by Zack Jordan
#
Blessed darkness has fallen, thank the goddess.
Shenya the Widow creeps through unfamiliar plant life. Her blades make so little sound that she can barely hear them herself, honed killing machine that she is. She is discomfited by the fact that Observer is all around her yet she cannot detect Him. It is marvelous, that camouflage of His. He would be valuable on a hunt, if He weren’t so useless in every other way.
Her thoughts, as she creeps through undergrowth, are a tangled whirlwind. The Humans, here! It is unbelievable. Of all the millions of species in this gigantic galaxy…what are the chances that Widow and Human would collide once again?
She very nearly chitters a soft laugh in the darkness. Was this part of your plan, Humans? When you were proud, when you were a trillion strong, when you waged a one-species war against the galaxy? You couldn’t know then that your last seed would be found by the Daughter of those you killed.
Because she is Widow, and Widows have long memories.
Shenya the Widow is aware of higher powers, in the practical sense. They are unavoidable, really, in such a crowded galaxy. She has met many tier threes in her travels and even the occasional representative of a four. That experience will humble an intelligence, make no mistake. But this is the first experience since her run-in with the massive Librarian ship that has made her question what she knows about reality. Is there a much higher power out there? A six? Goddess help them all, a seven? And has it taken an interest in the story of the Widows? Because if not, this coincidence—this opportunity for a perfect revenge—is the type that staggers the imagination.
[I sense heat and motion], says Shokyu the Mighty.
[Yes], says Shenya the Widow. [We are using the same senses.]
Insects flit through the air—some of them providing their own illumination, which reminds her of home. There are sounds too, which she soon realizes are animal sounds. Animal voices, perhaps, because the sounds seem like language. But Human language?
Goddess help these creatures if it is.
“It’s amazing,” says Observer in a voice closer than Shenya would prefer. “I have access to a lot of information. I’m not Networked, of course—because I’m not a fool—but I’m on every Network Station in the sector. I can find anything. I search unceasingly. And I know for a fact that Nobody knows where this colony is, except for Me. And of course You.”
“Fascinating,” she murmurs, quietly flexing several blades.
[I imagine you’re regretting that one percent offer], says Shokyu the Mighty. [If it’s really the Humans.]
Shenya the Widow does not reply. Her implant, little idiot that it is, has never bothered to learn the history of the Widows. It does not know what every Widow has sworn to do, should she ever find an enemy of her people. In fact, even the thought of profit is beginning to pale next to the thought of bringing her own people here. It would not be difficult at all to find a thousand Widow volunteers to come here and visit vengeance upon these unsuspecting—
“There,” whispers Observer’s voice. “Tell me what You see.”
Shenya the Widow crawls forward to the edge of the forest, then halfway up a tree to see better. She focuses every sense on the cluster of structures a hundred meters away.
[That’s a fire], says her implant. [In…a village?]
[I am aware], says Shenya the Widow. And she is. It is a familiar sight, actually, a fire in the center of a village. It reminds her of home. But that is not her covenant, reclining around that fire, oh no. These have the same hideous form as Observer, though they appear considerably larger and stronger. That form! It is unmistakable. It is burned deep into the cultural memory of every Widow alive today. Two lower limbs, two upper. Skin and hair and terrible smell. They look defenseless, but she knows they are not. Give them weapons and show them a Widow family, see what they do.
Shenya the Widow’s mandibles twitch.
“Just look at Her,” says Observer’s voice from nowhere in particular. “The Human species! Oh, My little darling.”
[By the Network], says Shokyu the Mighty. [I think it’s true.]
“Incredible,” whispers Shenya the Widow softly, blades tapping rhythmically on the nearest tree.
[You should hide], says her implant. [Three of them are coming this way.]
Shenya the Widow is embarrassed to realize that, for once in her career, her implant has detected a potential threat before she herself did. She climbs the tree, silent as darkness itself, and flattens herself to its lowest overhanging branch.
“Careful,” whispers Observer’s voice. “Human is young. Her darling cells are superstitious and startle easily. If they see You they’ll either hunt You or add You to their pantheon.”
[That’s a thought], says Shokyu the Mighty. [You’ve never been a demon before.]
Shenya the Widow does not answer. She would not lower herself to be a goddess to a Human.
Two of the larger figures are walking this way, hauling a juvenile between them. The small one must be defective somehow, because it can barely walk. A Widow hatchling would be skittering around like lightning. Still, the adults don’t seem to mind. They act like it’s perfectly normal to support the small one’s weight from its upper limbs. They swing it between them, and it gurgles and shouts in its tiny voice.
[That’s…kind of adorable], says Shokyu the Mighty.
Shenya the Widow hisses, soft as the night.
The adults release the juvenile, who stumbles and almost falls. One of them gives it something round and opaque—a container? The small figure points at the lighted insects, flailing ineffectually with its small limbs and nearly falling over in its excitement. The adults stand, upper limbs intertwined, and watch the small one stumble around through the undergrowth, one glow after another pursuing and failing to catch any of them. The adults catch and deposit their own light-insects in the little container from time to time, but their captivity seems to be a very temporary state with the juvenile standing guard.
