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"If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating."
― Sylvia Plath, Ariel: The Restored Edition
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The men are talking.
It's low, hardly audible over the hum of the ship's engines, but they're huddled together in a way that never spells anything good. I watch from my little corner of the pen.
". . . can break out . . ."
I mask a smile. You had your chance when we were in the desert. A bad chance, of course. The Wraith always carry stunners and they can see in the dark. You probably would've made it three steps before they blasted you unconscious. I shift, wrapping my arms a little tighter around my knees. But maybe it could've worked. Maybe the Wraith would've been too surprised to react quickly and we could've used the terrain to our advantage. A try's still a try. Is that why I didn't make a break for it? The councilwoman's voice is in my ear before I can stop it. You clearly didn't want enough.
Troku gives an angry grunt, a little louder, "—and why would they choose me? My performance was near-perfect! I was scheduled for more, too."
He shoots a dark glance my way, unspoken You ruined everything as clear as a shout. I want to argue we don't even know why we'd been chosen, but I say nothing. Maybe he's right about that.
The men continue to scheme as I yearn for Isoka, regretting I never got to say goodbye. I doubt I'll ever see her again, or love another as I had her. At some point I think I sleep a little, thin and restless as it is, because suddenly I'm wide awake and the humming's gone and the pen door's open and Wraith are here. It's neither Tattoo or Dead Eye, but one of the Wraith I recognize from all the years in the colony. Its hair hangs heavy in dreadlocks.
"On your feet," it says. I can't ignore the hungry, pointed way it stares at us, but it doesn't reach out with its slit-hand. I wait for the men to do something—hadn't they plotted for long enough?—but as we leave the pen, they're docile. I can't tell if I'm disappointed or amused.
The drones flank us and we're led off the shuttle. I crane my head back and back, but the cavernous hall's so expansive its ceiling disappears in the atmospheric murk. Gods, I'm on a hive ship. The air tastes metallic, like engine oil mixed with ozone and something else, something musty and heavy, like the gush of birth blood. There're other ships in the bay, mostly the little culling ones. They loiter like ominous insects, watching as we hurry by. Then we're past the bay and enter a never-ending series of corridors. At one point we pass row after row of empty, cobweb-covered alcoves. No, not all empty. There's a person. No, not a person, but the shape of one, because as we pass them I see they're alive but the soul's gone. There's nothing behind that gaze, nothing at all.
Is that what's going to happen to me? To be trussed in a hole to be fed on and fed on and fed on—
My eye stings. I knuckle it dry before anyone sees.
We're taken to a room with tubs of water and soap. The men suddenly balk in front of me and I see why. There's worshippers in here with us, worshippers in soft white clothing, worshippers with hollow smiles on their hollow faces. It's one thing to be a human, but it's another entirely to be a foot-licking, traitorous, scum-eating, turncoat worshipper. Race-traitors. I'd rather be covered in maggots than breathe the same air as them. But the drones are heavy, silent reminders there can't be any violence, so the three of us don't punch and kick their teeth in.
We're stripped of our clothes and scrubbed to an inch of our lives. We're even triple checked to see if we're clean of the plague, even though none of us had the tell-tale markings of end stage infection. The sickness had long mutated so its carriers couldn't show they were ill until long after it was too late. Oh, wouldn't that be beautiful? Imagine if it somehow reached these hollow creatures. Why should they be spared while so many better people died?
I wish they could read my mind. Or maybe they could sense enough, because the two worshipper boys who oversaw my washing hurry away as soon as I'm done.
Gods, this must be the cleanest I've been all my life. My skin's glowing pink, not a particle of sand left—I smell like fresh sagebrush at dawn. I'm given something muted to wear. I don't want to give up Isoka's shift, but there's no choice. As I put the new shirt on, I see there's just enough room for a Wraith's hand to fit over my chest unencumbered. It's all I can do not to tear it off.
The dreadlocked Wraith returns. It looks over the worshippers' handiwork with a critical eye and then strides out, inspection complete. The drones crowd us again and once more we walk a maze of dim corridors and passageways, mist clinging to our ankles. I can't shake the sensation we're traversing through the blood vessels of some galactic beast, that if I reached out and touched the walls, I would feel it breathing.
Some Wraith pass us. Their faces are gaunt, skin stretched tight, and as their gazes latch onto us, it occurs to me the drones are not just guards, but protectors as well. I'm glad when the new Wraith are gone. Intellectually I know there aren't enough humans to go around, but it's another thing entirely to see the starvation up close. I think again of the dead-alive person in the feeding alcove and shudder.
