Glory Season (16 page)

“Hey, Garn,” one shouted. “You sure yer holdin’ the right stick?”

“Go ’way!” he shouted hoarsely, trying to look over his shoulder at the approaching train. Across the poor fellow’s brow emerged a line of perspiration.

“Aw come on,” another topless var crooned, jiggling at him. “Want another taste?” She proffered a clear bottle. Instead of liquid, it brimmed with a fine, bluish, iridescent powder. One corner of the boy’s mouth bore a similar stain.

“What’s goin’ on here!”

Everyone turned toward the nearby red-curtained house. At the doorway stood a burly older man and—Tizbe!

But not the Tizbe she knew. Maia blinked. Her instant impression was that the var hitchhiker had, in just twenty minutes, changed her clothes, dyed her hair, and gained ten years!

Lysos
, Maia thought, realizing how she’d been had.
Leie and I planned to travel about, pretending we were clones. I never expected to see the trick pulled in reverse!

“These frills distractin’ you, Garn?” the big man asked, wiping his lips with the back of one hand. Shaking his head vigorously, the youth replied. “N-no, Jacko, they just—”

“Lennie, Rose, get your iced-up perfs inside!” cursed the woman who looked like Tizbe. “No one’s supposed to
see
that stuff, let alone get free samples!”

“Aw, Mirri, we were just testin’—” one girl whined, dodging a slap. The bottle was snatched out of her hand and she ran for the house.

So
, Maia confirmed.
Tizbe’s no var. And her type gets meaner with age.

With a cold eye, the older woman turned and glared at Maia. “Who the vrilly hell are you?”

Maia blinked. “Ah … nobody.”

“Then take off, Nobody. You haven’t seen—”

“Garn!” the big man shouted. The youth below, confused by both commotion and his hormones, had forgotten the oncoming train and begun leaning on the lever, perhaps to spare his painful tumescence. There came a deep, electric hum and click. In dismay, he pushed the lever the other way, and shoved too far. Two loud, grinding clicks. He yanked back.…

A shrill toot filled the air as an alarmed engineer threw his emergency brakes, watching helplessly as momentum, carried the oncoming locomotive along slick, invisible magnetic fields onto a track already occupied by another train.

The boy dove under the platform. Everyone else ran.

Maia knew now why her assistant baggage handler had looked familiar.

Past the crowd that gathered to gawk at the damage, Maia saw once more the woman she had mistaken for the hitchhiker, conversing intently with the real Tizbe. One or both had dyed her hair, but side by side it was obvious. They wore older and younger versions of the same face.

And now Maia recalled where she’d seen that visage before. Several sisters of their clan had been lounging at a café on the main square in Lanargh, outside another house equipped with plush curtains. Looking a second time, Maia saw the same emblem above the building overlooking
the tracks—a grinning bull, grasping in its jaws a ringing bell.

Most towns possessed houses of ease—enterprises catering to human cravings, especially those of deep winter and high summer. “Escape valves,” Savant Judeth had called them. “Bordellos,” said Savant Claire, with finality that forbade even asking what the latter word meant.

The reality seemed rather ordinary and businesslike. Such houses provided one outlet for seamen who lacked invitations to clanholds when aurorae made their blood run hot. And in deep winter, when men were more interested in game boards than physical recreations, even normally cool Lamai sisters sometimes felt need of “a comfort.” Especially when glory fell from heaven, they would head downtown, to visit one of those elegant palaces catering to richer hives.

Naturally, such profitable establishments were run by specialized clans, although frequent use was made of hired var labor. Maia and Leie had never thought themselves pretty or vapid enough for such a career. Still, they used to speculate what went on inside such places.

Both Tizbe and “Mirri” looked her way, causing Maia to turn quickly, feeling a chill of apprehension.
What are such high-class smugs doing out here in the sticks?

It was pure luck of Lysos that no one had been seriously hurt in the wreck, considering how the two trains met in a tangle of sheet metal and spraying lubricants. Medics from the town clinic were still treating scratches and lacerations as the engineer of the second train shouted, pointing at his locomotive, then at the boy, Garn, who looked downcast and miserable.

