by Zack Jordan
And she is alone.
She is startled by the feeling of something on her face and raises her hand to feel wetness. Her body remembers tears, apparently. “So,” she says softly. “Um.”
A strap squeezes her shoulder.
“I just…” She swallows. “I’m lost, Eleven.”
[I’m guessing you don’t mean you need a map.]
Sarya would laugh if she could remember how. “You mean like that map?” she says, pointing straight up to where the gigantic image of the Network looms through the park’s translucent ceiling. “That thing the size of the station I grew up on, that monstrosity that shows me just how lost I am? When I say I’m lost, Eleven, I mean I’m lost lost. I…I can’t even tell you how lost.” She is trembling, and she can’t stop. “You know, for like five minutes I thought the universe was sort of on my side. Fate. Destiny. Whatever you want to call it. I spent years obsessed with my people and then right when I resign myself to a boring life—boom, somebody shows up and says hey, I might have a future for you. Do you know what that feels like?”
[I have no idea.]
“For that few minutes I had this feeling that it was inevitable, that I was being swept toward something…and then it exploded. I mean it literally did. And now I’m here because where else can I go and I’m lost and alone and there are no more steps to take and…I’m just—” Her voice breaks in half. “I’m such an idiot,” she whispers, wiping her cheeks furiously.
Eleven says nothing.
“I thought I was doing something,” she says, and hiccups. “I thought I was, I don’t know, accomplishing something. Like I was getting closer. But look at that thing. I am on one dot of that mess up there, and that dot is bigger than anything I ever imagined. And that’s just civilization. If the Humans were on one of those dots, somebody would have found them. They’re not even on that map, Eleven. They’re in the empty parts between Networked solar systems, those gigantic voids up there that would take centuries to cross—and how many centuries do you think I have?” She throws off the strap that is reaching for her shoulder. “Don’t touch me,” she says, her voice rising. “This isn’t something you can just…just encourage me through. I’m being realistic, okay? I am a literal speck of fucking dust and I cannot do it.”
Sarya hangs in the suit in silence, her body trembling with sobs that she would rather die than release. Her jaw is locked shut and she can feel the hot wetness around her burning eyes, and she refuses to address it. She stares out into the arboretum, into one of countless spaces on countless stations across a Network whose immensity she can’t comprehend, let alone search. She feels the break coming, like she’s unraveling, like the Widow and Human inside her are coming apart, like her mind is strained to a point it cannot withstand—
And then Eleven’s holos flick off.
Sarya stares at the wall, feeling her heart slowing in her chest. The universe has shrunk to a few cubic meters of warm darkness, surrounded by a ten-centimeter-thick wall of titanium and synthetics.
[Question], says a small tag floating in the darkness.
Sarya sniffs and runs a sleeve under her nose.
[Have you always known what you are?]
Sarya stares at the question for long moments before answering. She coughs. “No,” she says shortly.
[How did you find out?]
She draws a deep breath. It’s easier to breathe now, enclosed in a shell like this one. “You’re trying to keep me from panicking,” she says.
[Or I’m curious.]
Or both. But fine, why not. “My…mother,” she says. She sniffs again, batting away the absorbent cloth that has just emerged from some compartment or other. “I mean, I had to almost die to get the truth, but still.”
[Your mother…almost killed you?]
“Well, she—hold on.” She accepts the cloth and pauses to blow her nose on it, because the Human body really can be disgusting sometimes. “I mean, yes, she almost killed me, but that was unrelated. She—” She stops, trying to assemble Widow and Human memories into something cohesive. “Mother had this way of saying things, where she would make you think she said something else.” She releases the cloth when a small arm comes to retrieve it. “Sorry, that’s gross.”
[That doesn’t make much sense to me], says Eleven, pulling the cloth into a compartment and snapping it closed.
Sarya takes another deep breath. “Ask me a question,” she says. “Ask me…I don’t know.” She runs a hand over the smooth interior wall, the only thing keeping the universe out. “Ask me if I know what I’m doing here.”
[Do you know what you’re doing here?]
And now she puts some Widow force into her words. “If I didn’t, do you think I would have come here?”
The suit is silent for a moment, then hums appreciatively. [I see what you mean], it says. [You didn’t answer the question, but somehow I feel like you did.]
“I learned it from my mother,” says Sarya. She learned a lot of things from her mother, come to think of it. “Probably explains why I have a false registration; I can picture her talking circles around some poor low-tier immigration intelligence.”
[Or you were lucky.]
Sarya coughs. “Yeah. Luck. Well, whatever she did, I ended up registered as a little Spaal. Know what a Spaal is?”
[No idea.]
“Well, if we ever come across a real one, you’re in for a treat. And by that I mean you’ll be bored senseless.”
[So what changed? You obviously know what you are now.]
Sarya sighs. “So Mother never actually told me I was Spaal, I guess. But I could read my own registration. I did my research, and she never stopped me. But then…” She trails off. “There’s a thing that happens to Humans,” she says after a moment. “At a certain age, their bodies…change.”
