Glory Season

“To the great houses. To the bureaucracy in Caria. And especially to those selfsame hordes of summerlings, for whom there’s no place on this planet. No place save one.”

Aha! Maia thought. Is this a recruitment drive? The priesthood was even less selective than the Port Sanger city guard. By taking vows, any var might guarantee a full meal bowl for the rest of her days. If it also meant forsaking childbearing, or ever establishing a clan of one’s own, how many summerlings achieved that anyway? Abjuring sex someday, with a sweaty man, was no decision- stopper. All Stratos was your lover when you took the robe, and all Stratoins your children.

Still, why go recruiting? In Lanargh, a stone thrown in any direction would pass over some priestess or deacon. More were choosing that route to safety every day.

“Meanin’ no disrespect,” Maia said, backing away. “I don’t think the Temple is my place.”

The priestess seemed undismayed. “My child, that’s obvious from the look of you.”

“But… then what…?” Maia suddenly found her hand filled with a printed broadsheet. She glanced down at the first few lines.

The Outsiders—Danger or Challenge?

Sisters in Stratos! It should be obvious by now that the sages and councilwomen of Caria are concealing the truth about the spaceship in our skies, said to contain emissaries from the Hominid Phylum, which our ancestors left so long ago. Why have they told the public so little? The savants and officials make excuses, talking about “linguistic drift” and careful “quarantine procedures,” but it is growing apparent to even the lowliest that our great ones, sitting on lofty seats within the Council, Temple and University, are in their deepest hearts cowards…

It was hard to follow the run-on screed, but a tone of antagonism to authority was stridently clear. Maia looked again at the dedicant, seeing that the stripes of her robe were broken with colored threads. “You’re a heretic,” she breathed.

“Smart lass. Not many where you’re from?” Maia found herself smiling faintly. “We’re a bit out of the way. We had Perkinites—”

“Everyone has Perkinites. Specially since the Outsider Ship gave ’em an excuse to spread boogie-man stories. You know the ones… Now that Stratos is rediscovered, the Phylum will send fleets of ships full of drooling, hairy, unmodified males, worse than the Enemy of old.”

“Well”—Maia grinned at the image—“that may exaggerate what they say.”

“And your local Perkies may be milder than ours, O virgin from the frozen north!” The heretic laughed sardonically. “At any rate, even the temple hierarchy’s in a lather over alien humans barging in, possibly changing Stratos forever. It never seems to occur to the silly smugs that it might be the other way around. That this may be the moment Lysos was planning for, from the very start!”

Maia was confused, “You don’t see the starship as a threat?”

“Not my order, the Sisters of Venture. In early days, restored contact might’ve been harmful. But now our way of life is proven. Sure, we have problems, injustices, but have you read about the way things were back on the Old Worlds, before our founders’ exodus?”

Maia nodded. It was favored fare in books and on the tele.

“Animal chaos!” The woman waxed passionate. “Picture how violent and uncertain life was, especially for women and children. Now realize, it’s probably still going on out there! That is, on whatever worlds haven’t been destroyed, by the Enemy, or by aggression among male humans.”

“But the Outsider proves some colonies still—”

“Exactly! There may be dozens of surviving, battered worlds, crying out for what we can offer— salvation.”

Maia had backed away until a gritty wall jabbed her spine. Yet she felt torn between flight and fascination. “You think we should welcome contact… and send missionaries?”

The dedicant, who had been hunching forward in pursuit, now stood straighter and smiled. “I was right about you being a sharpie. Which brings up my original comment about there being a reason for everything, including the surge in summer births, even though niches seem so few.” She raised one finger. “Few here on Stratos! But not out there.” The finger jabbed skyward. “Destiny calls, and only timid fools in Caria stand in the way!”

Maia saw fervor in the young woman’s eyes, a belief transcending logic and all obstacles. Suppose you find yourself insignificant in the world, dwarfed by the mighty. How to feel important after all? All you need is a convenient conspiracy. One that’s keeping you from taking your rightful place as a leader toward the light.

Only there are so many lights…

Maia withheld judgment on the Venturist’s actual idea, which had a grand sound, and might even be worth discussing. “I’ll give it a read,” she promised, holding up the pamphlet. “But…”

Her voice trailed off. The priestess was staring past her shoulder. In a distracted tone, the young dedicant said, “Very good. But now I must go. To the stars, sister.”

“Eia, sister,” Maia replied conventionally to the unusual farewell, watching the striped robe vanish into the crowd. She turned to see what had spooked the heretic, and soon caught sight of four sturdy women pushing through the throng, nonchalantly swinging walking sticks they didn’t seem to need… not for walking, at least.

Temple wardens, Maia realized. There were priestesses and then there were priestesses. Although heresy was officially no crime, the temple hierarchy had ways of making it less comfortable than following classical dogma. Of the fringe groups, only Perkinism was strong enough that no one dared rough up its adherents.

Oh, I guess there are still niches, Maia thought, watching the stern women move along, causing even members of the city watch to step aside. Vars with muscle can always find employment in this world.

Which suddenly reminded her, she was due back at the Wotan before dusk. Kitchen duty. And there’d be patarkal hell to pay if she was late!

Maia stuffed the heretical tract into a pocket, to show Leie later. Giving the Temple warders a wide berth, she found her bearings and hurried through the market crowd toward the unmistakable aroma of the docks.

* * *

“Work now, gawk later!” Bosun Naroin snapped, late on their fourth day in port.

Maia’s attention had wandered toward a distracting sight at the foot of the wharf. Drawing back quickly, she nodded—“Yessir”—and concentrated on resetting the conveyor belt, making sure that buckets hauling coal out of the ship’s hold did not jitter or spill. Sometimes it took muscle to lever the balky contraption into line. Even after all seemed in perfect order, Maia watched the buckets warily for a while to be sure. Finally, she lifted her head above the portside rail once more.

What had drawn her gaze before was the arrival of a car, cruising with a methane-driven purr down the bay-side embankment, toward the pier where Wotan was moored.

A car, she thought. For personal transport and nothing else. There had been two in all of Port Sanger—used on ceremonial occasions or to carry visiting dignitaries. Other motor vehicles had been nearly as rare, since most products entered and left her hometown by sea. In cosmopolitan Lanargh, one might glimpse a motor-lorry down any street, each employing a driver, several loaders, and a guardian who walked in front bearing a red flag, making sure no children fell beneath the rumbling wheels. They were impressive machines, even if their growling, chuffing rumble frightened Maia a little.

For several days, one battered, ugly high-bed had been coming to the pier to fill its hopper with coal from the Parthenia Sea. The unloading crew grew to hate the sight of the thing. But hey, it’s a job, Maia thought as the truck’s bin filled with Port Sanger anthracite, bound for a family-run petrochemical plant for conversion to molten plastic, then used by certain other Lanargh clans for making fine injection-moldings.