But it doesn’t matter; it barely buys him a handful of seconds. “Welcome!” says Observer from any number of mouths. He smiles His kindly smile upon the small figure standing defiantly in His grip. “Welcome to—”
“Stop!” Sarya shouts into the night. Her entire body vibrates with the word, from curled toes to one clenched fist, and she realizes that she has pushed herself to unsteady feet. She gazes outward for a moment, as Observer stares at her from thousands or millions of eyes—and then she wades into Him, shoving herself through His tottering bodies. Even sober they would not be able to resist her individually, and in their current state the very best they can do is protest when they fall over. She charges, in as straight a line as she can manage, to the spot where the line transitions from smiling and drinking Observers to quivering victims.
“Hi!” say the wobbling Observers holding onto Right, as if she had just dropped by for a friendly conversation.
Sarya chooses one to address. “Let go,” she says to it quietly.
“Why?” asks the Observer, looking genuinely mystified.
She can feel the great mind back there, the god, tattered and unstable as its hold on this particular drunk body may be. Observer stares at her through more eyes than she can count, but Sarya stares Him down with every scrap of Widow or Human or Network or whatever the hell she is. “You owe me,” she hisses. “Like You said: this is all because of me. I’m the—” She searches her slowed mind for the exact phrase. “The source of Your merriment.” She almost shivers as she says it.
Observer looks at her for a moment, His golden gazes piercing her from every angle. She stands straight, aware that she is being measured and assessed from every side.
“Okay,” says one with a smile.
And then Right stumbles forward. It rubs its bald head with one hand, staring at her as if it can’t believe what just happened.
“This one too,” she says, pointing at the next victim.
“Okay,” says Observer again, with another smile.
Left stands next to its partner, as close as two people can be and still be called individuals. But they are individuals, thanks to her. She cut eight hundred star systems out of Network’s control, and she cut these two out of Observer. They are free. Now they can follow their own paths, choose their own destinies—
Like Mer. Like the Humans.
Sarya does not pursue the thought further, and she does not look at the huddled figures she has just freed. She grits her teeth and refuses to look away from Observer’s golden gaze. She has no idea what is right or wrong anymore, or even if those things exist, but if Right can spit in Observer’s face then Sarya the Daughter can stand here and stare into those golden eyes until—
Observer blinks.
He does it in a wave that propagates into the darkness around the single figure that Sarya is staring down. He clears His throats, in a vast ripple of moist sounds. And then with one movement, the rest of the graduates are released. They stand for a moment, rubbing arms and glancing nervously around, before slinking off into the gloom and near-silence. Observer ignores them, His every eye on Sarya.
“Is there a problem?” asks Observer.
Sarya stares at the speaker. Its small-talk tone is so far removed from what she has just seen that it takes her a moment to form a reply. “Is there a—yes, there’s a problem,” she says, made bold by drink and adrenaline. “It’s a problem that you just—you just ate a bunch of people, and you tried to eat two of my friends.”
Several Observers tap fingertips on chins. “Ah, I see what’s happening here,” one says, as if something has just been made clear. Several of Him smile. “A problem of definitions, that’s all.”
“Of definitions?” she says. “They were people, you sick—”
“Did you feel this way,” says Observer, “when you were pulling all those minds into yourself, back on the Blackstar?” His gentle smiles do not waver.
Sarya stops. She can feel her face burn in the darkness, and she’s almost sure it’s not the drink. “Okay,” she says softly. “That was…different.”
“Not at all!” says Observer. “It was just as beautiful as this evening has been.” He looks fondly down the line of His new bodies, meeting His own gaze with dozens of smiles and waves.
Sarya’s discomfort is now beginning to blossom into anger. “It. Was. Different,” she hisses. “I heard it, when You—when You ate these guys.” She waves a hand down the line, at the brand-new Observers blinking and smiling in a row. “They were people. And they begged You not to do it. And then You did it anyway, not because they wanted it but because You did.”
“I think you’re missing a very fundamental point,” says Observer, still smiling. “It doesn’t matter what they want, because they are not people. Do you ask your own blood or brain cells their opinions before using them? No, Sarya the Daughter. I am a person. They are My cells. You’ll understand this soon—why, you are nearly a person yourself!”
Sarya stands there, staring. “I am almost a person?” she says.
“Species are people; their cells are not,” says Observer. “Once upon a time, you were content to be a single cell of a person named Human. But now? Now you are something more! You have left Human behind, and you are turning into your own person, separate from Her. Should it surprise you, that your values are changing with your abilities? Only days ago, you were nothing at all. But now look at you! Now you determine the entire future of your species! You and I—why, you could almost say we’re parents!”
Sarya’s jaw drops, slowly. Her brain struggles, attempting to find words—any words—that will help her make sense of what Observer has just said.
“You sought out your species because that’s what little cells do,” says Observer. “That’s what Network counted on. But Network didn’t realize what would happen once you had grown. Now, as you begin to turn into a person, you are beginning to feel your capabilities.”
Observers begin to throw their arms in the air. “Look up there, Sarya the Daughter!” says one, pointing at the black sky. “Look at the gift you’ve given your species! No other species in the galaxy has eight hundred solar systems. No other species has even a single caretaker, thanks to the Network—and yours has two! We will raise Her together, a beautiful child with the best of two worlds: the watchful mind of Observer and the fire and fury of Sarya the Daughter!”
Sarya lifts her gaze from Observer’s golden eyes to a sky speckled with eight hundred stars. Eight hundred solar systems, isolated by hundreds or thousands of years. A hole in Network’s society, a hundred million cubic lightyears of freedom. And there, right in the middle of it all, a dim gray dot.