Brin, David - Glory Season

by Glory Season (mobi)

  Her words cut off as Maia pushed her aside and streaked out the front door, leaping down the steps onto the gravel road. Shopkeepers stared and a trio of three-year-old clones giggled, but Maia dug in, kicking pebbles as she ran, ignoring the bite of cold sea air. Turning fast at the embankment, she skidded and sprawled hard onto hands and knees, but was up again in an instant, not bothering to check for bleeding or to pick up the spilled towel. Maia ran naked past loading cranes and moored ships, to amazed looks from sailors and townswomen alike.

  Two longboats had already set out from the pier, oars-women pulling with steady, even strokes. When Maia reached the end of the wharf, she screamed at Kiel, who was near the helmsman in the second boat.

  "Liar! Damn you! You can't just—" Stamping, she sought the words to express her fury. Kiel's jaw dropped in surprise, while several of the vars Maia had fought next to, now laughed at the sight of her standing there, unclothed and quaking with anger.

  The dark woman cupped her hands and called back. 'We can't take you along, Maia. You're too young and it's dangerous! The letter explains—"

  "Julp on your damn letter!" Maia screamed in anger and disappointment. "What does Renna have to say about . . ."

  Then she saw what she had not noticed before. The man from space had a glazed, unhappy look on his face, and was not focusing on anything or anybody in particular. "You're kidnapping him!" she cried, hoarsely. .. "No, Maia. It's not what you—"

  Kiel's voice cut off as Maia dove headfirst into the frigid water and came up sputtering. She inhaled a painful, salty rasp, then set out after the boat, swimming with all her might.

  Peripatetic's Log:

  Stratos Mission:

  Arrival + 41.051 Ms

  Cloning, as an alternate mode of reproduction, was used long before the emigration from Florentina World. An egg cell, carefully prepared with a donor's genetic material, is implanted within a chemically stimulated volunteer, or the artificial womb recently perfected on New Terra. Either way, the delicate, expensive process is generally reserved for a world's most creative, or revered, or wealthy individuals, depending on local custom. I know of no planet where clones make up a significant fraction of the population . . . except Stratos.

  Here, they comprise over eighty percent! On Stratos, parthenogenetic reproduction is as easy or hard, as cheap or dear, as having babies the normal way. Results of this one innovation pervade the whole culture. In my travels, I have never witnessed such a bold experiment in redirecting human destiny.

  This was the essence of my address before the Reigning Council in Caria. (See appended transcript.) There was an element of diplomatic flattery, since I left all my troubled questions for another occasion. Time and observation will surely reveal cracks in this feminist nirvana, but that by itself is no indictment. When has any human culture been perfect? Perfection is another way of spelling death.

  Some in the audience seemed eager for my proxy recognition of their founders' accomplishments. Others smiled, as if indulgently amused that a mere man might speak to a topic beyond his natural ken. Many simply stared blankly, unable to decide.

  Then there was the quiet, polite rancor I could not miss on the faces of a large minority. Their hostility reminded me that Lysos, for all her scientific genius, had also been leader of a militant, revolutionary band. Centuries later, there remains a deep undercurrent of ideological fervor here on Stratos.

  The season of the year is no help. Can it be coincidence that consent-to-land was finally granted during midsummer, when suspicion of males runs highest? Were opponents of contact hoping I'd misbehave, and so sabotage my mission?

  Perhaps they count on assistance from Wengel Star. Or from hot season's shimmering aurorae. If so, the Perkinists will be disappointed. I am unaffected by glowing cues in their summer sky.

  Still, I must take care. The men of this world are used to being few, surrounded by womankind, while I was shaped in a different society, and have just spent two lonely years of my own subjective span in cramped isolation between the stars.

  16

  Incised figures on a granite wall . . . geometric forms . . . nested, twining-rope patterns ... a puzzle, carved in ancient rock . . .

