by Zack Jordan
Shenya the Widow rattles. You go too far, implant. “Do not use that word with this—this thing,” she hisses. “Unless you wish for a factory reset.”
[All right, fine, we’re babysitting], says her implant, seemingly unaware of the seriousness of its position. [So let’s entertain it. I don’t have any local data on Humans, but…what do Widow juveniles like to play with?]
Shenya the Widow decides to let it go. As annoying as her implant is, it is not so annoying as an implant who cannot remember the last decade. “Wounded prey,” she says, warm memories of childhood surfacing.
[And here we are without a single dying animal.]
But Shenya the Widow is inspired. Without another word, she takes a quick skittering trip to her cabin. She travels with few belongings, which means it is mere seconds until she emerges with a bundle under two blades. The Human watches her reappear with what Shenya would swear is a baleful look in its eyes. It appears to be prepared to attack again, which warms Shenya’s hearts.
“Let us see what we may do with this,” she says, rolling out the bundle on the floor.
[I have never seen you wear clothing], says Shokyu the Mighty.
“That is because I am not a juvenile,” she says. Little idiot, she does not add. Two blades gently lift a small piece of cloth. It is a deep and shimmering black and it brings back memories that she will never share with anyone.
[Baby clothes?] asks her implant. [Swaddling, that kind of thing?]
“We are not swaddled,” says Shenya the Widow, holding the cloth up to the light and looking for holes. “Only a few of us even survive long enough to meet an adult.”
[Environmental hazards, I assume?]
“Each other.”
[I see.] Her implant pauses for a moment. [Again, I don’t judge. So if not swaddling clothes…mating clothes? Just a guess.]
“You are correct,” says Shenya the Widow, stroking a cloth in gentle reminiscence. “Each one stained with the lifeblood of a different male, given at the height of its ecstasy.”
[I…understood we were talking about mating?]
“We are,” says Shenya the Widow. “But now you know why we are called Widows.”
She waits for the next question, the one that will force her blade, the one that will finally result in a factory reset for her implant. If you have mated, then where are your children? But her implant, for once in its existence, is silent.
It is then that Shenya the Widow makes a decision. With a smooth motion, she gathers up the cloth and stands. She gazes at the tiny form, which appears to have fallen asleep from exhaustion. Its other foot covering is already off, apparently prepared for use as a second missile. She will never admit it, but it is this image that forces its way into her hearts.
“It wouldn’t survive eight seconds in a nest of newly hatched Widows,” she hisses quietly.
[I shudder to think], says Shokyu the Mighty.
* * *
#
[Aw], says Shokyu the Mighty. [Now aren’t you glad you didn’t murder it?]
Shenya the Widow watches the tiny Human crouch against the wall of the common area, surrounded with the contents of a tool bag. A small doll watches beside it. It is made of a black and silky material, and its many-limbed physiology is something that a Widow might recognize. The Human is intent on its task, stacking the tools in various ways and then demolishing the piles in fits of violence and giggling. After each act of destruction it glances toward the Widow as if to judge the effect on her.
“I think she is becoming comfortable with me,” remarks Shenya the Widow, twitching her mandibles in what another Widow might see as a motherly gesture. Even the increased light of the common area—shifted for the Human’s benefit—cannot dampen her pleasant mood.
[I take it you’re referring to its current lack of absolute terror?] says Shokyu the Mighty.
“I believe that is what I said.”
[I see you’ve also—somewhat arbitrarily, I note—assigned it a gender.]
“Just a convenience.”
[I’ve long noticed that female is your default], says Shokyu the Mighty. [You seem to think that everyone you meet is a female until proven otherwise. Not every species has a female variant, you know. Not even most.]
“And I have long noticed,” says Shenya the Widow, “that you are becoming more argumentative in your middle age.”
[I’m well within my functional lifespan, and it’s my job to mention facts as they are relevant.]
They watch the tiny Human for a few moments in silence.
“See?” says Shenya the Widow, gesturing toward the figure when a particularly tall stack of tools crashes to the deck. The Human chirps and smacks its hands together several times as it looks to Shenya the Widow for approval. “Look at that. She is too intelligent to be a male.”
[Now that’s just offensive.]
“Don’t blame me, blame the covenant that raised me,” says Shenya the Widow with the wave of a blade. “But it should please you to learn that I hold several views that would be considered scandalous by my…”
She trails off as a package of adhesive rolls across the deck to wobble and fall at her feet. She looks up to find those strange tricolored eyes looking directly at her. Black inside brown-gold inside white. Shenya the Widow has been wondering how Humans communicate emotions without mandibles, and her current theory is that it’s the eyes: their size and shape, those mobile lines above them, that fluid they leak sometimes. Disgusting, but quite a lot of material to work with.
She lifts the roll with one delicate blade and shows it to the Human. “Adhesive!” she says, enunciating very carefully. She says it twice more. The Human does not repeat it, but holds out a small pudgy limb toward her. Slowly, carefully, in a manner she judges least likely to startle the tiny thing, she rolls the tape back toward it. It watches the roll return to tap gently against its foot, then looks up at her and makes some sort of noise.
