"I see. Go on."
His head briefly bowed. "Among the many guilds and lodges, there is much confusion over what was, what is, and what must be done. We were astonished to learn the true existence of Jellicoe Former. Now, however, we are told its discovery is unimportant. That its significance is solely to archaeologists. Legends mean nothing, it is said. Real men do not seek to build what they cannot shape with their two hands."
He lifted his own, scarred and callused from many years at sea, as lined as the eyes which had spent a lifetime squinting past sun and wind and spray. They were sad eyes, Maia noticed. Loneliness seemed to color their depths.
"Who's been telling you this?"
A shrug. "Those whom our mothers taught us to accept as spiritual guides."
"Oh." Maia thought she understood. Few boys were born to single vars or microclans. For most, the conservative upbringing Maia shared with Leie and Albert at Lamatia was the norm. It was as important to the Founders' Plan as any vaunted genetic manipulation of masculine nature, and explained why flamboyant exploits such as the Kings' Revolt were doomed from the start.
"There is more," the commodore went on, "Although there will be compensation for our losses, and those of the Terns, we are told that no blood debt was incurred with the ruin of the so-called Wissy-Man. He was part of no guild, nor ship, nor sanctuary. We do not owe him any bond of memory or honor. So it is said."
He means Renna, Maia realized. Her friend had spoken of the cruel nickname back on the Manitou. While admiring the hearty, self-reliant craftsmanship of the sailors, Renna had implied that it trapped men in a ritualistic obsession, forever limiting the scope of their ambitions.
After Jellicoe was forcibly evacuated, how many generations did it take for the high clans to accomplish this? It can't have been easy. The legend must have fought back, clung to life, despite suppression at nearly every mother's knee.
Whether or not she ever learned the whole story, Maia was already certain of some things. There had once been a great conspiracy. One that had come close to succeeding, long ago. One that might have altered life on Stratos, forever.
The Council in those days had not been without reason, when it used the pretext of the Kings' Revolt to seize Jellicoe Beacon and oust the old "Guardians," as the Manitou's physician had called them. Those ancient wardens of science had been up to something more subversive, more threatening to the status quo, than the Kings' dim-witted putsch. The existence of the orbital launching gun used by Renna made it all clear.
A plot to reclaim outer space. And with it a radically different way of living in the universe.
More remarkably still, the Guardians managed to keep secret the location of their great factory—their "Former." The Council swiftly confiscated the great engines of defense without ever guessing how close nearby a secret remnant continued working to complete the plan. For generations it must have gone on. Men and women, sneaking in and out of Jellicoe Former, carefully recruiting their own replacements, losing expertise and skill with each passing of the torch until, at long last, the inexorable logic of Stratoin society ground their brave, forlorn cabal to extinction. A thousand or more years later it was but a threadbare fable, no more.
Renna must have found the ship and launcher almost completed. He used the Former, programming it with his OMTI experience and knowledge to make the last needed parts.
It was a staggering accomplishment, to have achieved so much in but a few days. Perhaps he would have made it, if not forced to launch early by the premature discovery of his hiding place.
Guilt was a more potent voice than reason. But now Maia felt something stronger than either—a desire to strike back. It would be futile, of course, especially over the long run. In the short term, however, here was a chance to lay a small blow in revenge.
"I ... don't know the whole story," she began hesitantly. Maia paused, inhaled deeply, and resumed with more firmness in her voice. "But what you've been told is unjust. A lie. I knew the sailor you speak of, who came to our shores as a guest . . . with open hands . . . after crossing a sea far greater and lonelier than any man of Stratos has known. . . ."
It was late afternoon when the men finally stood to take their leave. Hullin helped Maia hobble with them to the porch, where the commodore took her hand. His officers stood nearby, their expressions thoughtful and stormy. "I thank you for your time and wisdom, Lady," the guild-master said, causing Maia to blink. "In leasing one of our ships to wild reavers, we unintentionally did your house harm. Yet you have been generous with us."
"I ..." Maia was speechless at being addressed in this fashion.
The commodore went on. "Should a winter come when your house seeks diligent men, prepared to do their duty with pride and pleasure, any of these"—he gestured at his younger comrades, who nodded earnestly—"will cheerfully come, without thought of summer reward." He paused. "I, alone, must decline, by the Rule of Lysos."
While Maia watched in stunned silence, he bowed once more. With a tone of flustered, confounded decorum, he added, "I hope we meet again, Maia. My name is Clevin."
There was glory frost that night, floating slowly downward from the stratosphere in a haze of soft, threadlike drifts that touched the wooden railings, the flagstones, the lilies in the pond, with glittering, luminous dust. Most of it evaporated on contact, filling the air with a faint, enticing perfume. Maia watched the gossamer tendrils waft past, and felt as if she were rising through a mist of microscopic stars. For a long time after, she would not go to sleep, afraid of what might happen. Lying in bed, her skin tingled with strange sensations and she wondered what would happen if she dreamed. Whose face would come to her? Brod's? Bennett's? The men of Pinniped Guild?
