by Zack Jordan
“Ace,” she says, “the first step is very important. I need quiet.”
“You…don’t want to talk to me?”
Oh, for the goddess’s sake, here we go. “Not you,” she says, thinking quickly. “Everybody else.”
“Ohhhh,” says Ace, his voice picking back up. “That’s different.”
“This is an important job, Ace,” she says seriously, “and it’s one that only you can do.” Technically, this is true. It helps when the truth lines up with what you want. Gives you conviction. “I need you to block all communication to this room,” she continues. “All night. Maybe put a warning up on the hatch? Use your imagination. Something about danger.”
[Death to all who enter] appears in the darkness, danger-colored. “Like this?” asks Ace.
Maybe a little over the top, but sometimes you need to give a lower intelligence some freedom. “Sure,” she says. “Just put that up and—”
[Trespassers will be dismembered] appears on a second line.
Okay, well, too much enthusiasm is better than too little. “That’s…good,” she says. “It shows that we’re, um…serious.”
[And their families tracked down and slaughtered.]
It’s always a battle, finding the line between encouraging and extinguishing initiative. “That’s…great,” says Sarya. “Let’s just stop it there, though, okay?”
“Got it!” says Ace. “Only…what about Sandy, though?”
Low-tier the little intelligence may be, but Sarya will never get used to its abrupt left turns. “Um…what about Sandy?” she asks.
“Well, she’s waiting outside in the corridor right now.”
A shiver runs through Sarya’s body as she stares at the faint outline of the hatch. As if sitting in the darkness baiting bad dreams wasn’t bad enough, there’s been someone outside her door the whole time. Someone far smarter than she is, someone whose motives she can’t possibly understand. “How long has she been out there?” she asks.
“A while,” says Ace. “She gave me the idea to turn off the lights.”
And suddenly Sarya is forced to reevaluate the last few minutes. “Wait, what?” she says, sitting up. “You’ve been talking to her? Okay, keep that door shut, because this is definitely something we need to discuss. You will tell me when—”
The hatch slides open. A small figure crouches in the light of the corridor.
“Ace?” Sarya hisses.
“Sorry!” says Ace. “I don’t know what happened. She made a really convincing case.”
“I am your owner, Ace. I give you orders.”
“I know! But she—”
[Hello], says Sandy in simple blue symbols. She blinks something incomprehensible, then pads into the room.
The door slides shut, and now all Sarya can see is a blue icon approaching in the darkness. The click of disembodied talon on invisible floor is eerie enough, but not nearly as bad as feeling the tug on the edge of the bunk. Is she—oh, goddess, she is literally climbing in here. Sarya scoots herself back into the corner. There is a tier three in her bunk. What in the eight heavens—
[Can I have this?] asks Sandy, and Sarya hears the crinkling of a food bar wrapper.
“Ace?” says Sarya. “Tell her—”
[Don’t worry], says Sandy. [I can read your lips.]
“Oh,” says Sarya, blinking in the darkness. Apparently all those eyes are good for something other than hypnosis. “Well then…sure?”
Judging by the noises that now emanate from the other end of the bunk, Sandy does not eat the food bar. She devours it. She may be small and delicate-looking in the light, but if Sarya didn’t know better, she’d think a predator had just caught something struggling and foil-wrapped at the other end of her bunk. Good goddess, has this little intelligence never eaten before?
A tiny belch squeaks in the darkness, and then the silence resumes. Orange gleams begin to appear in the darkness as, one by one, Sarya’s Network unit simulates a reflection on each of the eyes currently fixed on Sarya. The effect of dozens of glimmers hanging in utter blackness, each one blinking or fluttering or squinting, does nothing to relieve the tension in the room.
[You are trying to open your Memory Vault], says Sandy.
“Yeah,” says Sarya, as lightly as she can manage. That’s not much of an intuitive leap, really. There’s only one other object in this room and it’s a Memory Vault; does it really take a tier three to guess what’s going on? “Yeah,” she says again, determined to maintain control over this conversation. “Turns out it’s harder than it—”
[I know how to open it], says Sandy.
Sarya stares at the words. “You…what now?”
[Do you want the answer?] asks Sandy. [Or the long version?]
Sarya could not have imagined such a small creature could have so many eyes. Their reflections gleam in the blackness, perfectly and creepily rendered by her Network unit. Can they still hypnotize her, even in darkness? Is this all happening of Sarya’s own free will? “The answer,” she says firmly.
[Pain without fear], says Sandy instantly.
And suddenly Sarya finds herself sitting in complete darkness staring at what was, perhaps, Shenya the Widow’s favorite phrase. She’s heard her mother say it a thousand times, in a thousand scenarios. She has been disciplined with it. She has been forced to memorize stories and epics that illustrate the concept. And now that Sandy has said it, she realizes it fits a certain description she’s heard recently.
An extreme yet unique combination of emotions.
“There are—there are thousands of Widow proverbs,” Sarya says carefully. “What made you pick that one?”
[It is obvious.]
“Oh.” Sarya watches the eyes in the darkness, wondering if every conversation with a tier three goes this way. “Well, now I guess I need the long version.”
