Glory Season (79 page)

From her back, Maia blearily watched as a sleek object tore through the heavens, leaving a blaze of riven, flaming air in its wake.

A fire arrow … she thought, blankly. Then, with but a little more coherence, she cast after it a silent call.

Renna!

Air returned, accompanied by a sound like thunder clapping. The debris mound shook, and then collapsed, tumbling rough, heavy shards over her battered legs. Yet she was left able to continue staring upward. Undistracted by distant pain, Maia had a clear view of the streaking, diminishing sparkle in the sky, wishing with all her heart that she was part of it … that he had waited only a little while longer, and taken her with him.

But he did it!
she thought, switching over to exultation.
They won’t have him. He’s out of their reach now. Gone back to—

Her rejoicing cut short. Overhead, almost at the limits of vision, the sparkling pinpoint abruptly veered left, brightened, and exploded in radiance, splitting apart amid an orgy of chaos, scattering fiery, ionic embers across the dark blue firmament of the stratosphere.

I
s ambition poison? Is Phylum society’s headlong rush to power and accomplishment synonymous with damnation?

Ancient cultures warned their people against hubris, that innate drive within human beings to seek God’s own puissance, whatever the cost. Wisely, early tribal folk restrained such fervid quests, save via spirit and art, adventure and song. They did not endlessly bend and bully Nature to their whim.

True, those ancestors lived just above the animals, in primeval forests of Old Earth. Life was hard, especially for women, yet they reaped rewards—harmony, stability, secure knowledge of who you were, where you fit in the world’s design. Those treasures were lost when we embarked on “progress.”

Is there an inverse relation between knowledge and
wisdom? At times it seems the more we know, the less we understand.

I am not the first to note this quandary. One scholar recently wrote, “Lysos and her followers chase the siren call of pastoralism, like countless romantics before them, idealizing a past Golden Age that never was, pursuing a serenity possible only in the imagination.”

His point is well-taken. Yet, should we not try?

The paradox does not escape me—that we mean to use advanced technical tools to shape conditions for a stable world … one which, from then onward, should little need those tools again.

So we return to the question at hand. Are human beings truly cursed to discontent? Caught between conflicting yearnings, we strive to become gods even as we long to remain nature’s beloved children.

Let the former pursuit be the chaotic doom of frantic, driven Phylum Civitas. We who depart on this quest have chosen a warmer, less adversarial relationship with the Cosmos.

—
from
My Life,
by Lysos

L
oss of consciousness was not the result of her injuries, or even the gassy, pungent odor of anesthesia. What made her let go this time was a morale sapped beyond exhaustion. Distant sensations told her that the world went on. There were noises—anxious shouts and booming echoes of gunfire. When these ceased, they were followed by loud cries of both triumph and despair. Sounds intruded, swarming over her, prying at windows and doors, but none succeeded in making her take notice.

Footsteps clattered. Hands touched her body, lifting objects away so that a hurt of ministration replaced that of crushing injury. Maia remained indifferent. Voices rustled around her, tense and argumentative. She could tell, without caring, that more than two factions engaged in fierce debate, each too weak or uncertain to impose its will, none of them trusting enough to let others act alone.

There was no tenor of vindictiveness in the manner she was lifted and carried away from the bright, ozone-drenched chamber within a hollow mountain-fang. Rocked on a stretcher, moaning at each jostling shock to her stretched-thin system, she knew in abstract that her
bearers meant her well. They were being gentle. That ought to signify something.

She only wished they would go away and let her die.

Death did not come. Instead, she was handled, prodded, drugged, cut, and sewn. In time, it was the simplest of sensations that brought back a partial will to live.

Flapjacks.

A redolence of fresh pancakes filled her nostrils. Injury and anomie weren’t enough to hold back the flood that faint aroma unleashed within her mouth. Maia opened her eyes.

The room was white. An ivory-colored ceiling met finely carved white moldings, which joined to walls the color of pale snow. Through a muzzy languor left over from chemical soporifics, Maia had difficulty fixing clearly on the plain, smooth surfaces. Without conscious choice, her mind begin toying with one blank expanse—imagining a laying thereon of grainy, abstract, rhythmic patterns. Maia groaned and closed her eyes.

She could not shut her nose. Alluring smells pursued her. So did growls from her stomach. And the sound of speech.

