Stop it. Maia shook her head vigorously. Let go of the pain. Leie would.
After reading silently for a while, Tizbe looked up from her gunnysack chaise. "Oh, this part's lovely, Maia. It says, 'Long Valley retains many quaint features of a frontier region. From your stateroom, be sure to observe the rustic little towns, each with its monotone grain silo and banks of solar cells . . .' "
There was that word quaint again. It seemed to refer patronizingly to anything simple or backward, from the viewpoint of a city-bred tourist. I wonder if Tizbe finds me quaint, too.
"'. . . between the towns and zones of cultivation, note stretches of native kuourn grass, set aside under ecological rules even stricter than decreed by Caria City. . . .'"
They had seen many such oases—great lakes of waving stalks with purple flowers. The Perkinite cult governing this valley worshiped a Stratos Mother whose wrath toward planet abuse was matched only by her distrust of the male gender. Yet, Maia felt sure much of the plains was off-limits for another reason—to prevent competition.
When Long Valley first opened for settlement, young vars must have swarmed in from all over Stratos, forming partnerships to tame the land. Affiliations that became powerful, interclan alliances when successful women settled down to raise daughters and cash crops. That, in turn, meant pitching in to build a railroad, to export surplus and import supplies, comforts.
And men. Despite their slogans, the Perkinite Utopia soon began to resemble the rest of Stratos. You can't fight biology. Only push at the rules, here and there.
"Oh! Here's a good part, Maia. Did you know there are more than forty-seven local species of zahu? It's used for all sorts of things. Like—"
A shrill whistle thankfully interrupted Tizbe's next eager recounting. It was the ten-minute warning before their next stop. Maia glanced at the wall chart. "Clay Town comin' up."
"So soon?" asked the hitcher. Maia threw open her ledger, running a fingertip along today's bills of lading. "Can't you hear the whistle blowing? Come on, you read numbers, I'll fetch boxes."
She kept her finger by the starting place until Tizbe sauntered over. Then Maia hurried to the single aisle running the length of the car, between tall racks of shelving. "What's the first number?" she called.
There followed a long pause. "Um. Is it 4176?"
Maia winced. That had been the final entry at their last stop, only an hour ago. "Next one! Start where it says Clay Town on the left."
"Oh! You mean 5396?"
"Right!" Grabbing a block and tackle that hung from an overhead rail, Maia scanned the shelves. She found the correct box, hooked its leather strap, pulled the chain taut, and swung the package out, hauling it along the track to where she could lower it gently by the door. "Next."
"That would be ... mm, let's see . . . 6178?"
Maia sighed and went looking. Fortunately, the awkward Musseli sorting system wasn't too hard to puzzle out, although it might have been meant to confuse as much as to clarify. "Next?"
"Already? I lost my place. ... Ah! Is it 9254?"
Strictly speaking, it should have been Maia at the ledger and her assistant doing the hauling. But Tizbe had whined about having to do work "suited for lugars and men." She couldn't get the gliding winch to work. She picked up a sliver. Maia had a theory about this creature. Tizbe must be a var-child from some big-city clan, so rich and decadent they pampered even their summerlings, kissing them on the brow and sending them off unequipped to survive past their first year. Perhaps Tizbe expected to live off appearance and charm alone.
I wonder why she looks familiar, though.
Despite, or maybe because of, Tizbe's assistance, the pile by the door wasn't quite finished by the time the second whistle blew. The locomotive's flywheel audibly changed tone as the train began braking. Maia hurried the pace. Her hands had callused from hard work, yet the rough chain bit her fingers whenever the car jostled. The last, heavy package almost got away, but she managed to lower it down with just an echoing thump.
Short of breath, Maia rolled open the sliding door as rows of towering kilns and brick ovens grew like termite mounds around the train, enveloping it in an aroma of glazed, baked earth. "Welcome to Clay Town, hub of Argil County," Tizbe sang with false enthusiasm. For a while, everything was red or dun-colored. Stacks and crates of ceramics swam past in a blur.
Abruptly, the aromatic kiln district gave way to residences, row after row of petite houses. Here in Long Valley, important matriarchies built their citadels near their fields or pastures, leaving towns to small homesteads, sometimes derisively called microholds. From the decelerating train, Maia watched a woman stroll by, holding the hand of a little girl who was obviously her clone-daughter. Half the population of the valley apparently lived this way—single women, winter-born but living varlike existences, with jobs that barely paid the bills and let them raise one winter child, exactly the way their mothers had, and grandmothers, and so on. One identical next-self to inherit and carry on. A thin but continuing chain.
It seemed a simpler, less presumptuous sort of immortality than the binge-or-bust cycles of great houses. You could do worse, Maia thought. In fact, there seemed something terribly sweet and intimate about the solitary mother, walking alone with her child. Ever since her own grand dreams shattered, Maia had begun thinking in more modest terms. The Musseli were beneficent toward their employees, treating several score singleton women almost like full members of their commune. Perhaps, if she worked hard at this job, Maia might win a long-term contract. Then, after saving up to build a house. . . .
