Nevertheless, She Persisted

by Mindy Klasky

  She carried Zorargul’s body down through the ship, down into its heart, down to the misty power plant. Blood, her own and her companion’s, spattered and smeared her hands, her stomach, her legs, the defending teeth or withdrawn crowns of her remaining companions, and Zorargul’s pale and flaccid corpse. Its nerve ends dried to silver threads. Expulsion had reduced the testicles to wrinkled empty sacs.

  Water ran in streams and pools through the power plant’s housing, cold as it came in, steaming too hot to touch as it led away. Where steam from the hot pool met cold air, mist formed. Yalnis knelt and washed Zorargul’s remains in the cold pool. When she was done, a square of scarlet ship silk lay on the velvety floor, flat and new where it had formed. She wrapped Zorargul in its shining folds.

  “Goodbye,” she said, and gave the small bundle tenderly to the elemental heat.

  A long time later, Yalnis made her way to the living space and climbed into the bath, into water hot but not scalding. The bath swirled around her, sweeping away flecks of dried blood. She massaged the wound gently, making sure the nerve roots were cleanly ejected. She let the expulsion lump alone, though it was already hardening.

  The remaining companions opened their little faces, protruding from the shelter of her body. They peered around, craning themselves above her skin, glaring at each other and gnashing their teeth in a great show, then closing their lips, humming to attract her attention.

  She attended each companion in turn, stroking the little faces, flicking warm drops of water between their lips, quieting and calming them, murmuring, “Shh, shh.” They felt no sympathy for her loss, no grief for Zorargul, only the consciousness of opportunity. She felt a moment of contempt for the quartet, each member jostling for primacy.

  They are what they are, she thought, and submerged herself and them in the bath, drawing their little faces beneath the surface. They fell silent, holding their breaths and closing their eyes and mouths, reaching to draw their oxygen as well as their sustenance from her blood. A wash of dizziness took her; she breathed deep till it passed.

  Each of the companions tried to please her—no, Bahadirgul held back. Her most recent companion had always been restrained in its approaches, fierce in its affections when it achieved release. Now, instead of squirming toward her center, it relaxed and blew streams of delicate bubbles from the air in its residual lungs.

  Yalnis smiled, and when she closed herself off from the companions, she shut Bahadirgul away more gently than the others. She did not want to consider any of the companions now. Zorargul had been the best, the most deeply connected, as lively and considerate as her first lover.

  Tears leaked from beneath her lashes, hot against her cheeks, washing away when she submerged. She looked up at the stars through the shimmering surface, through the steam.

  She lifted her head to breathe. Water rippled and splashed; air cooled her face. The companions remained underwater, silent. Yalnis’s tears flowed again and she sobbed, keening, grieving, wishing to take back the whole last time of waking. She wanted to change all her plans from the beginning.

  If she did, Seyyan might take it as a triumph. She might make demands. Yalnis sneaked a look at the messages her ship kept ready for her attention. She declined to reply or even to acknowledge them. She felt it a weakness to read them. After she had, she wished she had resisted opening the message port.

  Why did you tantalize and tease me? Seyyan asked. You know this was what you wanted. I’m what you wanted.

  Yalnis eliminated everything else Seyyan had sent her.

  “Please refuse Seyyan’s messages,” she said to her ship.

  “True,” it replied.

  “Disappear them, destroy them. No response.”

  “True.”

  “Seyyan, you took my admiration and my awe, and you perverted it,” she said, as if Seyyan stood before her. “I might have accepted you. I might have, if you’d given me a chance. If you’d given me time. What do we have, but time? I’ll never forgive you.”

  The bath flowed away, resorbing into the ship’s substance. Warm air dried her and drew off the steam. She wrapped herself in a new swath of ship silk without bothering to give it a design. Some people went naked at home, but Yalnis liked clothes. For now, though, a cloak sufficed.

  She wandered through her ship, visiting each chamber in the current configuration, looking with amazement and apprehension at the daughter ship growing in the ship’s lower flank. What would the person be like, this new being who would accompany this new ship into the universe? She thought she had known, but everything had changed.