We're brought to a large room and motioned to stop. Yellow lights spill in areas, creating lily-pad patches on the floor. Organic-looking pillars snake upwards along the sides, buttressing the walls and arching like ribs above us. Tattoo and Dead Eye are already there, standing on one side with several others and their own drones. Large containers huddle around them, at least eight or ten, stacked high. On our side are the Wraith of the colony. Everyone watches as our drone guards shove us down, jarring my knees. I shift in place. Several fixate on us, their feeding hands clenched.
Aside from a few hisses and gestures, the exchange's wordless. But when it happens, there's a shift in the air. We're goods to be transferred, and that's what happens. We're driven to our feet and Tattoo's set of drones come to collect us. I can't help but glance over my shoulder—there was no love between myself and the Wraith who tended the breeding colony, but they were the evil I knew. Then the organic doors to the room irises shut, marking the end of everything familiar.
It's a silent march back to the cavernous ship bay. Whenever I try to catch Troku's eye, he avoids it. After a few tries I stop. Maybe this really is my fault, maybe I've condemned all of us. Or maybe, a voice suddenly says, the universe doesn't revolve around you and this is entirely a case of bad luck. The voice sounds like Isoka's. All of a sudden a weight lifts off my shoulders. Of course this isn't my fault. I'm just a barren woman who hasn't died of the plague yet.
We're taken to a different shuttle. It's roomier than the other one, our pen taking the entire rear section of the ship. There's even a window. The drones are barely gone before I latch myself onto it, anything to use as a distraction. Engines kick on somewhere beneath us, internal machinery humming, and I watch the scenery change from inside the hive to outer space, then to the fractal lightshow of hyperspace. It baths the entire room in a kaleidoscope of green.
I don't know how much time passes. The men are in their corner, saying nothing. I'm lost in the view when I hear the doors slither open. It's the Wraith—ten of them. They spill in like a dark wave and hunger's raw on their faces. My heart starts pounding against my ribs like a fist against a door, desperate to escape.
I try to cower, but the closest Wraith moves before I can curl away and oh it's right there, its hand shoved against my chest. Pain cascades across every nerve, I'm on fire, there's that awful gulping gulping gulping and it's remorseless, if I could die please let me die I want to die—
The hand's gone and I'm wheezing on all fours on the ground. It feels like there's a hole in my lungs because I can't seem to draw enough air. Saliva pools in my mouth and I spit to clear it. I hear strangled shouts and see Troku and the other in similar straights, Wraith latched onto them like leeches. A fresh wave of nausea has me retching, but there's nothing but bile in me.
A vice-like grip latches onto my upper arm and hauls me to my feet. It's another Wraith, it's reaching—
"Slowly!"
It's Dead Eye. It crowds the other Wraith, hand clenching its wrist, keeping it from touching me. The first Wraith winces but doesn't dislodge the grip.
Dead Eye hisses. "Slowly," it repeats, voice like gravel. "If you can."
I don't know why it's speaking aloud. It would only be for my benefit, and Wraith don't care for humans beyond food. I stare at it, panting. I'm close enough to see its sightless ghost pupil. Dead Eye seems to notice my attention and pulls away, teeth bared in a strange grimace. The Wraith holding me snarls as it touches my chest. I brace for the agony and it comes, yes it does, but suddenly I can push through it. The pain feels like the aftermath of a leg cramp, where it hurts to breathe but the worst's behind. Tears comes to my eyes when the feeding starts in earnest, but there isn't the all-consuming fire of the other one.
When the Wraith releases me, so do my legs. I slide to the floor. There's blood on my chest from where the feeding slits left their marks. I don't feel clean anymore. If I could strip out of my skin and walk weightless from this all, I would.
Dead Eye's crouching in front me. Before I can react the Wraith touches my neck's pulse point, its skin warm and dry. Its wounded socket's hideous up close, scars like knotted worms in the green light. After a moment it says, "One more."
There's no pity in its expression, nothing I can read, but it still echoes, "Slowly," to the next Wraith that lines up to take its fill. I'm once more brought to my feet. This new one doesn't follow Dead Eye's advice and I start to scream from the agony of it. There's some snarling and the feeding doesn't lessen but it softens, no, slows? I can't tell, three feedings in and my vision's tunneling, black spots are crowding everything, oh how the floor's so cold what a reli
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Waking hurts.
It's as if every part of me has been tossed down a canyon and now lies in a mess. I'm in—a bed? Pillow at my head, thin sheets covering the rest. I stare ahead. Rocky, natural ceiling. Light's low. Green? Blue? Oh, there's glowing mushrooms. Lots of them. They're all over the uneven walls, like natural lanterns. The air smells damp, wet. Left arm hurts. I wince as I force myself to sit, the sheets pooling in my lap. My chest's sore but unblemished, healed somehow. I push my left arm's sleeve. There's a red welt just below the crook of the elbow. It's tender to the touch.