[First I researched Humans], Sandy says. [Then I researched Widows. Then I thought about how they’re different. Then I thought about how they’re the same. Then I realized that they’re more the same than different.]
Even if you are not sharing a darkened bunk with a tier three, it is odd to hear your own thoughts in someone else’s words. Sarya has spent her whole life ruminating on her divided heritage, and she has come to the same conclusion. “Keep going,” she says, intrigued.
[Then I made lists of what both species value, and I compared the lists and took the overlap. Then I put that aside and I read all the proverbs and fairy tales and legends I could find.]
“You’ve…really spent some time on this.”
[Not really. Both civilizations were developed by simple minds. Once you derive their core values you can skip around a bit.]
“Oh.” So this is what that laundry drone felt like, back in Watertower’s backstage.
[And the answer, I think, is in your name.]
“My name?” says Sarya. “Sarya?”
[The other part], says Sandy. [The Daughter.]
Again, that flash of unpleasantness, that irritation at the fringes of her mind. Sandy continues to make more sense than Sarya wants to admit. “Explain,” she says.
[Widows—and Humans—assign titles based on worthiness], says Sandy. [You have to prove yourself. For example, the rest of the galaxy calls the whole species Widows, but that’s not accurate, is it?]
“Right,” says Sarya. “Most of us—them—aren’t Widows. You have to be female, and you have to have, um…mated.”
[And killed your mate, if I’m not mistaken?]
“That’s…part of the deal, yeah.” She’s always been of split mind about that part, and now to hear Sandy say it rather than her mother—well, it sounds less magical, that’s for sure.
[More importantly, the juveniles are not Daughters when they hatch, are they?]
“No,” says Sarya. “Most ne
ver become Daughters, actually. They have to—”
[Survive.]
“Um…right.”
[So they must earn the title of Daughter. Or die.]
And now, staring at a collection of blinking gleams in a black room, Sarya knows what it is to be taken apart. Without any effort at all, Sandy has found her most vulnerable spot. Sandy understands her more deeply than she understands herself. Sandy sees into her past, extrapolates her future, lays bare her dreams, and uncovers her deepest shame. Sarya the Daughter is a skilled liar, but she finds that she cannot lie to Sandy.
“That’s…right,” says Sarya softly.
Sandy says nothing. She watches from her dozens of vantage points.
Sarya can feel the cracks spreading across her carefully crafted surface. “My name is Sarya the Daughter,” she says carefully. She places one word after another, focusing on the sound of each one. “I’m named after a hero—like, five, actually.” A little cough. A bitter little laugh. “Seems like every Widow legend is named Sarya, right? I mean, you’ve read them, you know. And yeah, I do have the…title. So I can see why you’d think—” She swallows. “But, I mean…I’m not a hero. I didn’t even earn—I didn’t have to survive. I wasn’t hatched in a nest full of, you know, killer siblings. I’ve never fought for anything, let alone my life. I’ve never earned anything.” And she’s a liar. And she’s weak. And she’s full of fear. And. And. And. She’s as far from Widow as someone could possibly be. “My mother,” she says, and swallows. “My mother named me Daughter when she adopted me, but—”
[Does that sound like a Widow?]
Sarya feels her mouth slowly close. No, not really. And her mother was Widow out to the exoskeleton. And yet…no. Come on, she wouldn’t forget something like that. No, Sarya the Daughter is—and always has been—a fraud. Her eyes burn, and for once she is glad of the darkness. I am Sarya the Daughter, says the trusty mantra in her head.
But what does that even mean?
The blinking gleams are now mere centimeters away from her face. But she can’t seem to pull back—or rather, she doesn’t want to pull back. You’re fine where you are, say the eyes. The bunk is already warm here, it will take too much energy to move, and anyway isn’t this comforting? Yes, how has she never noticed that these eyes are the very definition of comfort? They hearten her, they tell her that she is someone of worth. They say that she can trust Sandy, that she is safe here, that she can open up and search her mind for what she needs to know…
You can’t think of anything in your past that might have been…trial-like? asks Sandy. Or maybe she didn’t, because Sarya is not sure if she’s read the message via Network unit or she’s just…thought it. An ordeal? Something from which you could only emerge a Daughter…or dead?
Sarya has no idea how much time passes through her dark room as she stares into the dozens of gleams. They blur and cross and join and superimpose as her gaze relaxes and moves off into the distance, somewhere beyond the little furball on her bunk. Out there, tattered ghosts of memories drift through her consciousness. They show her things that she hasn’t thought of in years—if ever. She sees darkness. She sees light. She experiences terror and joy. And always, all around her, are the eyes.
And perhaps she lost consciousness or her sense of time was disrupted, because now her hatch is suddenly open. An eye-stinging bar of light lies across the floor and up the wall, and it gilds the small furry form that stands in the doorway.
[You will sleep now], says Sandy over her shoulder.
And as soon as Sarya reads the sentence, it becomes true.
A little girl trembles in the dark. She usually sleeps when the lights go out, but now it’s been a long time since she saw light and she only sleeps when she cannot possibly avoid it. She can’t swallow; she’s so thirsty she can’t even feel the ache of her hunger.