[What are you doing?] says Shokyu the Mighty.
Like a shadow, Shenya the Widow has risen from her branch.
[No, really, what are you doing?] repeats her implant. [They’ll see you!]
—TRANSFER INTERRUPTED—
* * *
#
[Unexpected memory collision. Please stand by while Memory Vault adjusts parameters…]
* * *
#
It’s dark. The grass tickles her knees and makes her want to sneeze. The bugs glow and fly away from her and she laughs and chases them. There are more of them in the forest, so many more, flying and glowing, and she laughs again and points and looks back at her parents to see if they are looking where she is pointing. Her mother is smiling at her, and her father is smiling at her mother. She feels a warm glow of safety and contentment all wrapped up into one.
* * *
#
—TRANSFER RESUMES—
Shenya the Widow moves along the branch like death, slowly and steadily and silently. Her blades grow rigid and her mandibles twitch.
—TRANSFER INTERRUPTED—
* * *
#
[Subject is resisting memory transfer. Please stand by while Memory Vault adjusts parameters…]
* * *
#
Neither parent is looking in her direction now, they are looking over her head, and she stamps and shouts for their attention. There are bugs over there, in the dark, and she wants them in her jar. In this jar. She points at the bugs, then the jar. She says look but they don’t look. Why don’t they look?
* * *
#
—TRANSFER RESUMES—
[Great. Now they’ve seen you], says Shokyu the Mighty.
“I told you not to let them see You,” whispers Observer’s voice, resigned. “Here we go again.”
Shenya the Widow answers neither, because she is watching the Humans with hunter’s eyes. They see her because she has let them see her. Fear must come first—that is how a Widow hunts. She is mocking them with their own senses, because she is Shenya the Widow, and she is as unstoppable as destiny.
—TRANSFER INTERRUPTED—
* * *
#
[Subject continues to resist memory transfer. Please stand by while Memory Vault adjusts parameters…]
* * *
#
Her father is reaching for her, and he is shouting so loudly his voice hurts her ears. His giant hand hurts her where it holds her arm, and she shouts at him too. She is being dragged away from the forest now and that makes her angry because the bugs are that way and now look she’s dropped her jar and her other bugs are going to get away. She’s released, suddenly, and she stumbles toward her jar just as a bug comes out and raises its wings to fly. She reaches for it but it’s too late, it takes off, and a cry begins welling up inside her chest. She turns to her mother to show her this terrible thing, but her mother is shouting too now, and then there’s another noise that she’s never heard before…and now nobody’s shouting anymore. Her parents have fallen down. She toddles toward them. Her mother reaches for her, slowly, and then she stops and chokes and stares and doesn’t move anymore.
She smiles, just a little, to see if this is a joke. Sometimes her mother pretends not to see her. But her father is doing it too, and he’s never done that before. She is beginning to think that something might be wrong. And now she can smell something that makes her afraid. She can hear something too, a sort of clacking sound. Something is here, something she’s never seen before, something dark and sharp and angry and—
* * *
#
[Error. Vital signs have fallen below minimum threshold. Shutting down process…done. Erasing remaining memories, as per current security protocols…done.]
[This Memory Vault suggests that you seek medical attention.]
Riptide does not have a hospital. It does not have a clinic. It does not have so much as a dedicated bed for a convalescent. What it does have is this: one, a giant pressure suit with a full medical suite; two, a massive bundle of muscle, teeth, and parenting instincts; and three, an android with a thing for tinkering. Fortunately, this turns out to be the exact combination of things necessary to get Sarya the Daughter where she is today: alive and sitting in her quarters with one arm wrapped in a mess of black synthetics.
“Stunning,” says Roche, touching—almost caressing—the machinery that now frames her forearm. “Phil says this is my best work this lifetime.”
“Phil?” asks Sarya. She weaves on the bunk, burning an embarrassing amount of effort to remain upright.
“My helper intelligence,” says Roche, tapping his chest with his remaining hand. “He’s better at being objective than I am.”
“Ah.” She can feel an unfamiliar weight where her forearm lies on her leg. Her hand is closed, her flesh almost invisible under its layers of black metal and synthetics, but not for long. She concentrates. She pictures that hand open, imagines the fingers spreading like a Widow’s blades—and after a moment the pistons contract with a hiss. Her fingers open like a blossom, and there’s her skin, her sweating palm warm and organic amidst the gleaming artificiality of its frame. But opening the hand is easy; she still has those tendons. Now comes the hard part. She focuses. She imagines her hand closed, imagines grasping, imagines strangling—and then, for the first time since she burned out half her forearm and shoved a Widow into her brain, her fingers curl on their own.
“I did it,” she breathes.
“I’m afraid you didn’t,” says Roche. He taps his chest. “I did.”
“Oh,” says Sarya softly. She watches, resigned, as her fingers do a little dance on their own. Great.