“Well now, ready to join the livin’ at last?”

Maia turned her head to the left, and cracked an eyelid. A petite, dark-haired figure swam into focus, wearing a wry grin. “Now didn’t I say to stop gettin’ conked, varling? At least this time you weren’t drowned.”

After several tries, Maia found her voice. “Should’ve … known … you’d make it.”

Naroin nodded. “Mm. That’s me. Born survivor. You, too, lass. Though you love provin’ it the hard way.”

An involuntary sigh escaped Maia. The bosun-policewoman’s presence wrested feelings that hurt, despite her
body’s drugged immobility. “I guess you … got through to your boss.”

Naroin shook her head. “When we got picked up, I decided to take some initiative. Called in favors, swung deals. Too bad we couldn’t arrive sooner, though.”

Maia’s thoughts refused to center clearly. “Yeah. Too bad.”

Naroin poured a glass of water and helped Maia lift her head to drink. “In case you’re wonderin’, the docs say you’ll be all right. Had to cut an’ mend a bit. You’ve got an agone leech tapped into your skull, so don’t thrash or bump it, now that you’re awake.”

“… leech …?” With leaden inertia, Maia’s arm obeyed her wish to rise and bend. Fingers traced a boxy object above her forehead, smaller than her thumb. “I wouldn’t touch it if I was—” Naroin started to advise, as Maia gave the box a spastic tap. For an instant, all that seemed muddy and washed out snapped into clarity and color. Along with vividness came a slamming force of pain. Maia’s hand recoiled, hurling back to the coverlet.

“Did I warn ya? Hmp. Never seen a first-timer who didn’t try that, once. Guess I must’ve, about your age.”

The dulling murkiness returned, this time welcome, spreading from Maia’s scalp across her body like a liquid balm. She had seen injured women with leeches before, though most hid them in their hair.
I must be hurt much worse than I feel
, she realized, no longer resenting the numbness. That fleeting break in function had briefly revealed another blocked sensation, more fearsome than physical pain. For an instant, she had been overwhelmed by waves of all-consuming grief.

“Makes ya feel like a zombie, eh?” Naroin commented. “They’ll crank it down as you improve. Should already be gettin’ back some of your senses.”

Maia inhaled deeply. “I … can smell …”

Naroin grinned. “Ah, breakfast. Got an appetite?”

It felt odd. Her insistent stomach seemed unaware of the blunt nausea pervading the rest of her body. “Yes. I—”

“That’s a good sign. They serve quite a table on the Gentilleschi. Hang on, I’ll see to it.”

The policewoman stood up and started to go, her movements too quick and blurry for Maia to follow clearly. Maia tracked them in a series of receding glimpses as her eyes flickered shut for longer and longer intervals. She fought to hold the lids apart as Naroin stopped, turned back, and spoke once more, her voice fading in and out.

“Oh … almost forgot. There’s a note from … young boyfriend an’ sister over … table by your bed. Thought … ike t’know they made it all right.”

The words carried meaning. Maia felt sure of it as they crested over her, soaked in through her ears and pores, and found resonance within. Somewhere, a crushing burden of worry lapsed into gladness. That much emotion was too exhausting, however. Sleep swarmed in to claim her, so that Naroin’s final words barely registered.

“Not a lot of others did, I’m afraid.”

Maia’s eyes stayed closed and the world remained dark for a long, quiet, unmeasured time.

She next awoke to find a middle-aged woman leaning over her, gently touching the top of her head. There were faint clicking sounds, and Maia’s vision seemed to clear a bit. Swells of rising sensation caused her to tense. “That’s not too bad, is it?” the woman asked. From her manner she must be a physician.

“I … guess not.”

“Good. We’ll leave it there awhile. Now let’s look over our handiwork.”

The doctor briskly pulled back Maia’s gown, revealing an expanse of purpled skin that they both regarded with
dispassionate interest. Livid stitches showed where repairs had been made, including a semicircle near her left knee. The doctor clucked earnestly, making soothing, patronizing, and ultimately uninformative noises, then departed.