Even after all that, there remained the problem of men. Or a man. You had to start off with a winter birth. It was rare to be able to conceive any other time of year, till you'd had a clone. But getting pregnant in winter wasn't as simple as going into the street and calling, "Hey, you!"
Well, don't think of that now. Take care of things one step at a time.
The train slowed into the Clay Town railyard with a hiss and squeal. Passengers began alighting. From two cars back came bumping sounds as men and lugars wasted no time hauling heavy farm machinery off a flatbed car. Nearer at hand, Maia saw the local Musseli freightmistress approach, clipboard in hand, striding ahead of a towering lugar laden with packages. Smile, Maia told herself. Try not to act like you're only five.
"Is this all of it?" the woman snapped, pointing to the pile by the door.
"Yes, madam. That's all."
As Maia handed over the bills of lading, Tizbe sidled alongside, muttering "Excuse me" in a low voice. The young blonde squeezed past carrying her travel bag. "Think I'll go have a look around," she drawled casually.
Maia called after her. "It's only a forty-minute stop! Don't get los—" She cut off as Tizbe turned a corner and vanished from sight.
"If it's convenient for you, right now?"
Maia jerked back to face the freightmistress. Her face flushed. "Sorry, madam. I'm ready when you are." Bending over the ledger, while carefully cross-checking the packages, Maia chided herself for worrying about a stupid hitchhiker.
She's just another silly var. None of my concern. Maia, you've got to try thinking more like Leie.
Leie certainly wouldn't have bothered. Leie would have said "good riddance."
But with the freightmistress grudgingly satisfied, and ten minutes to go before departure, Maia went looking for her errant assistant. She had reached the far end of the platform, with no sign yet of the irritating blonde, when a whistle blew some distance beyond the kiln district—another train approaching the station.
A young man could be seen holding a lever that would magnetically transfer the oncoming locomotive to one of three sets of rails. Several young women stood nearby, giggling, perched on a wooden walkway in front of a tall house with red curtains. As she neared, Maia saw two of them open their blouses and lean over the youth, shaking their well-proportioned torsos. His color, already flushed, grew redder by the minute. Maia wondered why.
"Not now!" He m
uttered at the women. "Go back inside an' wait a minute!"
The young man was trying to concentrate on the approaching train, still half a kilometer away, its flywheels squealing as it began to brake. The young women seemed to relish the effect they were having. One pointed in glee, causing the others to laugh uproariously. The youth's taut trousers barely concealed a stiffening bulge. He looked up, saw Maia watching, and turned away with an embarrassed moan. This only brought more gales of hilarity from the local women.
"Hey, Garn," one shouted. "You sure yer holdin' the right stick?"
"Go 'way!" he shouted hoarsely, trying to look over his shoulder at the approaching train. Across the poor fellow's brow emerged a line of perspiration.
"Aw come on," another topless var crooned, jiggling at him. "Want another taste?" She proffered a clear bottle. Instead of liquid, it brimmed with a fine, bluish, iridescent powder. One corner of the boy's mouth bore a similar stain.
"What's goin' on here!"
Everyone turned toward the nearby red-curtained house. At the doorway stood a burly older man and—Tizbe!
But not the Tizbe she knew. Maia blinked. Her instant impression was that the var hitchhiker had, in just twenty minutes, changed her clothes, dyed her hair, and gained ten years!
Lysos, Maia thought, realizing how she'd been had. Leie and I planned to travel about, pretending we were clones. I never expected to see the trick pulled in reverse!
"These frills distractin' you, Garn?" the big man asked, wiping his lips with the back of one hand. Shaking his head vigorously, the youth replied. "N-no, Jacko, they just—"
"Lennie, Rose, get your iced-up perfs inside!" cursed the woman who looked like Tizbe. "No one's supposed to see that stuff, let alone get free samples!"
"Aw, Mirri, we were just testin'—" one girl whined, dodging a slap. The bottle was snatched out of her hand and she ran for the house.
So, Maia confirmed. Tizbe's no var. And her type gets meaner with age.
With a cold eye, the older woman turned and glared at Maia. "Who the vrilly hell are you?"
Maia blinked. "Ah . . . nobody."
"Then take off, Nobody. You haven't seen—"
"Garn!" the big man shouted. The youth below, confused by both commotion and his hormones, had forgotten the oncoming train and begun leaning on the lever, perhaps to spare his painful tumescence. There came a deep, electric hum and click. In dismay, he pushed the lever the other way, and shoved too far. Two loud, grinding clicks. He yanked back. .
A shrill toot filled the air as an alarmed engineer threw his emergency brakes, watching helplessly as momentum carried the oncoming locomotive along slick, invisible magnetic fields onto a track already occupied by another train.
The boy dove under the platform. Everyone else ran.
Maia knew now why her assistant baggage handler had looked familiar.
Past the crowd that gathered to gawk at the damage, Maia saw once more the woman she had mistaken for the hitchhiker, conversing intently with the real Tizbe. One or both had dyed her hair, but side by side it was obvious. They wore older and younger versions of the same face.
