Nevertheless, She Persisted

by Mindy Klasky

  Yalnis reached beneath the scarlet stain. Her hand slid across the blood on her skin. The wound gaped beneath her fingers.

  Her body had treated the capsule like an intrusion, an irritation, like the seed of a pearl. At the same time, the capsule struggled for its own survival, extending spines to remain in contact with her flesh. As it worked its way out, scraping her raw, she caught her breath against a whimper.

  Finally the capsule dropped into her hand. She held it up. Her body had covered its extrusions with shining white enamel. All that remained of Zorargul was a sphere of bloody fangs. “This is your work, Seyyan,” she said. Blood flowed over her stomach, through her pubic hair, down her legs, dripping onto the rug, which absorbed it and carried it away. Yalnis went cold, light-headed, pale. She took courage from Zorar, standing at her elbow.

  “You took me as your lover,” Seyyan said. “I thought you wanted me. I thought you wanted a companion from me. My lineage always fought for place and position.”

  “I wasn’t at war with you,” Yalnis said. “I loved you. If you’d asked, instead of…” She glanced down at the gory remains.

  “Asked?” Seyyan whispered. “But you asked me.”

  Whispers, exclamations, agreement, objections all quivered around them.

  Tasmin moved to stand near Seyyan, taking her side.

  “You must have been neglectful,” she said to Yalnis. “I think you’re too young to support so many companions.”

  Seyyan glanced at Tasmin, silencing her. Anyone could see that Yalnis was healthy, and well supplied with resources. She was her own evidence, and her ship the final proof.

  As they confronted each other, the guests sorted themselves, most in a neutral circle, some behind Yalnis, more flanking Seyyan. Yalnis wished Shai had remained for the gathering. She might have sided with Seyyan, but the others might have seen her fear.

  Ekarete, in her new lace shirt, moved shyly between the opponents.

  “Seyyan was very gentle with me,” she whispered. “She acceded to my choice.” She twitched the hem of her shirt aside, just far enough, just long enough, to reveal the fading inflammation of a new attachment, and the golden skin and deep brown eyes of Seyyan’s offspring, Ekarete’s first little face.

  “Very gentle,” Ekarete said again. “Very kind. I love her.”

  “For giving you a cast-off?” Yalnis said. “For inducing you to take the companion I refused?”

  Ekarete stared at her. Yalnis felt sorry for her, sorry to have humiliated her.

  Tasmin stood forward with Ekarete. “Yalnis, you’re speaking out of grief,” she said. “You lost a companion—I grieve with you. But don’t blame Seyyan, or embarrass Ekarete. We all know Seyyan for her generosity. My daughter by her launched gloriously.”

  “You’re hardly disinterested,” said Yalnis.

  “But I am,” said Kinli, “and I know nothing against her.”

  Yalnis started to say, When did you ever listen to anyone but yourself?

  Zorar yanked up the hem of her shirt, revealing the scar and her emasculated companion with its drooping mouth and dull eyes. It roused far enough to bare its teeth. It drooled.

  The older people understood; the younger ones started in horror at the mangled thing, heard quick whispers of explanation, and stared at Seyyan.

  “I loved you, too,” Zorar said. “I told myself, it must have been my fault. I should have understood. I consoled you. After you did this.”

  “I came for a celebration,” Seyyan said, holding herself tall and aloof. “I expect to be taken as I am—not ambushed with lies and insults.”

  She spun, the hem of her dress flaring dramatically, and strode away.

  Ekarete ran after her. Seyyan halted, angry in the set of her shoulders; she paused, softened, bent to speak, kissed Ekarete, and continued away, alone. The main entrance silhouetted her formidable figure as she left Yalnis’s ship.

  Ekarete stood shivering, gazing after her, pulling the hem of her shirt down all the way around. Finally she scurried after her. Tasmin glared at Yalnis, heaved a heavy sigh, and followed.

  The others, even Kinli, clustered around Yalnis and Zorar.

  “You’ve spoiled your own party,” Kinli said, petulant. “What now? A permanent break? A feud?”

  “I shun her,” Yalnis said.

  “That’s extreme!”

  Yalnis hesitated, hoping for support if not acclaim. She shrugged into the silence. “If the community doesn’t agree, why should she care if only I shun her?”

