She awoke to find, next to her bed, the slim volumes given her by the Pinnipeds, plus a small box and a folded slip of paper. Maia opened the note.
I’ll be gone a while, varling, it read. I’m leaving Hullin to keep an eye open. These folk are all right, tho maybe a bit nutty. See you soon. Naroin.
The detective’s departure came as no surprise. Maia had wondered why Naroin stuck around this long. Surely she had work to do?
Maia opened the box. Inside a tissue wrapping she found a case made of aromatic leather, attached to a soft strap. She opened it and found therein a gleaming instrument of brass and gleaming glass. The sextant was beautiful, perfect, and so well-made she found it impossible to tell how old it was, save by the fact that it possessed no readout window, no obvious way to access the Old Net. Still, it was on sight far more valuable than the one she had left behind, at Jellicoe. Maia unfolded the sighting arms and ran her hands over the apparatus. Still, she hoped Leie would manage to recover the old one. Cranky and half-broken as it was, she felt it was hers.
She pulled the blanket over her head and lay in a ball, wishing her sister were here. Wishing for Brod. Wishing her mind were not full of visions of smoke spirals and glittering sparks, spreading sooty ashes amid stratospheric clouds.
A week passed slowly. The physician dropped by every morning to examine Maia, gradually notching downward the anesthetic effects of the agone leech, and insisting that the patient take gentle walks around the temple grounds. In the afternoons, after lunch and a nap, Maia was carried by lugar-litter for a promenade through the suburban village and up to a city park overlooking the heart of Ursulaborg. Accompanying her went several tough-looking nuns, each flourishing an iron-shod “walking stick” with a dragon-headed grip. Maia wondered why the precautions. Surely nobody was interested in her, now that Renna was gone. Then she noticed her attendants glancing backward, keeping a wary eye on a foursome of identical, formidable-looking women trailing ten meters behind, dressed as civilians but walking with the calm precision of soldiers. It marred the sense of normality that otherwise flowed over her while passing through bustling market streets.
For the first time since she and Leie had explored Lanargh, Maia felt immersed back in ordinary Stratoin life. Trade and traffic and conversation flowed in all directions. Countless unfamiliar faces came in trios, quintets, or even mixed-age octets. No doubt it would have seemed terribly exotic, had two innocent twins from the far northeast come ashore here on their first voyage from home. Now, myriad subtle differences from Port Sanger only seemed trivial and irrelevant. What she noticed were similarities, witnessed with new eyes.
Within a brick-lined workshop, open to the street, a family of artisans could be seen making a delicately specialized assortment of dinner ware. An elderly matriarch supervised ledger books, haggling over a wagonload of clay delivered by three identical teamsters. Meanwhile behind her, middle-aged clonelings labored at firing kilns, and agile youths learned the art of applying their long fingers to spinning wet mud on belt-driven wheels, molding shapeless lumps into the sturdy, fine shapes for which their clan was, no doubt, locally well-known.
Maia had only to shift her mental lens a little to imagine another scene. The walls withdrew, receding in the distance. Simple handmade benches and pottery wheels were replaced by the clean lines of pre-molded machinery, accurately tuned to squeeze clay into computer-drawn templates, which then passed under a glazing spray, then heat lamps, to emerge in great stacks, perfect, untouched by human hands.
The joy of craft. The quiet, serene assumption that each worker in a clan had a place—one that their daughters might also call theirs. All that would be lost.
Then, as her litter bearers threaded the market throng, Maia saw the stall where the potter clan sold their wares. She glimpsed prices … for a single dish, more than a var laborer earned in four days. So much that a modest clan would patch a chipped plate many times before thinking of buying a replacement. Maia knew. Even in wealthy Lamatia Hold, summer kids seldom dined off intact crockery.
Now magnify that by a thousand products and services, any of which might be enhanced, multiplied, made immeasurably cheaper and more widely available with applied technology. How much would be gained?
Moreover, she wondered, What if one of those clone daughters someday wanted to do something different, for a change?
She spied a group of boys running raucous circles around the patient lugars, then onward toward the park. They were the only males she had seen, even now, in midwinter. All others would be nearer the water, though no one barred their way this time of year. Maia found it odd, after so long in the company of men, not to have any around. Nor were vars like her common, either. Except within the temple grounds, they, too, were a tiny minority.
On arrival at the park, Maia gingerly got off the litter and walked a short distance to a walled ledge overlooking Ursulaborg. Here was one of the world’s great cities, which she and Leie had dreamed of visiting, someday. Certainly it far exceeded anything she had seen, yet now it looked parochial. She knew the place would fit into the vest pocket of any metropolis, on almost any Phylum world … save only those others which had also chosen pastoralism over the frantic genius of Homo technologicus.
Renna had earnestly respected the accomplishments of Lysos and the Founders, while clearly believing they were wrong.
What do I believe? Maia wondered. There are tradeoffs. That much, she knew. But are there any solutions?
It was still terribly hard, thinking of Renna. Within a corner of her mind, a persistent little voice kept refusing to let go. The dead have come back before, it insisted, bringing up the miraculous return of Leie. Others had thought Maia herself finished, only to find out reports of her demise were premature.
Hope was a desperate, painful little ember … and in this case absurd. Hundreds had witnessed the Visitor’s vaporization.
Let go. She told herself to be glad simply to have been his friend for a while. Perhaps, someday, there might come a chance to honor him, by shining a light here or there.
All else was fantasy. All else was dust.