“Do you think that horrible sound is…laughter?” muses Shenya the Widow. “Some indication of happiness?”
[One would hope so], says Shokyu the Mighty. [Otherwise this is a terrible game.]
* * *
#
Shenya the Widow crouches, her limbs forming a cocoon of softened blades. She waits.
She feels a tiny touch, and then what she has come to identify as a minor laugh. A giggle. She ignores it. She knows the thing touching her is moist and covered in horrific blood-filled skin, but somehow that does not disgust her quite so much as of late. The delicate touch comes again, from two limbs this time, and harder. Again, she ignores it. Finally it comes a third time, with all the force a twelve-kilo organism can provide. This time Shenya the Widow unfolds like a black and gleaming blossom—slowly, slowly, careful not to injure the little one with a razor edge.
The Human shrieks and runs and falls, then scrambles to its feet only to fall again. It is making that sound again…some kind of indication of joy, she is almost sure. If it were not so similar to its sounds of terror it would be easier to tell the difference.
With slow, exaggerated movements, Shenya the Widow pursues her prey. She makes sure each step clacks against the bare floor and hisses gently so the little one knows right where she is. The juvenile runs around a bulkhead corner and waits, still giggling.
“Where is she?” hisses Shenya the Widow in exaggerated Standard. “Where did she go?”
A small head pokes out around the corner, the strange three-colored eyes gazing straight at her, and then pulls back with another giggle.
“Could she be…up here?” she asks, extending herself upward to check the cabinets in the upper bulkhead. More giggling. Could she be…over here?” she asks, folding herself to look in the space directly across from the child, who is nearly collapsing with joy. “Could it be—”
[This is ridiculous], sa
ys Shokyu the Mighty. [It’s right there.]
“Ah,” says Shenya the Widow, turning away in a show of utmost dejection. “Perhaps she has exited the airlock and perished horribly. Then I shall never find her.”
A shriek behind her nearly sends her through the hull. She whirls, blades aloft, very nearly ending the life of the tiny figure shadowing her steps. The juvenile leaps up and down, oblivious to its narrow escape, striking its tiny forelimbs against each other. Shenya the Widow consciously relaxes each joint one at a time, beginning at the ends of her many limbs and working her way inward.
[Close call], says her implant.
And now a Human has wrapped her arms around a Widow’s lower extremities, giggling, while the Widow watches with complex emotions. Though she has moved on from unadulterated revulsion, an embrace is something different from a touch.
“All right,” she says gently, glancing around the common area as if afraid someone might see. “That is sufficient.” She softens her blades before attempting to peel the little one off her carapace.
The child hides her face against the smooth expanse of chitin. She chirps, then makes a contented sound that vibrates directly to Shenya’s hearts.
[I’m not sure I know how to tell you this], says Shokyu the Mighty, [but it’s possible that you are dying. Your biochemistry is doing some very strange things.]
[I am not dying], says Shenya internally. [I am simply feeling…unwell.]
[I hope it’s nothing that Humans can catch.]
Shenya the Widow clicks her mandibles in absentminded agreement, but her thoughts are already elsewhere. Deep in the hidden recesses of her hunter-killer brain, certain chemicals are being manufactured and released in concentrations strong enough to kill many species, and indeed even many Widows. Shenya the Widow is unwell indeed…and she is embarrassed to find that she almost welcomes it.
The change has not been nearly as upsetting as she always imagined it would be. It began with her dreams. She used to have normal dreams, the everyday slaughter-dreams that every young Widow is expected to have. But now she has found that the farther her ship progresses in its inexorable journey home, the less lethal her dreams become. Now it is a common occurrence for her to wake with blades soft and a mind empty of murder and mayhem…
And worst of all, she doesn’t mind at all.
The Human has run away again, chasing one of the holograms that Shokyu the Mighty once suggested as playfellows. They were a wonderful idea, but she will never admit it. Shenya the Widow watches her stumble around the deck with a strange feeling in her hearts.
[I’m afraid for you], says Shokyu the Mighty.
[And why is that?]
[Because it’s almost time], says her implant.
Shenya considers, for a brief moment, pretending that she does not understand. But her implant, annoyingly, would see right through her.
[You don’t have to give it to the Librarian], says Shokyu the Mighty. [You can put it in the cargo hold with the food bars.]
[Her.]
[Of course, her. But you know you won’t care, post–Memory Vault. You’ll probably want to get rid of it. It will be like that little thing from the water world. What was that, two missions ago?]
[Three], says Shenya the Widow. [And that was a pet.]
[The point is, the problem was solved. You spent the whole voyage worried that corporate wouldn’t let you keep it, and then after you excised your memories you didn’t care anymore. It will be the same this time. It may feel wrong before you do it, but you won’t have any regrets. Everything will go back to normal.]
Back to normal. Shenya the Widow, explorer. Shenya the Widow, pride of the corporation. Shenya the Widow, the killer with a thousand blades.
Not, say, Shenya the Mother.