  “And I,” Zorar said, which made more difference to more people.

  The light of the connecting corridors faded as she spoke. The openings slowly ensmalled. No one had to be told the party had ended. The guests hurried to slip through the connections before they vanished. Their finery went dim.

  All around, the tables resorbed into the floor, leaving crumbs and scraps and disintegrating utensils. The rug’s cilia carried them away in a slow-motion whirlpool of dissolving bits, into pores, to be metabolized. The gifts all sank away, to be circulated to the new ship.

  Only Zorar remained. Yalnis’s knees gave out. She crouched, breathing hard, dizzy. Zorar knelt beside her.

  “I’m— I have to—”

  “Hush. Lie back.”

  “But—”

  “It’s waited this long. It can wait longer.”

  Yalnis let Zorar ease her down. The ship received her, nestling her, creeping around and over her with its warm skin. The pain eased and the flow of blood ceased. The blood she had shed moved from her skin, from her clothes, red-brown drying specks flowing in tiny lines across the comforter, and disappeared.

  She dozed, for a moment or an hour. When she woke, Zorar remained beside her.

  “Thank you,” Yalnis whispered. She closed her eyes again. She desperately wanted to be alone.

  Zorar kissed Yalnis and slipped through the last exit. It sealed itself, and disappeared.

  Yalnis wanted only to go back to sleep. A thousand years might not be enough this time. She had never been among so many people for so long, and she had never been in such a confrontation. Exhaustion crept over her, but she must stay awake a little longer.

  “I shun Seyyan,” she said. Her companions quivered at her distress.

  “True,” the ship said, and let all its connections to all the other ships shrivel and drop away. The primary colony broke apart, resolving into individual ships. They moved to safer distances, and the stars reappeared above Yalnis’s living space.

  Seyyan’s glittering secondary colony remained, with her craft protected in its center. None broke away to shun her. Yalnis turned her back on the sight. She no longer had anything to do with Seyyan.

  “It’s time,” she said aloud.

  “True,” her ship replied. It created a nest for her, a luxurious bed of ship silk. It dimmed the light, and mirrored the outer surface of the transparent dome. The stars took on a ghostly appearance. Yalnis could see out, but no one could see inside.

  Yalnis pulled off her shirt. Her long hair tangled in it. Annoyed, she shook her hair free. She stepped out of her loose trousers. Naked, she reclined in the nest.

  “Please, cut my hair.”

  “True,” the ship said. The nest cropped her hair, leaving a cap of dark brown. The weight fell away; the strands moved across the carpet, fading to a dust of molecules.

  Yalnis relaxed, gazed at her companions, and let her hand slide down her body. The little faces knew her intent. Each stretched itself to its greatest extent, into her and out of her, whispering and offering.

  She made her choice.

  Bahadirgul stretched up to seek her hand, moaning softly through its clenched sharp teeth. The other companions contracted, hiding their little faces in modesty or disappointment till they nearly disappeared. Yalnis stroked Bahadirgul’s head, its nape, and caressed its neck and shaft. She opened herself to her companion.

  The pleasure started slowly, spreading from Bahadirgul’s attachment point dee
per into her body. It reached the level of their ordinary couplings, which always gave Yalnis joy, and gave the companion days of pride and satiation. It continued, and intensified. Yalnis cried out, panting, arching her back. Bahadirgul shivered and extended. Yalnis and her companion released, and combined.

  Their daughter formed. Yalnis curled up, quivering occasionally with a flush of pleasure, listening to their daughter grow. The pleasure faded to a background throb.

  Inside her, her daughter grew.

  Content, she nestled deeper into the ship silk and prepared to sleep.

  Instead, the dome went transparent. Seyyan’s colony of connected ships gleamed in the distance. The connecting pili stretched thin, preparing to detach and resorb.

  Yalnis sighed. Seyyan was none of her concern anymore. She had sworn to take no more notice of her.

  What happened next, Yalnis would never forget, no matter how many millennia she lived or how many adventures filled her memory.

  The connections deformed, shifted, arched in waves. They contracted, forcing the craft closer even as they tried to separate and depart.

  Seyyan commanded her supporters, and they discovered the limits of their choices. They tried to free their ships, tried to dissolve the connections, but Seyyan drew them ever nearer.