• • •
As she gradually improved, Maia started getting visitors.
First came a covey of erect, gracile clones with wide-set eyes and narrow noses, dressed in fine fabrics, modestly dyed. The priestess introduced them as mother-elders of Starkland Clan, from nearby Joannaborg, a name that sounded only vaguely familiar until the women sat down opposite Maia, and began speaking of Brod. Instantly, she recognized the family resemblance. His nose, his wide-open, honest eyes.
Her friend had not been exaggerating. The clan of librarians did, indeed, keep caring about its sons, and even, apparently, its summer daughters, after they left home. The elders had learned of Brod’s misadventures, and wanted Maia’s reassurance, firsthand. She was moved by their gentleness, their earnest expressions of concern. Midway through an abbreviated account of her travels with their son, she showed them the letter proving he was all right.
“Poor grammar,” one of them clucked. “And look at that penmanship.”
Another, a little older, chided. “Lizbeth! You heard the young lady speak of what the poor boy’s been through.” She turned to Maia. “Please excuse our sister. She true-birthed our Brod, and is overcompensating. Do go on.”
It was all Maia could manage, not to smile in amusement. A prim, slightly scattershot sweetness seemed a core, heritable trait in this line. She could see where Brod got some of the qualities she admired. When they got up to leave, the women urged Maia to call, if she ever needed anything. Maia thanked them, and replied that she doubted she would be in town for very long.
The night before, she had heard the priestess and the archdeaconess arguing as they passed near her window, no doubt thinking she was asleep.
“You don’t have to wade through the thick of it as I do,” the rotund lay worker said. “While you var idealists sit here in a rustic stronghold, taking moral stands, there’s he
aps of pressure coming down. The Teppins and the Prosts—”
“Teppins cause me no unsleep,” the priestess had answered.
“They should. Caria Temple spins at the whim of—”
“Ecclesiastic clans.” The tall one snorted. “Country priests and nuns are another matter. Can the hierarchs call anathema on so many? They risk heretics outnumbering orthodox in half the towns along the coast.”
“Wish I felt as sure. Seems a lot to risk over one poor, battered girl.”
“You know it’s not about her.”
“Not overall. But in our little corner of things, she’ll do as a symbol. Symbols matter. Look at what’s happening with the men.…”
Men? Maia had wondered, as the voices receded. What do they mean by that? What’s happening? With what men?
She got a partial answer later, after the matrons of Starkland Hold departed, when an altercation broke out at the temple gates. Maia was by now well enough to hobble onto the porch of her guest cottage and witness a fierce argument taking place near the road. The var dedicants who doubled as watchwomen warily observed a band of clones like those Maia had seen before, following her litter through town. These, in turn, were trying to bar entry to a third group, a deputation of males wearing formal uniforms of one of the seafaring guilds. The men appeared meek, at first sight. Unlike either group of women, they carried no weapons, not even walking sticks. Eyes lowered, hands clasped, they nodded politely to whatever was shouted at them. Meanwhile they edged forward, shuffling ahead by slow, steady increments until the clones found themselves squeezed back, without room to maneuver. It was a comically effective tactic for males, Maia thought, compensating for winter docility with sheer bulk and obstinacy. Soon, they were through the gate, leaving the exasperated clone-soldiers puffing in frustration. The amused temple priestess made the men welcome, gesturing for them to follow Naroin’s younger sister. Shaking her head, Hullin led the small company to Maia’s bungalow.
The leader of the company wore twin crescent emblems of a full commodore on the armlets of a tidy, if somewhat threadbare, uniform. His bearing was erect, although he walked with a limp. Under a shock of dark gray hair, and dense eyebrows, his pupils reminded Maia of the northern seas of home. She shivered, and wondered why.
Inside, the officers seated themselves on mats while nuns arrived with cool drinks. Maia struggled to recall lessons about the courtly art of hosting men during this time of year. It had all seemed terribly abstract, back in summerling school. In the wildest dreams she and Leie had shared in their attic room, none had pictured facing an assembly as lofty as this.
Small talk was the rule, starting with the weather, followed by dry remarks about how lovely the men found her veranda and garden. She confessed ignorance of the exotic plants, so two officers explained the names and origins of several that had been transplanted from far valleys, to preserve threatened species. Meanwhile, her heart raced with tension.
What do they want from me? she wondered, at once excited and appalled.
The commodore asked how Maia liked the sextant she had received as a replacement for the one abandoned on Jellicoe. She thanked him, and the art of navigation proved an absorbing topic for several more minutes. Next, they discussed the Game of Life books—more as fine exemplars of the art of printing and binding than for the information they contained.
Maia tried hard to relax. She had witnessed this sort of conversation countless times, while serving drinks in the Lamatia guesthouse. The prime commandment was patience. Nevertheless, she sighed in relief when the commodore finally got to the point.
“We’ve had reports,” he began with a low rumble, stroking the tendons of one hand with the other. “From members of our guild who participated in the … incidents at Jellicoe Beacon. We Pinnipeds have also shared observations with our brethren of the Flying Tern Guild—”
“Who?” Maia shook her head, confused.
“Those to whom loss of Manitou … Poulandres and his crew … come as blows to the heart.”
Maia winced. She hadn’t known the guild name. At sea, with Renna, it hadn’t seemed important. On meeting the Manitou crew again, deep underground, there hadn’t been time to ask.
“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 own 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, h
owever, 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 guildmaster 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?