“Don’t give too much away,” whispers Left. “You don’t want to steal the boss’s thunder.”
“No,” says Right, quickly shifting its gaze to the ground. “I don’t.”
Sarya, meanwhile, can barely breathe. Nearby. That could mean lightyears, or it could mean right above the bright blue ceiling of this arboretum. Nearby.
Goddess.
“Okay,” she says, dragging her aching eyes back down from the blue ceiling. “Fine. If this isn’t the Human colony…” Then why does it look so goddess-damned familiar? “Then where am I?”
Now Left smiles again. “Easy one,” it says. “You’re in the middle of Observer’s brain.”
Sarya stares out into the forest, at the browns and greens and the quick flashes of blue up through the canopy. She listens to the hiss of wind through the foliage, to the calls of animals she can neither see nor picture. “I…see,” she says. “Should I understand that?”
“Probably not,” says Right.
So this is the type of answer she’s going to get. Fine. Moving on. “So…this, um—” She hitches a thumb over her shoulder, toward the end of the universe.
“Giant terrifying wall of darkness?” says Left with a smile.
“Yeah,” she says. “What’s that?”
“Sarya the Daughter,” says Right, taking a step forward. “You are standing in front of the only Human to survive from the Human wars.” It glances back at its partner. “How’s that for dramatic?”
Left answers, launching the two into another argument, but Sarya is no longer paying attention—because she is standing in front of a real live honest-to-goddess Human ship. She turns, feeling her jaw drop on the trip around. This black wall, this object that is darker than anything she’s ever seen—this is the real thing. Her people are nearby, and this is their handiwork. She is closer to her species, at this moment, than she has ever been. She takes a step forward, irresistibly drawn, and then another. The darkness swallows everything reality can throw at it, every single photon. “It’s so…black,” she murmurs, reaching out. “I can’t even tell if—am I touching it?”
And then she falls over backward when the ship shouts at her.
“Oh yeah,” says one of the non-Observers as the throbbing voice dies away. “It does that.”
“It’s grouchy,” says the other. “I’ve always said so.”
“Goddess,” whispers Sarya from the ground. That was an actual Human voice, it had to be. “That must be—” She swallows. “Was that a Human language?”
“Network Standard detected,” grinds the ship in the same voice. “Message repeats: Welcome, Human.”
Sarya stares. She would be the first to admit: she is a mess of a being. She is Human and Widow and who knows what else. She is memories that cut and desires that burn, she is every word that has ever been said to her. And never, in her entire life, has she heard those two words in that order.
Welcome, Human.
“I think she’s leaking again,” whispers half of her welcoming committee.
“Told you,” says the other.
Sarya barely hears the words. Her focus has narrowed, excluding everything except for this thing in front of her, this ship that was built with the actual five-fingered hands of her people. She stands, slowly, brushing her hands on her utility suit. “Ship,” she says quietly, ignoring her body’s manifold reaction. “What…are you?”
“This ship is Planetwrecker-class warship Firebringer,” says the ship. “It has been placed in hibernation mode, awaiting a Human user.”
“Goddess,” Sarya whispers.
“Command not recognized,” says the ship. “Please try again.”
A small throat clears behind her. “Did it just say…command?”
“Fascinating.”
“Terrifying.”
Sarya runs her hand over the ship’s surface, thinking about what is contained in this black shape. She can’t feel it, she registers nothing but a force pressing back on her fingers, but in this thing is power like she’s never dreamed. “Ship—”
She is interrupted by an awkward laugh. “Actually,” says Left, inserting itself between Sarya and the darkness. Its smile has all but disappeared. “It’s probably not a great idea for you to start giving this thing commands willy-nilly. Maybe it wasn’t a great idea to bring you here in the first place. In fact, maybe we should be making our way toward dinner?” It pushes on her legs, more than a little frantically. “If you’ll just come this way—”
“Oh, come on,” says Right. “Could be fun to see how quickly she’ll almost kill us all.”
“Could be fun? Are you insane? Have you talked to this thing?”
“I have. Which is why I want to observe this. And I’m not insane, unless the boss Himself is insane—”
“In any other circumstances, I’d love to observe alongside you,” says Left, brushing white hair off a damp forehead. “But when a Human warship starts taking commands from a Human—”
“I’m not going to kill us all,” Sarya breaks in, annoyed. “I’m just—”
“Firebringer has multiple options for command kill us all,” booms the ship. “Please choose from nuclear weapons, antimatter weapons, nanoweapons, relativistic weapons, gravity weapons, or say more for more options.”
“No!” shouts Left, turning to bang on the ship with a small fist. “Cancel command!”
“User not recognized,” grates the ship.
“One sentence,” says Right, apparently impressed. “That’s quick.”
Sarya stares at the ship, wide-eyed. Having grown up in the Network, half these words are only relics from her study of the Humans. “Okay,” she says. “I mean…no. That’s enough.”
“Would you like to modify the command?” asks the Human ship. “Example modifications include injure us all or kill some of us.”
“No,” says Sarya, beginning to understand Left’s concern. “I would like to…cancel the command.”
“Command canceled. All weapons systems standing down.”
“See the problem?” says Right, patting the darkness. “That’s not a Network mind in there. It doesn’t…share your value system, let’s say. It’s a Human-designed artificial intelligence that’s had no one to talk to for a long time.”