Shenya the Widow rattles. You go too far, implant. “Do not use that word with this—this thing,” she hisses. “Unless you wish for a factory reset.”
[All right, fine, we’re babysitting], says her implant, seemingly unaware of the seriousness of its position. [So let’s entertain it. I don’t have any local data on Humans, but…what do Widow juveniles like to play with?]
Shenya the Widow decides to let it go. As annoying as her implant is, it is not so annoying as an implant who cannot remember the last decade. “Wounded prey,” she says, warm memories of childhood surfacing.
[And here we are without a single dying animal.]
But Shenya the Widow is inspired. Without another word, she takes a quick skittering trip to her cabin. She travels with few belongings, which means it is mere seconds until she emerges with a bundle under two blades. The Human watches her reappear with what Shenya would swear is a baleful look in its eyes. It appears to be prepared to attack again, which warms Shenya’s hearts.
“Let us see what we may do with this,” she says, rolling out the bundle on the floor.
[I have never seen you wear clothing], says Shokyu the Mighty.
“That is because I am not a juvenile,” she says. Little idiot, she does not add. Two blades gently lift a small piece of cloth. It is a deep and shimmering black and it brings back memories that she will never share with anyone.
[Baby clothes?] asks her implant. [Swaddling, that kind of thing?]
“We are not swaddled,” says Shenya the Widow, holding the cloth up to the light and looking for holes. “Only a few of us even survive long enough to meet an adult.”
[Environmental hazards, I assume?]
“Each other.”
[I see.] Her implant pauses for a moment. [Again, I don’t judge. So if not swaddling clothes…mating clothes? Just a guess.]
“You are correct,” says Shenya the Widow, stroking a cloth in gentle reminiscence. “Each one stained with the lifeblood of a different male, given at the height of its ecstasy.”
[I…understood we were talking about mating?]
“We are,” says Shenya the Widow. “But now you know why we are called Widows.”
She waits for the next question, the one that will force her blade, the one that will finally result in a factory reset for her implant. If you have mated, then where are your children? But her implant, for once in its existence, is silent.
It is then that Shenya the Widow makes a decision. With a smooth motion, she gathers up the cloth and stands. She gazes at the tiny form, which appears to have fallen asleep from exhaustion. Its other foot covering is already off, apparently prepared for use as a second missile. She will never admit it, but it is this image that forces its way into her hearts.
“It wouldn’t survive eight seconds in a nest of newly hatched Widows,” she hisses quietly.
[I shudder to think], says Shokyu the Mighty.
* * *
#
[Aw], says Shokyu the Mighty. [Now aren’t you glad you didn’t murder it?]
Shenya the Widow watches the tiny Human crouch against the wall of the common area, surrounded with the contents of a tool bag. A small doll watches beside it. It is made of a black and silky material, and its many-limbed physiology is something that a Widow might recognize. The Human is intent on its task, stacking the tools in various ways and then demolishing the piles in fits of violence and giggling. After each act of destruction it glances toward the Widow as if to judge the effect on her.
“I think she is becoming comfortable with me,” remarks Shenya the Widow, twitching her mandibles in what another Widow might see as a motherly gesture. Even the increased light of the common area—shifted for the Human’s benefit—cannot dampen her pleasant mood.
[I take it you’re referring to its current lack of absolute terror?] says Shokyu the Mighty.
“I believe that is what I said.”
[I see you’ve also—somewhat arbitrarily, I note—assigned it a gender.]
“Just a convenience.”
[I’ve long noticed that female is your default], says Shokyu the Mighty. [You seem to think that everyone you meet is a female until proven otherwise. Not every species has a female variant, you know. Not even most.]
“And I have long noticed,” says Shenya the Widow, “that you are becoming more argumentative in your middle age.”
[I’m well within my functional lifespan, and it’s my job to mention facts as they are relevant.]
They watch the tiny Human for a few moments in silence.