Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (401 page)

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, marshalling 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. The pilus ripped free of Yalnis’s ship and sank into the substance of Seyyan’s craft.

Air rushed past Yalnis in a quick blast; the wind fell still as her ship clenched its pilus and resorbed it.

The shrinking pilus pulled Ekarete inside. Naked, crying, her hair flying, she held her hand over her stomach for modesty. Her palm hid 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 lovers 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.

All the companions squealed and gnashed their teeth, ready to defend themselves, as aware of danger as they were of opportunity.

“Why are you doing this?” Yalnis cried. “I’m not your enemy!”

“I want my ship! I want Seyyan!”

“It’s gone! She’s gone!” Yalnis wrestled Ekarete and grabbed her, holding tight and ducking her head as Ekarete slapped and struck her. The companions writhed and lunged at their opponent. Their movements gave Yalnis weird sensations of sexual arousal and pleasure in the midst of anger and fear.

The floor slipped beneath her, startling her as it built loose lobes of ship silk. She grabbed one and flung herself forward, pulling the gossamer fabric over Ekarete, letting go, rolling free, leaving Ekarete trapped. The silk closed in. Yalnis struggled to her feet, brushing her hand across her stomach to reassure herself that her companions and her daughter remained uninjured. She wiped sweat from her face and realized it was not sweat, but blood, not Ekarete’s but her own, flowing from a stinging scratch down her cheek.

Both she and her ship had been distracted. Seyyan’s craft struggled against a thin spot that should have been covered by more silver silk from Yalnis’s ship. The tangled shape rippled and roiled, and the craft bulged to tear at the restraint. Glowing plasma from the propulsion system spurted in tiny jets beneath the surface of the silk. The craft convulsed. Yalnis flinched to think of the searing plasma trapped between the craft’s skin and the imprisoning cover.

“Finish it,” Yalnis said to her ship. “Please, finish it.” Tears ran hot down her face. Ekarete’s muffled cries and curses filled the living space, and Yalnis’s knees shook.

“True,” her ship said. A cloak of silver spread to cover the weak spot, to seal in the plasma.

The roiling abruptly stopped.

Yalnis’s friends flung coat after coat of imprisoning silk over Seyyan’s craft, until they were all exhausted.

When it was over, Yalnis’s ship accelerated away with the last of its strength. Her friends began a slow dispersal, anxious to end the gathering. Seyyan’s craft drifted alone and silent, turning in a slow rotation, its glimmer extinguished by a patchwork of hardening colors

Yalnis wondered how much damage the plasma had done, how badly Seyyan’s craft had been hurt, and whether it and Seyyan had survived.

“Tasmin,” she said, quietly, privately, “will you come for Ekarete? She can’t be content here.”

Ekarete was a refugee, stripped of all her possessions, indigent and pitiable, squeaking angrily beneath ship silk like a completely hidden companion.

After a hesitation Yalnis could hardly believe, or forgive, Tasmin replied.

“Very well.”

Yalnis saw to her ship. Severely depleted, it arced through space in a stable enough orbit. It had expended its energy and drawn on its structural mass. Between defending itself and the demands of its unborn daughter ship, it would need a long period of recovery.

She sent one more message, a broadcast to everyone, but intended for Seyyan’s former friends.

“I haven’t the resources to correct her orbit.” She felt too tired even to check its stability, and reluctant to ask her ship to exert itself. “Someone who still cares for her must take that responsibility.”

“Let me up!” Ekarete shouted. Yalnis gave her a moment of attention.

“Tasmin will be here soon,” Yalnis said. “She’ll help you.”

“We’re bleeding.”

Yalnis said, “I don’t care.”

She pulled her shirt aside to see to her own companions. Three of the four had retracted, showing only their teeth. She stroked around them till they relaxed, dozed, and exposed the tops of their downy little heads, gold and copper and softly freckled. Only Bahadirgul, ebony against Yalnis’s pale skin, remained bravely awake and alert.

Drying blood slashed its mouth, but the companion itself had sustained only a shallow scratch. Yalnis petted the soft black fur of Bahadirgul’s hair.

“You’re gallant,” Yalnis said. “Yes, gallant. I made the right choice, didn’t I?” Bahadirgul trembled with pleasure against her fingers, within her body.

When Bahadirgul slept, exhausted and content, Yalnis saw to her daughter, who grew unmolested and unconcerned; she saw to herself and to her companions, icing the bruises of Ekarete’s attack, washing her scratches and the companion’s. She looked in the mirror and wondered if she would have a scar down her cheek, across her perfect skin.

And, if I do, will I keep it? she wondered. As a reminder?

As she bathed and put on new clothes, Tasmin’s ship approached, sent greetings, asked for permission to attach. Yalnis let her ship make that decision and felt relieved when the ship approved. A pilus extended from Tasmin’s ship; Yalnis’s ship accepted it. Perhaps it carried some risk, but they were sufficiently exhausted that growing a capsule for Ekarete’s transport felt beyond their resources.