"It's, ah, a tracking device."
My head snaps up. There's a man sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. He looks my age, with curling dark hair. For a single moment I think the clean line of his jaw's better than any I'd seen at the colony. Then I notice the faded white clothes.
He gestures to the welt. "It's also an identification marker. In case you were wondering."
I stare at him. "I won't get pregnant."
He gapes at me, then his face flushes. "Oh, no, no, you—I—you misunderstand. We're not, this isn't—"
"Then what am I here for?"
He tries to smile, but it's uneasy. I don't let the worshipper relax. I give him my best sneer. "I assume you're excluded from the feeding rotation?"
His tone tries to be soothing as he replies, "It's an honor to serve as sustenance. All of us are all happy to give what we can. You have to understand—"
"I don't want to understand."
The man gets a lopsided look on his face, as if he was both smiling and grimacing at the same time. "I know all this must be overwhelming. You're the first wild—ah, what I mean is, your documentation say you weren't hand-reared or tended—well, that's to say—" he fumbles to a stop, cheeks turning darker.
Hand-reared? Gods, he even sounds like a Wraith. I've heard of worshipper settlements before, but it's another to see the perversion up close. There's many worlds that are Wraith-tended, where Wraith farm the humans as if they were livestock. But not me. I grew up free—until I was caught. Culled. That word isn't used anymore; now that humans don't die when Wraith feed, there's no reason for them to hunt us like they used to. But the plague changed all that. I was hunted like the wild ponies my family used to follow.
My face must be shouting this, because the worshipper winces and leans in, palms open. "Can I start over? Please?"
I sit in silence, hating this room, hating him. He's worth less than the wood that makes my bed frame, less than the spit in my mouth.
When the silence begins to fill the air like poison, the worshipper clears his throat and says, "Unlike many of the other hives, my lord and his men chose not to hibernate to search for a reversal, a cure—anything. But with so few of us left, it's hard for the Wraith to focus on their research and not their hunger. That's why you're here. My lord needs us to sustain himself and his men, as," here his eyes quickly flick to my chest, "you've already experienced. I know how this must sound to you, but you must believe it. Our disaster is their disaster."
Just as our death's their death. I don't say this, but oh, how the thought fills me with angry happiness. "Where's the men who came with me?" I ask instead. "Where are they?"
"They're resting in the other quarantine pen. As for you, it was decided you were to be quarantined separately."
"Why?"
I think he blushes again. "It's been a long time since—I mean, there were—it's just, women aren't normally used for feedings anymore. They're usually, they're usually fulfilling other purposes." He clears his throat. "I was surprised when I saw they'd brought you. But maybe . . ." he trails off.
"Maybe what?"
He shifts in his chair and says instead, "Eat." He points to a small table I hadn't noticed before. On it is a pitcher of water and a bowl of dried fruit. There's some bread and what looks like jerky. "You'll need to regain your strength."
I stare at the food in defiance. I could wage my warfare here, now.
"Please." His voice's soft. "You wouldn't like the alternative."
I can't hide my horror as birdflesh cascades down my arms. The memory of the dead-alive shape haunts me.
The worshipper uses the gap of silence to squeeze in: "There'll be a transition period for you to adjust. In the end, you alone decide whether you'd want." His face goes lopsided again, as if he can't bring himself to say what's plain. "It'll be your choice."
It's not really a choice. I'm disgusted with myself, but I'd rather grovel than suffer wasting my days in a cocoon. That a fate worse than any death. "What would I need to do?"
"Feed a Wraith every other day. Don't worry, I'll show you the schedule later, it's all very strict. Help us sustain them as they try to find a solution."
My lips pull away from my teeth. A solution? There's no solution. The Wraith are too late. The disease has already riddled the body of humanity—we're just in the end-of-life stage. This is the part where you take the old villager out beyond the tall grasses to die with dignity, alone, like the animals we all are.
The worshipper must've mistaken my expression for something else, because when he speaks again his voice is the soft one I'm learning to despise. "Please forgive them. What happened on the ship—they hadn't been allowed to feed deeply in many years. My companions and I offer all we can, but there were only three of us for twenty Wraith, twenty-five if you count their drones, for a long time. It's all what's left of everyone. Of my world, I mean."
"Not good numbers," I say. I tell myself I feel no pity for him or his dead people. The lighting makes it easy to miss, but I suddenly notice the deep shadows under his eyes. Feeling a little stretched thin, worshipper?