  Seyyan’s craft had infected their ships not only with beauty, but with obedience.

  Tasmin’s craft, old and powerful, broke free. Its pilus tore, shredding and bleeding. Yalnis’s ship quivered in response to the sight or to a cry of distress imperceptible to people. The destruction and distraction allowed a few other people to overcome the wills of their craft and wrench away, breaking more connections. After the painful and distressing process, the freed craft fled into a wider orbit, or set a course to escape entirely from the star system, and from Seyyan.

  Person and ship alike suffered when fighting the illness of a malignant genetic interchange. Yalnis hoped they would all survive.

  “What’s she doing?” Yalnis whispered. Her ship interpreted her words, correctly, as a question for people, not for ships. It opened all her silenced message ports and let in exclamations, cries of outrage, excuses, argument, wild speculation.

  Seyyan’s craft gleamed and shimmered and proclaimed its ascension and gathered the remaining captives into a shield colony. With its imprisoned allies, it moved toward Yalnis and her ship.

  Yalnis went cold with fear, shock, and the responsibility for all that had happened: She had brought all the others here, she had succumbed to Seyyan and then challenged her, she had forced people to take sides.

  “Seyyan infected their defenses,” Yalnis said. That’s what the fashionable pattern was for, she thought. A temptation, and a betrayal.

  “True,” her ship replied.

  Yalnis’s ship moved toward Seyyan’s craft. It quivered around her, like the companions within her. It had made its decision, a decision that risked damage. This was ship’s business. Yalnis could fight it, or she could add her will to her ship’s, and join the struggle. She chose her ship.

  Zorar followed, and, reluctantly, so did Tasmin’s craft, its torn pili leaking fluid that broke into clouds of mist and dissipated in sunlit sparkles. The skin of the craft dulled to its former blue sheen, but patches of shimmering infection broke out, spread, contracted.

  After all too brief a time, the stars vanished again, obscured by the coruscating flanks of Seyyan’s shield. Yalnis’s ship pushed dangerously into the muddle. Yalnis crouched beneath the transparent dome, overcome with claustrophobia. No escape remained, except perhaps for Seyyan.

  Seyyan forced her captive allies to grow extensions, but when they touched Yalnis’s ship, they withdrew abruptly, stung by its immune response. In appreciation, Yalnis stroked the fabric of her ship.

  “True,” her ship whispered.

  Please, Yalnis thought, Seyyan, please, just flee. Let everyone go. Announce a new adventure. Declare that you’ve shamed me enough already, that you won our altercation.

  She had no wish to speak to Seyyan, but she had an obligation. She created a message port. Seyyan answered, and smiled.

  “Your shunning didn’t last long,” she said. “Shall I tell my friends to withdraw?”

  Yalnis flushed, embarrassed and angry, but refused to let Seyyan divert her.

  “What do you want?” Yalnis cried. “Why do you care anymore what I think? Leave us all alone. Go on more of your marvelous and legendary adventures—”

  “Flee?” Seyyan said. “From you?”

  Ekarete’s craft, willingly loyal to Seyyan, interposed itself between Seyyan and Yalnis. A pore opened in its skin. A spray of scintillating liquid exploded outward, pushed violently into vacuum by the pressure behind it. The fluid spattered over the dome of Yalnis’s ship. It spread, trying to penetrate, trying to infect. Yalnis flinched, as if the stuff could reach her.

  Her ship shuddered. Yalnis gasped. The temperature in her living space rose: her ship’s skin reacted to the assault, marshaling a powerful immune response, fighting off the infection. The foreign matter sublimated, rose in a foggy sparkle, and dispersed.

  Seyyan lost patience. The flank of her craft bulged outward, touching Ekarete’s. It burst, like an abscess, exploding ship’s fluids onto the flank of Ekarete’s craft. The lines of fluid solidified in the vacuum and radiation of space, then contracted, pulling the captive craft closer, drawing it in to feed upon. Ekarete’s craft, its responses compromised, had no defense.

  “Seyyan!” Ekarete cried. “I never agreed— How—” And then, “Help us!”

  Seyyan’s craft engulfed Ekarete’s, overwhelming the smaller ship’s pattern variations with the stronger design. The captive ship matched the captor, and waves of color and light swept smoothly from one across the other.

