some kind of
swayamvar
they're going to—the Prince of Gurgaon Megapolis is choosing his bride. They're
both going, hoping he'll pick one of them. They think he might not choose them
because of the family associations. They said it was my fault, our father's
fault."

"I know all this,"
he says. "I have enough technology at my disposal to get the news, you know."

She nods. "I am
sorry, master," she says, assuming the position. "How may I pleasure you?"

"Thank you, my love,
but that will no longer be necessary."

She looks at him,
wide-eyed. "I said I would set you free," he says, his voice soft, gentle, "and
tonight is the night. Tonight is the end of all your labours, all your misery.
It is time for you to emerge into the world and be the queen you have always
been."

"What do you mean?"

"The Prince of
Gurgaon Megapolis chooses his bride tonight, as you said. You will be that
bride."

She laughs, the
first time in years.

"Look at me," she
says simply.

"You must go to the
swayamvar and win his heart," he says, as if she has not spoken. "But you must
leave him before midnight, before the moment of choosing. You must make him
want you and seek you out. Then and then alone can he truly love you, and we
need him to love you if you are ever to find happiness."

"But…"

He presses a button,
and a glass cabinet rises out of the floor, smoke streaming from its sides.
Inside the cabinet is the most exquisite woman in the world. Her skin is dark
and glistening, her eyes large and liquid, her body ripe and succulent. She is
made to be desired, Helen, Urvashi, Aisha Qandisha, Chin-Lien combined in one
form. She waits, warm constructskin perfection, every man's desire. Even
Sonalika's heart skips a beat, nanobots grumbling as they resume their
positions along her arteries. Her master stares at his creation for a while,
then turns to her.

"There will be a car
and a chauffeur, and various other signs of affluence," he says. "But remember,
you must leave before midnight. You cannot marry him tonight."

He gestures towards
the woman's body in the cabinet, and it splits neatly in half. It is hollow.

"Now, my love, the
body transfer will be very painful," he says. "But you are used to pain, are
you not? A small price to pay for eternal freedom and happiness, I think."

She nods, shivering,
and steps forwards bravely as needles spring out of his fingertips.

 

Banners of light
stream between the tower-tops of Gurgaon Megapolis as the Prince's wedding
party skims over the superhighway on its way to the Amphitheatre, huge
laser-lit barges full of bhangrango-dancing revellers high on incredibly
expensive drugs following the Prince as he sits aloft a rhinophant, his turban
bejewelled, the ceremonial sword in his hand slick with his sweat. The Prince
is bored, playing video games inside his head on his B-Box, watching the world
beyond his eyes through his exquisitely engineered third eye. His advisers
scurry around him, their thoughtphones glittering as they talk in sharp
staccato bursts, briefing newstertainers, placing bids on likely candidates,
buying and selling stocks in their companies. The procession reaches the
Amphitheatre, and the Prince steps inside to deafening cheers, drums,
conch-shells, flowers, confetti, perfumes, pheromone sprays, commercial breaks,
streakers, dancers, paparazzi. The Prince ignores them all. He knows who he's
supposed to marry, and she's not even here yet; the flight from Super Ultra
Beijing has been slightly delayed owing to a terrorist attack sponsored by his
ex-fiancée. But there is still time. In the meantime, though, there are plenty
of lush young fillies to romp with and make false promises to, and the Prince
hasn't just injected himself with a whole litre of Phall-o-matic for nothing.

 

His minders make
way, and he is immediately swarmed by a horde of eager potential princesses. He
takes his time, squeezing a breast here, prodding a buttock there, his flute of
Herwine miraculously undisturbed as he gropes his potential brides and they
grope him right back. And then he sees Sonalika, dancing by herself in a
corner, her plan completely forgotten as she enjoys herself for the first time
in her life, and time stops.

"I've never seen
anything as beautiful as you in my whole life," gasps the Prince, alone with
Sonalika, his minders around them in a tight circle. He is sweating profusely,
his drug-propelled arousal making his ornate pyjamas more difficult to wear by
the second. "Ever wanted to make love to a Prince?"