He flinches, though for himself or at my tone, I can't tell. "No, not the best ratio. But now with us six, my lord's men can be better sated. Maybe my lord can accomplish what's eluded him for so long."
Underdark below, I never thought I'd miss the breeding colony. I feel I'm agreeing to my own torture, trapped with this human-shaped traitor. "That's it? I'm just a meal every other day?"
The worshipper shifts again in his seat and pretends to study a cluster of mushrooms. "If you want to see it that way. But if you're interested, there's spaces and instruments to clean and keep ordered. And harvesting minerals. The deeper parts of the cavern are bountiful in tylium and anthracite and others, all valuable for hive ship upkeep. We use them to trade with other hives for foodstuffs and supplies and, well . . . anyway, I suppose it'll be better than staying in this room all the time. If you want. After you get adjusted."
"I'll think about it." I already know the answer. I hate this damp room.
He looks at me again. "I'm called Lohr. If you wanted to know."
I debate lying, but what would be the point. He's seen my documents. "Eshae."
"Eshae," he says. He gives me what I'm sure is a beautiful smile, dimples and straight teeth, but all I see are the white worshipper clothes. Then he's gone, leaving me with myself. I'm not sure who I hate more.
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I sleep for most of the day. Without sunlight it's hard to tell, but I get hungry again at least twice more and relieve myself once. Whenever I wake, the food I've nibbled is already replenished. At a certain point I just stare at the confines of my room. After living with the unrelenting noise of playing children, mothers calling their broods, bed-mates having sex, babies crying, for years, this place's deafeningly quiet in comparison. Even the windswept plain where I lived before had more life than this. If I concentrate I can hear water dripping from the ceiling. It's a watery tomb.
And maybe it is, if I got fed on too much and for too long, like that poor creature I saw on the hive. I sit up and my left arm tweaks. Oh, the tracker. I'll tear off this arm if needed. Will you, though? It's all talk, isn't it, something inside of me says. I hate that voice. One thing at a time, I tell myself. I just need to get my bearings first.
I decide to test my legs and I'm pleased to find I feel better than I thought. Sleeping and eating like a filly at a trough was all I needed, clearly. Even my chest feels better. I shiver and wish for a blanket, or warmer clothing. There's a chill that lingers on exposed skin. I walk to keep warm, exploring the perimeter, touching the glowing mushrooms before going to the entrance. There's a set of Wraith-bars across it. There's nothing to see beyond but more tunnel bending in a curve, mushrooms dotting every square inch to create a tunnel of green-blue. It'd be beautiful in any other circumstance.
Back at the colony, I've always had the privilege to go about my business, to find privacy and be given space. To an extent, of course, only after I followed the rules, but still. Even further back I always explored the plains with my da, learning how to hide in the grasses or how to follow the wild ponies without scattering them. I touch the sinewy cage bars and grimace at their organic texture. I doubt I'll have any of that freedom now.
I allow a moment of self-pity as reality sets in. I yearn for the river and the wide blue sky, for the unrelenting sunshine. I miss the desert's non-smell, because here everything smells wet. Not river-wet, but the dampness of overturned mud. But most of all I miss Isoka, though I know it's best no one else was chosen for this fate. For that, I'm glad I was picked and not her.
There's the scratch of footsteps, getting louder. At first I think it's that worshipper again, but then comes the sound of a leather coat.
It's the Wraith with the disfigured face. I watch its approach, hating the trapped-animal feeling that crawls down my spine and settles in my stomach. Dead Eye stops at the bars and makes a motion with a hand off to the side, to a panel maybe, because immediately the bars melt away. When it steps into my cell, it's somehow taller than I remember. I force myself not to move even though all I want to do is hide like a child under the bed until it went away.
The gods must be on my side because the Wraith comes no further, stopping well out of feeding range, its slit-hand tucked behind its back. It could be the lighting or my imagination, but there's ringlike bruises under its eye sockets. Its cheekbones seem sharper than before, giving it the same gaunt air as all the others. Maybe it's not just the worshipper feeling stretched thin. I tense, ready for a feeding.
Dead Eye studies me down-up and gives a little grunt. "You seem well enough," it says after a moment. "Your male counterparts are still sleeping their feedings off."
"You probably didn't tell the others to go easy on them," I say, my mouth its own master. Stupid. Stupid, stupid.
Its head tilts slightly, reminding me of an owl focusing on a mouse. It's silent for a moment, cool expression unchanged, then says, "All the same. You have recovered quickly."
I don't know where this is going. I don't know why it's talking to me. Gods above I don't think I can take another feeding already, even if it says otherwise.
When I don't respond it says, "I am sure Lohr has informed you why you are here."
I like looking at the sightless eye. I want to imagine I get the impression it makes the Wraith uncomfortable. "You want me for food."
