Brin, David - Glory Season

by Glory Season (mobi)

  Odo shrugged. "I may be sacrificed at some point. In Macro Chess, a side may lose many queens, yet still win the game. Such is life."

  It was Clevin who spoke next, to the surprise of both disputing women. "Bad metaphor," he remarked in a terse, gravelly baritone. "Your game isn't life."

  Odo stared at the man, as if unable to credit his effrontery. Finally, she broke into derisive laughter. Behind Maia, others of the conspiracy joined in. The Pinniped commodore didn't blanch. In his stern silence, Maia felt greater weight of argument than all their ridicule. She knew what he meant, and said so with her eyes.

  Naroin stepped toward Maia. "Missed ya, varling. Sorry, I didn't figure on a snatch like that. Underestimated your importance once again."

  That was the part Maia still couldn't figure out. What's so important about me?

  "You all right?" Naroin finished. "All right," Maia answered, almost a whisper. “How about yourself?"

  "Fine. Catchin' hell for lettin' you get taken. How was I to know you'd get t'be a livin' legend?"

  Around them on every side, people were watching. Maia sensed attention not only from stately matrons, but quite a few male onlookers, as well.

  Iolanthe spoke again. "It won't do, Odo. She cannot remain your prisoner." The savant turned to Maia. "Come with us now, child. They cannot prevent it. We'll protect you as our own, with powers you cannot imagine."

  Maia somehow doubted that. She had, of late, seen forces beyond anything this pale intellectual could have known. Moreover, like the sword of Lysos breaking symbolic chains on the Lanargh City statuary clock, events had shattered all fetters on Maia's imagination.

  On another level, she felt the offer was doubtless sincere. Though Iolanthe's side in the political conflict was probably doomed, she could almost certainly shield Maia's person. All Maia had to do was start walking.

  There are many kinds of prisons, she thought acidly.

  "That's kind of you," she replied. "Some other time, perhaps."

  The elderly savant winced at the rejection, but Naroin looked unsurprised. "I see. You like it in Persim Hold? They're your friends now?"

  Maia first thought Naroin was expressing bitterness. Then she read something in the ex-bosun's eyes. A feral, conspiratorial gleam. Her sarcasm had another objective.

  Maia nodded. She took a deep breath. "Oh—yes. Odo—is—my—friend . . . as—much—as—she—was—Renna's."

  It was the general message she had been ordered to convey, delivered so woodenly, no one with sensitivity would believe a word. Maia heard Odo hiss sharply restrained anger.

  Leie, Brod, have I just murdered you? On the other hand, maybe Naroin would now add two and two, and realize how Maia was being coerced. Perhaps there were still honest layers in government, who could be called on to rescue two innocent fivers from captivity. To get that message across was worth stretching the Persim's patience. Once.

  Clevin growled. Maia watched his gnarled hands clench and unclench. In the dead of winter, she felt a kind of blazing heat from the man. His trouble wasn't remembering how to make a fist, but controlling his wrath. Naroin took his elbow, applying urgent pressure to his arm.

  "This won't stop the strike," he rumbled.

  Strike? Maia wondered.

  Odo laughed. "Your so-called strike is a mere irritant, already unraveling. In days, perhaps weeks, it will be over. All women will unite to reject the participants. They'll get no more summer passes. No more sons. Isn't that right, Maia?"

  Maia made no further efforts to send messages, only to obey. "Yes," she assented, completely ignorant of what she was agreeing to. Naroin and Clevin understood her predicament. All that mattered were her sister and her friend.

  "Our past differences evaporated with the unfortunate Visitor," continued Odo. "Now Maia wants to join the cause of restoring peace and order to the Founders' Plan."

  For the first time, the fourth member of Naroin's party spoke up. The dark-haired woman was of medium height and poised bearing, with a distinctive oval face and intense eyes. "In that case, you won't mind if I pay a call on you, at Persim Hold?" she said to Maia.

  Before Maia could answer, Odo demanded, "Which are you? Which Upsala?"

  It was a decidedly strange query to Maia's ears, as if a clone's individuality ever mattered.

  "I am Brill, of the Upsala." The graceful brunette inclined her head. "I perform tests for the Civil Service."

  Maia sensed Odo's tense reaction, as if she had encountered something more worrisome than any gambit by Naroin, or Clevin, or even the aristocratic Iolanthe. "I'd be honored, Brill, of Upsala," Maia blurted impulsively, feeling sticky from anxious perspiration under her heavy gown. "Come at your convenience."

  The atrium lights dimmed to the sound of a gentle chime, signaling intermission's end. Odo pointedly took her hand, giving it a brief, painful squeeze. "Time we took our seats," she said to Iolanthe and the others. "Enjoy the show. Come, Maia."

  There was chill silence during the long, exposed climb back to the theater box. As they resumed their seats and the lights went down, Maia felt Odo lean near. "If you try another stunt like that, my dear young scattered seed, you'll live to regret it. More than your own life rides on doing a better job of acting."

  Maia had even less taste for watching the second act.

