They were boring souls to watch, but oddly enough, O’Layle wasn’t bored.

He missed them, first of all. He missed the touch of real flesh, the smell and sight of genuine company, and when his old friends mentioned him, he felt a pleasing warmth that made the tedium feel worthwhile.

Not that they spoke about him often, nor in clear terms.

One of his old names would be mentioned, and a ten-thousand-year-old story would be marched out, everyone making little mistakes when they told their particular part. Or someone would recall a mutual friend, and the group would busy themselves for a full day, dredging up old stories and fresh gossip that occasionally involved O’Layle. Sometimes a past lover or one of his finest friends would appear before him, holo fashion, and afterward they would report to the others, describing his apartment and new life and how he seemed to be. In general, O’Layle appeared a little sad to the others. Which wasn’t the case at all, but what could he do? They wanted to think of him as being blue and sorry for what he had done, abandoning them as he had. Though he wasn’t blue or even a little bit sorry. Why should he feel regrets? Hadn’t everything worked out wonderfully well? Then after they had successfully chewed his mental state down to their level, someone inevitably asked:

“So what does he think about it?”

About the polyponds, they meant.

“Is he worried? Happy? What does our dear sweet friend think? In his little head, what does all this mean?”

They meant the polypond babies. By the thousands, the buds were matching the ship’s trajectory, mirroring its own slowly increasing velocity before settling into a swarm that was literally countless now. The ship was approaching the far edge of the Satin Sack, and the polyponds were traveling with it. Hundreds of thousands of bodies, shriveled by their journey, most just a few tens of kilometers across, were strung out in an elaborate pattern that was spherical at first glance, but decidedly asymmetrical. Most of the buds remained directly ahead of the ship, and all were avoiding the plumes of plasma rising from the blazing engines. There were so many bodies, and each was leaking away enough volatiles to create a thin, far-flung atmosphere, their bodies and collective breath obscuring the sky more than ever, either by chance or design helping to hide whatever lay directly before them.

One particular lover didn’t mention wearing the robot body, nor anything about pretending to have sex. Instead, she said, “I asked him,” and waited for everyone to pay attention. Then with a soft worried voice, she said, “I asked O’Layle, ‘What are they hiding from us?’”

“And what did he say?” another ex-lover inquired.

“‘They aren’t hiding anything,’ he claimed. Then he said, ‘It’s obvious what they’re doing. They’re being helpful. That’s all.’”

The polyponds were blocking the oncoming dust and comets. Wasn’t that plain to see? With their own bodies and their fantastic momentum, the leading ranks were absorbing some titanic blows, and judging by the rain of dirty ices falling back on the ship today, some of those polyponds were being obliterated by the larger impacts.

“But why would they help us?” another person asked.

“I asked O’Layle that,” the first lover continued. “And do you know what he said? He promised me, ‘The polyponds care that much about us.’”

But that wasn’t what he had said.

“He told me, ‘They want to see us pass safely through their home.’”

She was lying, both to them and to herself. For reasons entirely her own, she was borrowing O’Layle’s authority, telling everyone, “There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”

But worry was made of harder stuff than that. A few words and a brave little smile did nothing but underscore the general mood. People everywhere were concerned. Every species suffered from the unknown. What O’Layle might not have noticed in his former life, he began to see wherever he looked. Passengers and crew were exhausted by the endless sense of being held in suspense, the drama relentless and unbearable despite every artful reassurance by the captains, experts in the careful word and the cool, implacable expression.

“I’ll tell you what I really think,” O’Layle cried out at the indifferent friends. “Next time one of you bothers to put in the request and drop by … I won’t open the damned door … !”

But nobody cared enough anymore. The man who was not a prisoner, nor under quarantine, found himself sitting alone in his spacious home, occupying his days and long nights by watching the skies and studying the public news logs. A long life spent in the pursuit of pleasure had just this one reliable thrill left to it: the sight of millions of polyponds dancing before the ship and behind it, forming an elaborate and vast and very lovely black cloud.

A light-week across, the cloud was, and perhaps more.

Countless bodies of water and salt, iron and carbon absorbed everything from the universe beyond. The dust and radiations, and the scarce light, too. For days upon weeks, the polyponds did nothing but silently ingest everything that fell on them. Then there was a moment—an otherwise insignificant point in time—when they began to speak. All that while, the captains had begged for a dialogue, but they were very disappointed by the abrupt response. The sudden flood of radio noise wasn’t intended for them. Even though the captains tried to keep the roaring in the sky secret, the news escaped, and within a few more moments, the Great Ship was jammed with panicked passengers and grim-faced captains.

“What do you think it means?” asked a woman’s voice.

O’Layle woke from a deep sleep. He was stretched out on his leather covered chair, in the center of his immersion chamber, its walls and high ceiling adorned with the best projectors on the market. His visitor was a projection, of course. Trying to smile, he made himself rise up from his chair, saying, “It’s good to see you, madam.”

The Master Captain approached.

“I am honored,” O’Layle proclaimed. “To have you take the time and effort to see me—”

With her right foot, she kicked him.

Appalled, he fell to a floor covered with slick cold hexagon-shaped projectors. The projectors were still sleeping. And she was real? The question must have shown on his face. The Master kicked him a second time, with emphasis. Then she roared, “It is definitely not an honor, you little man.”

He cowered at her feet.

“No more games,” she threatened. “This long careful seduction is finished, and now I expect honesty. Will you give me that?”

“Gladly,” he sputtered.

“What do you think it means now, little man?”

“Now?” Confusion blossomed.

“Tell me the truth,” the Master demanded.

“About the polyponds—?”

“Why? Is there some other alien you’ve slept with?”

He bowed his head, trying to swallow.

“What do the polyponds intend, O’Layle? Right now. Tell me!”

“To protect themselves,” he whispered.

“Is that so?”

That’s what he had told the lover who had visited him, and who had, in a distant fashion, slept with him. “It couldn’t be more simple,” O’Layle had explained. “The Great Ship is a toxin, a contagion. That’s how the polyponds see us. And the swarm is simply the best means available to build a protective cyst around the perceived threat. Our neighbors just need to make sure we cannot do them any lasting harm.”

But he wasn’t certain about his own logic suddenly. Something new must have happened while he slept. Why else would the Master Captain have bothered to see him in person? The captains watched every little thing that he did. They absorbed every word he said. The Master had to know what he had told others. O’Layle was shrewd enough to read the golden face and the terrified wide eyes, and with his own fear swirling in his old blood, he admitted, “I don’t know what they want—”