Would womanly hormones set off renewed, painful longing for Renna, her first, though chaste, male love?
The shock of meeting her natural father had not ebbed. Her thoughts roiled and she tossed in confusion. When Maia finally did dream, it was a strangely intangible fantasy—of falling, floating, amid the startling, abstract, ever-changing figures of the Jellicoe wonder wall.
Soon after dawn, the doctor arrived and announced in satisfaction that it would be her next-to-last visit. When she removed the agone leech, it was a chance for Maia to look closely at the box that had suppressed full vividness from both her body's ache and her heart's grief. It seemed a modest item, mass-produced and plentiful enough to furnish even the humblest medic, anywhere on Stratos. Now Maia also knew it as another product of a lesser Former, one of those automatic factories still operated under close watch by the Reigning Council. Clearly, some manufactured items were too important to be left to pastoral puritanism. If Perkinism prevailed, however, even these merciful boxes might go away.
"You'll still be needin' a bit more rest an' recoop here in Ursulaborg," Naroin explained later that morning, on returning from her urgent errand. "Then it's off to Caria for a command performance before as posh a gaggle o' savants as you've ever seen. What, d'you think o' that?"
Maia unfolded the arms of her replacement sextant and sighted on a grimlip flower. "I think you're a cop, and I shouldn't say anything more till I see a legalist."
"A legalist?" The small woman's brow knotted. "Why would you be needin' one?"
Why, indeed? Naroin might be her friend, but a clone was never entirely her own person. Once Maia was brought to Caria, Maia could think of a dozen excuses the powers that ruled Church and Council might use to lock her away. In a real prison, this time. One without secret byways, patrolled by clone guardians tested over centuries, genetically primed for vigilance.
Maia had decided not to let it come to that. This time, she would act first. Before she was taken from Ursulaborg, there should come a chance to slip away. Perhaps during her daily ride. Once away through the city crowds, she would seek shelter in an out-of-the-way place where important people might never trace her. Some quiet, dead-end seaside town. I'll find a way to get word to Leie, Brod. We'll open a chandler's shop. Repair sextants d
amaged by lazy sailors.
Perhaps Naroin could be persuaded to look the other way at the right moment. Best not to count on it, though.
"Never mind," she told the short brunette. "Had a nightmare. Can't shake the feeling I'm still living in it." .
"Who could blame you, after all you've been through." Naroin grinned. When Maia failed to respond, she leaned forward. "You think you're under arrest or somethin'? Is that it?"
"Could I walk out the front gate, if I so chose?"
The wiry ex-bosun frowned. "Wouldn't be wise, right now."
"I thought not."
"It's not what you think. There's folk who don't hold your health as dear as we do."
"Sure." Maia nodded. "I know you're lots nicer than some would be. Forget I asked."
Naroin chewed her lower lip unhappily. "You want to know what's goin' on. It's all changing so fast, though. . . . Look, I'm not supposed to say anythin' till she arrives, but there's someone comin' tomorrow to talk to you, and then escort you to the capital. I know it's fishy sounding, but it's needful. Can you trust me till then? I promise it'll all make sense."
A petulant part of Maia wanted to cling to resentment. But it was hard to stay wary of Naroin. They had been through so much together. I'd rather be dead than so suspicious I can't trust anybody.
"All right," she said. "Till tomorrow."
Naroin left again. Later, Maia and her escorts were about to depart on the afternoon litter ride when Hullin reached up to hand Maia a second folded sheet of heavy paper, sealed with red wax. Maia's heart lifted when she saw Brod's handwriting. She waited until the palanquin was jostling through the suburban market square, then tore it open.
Dear Maia,
Leie's fine and sends her love. We both miss you, and are glad to hear you're in good care. Here's hoping life is nice and boring for you, for a while.
Maia smiled. Just wait till they get her next letter! Leie would julp with jealousy that she hadn't met Clevin first! There were other, more serious matters to discuss, but it would be good to report that one of their childhood fantasies had actually come true.
Lysos, how she missed Brod and Leie! Maia desperately wished they would come soon.
We've been less busy lately. Spending most of our time just standing around while high-class mothers point and wave their arms and yell a lot. In fact, I'm surprised Leie and I are still here, since a bunch of savants arrived from the University with big consoles, which they proceeded.to attach to your picture wall. They've been making it do amazing things. Stopped asking Leie questions about it, so I guess they think they've figured it out.
Maia wondered, Why does that make me feel jealous? Now that the secret was out, it only made sense to have scholars investigate the wonders of another age. Perhaps they'd learn a thing or two . . . even change their minds about some stereotypes.