“I am about to turn control over to you,” Roche says. “You are fortunate, because it is a good hand. It will learn to respond to you…eventually. But please remember one thing: you are only borrowing it. I will know if it is abused.” He pats the mass of hardware on her lap. “We’ve been through much together, haven’t we?” he says tenderly.
Sarya watches her hand twitch, unsure if she’s watching a fond goodbye or something stranger.
“Yes, we have,” Roche answers himself in a singsong, scratching the hand below its row of black pistons. “Yes we have indeed.”
“Um,” says Sarya, watching her own hand gently squeeze her leg. Definitely something stranger.
And so begins day two, counting since Mer found her screaming and bleeding out in her room. Yet another day relearning how to live in this soft and bladeless Human body—and that’s not even the worst part. No, there are far worse things than having to learn how to walk again. In fact, there are worse things than seeing your own mother doing horrible things. For instance: remembering doing those things yourself. She didn’t just witness her mother’s burning hatred toward the tiny Human she would one day call her Daughter; she experienced that hatred for herself. Sarya herself now recalls committing multiple murders, feeling the hot blood of her own biological parents running down her blades, their flesh ripping in her mandibles—
Stop.
And that is the worst part: that objection was intellectual, not visceral. Sarya doesn’t feel horror at what she’s done; the best she can do is recognize that she should. She can only theorize, intellectually, about what that would be like. She has become her mother, in the worst possible way. And yet, she is herself as well. Her original drive—fine, obsession—is still there, larger and more powerful than ever. Human ambition has been amplified by Widow intensity, and now only one thought burns in the mind of Sarya the Daughter.
Her people.
The thought is electrifying. She has seen them, and with her own eyes—even if those eyes belonged to her mother at the time. And she’s seen more besides. She’s seen Him, the caretaker of what remains of her species. She can see His golden eyes just as clearly as if He were here now. I’m on every Network Station in the sector, He told her. In her mind, He tells her over and over. It’s almost like He’s inviting her to find Him, like He’s keeping her people safe until she gets there. And for that invitation, she would trade a hell of a lot more than a few tendons and the ability to feel guilt.
“Look at you, sitting up by yourself,” thunders a voice from the hatch. “Good for you.”
She looks up from her reflections to see a doorway completely filled with fur and teeth. Here is Mer, his parenting instincts apparently rendering him completely unable to leave her the hell alone for eight minutes. She meets his gaze evenly as she reaches up with her undamaged arm to grip the upper bunk. She hauls herself up by brute strength and holds herself upright, by that so-called good arm, while her trembling legs work their way underneath her. They’re not blades, but they’ll do. See this, Mer? Does this look like a helpless hatchling who can’t take care of herself? She is Sarya the Daughter, she is standing, and there’s nothing the universe can do about it.
And then a knee buckles. She reaches for the upper bunk with Roche’s hand and it seizes the edge with such violence that she cries out. Her legs collapse entirely and now she is left dangling—struggling and clicking a particularly gruesome Widow obscenity—from someone else’s titanium grip.
“Is that your hand, Roche?” asks Mer.
“It is,” says Roche. “She’s borrowing it.”
And then the hand releases and Sarya collapses to the bunk, then slithers off it onto the floor. She lies on her back and takes a deep breath. That could have gone better.
“Something I’ve noticed about her,” says Mer as if she were not lying on her back in front of him. “She may make dumb decisions, but once she’s made them she’s all in.”
“Phil said the same thing,” says Roche. “That it’s refreshing to se
e reckless action without premeditation.”
“Phil?”
“My helper intelligence.”
“Ah. I never got around to naming mine. Maybe that’s why it hates me.”
Sarya grits her teeth and glares at the ceiling as this friendly conversation continues above her, held across her body as if she were nothing more than a floor mat. This is not how she saw this going. But she is Sarya the Daughter, and she is a Human with goddess-damned places to be. Her fury pushes her off the floor before she realizes it, and now she is sitting again.
“Sure you’re okay there, champ?” asks Mer, watching her wobble. “Need anything?”
Yes, actually. Their attention. She’s had a lot of time to think about her next step, and now she’s got both of them in her room. What better time than now? “So,” she says, as if she called them here, as if she were sitting on her floor by choice and not because she’s damaged her brain with a Memory Vault. “Who wants to talk business?”
“See that?” says Mer, pointing at her with a long talon. “Even when she can’t even walk—”
“Business?” says Roche. He leans forward, lenses gleaming. “I like business.”
Sarya guessed that, which is what gave her this idea in the first place. Mer is a pushover; Roche is the one to convince. “The former owner of this ship is dead,” she says in her carefully rehearsed business voice, tapping the floor with Roche’s own finger. “I’ve had my helper intelligence do some research, and it turns out we can claim it. And everything on it.”
Ace’s icon appears in the corner of her vision, but thankfully he says nothing. If there’s one plus to lying in bed for two days, it’s that there’s plenty of time to train your helper intelligence not to constantly interrupt.
“Ah,” says Roche. “Phil wants to know if your helper intelligence is an expert in salvage law.”
