Glory Season

Mother.” She bowed again.

“Mm. This way, then. And you!” The old woman snapped her fingers at one of the var serving girls. “That gentleman’s glass is empty!” With a sniff, she turned and led Maia down a narrow hallway.

The corridor took them by a room where, in passing, Maia glimpsed several young women making preparations. Jopland fems were handsome creatures in their prime, Maia conceded, between ages six and twelve. Especially if you liked strong jaws and boldly outlined brows. But then, there was no accounting for the tastes of men, who grew increasingly finicky as Wengel Star receded and the aurorae died.

The young Joplands shared mirrors with one pair and a trio of clones from other families—the first type tall, with frizzy hair, and the other broad of shoulder and hip, with breasts ample enough to feed quadruplets. Apparently, Jopland shared the expense of hosting with a couple of allied clans. By the looks of banked enthusiasm Maia had witnessed in the Main Hall, they probably had to throw several such evenings to get just a few winter pregnancies.

Given the size of the house, Maia had expected to see more fecund Joplands, till she realized. There’s talk of a population drop in the valley, just when it’s rising elsewhere.

Of course. The boom along the coast comes mostly from “excess” summer births. But these smugs are Perkinites. Men are kept away in summer, just to avoid that kind of pregnancy! That explained why she had seen no var-daughters, women half-resembling their Jopland mothers.

Maia wanted to linger, curious how these frontier women managed something even rich, attractive, seaside Lamatia found tricky at times. “This way,” the elder Jopland hissed, interrupting her perusal.

“Uh, sorry, ma’am.” Bending her head, Maia hurried after her reluctant hostess.

The communications chamber was spare, barely a cabinet. The standard console lay on a rickety table, bundles of cable exiting through a hole in the wall. Only the chairs looked comfortable, for mothers to use during long-range business calls, but those were pulled away and a bare stool set in front of the table instead. With a gnarled finger, the aged Jopland touched a switch causing the small screen to come alight with a pearly glow.

“Guest call. Accounting on completion,” she told the machine, then turned to Maia. “If you can’t cover the charges, you’ll work it off. One month per hundred. Agreed?”

Maia felt a flare of anger. The offer was outrageous. The rudest Port Sanger summerling has better breeding than you, “mother.” But then, breeding and style weren’t what it took to win and hold a niche out here on the prairie. Once again, Maia recalled—a var’s place wasn’t to judge.

“Agreed,” she bit out. The Jopland smiled.

This had better not cost a lot! Working for clones like these would be patarkal hell.

Maia sat down facing the standard-model console. Somewhere she had heard that it was one of just nine photonic devices still mass-produced in ancient factories on Landing Continent. Others included the all-purpose motors used on the solar railway, and the Game of Life set she had glimpsed minutes before, in the main hall. Maia had never actually used a console in earnest. She tried recalling Savant Judeth’s cursory lessons back at Lamatia. Let’s see … it’s on voice mode, so if I phrase my request—

Maia suddenly realized she hadn’t heard the door close. Turning, she saw the Jopland matriarch leaning against the jamb, arms crossed.

“I ask the courtesy-right of privacy,” Maia said, hating the other woman for making it necessary. The crone smirked. “Clock’s already ticking, virgie. Have fun.” With a click, the door closed behind her.

Damn! Now Maia saw the chronometer display in the upper left corner of the screen, whirling rapidly. It showed charges of eleven credits already! Nervously, she spoke toward the machine. “Uh, I need to talk to someone… a savant? Or someone in the guardia?”

This was going badly. “Oh yes! In Caria City!”

The screen, which had so far remained obtusely blank, at last resolved into a pattern of boxes. A logical array, she recalled from lessons. Along the top it said:

Query Address Zone — City of Caria
generic reference-type sought
Imprecise partial cues — “savant” and/or “guardia”
Suggested clarification — SUBJECT MATTER? _______

Maia perceived it would be a mistake to try parsing her question in the proper formal way. What she saved in processing costs would be more than lost in connection time. Perhaps, if she just talked at it, the machine would extract what it needed.

“I’m not sure. I’ve seen strange things, in Lanargh and in Clay Town. Men acting like it was summer, but it’s not, you know? I think they must’ve eaten or sniffed something. Something people want kept secret. Some kind of blue powder? In glass bottles? …”

The screen flickered several times, with boxes rearranging themselves across the screen, each containing one or more of her spoken words. An array of interlinking arrows kept shifting connections between the boxes as she spoke. Maia had to concentrate to keep the dazzling puzzle from transfixing her. “… there was a girl from one of the pleasure clans, I think they use an emblem with a bull and a ringing bell. She’s carrying the bottles like some sort of courier”

Suddenly the boxes seemed to collapse, as if her thoughts had abruptly resolved in neat cubes, coalescing into a configuration of pristine clarity, a logically consistent whole. The picture lasted just an instant, too brief to read consciously. Maia felt a pang of loss when it vanished.

The pattern was replaced by a human face—a woman wearing her slightly wavy brown hair in a simple fall down one side, kept in place by an elegant gold barrette. In handsome middle age, the woman regarded Maia for a long moment, then spoke with a voice of authority.

“You have reached Planetary Equilibrium Security. State name and nascence affiliation.”

Maia had never heard of the organization before. Nervously, she identified herself. For official purposes a var used the last name of her maternal clan, though it felt strange mouthing the words—“Maia per Lamai.”

“All right, please go back over your story. From the beginning this time, if you please?”

Maia was gnawingly aware that charges had eaten half her meager savings. “It all began when my sister and I took our first var-voyage jobs on the colliers Wotan and Zeus. When we hit Lanargh I saw a man in fancy clothes who wasn’t a sailor come down to the docks and meet three of our sailors who then acted real strange, pinching me and saying summery stuff even though it was autumn and I was filthy and, well, they couldn’t have smelled any, well, you know, I’m just a …”

“A virgin. I understand,” the official said. “Go on,”

“In fact, my sister and I …” Maia swallowed hard, forcing herself to concentrate on bare facts. The Lysos- damned clock seemed to be speeding up! “We saw men acting that way all over town! Then in Grange Head I got this job working on the railroad and I saw the same thing happen in front of a house in Holly Lock that’s run by the same pleasure clan and Tizbe—”

“Hold… hold it!” The woman in the screen shook her head in puzzlement. “Why are you talking so fast?”

In agony, Maia watched the counter take up her last savings. Now she was doomed to a month working for the Joplands. “I … can’t afford to talk to you anymore. I didn’t know it would be so expensive. I’m sorry.”

Downcast, she reached for the cutoff switch.

“Stop! What are you doing?” The woman held up a hand. “Just… hold it a second.”

She turned to her left, leaning out of Maia’s field of view. Maia looked up at the corner of the screen where the counter spun on for a moment and then… stopped! She stared. An instant later, the digits rippled, turning into a row of zeros!

“Is that better?” the woman asked, reappearing. “Can you talk easier now?”

“I … didn’t know you could do that.”

“Your mothers never mentioned reversing charges on important calls to the authorities?”

Maia shook her head. “I guess… they must’ve thought it’d make us spendthrift, or lazy.”