"It is important, therefore, to keep all other aspects in perspective, and remember what is fundamental. These accomplishments—this world and proud culture of ours—are worth defending with all the dedication we can muster from our souls."
It was a stirring speech, uttered with passion and eloquence. Maia saw many of the heads between her and the screen nod in solemn agreement. Of course, those up front would be clones from lesser families, or rich vars. Anyone who could afford front seats already had a vested interest in the social order. Yet, many others seemed as moved by the savant's words. Even Leie, when Maia turned to glance at her sister.
Of course Leie, the perpetual optimist, assumed it was just a matter of time before the two of them established their own clan. They would someday be revered grandmothers of a great nation. Any system that let quality rise in such a way might be stern, but could it be called unjust?
Could it? Maia long ago gave up arguing the topic. She never won contests of opinion with her twin.
". . . so we are asking all citizens, from clanhold to sanctuary, to keep on the lookout. If anyone notices anything peculiar, it is her—or his—duty to report it at once—"
The change in the thread of Savant Sydonia's words caught her by surprise. Maia whispered. "What's she onto now? I missed—"
Leie hushed her curtly.
". . . to inform the local guardia office in any large town. Or go to any major clanhold and tell the senior mothers what you have seen. There are rewards, up to a Level Three stipend, for information serving the interest of Stratos in these times of stress and danger."
The young interviewer smiled ingratiatingly. "Thank you, Savant Sydonia, of Clan Youngblood and the Caria University. Now we turn to this month's summary of tech judgments. Reporting from Patents Hall, here is Eilene Yarbro. ..."
Leie dragged Maia outside by the wrist.
"Did you hear?" she asked excitedly, once they were, some distance away, beside one of Lanargh's countless canals. "A Class Three stipend . . . just for tattling!"
"I heard, Leie. And yes, it's enough to start a hold, in some inexpensive town. But did you notice how vague they were? You don't find that strange? Almost like they're desperate to learn something, but julping at the thought of anybody finding out what they're looking for!"
"Mm," Leie grunted. "You have a point. But hey, you know what?" Her eyes gleamed. "That must mean they're underplaying what they're actually willing to pay. A stipend for information . . . and how much more for keeping quiet afterward? A whole lot, I'll bet!"
Yeah, lots more. Like a garrote in the dark. There were legends of ancient parthenogenetic clans whose daughters brought status and wealth to the hive by hiring out as stealthy assassins. Not all scary stories told to little summerlings were baseless.
But Maia didn't mention this. After all, Leie lived for possibilities, and her enthusiasm tugged at something similar within Maia—a zest for living that she might otherwise have been too reserved, too withdrawn to tap. She differed so from her sibling, even though they were as alike genetically as any pair of clones. It had made Maia more willing than most vars to accept the notion of individuality among winter folk.
"We've got to keep our eyes open!" Leie said, turning a great circle with her arms, and finally staring up at the starry vault overhead.
Constellations had emerged while they were inside, painting the heavens with sweeping, diamond brilliance.
The radiance of the galactic wheel. At expected intervals, Maia caught sight of rhythmically pulsing pinpoints that weren't stars or planets, but rotating satellites vital to navigators at sea. She saw no sign of the Visitor Ship, but there was the black obscurity of the Claw, which bad little girls were told was the open, grabbing hand of the Boogey Man, reaching for children who failed their duty. Now Maia knew it as a dusty nebula, nearby in stellar terms, obscuring direct line of sight to Earth and the rest of the Human Phylum. That must have been comforting to the Founders, providing added shelter against interference by the old ways.
All that was over, now. Something had emerged from the Claw, and Maia doubted even great savants knew yet whether it meant menace or promise. The dark shape made her shiver, childhood superstitions clashing with her proud, if limited, scientific knowledge.
"If only we knew what the savants are looking for," said Leie wistfully. "I'd shave my head to find out!"