Her implant is right about one thing. Say what you will about corporate’s draconian nondisclosure policy, excising a full mission’s worth of memories is very effective at treating life trauma. Where there are no memories, there can be no grief. It is a wonderful way to make credits—assuming one is completely without friends or family. One day you set out on a mission, and the next day you are back and are a good deal richer—at least, that is how you will remember it. Yes, you have spent a Standard century or so near lightspeed. Yes, you have aged seven or eight years. And it is true, too, that you have no idea what you have found and will likely be plagued with the ghosts of half-remembered events for the rest of your life. Still, one cannot argue with credits. In this case, she can picture her reaction at the size of her earnings. She will think, what in the galaxy did I find?
But she will never know.
And at one time, she would not have cared. She would have taken the payment and been thorax-deep in a harem of males within a Standard day. But now?
[There is plenty of time], she says.
[I worry about you], says Shokyu the Mighty. [I really do.]
[AivvTech Mnemonic Restoration]
[Stage 1]
* * *
#
[Your vital signs have begun to drop. Your physical health is only tangentially related to this process, but a record has been added to the log for later review. I will transfer one more Stage 1 memory, and then we will try a Stage 2.]
* * *
#
[Initiating memory transfer…]
* * *
#
Life has grown complicated for Shenya the Widow.
She crouches in her ship’s common area, her mind on fire. She has not slept in three days. There are so many feelings within her, and for the first time in many years she feels the absence of her mother as a gaping hole. Mother, she says to the hole. How did you survive this?
But there is no answer.
There is no Network this far out, so she cannot search for the answer. And never in seven voyages has the subject come up, which means her ship’s resources are embarrassingly bare of information. She cannot even ask her implant for advice—though she would be desperate indeed to sink to that level. Even if she could, Shokyu the Mighty has grown distant of late—if that is a thing that may be said about an intelligence who is literally nestled against one’s brain stem. It speaks in single words or symbols, and only when spoken to. At any other time that would worry her. But here and now, a blade’s breadth beyond the edge of civilization, there is only one thought in her mind.
Eight days. And if anyone can suffer for eight days, it is a Widow.
She is not unaware of the poetry of her situation. It took her eight days to become a Daughter, and now it will take her eight days to avoid becoming a Mother. She was too young to remember her first trial well, but she knows by her scars that it was brutal. The physical toll of this trial may be less than the first, but the internal struggle is far greater. This time she battles a more serious foe than a few murderous siblings: she battles herself. And her self does not fight fairly! Her self is gazing at that careless shape lying sprawled against the wall and sighing in an alarming way. But look, intellect says to instincts. See how repulsive it is? It is naked, so there is nothing to hide that awful skin. One arm—look how squishy and awkward!—rests behind the head. The other splays across the torso with its fingers twitching just enough to interact with the hologram suspended over the face. The corners of the mouth twitch in approximations of mandible signs. The growth from the top of its head, the hair, has become long and is constantly tangled and falling over the eyes. And the eyes! They are so strange, so mobile, so wet. Those are Human eyes, self! They are certainly not the eyes of a Daughter.
But the deeper part of her cannot agree. That deeper self is both myopic and passionate. It cares nothing for the future; it sees only now.
“Mother?” says the Human in clear Standard, and Shenya twitches. The little one has crept to her side without notice, which is yet another sign of the bond that has grown over the past ye
ars. No one surprises a Widow. But this little one walks like a Widow now—as much as is possible with those mushy, awkward limbs—quietly and with joints lifted high. She speaks like a Widow, as far as she can without proper mandibles. In fact she is very nearly—
And then in desperation her intellect finds a voice, and Shenya the Widow is shocked to find that it is a familiar one. She is not your Daughter, hisses the shrill voice of her own mother in her mind. She could never be your Daughter.
Shenya the Widow corrects the little one with a warning click, acting as if the name did not make her hearts gallop and her pheromones change chemistry. “Shenya,” she says firmly. No, little one. It is Shenya the Widow, not Shenya the Mother.
And it always will be, hisses the voice in her mind.
“Shenya,” sighs the little one. Her pronunciation is surprisingly good, considering her various physiological handicaps.
Shenya the Widow strokes the long hair with the flat of a blade. The little one could not possibly know the battle taking place in this Widow mind. “Yes, Sarya?” she says. The name still thrills her hearts.
Sarya! laughs the voice. Such a name! And you call yourself a Widow.
Yes, Sarya. It is an ancient name, so painfully Widow and so obviously mismatched with this small thing and yet so perfect. It is the name of someone with great achievements in her future—or great destruction. There are so many stories about Saryas, and Shenya the Widow has now spent upwards of three years reciting every single one of them to a spellbound one-member audience. The name has become a byword between the two of them, between Mother and—no! Between Widow and Human. I’m lonely as Sarya, admits Shenya the Widow, and the little one knows she is referring to Sarya the One. You’ll be asleep faster than Sarya killed, laughs Shenya the Widow, and the little one understands the reference to Sarya the Quick. I was Sarya for a second, says the little one, and Shenya the Widow understands that this is an apology. She has grown used to the constant blame heaped on the little one’s personal favorite: Sarya the Destroyer.