Do you wish to call me Mother?
She didn’t know! Oh, she didn’t know, she would have answered differently if she had known about the darkness and the pain and the thirst. She would have said no, she would have said please no, goddess, no—
But she didn’t. She said yes.
She seizes her doll and buries her face in its silky surface. It smells like the monster that haunts her when she is least prepared, the demon she thought she wanted to call Mother—but it’s all she has. She counts the doll’s legs against her face: one two three four five six seven eight. Now she does it again, as fast as she can. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight. She does it again, slowly, this time using one for each verse of The Song of Sarya. All the Saryas went through this, even Sarya the Destroyer, and they all won. They won their lives.
Oh, but even that is not worth this kind of thirst…
There was a game she used to play…before. Back when things were different. She remembers something bright and crackling and warm and beautiful, and she would stand by the burning thing and gaze into its light, with her back to the cold night. And the game was this: how long can you go without turning to look behind you? It gets harder, the longer you go. Because the more you ignore it, the more you become unshakably convinced of a single fact.
Something is in the darkness with you.
She sits up and nearly falls over, but she clutches the doll tightly until the dizziness passes. She can’t see Mother, but you don’t need to see Mother to know she’s there. You can smell her. You can hear those little clicks her mouth is always making. And so the little girl draws her knees to her chin, the doll compressed against her chest, and wraps her arms around her legs. She is not safer this way, but she feels safer.
“Do you wish to call me Mother?” asks the darkness.
No, screams every part of the little girl. She said she did, yes, but she didn’t know, she didn’t understand the difference between stories and real life. And now everything is dark and everything hurts—
“Yes,” whispers the little girl. The word scrapes her dry throat on its way out.
A low hiss fills her room, and now the little girl doesn’t have to guess where Mother is, because she feels the sudden hardness of jointed limbs wrapping her body. She knows better than to move, and does not even cry out when her hair is tugged, painfully, by razor-sharp mouthparts.
“And on the eighth day,” whispers the darkness, “she emerged, gleaming in the light of the moons.”
The little girl mouths the words with cracked lips, because she knows that story. Shenya the Clever took eight days to emerge, Suukyu the Insane took eight days to emerge, everyone except for Sarya the Destroyer took eight days, she will take eight days, onetwothreefourfive—
“I am your birthplace,” recites the voice. “I am your proving ground. I am your siblings, who hunger for life. I am ravenous hunger, and I am killing thirst. I am Suffering herself. And I say to you who have been gifted life: do you deserve your gift?”
“No,” whispers the little girl.
“You who have been bestowed with consciousness: do you merit that which you have received?”
The little girl cannot make a sound, but she can move her lips. No, say her lips.
“You who possess these unearned gifts: do you wish to purchase them?”
The little girl is so exhausted, so far beyond anything in her experience that she can barely even think. Her greatest desire and her greatest fear are crushed together; she is wrapped in something that could be Mother and it is wrapped in darkness or maybe it is made of darkness or maybe it is the darkness. She doesn’t understand it, and she doesn’t understand her own reaction to it. She wants to scream at it, to kill it. She wants to bury herself in it, where no one can find her. She wants to run and hide, she wants to burn this monster in light and fire—but she doesn’t do any of these things. Instead, she does something she’s never done before. With confused fingers, she reaches out into the blackness and feels for a face. It is right there, even closer than sh
e thought, and it does not prevent her from touching its hardness and sharp edges. It’s not at all like her own face.
“Yes,” she says to the face.
“Then these scars,” says the darkness, “will be your most precious possessions.”
And then there is light.
This is the first light the little girl has seen in days, and she hungers for it even as she slits her eyes against it. She can see the thing in the darkness now, because it has transformed from an invisible terror into a nightmare. Every hard line gleams with white light, every angle quivers in the twisting shadows on the walls. The little girl is trapped, held in the center of a whirling storm of light and shadow.
“Do you know what this is?” asks the nightmare.
After so long in the darkness, the little girl couldn’t look away from the light if she wanted to. She tries to swallow, then tries to say no, but nothing happens each time but pain.
“This is my past,” says the darkness. “And your future—and if not yours, then that of your people. These are the memories I created while in your world; I have cut them out and stored them. In this device is the only record of its location. Thousands of cultures would pay dearly for it.”
There are more words, but they are so chopped with violent clicks that the little girl cannot quite make them out, even with her ears centimeters from those quivering mandibles. They sounded like…my own most of all.
“And so we come to the final night of your trial,” says the darkness after an endless moment. “This is the night you fulfill your destiny, whether that be life or death. If you become my Daughter, I shall become the very definition of Motherhood. I shall love whom you love, and I shall kill whom you hate. I shall guard you with my life, and when the time comes to lay it down I shall do so laughing. For my life is mine; I have purchased it, and I may do with it as I please. And what is mine shall be yours, little hatchling, and what is yours shall be mine. Your people shall become my people, and mine yours. I shall relinquish my ancestral right to vengeance, and your future—and that of your people—shall rest on your blades, not mine.” A hiss rises, low and soft. “If you live.”