  The music sounded like clashing engines; the colorful costumes seemed foppish, ridiculous. Only one thing caught her eye, to distract momentarily from her misery. While listlessly scanning the sea of extravagance below, her lethargic gaze picked out a pair of faces, each of them identical to the woman, Brill, she had just met in the lobby.

  The first belonged to the conductor of the orchestra. The second was the tenor, her chin covered with an artificial beard, leaping and crooning with ersatz masculine abandon, playing the archetype operatic role of Nature's conceited challenger, the epitome of hubris, Faust.

  Another week passed. Each morning, Odo arranged for Maia to be dressed in a stunning new outfit before taking her for an open carriage ride down the esplanade. It showed her off to strollers and pedestrians without risking further close personal contact.

  At first, Maia was captivated by the sights of Caria—Council Hall, the University, the Great Temple—almost as much as any tourist. The fascination didn't last, however. Each time she returned to her room in Persim Hold, Maia quickly stripped off the grotesque finery and threw herself into an orgy of exercise, to vent her frustration. The guards were gone now, yet she felt more securely imprisoned than ever in Long Valley, or on Grimke Isle.

  On Fridinsday, during the morning ride, Maia witnessed a scene of commotion taking place before one of the majestic, many-pillared public buildings. Uniformed soldiers and proctors strove to keep back several groups of demonstrators. One, consisting of men in varicolored guild tunics, appeared listless, demoralized. Maia could only partly read one of their drooping banners. JELL . . . RMER said the portion visible between folds.

  Suddenly, Maia's heart sped. Just ahead, standing at the curb where the carriage was about to pass, she saw Clevin, her father, talking earnestly with Iolanthe. Odo spoke to the driver, who flicked her reins. The horses sped to a canter as Clevin looked up, met Maia's eyes, and started to raise a hand.

  The moment passed too quickly. Odo let out a short, satisfied grunt as Maia sank back into the plush upholstery.

  The men need help, she thought, miserably. If I were free, maybe I could buck up their spirits. If only . . .

  She shook her head. Nothing was worth spending her sister's life or Brod's. Certainly not in a cause that was lost from the start. No effort on her part would change destiny. They rode back to Persim Hold without another word. Maia tossed off her stiff clothes, exercised, ate, and crawled into bed.

  The next day, on her breakfast tray next to the orange juice, Maia found a newspaper. A simple, four-page tabloid, printed on fine, slick paper. From the price and circulation, both written on the masthead, it was clearly meant only for subscribers at the
pinnacle of Caria's many-tiered social strata. Several portions had been razored out. The lead article was riveting, nonetheless.

  Strike Outlook Positive

  While seaborne traffic remains snarled in most ports along the Mediant Coast, analysts now predict a quick conclusion to the work-stoppage by seventeen shipping guilds and their affiliates. Already, defections have weakened the resolve of the ringleaders, whose objective, to pressure the Planetary Reigning Council into reopening the infamous Jellicoe Sanctuary, appears no longer to have any realistic chance of success. ...

  So, Maia thought. It was her first partial accounting of events since her capture. Also her first clue to her status as a pawn in big-time struggles.

  The reavers were crushed. Kiel's rads are broken. Loose alliances of liberals, like those backcountry temple vars, might lean toward change, but they lack cohesiveness. The high clans have long experience coping with such grumblings.

  But there's another group giving them a scare. The sailing guilds.

  In Ursulaborg, the Pinnipeds had spoken of propaganda. The Great Former means nothing, they had been told. The Wissy-Man was not your kind. . . .

  Maia didn't overrate her own contribution. The sailors might have rejected the official line anyway. But her narrative must have helped when she told what she had learned about the ancient Guardians—about a forlorn struggle by ancient men and women to devise another way. A way of including more than one round patch of earth and sea and sky, in the Stratoin tale. A way to amend, without rejecting, what the Founders had once willed their heirs.

  And she had spoken of Renna, the brave sailor whose sea was the galaxy. The man who flew, as no man of this world had since the banishment. When they departed on that day, she had felt certain the seamen knew her friend from the stars. That he was one of them. That he was owed a debt of honor.

  The Persim brought me here to help undermine the strike. That's why they flaunt me around town. The men at the opera must have reported back to their guilds. If I was in Odo's company, how serious could I ever have been, about being the starman's comrade?

  Reading between the lines, it grew apparent why the high clans were concerned. The sailor's job action was hurting.

  ... Half of the sparking season was over before the walkout was declared. Still, it is clear that lack of male cooperation will depress this winter's breeding program.

  That caused Maia to smile, proud that Clevin and the others hadn't missed a trick.

  Perkinite priestess-advocate Jeminalte Cever today demanded that "those responsible for this flagrant neglect of duty must be made to pay."

  Fortunately, this radicalization took place after Farsun Day, so politicians needn't fear a rush to polling booths by disgruntled males. Their irate minority vote might have swung several tight races in recent elections.

  Will it remain a factor by next winter? Estimates based on recent episodes of male unrest, six, ten, and thirteen decades ago, lead savants at the Institute for Sociological Trends to suggest that this somewhat more severe interlude may not pass in time to prevent short-term economic loss to many of our subscribers. However, they predict that, by next autumn, only residual ferment should remain, at a level corresponding to ....