The Wraith inclines its head. "I would be lying if I said otherwise. My men and I must feed, or we die. There are precious few humans left."
It's the word precious that does it. Within seconds all the horrible years at the breeding colony fill me like poison. There was nothing precious about any of that. All the Wraith cared about was their food supply, not what Culling did to my family, or what years of forced sex, over and over, cost me.
I hear myself say, "And if we're meant to die out? What then?"
Dead Eye makes an odd sound. "We are not there yet."
I want to scream so hard my guts rope out of my mouth, but I condense the anger until it barely fits between my teeth. "I think we are."
The Wraith tenses, its good pupil swelling. But that's its only reaction. It watches without moving, face as unreadable and alien as before, a gulf without a bridge. As the seconds slink by and it continues to say nothing, something in the air turns heavy, and the strangest thought enters my head that the Wraith seems—what? Inexplicably I'm reminded of a time I saw a mare give birth to a stillborn foal. She treated it as if it were alive, cleaning and buffeting it to make it stand. After awhile my da and cousins moved on but I'd stayed, unable to pull away from the mare's mounting confusion.
Standing before the Wraith there's the same inability to pull away, trapped to watch whatever it was happening in front of me. My anger suddenly seems pointless, misplaced. I can't look away. Trembling spreads across my body. It's so quiet I can hear water dripping.
When Dead Eye finally speaks, its tone matches the chill in the air. "If you desire anything, tell Lohr your needs. If the request is reasonable, he will see it fulfilled." Then it turns on a heel and is gone. The webbing-bars harden back into place and I totter to my bed on shaking legs, unsure of what just happened.
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Time limps by. When it's clear the Wraith isn't coming back I try to rest, but soon grow bored and begin pacing. When pacing doesn't help I go back to the bed and count the mushrooms. I'm up to three hundred when I hear footsteps. I stiffen, thinking it's Dead Eye again, but it's the worshipper. The bars peel back for him as he enters, as if he were a Wraith himself.
"I've more food," he says, lifting a small bundle of looks like bread, but I'm not hungry. I want to leave my prison.
He approaches me as if I were some skittish wild animal, telegraphing every move before he does it. He passes the bundle as if afraid I'd bite. I take it, doing my best to avoid touching his worshipper hands. I hate how his nails are neat and trimmed. He even smells clean, like good rainwater. I remind myself he's aligned himself with the Wraith, that he'd no doubt skin me if his masters told him to.
He says, "Have you thought more about—"
"Yes," I say, and this time it's me who feels my cheeks warm. I've never stayed in a dark space long, even if it's covered in glowing mushrooms. I was born on a world with wide open skies, and one day I hope to die beneath one. "I mean, it must be better out there than in here." But Wraith are out there. Agony. But so is the way out, Inner-Isoka says. A thrill crawls up my belly. Find it and run. You want that, I know you do.
The worshipper smiles so wide his eyes crinkle. "You're making the right decision. Truly, you are. Follow me, I'll show you around. And ask questions!" He trips over his feet looking at me but rightens out. "I'll try to answer them, best I can."
I follow the worshipper into the tunnel, my guts twisting in knots. I keep expecting Wraith to leap around every shadow, ravenous and eager to feed, but nothing bother us as we leave the mushroom tunnel. A massive subterranean cavern greets us. In some way it reminds me of the hive ship: there are organic stations grafted to the walls, dark shapes I take for Wraith hovering about them. One section seems grown into an actual room—a lab of some kind? Most of the activity centers on it, Wraith coming and going with regular frequency. Around it are glowing mushrooms, collecting in random, dense clusters so bright I almost take them for lanterns.
But bioluminescence's no substitute for sunlight. I look up. The ceiling's not so low it makes me feel trapped, but neither's it high enough to be comfortable. Rock formations hang down like blunt teeth, dripping water. The glowing mushrooms don't cluster as much on them, giving the whole roof a murky, vaguely threatening feeling, as if it was only a few moments from caving in and we were none the wiser.
That wet smell's harder to notice here, but the chill isn't. I rub my arms, taking care to mind the sore one with the tracker.
The worshipper glances over. "Oh, we can get you warmer clothing. I'm sorry, after all these years down here I must be used to it."
"Do we ever go outside?" I ask.
"What?"
"Outside. For sun. Fresh air." I glare at him. "Do we have those privileges?"
"Oh." He blinks, and I despair. If I must be fed on, then I must, but to be denied the sun?
"Of course," he says. "We would need permission and coordinate with my lord, but I don't see why not. It's just not a common occurrence, what with poachers and all. What we lack in daily exposure, my lord provides in supplements."
