Our car swept through an imposing gate, cruised along a garden-rimmed drive, and halted before a finely sculpted marble entrance. We were formally greeted by a trio of graceful Nitocri who, like Iolanthe, were of stately middle age, dressed in shimmering yellow silken gowns and high collars. My bag was carried off by a younger clan-sister. More siblings bearing distinctive Nitocris features—soft eyes and narrow noses—rushed silently to move the car, seal the gate, and usher us inside.
So, for the first time, I entered the sanctum of a parthenogenetic clan, prime unit of human life on Stratos, "They aren't bees or ants," I thought silently, suppressing idle comparisons. Within, I repeated the motto of my calling—
"Let go of preconceptions."
The savant cheerfully showed me courtyards and gardens and grand halls, unperturbed by a crowd of children who whispered and giggled in our wake. The Nitocri keep no domestic employees, no hired vars to carry out unpleasant tasks beneath the dignity of wealthy clones. No Nitocris resents taking her turn at hard or dirty chores, such as scouring fire grates, or scrubbing lavatories, or laying down roof tiles. All is well-timed according to age, with each girl or woman alternating between onerous and interesting tasks. Each individual knows how long a given phase will last. After a set interval, a younger sister will be along to take over whatever you are doing, while you move on to something else.
No wonder even children and youths move gracefully, with such assurance. Each clone-daughter grows up watching elders just like her, performing their tasks with a calm efficiency derived from centuries of practice. She knows the movements unconsciously before ever being called upon to do them herself. No one hurries to take on power before her time. "My turn will come," appears to be the philosophy.
At least, that's the story they were selling me. No doubt it varies from clan to clan, and almost certainly works less than perfectly even among the Nitocri. Still, I wonder ...
Utopians have long imagined creating an ideal society, without competition, only harmony. Human nature—and the principle of selfish genes—seemed to put the dream forever out of reach. Yet, within a Stratoin clan, where all genes are the same, what function remains for selfishness? The tyranny of biological law can relax. Good of the individual and that of the group are the same.
Nitocris House is filled with love and laughter. They seem self-sufficient and happy.
I do not think my hosts noticed when I involuntarily shivered, even though it wasn't cold.
17
There was glory on deck the next morning. Freshly fallen from high, stratospheric clouds, the delicate frost coated every surface, from spars and rails to rigging, making the Manitou into a fairy ship of crystal dust, glowing in a profusion of pink sunrise refractions.
Maia stood atop a narrow flight of stairs leading up to the small cabin she shared with nine other women.
She rubbed her eyes and stared at the sweetly painful dawnlight glitter outside. How pretty, she thought, watching countless pinpoints of rose-colored brilliance change, moment by moment.
She recalled occasions when Port Sanger received such a coating, causing shops and businesses to close while women hurried outside to sweep puffballs from their windowsills into vacuum jars, for preservation. A sprinkle of glory disrupted daily life far more than thicker falls of normal snow, which simply entailed boots and shovels and some seasonal grumbling.
Certainly men preferred dense drifts of the regular wind. Even slippery ice, making the streets slick and treacherous, seemed to perturb the rough sailors nowhere near as much as a thin scattering of lacy glory. Most males fled to their ships, or beyond the city gates, until sunlight cleansed the town, and its women citizens were in a less festive mood.
That was on shore, Maia remembered. Here, there's no place for the poor fellows to run.
From the narrow doorway at the head of the stairs, Maia inhaled a cool, faintly cinnamon odor. This was no minor dusting, like in Long Valley. The air felt bracing, and provoked a tingling in her spine. Sensations vaguely familiar from prior winters, yet enhanced this time.
Of course, she hadn't been a grown woman before. Maia felt combined eagerness and reluctance, waiting to see if the aroma would have a deeper effect, now that she was five.