All the men are gone now, except those serving the ships which bring supplies. So are the vars and local cops who helped retake Jellicoe from the reavers. We've been told not to talk to any of the sailors, who aren't allowed into the Sanctuary or Former. The men spend whatever time they have, between loading and unloading sealed crates, just rowing around the lagoon, checking out caves, sightseeing. I don't think I'll have any trouble slipping this letter to—
The litter jerked, breaking Maia's concentration. The market was unusually crowded today. Peering over the throng, Maia saw a disturbance a few dozen meters ahead. A trio of shoppers were arguing vehemently with a storekeeper. Suddenly, one of them picked up a bolt of cloth and turned to leave, causing the merchant to screech in dismay. Maia picked up the word "Thief!" shouted over the general hubbub. Ripples of agitation spread outward as clone sisters of the sales clerk spilled out of the building behind her. Others converged to aid the shoppers. Shoving and yelling escalated with startling rapidity into unseemly grabbing, and then blows, spreading in Maia's direction.
The temple wardens moved to interpose themselves while Hullin tugged at the upset lugars, urging them to turn around. They managed to swing off the main thoroughfare into a side alley, the only avenue of escape, ducking awkwardly under a jungle of clotheslines. "Uh," Maia started to suggest. "Maybe I should get down—"
Hullin gave a startled cry. The fiver's head vanished under a blanket thrown from a nearby shadowed doorway, drawn tight with cord. The lugars grunted in panic, dropping one pole of the litter, teetering Maia vertigously outward as she grabbed futilely after Brod's fluttering letter.
Suddenly, she found herself staring straight into the blonde-fringed face of—Tizbe Beller!
Maia had only an instant to gasp before black cloth surrounded her as well, accompanied by the rough clasping of many pairs of hands. A jarring tumult followed as she sucked for breath while being lugged, pell-mell, along some twisty, abruptly shifting path. It was a hurtful, bone-shaking ordeal, surpassed only by her frustrated helplessness to fight back.
At last, the black cover came off. Maia raggedly inhaled, blinking disorientation from the searing return of sunshine. Hands yanked and pushed, but this time Maia lashed out, managing to elbow one of her captors and catch another in the stomach with her right foot, before someone cuffed her on the side of the head, bringing the stars out early. Through it all, Maia caught brief glimpses of where they were taking her, toward a set of stairs leading upward, into the belly of a gleaming, bird-shaped contraption of polished wood and steel.
An aircraft.
"Relax, virgie," Tizbe Beller told Maia as they trussed her into a padded seat. "Might as well enjoy the view. Not many varlings like you ever get to fly."
Journal of the Peripatetic Vessel
CYDONIA - 626 Stratos Mission:
Arrival + 53.755 Ms
I have watched and listened ever since the explosion. Ever since receiving warning of Renna's desperate gamble. Official Stratoin agencies say different, often contradictory things, and all appears in chaos, down below. Yet, at least one thing has been achieved. The fighting has stopped. With the irritant removed, warlike preparations among the factions have subsided, for now.
Was Renna right? Was a sacrifice necessary?
Will it suffice?
It was urgent not to disrupt Stratos any more than we already have. Yet, sometimes duty requires of us more than we can bear.
I, too, must do my duty. Soon.
27
After the initial tussle, it proved Maia's most comfortable abduction, by far. Tied down, with no option for resistance, she made the best of things by gazing through a double-paned window at the vastness of Landing Continent. Soon, even her headache went away.
Luminous yellow and pale green farmlands stretched as far as the eye could see. These were combed by long fingers of darker forest, interlaced to leave migration corridors for native creatures, from the coast all the way to mist-shrouded mountains that began to loom in the north. Small towns and castlelike clanhold manors appeared at periodic intervals, squatting like spiders amid spoked roads and surrounding hamlets. Strings of lakes were punctuated by regularly spaced fish farms that shone glancing sunlight into Maia's eyes.
Stubby barges with gray sails leisurely plied the rivers and canals, while throngs of quick, flittering mere-dragons flapped in formations of two hundred or more, warily skirting farms and habitations on their way to fallow rooting grounds. Lumbering heptoids wallowed through the fens and shallows, their broad back-fans turned to radiate the heat of the day. And then there were the floaters—zoors and their lesser cousins—bobbing in the breeze, tethered like gay balloons to the treetops where they grazed.
Maia had traveled far in recent months, but now she realized that one can only gain true perspective from above. Stratos was bigger than she had ever imagined. In all directions were signs of humanity in rustic codominion with nature. Renna said humans often turn whole worlds into deserts, through shortsightedness. That's one trap we avoided. No one could accuse Lysos, or Stratoin clans, of thinking short-term.
But Renna also hinted there are
other ways to do it, without giving up so much.
Maia watched the pilot touch switches and check small indicator screens as the plane entered a gentle bank and turned west well short of the mountains. The aircraft interior was a finely wrought mix of handcrafted wood panels and furnishings, accoutered with a compact array of instruments. If she had been in friendly company, Maia might have frothed with questions. Her bound hands were adequate reminder, however. So she kept silent, mildly ignoring Tizbe and yawning when the young Beller tried for the fourth time to initiate conversation. The implication couldn't be missed. She had escaped Tizbe twice before, bringing ruin to her plans, and thought nothing of doing so again. Maia sensed the attitude upset the Beller clone.
I'm learning, Maia thought. They keep making mistakes and I keep getting stronger.
At this rate, someday I may actually gain control over my life.
Brin, David - Glory Season Page 65