  “You must be put away,” Yalnis said to Seyyan, and ended their communication forever.

  Tasmin’s craft, its blue skin blotched with shimmer, its torn connections hovering and leaking, approached Seyyan’s craft.

  “Don’t touch it again!” Yalnis cried. “You’ll be caught too!”

  “She must stop,” Tasmin said, with remarkable calm.

  Yalnis took a deep breath.

  “True,” she said. Her ship responded to her assent, pressing forward.

  To Tasmin, she said, “Yes. But you can’t stop her. You can only destroy yourself.”

  Tasmin’s ship decelerated and hovered, for Seyyan had already damaged it badly.

  A desperate pilus stretched from the outer flank of Ekarete’s ship. Yalnis allowed it to touch, her heart bounding with apprehension. Her ship reached for it, and the connecting outgrowths met. Her ship declined to fuse, but engulfed the tip to create a temporary connection. It opened its outgrowth, briefly, into Yalnis’s living room.

  The outlines of the younger craft blurred as Seyyan’s ship incorporated it, dissolved it, and took over its strength. Its pilus pulled away and sank into the substance of Seyyan’s craft. Air rushed out of Yalnis’s ship, and then went still as the ship clenched the opening closed.

  Ekarete squeezed inside, naked, crying, her hair flying in all directions. She held her hand over her stomach, modestly covering the little face of her companion, muffling its squeals and the clash of its sharp teeth.

  Maybe it will bite her, Yalnis thought, distracted, and chided herself for the uncharitable thought.

  “How could she, how could she?” Ekarete said.

  “Yalnis,” Zorar said from the depths of her own ship, “What are you doing? What should I do?”

  “Come and get me if we dissolve,” Yalnis said. And then she wondered, Could I leave my ship, if Seyyan bests us? Should I?

  If Seyyan had been patient, Yalnis thought, she might have persuaded her friends to defend her willingly. If she’d asked them, they might have agreed I’d outraged her unjustly. If she’d trusted them, they might have joined her out of love.

  No shield colony had existed in Yalnis’s lifetime, or in the memories of the love
rs whose companions she had accepted: no great danger had threatened any group of people. A shield was a desperate act, a last effort, an assault. Extricating and healing the ships afterward was a long and expensive task. But Seyyan’s friends might have done it willingly, for Seyyan’s love. Instead they tore themselves away from her, one by one, desperately damaging themselves to avoid Ekarete’s fate, but weakening Seyyan as well.

  They dispersed, fleeing. Seyyan’s craft loomed, huge and old, sucking in the antennae desperately growing outward from the vestiges of Ekarete’s craft.

  Ekarete cried softly as her ship vanished.

  “Do be quiet,” Yalnis said.

  Until the last moment of possibility, Yalnis hoped Seyyan would relent. Yalnis and Zorar and Tasmin, and a few others, hovered around her, but she had room to escape. Seyyan’s former allies gathered beyond the first rank of defense, fearful of being trapped again, but resolving to defend themselves.

  Yalnis’s ship emitted the first wave of ship silk, a silver plume of sticky fibers that caught against the other ship and wrapped around its skin. Yalnis’s ship balanced itself: action and reaction.

  The other ships followed her lead, spraying Seyyan’s craft with plume after plume: silver, scarlet, midnight blue, ultraviolet, every color but the holographic pattern their defenses covered. Seyyan’s craft reacted, but the concerted effort overwhelmed it. It drew inward, shrinking from the touch of the silk to avoid allergic reaction. Gradually it disappeared beneath the layers of solidifying color.

  Yalnis listened for a plea, a cry for mercy, even a shout of defiance. But Seyyan maintained a public silence.

  Is she secretly giving orders to her allies? Yalnis wondered. Does she have allies anymore? She glanced over her shoulder at Ekarete.

  Ekarete, creeping up behind her, launched herself at Yalnis, her teeth bared in an eerie mirror of her angry companion’s. She reached for Yalnis’s face, her hand pouring blood, and they fell in a tangle. Yalnis struggled, fending off Ekarete’s fists and fingernails, desperate to protect her tiny growing daughter, desperate to defend her companions against Ekarete’s, which was after all the spawn of Seyyan and her murderous first companion.