The pilot warned her passengers of turbulent air. Soon the plane was bouncing, pitching, and yawing in abrupt jerks. Tizbe and her ruffians blanched, turning discolored shades, which Maia enjoyed watching. She helped worsen the symptoms by staring at the Beller courier like a specimen of unpleasant, lower-order life. Tizbe cursed with flecked lips, and Maia laughed, unsparing in her scorn. Curiously, the tossing didn't seem to affect her like the others. Even the pilot looked a bit ragged, by the time they finally regained settled air. The storm aboard the Wotan was much worse, Maia recalled.
Then a golden light seized her attention, causing her to squint in wonder at what lay beyond the forward windscreen. A shimmering reflection, coming from a spacious, dimpled territory surrounding and covering a cluster of hills at the intersection of three broad ribbons of river.
Caria, she realized. Maia watched the capital city glide nearer, its skirts yellow with the tiles of countless roofs, its tiara of white stone girdling the famed acropolis plateau. Atop that eminence, twin basilicas swam into view beyond measure. Any schoolgirl knew the pillars on sight, the Universal Library on one side and on the other, the Great Temple dedicated to guiding worldwide reverence of Stratos Mother. All of her life, Maia had heard women speak of pilgrimages to Caria, of venerating in solemn awe the planetary spirit—and her apostles, the Founders—under that vast iridescent cupola on the right, with its giant dragon icon cast in silver and gold. The other palace, built to the same glorious scale, was unadorned and hardly ever mentioned. Yet it became Maia's focus as the aircraft circled toward a field, south of the city.
Lysos never would have built the Library co-equal to the Temple if she intended a seedy clubhouse for a few smug, savant clans.
She contemplated the grand edifice until descent removed it behind a nearby hill covered with middle-class clansteads. From that point until final landing, Maia concentrated on watching the pilot, if only to keep from helplessly worrying over her fate.
Her kidnappers installed her in a room with floral wallpaper and its own bath, unpretentiously elegant. A narrow balcony stepped down to an enclosed garden. A pair of stolid, servant-guards smiled at Maia, keeping her discreetly in sight at all times. They wore livery with fine piping on the shoulders and a gold-chased letter P, for the name of their employer-clan, she supposed.
Maia had expected to be taken to one of the pleasure houses operated by the Bellers, perhaps the very one where Renna had been abducted. From there, perhaps she would be sold to Tizbe's Perkinite clients, in revenge for what she'd done in Long Valley, months ago. This didn't look like a business establishment, however, nor did the hills near the rolling compound seem the kind of precinct where one found bordellos. Colorful silk banners flew from fairy turrets, and crenelated battlements rose above the tall, elderly groves of truly ancient estates. It was a neighborhood of noble clanholds, as far above Tizbe's hardworking family on the social ladder as the Bellers towered over Maia. Beyond the garden wall on one side, she often heard the strains of a string quartet, along with shouts of playing children, all laughing the same, syncopated trill. In the opposite direction, coming from a tower room whose lights remained on late into the night, there were recurrent sounds of anxious adult argument, the same voice taking on multiple roles.
After the landing, and Maia's first-ever ride in a motor car, she saw no more of Tizbe, or any other Beller. Nor did she particularly care. By now Maia realized she had become a pawn in power games played at the loftiest heights of Stratoin society. I ought to be flattered, she thought sardonically. That is, if I survive till equinox.
At her request, she was brought books to read. There was a treatise on the Game of Life, written three hundred years ago by an elderly savant who had spent several years with men, both at sea and as a special summertime guest in sanctuary, studying anthropological aspects of their endless tournaments. Maia found the account fascinating, though some of the author's pat conclusions about ritualistic sublimation seemed farfetched. More difficult to plow through was a detailed logical analysis of the game itself, written a century earlier by another scholar. The math was hard to follow, but it proved more orderly and satisfying than the books provided in Ursulaborg, by the Pinnipeds. Those had emphasized rules of thumb and winning technique over basic theory. It was a mental meal that left her hungry for more.