And now Maia recalled where she'd seen that visage before. Several sisters of their clan had been lounging at a cafe on the main square in Lanargh, outside another house equipped with plush curtains. Looking a second time, Maia saw the same emblem above the building overlooking the tracks—a grinning bull, grasping in its jaws a ringing bell.
Most towns possessed houses of ease—enterprises catering to human cravings, especially those of deep winter and high summer. "Escape valves," Savant Judeth had called them. "Bordellos," said Savant Claire, with finality that forbade even asking what the latter word meant.
The reality seemed rather ordinary and businesslike. Such houses provided one outlet for seamen who lacked invitations to clanholds when aurorae made their blood run hot. And in deep winter, when men were more interested in game boards than physical recreations, even normally cool Lamai sisters sometimes felt need of "a comfort." Especially when glory fell from heaven, they would head downtown, to visit one of those elegant palaces catering to richer hives.
Naturally, such profitable establishments were run by specialized clans, although frequent use was made of hired var labor. Maia and Leie had never thought themselves pretty or vapid enough for such a career. Still, they used to speculate what went on inside such places.
Both Tizbe and "Mirri" looked her way, causing Maia to turn quickly, feeling a chill of apprehension. What are such high-class smugs doing out here in the sticks?
It was pure luck of Lysos that no one had been seriously hurt in the wreck, considering how the two trains met in a tangle of sheet metal and spraying lubricants. Medics from the town clinic were still treating scratches and lacerations as the engineer of the second train shouted, pointing at his locomotive, then at the boy, Garn, who looked downcast and miserable.
Garn's older colleague yelled back, clenching his hands menacingly. In a sudden outburst, Jacko reached out and pushed the aggrieved engineer, who stumbled two paces, blinking in surprise. That only seemed to catalyze Jacko. Although physically no larger, he loomed over the retreating engineer, who now raised both hands placatingly.
Jacko punched him in the face.
Onlookers gasped as the engineer fell down Whimpering, he tried crawling backward, holding a bloody nose. With dismay he saw Jacko follow, bearing down, clearly intent on more mayhem. Reading the engineer's bewilderment, Maia sensed the fallen man was furiously trying to remember something he had known in the past, but lately forgotten—like how to form a fist.
Abruptly, the woman Maia had mistaken for Tizbe was at Jacko's side, tugging his arm. It looked impossible, like trying to restrain a berserk sash-horse. Panting hard, Jacko appeared not to notice until Mirri reached up and took his ear, twisting it to get his attention. He winced, paused, started to turn. Gradually, her crooning words penetrated, until he finally nodded jerkily, allowing her to pull his elbow, drawing him about and leading him through the hushed crowd toward the red-curtained house.
Of course. That's another of their jobs. Despite all the laws and codes and sanctuaries, despite the well-tended hospitality halls of the great clans, there were always troubles in coastal towns during high summer, when aurorae danced and bright Wengel Star called out the old beast in males. Rutting men with nowhere to go, brawling and making enough noise to shame storm-season tempests. Pleasure clans knew sophisticated lore for handling such situations. The house mistress seemed quite skilled, luckily for the poor engineer.
Only it's not summer! Maia thought, struggling with confusion. This shouldn't have happened.
Through the dispersing throng, Maia glanced past the wreck at Tizbe—the real one this time—who looked right back at her, eyes filled with a glint of dark speculation.
Humans aren't like certain fish or plants, for whom sex is but one option. Something in sperm is vital to form the crucial placenta, which nurtures babies in the womb. Reproduction entirely without males—parthenogenesis—appears to be impossible for mammals. The best we can do is emulate a process used by some creatures on Earth, called amazonogenesis. Mating with a male is still needed, to spark conception, but the offspring are clones, genetically identical to their mother.
"Fine," said the early separationists of Herlandia. "We'll design males to serve this purpose, and no other!"
Remember the Herlandia drones? Tiny, useless things, their creation cannot be called cruel, since they were programmed for unending bliss, stroked like pampered lap dogs, always eager at beck and call, to do their duty.
They were abominations! To take powerful, graceful beings such as men—so full of curiosity and zest for life—and turn them into phlegmatic freaks, this was abhorrent. Naturally it failed. Even without direct genetic involvement, pallid fathers will sire a pallid race.
Besides, shall we eliminate variability entirely? What if circumstances change? We may need the gene-churning magic of normal sex
uality, from time to time.
The Enemy's arrival at Herlandia brought that experiment to an abrupt, well-deserved end. Naturally, the womenfolk of that colony world defended their brave new civilization with no end of ingenuity and courage. But when they most needed that special wrath which makes warriors, they found that they had purposely jettisoned one of its primal fonts. Lap dogs aren't much help when monsters prowl the sky.
That, my sisters, is another reason we should not entirely abandon the male side.
Our descendants may encounter times when it has its uses.
6
There were no recitations from the travel guide when the journey recommenced. Tizbe read her book in silence, or stared through the dusty window at the monotonous countryside. Maia found the silence unnerving. Her thoughts roiled from all she had seen, and more she suspected lay unseen. Until now, she had attributed many queer incidents to "other ports, other lands." Now she knew with a sinking feeling. Something's happening. And I don't think I'm going to like it.
Brin, David - Glory Season Page 12