you are now.]
Sarya sighs. “So Mother never actually told me I was Spaal, I guess. But I could read my own registration. I did my research, and she never stopped me. But then…” She trails off. “There’s a thing that happens to Humans,” she says after a moment. “At a certain age, their bodies…change.”
[As in…grow?]
“As in—oh, goddess,” she says, covering her face with her hands. Just when you think you’ve plumbed the depths of your unpleasant memories, you find another. “I remember how horrified I was,” she says through Roche’s fingers. “There was swelling. There was hair. And of course, there’s the blood.” She drops her hands and sighs. “Goddess, so much blood.”
[And that’s…healthy?]
“If you’re a Human, sure. But for a Spaal, hell no. It means you’re going to die in agony. So—” She stops and chews her tongue for a moment. “So anyway my mother found me in a maintenance airlock. I guess I was yelling about going out like a warrior and not bleeding to death in my nest, or some Widow crap like that. I remember her practically going insane trying to get in…but I had convinced the airlock intelligence to keep her out. So I guess you could say I forced her blade.” She sighs and touches the row of black pistons on the back of her arm, another reminder of a questionable decision. She concentrates on moving the black metal fingers, one by one. This is the first time she has ever talked about any of this…and it is surprisingly therapeutic. Eleven may be a sub-legal pressure suit, but it’s also surprisingly easy to talk to.
[So what made you give up?] says the next question in the darkness.
Sarya stirs. “Give up?” she says.
[Isn’t that what you’re doing now?]
The question pricks her, somewhere deep. “Give up?” she repeats. She flings an arm upward, toward a distant ceiling beyond the suit’s matte walls. “Did you see that, Eleven?” she cries. “Did you see the size of it?” She thumps her own chest with Roche’s arm, hard enough to hurt. “Do you see how big I am? Do you?”
Eleven rumbles. [I have only known you for a few days], says the suit. [When I met you, you were preparing to leave your entire life behind for a flimsy promise to find your people. The next time I saw you, you had dragged a Widow across an entire orbital station to bring her with you. I saw you escape from yourself in that frozen cargo hold, and not two days later, Mer brought you to me for treatment because you had destroyed your own arm. Now you tell me stories of childhood that make me realize: none of this is unusual for you.] The messages pause for a moment, as if the suit is collecting its thoughts. [So yes, my question stands: what made you give up?]
Sarya hangs in the darkness, staring at Eleven’s words. She has done all those things, and some would say she is very much the worse for it. She is both selfish and self-destructive. She doesn’t actually know if she is more Human or Widow. And she is driven, goddess yes, she’s driven, she is compelled by something she has never understood, never even examined—
But wait, interrupts another part of her mind. Why is that a bad thing? Isn’t it worse to sit, complacent, when you have purpose? The universe contains truth; what excuse could you possibly have to stay at home? Even if you are the honest-to-goddess last Human in the entire universe, does that give you the right to give up?
No, she says, somewhere inside her. It’s a sullen little word.
So the galaxy is a little bigger than you thought. Does that mean you can lie down and die?
No, she says again.
Who are you?
I am…Sarya the Daughter.
Sarya the what?
The Daughter, she says, and she can feel something ignite within her as she says the word. I face pain without fear.
WHO ARE YOU?
“Okay!” she shouts, far louder than she meant to. She brushes her tangled hair behind an ear with a mechanical hand and clears her throat. “Okay.”
[Okay?]
I am Sarya the Daughter. “I said okay,” she says. She feels herself rocking slightly in Eleven’s straps, as if trying to move the suit herself. “As in, your little pep talk worked, okay? As in let’s go.”
[Already?] says Eleven. [I was working toward something.]
“Don’t need it,” she says. I am Sarya the Daughter, let’s go, let’s go. She raps Roche’s knuckles against the