I'm half surprised the worshipper doesn't have the cat-slit pupils Wraith do. It would almost make it easier if he did. "I would like that," I say instead, looking away. "To go outside."
"We'll arrange something," he says. He begins to move off. "This way, Eshae. I'll take you to the others."
It's grating to hear my name from the worshipper's lips, but I follow him deeper into the cavern. I count at least fifteen Wraith and five drones—I know there's five more Wraith somewhere. They ignore me and the worshipper as we pass, more focused on their tasks than two humans, but the drones follow our movements with their eyeless, ugly faces. I expect the drones to detain us at any point, but the worshipper's undeterred. He bows his head to several Wraith but is never stopped.
The worshipper takes me to the other side of the cavern to a shelter pressed deep in a natural alcove. I step into it and find rows of narrow rooms, maybe seven in total. For a moment they remind me of a feeding niches on the Hive—they're burred deep in the rock, one after another. I peer into one: from what I can see there's a small desk, and what looks there's a bed near the back, and beyond that I guess there's a private area for bathing and relieving oneself. There's barely enough space to move comfortably, but at least there's some sense of privacy.
"These are my quarters," the worshipper says after a moment, after a little cough. He steps aside to give me room to retreat. "The rest are identical. Your two companions would choose theirs, once they settle in. They're here, by the way. Just around the corner, in the quarantine pen."
The man leads me to Troku and the other one. They stand when we come into view, looking disheveled and pale but no worse. There's no gladness in their faces when they see me. There's a third with them, another worshipper. He turns with them and smiles at us.
The realization's like lightning: I don't have to have sex with any of them, never again. I lean against the rock wall for support, lightheaded.
My guide twitches towards me, hand raising and falling in an awkward gesture. "Are you alright?"
I stiffen. "I'm fine. It's just a lot to take in."
"You'll get used to it. You all will," he says, nodding to the three of us. Troku spits on the ground.
The worshipper clears his throat and turns to me. "Ah, alright, let's keep going. I've more to show you."
As we pull away, his sleeves have shifted, leaving me a view of his wrists. I can almost pick out the veins threaded there, similar to mine. I hate how I want to touch them, to see if they're real.
We near the far end of the cavern. As we do, a drone peels off and begins to follow us. I can't help but keep looking over my shoulder at our hulking, silent shadow.
"You can relax, Eshae. He's here for our protection. And to make sure we don't get lost." The worshipper chuckles. He begins telling me of a time he'd wandered the tunnels in search of tylium deposits and would've gotten lost if the Wraith hadn't located him by his tracker. "Avoided the deeper tunnels for a while after that," he says.
I stay quiet. The drone's a physical weight against my back, making it hard to focus.
The ceiling and floor seem to stretch to meet each other here, everything narrowing. The furthest end reveals the tunnels, some large enough for several to walk abreast, other small enough only a child could crawl through. The ground's worn smooth from foot traffic, and there are actual yellow lights affixed to the walls. We stop in front of the largest mouth. It's even colder here than the rest of the cavern, moisture glistening off the rocks. I hug myself as tight as I can, wincing at the soreness in my elbow.
"This is where we mine the minerals for trading. It's tough work, but it breaks the monotony. And there are some very beautiful spots further in," the worshipper says. He notices my shivering and frowns. "Some other time. I'll make sure you get warmer clothes."
Even if I'd wanted to thank him, what he says next chills my blood further. "Maybe it's good we return; I was instructed to bring you to our lord once we were finished."
Our lord. I hide a shudder and ask, "What happened to its eye?"
The worshipper nearly loses his footing over a loose stone. "I—that—" He rights himself and turns to me. "Eshae, we don't speak of that."
"Did another Wraith do it? Was it self-inflicted?"
"Stop. Please. That's an intensely private matter," the worshipper says, face a mask of pain. "All I'll say is you have to be careful not to approach him on his blind side, or announce yourself if you do. And it's one subject I ask you don't bring up again. Please."
There's a scratch of boots behind us, reminding me of our drone escort. That silences me more than the worshipper's plea. He must sense my mood because as we walk to the central hub, he doesn't try regaling me with more cave stories. Eventually the drone drops off as well, leaving me with a quiet relief that's soon short-lived.
Entering the main lab's like returning to the hive ship. The walls are the same organic, layered composite. Even the dim purples and reds with splashes of yellow are the same. I half expect to see mist at my feet, but there isn't. The lab's split into three main tables, each stretching all the way to the other end of the room. Wraith tend to the various stations on the tables, referring from time to time to attached consoles. The computer terminals themselves appear grown from the ground, their incomprehensible language a constant golden cascade.