Practically speaking, if the grand matrons of Caria sought something, it was doubtful two poor virgins on a frontier coast would stumble across it. "It's a big world," Maia sighed in reply.
Naturally, Leie took a different spin on her sister's words.
"It sure is. Big, wide open, and just waiting for us to take it by the throat!"
Why does sex exist? For three billion years, life on Earth did well enough without it. A reproducing organism simply divided, thus arranging for its posterity to be carried on by two almost-perfect copies.
That "almost" was crucial. In nature, true perfection is a blind alley, leading to extinction. Slight variations, acted on by selection, let even single-cell species adapt to a changing world. Still, despite eons of biochemical innovation, progress was slow. Life remained meek and simple till just half a billion years ago, when it made a breakthrough.
Bacteria were already swapping genetic information, in a crude fashion. Now the system of exchange got organized, increasing patterned variability ten thousand-fold. Sex was born, and soon came many-celled organisms—fish, trees, dinosaurs, humans. Sex did all that.
Yet, because nature accomplished something in a certain way, must we follow suit when we design our new humanity? Modern gene-craft can outpace sex another thousand-fold. Within overall mammalian limitations, we can paint with colors never known to poor, blind biology.
We can learn from Mother Nature's mistakes, and do a better job.
—from Methods and Means, by Lysos
4
There was little rain. Nevertheless, the squall swiftly turned into a vicious gale.
The freighter Wotan wallowed through deep, rolling seas, sliding half-sideways down serrated slopes, abeam to a wind that seized its masts like lever arms, so that the poorly balanced ship heeled dangerously with each stiffening gust, its helm not responding.
Screaming, the mate berated his captain for taking on too little ballast in Lanargh. Earlier, he had cursed because they were too laden to flee the surprise tempest. Ignoring the first officer's shrill imprecations, the master sent sailors aloft to break the wind's grip on the masts. Shivering in icy spray, barefoot crewmen took to the swaying sheets, clenching hatchets in their teeth, edging crablike along slippery spars to hack at rigging, torn canvas—anything the vicious storm might clutch and use to heel them over to their doom.
Dimly, through waves of churning nausea, Maia peered after the brave seamen, unable to credit such skill or fortitude. Needles of saltwater stung her eyes as she squeezed the gunnels, watching sailors take horrific risks high above, wielding axes one-handed, shouting as they struggled in common to save the lives of everyone aboard. Nor were there only men up there. Higher-pitched cries told of female crew who had also climbed into the gale, riding masts that whipped like tortured snakes.
Vars like her. How could human beings do such things? Maia felt queasy at the thought. Plus shame at being too landlubber-inept to lend a hand.
" 'Ware below!" a voice bellowed. Something fell out of the chaos overhead, a ropy tangle that clanged off the gunnels, then slithered toward the dark, hungry waters. Blearily, Maia stared after the mass of blocks and rigging, which might have taken her along had it struck just a bit farther aft. But try as she might, she could not spy a safer place on deck than right here between the masts, gripping the railing for dear life.
One thing for sure, she wasn't about to join other passengers cowering below. Out here one must face the storm unsheltered, staring at soaring mounds and abyssal gullies of heaving ocean. But across that terrifying vista, that maelstrom, she had last sighted the Zeus. H
er twin rode that other frail matchbox of wood and cloth and flesh, and if Maia was too ill and clumsy to help Wotan's struggling crew, at least she could keep watch, and call if she saw anything.
Mostly what she saw was watery nature, a conspiracy of foamy sea and sodden air, trying its best to kill them. The green hillocks, taller and steeper than the clanholds of Port Sanger, arrived in a rhythm well-timed to deepen the ship's pendulous roll. On passing the next crest, Wotan heeled far to starboard, hanging precipitously, about to spill over a terrifying slant. The entire vessel shivered.
Just then, a fresh gust struck the other side, yanking mightily at the groaning masts, levering the freighter's great bulk over its keel. Loudly protesting, the infirm ship listed and plummeted downslope. Gravity rotated, becoming a sideways force, pressing Maia against the rails. One leg slipped between, dangling into space. In horror, she saw the gray-green sea reach with foam-flecked gauntlets . . .