The books helped pass time while Maia's knee finished mending. Gradually she resumed a regimen excercise, building her strength while keeping eyes peeled for any chance of escape.
A week passed. Maia read and studied, paced her garden, tested the relentless vigilance of her guards, and worried ceaselessly over what was happening to Leie and Brod. She couldn't even ask if there were any more letters, since Brod had apparently been forced to smuggle out the last one. The inquiry itself might only give her friend away. . .
She refused to show frustration, lest her captors gain the slightest satisfaction, but at night the image of Renna's fatal explosion haunted her sleep. Several times, she awoke to find herself sitting bolt upright, both hands over her racing heart, gasping as if trapped in an airless space, deep underground.
One day the guards announced she had a visitor. "Your gracious host, Odo, of Clan Persim," the servants proclaimed, then obsequiously bowed aside for a tall elderly woman with a wide face and aristocratic bearing.
"I know who you are," Maia said. "Renna said you set him up to be kidnapped."
The patrician sat down on a chair and sighed. "It was a good plan, which you helped snarl, in several ways."
"Thank you."
The noblewoman nodded, a genteel gesture. "You're welcome. Would you like to know why we went to so much risk and trouble?"
A pause. "Talk if you want. I'm not goin' anywhere."
Odo spread her hands. "There were countless individuals and groups who wanted the Outsider put away. Most for visceral, thoughtless reasons, as if his deletion might turn back the clock, erasing de facto rediscovery of Stratos by the Hominid Phylum.
"Some fantasized his removal might stop the iceships from coming." Odo shook her head with aristocratic derision. "Those huge liners full of peaceful invaders will arrive long after we now living are dead. Time enough to worry out a solution. Taking revenge on a poor courier would only weaken our position, when and if full contact is restored."
"So much for the motives of others. Of course, you had more mature reasons for grabbing Renna. Like squeezing information out of him?"
The old woman nodded. "There were elements of inquiry, certainly. Our Perkinite allies were interested in new gene-splicing methods, which might lead to self-cloning without males. Others sought improved defense technology, or to learn iceship weaknesses, so we might destroy them at long range, far from Stratos."
"Too far for the public to observe, you mean. So most would never know we're murdering tens of thousands."
"I was told you catch on quickly for a mouse," Odo replied. "Nor were those the sole ideas for using your alien friend and his knowledge."
Maia recalled Kiel's Radicals, who had hoped to alter Stratoin biology and culture at least as much as the Perkinites, though in opposing directions. Maia knew Renna would have disapproved of being used by either party.
"Let me guess about the Bellers. Their motive was strictly cash, right? But you Persims, you blue-bloods, had reasons all your own."
Odo nodded. "His presence in Caria was becoming . . . disruptive. The Council and curia had vital matters to discuss, yet were growing unpredictable whenever he was around. His calm restraint during summer had defied our expectations, winning him allies, and we realized it would only get worse with winter and first frost. Imagine how persuasive a fully functioning, articulate, old-style male might be then, to those with weak wills and minds! That describes many so-called 'moderates' who were fast slipping out of our faction's control. For reasons of political convenience, it was deemed necessary to remove him."
"What?" Maia stood up. "Why, you smug bitchie. Are you sayin' that's why—"
Odo lifted a hand, waiting until Maia reseated herself before resuming in a lower voice. "You're right. There's more. You see, we'd made a promise . . . one we were unable to keep."
Maia blinked. "What promise?"
"To send him back to his ship, of course. And replenish his supplies when his mission was done. It's why he came down in a simple lander, in the first place, instead of making other arrangements." The old woman exhaled heavily. "For months, those believing in him had been working to fix the launching facility, not far from here. The machinery functioned when last used, a few centuries ago. Our records are intact.