When the door slid open, Maia glimpsed a tall woman of soldierly bearing standing watch in the uniform of some mainland militia. Beyond lay the jet, fluted panels of solar collectors. Maia heard the soft rush of water along a laminar-smooth hull. The vessel’s rock-steady passage spoke partly of the weather, which was brilliantly fair, and also of technology. This was a craft normally devoted to transporting personages.

But the personage it was sent for did the unexpected. He made his own transportation arrangements, and nearly got away.

That wound was still too raw, too gaping to bear. What hurt most about the image seared in her mind was how
beautiful
the explosion had been. A wondrous convulsion of sparks and dazzling spirals, which scattered glowing shards across a sky so chaste and blue. It had no
right
being so beautiful! The memory triggered a welling of tears, which brimmed her lower eyelids, spilling salty, silent streamlets down her cheeks.

Her last waking episode felt no more real than an unraveling dream. Had she really met Naroin? She recalled the ex-bosun saying something about a letter. Turning to look at the side table, Maia saw a neatly folded piece of heavy paper, sealed with wax. By heavy, conscious effort, she reached over to take it in one clumsy hand, slumping back amid receding waves of pain. Lifting the letter, she recognized her own name scrawled across the front.

From Brod and Leie
, Maia recalled. She was able to feel gladness, now … a colorless, abstract variety. Gladness that two people still lived whom she loved. It helped ease the sense of desolation and forfeiture lodged in her heart,
ready to emerge as soon as the doctor turned down the agone leech some more.

Her vision was still too blurry for reading, so she lay quietly, stroking the paper until a knock came at the door. It slid open, and Naroin leaned into the room. “Ah, back with us. You missed breakfast. Ready to try again?”

She was gone again without waiting for Maia’s answer.
So, I didn’t imagine it
, Maia thought, starting to wonder about the implications. Why was Naroin here? Where
was
here? And why was Naroin helping look after her? The policewoman surely had more important things to do than play nursemaid to one unimportant summerling.

Unless it has to do with all the laws I’ve broken … the places I’ve been that I wasn’t supposed to.
 … 
Things I’ve seen that the Council doesn’t want widely known.

Another knock on the door. This time a young woman entered, bearing a covered tray. Maia wiped her eyes, then opened them wide, staring in surprise.

“Where do you want this, ma’am?” the girl asked. Her voice was softer, a little higher, but otherwise almost identical to the last one Maia had heard. The face was a younger version of the last one Maia had seen. Realization came in a rush.

“Clones …” Maia murmured. “A police clan?”

The youngster wasn’t even Maia’s age. A winterling fiver, then. Yet there was something in her smile. A hint of Naroin’s relaxed self-confidence. She put the tray on the side of the bed, and occupied herself propping pillows, helping Maia to sit up.

“Detectives actually. Freelance. Our clan stays small on purpose. We specialize in solitary field work. Normally, you never see two of us together, outside the hold, but I was sent out when we got Naroin’s urgent-blip.”

It was hard to credit. The fiver spoke with a crisp, upper-clan accent. She had none of Naroin’s scars. Yet, in
her eyes danced the same vigorous zest, the same eagerness for challenge.

“I guess you don’t think me a threat,” Maia suggested, “to break your cover.”

“No, ma’am. I’ve been instructed to be open with you.”

Sure. What harm can I do?
Maia trusted Naroin to some extent, enough to pull strings so that Maia’s next cage would be more pleasant than any she had occupied before. That didn’t mean letting her run around Stratos, blabbing what she’d seen.

The fiver placed the table-tray securely over Maia’s lap and lifted the cover. There were no pancakes, but a predictable, medically appropriate bowl of thin porridge. Still, it smelled so heady Maia felt faint. Rivulets of orange juice ran over her fingers as she clutched the tumbler in both shaking hands. The reddish liquid tasted like squeezed, refined heaven.

“I’ll wait outside,” said the young winterling. “Call, if you need anything.”

Maia only grunted. Concentrating to control her trembling grip, she pushed a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. While her body quivered with simple, beast-level pleasures of taste and satiation, a small part of her remained offset, pondering,
I wonder what their family name is. I should’ve known. Naroin was always too damn competent to be another unnik var.

Sooner or later, Maia knew she must start cataloging her ream of losses, against her slim résumé of assets. Later sounded better. One thing at a time—that was how she planned living from now on. Maia had no intention of giving up, but neither was she ready yet for linear thinking.