  It went on, describing how the guilds would predictably fall away from each other, accepting generous deals and compromises, unable to maintain righteous ire in a season when the blood ran cool. Maia sighed, finding the scenario believable, even predictable. The dead hand of Lysos always won.

  No wonder they let me see this. She allowed for the fact that the reporting was biased and incomplete. Nevertheless, the newspaper left her depressed.

  Odo arrived as Maia finished dressing. She expected the Persim matriarch to gloat over the article, but apparently Odo had other matters on her mind. Clearly agitated, the old woman dismissed the maids and bid Maia sit down. "There will be no excursion today," she said. "You have a visitor."

  Maia lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  "Shortly, you will meet Brill Upsala in the east conservatory. You'll be supplied pencils, paper, other equipment. Brill has been informed that you are willing to be examined, under the terms of ancient law, but that you do not wish to discuss matters having to do with the alien.''

  Odo met Maia's eyes. "We will be listening. Should you make liars of us, or imply distress of any sort, you might as well accompany the Upsala when she goes . . . and live forever with guilt of your sister's fate. Let it be on your head."

  Maia knew she had stretched Odo's patience once, almost to the limit. Odo and her cohorts were busy pulling a thousand threads, political, social, and economic. Open and furtive. If they felt Maia and Leie and Brod were more trouble than useful as pawns in their game, she could expect ruthlessness. Maia nodded agreement, and followed Odo out the door.

  By now, she knew the Persim household well. There were Yuquinn maids and Venn cooks and Buju handywomen, all of whom seemed nimble and content in their inherited niches, needing no command or incentive to anticipate every Persim whim. Why not? Each was descended from a var woman who had served peerlessly, and been rewarded with a type of immortality. An immortality that could end any time the Persims withdrew patronage. No violence would be required. No one need even be fired. The Persims had only to stop sponsoring expensive winter matings for their clients, then wait the brief interval of a generation or two.

  Was the relationship predatory? Unfair? Maia doubted the Yuquinn or Venn would think so. If they were prone to such thoughts, their lines would have ended with the natural passing of their first var ancestress. Of late, though, Maia had come to adopt Renna's attitude. All of this was well-designed, as natural as could be, and from another point of view, appalling.

  I am no longer a daughter of Lysos, she realized. I'll never adjust to a world whose basic premise I can't bear.

  "In there," Odo said, pointing through a set of double doors. "Behave."

  The threat, implicit, sufficed. Odo turned and walked away. Maia entered the conservatory, where the striking, dark-haired woman she had met at the opera was laying papers on a fabulously expensive table made of metal frames supporting nearly flawless panes of glass. While one of Odo's younger clone-sisters observed from the corner, Brill indicated a chair. "Thank you for seeing me. Shall we begin?"

  Maia sat down. "Begin what?"

  "Your examination, of course. We'll start with a simple survey of preferences. Take these forms. Each question features five activities—"

  "Urn, pardon me ... what hind of examination?"

  Brill straightened, regarding her enigmatically. Maia experienced a fey sensation of depth. As if the woman already saw clear through her, and had no real need for exams.

  "An occupational-aptitude test. I've accessed your school records from Port Sanger, which show adequate preparatory work. Is there a problem?"

  Maia almost laughed out loud. Then she wondered. Is this a pose? Might she have been sent hereby Iolanthe Nitocris and her allies?

  But then, Odo would have checked Brill's bona fides. The small civil service of Stratos was supposedly outside politics, and its testers could go anywhere. If this was a pose, Brill made it believable. Maia decided to play along.

  "Uh, no problem." She looked left and right. "Where are your calipers? Will you be measuring bumps on my head?"

  The Upsala clone smiled. "Phrenology has its adherents. For starters, however, why don't we begin with this?"

  There followed a relentless confrontation with paper. Rapidfire questions, covering her interests, tastes, knowledge of grammar, knowledge of science and weather, knowledge of ...

  After two hours, Maia was allowed a short break. She went to the toilet, ate a small snack from a silver tray, walked in the garden to stretch her back. Ever businesslike, the Upsala clone spent the time processing results. If she had been sent to convey a message from Naroin or Clevin, she was good at concealing the fact.

  "I saw two of your sisters after we spoke at the opera, Maia commented,
aware of the watching Persim clone. "One of them played Faust . . :"

  "Yes, yes. Cousin Gloria. And Surah, at the baton. Bloody showoffs."

  Maia blinked in surprise. "I thought they were very good at what they did."

  "Of course they were good!" Brill glanced sharp! "The issue is what one chooses to be good at. The arts are fine, for hobbies. I play six instruments, myself. But they pose no great challenge to a mature mind."

  Maia stared. It was passing strange to hear a clone disparage her own kin. Stranger was the implication of her words.

  "Did you say choose? Then your clan doesn't—"

  "Specialize?" Brill finished the word with a disdainful buzz. "No, Maia. We do not specialize. Shall we resume work now?"