"But too many parts have failed. Too much skill is lost. We couldn't send him home, after all." Odo hurried on before Maia could interrupt. "To make matters worse, he was in constant contact with his ship. Some already wanted him put away to prevent relaying information useful to future invaders. Those demands grew urgent when he started politely asking to inspect our launch preparations. Soon, he was bound to report that Stratos no longer had access to space."
"But Renna—"
"One night, in a confiding mood, he told me that peripatetics—interstellar couriers—are considered expendable. With numberless lives already sacrificed in the new crusade sweeping Phylum space, that of recontacting lost hominid worlds, what does another matter? Ironic, isn't it? His own words finally convinced my clan and others to ally with the Perkinites."
Yes, that was Renna, all right, Maia thought miserably. Her late friend's odd mixture of sophistication and naivete had been one of his most charming traits, and most alien.
"I take it the new launcher at Jellicoe has changed a few minds?" she asked.
The aged clone tilted her head. "You'd expect so, wouldn't you? In fact, it is complex. Political tides are at work. The Great Former and its consort facilities are causing much dispute."
No kidding. I can tell you're scared spitless.
"Why are you telling me all this?" Maia asked. "What do you care what a var like me thinks?'"
Odo shrugged. "Normally, not much. As it happens, we have need of your cooperation. Certain things will be required of you—"
Maia laughed. "What in Lysos's name makes you think I'd do anything for you?"
A reply was ready. From her capacious sleeve, Odo drew forth a small glossy photograph. Maia's fingers trembled as she took it and regarded Brod and Leie, standing together beside a vast, crystalline, spiral-shaped tube—the muzzle of the great launching gun on Jellicoe Island.
Maia's sister seemed engrossed, drawing a closeup sketch of one of the machine's many parts, while Brod ran his finger alongside a chart, covered with figures, leaning over to say something to Leie. Only their hunched shoulders betrayed the tension Maia felt emanating from the picture. Nearby, at least a dozen women conversed or lounged casually for the photographer. Almost a third of them were clones of the matriarch sitting across from Maia now.
"I think you care about the health and safety of your sister and her present vril companion. That persuades me to assume that you will do us a favor, or two."
The noblewoman seemed impervious to Maia's stare of unadulterated hatred. "For your first task," Odo resumed. "I want you to accompany me tonight. We are going to the opera."
The elegance of it all did not take Maia completely by surprise. She had been to the Capital Theater many times, vicariously, via tele broadcasts and scenes in drama-clips. As a little girl, she had fantasized dressing in the sort of fancy gowns worn by rich clonelings, gliding in to watch magnificent productions while, all around her, the whispered intrigues of great houses went on behind demure smiles and shielding fans.
Fantasies were one thing; it was quite another matter to struggle with unfamiliar fasteners and stays, coping with billowing, impractical acres of drapery that could have no function other than to advertise the wealth and status of the wearer and the wearer's house. Finally, a pair of young women from Odo's hive came to help Maia prepare for her first evening of make-believe. They managed to arrange the puffy sleeves and pleated trousers to conceal most of her recent scars, but Maia drew the line at makeup, which she found repulsive. When Odo arrived, the old woman concurred for her own reasons.
"We want the child to be recognized," she ruled. "A small bruise or two will cause notice. Besides, doesn't she cut a superb figure, as is?"
Maia turned before a precious, full-length mirror, amazed by what she saw. The outfit emphasized what she had barely noticed till now, that she had a woman's body. She was four centimeters taller and much fuller than the scrawny, gawky chicken who had shyly stepped out of Port Sanger, months before. Yet it was her own face she found most surprising: from one thin, healing scar under her right ear; to her cheekbones, now entirely free of baby fat; to the sweep of her brown hair, brushed to a fine gloss by one of Odo's attentive servants. Most astonishing were her eyes. They remained unlined, apparently youthful and innocent, until you took them full on. Slightly narrowed, they seemed at once both skeptical and serene, and from an angle she recognized the brow of her father, master of ships and storms.