  "We can't stay down here much longer. I told you! Your code's no better'n a Lamai's spit!"

  I Focus on an image . . . of a child's hand . . . reaching upward toward a star-shaped knot of stone . . .

  "Shut up, Leie. Lemme think. Was it this one? Um—I can't 'member."

  . . . yes, this one. The star-shaped knob. She must touch the stone. Twist it a quarter turn. A quarter turn to the right.

  It was hard to do, though. Something was making her sluggish. A force of will was needed just to make her arm extend, and motion felt like pushing through a jar of bee honey. The dank air of the cellar felt humid, smothering. The stone outcrop receded, even as she stretched out for it.

  ... a star-shaped stone . . . key to the sequence of opening.

  The image wavered. Her own hand warped, growing indistinct behind swells of dizzying distortion. The surrounding, twining-rope carvings began to slither, twisting and writhing like awakening snakes.

  "Too late," Leie's voice warbled from somewhere out of sight, mixing sadness with recrimination. A grinding sound told of the walls closing in, converging to crush them, to immure them in granite, leaving no escape.

  "You're always so damn late ..."

  What hurt most was a vague sense of betrayal. Not by her sister, but the patterns. She had felt so certain of them. The figures on the wall. She had put her faith in them, and now they wouldn't play.

  Blurry patterns. Fickle, blurry forms, carved in living, moving stone. . . .

  "... is ... she . . . doin' . . . any . . . better?"

  It was a woman's distant tenor that surged and faded so ... as if each word came floating out of a mist, packaged in its own quavering bubble.

  The reply, when it came, was much deeper, like a sea god intoning from the depths.

  ". . . think ... so. ... doctor said . . . hour ago . . . ought to ... soon."

  At first, the voices were welcome intrusions, stirring and dissipating the clinging terror-strands of a bad dream. Soon, however, the words became irritants, luring her with hints of meaning, only to jerk away all sense, teasing her, thwarting an easy slide to quiet sleep.

  The tenor returned, wavering less with each passing moment.

  "Good thing ... or those . . . heads would be ... same as ... ing murderers."

  A pause. The sea god intoned, "I ... never forgive myself."

  ". . . had nothin' . . . with it! Damn fools, tryin' to ... her behind, like some kid. Could've told 'em she . . . stand for it. ... Spunky little var."

  At least they were friendly voices, she realized. Soothing. Unthreatening. It was good knowing she was being cared for. No need to worry yet over things like how, or why. Natural wisdom counseled her to leave it for now. Let well enough alone.

  Wisdom. No match for the troublemaker Curiosity.

  Where am I? she wondered despite herself. Who are these people?

  From that moment, each word arrived defined. Freighted with meaning, context.

  "So you've told me," the deeper voice resumed. "We had some chance to exchange life stories in prison, but she never mentioned the details you told me. Poor girl I had no idea what she's been through."

  The man's voice . . . was Renna's. A small knot of worry unraveled. I haven't lost him yet.

  "Yeah, well, if I'd kept my ears an' eyes open, I'd have connected her with those rumors goin' around, an' gone ashore to check for myself instead of sittin' on the ship like a dorit."

  The higher voice was also familiar, tugging at Maia's recollection from what seemed ages ago, in a different life.

  "And how about me? Swallowing a Mickey Finn, and letting those women carry me off like a partridge on a pole?"

  "Swallowing a Mick . . . ? Ah, you mean a Summer Soother."

  Maia's breath caught in surprise. Nar
oin! What is she doing here?

  Where is here?

  "Yeah. Pretty dumb, all right. I thought spacemen were supposed to be smartguys."

  Renna chuckled ruefully. "Smart? Not especially. Not by the enhanced standards of some places I've visited. The main trait they seem to want in peripatetics is patience. We—Say, did you hear that? I think she's stirring."

  Maia felt a small cool hand along the side of her face.

