Glory Season

narrative must have helped when she told what she had learned about the ancient Guardians—about a forlorn struggle by ancient men and women to devise another way. A way of including more than one round patch of earth and sea and sky, in the Stratoin tale. A way to amend, without rejecting, what the Founders had once willed their heirs.

And she had spoken of Renna, the brave sailor whose sea was the galaxy. The man who flew, as no man of this world had since the banishment. When they departed on that day, she had felt certain the seamen knew her friend from the stars. That he was one of them. That he was owed a debt of honor.

The Persim brought me here to help undermine the strike. That’s why they flaunt me around town. The men at the opera must have reported back to their guilds. If I was in Odo’s company, how serious could I ever have been, about being the starman’s comrade?

Reading between the lines, it grew apparent why the high clans were concerned. The sailor’s job action was hurting.

… Half of the sparking season was over before the walkout was declared. Still, it is clear that lack of male cooperation will depress this winter’s breeding program.

That caused Maia to smile, proud that Clevin and the others hadn’t missed a trick.

Perkinite priestess-advocate Jeminalte Cever today demanded that “those responsible for this flagrant neglect of duty must be made to pay.”

Fortunately, this radicalization took place after Farsun Day, so politicians needn’t fear a rush to polling booths by disgruntled males. Their irate minority vote might have swung several tight races in recent elections.

Will it remain a factor by next winter? Estimates based on recent episodes of male unrest, six, ten, and thirteen decades ago, lead savants at the Institute for Sociological Trends to suggest that this somewhat more severe interlude may not pass in time to prevent short-term economic loss to many of our subscribers. However, they predict that, by next autumn, only residual ferment should remain, at a level corresponding to ….

It went on, describing how the guilds would predictably fall away from each other, accepting generous deals and compromises, unable to maintain righteous ire in a season when the blood ran cool. Maia sighed, finding the scenario believable, even predictable. The dead hand of Lysos always won.

No wonder they let me see this. She allowed for the fact that the reporting was biased and incomplete. Nevertheless, the newspaper left her depressed.

Odo arrived as Maia finished dressing. She expected the Persim matriarch to gloat over the article, but apparently Odo had other matters on her mind. Clearly agitated, the old woman dismissed the maids and bid Maia sit down. “There will be no excursion today,” she said. “You have a visitor.”

Maia lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Shortly, you will meet Brill Upsala in the east conservatory. You’ll be supplied pencils, paper, other equipment. Brill has been informed that you are willing to be examined, under the terms of ancient law, but that you do not wish to discuss matters having to do with the alien.”

Odo met Maia’s eyes. “We will be listening. Should you make liars of us, or imply distress of any sort, you might as well accompany the Upsala when she goes… and live forever with guilt of your sister’s fate. Let it be on your head.”

Maia knew she had stretched Odo’s patience once, almost to the limit. Odo and her cohorts were busy pulling a thousand threads, political, social, and economic. Open and furtive. If they felt Maia and Leie and Brod were more trouble than useful as pawns in their game, she could expect ruthlessness. Maia nodded agreement, and followed Odo out the door.

By now, she knew the Persim household well. There were Yuquinn maids and Venn cooks and Buju handywomen, all of whom seemed nimble and content in their inherited niches, needing no command or incentive to anticipate every Persim whim. Why not? Each was descended from a var woman who had served peerlessly, and been rewarded with a type of immortality. An immortality that could end any time the Persims withdrew patronage. No violence would be required. No one need even be fired. The Persims had only to stop sponsoring expensive winter matings for their clients, then wait the brief interval of a generation or two.

Was the relationship predatory? Unfair? Maia doubted the Yuquinn or Venn would think so. If they were prone to such thoughts, their lines would have ended with the natural passing of their first var ancestress. Of late, though, Maia had come to adopt Renna’s attitude. All of this was well-designed, as natural as could be, and from another point of view, appalling.

I am no longer a daughter of Lysos, she realized. I’ll never adjust to a world whose basic premise I can’t bear.

“In there,” Odo said, pointing through a set of double doors. “Behave.”

The threat, implicit, sufficed. Odo turned and walked away. Maia entered the conservatory, where the striking, dark-haired woman she had met at the opera was laying papers on a fabulously expensive table made of metal frames supporting nearly flawless panes of glass. While one of Odo’s younger clone-sisters observed from the corner, Brill indicated a chair. “Thank you for seeing me. Shall we begin?”

Maia sat down. “Begin what?”

“Your examination, of course. We’ll start with a simple survey of preferences. Take these forms. Each question features five activities—”

“Um, pardon me … what kind of examination?”

Brill straightened, regarding her enigmatically. Maia experienced a fey sensation of depth. As if the woman already saw clear through her, and had no real need for exams.

“An occupational-aptitude test. I’ve accessed your school records from Port Sanger, which show adequate preparatory work. Is there a problem?”

Maia almost laughed out loud. Then she wondered. Is this a pose? Might she have been sent hereby Iolanthe Nitocris and her allies?

But then, Odo would have checked Brill’s bona fides. The small civil service of Stratos was supposedly outside politics, and its testers could go anywhere. If this was a pose, Brill made it believable. Maia decided to play along.

“Uh, no problem.” She looked left and right. “Where are your calipers? Will you be measuring bumps on my head?”

The Upsala clone smiled. “Phrenology has its adherents. For starters, however, why don’t we begin with this?”

There followed a relentless confrontation with paper. Rapidfire questions, covering her interests, tastes, knowledge of grammar, knowledge of science and weather, knowledge of …

After two hours, Maia was allowed a short break. She went to the toilet, ate a small snack from a silver tray, walked in the garden to stretch her back. Ever businesslike, the Upsala clone spent the time processing results. If she had been sent to convey a message from Naroin or Clevin, she was good at concealing the fact.

“I saw two of your sisters after we spoke at the opera, Maia commented, aware of the watching Persim clone. “One of them played Faust…”

“Yes, yes. Cousin Gloria. And Surah, at the baton. Bloody showoffs.”

Maia blinked in surprise. “I thought they were very good at what they did.”

“Of course they were good!” Brill glanced sharp! “The issue is what one chooses to be good at. The arts are fine, for hobbies. I play six instruments, myself. But they pose no great challenge to a mature mind.”

Maia stared. It was passing strange to hear a clone disparage her own kin. Stranger was the implication of her words.