  She returned, finally, to her living chamber.

  “Please defend yourself,” she said.

  “True.”

  Yalnis snuggled into the ship’s substance, comforted by its caress. She laid her hand over her belly, pressing her palm against the hot, healing wound, then petting each of the little faces. They bumped against her palm, yearning, stretching from their shafts so she could tickle behind Asilgul’s vestigial ears, beneath Vasigul’s powerful lower jaw. Even Bahadirgul advanced from its reserve, blinking its long-lashed eyelids to caress her fingers, touching her palm with its sharp hot tongue.

  Each one wished to pleasure her, but she felt no wish for pleasure. Even the idea of joy vanished, in grief and guilt.

  The nest drew around her, covering her legs, her sex, her stomach. It flowed over the faces and extruded a nipple for each sharp set of teeth. The ship took over feeding the companions so they would not drain Yalnis as she slept.

  “Please, a thousand orbits,” she said.

  “True,” said the ship, content to have the time to complete and polish the daughter ship, to prepare for the launch. But, afterwards, it wanted to stretch and to explore. She understood its need, and she would comply.

  For now she would sleep for a thousand orbits. If anyone besides Seyyan accepted the invitation to her daughter’s launch, they would arrive in good time, and then they could wait for her, as she waited for them. Perhaps a thousand orbits—a thousand years in the old way of speaking—would give her time to dream of a proper revenge. Perhaps a thousand years of sleep would let her dream away the edges of her grief. The ship’s support extensions grew against her, into her. She accepted the excretion extensions and swallowed the feeding extension. The monitor gloved one hand and wrist.

  The view through the dome swept the orbit’s plane, facing outward toward the thick carpet of multicolored stars, the glowing gas clouds.

  Yalnis slept, for a thousand years.

  The kiss of her ship woke her. Sharp water exuded from the feeding extension, moistening her lips and tongue. The tangy fragrance touched her consciousness. She drifted into the last, hypnopompic layer of sleep, finding and losing dreams.

  She thought: It would be good if… I would like…

  Loss hit her unaware. A chill of regret and grief swept through her and to her four remaining companions; they woke from their doze and released the nipples and squeaked and shrilled. The ship, after a thousand orbits of the irritation of their little sharp teeth, drew away its fabric.

  The ship made Yalnis aware of everything around them: the ship’s own safety, the star and its planets, the astronomical landscape glowing through the transparent dome.

  And it displayed to her the swarm of other ships, sending to her in their individual voices that ships and people had come to celebrate the launch of her daughter and her ship’s daughter. She recognized friends and acquaintances, she noted strangers. She looked for former lovers, and found, to her joy and apprehension, that Zorar’s ship sailed nearby.

  And, of course, Seyyan remained.

  During Yalnis’s long rest, Seyyan had never approached, never tried to attach or attack. Yalnis felt glad of this. Her ship would have surrounded itself with an impermeable shell, one that induced a severe allergic reaction in other ships. A defensive shell drew heavily on a ship’s resources. Her ship was sleek and well-provisioned, but growing defenses while developi
ng a daughter ship would strain any resources.

  Instead of approaching, Seyyan’s craft’s course had closely paralleled her own for all this time, as if it were herding and protecting Yalnis.

  Annoyed that she had not anticipated such a move—she had expected aggression, not a show of protection—Yalnis nudged her ship to a different course, to a mathematical center along the long curved line of other craft. Her ship agreed and complied, even to skirting the bounds of safety and good manners, in moving itself into a position where Seyyan would have difficulty acting as their shadow.

  Yalnis stretched. The ship, understanding that she wished to rise, withdrew its extensions from her body. She gagged a little, as she always did, when the nutrient extension slid up her throat, across her tongue, between her lips, leaving a trace of sweetness. The extension collapsed; the ship’s skin absorbed it. Excretion extensions and the monitor followed, and disappeared.

  She raised her head slowly. The weight of her hair, grown long, held her down. She turned the dome reflective and gazed up.

