The Last Human - Zack Jordan Page 0,43

the presence of these strangers, say what she thinks she said?

“So you assert,” says Roche, his voice now clear and present in the absence of the eyes, “in spite of the evidence of an extremely unimpressive Network registration, that you are actually a member of an extinct, highly dangerous species.” He tilts his head with the click of multiple lenses.

“I thought a fake registration was impossible,” says Mer. Without the eyes, he is a completely different intelligence. If she met him now, she would assume him to be one of those simple barely legal intelligences you see every day on the lower levels of a mining station. It’s almost like he’s two people in one.

“Illegal, yes,” corrects Roche in a thoughtful murmur. “But I’ve never heard of anything that is impossible.”

Sarya’s heart rate is returning to normal. This isn’t nearly the reception her mother warned her about. No one is trying to hurl her out an airlock yet, for example—though the fact that this seems like a victory may mean that her standards are lower than they should be. And anyway…she can still hear it in her head. I’m Human. A warm and delicious shiver rolls down her spine. So that’s what it feels like. “Well,” she says, feeling as if she is getting her blades back under her, “believe what you want.”

“Then why are you registered as something else?” asks Mer.

Sarya shrugs, Widow-style, with fingertips in lieu of blades. “My mother did that,” she said. “I don’t know how.”

“Was your mother also…?” Even Roche seems unwilling to say the word. Human.

“My mother was a Widow,” says Sarya.

The effect on the other two is exactly what she’d hoped. Now that the eyes are off her, she feels like she can direct the conversation where she wants it. The two glance at each other, probably communicating on some private Network channel. Mer’s fur bristles, making him look even larger, and several talons scrape against the metal of the floor.

“A Widow,” Roche says. “A Human, raised by a Widow.”

“Maybe she did kill Hood,” muses Mer.

“Um,” says Sarya, raising a hand. A question she had been considering in Eleven has returned to the front of her mind. “Speaking of Hood. Didn’t he have a—”

And then Mer’s head falls off.

Sarya shrieks a Widow obscenity and leaps backward into her quarters. The head comes after her, sprouting its own set of arms and legs and looking like a twenty-kilo eye-covered version of the furry behemoth currently crouched in the corridor. She has just decided that she is going to go down swinging when she is stopped by a full-throated roar.

“Watch it!” says Mer, fur and talons fully extended, his voice now shaking her room. “Do not hurt her.”

Sarya stares at the small bundle of fur and eyes in front of her. So many eyes, all opening and closing and staring right back at her. “What…the hell,” she whispers.

“Oh, did I not introduce you two?” says Mer, leaning farther into her quarters, fur flattening. “This is Sandy,” he says, gesturing. “My, uh, girl.”

“Your…what?”

“My daughter,” he says. “Adopted. She doesn’t talk, not out loud. Or hear. Crazy smart, though.”

Sarya stares at the little bundle of eyes, feeling equal parts shocked and vindicated. She knew something was up. That whole time, there were three intelligences talking to her, two with voice and one with gaze. “Um,” she says to the little furball. “Nice to…meet you?”

Sandy turns to her father, and a wave of blinks travels over her face.

“She says you’re Human,” says Mer. “Good enough for me.”

“How would she know?” demands Roche.

“You’re really not going to trust a tier three?”

“Speaking of falsified registrations—”

“Wait, you doubt her registration but not the Human’s?”

“All I’m saying is, registrations can be falsified. We have proof right in front of us.”

“Oh, so now it’s proof, is it? I thought you were more cynical than that.”

“I am, when it suits my purposes.”

But Sarya is not listening. A tier three. There’s no way. That’s higher than her teacher back on Watertower, higher than Ellie who ran an entire orbital station. That’s at least a dozen times her own intelligence—her own optimistic absolute-best-case estimate, not the pitiful one-point-eight on her registration. This little thing? But if that’s true…how do you talk to her? How does one start a conversation with a tier three? Particularly one who can’t hear? If only she had some kind of communication device—

“Um,” she says suddenly, breaking dozens of gazes when her head snaps up. “Where’s my stuff?”

“No idea,” says

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