  "Hello, Maia? Can you hear me, younger? It's me, your old master-at-arms from the Wotan. Eia! Up an' at 'em."

  The hand was callused, not smooth. Yet it felt good just having someone touch her again. Someone who meant her well. Maia almost feigned sleep, to prolong it.

  "I ..." Her first word came out more a croak than decipherable speech. "C-can't . . . open my eyes . . ." The lids felt locked shut by crusty dryness. A damp cloth passed gently over her brow, moistening them. When it pulled away, the world entered as brightness. Maia blinked and could not stop. Without conscious will, her leaden hands lifted to rub her eyes clumsily.

  Two familiar faces swam into focus, framed against wood paneling and a ship's porthole.

  "Where ..." Maia licked her lips and found her mouth too dry to salivate. "Where bound?"

  Both Naroin and Renna smiled, expressing relief.

  "You gave us a scare," Renna answered. "But you're all right, now. We're heading due west across the Mother Ocean, so our destination seems likely to be Landing Continent. One of the big port cities, I figure. Better for their plans than where they found us, out in the boondocks."

  "They?" Bleariness kept intruding, causing the pale man and dark-haired woman to split into four overlapping figures. "You mean Kiel? And Thalia and Baltha?"

  Naroin shook her head. "Baltha's just a hired stick, like me. We aren't part of the Big Scheme. Those other two are the paymasters. Seems a secret league of Rads has got plans for your starman, here."

  "No end to excitement on wonderful Stratos," Renna added sardonically.

  "Maybe ... you could write a travel guide book," Maia suggested, concentrating to control her dizziness. Renna laughed, especially when Naroin looked at them both quizzically and asked what in Lysos's name a "travel guide" was.

  "What are you doing here?" Maia asked the woman sailor. "This can't be Wotan."

  That much was obvious. Every surface wasn't coated with a film of black, anthracite dust. Naroin grimaced. "Nah. Wotan banged into a lighter in Artemesia Bay. Captain Pegyul an' I had words over it, so I took my wages an' papers an' got another berth. Just my luck to land one haulin' the weirdest atyp contraband I ever saw—no offense, Starman."

  "None taken." Renna appeared unbothered. "Think we'll have any chance to jump ship along the way?"

  "Wouldn't bet on it, Shoulders. That's one crowd o' dogged vars escortin' you. B'sides, I'm not sure I wouldn't let things ride, if I was you. There's a lot worse lookin' for your handsy alien tors than's got you right now, if you follow. Even worse than crazy Perkie farmers."

  Renna wore a guarded expression. "What do you mean?"

  "Don't you know?" Naroin shrugged and changed the subject. "I'll go tell the customers our drowned wharf mouse has come around. Just you two remember the first rule o' summerling survival." She tapped the side of her head. "Small mouth. Big ears."

  Naroin gave Maia a parting wink and left, sliding the cabin door shut along its rails. Renna watched her go, shaking his head slowly, then turned back to Maia. "Want some water?"

  She nodded. "Please."

  He cradled her head while holding a brown earthenware cup to her mouth. Renna's hands felt so much larger than Naroin's, if not noticeably stronger. He laid Maia's head back on the folded blanket she had been given for a pillow.

  Or rather, lent. I don't own a thing in the world, Maia thought, recalling the betrayal of Thalia and Kiel, that naked sprint through the streets of Grange Head, and her plummet into the icy bay. And my best, maybe only, friend on Stratos is a stranger who knows even less than I do.

  The thought would have made her laugh bitterly, if she had energy to spare. Maia fought a losing battle just to keep her eyes open.

  "That's all right," Renna commented. "Sleep. I'll stay right here."

  She shook her head. "How long ..."

  "You were out most of three days. Had to drain half a liter of water out of you, when they dragged you aboard."

  So much for those swimming lessons the mothers paid for, she thought. Laps in the Port Sanger municipal pool had prepared her for real-life trials about as well as the rest of Lamatia's much-vaunted summerling education.