  Her hair spread in a wide shining fan across the floor, covering the whole diameter of the living room, drawn out by the living carpet as it lengthened. Its color ranged in concentric circles. The outer circle, spread out so wide that each hair was a single ray, glowed an attenuated platinum blond, the color she had worn her hair when she first met Seyyan. It changed dramatically to black, then progressed from honey to auburn to dark brown, and the sequence started over. She removed the palest color from the growth sequence for the future. It would only remind her.

  Instead of cutting her hair to the short and easy length she usually favored, she asked the ship to sever it at a length that would touch the ground when she stood.

  Despite the ship’s constant care when she slept, she always had difficulty rising after a long hibernation. The ship eased the gravity to help her. She rose on shaky legs, and stumbled when she left the nest. The companions squealed with alarm.

  “Oh, be quiet,” she said. “What cause have I ever given you, to fear I’d fall on you?” Besides, their instincts would pull them inside her if she ever did fall, and the only bruises would form on her own body.

  But even if I’ve never fallen on them, she thought, I have left them reason to fear. To doubt my protection.

  Her hair draped around her shoulders, over her breasts, along her hips and legs to the ground. The companions peered through the thick curtain, chittering with annoyance. Bahadirgul sneezed. In sudden sympathy, she pushed her hair back to leave them free.

  The wound beneath her navel had healed, leaving a pale white scar. Beneath her skin, the sperm packet Zorargul emitted as its last living action made a jagged lump, invisible, but perceptible to her fingers and vaguely painful to her nerves. She had to decide whether to use it, or to finish encapsulating it and expel it in turn.

  Without being asked, the ship absorbed the shorn ends of her hair. She and the ship had been born together; despite the mysteries each species kept from the other, each knew the other’s habits. It produced a length of ship silk formed into comfortable and neutral garments: loose pants with a filmy lace panel to obscure the companions, a sleeveless shirt with a similar lace panel. She wore clothes that allowed the companions some view of the world, for they could be troublesome when bored. She left the silk its natural soft beige, for the horizontal stripes of her hair gave plenty of drama. She twisted her hair into a thick rope to keep it from tangling as she dressed, then let it loose again. It lay heavy on her neck and shoulders.

  I may reconsider this haircut, she thought. But not till after the launch. I can be formal for that long, at least.

  Messages flowed in from the other ships. It pleased her that so many had accepted her invitation. Still she did not reply, even to welcome them. Her ship looked out a long distance, but no other craft approached. The party was complete.

  Yalnis closed her eyes to inspect her ship’s status and records. The ship ran a slight fever, reflecting its increasing metabolism. Its flank, smooth before her sleep, now bulged. The daughter ship lay in its birth pouch, shiny-skinned and adorned with a pattern of small knots. The knots would sink into the new ship’s skin, giving it the potential of openings, connections, ports, antennae, undifferentiated tissue for experiment and play.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered to the ship.

  “True.”

  The companions squeaked with hunger, though they had spent the last thousand years dozing and feeding without any exertion. They were fat and sleek. They were always hungry, or always greedy, rising for a treat or a snack, though they connected directly to her bloodstream as well as to her nerves, and could draw their sustenance from her without ever opening their little mouths or exposing their sharp little teeth.

  But Yalnis had been attached to the ship’s nutrients for just as long, and she too was ravenous.

  She left the living room and descended to the garden. The light was different, brighter and warmer. The filter her ship used to convey light to the garden mimicked a blanket of atmosphere.

  She arrived at garden’s dawn. Birds chirped and sang in the surrounding trees, and a covey of quail foraged along borders and edges. Several rabbits, nibbling grass in the pasture, raised their heads when she walked in, then, unafraid, went back to grazing. They had not seen a person for thousands of their generations.

  The garden smelled different from the rest of the ship, the way she believed the surface of a planet might smell. She liked it, but it frightened her, too, for it held living organisms she would never see. The health of the garden demanded flotillas of bacteria, armies of worms, swarms of bugs. She thought it might be safer to grow everything in hydroponic tanks, as had been the fashion last time she paid attention, but she liked the spice of apprehension. Besides, the ship preferred this method. If it thought change necessary, it would change.