Garn’s older colleague yelled back, clenching his hands menacingly. In a sudden outburst, Jacko reached out and pushed the aggrieved engineer, who stumbled two paces, blinking in surprise. That only seemed to catalyze Jacko. Although physically no larger, he loomed over the
retreating engineer, who now raised both hands placatingly.

Jacko punched him in the face.

Onlookers gasped as the engineer fell down. Whimpering, he tried crawling backward, holding a bloody nose. With dismay he saw Jacko follow, bearing down, clearly intent on more mayhem. Reading the engineer’s bewilderment, Maia sensed the fallen man was furiously trying to
remember
something he had known in the past, but lately forgotten—like how to form a fist.

Abruptly, the woman Maia had mistaken for Tizbe was at Jacko’s side, tugging his arm. It looked impossible, like trying to restrain a berserk sash-horse. Panting hard, Jacko appeared not to notice until Mirri reached up and took his ear, twisting it to get his attention. He winced, paused, started to turn. Gradually, her crooning words penetrated, until he finally nodded jerkily, allowing her to pull his elbow, drawing him about and leading him through the hushed crowd toward the red-curtained house.

Of course. That’s another of their jobs.
Despite all the laws and codes and sanctuaries, despite the well-tended hospitality halls of the great clans, there were always troubles in coastal towns during high summer, when aurorae danced and bright Wengel Star called out the old beast in males. Rutting men with nowhere to go, brawling and making enough noise to shame storm-season tempests. Pleasure clans knew sophisticated lore for handling such situations. The house mistress seemed quite skilled, luckily for the poor engineer.

Only it’s not summer!
Maia thought, struggling with confusion.
This shouldn’t have happened.

Through the dispersing throng, Maia glanced past the wreck at Tizbe—the real one this time—who looked right back at her, eyes filled with a glint of dark speculation.

H
umans aren’t like certain fish or plants, for whom sex is but one option. Something in sperm is vital to form the crucial placenta, which nurtures babies in the womb. Reproduction entirely without males—parthenogenesis—appears to be impossible for mammals. The best we can do is emulate a process used by some creatures on Earth, called amazonogenesis. Mating with a male is still needed, to spark conception, but the offspring are clones, genetically identical to their mother.

“Fine,” said the early separationists of Herlandia. “We’ll design males to serve this purpose, and no other!”

Remember the Herlandia drones? Tiny, useless things, their creation cannot be called cruel, since they were programmed for unending bliss, stroked like pampered lap dogs, always eager at beck and call, to do their duty.

They were abominations! To take powerful, graceful
beings such as men—so full of curiosity and zest for life—and turn them into phlegmatic freaks, this was abhorrent. Naturally it failed. Even without direct genetic involvement, pallid fathers will sire a pallid race.

Besides, shall we eliminate variability entirely? What if circumstances change? We may need the gene-churning magic of normal sexuality, from time to time.

The Enemy’s arrival at Herlandia brought that experiment to an abrupt, well-deserved end. Naturally, the womenfolk of that colony world defended their brave new civilization with no end of ingenuity and courage. But when they most needed that special wrath which makes warriors, they found that they had purposely jettisoned one of its primal fonts. Lap dogs aren’t much help when monsters prowl the sky.

That, my sisters, is another reason we should not entirely abandon the male side.

Our descendants may encounter times when it has its uses.

T
here were no recitations from the travel guide when the journey recommenced. Tizbe read her book in silence, or stared through the dusty window at the monotonous countryside. Maia found the silence unnerving. Her thoughts roiled from all she had seen, and more she suspected lay unseen. Until now, she had attributed many queer incidents to “other ports, other lands.” Now she knew with a sinking feeling.
Something’s happening. And I don’t think I’m going to like it.

Back home, one thing always used to make her more aggressive than Leie—curiosity. Even punishment seldom dissuaded Maia from pursuing inquiries that were “none of a summerling’s business.” She had sworn to suppress the trait, especially since the storm.
I’m practical now. A lone var has to be.
But there was no real option of turning away, this time. Like a loose tooth, the agony of leaving this mystery alone would drive her crazy.

Whenever she felt certain the other woman wasn’t looking, Maia sneaked glances at Tizbe’s carpet-sided valise, which almost certainly held more than just clothing.