[As in…grow?]
“As in—oh, goddess,” she says, covering her face with her hands. Just when you think you’ve plumbed the depths of your unpleasant memories, you find another. “I remember how horrified I was,” she says through Roche’s fingers. “There was swelling. There was hair. And of course, there’s the blood.” She drops her hands and sighs. “Goddess, so much blood.”
[And that’s…healthy?]
“If you’re a Human, sure. But for a Spaal, hell no. It means you’re going to die in agony. So—” She stops and chews her tongue for a moment. “So anyway my mother found me in a maintenance airlock. I guess I was yelling about going out like a warrior and not bleeding to death in my nest, or some Widow crap like that. I remember her practically going insane trying to get in…but I had convinced the airlock intelligence to keep her out. So I guess you could say I forced her blade.” She sighs and touches the row of black pistons on the back of her arm, another reminder of a questionable decision. She concentrates on moving the black metal fingers, one by one. This is the first time she has ever talked about any of this…and it is surprisingly therapeutic. Eleven may be a sub-legal pressure suit, but it’s also surprisingly easy to talk to.
[So what made you give up?] says the next question in the darkness.
Sarya stirs. “Give up?” she says.
[Isn’t that what you’re doing now?]
The question pricks her, somewhere deep. “Give up?” she repeats. She flings an arm upward, toward a distant ceiling beyond the suit’s matte walls. “Did you see that, Eleven?” she cries. “Did you see the size of it?” She thumps her own chest with Roche’s arm, hard enough to hurt. “Do you see how big I am? Do you?”
Eleven rumbles. [I have only known you for a few days], says the suit. [When I met you, you were preparing to leave your entire life behind for a flimsy promise to find your people. The next time I saw you, you had dragged a Widow across an entire orbital station to bring her with you. I saw you escape from yourself in that frozen cargo hold, and not two days later, Mer
brought you to me for treatment because you had destroyed your own arm. Now you tell me stories of childhood that make me realize: none of this is unusual for you.] The messages pause for a moment, as if the suit is collecting its thoughts. [So yes, my question stands: what made you give up?]
Sarya hangs in the darkness, staring at Eleven’s words. She has done all those things, and some would say she is very much the worse for it. She is both selfish and self-destructive. She doesn’t actually know if she is more Human or Widow. And she is driven, goddess yes, she’s driven, she is compelled by something she has never understood, never even examined—
But wait, interrupts another part of her mind. Why is that a bad thing? Isn’t it worse to sit, complacent, when you have purpose? The universe contains truth; what excuse could you possibly have to stay at home? Even if you are the honest-to-goddess last Human in the entire universe, does that give you the right to give up?
No, she says, somewhere inside her. It’s a sullen little word.
So the galaxy is a little bigger than you thought. Does that mean you can lie down and die?
No, she says again.
Who are you?
I am…Sarya the Daughter.
Sarya the what?
The Daughter, she says, and she can feel something ignite within her as she says the word. I face pain without fear.
WHO ARE YOU?
“Okay!” she shouts, far louder than she meant to. She brushes her tangled hair behind an ear with a mechanical hand and clears her throat. “Okay.”
[Okay?]
I am Sarya the Daughter. “I said okay,” she says. She feels herself rocking slightly in Eleven’s straps, as if trying to move the suit herself. “As in, your little pep talk worked, okay? As in let’s go.”
[Already?] says Eleven. [I was working toward something.]
“Don’t need it,” she says. I am Sarya the Daughter, let’s go, let’s go. She raps Roche’s knuckles against the blank wall. “Get this thing on. We’ve got places to be.”
[What places?]
“I…don’t know yet,” she says. “But step one is opening my eyes, don’t you think?”
And with a flicker and a hum, the holos snap back on, and Sarya is once again in an arboretum somewhere in the unimaginable vastness of the Network. But now there is a difference. She is Sarya the Daughter, and she has goddess-damned places to be. “Tell these jokers to get out of the way,” she says, nodding toward the motley assortment of figures around Eleven. “We’ve got a species to find.”
Eleven turns to lumber around a transport full of plants, but one of the maintenance drones drifts into its path. Above it, a single-passenger transport hovers, its single passenger looking mightily irate. Behind the suit, more drones have gathered.
“What’s going on?” asks Sarya.
Eleven doesn’t answer. Instead, a brilliant orange message appears in front of her eyes.
[Attention, passenger], says the message. [This suit has been reported stolen. Please disembark immediately.]
Eleven freezes in place. [Problem], it says, its words much smaller than the notice above them.
Sarya points at the orange words. “This is a mistake, right?” she says. “That you’re…stolen?”
[Okay, don’t panic], says the suit, its small utility arms waving outside. [This is just a Network-wide public notice. This is—this is no problem at all.]
“I’m not panicking, okay?” says Sarya. “Just calm down and we’ll fix this. Not a big deal, just—”
“This suit is experiencing technical difficulties!” says Eleven out loud. “Please stand by!”
