Brin, David - Glory Season

by Glory Season (mobi)

  The return to neutral professionalism cut short Maia's line of inquiry. Brill next presented a wooden box, and asked Maia to grip two levers while peering down a leather-lined tube. Within, a horizontal line rocked back and forth, reminding her of an instrument she had seen in the aircraft carrying her from Ursulaborg. "This is an artificial horizon," Brill began. "Your task, as I add difficulty, will be to correct deviations ..."

  An hour later, Maia's finery was damp with perspiration, her neck hurt from concentration, and she moaned when Brill called time for a halt.

  "O-oh-h," she commented in surprise. "That . . . was fun."

  The Upsala clone answered with a brief, thin smile: "I can tell."

  After more physical tests, there came another break, for supper in the nearest of Persim Hold's many dining rooms. To Odo's clear irritation, Brill seemed blithely to assume she was invited to table, obliging the Persim matriarch to attend as well, keeping an eye on things.

  She needn't have bothered. The conversation was less than enthralling across an expanse of fine-grained Yarri-wood, embroidered linen, and fine porcelain, lit by sparkling chandeliers. For most of the time, Brill shuffled papers, except when meticulously thanking the servants for any dish that was served. Maia enjoyed the effect on Odo.

  Nearly, the matron thought the test-taker's visit a chess move by her faction's opponents, and was writhing to figure it out. Also clearly, it frustrated Odo to spend so much time worrying over a mere pawn.

  Was that all it was? A gambit to waste the enemy's time? If so, Maia was pleased to help. The exams were exhausting, but a pleasant diversion. She only wished Brill seemed more sensitive to her own efforts hinting at messages to be relayed to Naroin and her father.

  "The Upsalas are a funny lot," Odo commented while the main course was cleared away, and she finished her third glass of wine. "Do you know of them, summer child?"

  Maia shook her head.

  "Then let me enlighten you. They are a successful clan by normal standards, numbering about a hundred—"

  "Eighty-eight adults," Brill corrected, regarding Odo with relaxed, green eyes.

  "And my sources say their fortune is secure. Not first rank, but secure. There are two Upsalas on the Reigning Council, and forty-nine with savant chairs at various institutions. Nineteen at Caria University itself, in diverse departments. And yet, do you know what's most peculiar about them?" A servant refilled Odo's glass as she leaned forward. "They have no clanhold! No house, grounds, servants. Nothing!"

  Maia frowned. "I don't follow."

  "They all live on their own! In houses or apartments they purchase as individuals. Each makes her own living. Each makes her own sparking arrangements with individual men! And do you know why?" Odo giggled. "They hate each other's guts."

  When Maia turned to regard Brill, the examiner shrugged. "The typical Stratoin success story demands not only talent, upbringing, and luck to find a niche. Gregarity is another customary requisite . . .self-sacrifice for the good of the hive. Sisterly solidarity helps a clan to thrive

  "But humans aren't ants," she went on. "Not everyone is born predisposed to get along with others identical to herself."

  Nerves and alcohol had transformed the normally-aloof Odo, who laughed harshly. "Well put! Many's the time a bright young var gets something going, only to see it spoilt by her own pretty, bickering daughters. Only those at peace with themselves can truly use the Founders' Gift."

  Maia recalled countless times she and Leie had been less than selfless with each other while growing up. They had attributed it to the rough passage of a summer background, but was that it? Might the tense affection between them worsen with prosperity, rather than growing into perfect teamwork? Maia sensed an evolutionary imperative at work. Over generations, selection would favor the trait of getting along with different versions of yourself. If so, perhaps the twins' plans had always been moot, as likely as frost in summer.

  "There are exceptions," Maia prompted hopefully. "Your clan manages, somehow."

  Brill sighed, as if bored with the topic. "Eventually, we Upsala learned how to maintain the needful functions of a clan, without all the trappings or constraints."

  "She means they have grand meetings, about once an old Earth year. Half of 'em don't attend, they send their lawyers!" Odo seemed to find it hilarious. "They don't even like their own clone daughters. That's why their numbers grow so slow—"

  "It's not true!" Brill snapped, showing the first strong emotion Maia had seen. The woman paused to regain her composure. "Everything's fine until adolescence, then . . ." She lapsed a second time, and finished in a low voice. "I get along fine with my other kids."

  "Your var, you mean. That's another thing. Upsala prefer summer breeding! Makes 'em popular with the lys, it does," Odo slurred as she sloshed more wine.

  "Your way would never work in the countryside," Maia told Brill, fascinated.

  "True, Maia. City life offers public services, a wealth of career choices. ..."

  "Tell her about career choices! Don't you all pick different professions 'cause you hate to even run into each other?"

  While Odo chuckled, Maia stared. Apparently, the Upsala excelled at anything they tried, starting from scratch with each cloned lifetime. Maia wondered if Renna, her late friend, ever encountered this marvel during his stay in Caria. If not handicapped by one defective trait, the Upsala might own all of Stratos someday. No wonder this one's presence had Odo nervous, despite Brill's innocuous chosen profession.