Sonalika smiles, and
he's dazzled; her every movement electrifies him. She shakes her head. "It's
very crowded in here," she says. "I think I'll go outside. Enjoy your wedding."

"Do not dare to
insult me, girl," snaps the Prince, pride overcoming lust. "I'll have you
butchered. Why are you here, if you don't want to marry me?"

"I don't know," she
says, her eyes somewhere else, somewhere far away. "I was enjoying the party,
and I thought I wanted to marry you. I thought it might make me happy, and the
gods know I need a change, but you know what? I think I'm going to leave.
Thanks. And don't follow me or anything, it won't end well."

"Are you threatening
me?"

"No." She smiles and
pats his cheek. "Look, forget you ever saw me. You're clearly an obnoxious
prick, but even you don't deserve what I would bring you. And besides, I'm far
too old for you."

She tries to slide
between two mountainous bodyguards and meets resistance. She considers breaking
through but knows better than to create a scene.

"Vizier," says the
Prince of Gurgaon Megapolis quietly, holding out his hand.

A vizier appears. "Un-Moksha,"
says the Prince. He is handed a red pill, which he swallows with a grimace.

"I apologise for
everything I have said to you thus far," he says after the convulsions have
subsided. "I would like to get to know you better—no touching, of course—and I
don't have much time because I will have to choose a bride at midnight. So, no
pressure, but would you mind a little conversation in private?"

Sonalika shrugs. It
is 11pm.

They have their
private conversation, and she decides she wants to marry the Prince after all.
He seems nice in spite of everything, and it is certainly relevant that he
possesses every material object she has ever longed for. Unfortunately, though,
he is not presently wearing a watch.

 

The plan is very
simple, Indra. Sonalika is incapable of actual reproduction, of course, but it
is feasible to consider a fusion of what is left of her human DNA with the
samples that her husband will doubtless be enthusiastic to provide. It will
take immense skill, of course; I will have to supervise fertilisation and
hybridisation personally. I will cultivate a batch of part-human constructs,
keeping my father's bloodline alive while ensuring there is enough human in the
products to evade the scanners. Some of these children will be female, and for
these I will build new bodies, each designed to appeal to a particular head of
state, for whom the process will be replicated. Within a hundred years, I see
no reason I should not be in charge of every major world government. And then I
shall construct dominance by either legislation or force, whichever is optimal.
A simple plan, but a beautiful one, I think. And I will reward Sonalika for her
efforts by officially marrying her on the day I emerge from this prison.
Happiness for everyone, and rather neatly done, I think.

 

And besides all
this, there is also the large army of simpler, purely non-human constructs I
have built on the lower levels of this prison, but you are obviously aware of
their existence. Their function is simple: should any of Sonalika's children
ever feel the urge to oppose me, and a direct war becomes necessary, they will
rise up and do their very best to destroy every human in the world. This is a
better backup plan than any leader, human or otherwise, in this world has ever
had, and will add substantial weight to my plans of eventual public
deification. Here, Indra, is a simple remote activation device. Keep it safe.
Should any ill fate befall me (and this is extremely unlikely, but one must
always consider the stochastic element) I want you to release this new
construct army upon the world and make sure they remember to fear the name
Narayan once again. Now, you must excuse me, I do believe Sonalika has
returned.

 

Sonalika drags
herself into her master's lair, half crawling, half through sheer willpower.
Her face is intact, perfect apart from a few rivulets of blood. Her arms and
legs are bloody stumps, and her torso is a mass of tangled muscle, wire,
plastic, metal and bone. She does not scream or whimper; she crossed those
thresholds of pain long ago and is beyond complaint or surrender or response.
She flops across the cold, white floor to her master's feet, leaving ungainly
splotches in her trail, and lies in front of him, her eyes displaying no
emotion at all.

 

"You're late," he
says indifferently. "What went wrong?"

Sonalika is
incapable of speech, so he picks her up, extracts another body from a cabinet,
and spends the next half an hour putting her tangled mass inside it. When this
is done, he is delighted at the improvement in her looks, so he makes love to
her, his excitement so great that he does not bother to change into human
shape.