There was movement on deck, male sailors shuffling with the desultory slowness of dawn-shift workers. They were physically unaffected by the icy encrustation, yet the captain's expression seemed unhappy, irritated. He snapped at his officers and frowned, contemplating the fine, crystal dusting.
The unhappiest person in sight was the only female—the youngest of Kiel's company of Rads, a girl about Maia's age. She was using a broom to sweep glory frost into a square-mouthed bucket, which she proceeded to empty over the side before going back for another load.
Maia sensed a stirring behind her—another woman rising with the sun. She glanced back and nodded a silent good-morning as Naroin climbed the short, steep steps to squeeze alongside. "Well, look at that," the older var commented, sniffing the soft, chill breeze. "Quite a sight, eh? Too bad it's all got to go."
The petite sailor redescended, plunging momentarily into the dimness of the narrow cabin. She reached onto the bunk Maia had just vacated, and returned bearing Maia's coat. "There you go," Naroin said with a kindly tone, and pointed at the girl outside, sweeping the deck rejectedly. "Your job, too. Law of th' sea. Women stay below till the frost goes. Except virgies."
Maia blushed. "How do you know I'm a—"
Naroin held up a hand placatingly. "Just an expression. Half o' these vars"—she jerked her thumb at those still sleeping below—"never had a man, an' never will. Eia, it's a matter of age. Youngsters sweep up. Go on, child. Eia."
"Eia," Maia responded automatically, slipping on the coat. She trusted Naroin not to lie about something like this. Still, it seemed unfair. Her feet shuffled reluctantly as the bosun gently pushed her outside and shut the door behind her. Chill air condensed her breath in steamy plumes. Rubbing already-numb hands, Maia sighed and went to the utility locker to fetch a broom.
The other girl gave her a look that seemed to say, Where have you been? Maia lifted her shoulders in the same silent language.
I didn't know anything about it. Do I ever?
It was logical, when she thought about it. Glory didn't affect women as strongly as summer's aurorae did men, thank Lysos. Still, it drew those of fertile age toward ideas of sex at exactly the time of year when most men preferred a good book. What males found irksome but avoidable on land could not be escaped so easily at sea. Fivers and sixers, who were less affected by the seasons, and unattractive to males anyway, naturally got the job of sweeping up, so other women might be permitted to emerge before noon.
The chore soon lost whatever attraction lay in novelty, and Maia found the faintly pleasant tingling in her nose less fixating than advertised. Carrying bucketsful to the rail, she could not escape the sensation of being watched. Maia felt certain some of the sailors were pointing at her, sniggering.
The reason had nothing to do with the glory fall, and everything to do with last night's fiasco of a "competition." It was bad enough being a lowly young var, on a voyage not of her choosing. But the Life match had left her a laughingstock.
Sure enough, one of her opponents, the cook's assistant, was firing up his stove under the eaves of the poop deck. The boy grinned when Maia's sweeping brought her nearby. He lisped through a gap left by two missing teeth, "Ready for another game? Whenever you an' the Starman want, me an' Kari are ready."
Maia made as if she hadn't heard. The youth was clearly no intellect, yet he and the cabin boy had made quick hash of Renna's carefully-thought-out Game of Life plan. The rout became obvious within a few rounds.
With each pulse, ripples of change had swept the board. Black pieces, representing "living" locations, turned white and died, unless conditions were right to go on living. White pieces flipped over, coming alive when the number of black neighbors allowed it. Patterns took shape, wriggling an
d writhing like organisms of many cells.
The forty-by-forty grid was by no means the largest Maia had seen. There were rumors of boards vastly larger in some of the towns and ancient sanctuaries of the Mediant Coast. Yet, she and Renna had worked hard to fill their side with a starting pattern that might thrive, all to no avail. Their labors began unraveling from almost the very start.