  In their case, genius overcame a crippling lack of harmony. Leie and I aren't geniuses, but we don't exactly hate each other, either. Maybe something in between is possible. If we both get out of this mess alive, perhaps we can learn from the Upsalas.

  Brill took out a pocketwatch and cleared her throat. "That was awfully pleasant, yes? Now might we get back to work? I'd like to finish soon. My babysitter charges extra after ten."

  The next series dealt with Maia's "cryptomathematical talent," or her unforeseen affinity for games like Life. For an hour, Maia waged midget battles on a computerized board like Renna's, trying—usually in vain—to prevent the gadget from wreaking havoc on her patterns. Brill kept demanding that Maia use new "recursion rules," meaning ways to make things progressively, then impossibly harder. It was a tense, sweaty exercise of guesswork and raw skill. Maia loved it ... until the patterns started blurring and her endurance ran out.

  "Why are you doing this to me?" she moaned at the end.

  "It is suspected that you may qualify for a niche," Brill answered dryly, turning off the machine. Maia rubbed her eyes. "What niche?"

  Brill paused. "I can tell you what not to expect. Do not hope for entry to the university based on your talent with patterns and symbol systems. If it carries across generations, a winter child of yours might apply on its basis, but for you it is already too late to be a mathematician."

  Thanks, Maia thought, with bitterness that surprised her. Who asked, anyway?

  "Moreover, you appear to have too high an action potential for the contemplative life," Brill went on, scanning a chart. "That isn't a drawback to my client, although other factors—"

  Maia sat up quickly. "Client? You mean this isn't for the civil service?" She sensed the Persim clone edge forward, suddenly alert. Brill shrugged, as if it didn't matter. "I've been commissioned by a member of my own family, to seek workers for a new venture. Frankly, it's a long shot, not a safe niche, by any means."

  "But . . ." Maia sensed anger in the tense silence of the Persim cloneling. "Odo assumed this was for—"

  "I'm not responsible for Odo's assumptions. Any potential employer may contract with the examination service. This isn't relevant to Persim Clan's present political struggles, so Odo has no cause for concern. Now, shall we get back to work? Our last item will be—"

  "I'm a good navigator!" Maia blurted. "And I'm pretty good with machines. My twin's better. We're mirror twins, you know. So maybe . . . between us . . ." Maia's voice trail
ed off, weighed down by embarrassment over her outburst. Some lurking, childish remnant had leaped out, pleading a case she no longer even cared to make.

  "Those factors may be relevant," Brill commented after a beat. There was a brief light of kindness in the examiner's eyes. "Now, the last item is an essay question. I want you to describe three episodes in which you solved puzzle locks to enter hidden chambers. You know the events I speak of. Succinctly note what factors, logical and intuitive, led you to surmise correct answers. Limit each answer to a hundred words. Pick up your pencil. Begin."

  Maia sighed and started writing. Apparently, everyone knew of her adventures under Jellicoe Isle. By now, the place was back in the hands of those same conservative forces that had, for centuries, maintained the Defense Center. But the secret was out for good.

  ... so our success at the red-metal door was partly luck . . . she wrote. I once overheard some words which made me realize the symbols in the hexagons could mean . . .

  Maia knew she was doing poorly, failing to organize her thoughts in coherent order. Pondering Jellicoe also reminded Maia of problems more real than these stupid tests. If only Leie and Brod had noticed the gradual transition of power there, and snuck out with Naroin's friends while it was still possible! Now, apparently, it was too late.

  Maia finished describing the crimson door she and Brod had found in the sea cave, and moved on to summarize her logic in the sanctuary auditorium. She started by giving full credit to Leie and the ill-fated navigator, for their parts in solving the riddle that led to discovering the Great Former. Except that also meant sharing blame for what followed—the violent invasion of those cryptic precincts, forcing Renna to cut short his preparations and attempt that deadly, premature launch into a terrible blue sky.

  It's my doing. Mine alone. She had to close her eyes and inhale deeply. I can't think about that right now. Save it. Save it for later.

  Maia finished that summary, putting the second piece of paper atop the first. She stared at the third blank sheet, then looked up in bafflement. "What third puzzle lock? I don't recall—"

  "The earliest. When you were four. Breaking into your mothers' storeroom."

  Maia stared in surprise. "How did you—"

  "Never mind that. Please finish. This test measures spontaneous response under pressure, not skill or completeness of recollection."

  Maia suspected the jargon hid something, some meaning hidden in the words, but it escaped her. Sighing, she bent over to write down what she could remember of that long-ago day, when the creaking dumbwaiter carried two young twins for the last time into those catacombs beneath the Lamai kitchens.

  In her hand, Maia had clutched a scrawled solution, her final effort to defeat the stubborn lock. With Leie holding a lantern, she pressed stony figures—twining snakes, stars, and other symbols—which clicked into place, one by one. Neither twin breathed as the defiant, iron-bound door at long last slid aside to reveal—

  Bones. Row after row of neat stacks of bones. Femurs. Tibia. Fibia. Grinning skulls. Maia had leapt back; and Leie's surprised cry had rattled the wine racks behind them, her eyes showing white clear around as they tremulously entered the secret chamber, gaping at generation after generation of ancestresses . . . each of whom had been genetically their own mother. There were a lot of mothers down there. The ossuary had been chill, silently eerie. Maia gratefully saw no whole skeletons. Lamai neatness—sorting and stacking the bones primly by type—made it harder to envision them twitching to vengeful life.