Time slowed. For a suspended moment, Maia thought she heard the waters call her name.
Then, as if bemused by her helplessness, the ocean-beast slowed . . . paused . . . halted just meters away. Eyeless, it looked at her. Like an unhurried predator staring straight through her soul.
Next time ... Or the time after . . .
The trough bottomed out. Maia's heart pounded as the freighter's list began slowly to roll the other way again, drawing back the hungry waters. Gravity's fickle tug rotated toward the deck, once more.
Suddenly, from underneath came a sharp, splintering crash. A horrible, fell vibration, like wooden ribs snapping. New, panicky cries pealed.
". . . Eai! The cargo's shifted! ..."
An image came to mind, unasked for. . . . Tons of coal moving in black, liquid waves from one side of the hold to the other, assailing the inner hull as the sea hammered from without. Wotan sobbed, Maia thought, listening to the horrific sound. Dark figures ran past, prying at the cargo hatch with steel bars, sending the door flying off like a leaf caught in the wind. Not waiting for help, the dim forms dove inside, presumably to try shifting, the load with their bare hands.
Maia glanced overboard as the sea rolled back again, nearly cresting at the gunnels this time, before receding even more reluctantly than before. Just a few more such oscillations, and Wotan was surely doomed. The cries of those aloft rose in pitch and urgency, along with sounds of frantic chopping. Someone screamed. An ax glittered in the rainswept beam of an emergency lantern, tumbling to the raging sea. Belowdecks echoed the wails of those facing a different hopeless task.
By utter force of will, Maia overrode her nausea, as wild as the storm. Her hands uncurled from the vibrating rail and pushed off. "I'm . . . coming . . ." she managed to croak, for no one to hear. Knowing she lacked any skill to aid those struggling aloft, Maia stumbled upslope across the slippery deck, toward the yawning darkness of the hatch.
Inside the hold, all hell had broken loose, as well as several partitions meant to guard the contents against shifting. One barrier had given way in the worst possible place, near the bow, where all that mass suddenly piling starboard added to their list and worsened the rudder's lumberous response. Dim electric bulbs, running on reserve batteries, swung wildly and cast dervish shadows as Maia grimly traversed a creaky catwalk straddling huge bins half-filled with chunky coal. Black dust rose like spindrift, clogging her throat and causing her nictitating membranes to close over her eyes, just when she needed more light, not less!
Stumbling down a crumbly talus, Maia came upon an infernal scene, where shattered boards let tons of coal pile rightward in great sloping mounds. Other vars had already joined the men below, toiling to tame the rebel cargo, tossing it morsel by morsel over groaning walls into yet unbroken compartments. Someone handed Maia a shovel and she dug in, adding what she could to the pitiful effort. Through the suffocating haze, she saw that a trio of clones were also hard at work—first-class passengers whose clan must have taught its daughters that dirty hands were less objectionable than dying.
A good thing to remember for our daughters' curriculum, pondered a remote part of her, exiled to a far corner along with notions that kept gibbering in stark terror. There wasn't time for dread or detachment as Maia bent to her task with a will.
More helpers arrived carrying buckets. An officer began shouting and pointing, organizing a human chain—women in the middle, passing plastic pails, while men shoveled and filled at one end, heaving coal over a partition at the other. Maia's job was to keep one shoveler provided with fresh buckets, then send each laden pail on its way. Although desperation lent her strength, and danger hormones surmounted her nausea, she had trouble keeping up with the frantic pace. The male sailor's wedge-shaped torso heaved like some great beast, emitting heat so palpable she dimly feared it might ignite the flying coal, sending everyone to patarkal hades in one giant fireball.
The rhythm accelerated. Agony spread from her hands, up her fatigued arms, and across her back. Everyone else was older, stronger, more experienced, but that hardly mattered, with all lives at stake together. Only teamwork counted. When Maia fumbled a bucket, it felt like the world coming to an end.