One of their opponents' designs began firing self-contained gliders across the board, configurations that banked and flapped at an oblique angle toward the edge, where they caromed toward the oasis Renna and Maia had to preserve. Maia watched with a lump in her throat as the other glider gun on this side—her own contribution to Renna's plan—launched interceptors that skimmed past their short fence barrier just in time to…
Yes! She had felt elation as their antimissiles collided with the enemy's projectiles right on schedule, creating explosions of simulated debris.
"Eia!" she had cried in excitement.
Intent as she had been on that threat, Maia was rudely yanked back by an abrupt roar of laughter. She turned to Renna. "What is it?"
Ruefully, her partner pointed toward the synthetic figure they had counted on to hold the center of the board. Their "guardian," with its flailing arms and legs, had seemed guaranteed to ward off anything that dared approach. But now Maia saw that a bar-shaped entity had emerged from the other side of the board, approaching inexorably. At that instant, she experienced a queer sense of recognition, perhaps dredged out of childhood memory, from watching countless games at dockside in Port Sanger. In a strange instant, the new shape suddenly struck her as ... obvious.
Of course. That shape will absorb ... .
The flickering intruder made contact with the branching patterns that were the guardian's arms, and proceeded to suck them in! To the eye, it seemed as if their opponents' creature was devouring game pieces, one by one, incorporating organs from the guardian into its growing self.
It's actually a simple shape, she recalled thinking numbly. Boys probably memorize it before they're four.
As if that weren't enough, the invader pattern began displacing the guardian's undamaged core. Beat by beat, the pseudobeast she and Renna had built was pushed backward, rending and flailing helplessly, smashing through all their fences. Helplessly, they watched the destructive retreat grind all the way to the near left corner, where their vulnerable oasis was promptly and decisively crushed. From that moment on, life quickly dissipated from their half of the game board. Laughter and amused booing had sent Maia fleeing in shame to her cabin.
It was only a game, she tried convincing herself the next morning, as she swept. At least, that's what women think, and they're the ones who count.
Still, memory of the humiliation lingered unpleasantly as glory frost evaporated under the rising sun. Those thin patches she and the other young var had missed soon sublimed. With visible reluctance, Captain Poulandres went to the railing and rang a small bell.
At once, the deck thronged with women passengers and crew, inhaling the last aromas and looking about with liveliness in their eyes. Maia saw one broadly built var come up behind a middle-aged sailor and pinch him, causing the man to jump with a low yelp. The husky-victim whirled around, wearing a harassed expression. He responded after an instant with a wary laugh, shaking a finger in admonishment, and quickly retreated to the nearest mast. An unusual number of sailors seemed to have found duties to perform aloft, this morning.
It wasn't a universal reaction. The assistant cook seemed pleased by the attentions of women gathered round the porridge pot. And why not? Aroused fems were seldom dangerous, and it was doubtful the poor fellow got much notice during summertime. He would likely store a memory of brief flirtation to carry him through lonely months in sanctuary.
Two nearby vars, a short blonde and a slender redhead, were giggling and pointing. Maia turned to see what had them going.
Renna, she thought with a sigh. The Visitor had approached one last, half-full bucket she had neglected to dump overboard. He bent to scoop a handful of glory frost, bringing it up to sniff, delicately, curiously. Renna looked perplexed for a moment, then his head jerked back and his eyes widened. Carefully, he dusted off his hands and thrust them into his pockets.
The two rads laughed. Maia didn't like the way they were looking at him.
"I guess if one were desperate enough . . ." one said to the other.
"Oh, I don't know," came the reply. "I think he's kind of exotic-looking. Maybe, after we reach Ursulaborg."
"You got hopes! The committee's already picked those who'll get first crack. You'll wait your turn, and chew a Kilo of ovop if you're lucky."
"Yuck," the second one grimaced. Yet a covetous gleam did not leave her eye as she watched the man from space depart for the quarterdeck.
Maia's thoughts whirled. Apparently, the rads had designs to keep Renna busy while they sheltered him and dickered with the Reigning Council. Her first reaction was outrage. How dare they assume he'd go along, just like that?
