FIFTEEN

The villip squirmed, stretching itself to its limits in an attempt to portray the fine mass of tendrils that composed the living headdress of Master Tjulan Kwaad. It did not entirely succeed, but did so sufficiently well that Nen Yim was able to tell that the senior master of her domain was agitated.

“Why disturb me over such a question?” Tjulan Kwaad asked. “You have access to the Qang qahsa, do you not?”

“I do indeed, Master Kwaad,” Nen Yim replied. “However, the qahsa does not grant a mere adept entry to protocols beyond the fifth cortex.”

“Nor should it. Adepts are not ready for such secrets. Especially adepts such as yourself. You and your deceased master disgraced our domain.”

“That is true,” Nen Yim said carefully. “However, Warmaster Tsavong Lah chose to pardon me and … reward me with a chance to further serve the glorious Yun-Yuuzhan. I should think my domain would do as much.”

“Do not presume what your domain would do,” Tjulan Kwaad replied testily. “Even the Yim crèche would not do as much. The warmaster is a warrior, covered in glory and more than ample as a warrior. But he is not a shaper, and he does not know how dangerous your heresies are.”

“Those were the heresies of my master, not mine,” Nen Yim lied.

“Yet you did not report her.”

Yun-Harla aid me, Nen Yim prayed. The mistress of trickery loved lies as much as Yun-Yammka loved battle. “How could discipline be maintained if every adept felt free to question her master?”

“You could have reported her to me,” Tjulan Kwaad roared. “You owe fealty to me as lord of your domain. Mezhan Kwaad was as much my subordinate as you. That you neglected that relationship will never be forgotten!”

“My judgment failed, Master. That does not change the fact that this ship is dying, and I need your help.”

“Each of us begins to die the instant we are born. Our ships are no different. That is existence, Adept.” He spoke her title as if it hurt his mouth to do so.

Undeterred by his ire, Nen Yim pressed on. “Master, is it not true that the Yuuzhan Vong need every breath of every one of us to complete the task of conquering the infidels?”

The master laughed harshly and without a trace of real humor. “Look around at the misfits on your ship, and you will know the answer. Were they worthy, they would be at the point of our talons.”

“An arm must drive the talons,” Nen Yim replied. “A heart must pump the blood to nourish the muscles that propel the arm.”

“Phahg. A metaphor is a preening lie.”

“Yes, Master.” Her experiments had yielded mostly frustration. She had been able—without resort to ancient protocols—to coax neurons into reproduction and shape ganglia that could perform many of the operations of the brain. She could probably, given time, shape an entirely new brain, but as she’d explained to her initiate, Suung, that would not solve the problem. She needed to regenerate the old brain, complete with its memories and eccentricities. Anything else she did only delayed the inevitable. Further, any master who examined her work would know instantly that she had been practicing heresy, and then her efforts to save the worldship would end quite decisively. She had hoped that the knowledge in the vast Qang qahsa library rikyams of the shapers would yield a helpful protocol at some cortex beyond her access, but if a master of her own domain would not help her, no one would.

“I thank you for your time, Master Tjulan Kwaad.”

“Do not disturb me again.” The villip smoothed back into its normal shape.

She sat for a time, tendrils bunched in despair, until her novice entered.

“How may I serve you today, Adept?” Suung Aruh asked.

Nen Yim did not spare him a glance. “The freezing of the arm has further diseased the maw luur. Take the other students and floss the recham forteps with saline jetters.”

“It will be done,” Suung replied. He turned to leave, but then hesitated. “Adept?” he said.

“What is it?”

“I believe you can save the Baanu Miir. I believe the gods are with you. And I thank you for tending to my education. I did not know how ignorant I was. Now I have some measure of it.”

Nen Yim’s sight clouded, the protective membrane over her eyes reacting to sudden intense emotion as it did to light irritation. She wondered briefly if anyone knew why such dissimilar things should provoke the same reflex. If it was known, she had never heard it. Perhaps that knowledge, too, was beyond the fifth cortex.

“The gods will save us or they will not, Initiate,” she replied at last. “It is not to me you should direct your confidence.”

“Yes, Adept,” he said, in a subdued voice.

She regarded him. “Your progress has been quite satisfactory, Suung Aruh. In the hands of a master you could be shaped into a most useful adept.”

“Thank you, Adept,” Suung replied, trying to hide a look of surprised gratification. “I go now to my task.”

As he left, she noticed the villip pulsing for attention. Wondering what new sarcoma was gnawing at the fabric of her life, she rose and stroked it.

It was Master Tjulan Kwaad again.

“Master,” she acknowledged.

“I have reconsidered, Adept. I am unswayed by your arguments, but I feel it foolish to leave you unsupervised lest you bring more shame to us all. I have dispatched a master to govern you. He will arrive within two days. Obey him well.”

The villip cleared before she could answer. She stood staring at it as a beast stares at the wound that is killing it.

It hadn’t occurred to her that Tjulan Kwaad would send a master, only that he might find the protocol and transmit it to her. A master, here, would see what she had done, and know.

Perhaps the new master would save Baanu Miir, and that was good. But Adept Nen Yim would soon embrace death.