Concentrate, dammit!
It didn't end, not yet. No one chided, and she did not cry, because there was no time. Another pail took the fallen one's place and she bore down, striving to work faster.
Bucket by bucket, they chewed away at the drift. But despite all their efforts, the tilt seemed only to increase. The black mountain climbed higher up the starboard bulkhead. Worse, the bin they had been loading, on the port side, began to creak and groan, its straining planks bowing outward. No telling how long that partition would hold against a growing gravitational discord. Every pailful they tossed just added to the load.
Suddenly, a startling, earsplitting crash pounded the deck overhead. Something heavy must have come loose from the rigging, at last. Through the ringing in her skull, Maia heard sounds of distant cheering. Almost at once, she felt the freighter slip out of the wind's frustrated clutches. With a palpable moan, Wotan's tiller finally answered its helmsman's weary pull and the ship broke free, turning to run before the storm.
In the hold, a var near Maia let out a long sigh as the awful list began to settle. One of the clones laughed, tossing her shovel aside. Maia blinked as someone patted her on the back. She smiled and started to let go of the bucket in her hands—
" 'Ware!" Someone screamed, pointing at the mountain of coal to the right. Their efforts had paid off, all right. Too quickly. As the starboard tilt gave way, momentum swung the ship past vertical in a counterclockwise roll. The sloping mass trembled, then started to collapse.
"Out! Out!" An officer cried redundantly, as screaming crew and passengers leaped for ladders, climbed the wooden bins, or merely ran. All except those nearest the avalanche, for whom it was already too late. Maia saw a stupefied look cross the face of the huge sailor next to her, as the black wave rumbled toward them. He had time to blink, then his startled yell was muffled as Maia brought her bucket down upon his shoulders, covering his head.
The momentum of her leap carried her upward, so the anthracite tsunami did not catch her at once. The poor sailor's bulk shielded Maia for an instant, then she was swimming through a hail of sharp stones, frantically clawing uphill. Grabbing for anything, her hand struck the haft of a shovel and seized it spasmodically. As her legs and abdomen were pinned, Maia just managed to raise the tool, using the steel blade to shield her face.
A noise like all eternity ending brought with it sudden darkness.
Panic seized her, an intense, animal force that jerked and heaved convulsively against burial and suffocation. Terrifying blindness and crushing weight enveloped her. She wanted to maul the enemy that pressed her from all sides. She'wanted to scream.
The fit passed.
It passed because nothing moved, no matter how she strained. Not a thing. Maia's body returned to conscious control simply because panic proved utterly futile. Consciousness was the only part of her t
hat could even pretend mobility.
With her first coherent thought, finding herself blanketed by tons of stony carbon, Maia realized that there were indeed worse things than acrophobia or seasickness. And there was yet one item heading the catalogue of surprises.
I'm not dead.
Not yet. In darkness and battered agony, straddling a fine zone between fainting and hysteria, Maia clung to that fact and worked at it. The press of warm, rusty steel against her face was one clue. The shovel blade hadn't kept the avalanche from burying her, but it had protected a small space, a pocket filled with stale air, rather than coal. So perhaps she'd suffocate, rather than drown. The distinction seemed tenuous, yet the tangy smell of metal was preferable to having her nostrils full of horrible dust.
Time passed. Seconds? Fractions of seconds? Certainly not minutes. There couldn't be that much air.
The ship had stopped rocking, thank Stratos, or the shifting cargo would have quickly ground her to paste. Even with the coal bed lying still, nearly every square inch of her body felt crushed and scraped by jagged rocks. With nothing to do but inventory agonies, Maia found it possible to distinguish subtle differences in texture. Each chunk pressing her body had a sadistic personality so individual she might give it a name . . . this one, Needle; that one under her left breast, Pincher; and so on.
Brin, David - Glory Season Page 9