“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 never 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.