  "You've been here all the time?" Maia questioned Renna through an enveloping languor. He dismissed it with an offhand wave. "Had to go to the can once or twice, and . . . oh! I held onto something for you. Thought you might want it when you woke."

  Maia could barely focus on the glitter of brass as he slipped a small object, cool and rounded, between her hand and the coverlet. My sextant! she realized happily. It was just a silly, half-broken tool, of little utility. Yet it meant so much to have something familiar. Something allied to memories. Something that was hers. Tears welled in her eyes.

  "Hey, hey," Renna soothed. "Just rest now. I'll be here."

  Maia wanted to protest that no one had to keep watch over her, but she lacked the will to speak. Part of her felt it was untrue.

  Renna gently placed his hand over the one holding the sextant. His touch was warm, his calluses more evenly spread than Naroin's coarse ridges. They must have come from more subtle labors, or perhaps even deliberate exercise; though, as she drifted off, Maia found herself wondering why anyone would ever lift a finger she or he didn't have to. Better, it seemed, simply to lie in bed forever.

  "What are you going to do, make me lie in bed forever?" Maia pounded the covers with both fists, causing the doctor to pull away the stethoscope. "Now, don't get all worked up. I just said you should take it easy awhile. You're young an' strong, though. Get up whenever you like."

  "Eia!" Maia shouted, throwing the covers aside and bounding onto the wooden deck. Too quickly. She felt a rush of dizziness, but refused to let it show. "Anybody have some clothes to lend me? I'll work off the debt first thing."

  "You don't owe anybody," Kiel said from the foot of the bed. "We'll make up what was in the package we left for you, at the hotel. Clothes and some money. It's yours, free and clear."

  "I don't want your charity," Maia snapped.

  Standing across the small cabin, by the door, Thalia frowned unhappily. "Now don't be mad, Maia. We only—"

  "Who's mad?" Maia interrupted, clenching a fist. "I understand why you did it. You've got big-time, political uses for Renna, and figured I'd just get in the way. Even though I'm a var like you."

  Thalia and Kiel looked pained, and relieved that Renna had stepped outside during the examination. "We're engaged in dangerous business," Kiel tried to explain.

  "Too dangerous for me, but okay for Renna?"

  "It's probably a lot safer for the alien to come with us, than simply handing him over to the PES in Grange Head. There are ... factions in Caria City. Factions that don't have sweet plans for our Outsider."

  Maia found that believable. "And you rads don't have plans, I take it?"

  "Of course we do. We want to make a better world. But the peripatetic's goals aren't incompatible with our—"

  The physician closed his bag with, a loud snap. His authoritative glare must have been learned at Health Scholarium. "S'cuse me for interruptin', ladies, but did you say something about gettin' this poor girl some clothes?"

  Medicine was one rare track of higher education in which gender hardly mattered. Some excellent practitioners were men, who seldom let the innate mood swings of their sex interfere with professionalism. Thalia nodded quickly, at once the attentive and compliant var. "Yes, Doctor. I'll get 'em now."

  At the door she turned back. "Meanwhile, don't you run around naked on deck, Maia! Not a good habit in the big cities we're h
eaded to!" She giggled at her own wit and departed. Maia briefly glimpsed Renna pacing outside. He looked relieved when Thalia gave thumbs-up while closing the door.

  "The youngster is undernourished," the physician went on telling Kiel, while regarding Maia over the rims of his glasses. Maia crossed her arms and lifted her chin while he clucked disapprovingly over her thinness. "I'll tell Cook double rations for a week. You make sure she eats every bite."

  "Yes, Doctor." Kiel nodded obediently, waiting till he left before mimicking his stern look with knitted eyebrows and pursed, smacking lips. Under other circumstances, Maia might have found the lampoon hilarious. Now she succeeded in remaining grim, sending the dark var what she hoped was a fierce glower.