will? “The answer,” she says firmly.
[Pain without fear], says Sandy instantly.
And suddenly Sarya finds herself sitting in complete darkness staring at what was, perhaps, Shenya the Widow’s favorite phrase. She’s heard her mother say it a thousand times, in a thousand scenarios. She has been disciplined with it. She has been forced to memorize stories and epics that illustrate the concept. And now that Sandy has said it, she realizes it fits a certain description she’s heard recently.
An extreme yet unique combination of emotions.
“There are—there are thousands of Widow proverbs,” Sarya says carefully. “What made you pick that one?”
[It is obvious.]
“Oh.” Sarya watches the eyes in the darkness, wondering if every conversation with a tier three goes this way. “Well, now I guess I need the long version.”
[First I researched Humans], Sandy says. [Then I researched Widows. Then I thought about how they’re different. Then I thought about how they’re the same. Then I realized that they’re more the same than different.]
Even if you are not sharing a darkened bunk with a tier three, it is odd to hear your own thoughts in someone else’s words. Sarya has spent her whole life ruminating on her divided heritage, and she has come to the same conclusion. “Keep going,” she says, intrigued.
[Then I made lists of what both species value, and I compared the lists and took the overlap. Then I put that aside and I read all the proverbs and fairy tales and legends I could find.]
“You’ve…really spent some time on this.”
[Not really. Both civilizations were developed by simple minds. Once you derive their core values you can skip around a bit.]
“Oh.” So this is what that laundry drone felt like, back in Watertower’s backstage.
[And the answer, I think, is in your name.]
“My name?” says Sarya. “Sarya?”
[The other part], says Sandy. [The Daughter.]
Again, that flash of unpleasantness, that irritation at the fringes of her mind. Sandy continues to make more sense than Sarya wants to admit. “Explain,” she says.
[Widows—and Humans—assign titles based on worthiness], says Sandy. [You have to prove yourself. For example, the rest of the galaxy calls the whole species Widows, but that’s not accurate, is it?]
“Right,” says Sarya. “Most of us—them—aren’t Widows. You have to be female, and you have to have, um…mated.”
[And killed your mate, if I’m not mistaken?]
“That’s…part of the deal, yeah.” She’s always been of split mind about that part, and now to hear Sandy say it rather than her mother—well, it sounds less magical, that’s for sure.
[More importantly, the juveniles are not Daughters when they hatch, are they?]
“No,” says Sarya. “Most never become Daughters, actually. They have to—”
[Survive.]
“Um…right.”
[So they must earn the title of Daughter. Or die.]
And now, staring at a collection of blinking gleams in a black room, Sarya knows what it is to be taken apart. Without any effort at all, Sandy has found her most vulnerable spot. Sandy understands her more deeply than she understands herself. Sandy sees into her past, extrapolates her future, lays bare her dreams, and uncovers her deepest shame. Sarya the Daughter is a skilled liar, but she finds that she cannot lie to Sandy.
“That’s…right,” says Sarya softly.
Sandy says nothing. She watches from her dozens of vantage points.
Sarya can feel the cracks spreading across her carefully crafted surface. “My name is Sarya the Daughter,” she says carefully. She places one word after another, focusing on the sound of each one. “I’m named after a hero—like, five, actually.” A little cough. A bitter little laugh. “Seems like every Widow legend is named Sarya, right? I mean, you’ve read them, you know. And yeah, I do have the…title. So I can see why you’d think—” She swallows. “But, I mean…I’m not a hero. I didn’t even earn—I didn’t have to survive. I wasn’t hatched in a nest full of, you know, killer siblings. I’ve never fought for anything, let alone my life. I’ve never earned anything.” And she’s a liar. And she’s weak. And she’s full of fear. And. And. And. She’s as far from Widow as someone could possibly be. “My mother,” she says, and swallows. “My mother named me Daughter when she adopted me, but—”
[Does that sound like a Widow?]
Sarya feels her mouth slowly close. No, not really. And her mother was Widow out to the exoskeleton. And yet…no. Come on, she wouldn’t forget something like that. No, Sarya the Daughter is—and always has been—a fraud. Her eyes burn, and for once she is glad of the darkness. I am Sarya the Daughter, says