It was an image of herself she had never envisioned.
Damn right! Maia thought, nodding. Take things as they come. And let 'em watch out, if they leave me a single opening.
That didn't seem likely, unfortunately. Leie and Brod relied on her good behavior for their lives. Still, Maia turned away from the mirror with a smile for Odo. You made an error, letting me see that. Let's find out how many more mistakes you make.
The Great Theater sprawled gaudily a short distance down the acropolis esplanade from the Temple and Library. Horse-drawn carriages, lugar-litters, and more than a few motor-limousines coursed up to the steps, depositing the topmost layer of Caria society for tonight's revival opening of a classic opera, Wendy and Faustus. High priestesses, councillors, judges, and savants climbed the broad steps. In many cases, the matrons of great clans were accompanied by younger cloneling daughters and nieces, too callow for real power, but the right age for procreation. These youthful ones, in turn, escorted small groups of men, tall and erectly impressive in their formal guild uniforms. The winter cream of Stratoin maledom, here to be wooed and entertained.
Maia watched from the carriage she shared with Odo and a half-dozen older women from various aristocratic clans. It had been a chilly ride. Some of the old trepidation returned under their withering disdain. That enmity was based on a wide range of fanaticisms, but what made these women powerful went far deeper, to the core of the society established by Lysos long ago.
From the moment she stepped down from the carriage, Maia felt eyes turn her way. Whispered comment followed her up the steps, through the ornate portico, and along a sweeping, ceremonial stairway to the box where Odo arranged for her to sit prominently forward, on public display. To Maia's relief, the house lights soon went down. The conductor raised her baton, and the overture began.
The opera had its points. The musical score was beautiful. Maia hardly paid attention to the libretto, however, which followed a hackneyed theme about the ancient struggle between womanly pragmatism and the spasmodic, dangerous enthusiasms of old-fashioned males. No doubt the drama had been revived at the behest of certain political parties, as part of a propaganda campaign against restored Phylum contact. Her presence was meant to signify approval.
During intermission, Maia's escorts took her to the sparkling elegance of the lobby, where var waiters circulated with trays of drinks and sweetmeats. Here it would be simple to elude her escorts ... if only Leie and Brod weren't counting on her. Maia choked down her frustration and tried to do as she'd been told. Smiling, she accepted a fizzy beverage from a bowing attendant, a var like her, with eyes lowered deferentially.
Maia's smile widened in sudden sincerity when she saw, coming toward her, a tight group of figures, two of whom she knew. Shortest, but most intense, strode the detective, Naroin, looking out of place in a simple, dark evening suit. Next to her, and half again as tall, walked Clevin, the frowning,
earnest commodore of Pinniped Guild. My father, Maia contemplated. The reality seemed so detached from her dreams of childhood, it was hard to sort true emotions, except to relish the proud light when his gray eyes saw her.
Two women accompanied Naroin and Clevin, one of them tall, silver-haired, and elegant. The other was darkly beautiful, with mysterious green eyes. Maia did not know their faces.
Odo slid alongside Maia as the group approached, "Iolanthe, how good to see you back in society. It seemed so dull without you."
The tall woman nodded her simply-coiffed gray head. Her face was delicately boned, with an air of quiet intelligence. "Nitocris Hold has been mourning its friend, who came so far across the galaxy, only to meet betrayal and untimely death."
"A death drenched in irony, and by his own hand," Odo pointed out. "With rescue just meters away, if only he knew it."
Maia would have gladly, unrepentantly, killed Odo on the spot. She remained rigidly still, save to give one quick nod to Naroin, another to her father.
"So you feel delivered of your crime?" the woman named lolanthe asked, her voice prim, like that of a savant. "We'll find other witnesses, other testimony. Such a grand cabal of tensely diverse interests cannot hold. You play dangerous games, Odo."
Brin, David - Glory Season Page 66