As we walk past, I glance at such a console and wonder if the gibberish will ever reveal how to save humanity. With how swiftly the plague burned through the galaxy for almost two decades and how hard the Wraith have been trying to stop it, one would think more progress would've been made. The Wraith don't look at us as we walk by, engrossed in their experiments, yet it's somehow clear they're aware of our presence. It's unsettling.
"We're here," the worshipper says, and suddenly I'm aware we're standing outside a small offshoot, a lab-besides-a-lab. He nods to me, gentle—and despite what he is, I can't help but feel a flash of gratitude. "Ready?"
Just do it, I want to say, but my mouth's too dry. I look down. I'm still holding the bread he'd gave me at the beginning of the show-around. I clutch it to my chest.
The worshipper runs a hand over a side panel and a door folds in on itself, revealing an alcove with more lab equipment, more consoles, and a single Wraith. Its back is to us, occupied at a station, but I'm coming to recognize the simple cascade of Dead Eye's hair.
"I've brought Eshae, my lord," the worshipper says as we step inside. The lighting's red here, like birth blood. It even smells a little like it, tangy and metallic. Warm air settles across my skin, almost comfortable.
"Thank you, Lohr," the Wraith says, turning to us. The bruise-rings beneath its eyes seem deeper than before, its skin stretched tight to its skull. "You may go, but stay close. I want you to escort her back when we are through."
The worshipper bows. "Yes, my lord," he says, and leaves. The door slithers shut behind him.
The Wraith watches me, its hands held at its sides, not bothering to hide them like before. Its slit-hand spasms into a fist before forcibly relaxing. I await its approach and the incoming agony with mounting dread. A human must be food, a Wraith must eat—isn't that the pattern? But as time drags on, it stays on its side of the small lab. It instead glances at the bread in my hand.
"Have you enough to eat or drink?" it asks.
I blink. "Yes." I clear my throat. "Plenty."
Something about its expression shifts—though lasting no longer than a heartbeat, it's that same heaviness from our previous interaction. Then whatever force holding the Wraith back releases and it starts towards me.
My muscles lock. All I can do is watch the Wraith close in, feeling smaller and smaller with every step it takes.
When it's just within grabbing range it stops, making a strange hiss-click sound. "I apologize for before," it says. Its sightless eye glistens like a wet blister. There're small beads in its mustachios. "It had been much time since I have fed well. I will be as gentle as I can now."
I can't hide my frown, unsure what unsettles me more. The Wraith must read me because it stills and waits.
I wet parched lips. "Why tell me this?" Why talk to me at all?
"Your file states you were wild-caught before being brought to the reproduction settlement," Dead Eye says. "As you have never been reared in a worshipper colony or lived on any of the tended worlds, my kind has never trained you to see the benefits of a willing partnership."
—trained—
—a willing partnership—
"I'm not calling you lord," I say before I can stop myself. The inner voice starts wailing, But what about the person in the hive, what about them, it could happen to you—but I shove it down. I'm no worshipper, not now, never will. I'll stick one of the tools near me in my throat before they force me in a feeding nook. I'd have to.
But as I brace myself for its anger, a strike, it doesn't react. It studies me for a moment, as reserved as a faraway mountain, and says slowly, "Then you may call me Veil."
I try to school my face but I can't control my surprise. I didn't even know Wraith had names. Something unutterable or untranslatable, maybe, but certainly not like Veil.
Again, the Wraith reads me as if I were sputtering my thoughts aloud. "As I am part of a telepathic race, the name I gave you is only a rough approximation of my mental voice. As you lack telepathy, you will never hear my name as it is intended."
Without waiting for my reply, it gestures to a nearby stool. "Would you be more comfortable sitting for this?"
This is too much. "It's going to hurt no matter what position I'm in," I say. It—Veil—can force me to be food, but it can't force me to like it. Willing partnership? I shudder, imagining the worshipper begging to be fed upon and hating myself for acquiescing to even this. I turn my head to the side and stare at the near wall so I wouldn't see it—Veil—approach.
I try to separate my mind from my body as I'd done at the breeding colony, to let it float above what's about to happen, but it's no use. The presence looms near and my skin prickles from body warmth not my own. There's an unfamiliar smell beneath the scent of leather—dry and cool, like cobwebs. It's nothing like when a man's pressed close, not at all.
Then the madness comes again. I have to look.
Veil's teeth are bared in a grimace, as if he's the one in pain. His working pupil's huge, almost round. When he reaches I've no room to back up, a workstation's edge digging into my back. His palm flattens against my chest, touch warm, claws in the hollow of my throat. The slit gives a warning pulse before the first rush of pain shoots through me. I hiss, shocked even though I was braced for it, then the hurt steadies.