Then she bit back her initial wrath and tried hard to see it calmly. I guess he's in their debt, Maia admitted reluctantly. It would be churlish to refuse his rescuers at least an effort, even in the dead of winter. The Radical organization had no doubt promised members of the rescue party rewards if they succeeded—perhaps sponsorship of a winter sparking, with an apartment and trust fund to see a first cloneling child through primary schooling. The leaders, Kiel and Thalia, will be first, Maia realized. Given her education and talents, Kiel would then be in a good position to become a founding mother of a growing clan.
So politics is just part of it, Maia thought, considering the motives of her former cottage-mates. None of my damn business, she told herself, knowing that she cared intensely, anyway. The first rad glanced at Maia standing nearby, listening. "Of course, there's an element of choice on his part, too," she said. "Equal rights, y'know. And there's no accounting for alien tastes. . . ." The var turned to Maia, and winked.
Maia flushed and strode away. Leaning on the starboard rail, she stared across foam-flecked waves, unable to contain her roiling thoughts. The busybody had voiced a question Maia herself hadn't admitted: I wonder what Renna likes in women? Shaking her head vigorously, she made a resolute effort to divert her thoughts. Troublesome maunderings like these were at best impractical, and she had vowed to be a practical person.
Think. Soon they'll take Renna far away and you'll be alone in a big city. When he's long gone, you'll he left to live off what you know.
What assets do you have? What skills can you sell? She tried to concentrate—to bring forth a catalog of resources—but found herself facing only disconcerting blankness.
The blankness was not neutral. Born in a tense moment of angst, it spread outward from her dark thoughts and seemed to color her view of her surroundings, saturating the seascape, washing it like a canvas painted from a savage palette, in primitive and brutal shades. The air felt charged, like before a lightning storm, and a sense of fell expectation set her heart pounding.
Maia tried closing her eyes to escape the distressing epiphany, but extracted impressions only pursued her. Squeezing her eyelids shut caused more than familiar, squidgy sensations. A coruscation of light and dark speckles flickered and whirled, changing too fast to be tracked. She had known the phenomenon all her life, but now it both frightened and fascinated her. Combining in overlapping waves, the speckles seemed to offer a fey kind of meaning, drawing her away from centered vision toward something both beautiful and terrible.
Breath escaped her lungs in a sigh. Maia found the will to rub her eyes and reopen them. Purple blotches throbbed concentrically before fading away, along with some eerie, unwelcome sense of formless form. Yet, for a stretch of time there lay within Maia a vague but lingering surety. Looking outward, she no longer saw, but continued imagining a vista of everchanging patterns, stretching into infinite recursion across the cloud-flecked sky. Momentarily, the heavens seemed made of ephemeral, quickly
wavering, emblematic forms, overlapping and merging to have the illusion of solidity she had been taught to call reality.
Relief mixed with awed regret as the instant passed. It could only have lasted moments. The atmosphere resumed its character of heavy, moist air. The wood rail beneath her hands felt firm.
Now I know I'm going crazy, Maia thought sardonically. As if she didn't have troubles enough already.
Breakfast was called. Tentatively, as if the deck might shift beneath her feet, Maia went to take her turn in line.
She watched the cook serve two portions—one for Renna and a double scooping for herself, by order of the ship's doctor. She turned, looking for the Visitor, and found him deep in conversation with the captain, apparently oblivious to the fool he had made of himself last night. She approached from behind, and caught his attention just long enough to make sure he noticed his plate on the chart table, near his elbow. Renna smiled, and made as if to speak to her, but Maia pretended not to notice and moved away. She carried her own bowl of hot, pulpy wheatmeal forward, all the way to the bowsprit, where the ship's cutting rise and fall met alternating bursts of salty spray. That made the place uncomfortable for standing, but ideal for being left alone, tucked under the protective shelter of the forward cowling.
Brin, David - Glory Season Page 35