Dammit. Can I afford more trouble?

The young blonde yawned, put her book aside, and
stretched across the gunnysacks, giving Maia a good look at the dark roots of her dyed hair. After Clay Town, she knew this was no spoiled summerling, wandering in idle search of a cushy niche, but a full daughter-member of a hive with connections stretching far beyond Maia’s own limited experience. Tizbe wasn’t just “looking around.” She was on duty, working for her family business.

Picture a rich, powerful clan. Its chief livelihood is pleasure houses. A complex, profitable enterprise, demanding much more than strong hands and a pretty face.

Although they ran no house in Port Sanger, she had seen the type on occasion, walking proudly in fine traveling robes or riding lugar-borne litters, tending business at the best holds, and even dropping by for visits with the Lamai mothers.

Special, door-to-door massage service?
Maia wondered. But that was too simplistic. Few of those visits had been in high summer or winter. Lamais were a self-controlled lot, who never thought of sex at other times of year.

Couriers, then? A door-to-door
message
service? Their main business would be a perfect cover for a profitable sideline, delivering communiqués between allied clans, for example. But what sort of message would be worth the fees they’d charge?

Pretty damn dangerous ones
, Maia figured.
Or
, she added, looking at the valise.
Dangerous goods.

That bottle of blue-green powder, glistening and sloshing like liquid … It was something you gave men, apparently. Something linked to one youth’s inconvenient erection, another man’s unseasonal rage. Maia recalled the earlier incident aboard the Wotan, when those sailors seemed aroused by her nakedness, despite it being autumn and she a mere summerling, a virgin, and filthy besides.
That
time the mysterious courier had been male but after weeks at sea and on the rails, she now knew
groups of women and men were capable of cooperating in complex endeavors.

Including crime?

The blonde woman lay sprawled with one arm over her eyes, snoring softly. Maia stood up with a sigh.
I know I’m gonna regret this.

She took one hesitant step. Another. A floorboard creaked, making her flinch. She peered near her feet. Through the dust, nail heads showed where the joists were. Maia resumed her creep more carefully, until finally she crouched next to the sleeping woman.

The suitcase was woven from coarse fabric, with designs of abstract, interlocking geometric forms. A soft hum told of some metal part vibrating in harmony with the magnetic-pulse impeller of locomotive. Examining the lock mechanism, she saw that the simple keyhole was cosmetic camouflage. Three small buttons protruded along one side. Maia blew a silent sigh, recognizing expensive technology. There would be a code for pressing them in a certain order, or an alarm might go off.

Maia backed away cautiously, and returned with a thin, stiff length of wire, normally used to bind heavy articles of baggage. Checking once more that her “assistant” still slept, she began working one end of the wire between the heavy fabric’s warp and weft. With a final shove, it pierced through and met softer resistance, presumably Tizbe’s clothes. Pushing farther revealed nothing. Maia drew the wire out again, and repeated the procedure a few centimeters away, with the same result.

I could be wrong … about a lot of things.
Maia squatted on her haunches, pondering, Prudence urged that she forget about it.

Curiosity and obstinacy were stronger. She shifted her weight, maneuvering to get at the satchel from another angle …

A floorboard groaned, like a dying animal. Maia’s breath caught.
It can’t have been as loud as that! It’s just because I’m nervous.
Eyeing Tizbe, Maia wondered what she’d say if the clone wakened to find her here. The hitchhiker smacked her lips and changed position slightly, then settled down again, snoring a little louder. Dry-mouthed, Maia positioned her tool at a new location and worked it once more between the fibers. It resisted, penetrated, and then halted with an abrupt, faint tinkling sound.

Aha!

She repeated the experiment several more times, delving a rough map of the satchel’s interior. For a var on the road, Tizbe seemed to be carrying few personal effects and a lot of heavy glass bottles.

Gingerly, Maia backed away until she was safely at her desk again. She tossed aside the wire, chewing her lower lip.
So, now you know Tizbe’s a courier, carrying something mysterious. You still can’t prove anything illegal’s going on.
All the sneaking around, the whispers at dockside, rich clones pretending to be poor vars, those might point to crime.
Or they might have legitimate reasons for secrecy, business reasons.