Women of War by Alexander Potter

regrettable incident involving a tableful of crystals and a coat rack had led Ersh to forbid me this form indoors.
    â€œI’d ask you to do the dishes, but ...” her voice trailed away meanfully.
    My current self, my Lanivarian birth-form, abhorred water, something Ansky knew from experience. “I’ve gloves,” I assured her, my tongue slopping free between my half-gaping jaws. I resisted my tail’s urge to swing from side to side. Smiling was fine, but Ansky wouldn’t approve a lapse of good manners.
    We settled in, shoulder to shoulders, working in companionable silence. If my washing technique lacked finesse, at least the clean dishes arrived intact on the counter. I wasn’t the only one who measured my growth by such things.
    But I hadn’t come to Ersh’s steamy, fragrant kitchen—which had perfectly functional servos, so the physical effort to produce both steam and fragrance was unnecessary, but no one asked me—to be helpful. I’d come with a problem.
    Of course, Ansky knew it as well. “So. What is it this time, Esen?” she asked after a few moments.
    I almost lost my grip on one of Ersh’s favorite platters. “It?” I repeated, keeping my ears up. All innocence.
    My birth-mother wasn’t fooled. “Let me guess. Skalet’s latest enterprise.”
    My tail slid between my legs as I scrubbed a nonexistent spot. Confronted by the very subject I’d hoped to discuss, I found myself unable to say another word.
    â€œShe’s become such a nasty morsel.”
    I couldn’t help but stare up at her. Each of her three eyes were the size of my clenched paws. Two looked down at me, their darkness glistening with emotion. “Did you think this sharing was welcomed by any of us? The taste of her memories, even first assimilated by Ersh, were—unpleasant.”
    I remembered Ersh-taste exploding in my mouth, the exhilarating flood of new memories filling my body. Remembered too much. Skalet hadn’t merely observed the Kraal’s latest war—she’d helped orchestrate it.
    That conflict and her cleverness would be my next lesson. There would be lists and details beyond what Ersh had filtered for me during assimilation. Worst of all, there would be Skalet’s unconcealed pride in her work. How could she?
    I wouldn’t put up with it. I’d hide until she left again. I’d—I’d undoubtably be found, reprimanded, and have my lesson anyway.
    To hide the shaking of my gloved paws, I shoved them deep in the suds-filled sink to rescue drowning utensils. “I don’t understand her,” I said finally, unable to keep a hint of a growl from the words. “She acts as they do. Why?” With great daring, I clarified: “Why does Ersh permit it?”
    â€œYou’ll have to ask Ersh.”
    The noise I made wasn’t polite, but Ansky refrained from comment. “When she’s ready, I’m sure you’ll find out.” Then she said something strange, something I would come to understand only later. “The forms we take are ourselves, Esen-alit-Quar. We are no more immune to our individual pasts than any civilization is immune to its history. Never fall into the trap of believing yourself other than the flesh you wear, no matter its structure. Skalet—” A tentacle nudged the pot I was holding in the air. “Enough gossip. I need that one next.”
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    Much later, having done Ansky’s cooking justice, I was doing my utmost to appear attentive and awake, my posture as impeccably straight as a form evolved from four-on-the-floor could manage. My involuntary yawns, however stifled, likely ruined the effect. “Was there anything else, Ersh?” I asked, before I could yawn again. It had been a longer day than most, given my now-departed Webkin had left disarray and laundry sprawled over their rooms. Being least and latest made any mess my responsibility.
    The