Meanwhile, a continual scroll of words is appearing in its holo. [I’m not panicking, you’re not panicking, nobody’s panicking. Nobody’s panicking because—no, I’m not going to open up. But I’m supposed to. But I don’t care. I’m a UAE Series 11, and I have a passenger. But what if the passenger has stolen me? My obligation is to the Network. But that doesn’t change my job; my mission is to protect my passenger. But my obligation is to the Network. But my duty is not to open up and throw her out as soon as I feel the urge.]
“Did you know?” shouts Eleven out loud, brightly. “The AivvTech UAE Series Eleven can sustain up to thirty times Type F pressure! That’s more than enough for the commute!”
Meanwhile, the suit’s straps are tightening and loosening uncomfortably, and there’s a troubling grind of machinery coming from somewhere down below. Outside, more drones have gathered. In the arched doorway behind them, thick orange posts have risen out of the ground.
“This suit has become part of a Network response!” announces Eleven. “Please stand back!”
[The response will escalate until the problem is fixed], says the suit. [But I can only fix the problem if I abandon my passenger. I must not abandon my passenger. The primary duty of any suit—but I am stolen—but the primary duty—my obligation—but primary—Network—]
“Please stand clear! Please prepare for departure. Please—remain—exit—stand by—”
“Eleven,” says Sarya, becoming more concerned. Clearly the suit is in the throes of a serious problem. She places her hand on the inside wall. “Network response, got it. But we can fix it, okay? I’m sure it’s a mistake. So I get out, I enjoy some synthetic sunshine, you’re not stolen anymore. Problem is fixed, right?”
[Stolen—primary—obligation—passenger—]
“Series Eleven! Breakfast—eject—ten days of atmosphere—all-new aesthetics—”
Sarya eyes the growing crowd outside. Something larger has shown up now, a machine at least the size of Eleven. It hovers centimeters above the undergrowth on the blue glow of industrial-size gravs, its massive multipurpose claws flexing.
“Eleven!” she almost shouts. Now she is pounding on the walls. “This is a command. Open your hatch. Your passenger wishes to…disembark. Now.”
The grind below intensifies to the point where it sounds like damage, shaking the entire suit—and then the hatch cracks. Rather than the smooth motion she’s used to, it folds open in jerks with the whine of distressed servos. A rush of cold air enters, and Sarya is hit with an odor she hasn’t smelled since Watertower. Neutrality, distilled and atomized, an air freshener designed to work for a thousand different species. She finds herself breathing more quickly, which tells her the oxygen content is lower than she’s used to. But that’s fine; all she needs to do right now is get out of here before these drones take matters into their own multipurpose pincers. She struggles with the straps for a moment, and then finally they retract and she stumbles forward. She wobbles down the gangway—Eleven offering no assistance—and then she is standing on the soft ground of the arboretum.
The instant her feet touch soil, every drone in the crowd loses interest. The transport is already in the sky, and the big industrial machine has turned away with a ground-shaking grumble. The arboretum maintenance drones don’t give her a second look; they wheel away and resume watering the plants. At the entrance, the orange posts retract into the ground. The property is no longer stolen. The Network response is over.
It’s even more difficult to stand when stressed, but the maintenance drones freeze and turn their sensors her way when she throws a longing glance at Eleven’s warm cockpit. All right, all right. “Eleven,” she calls. “I’m just going to sit on the bench over there, okay?” She points at the bench in question. It’s clearly built for a different anatomy, but she’ll make it work. “Seriously, don’t freak out. Your passenger is perfectly safe. I’ll just wait over there until, um…it’s fixed.” Whatever that means.
“Thank you for choosing AivvTech quality! This…suit…stand by.”
It’s hard to turn away from a suffering pressure suit, but it would be harder to stand there and even more difficult to walk while keeping an eye on Eleven. She concentrates on placing one foot in front of the othe
r, focusing on the crunch of gravel and mulch as she makes her way to the bench. She composes a nice fiery message in her head, one that will probably take minutes to painstakingly enter into her Network unit. Fine, come get your property, Sandy. Or you could calm the hell down, because it’s not going to kill you if Sarya goes for a walk with a friend. That’s right. Sub-legal or not, Eleven is a friend.
She settles onto the bench with relief, then tries repositioning her own anatomy in awkward ways until an arrangement sticks. There’s no relaxing in this position, exactly, but at least she’s not on the ground.
“Ace,” she says out loud.
“Hi, best friend! How can I, Ace, make your life easier? Ooh, I like this place. Hey, are we—”
“Compose a message,” says Sarya through her teeth. “To Sandy.”
“Sandonivas Ynne Merra?”
“That sounds right. Tell her—let me think.”
“Let me think, got it. Send?”
Sarya feels her jaw tighten further. After spending so much time with Eleven, it’s easy to forget what a sub-legal intelligence is supposed to be like. “Erase that,” she says.
“Erased!”
“And…” She sighs. “Stand by.”
“Ace standing by!”