  She walked barefoot into the garden, trying not to step on any adventurous worm or careless bug. The bacteria would have to look out for themselves.

  She captured a meal of fruit, corn, and a handful of squash blossoms. She liked the blossoms. When she was awake, and hunted regularly, she picked them before they turned to vegetables. The neglected plants emitted huge squashes of all kinds, some perfect, some attacked and nibbled by vegetarian predators.

  The companions, reacting to the smell of food, fidgeted and writhed, craning their thick necks to snap at each other. She calmed and soothed them, and fed them bits of apple and pomegranate seeds.

  They had already begun to jostle for primacy, each slowly moving toward her center, migrating across skin and muscle toward the spot where Zorargul had lived, as if she would not notice. Her skin felt stretched and sore. No companion had the confidence or nerve to risk detaching from its position to reinsert itself in the primary spot.

  A good thing, too, she thought. I wouldn’t answer for my temper if one of them did that without my leave.

  Leaving her garden, she faced the task of welcoming her guests.

  I don’t want to, she thought, like a whiny girl: I want to keep my privacy, I want to enjoy my companions. I want to be left alone. To grieve alone.

  In the living room, beneath the transparent dome, the ship created a raised seat. She slipped in among the cushions, sat on her hair, cursed at the sharp pull, swept the long locks out from under her and coiled them—bits of dirt and leaves tangled in the ends; she shook them off with a shudder and left the detritus for the carpet to take away. She settled herself again.

  “I would like to visit Zorar,” she said to her ship.

  “True.”

  She dozed until the two ships matched, extruded, connected. A small shiver ran through Yalnis’s ship, barely perceptible.

  Yalnis hesitated at the boundary, took a deep breath, and entered the pilus where the fabric of her ship and the fabric of Zorar’s met, mingled, and communicated, exchanging unique bits of genetic information to savor and explore.

  At the border of Zorar’s ship,
she waited until her friend appeared.

  “Zorar,” she said.

  Zorar blinked at her, in her kindly, languorous way. She extended her hand to Yalnis and drew her over the border, a gesture of trust that broke Yalnis’s heart. She wanted to throw herself into Zorar’s arms.

  Do I still have the right? she thought.

  She burst into tears.

  Zorar enfolded Yalnis, murmuring, “Oh, my dear, oh, what is it?”

  Between sobs and sniffles, and an embarrassing bout of hiccups, Yalnis told her. Zorar held her hand, patting it gently, and fell still and silent.

  “I’m so sorry,” Yalnis whispered. “I was so fond of Zorargul. I could always remember you, when… I feel so empty.”

  Zorar glanced down. The lace of Yalnis’s clothes modestly concealed the companions.

  “Let me see,” she said. Her voice remained calm. Yalnis had always admired her serenity. Now, though, tears brightened her brown eyes.

  Yalnis parted the lace panels. The four remaining companions blinked and squirmed in the increased light, the unfamiliar gaze. Bahadirgul retreated, the most modest of them all, but the others stretched and extended and stared and bared their teeth.

  “You haven’t chosen a replacement.”

  “How could I replace Zorargul?”

  Zorar shook her head. “You can’t duplicate. But you can replace.”

  Yalnis gripped Zorar’s hands. “Do you mean…” She stopped, confused and embarrassed, as inarticulate as the girl she had been when she first met Zorar. That time, everything that happened was her choice. This time, by rights, it should be Zorar’s.

  “A daughter between us,” Zorar said. “She would be worth knowing.”

  “Yes,” Yalnis said. Zorar laid her palm against Yalnis’s cheek.

  Instead of leaning into her touch, Yalnis shivered.

  Zorar immediately drew back her hand and gazed at Yalnis.

  “What do you want, my dear?” she asked.

  “I want…” She sniffled, embarrassed. “I want everything to be the way it was before I ever met Seyyan!” She took Zorar’s hand and held it, clutched it. “I wanted a daughter with Zorargul, but Zorargul is gone, and I…” She stopped. She did not want to inflict her pain on Zorar.