as a gaping hole. Mother, she says to the hole. How did you survive this?
But there is no answer.
There is no Network this far out, so she cannot search for the answer. And never in seven voyages has the subject come up, which means her ship’s resources are embarrassingly bare of information. She cannot even ask her implant for advice—though she would be desperate indeed to sink to that level. Even if she could, Shokyu the Mighty has grown distant of late—if that is a thing that may be said about an intelligence who is literally nestled against one’s brain stem. It speaks in single words or symbols, and only when spoken to. At any other time that would worry her. But here and now, a blade’s breadth beyond the edge of civilization, there is only one thought in her mind.
Eight days. And if anyone can suffer for eight days, it is a Widow.
She is not unaware of the poetry of her situation. It took her eight days to become a Daughter, and now it will take her eight days to avoid becoming a Mother. She was too young to remember her first trial well, but she knows by her scars that it was brutal. The physical toll of this trial may be less than the first, but the internal struggle is far greater. This time she battles a more serious foe than a few murderous siblings: she battles herself. And her self does not fight fairly! Her self is gazing at that careless shape lying sprawled against the wall and sighing in an alarming way. But look, intellect says to instincts. See how repulsive it is? It is naked, so there is nothing to hide that awful skin. One arm—look how squishy and awkward!—rests behind the head. The other splays across the torso with its fingers twitching just enough to interact with the hologram suspended over the face. The corners of the mouth twitch in approximations of mandible signs. The growth from the top of its head, the hair, has become long and is constantly tangled and falling over the eyes. And the eyes! They are so strange, so mobile, so wet. Those are Human eyes, self! They are certainly not the eyes of a Daughter.
But the deeper part of her cannot agree. That deeper self is both myopic and passionate. It cares nothing for the future; it sees only now.
“Mother?” says the Human in clear Standard, and Shenya twitches. The little one has crept to her side without notice, which is yet another sign of the bond that has grown over the past years. No one surprises a Widow. But this little one walks like a Widow now—as much as is possible with those mushy, awkward limbs—quietly and with joints lifted high. She speaks like a Widow, as far as she can without proper mandibles. In fact she is very nearly—
And then in desperation her intellect finds a voice, and Shenya the Widow is shocked to find that it is a familiar one. She is not your Daughter, hisses the shrill voice of her own mother in her mind. She could never be your Daughter.
Shenya the Widow corrects the little one with a warning click, acting as if the name did not make her hearts gallop and her pheromones change chemistry. “Shenya,” she says firmly. No, little one. It is Shenya the Widow, not Shenya the Mother.
And it always will be, hisses the voice in her mind.
“Shenya,” sighs the little one. Her pronunciation is surprisingly good, considering her various physiological handicaps.
Shenya the Widow strokes the long hair with the flat of a blade. The little one could not possibly know the battle taking place in this Widow mind. “Yes, Sarya?” she says. The name still thrills her hearts.
Sarya! laughs the voice. Such a name! And you call yourself a Widow.
Yes, Sarya. It is an ancient name, so painfully Widow and so obviously mismatched with this small thing and yet so perfect. It is the name of someone with great achievements in her future—or great destruction. There are so many stories about Saryas, and Shenya the Widow has now spent upwards of three years reciting every single one of them to a spellbound one-member audience. The name has become a byword between the two of them, between Mother and—no! Between Widow and Human. I’m lonely as Sarya, admits Shenya the Widow, and the little one knows she is referring to Sarya the One. You’ll be asleep faster than