Glory Season

Arrival + 43.271 Ms

I found it hard overcoming prejudices, during my first visit to a Stratoin home.

It wasn’t the concept of matriarchy, which I’ve met in other guises on Florentina and New Terra. Nor the custom that men. are another species, sometimes needed, often irksome, and fortunately rare. I was prepared for all that.

My problem arises from growing up in an era obsessed with individuality.

Variety was our religion, diversity our fixation. Whatever was different or atypical won favor over the familiar. Other always came before self. An insane epoch, say psychohistorians… even if its brief glory produced ideal star travelers.

In voyaging, I’ve encountered many stabilized societies, but none more contrary to my upbringing than Stratos. The unnerving irony of this world’s fascinating uniqueness is its basis in changelessness. Generations are not rent by shifting values. Sameness is no curse, variety no automatic friend.

It’s just as well we never met. Lysos and I would not have gotten along.

* * *

Nonetheless, I was delighted when Savant Iolanthe asked me to spend some days at her family’s castlelike estate, in the hilly suburbs of Caria. The invitation, a rare honor for a male in summer, was surely a political statement. Her faction is the least hostile toward restored contact. Even so, I was cautioned that my visit was to be “chaste.” My room would have no windows facing Wengel Star.

I told Iolanthe to expect no problems in that regard. I will avert my gaze, though not from the sky.

Nitocris Hold is an ancient place. Iolanthe’s clone-line has occupied the sprawling compound of high walls, chimneys, and dormered roofs for most of six hundred years. Related lineages dwelled on the site almost back to the founding of Caria.

Our car swept through an imposing gate, cruised along a garden-rimmed drive, and halted before a finely sculpted marble entrance. We were formally greeted by a trio of graceful Nitocri who, like Iolanthe, were of stately middle age, dressed in shimmering yellow silken gowns and high collars. My bag was carried off by a younger clan-sister. More siblings bearing distinctive Nitocris features—soft eyes and narrow noses—rushed silently to move the car, seal the gate, and usher us inside.

So, for the first time, I entered the sanctum of a parthenogenetic clan, prime unit of human life on Stratos, “They aren’t bees or ants,” I thought silently, suppressing idle comparisons. Within, I repeated the motto of my calling—

“Let go of preconceptions.”

The savant cheerfully showed me courtyards and gardens and grand halls, unperturbed by a crowd of children who whispered and giggled in our wake. The Nitocri keep no domestic employees, no hired vars to carry out unpleasant tasks beneath the dignity of wealthy clones. No Nitocris resents taking her turn at hard or dirty chores, such as scouring fire grates, or scrubbing lavatories, or laying down roof tiles. All is well-timed according to age, with each girl or woman alternating between onerous and interesting tasks. Each individual knows how long a given phase will last. After a set interval, a younger sister will be along to take over whatever you are doing, while you move on to something else.

No wonder even children and youths move gracefully, with such assurance. Each clone-daughter grows up watching elders just like her, performing their tasks with a calm efficiency derived from centuries of practice. She knows the movements unconsciously before ever being called upon to do them herself. No one hurries to take on power before her time. “My turn will come,” appears to be the philosophy.

At least, that’s the story they were selling me. No doubt it varies from clan to clan, and almost certainly works less than perfectly even among the Nitocri. Still, I wonder …

Utopians have long imagined creating an ideal society, without competition, only harmony. Human nature —and the principle of selfish genes—seemed to put the dream forever out of reach. Yet, within a Stratoin clan, where all genes are the same, what function remains for selfishness? The tyranny of biological law can relax. Good of the individual and that of the group are the same.

Nitocris House is filled with love and laughter. They seem self-sufficient and happy.

I do not think my hosts noticed when I involuntarily shivered, even though it wasn’t cold.

17

There was glory on deck the next morning. Freshly fallen from high, stratospheric clouds, the delicate frost coated every surface, from spars and rails to rigging, making the Manitou into a fairy ship of crystal dust, glowing in a profusion of pink sunrise refractions.

Maia stood atop a narrow flight of stairs leading up to the small cabin she shared with nine other women. She rubbed her eyes and stared at the sweetly painful dawnlight glitter outside. How pretty, she thought, watching countless pinpoints of rose-colored brilliance change, moment by moment.

She recalled occasions when Port Sanger received such a coating, causing shops and businesses to close while women hurried outside to sweep puffballs from their windowsills into vacuum jars, for preservation. A sprinkle of glory disrupted daily life far more than thicker falls of normal snow, which simply entailed boots and shovels and some seasonal grumbling.

Certainly men preferred dense drifts of the regular wind. Even slippery ice, making the streets slick and treacherous, seemed to perturb the rough sailors nowhere near as much as a thin scattering of lacy glory. Most males fled to their ships, or beyond the city gates, until sunlight cleansed the town, and its women citizens were in a less festive mood.

That was on shore, Maia remembered. Here, there’s no place for the poor fellows to run.

From the narrow doorway at the head of the stairs, Maia inhaled a cool, faintly cinnamon odor. This was no minor dusting, like in Long Valley. The air felt bracing, and provoked a tingling in her spine. Sensations vaguely familiar from prior winters, yet enhanced this time.

Of course, she hadn’t been a grown woman before. Maia felt combined eagerness and reluctance, waiting to see if the aroma would have a deeper effect, now that she was five.

There was movement on deck, male sailors shuffling with the desultory slowness of dawn-shift workers. They were physically unaffected by the icy encrustation, yet the captain’s expression seemed unhappy, irritated. He snapped at his officers and frowned, contemplating the fine, crystal dusting.

The unhappiest person in sight was the only female—the youngest of Kiel’s company of Rads, a girl about Maia’s age. She was using a broom to sweep glory frost into a square-mouthed bucket, which she proceeded to empty over the side before going back for another load.

Maia sensed a stirring behind her—another woman rising with the sun. She glanced back and nodded a silent good-morning as Naroin climbed the short, steep steps to squeeze alongside. “Well, look at that,” the older var commented, sniffing the soft, chill breeze. “Quite a sight, eh? Too bad it’s all got to go.”

The petite sailor redescended, plunging momentarily into the dimness of the narrow cabin. She reached onto the bunk Maia had just vacated, and returned bearing Maia’s coat. “There you go,” Naroin said with a kindly tone, and pointed at the girl outside, sweeping the deck rejectedly. “Your job, too. Law of th’ sea. Women stay below till the frost goes. Except virgies.”

Maia blushed. “How do you know I’m a—”

Naroin held up a hand placatingly. “Just an expression. Half o’ these vars”—she jerked her thumb at those still sleeping below—“never had a man, an’ never will. Eia, it’s a matter of age. Youngsters sweep up. Go on, child. Eia.”

“Eia,” Maia responded automatically, slipping on the coat. She trusted Naroin not to lie about something like