attempting to force Widow strength into her voice. “He said—”
[I am aware], says Hood, taking another clanging step forward. [Observer, as you call Him, is my client.]
“Your…client?” says Sarya, keeping her distance with a quick step backward. “He said you were his friend.”
[Where I am from, the terms are interchangeable], says Hood. [Business before brotherhood, as the saying goes. But rather than discuss the doubtless fascinating array of idiomatic dissimilarities between our respective backgrounds, I rather think we should be going.] He leans forward on that thick arm, raising a foot off the ground for another step toward her.
“Stop!” says Sarya, the word echoing back and forth through the chamber. Her every muscle is tense, her body poised for flight. It’s not that she’s afraid—no, that would be ridiculous. The daughter of a Widow, afraid! No, she is cautious. Because, honestly, how often do you find yourself facing down a large alien being in a mysteriously empty space at the behest of a mind a million times as smart as—
Wait.
“Did you say going?” she asks, suddenly frozen to the spot. “Going where?”
Pistons hiss, metal shifts, and Hood finishes his lurching step toward her. He moves slowly, even painfully—which is the only reason she’s not already running, because nothing about this feels right.
[Did my client not tell you?] says Hood. [I’m here to take you to your people.]
And with that statement, any plans of strategy or escape go out the airlock. Her people. Sarya stands there, rigid, with her mouth open and the phrase ringing in her head. She stares at Hood, at the four glowing eyes locked to hers, trying to make her brain think through what she’s just heard.
[Or], says Hood, [you may remain here for the rest of your life.]
And with a chorus of shrieks from a dozen ill-fitting parts, Hood turns his back on her and begins hitching his laborious way toward the far side of Dock A. Sarya stares after him, jaw still ajar, unable to process what has just happened. I’m here to take you to your people. The sentence echoes in her mind, focusing and distilling, dropping words each repeat until it has become a single phrase: your people.
Her people.
She feels as though she could pass out. Goddess. Was she not just fantasizing about this in the laundry cart? A choice between mundanity and adventure, between her home and her people? And here it is. Of course, it’s not exactly like the fantasy. Hood is not an attractive Human, for one thing. The whole thing has been more businesslike than magical, for another. But still…oh goddess, here it is.
She stands, fists clenched, watching Hood’s form lurch away from her. This is ridiculous to even think about, says the more responsible part of her. This is Watertower. This is home. In fact, that’s a good point, shouldn’t you think about getting home soon? You need to prepare for your interview at the arboretum, after all. And if you pull that off, well, that’s steady employment, right? Low-tier, sure—the quiet, unassuming existence of a Spaal just doing its job. But really, what more can you ask for?
That’s right, says another part of her mind. Go to the interview. You’ll get the job; they practically have to give it to you, because what else can you do? As far as anyone else knows, you’re just a low-tier moron who can barely put her utility suit on right side out. Every day, you’ll go to that job. Every day, you’ll tell people, I’m sorry, my tier is low, I don’t understand. Your closest friends will be mulchers and courier drones. You’ll mature. You’ll age. And then you’ll die, alone, your last conscious thought a memory of this very decision: the moment when you let opportunity hiss and bang its way out of your life. Now you tell me, says that second part of her mind: Is that really what a Human would do?
It is then that she realizes that she’s already made her decision. She’s already taken a step after Hood. Now another. And now she’s committed, because she’s three steps in and accelerating. The more responsible part of her is protesting, but she can’t hear a thing over the blood singing in her ears, the heart nearly thumping through her chest, the jumble of emotions and endorphins flooding her mind. Here it is, says the rest of her in chorus. Here it is here it is oh goddess here it is—