Glory Season (10 page)

“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 bayside 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.

Her gaze drifted once more to the foot of the wharf. The car had parked, but no one had yet emerged. Curious.

She turned back to make sure the returning, empty buckets weren’t clipping Wotan’s cargo hatch. If the conveyor jammed, the sweating team below would blame her. “Hold!” Maia cried when the clearance narrowed thinner than she liked. Naroin echoed with a shout. While the saw-toothed buckets rumbled to a halt, Maia kicked free a pair of chocks and set a pry bar under the conveyor’s frame, straining to jigger the massive apparatus several times until the new arrangement seemed right. Finally, she bent to pound the chocks back into place, then called, “Ready away!” Naroin threw a lever and precious electricity poured from the ship’s accumulators, setting the scarred machinery into motion with a rumble of grinding gears.

It was hard work, but Maia felt grateful to be out on deck. Her stints below, shoveling coal into the ever-hungry buckets, had been like sentences to hell. Floating grit stuck to your perspiration, running down your arms and sides in sooty rivulets. It got into everything, including your mouth and underwear. Finally, like the others, she had stripped completely.

Nor could she complain, for this crew was luckier than most. Half the ships in port used
human-powered
winches to unload, or doubled-over stevedores, groaning as they dumped gunnysacks onto horse-drawn wagons. Even those freighters equipped with electric or steam-driven gear used it sparingly, relying mostly on muscle power.

“Savin’ wear and tear on the machinery,” Naroin had
explained. “Some seasons, var labor’s cheaper’n replacement parts.” This year, it seemed especially so.

Not that summer women worked alone. Clones supervised unloading delicate merchandise, and men appeared whenever their specialized skills were needed. Still, the sailors mostly spent time caring for their precious ships, and no one expected different. What men and vars had in common was that both had fathers—though seldom knew their names. Both were lowlife in the eyes of haughty clones. Beyond that, all resemblance dimmed.

Everything seemed to be running smoothly, so Maia returned to the portside rail, fleeing the dust. Rubbing the back of her neck, she turned and saw that someone had left the motorcar at the base of the pier, and was walking this way. A man, dressed in foppish lace and wearing a wide-brim hat, sauntered toward the Zeus and Wotan, dodging the black plume wafting from the truck bed. Whistling, the male paused to inspect the paint flaking from the Wotan’s aft. He buffed his shoes, then squinted at the sky.
So that’s what a person looks like when they’re trying not to look suspicious
, Maia observed with amusement. This character was no sailor, nor did he look like the type to be kept waiting.

Sure enough, three crewmen appeared, one from her own ship and two from Leie’s, hurrying down the gangways with exaggerated nonchalance. The stranger, with a courteous flourish, led the sailors behind the girth of the motortruck, where bucket after bucket of black hydrocarbons showered into an already-creaking loading bin.

Now what are they doing back there?
Maia wondered as they remained hidden from sight.
As if it’s any of my business.

An echoing cry from the ship’s hold sent her scurrying to adjust the conveyor again, prying away at the apparatus so that the buckets flowed smoothly to reach the coal hillocks below. No sooner had she finished jiggering the in-board
end than a shout from the woman lorry driver told Maia that the
other
boom needed one last shift to fill the cargo bed properly. Kicking away the forward chocks, Maia looked forward to diving with a whoop over the side just as soon as the loading run was over. Even the scummy dockside water seemed fantastically inviting at this point.

The final chock stayed stuck. With a sigh, she crawled underneath the conveyer to pound it with the heel of her hand, already bruised and sore. “Come on, you stupid, atyp chunk!” she cursed the tightly wedged block. Her hand throbbed. “Move! You lugar-made piece of homlog—”

A sharp, nipping pain in an alarming quarter caused Maia to jump, slamming her head against a bucket, which responded with a low, throaty gong.

“Ow! What the tark’l hell—?”

Emerging, rubbing her head with one hand and left buttock with the other, Maia blinked in confusion at three sailors who stood grinning, just beyond arm’s reach. She recognized the off-duty crewmen who had seemed so ineptly casual with the stylish male from town. Two smirked, while the third let out a high-pitched giggle.

“Did …” Maia almost couldn’t bring herself to ask. “Did one of you
pinch
me?”

The nearest, tall and rangy with several days’ beard, laughed again. “An there’s more where’n that come from, if yer want it.”

Maia tilted her head, quite sure she’d misheard. “Why would I want more pain than I’ve already got?”

The giggler, who was short but barrel-chested, tittered again. “Only hurts at first, sweets … then ye ferget all that!”

“Ferget ever’thing but feeling good!” the first one added, to Maia’s growing confusion and irritation. The third man, of average height, with a dark complexion,
nudged his companions. “Come on. You can whiff she’s just a virgie. Let’s go clean up an’ head for Bell House.”

There was an eager wildness in the small one’s eyes. “How ’bout it, li’l var? We’ll fetch yer sister off’n our ship. Dress you both fancy. It’ll look like some pretty little clan, holdin’ a frost party for us. Like that idea? Your own little Hall o’ Happiness, right on board!”

He was so close, Maia caught a strange, off-sweet odor, and glimpsed a powdery stain at one corner of his mouth. More importantly, she now recognized, in stance and manner, several signs taught to girls at an early age. His eyes stroked her body closer than the clinging dust. Breathing heavily, his grin exposed teeth glistening with saliva.

There was no mistaking these omens of male rut.

But it wasn’t summer anymore! All the myriad cues that set off aurora season in males were months gone. Oh, surely some men retained libido through autumn, but to make blatant advances … on a
var
? One covered head to toe in grime, yet? One without a hint of fecundity-scents from past births?

