David Brin - Glory Season

Maia slumped amidships as her throbbing arms and legs complained. Get used to it, she told them. Adventure is ninety percent pain and boredom. The saying supposedly went on, “and ten percent stark, flaming terror.” But she hoped to give that part a miss.

A crusty ladle appeared in front of her, proffered by a stick-thin old man with a sloshing bucket. Maia suddenly realized how ravenously thirsty she was. She put her mouth to the cup, slurping gratefully… and instantly.

Seawater!

Maia felt eyes turn toward her as she coughed in embarrassment, trying to cover the reaction. She managed to clamp down and drink some more, recalling that she was just another vagrant summerling now, no longer the daughter of a rich, uptown clan with its own artesian well. In poorer sections of town, vars and even low-caste clones drew their drinking water from the sea and grew up knowing little else.

“Bless Stratos Mother, for her mild oceans,” went a sardonic adage, not part of any liturgy. And bless Lysos, for kidneys that can take it. Thirst overcame the bland, salty taste and she finished the ladle without further trouble. The old man then surprised her with a gap-toothed grin, tousling her ragged-cut hair.

Maia stiffened defensively… then self-consciously relaxed. It took more than the passing heat of hard labor to trigger male rut. Anyway, a man would have to be hard up to waste time on a virgin like her.

Actually, the coot reminded her a little of old Bennett, back when that aged male’s eyes still danced with interest in life. Hesitantly, she smiled back. The sailor laughed and moved on to water others in need.

A whistle blew, ending the work break, but at least now commands came at a slower pace. Instead of the former frenzy of reefing and unfurling sails, coaxing the sluggish vessel past frothy shoals toward open water, their new chores consisted of stowing and battening down. Now that she had a chance to look around, Maia was struck by how much less mysteriously alien the men of the crew appeared than she’d expected. Moving about their tasks, they seemed as businesslike and efficient as any clan crafts-woman in her workshop or mill. Their laughter was rich and infectious as they bantered in a dialect she could follow, if she concentrated… although the drift of most of their jests escaped her.

Despite their dronelike behavior ashore, ranging from boisterous to slothful, depending on the season, Maia had always known men must lead lives of toil and danger at sea. Even the crew of this grimy lug must apply both intelligence and concentration—among the best womanly traits—as well as their renowned physical strength in order to survive. She was filled with questions about the tasks she saw performed with such industry, but that would have to await the right opportunity.

Besides, she found even more interesting the women on board. After all, men were another race—less predictable than lugars, though better swimmers and conversationalists. But whether summer- or winter-born, women were her kind.

At the elevated aft end of the ship, distinguished by their better clothes, stood or lounged the first-class passengers, who did not have to work. Few summerlings could afford full fare, even on ships like this one, so only clones leaned on the balcony, not far from the captain and his officers. Those winter folk came from poorer clans. She spotted a pair of Ortyns, three Bizmai, and several unfamiliar types, who must have come from towns further north before changing ships in Port Sanger.

The working passengers, on the other hand, were all vars like herself—uniques whose faces were as varied as clouds in the sky. They were an odd lot, mostly older than she was and tougher looking. For some, this must be one more leg of countless many as they worked their way around the seas of Stratos, always looking for some special place where a niche awaited.

Maia felt more sure than ever that she and Leie were correct to travel separately. These women might have resented twins, just as Captain Pegyul said. As it was, Maia felt conspicuous enough when the noon meal was served. “Here you go, li’l virgie,” said a gnarly, middle-aged woman with gray-streaked hair, as she poured stew from a kettle into a battered bowl. “Want a napkin too, sweetie?” She shared a grin with her companions. Of course the var was having Maia on. There were some greasy rags about, but the back of a wrist seemed the favored alternative.

“No, thank you,” Maia answered, almost inaudibly. That only brought more hilarity, but what else could she say? Maia felt her face redden, and wished she was more like her Lamai mothers and half sisters, whose visages never betrayed emotion, save by careful calculation. As the women passed around a jug of wine, Maia took her plate of mysterious curry to a nearby corner and tried not to betray how self-conscious she felt.

No one’s watching you, she tried convincing herself. Or if they are, what of it? No one has any cause to go out of their way to dislike you.

Then she overheard someone mutter, not too softly, “… bad enough breathin’ this damn coal dust all th’ way to Gremlin Town. Do I also gotta stand th’ stink of a Lamai brat aboard?” Maia glanced up to catch a glower from a tough-looking var in her mid-eights or nines. The woman’s fair hair and sharp-jawed features reminded Maia of the Chuchyin clan, a rival of Lamatia based up-coast from Port Sanger. Was she a Chuchyin half or quarter sister, using an old grudge between their maternal houses as an excuse to start a private one of her own?

“Stay downwind from me, Lamai virgie,” the var grunted when she caught Maia’s gaze, and snorted in satisfaction when Maia looked away.

Bleeders! How far must I to go to escape Lamatia? Maia had none of the advantages of being her mother’s child, only an inheritance of resentment toward a clan widely known for tenacious self-interest.

So intent was she on her plate that she jerked when someone nudged her arm. Blinking, Maia turned to meet a pair of pale green eyes, partly shaded under a dark blue bandanna. A small, deeply tanned, black-haired woman, wearing shorts and a quilted halter, held out the wine jug with a faint smile. As Maia reached for it, the var said in a low voice, “Relax. They do it to every fiver.”

Maia gave a quick nod of thanks. She lifted the jug to her mouth …

…and doubled over, coughing. The stuff was awful! It stung her throat and she could not stop wheezing as she passed the bottle to the next var. This only brought more laughter, but now with a difference. It came tinged with an indulgent, rough-but-affectionate tone. Each of them was five once, and they know it, Maia realized. I’ll get through this too.

Relaxing just a bit, she started listening to the conversation. The women compared notes on places each had been, and speculated what opportunities might lie to the south, with storm season over and commerce opening up again. Derisory comments about Port Sanger featured prominently. The image of a whole town called to arms because some clumsy reavers spilled a lantern had them in stitches. Maia couldn’t help also grinning at the farcical picture. It didn’t seem funny to that dead woman, a part of her recalled soberly. But then, hadn’t somebody written that one essence of humor is the tragedy you managed to escape?

From hints here and there, Maia surmised that some of these vars had wore the red bandanna themselves. Say you gather a pack of down-and-out summerlings, resentful at society’s bottom rung, and sign a sisterly compact. Together, you hire a fast schooner… men willing to pilot their precious ship alongside some freighter, giving your band of comrades a narrow moment to dare all, win or lose.