Glory Season

made motions with his hands and whispered, trying to explain.

So what we’re attempting is in the books, after all. Probably part of game lore, but rarely seen, like fool’s mate in Chess. Easy to counter, providing you know what to do.

Renna and I have to hope we’re playing against fools.

It didn’t matter in one sense. Maia was pleased simply to have stirred their calm complacency. Maybe now they’d lend her some of those gilt-edged books, instead of patronizingly assuming they’d make no sense to her.

The other side of the board filled with a crowd of gaudy, extravagant figures, many of which Maia now saw were excessive and mutually contradictory, lacking the elegance of a classic Life match. On their own side, meanwhile, eight rows of enigmatic black and white dots terminated in a broad expanse of simple white.

I can’t wait to ask the name of our pattern. Maia hungered to consult those volumes. It’s simple enough in concept, even if it turns out flawed.

What she had realized this afternoon, in a flash of insight, was that the boundary was truly part of the game. By reflecting most patterns that struck it, the edge participated crucially.

So why not alter it?

Maia had first imagined simply creating a copy of the boundary, a little further up their side of the board, to screw up any carom shots attempted by their foes. But that wouldn’t work. Inside the board, all persistent patterns had to be self-renewing. The boundary pattern wasn’t a stable one. If re-created elsewhere, it quickly dissolved.

But what about creating a pattern that acted like a boundary part of the time, while turning transparent to most types of missiles and gliders much of the rest? One example of such a structure had popped into mind this afternoon. It would reflect simple gliders eight beats out of ten, and so long as the anchor points at both ends were left alone, it would keep renewing. Given what they had faced last night, their opponents clearly planned shooting a lot of stuff at them. Overkill, nearly all of which would now come right back in their faces! With luck, their opponents would wreak more havoc on themselves than on the resilient, simple pattern Renna and Maia had created.

From the enclosed cabin behind the helm, a sailor wearing a duty armband hurried to the captain’s side and whispered in his ear. The commander frowned, knotting his caterpillar eyebrows. He gestured for the doctor to take over as referee, and crooked a finger for the navigator to follow.

Meanwhile, tired and haggard, the boys finished their terminal swath and resignedly listened to Maia declare “pass” for the final time. While the last white pieces were laid, the doctor could be seen shrugging into formal, pleated robes, topped by a peaked hood. With poised dignity, the old man sauntered downstairs amid a susurration of talk. Men followed to crowd around the board, pointing, excitedly consulting sage texts. Many, like the cook and cabin boy, just looked confused.

The referee took his traditional pose near the timing square.

Silence reigned. “Life is continuation—” he began.

A cracking sound, like a sliding door hitting its stops, interrupted the invocation. Hurried footsteps thumped across the quarterdeck. The Manitou’s captain appeared, gripping the banister while a sailor came alongside and blew a brass horn—two short peals and a long note that tapered slowly into utter quiet. No one seemed to breathe.

“For some time we’ve been picking up a radar trace,” Poulandres told his crew and passengers. “Their bearing intersects ours, and they appear fast enough to overhaul. I’ve tried raising them, but they will not answer.

“I can only assume we are targets of reavers. Therefore I must ask the paying passengers. Will you resist, and defend your cargo?”

Still blinking in surprise, Maia watched Kiel step forward. “Hell, yes. We’ll resist.”

The officer nodded. “Very well. I shall maneuver accordingly. You may consult our female crew, who will assist you under the Code of the Sea. Everyone to action stations.”

The horn blew again, this time a rapid tattoo as sailors ran to the rigging and women hurried to assemble by the forecastle. Maia looked numbly at the game board. But … we were about to find out…

A hand took Maia’s arm. It was Thalla, guiding her to where someone had already unlocked the weapons cabinet and was passing out trepp bills. Maia glanced back at Renna, his mouth slightly agape, staring at the commotion. He’s even more confused than I am, she realized, feeling sorry for her friend from the stars.

Renna started to follow, but a sailor put a hand out. “Men don’t fight,” Maia saw him say, repeating the lesson she had taught him during the escape from Long Valley. The sailor led Renna off, and Maia turned to find her place along a row of vars, gathering with weapons in hand.

“Will you follow my tactical orders?” Naroin asked Kiel and Thalla, who represented the rad company. They nodded.

“All right, then. Inanna, Lullin, Charl, stand ready to receive squads.” Naroin assigned passengers to follow each of three experienced female sailors to positions along the ship’s gunwales. Maia was among those in the bosun’s own group, stationed toward the bow, where the rise and fall of Manitou’s cutting prow felt most pronounced. She sensed a change in the breeze as the ship altered course, presumably to try evading confrontation.

“Better relax,” Naroin told her squad. “They may be faster, but a stern chase is a long chase. Could be daybreak ’fore they catch us.” With that, she sent two vars below for blankets. “We’ll get hot soup soon,” she assured the nervous women. “Might as well stay rested. Ever’body get down, out of th’ wind.”

They settled onto the deck with their bills at hand. Naroin reached over to tap Maia on the knee. “Lucky break for someone, the horn blowin’ when it did. Judgin’ by what I seen, those dappy rim shots were the lucky ones!”

Maia shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know.” A clattering aft told of game pieces being swept into their storage boxes, at captain’s orders.

“They prob’ly arranged all this to keep you from humiliatin’ two o’ their boys,” Naroin said, causing Maia to stare back at her. But the woman sailor grinned and Maia knew she was joking. Sea captains took honor in the games almost as seriously as the safety of their ship and crew.

Women made tentlike shrouds of their blankets, covering their heads and shoulders, settling in for a long wait. True to the bosun’s word, a crewman soon arrived, carrying a kettle. Bowls clattered at his waist. The junior cook did not look at Maia when he reached her, but the cup sloshed when she took it from his hand, scalding her fingers. Wincing within, she managed to show no outward reaction. At least the thick broth was tasty and its warmth welcome, especially as gaps appeared between the clouds and the night chilled. One woman blew a flute, unmelodiously. There were attempts at gossip. None got very far.

“Say,” Naroin offered. “I found out somethin’ you might be interested in.”

Maia looked up. She had been stroking the smooth wooden stave, wordlessly contemplating what might come in a few hours. “What’s that?” she asked blankly.

Naroin brought up a hand to shield her mouth, and lowered her voice. “I found out what he does, spendin’ that extra time behind the curtain… You know? After meals?”

It took a moment to grasp that Naroin was referring to Renna. “After…?”

“He’s cleanin’ his mouth!”

Curiosity battled anger that the woman had spied on Maia’s friend. “Cleaning … his mouth?”

“Yup.” Naroin nodded. “You’ve seen that little brush of his? Well, he sticks it in seawater—even though he won’t drink the stuff—then pops it in an’ carries away like a deckhand tryin’ to finish KP in time for a party! Scours those white gnashers good, with lots o’ swishin’ an’ spittin’. Beats anythin’ I’ve seen.”

“Um,” Maia replied, trying to come up with an explanation. “Some people would smell better if they did that, now and then.”

“Good point.” Naroin laughed. “But after every meal?”

Maia shook her head. “He is an alien. Maybe he’s worried about… catching diseases?”

“But he eats our food. Kind o’ hard to see what good mouth-cleanin’ does, after the fact.”