It was incredible. Maia hadn’t a clue how to react.

“
Button an’ jet
,” a stern voice cut in.

The lanky sailor kept leering, but the other two stepped back for Wotan’s master-at-arms. “Uh, bosun”—the darker man nodded—“We’re off duty, so we were just—”

“Just leaving, so my work party can go off-duty too, was that it?” Naroin asked, fists on hips, forming the words sweetly, but with an edge that cut.

“Uh huh. Come on, Eth. Eth!” The dark sailor grabbed the one ogling Maia, breaking his unnerving stare and dragging him off. Only then did Maia start controlling her own adrenaline surge. Her mouth felt dry from more than coal dust. The pounding in her chest slowly abated.

“What,” she inquired of Naroin, “was
that
all about?”

The master-at-arms watched the three sailors walk away, their footsteps neither uneven nor intoxicated. Rather, there was a prowling, even
graceful
menace to the way they departed. Naroin glanced at Maia.

“Don’t ask me.”

Without another word, she got down and crawled under the conveyor to pound at the recalcitrant chock, giving Maia a few moments more to recover. It was a kindness, yet something had not escaped Maia’s notice. Naroin’s answer implied ignorance. That was what the phrase usually meant. “
Don’t ask me.
”

But the tone hadn’t conveyed ignorance. No, it had been an order, pure and simple.

Maia’s curiosity flared.

Leie waxed enthusiastic as the sisters strolled the market quarter before dusk, munching fish pies, listening to the cacophonous street-jabber, speculating what deals, intrigues, and treachery must be going on all around them. “This detour could be the best thing to happen to us!” Leie announced. “When we finally do reach the archipelago, we’ll know much more about commercial prospects. I was thinking … maybe next summer we should get work in one of these plastics factories.…”

Maia let her twin rattle on, feeling pensive, restive. This afternoon’s incident had left her sensitized. The heretic’s crumpled pamphlet lay unforgotten in her pocket, a reminder that the fervid activity on all sides might not be “normal,” even for a big-city port.

Now that Maia looked for them, she saw signs everywhere of an economy under strain. Near the city hall, bulletin boards showed basic labor, even skilled crafts, going for record low wages. Long-term contracts were nonexistent, and the sole civil-service post on offer was in
the city guard.
Just like back home
, Maia thought.
Only more so.

Then there were the men, more than she had ever seen before. And not just playing endless Game of Life tournaments on quayside grids, or whittling to pass the time between voyages, but moving briskly, intently, quite some distance inland. Look down any crowded street and you’d catch sight of two or three, standing out amid the crowds of women. Again, all the shipping
might
explain it. Except why were such a high percentage of them so young?

In nature, just being male was enough to lower an animal’s life expectancy, and it was no different among humans on Stratos. Storms and shifting reefs, icebergs and equipment failures, sent ships down every year. Few men lived to become retirees. Still, there seemed so
many
young ones on the streets. It made her nervous.

While most sailors were well-behaved, strolling, shopping, or drinking quietly at taverns set aside for their kind, each day had its whispered tales of incidents like one overheard last night—concerning a bloody corpse found in an alley, the killer fleeing wild-eyed, pursued by city guardswomen armed with stun tridents.

After the episode next to the conveyor belt, Maia found herself overreacting to those lazy smiles of half-hearted flirtation young men normally cast this time of year, more as a courtesy than any kind of offer. When one gangly youth winked at her, Maia scowled back, eliciting a look of hurt dismay that instantly made her feel embarrassed, contrite.

Should all males be feared, because a few go crazy?

It wasn’t only men causing problems, after all. The three races—winter folk, men, and vars—mingled peaceably for the most part. But the twins had seen incidents of rowdy summerlings—wildly varied in shape and color, but united in poverty—harassing small groups of identicals
from some local clan. Frustration boiling over in rebellious hostility.

Are these really signs?
The heretic spoke of a “time of changes,” a term familiar from teledramas and lurid storybooks. Stability, the great gift of Lysos and the Founders, was never guaranteed to any particular generation. Even scripture said a perfect society must flex, from time to time.

Is it just Lanargh, or is this happening all over Stratos?
Maia felt more determined than ever to try catching the tele-news tonight.

She reacted with a startled jump to a nudge in the ribs, and quickly saw that they had wandered onto the chief city square. Strollers, who had spent midday under shaded loggias, were emerging to enjoy the late sun’s slanting rays. Leie pointed across the broad piazza toward a row of elegant, multistoried houses. “Over there, leaning against that column. Ain’t that your bosun, trying to look invisible?”

Maia picked out the trim figure of Naroin, resting one shoulder on a pillar, acting as if she had only to watch the world go by.
What’s she up to? That var never relaxed a day in her life.

As if reading her thoughts—which she still did all too often—Leie nudged Maia a second time. “I bet your bosun’s spying on that lot over there.”

“Hm.… Maybe.” Naroin appeared well-positioned to discreetly observe a mixed gathering of lavishly dressed males and females sitting at an open-air café. The men didn’t look like sailors, while the women had a massaged, billowy appearance Maia associated with pleasure clans, specializing in relieving the tensions of others in houses of ease. Several such houses lined the square, positioned to serve clients coming from the harbor in summer, and uptown in winter. Above each entrance, gaily painted signs depicted a leaping rabbit, a snowflake, a grinning bull
clutching a bell between its jaws. Servants labored on the house overlooking the café, changing the decorations from warm, aurora shades to those of frost.