When the Wraith starts feeding, the pain worsens into that drinking sensation I can't breathe through. I decide it's worse at this slow pace because I can feel my life be taken as tangibly as having rope pulled through a fist. I try to shrink away but the Wraith follows, crowding closer, claws setting deeper. White hair brushes my face as tears blur my vision. I should be dying like my ancestors had before—nothing alive can feel itself be eaten and stay sane.
Just as it feels there's no end to it, the Wraith detaches with a strange blip of warmth. I stagger, sliding against the table. I would've fallen had it not been for the stool in my way. I collapse on it, exhausted, heart pounding as if I'd bolted the length of the cavern. My legs are useless. I'm useless.
For a long moment my ragged breathing's the only sound in the lab. At some point I go to wipe my mouth and discover I'd clenched the lump of bread for the entire feeding. It's not the same anymore, squeezed into a crumbling mess. I stare at it, feeling hysterical laughter claw up.
That's when I become aware there's no bleeding mark on me, not like on the ship. I touch the hard bone of my chest, surprised. Then again, didn't I wake up unmarked too? How did that—?
"I returned a little back to you."
The Wraith's standing a safe distance away, slit-hand tucked behind his back, as if hiding what he'd just done. Oh, his face—I gag. The gaunt appearance's gone: the hard planes of his features have softened, the skin now pliable. The rings under the eyes aren't as severe. Even his voice sounds fuller, deeper. What he'd taken from me had done that. I have to look away, fighting not to throw up.
"Returned?" I hear myself ask.
"It is called the Gift of Life. It is shared amongst us Wraith for whom we are close to, and for the humans we find deserving."
I force myself to look at the Wraith. Despite his revived appearance, his ruined eye stays ruined. Unwanted curiosity stirs. A very old wound, then? Waited too long between feedings for it to properly heal?
Veil inclines his head. "You are the first opportunity I have had to drink to satiation in quite some time. You have my gratitude, Eshae."
If hearing the worshipper say my name was jarring, it's nothing compared to hearing a Wraith say it. My thoughts were uneasy, trying to understand this Gift—that Wraith could give back? I don't know what I felt. I've always thought Wraith could only take and take and take. He's only trying to train you, something says. It's enough to shove the startled You're welcome down.
"Your worshippers seem willing enough," I say. "To feed you fully, I mean."
The Wraith lifts his chin. "As true as that is, for their sake we had to reduce how deeply we could feed on them, or how often. You and your counterparts were selected for that very reason. You humans are precious to us, and our feedings must be rationed for your health and longevity."
Precious. That word again. I struggle not to bristle, knowing my anger's worse than useless here. I want to ask what happened to his eye but my courage proves feckless.
"Then I'd like to see the sun," I say instead. If Isoka could see me now. "That'd help my health and longevity."
I'm surprised when the Wraith nods. "It will be arranged." He cocks his head, as if listening to someone speak from another room. After a pause he turns his attention back to me and asks, "Can you walk?"
I force myself to stand, pushing off the table. Though my legs shake, they're better than they were. At least they'll get me out of this lab. "Yes."
The Wraith raises his voice slightly. "Lohr."
The worshipper returns like a demon summoned. He doesn't look at me, attention for his master alone. "My lord?"
The Wraith moves away, returning to the table he was working at before. "We are finished. See that she rests."
And like that, we're dismissed.
The worshipper holds my good elbow as we make our exit, door slithering shut behind us. I don't want him touching me, but I know I could never make it back to my cell without his help. This time a few Wraith glance our way as we leave the lab. Maybe they're envious they weren't the ones glutting themselves. Then I grimace. Their turn will come soon enough.
"You'll get used to it," he says when we approach the mushroom tunnel. Their green-blue luminescence makes his eyes glow, as if there were galaxies there.
"I won't," I say. I don't want to. I'm terrified what would happen if I did. I find myself touching my chest where the Wraith had pressed his hand, recalling
—returned a little back—
the warm weight of it.
"What's the Gift of Life?" comes out of my mouth before I can stop myself. We're at my cell's threshold—a few more steps and I can lie on my bed and try to float away.
The worshipper lets go of my elbow and steps back. "It's when a Wraith gives some of his life to another. It's a great honor," he says. "Before the sickness, some worshippers had gone their whole lives without experiencing it." His gaze skitters across my healed chest. "The Wraith are more generous now, eager to help us avoid infections or illnesses, but that doesn't negate the honor."
I look elsewhere.
"You'll get used to it," he repeats gently. "Rest for now. Remember, you've done a good thing today," he says before leaving, the bars fastening tight behind him.
I think about his words long after his footsteps recede.
…
TBC