favorites. “The Eight Blades, I want to hear that one.”
“You…hate that one.”
It’s true. Her mother used to make her recite it every day, back when she was tiny, until she despised it. But it’s simple. It’s reassuring. She swallows. It’s the perfect lifeline for a fading Widow.
“Do you know why I named you Sarya?” asks her mother with a sigh. “I don’t remember. Why don’t I remember?” She drifts off into soft clicks and chitters.
Sarya’s throat tightens. “Count my blades…” she prompts gently.
Her mother’s mandibles tremble as she picks up the rhythm. “Count my blades, my bond, my love. Tell me what I’m thinking of…” She rattles, somewhere deep, and it tears Sarya’s heart. “One is triumph, two is rage. Three is…three is…”
“Craft,” says Sarya.
“…three is craft…the gift of age.” The words are so faint that Sarya can barely hear them over the clamor of Watertower’s circulatory system.
[Dock A!] says the cart, rattling to a halt. [It was my pleasure to bring you here.]
“Don’t stop,” murmurs Sarya, unsnagging her stained utility suit from her mother’s sharp edges. The mandibles are still moving, though Sarya can no longer catch the words over the crash and hum of ten thousand drones on useless missions. Both her hands are occupied arranging razor-sharp limbs now, so there’s nothing to stop the tears from falling. This time, however, she is unashamed. This is no weakness. She doesn’t know how she gets the hard body out of the cart, but here she is with two black limbs thrown over her shoulders, half carrying, half dragging a Widow through a tangle of miscellaneous Network transmissions toward the hatch. The burning love in her chest makes her mother light. She will carry her mother to the end of the galaxy.
[I hope you survive!] says the cart behind them.
“Four is kindred, five is bond,” murmurs her mother in her ear. “Six is…” she says. “Six is…”
The pauses are the worst, because Sarya doesn’t know if there will be a next line. “Brood,” she grunts.
“Six is brood…desire has spawned.”
Sarya leans against the wall next to the hatch, gathering herself. It’s a familiar feeling, like when she was mustering courage outside an apartment with a sleeping Widow inside. Like the apartment, there’s no telling what’s out in Dock A: but there’s possible safety on the other side. The thought gives her strength, and she pulls herself up straight. “You can rest in a minute, Mother,” she says. “But right now, I could use some help.”
Her mother struggles, a blade opening a slit in Sarya’s utility suit. It might have gone through flesh as well; Widow blades are so sharp that Sarya knows from experience that she would feel the trickle of blood before the sting of the cut. But her mother supports enough of her own weight that Sarya is able to crank the door open with one hand and drag the clattering body into the echoing expanse of Dock A. Here it is, the site of the first actual Human sighting in a millennium. Still empty, thank the goddess. And there it is on the other side of the dock, her target. Eleven.
“Dock A is closed until further notice,” says the friendly voice of the dock intelligence. “If this facility exists after the current emergency, you may return then.”
“Almost there, Mother,” whispers Sarya. “Pain without fear, right?”
And then her mother chokes into silence as Sarya freezes, her dangling burden clacking limb against limb. Her tunnel vision had completely excluded anything but her objective, but there it is: Dock A is not empty. In the center of the open space, hovering just above Sarya’s line of sight, is a brilliant fifty-meter silver shape. It’s long and fluid, with no visible ports or engines. It’s an expensive-looking ship.
A corporate-looking ship.
“So you did find me…old friend,” murmurs Shenya the Widow. “Older than you look…older…”
“Twelve minutes, everyone, and it looks like all lifeboats are away!” crows Ellie from the ceiling. “In further good news, I’m thrilled to announce that Section C1 will almost certainly survive. So congratulations, C1! Of course, if you’re hearing my voice, that means you’re one of the four hundred twelve individuals still on Section F. Just know that we’re all out here rooting for you!”
The station’s voice dissolves into echoes, and the ship doesn’t open. It does nothing, in fact, but hover three meters above the deck of Dock A. Sarya watches it for a moment, muscles burning from strain, a corner of chitin