  Other things had lain hidden in the chamber. Icy cabinets held dusty records. Then, toward the back, they encountered more menacing items. Weapons. Vicious death machines, outlawed to family militias, but stored in keeping with the motto of Lamatia Clan—"Better Safe Than Sorry."

  Afterward, both twins had had lurid dreams, but soon they replaced qualms with jesting scorn for that great chain of individuals leading back to a mythical, lost set of genetic grandparents. The intermediary—the Lamai person —had conquered time, but apparently would never overcome her deep insecurity. In the end, what Maia recalled best were the months spent tantalized by a puzzle. Once solved, she realized, a riddle that had seemed compelling all too often turns out to be nothing but insipid.

  After Brill went home, Maia crawled between the bee-silk sheets, exhausted, but unable to stop thinking. Renna, too, was immortal in a way. Lysos would've thought his method silly, as he probably thought hers.

  Perhaps they both were right.

  Sleep came eventually. She did not dream, but her hands twitched, as if sensing a vague but powerful need to reach for tools.

  The next day dawned eerie as Maia watched frost evaporate from flowers in the garden, perfuming the air with scents of roses and loneliness. When Odo collected her for their daily ride, neither woman spoke. Maia kept mulling over Brill Upsala's parting remarks the night before.

  "I can't say much about the venture," the examiner had said, referring to the enterprise her clan was funding. "Except that it involves transport and communications, using improved traditional techniques." Brill's smile was thin, wry. "Our clan likes anything that lets us spread ourselves out thinner."

  "So it doesn't have to do with the Former, or the space launcher?"

  Brill's green eyes had flashed. "What gave you that idea? Oh. Because I was with Iolanthe and the Pinniped, that night. No, I only came along to be introduced. As for the Jellicoe finds, those are sealed by Council orders." Brill lifted her satchel. "You must have known there was no other prospect. A dragon's inertia is not shifted by yanking its tail."

  Aware of the Persim clone trailing nearby, Maia had asked one final question at the door. "I still can't figure how you knew about our visit to the Lamatia bone room. The Lamai never found out, did they?"

  "Not to my knowledge."

  "Then you must've spoken to Le—"

  "Don't make assumptions," the older woman had cut in. Then, after a beat, she held out her hand. "Good luck, Maia. I hope we meet again."

  It wasn't hard to interpret Brill's meaning. I hope we meet again . . . if you survive.

  Those words came to mind as the carriage bore Maia and Odo by the marble portico of Council House. Fewer demonstrators held banners, which hung limper than ever. There was no sign of Naroin or her father.

  The strike is failing, Maia sensed. Even if it were still active on the coast, how could loosely organized men overcome great clans and win back things lost ages before living memory? What did ancient Guardians, or the Great Former, mean to the average seaman, anyway? How long can passion be maintained over an abstract grievance, nearly a thousand years old?

  Something unsettling occurred to Maia. Brill's examination had covered many of the skills needed by the pilot or navigator of a ship. Might it be part of a scheme to recruit strike breakers! There were enough women sailors to staff some freighters, after all. Without officers, those ships would soon founder, but what if women were found as replacements on the quarterdeck, as well?

  I'd refuse, Maia vowed. Even if it turned out to be the one thing I was born to do, I could never help deprive men of their one niche, their one place of pride in the world. The Perkinite solution would be more merciful.

  She knew she was leaping to conclusions. The situation was making her paranoid and depressed.

  Watching the faltering demonstration, she saw Odo smile.

  The next day, the heavens opened and there was no ride in the park. Maia tried to read, but the rain turned her thoughts to Renna. Strangely, she found it hard to picture his face. Eventually, he would have gone away, anyway, she told herself. You never would have had anything lasting together.

  Was her heart hardening? No, she still mourned her friend, and would always. But she owed duty to the living. To Leie. And she missed Brod terribly.

  That night, Maia woke to words in the hallway. She heard passing footsteps, and shadows briefly occulted the line of light under her door.

  "... I knew it couldn't last!"
r />   "It's not over, yet," commented a more cautious voice.

  "You saw the reports! The vrilly lugs'll accept the token offer and be happy about it. We'll be moving cargo well before spring!"

  The words and footsteps receded. Maia threw off the covers and hurried to the door in her nightgown, in time to see three figures round a far corner—all Persims, ranging from early to late middle age. After a moment's temptation to follow, Maia turned and headed the way they had come, her bare feet silent on the hand-woven carpet. No guards were stationed to keep her prisoner anymore. Either they felt sure of their hold over her, or cared less what she did.

  Her way lay past the main foyer of this wing and into the next, where a staircase led up to an ancient tower. Voices drew near, descending. Maia ducked into shadows as another pair of Persim entered view.