David Brin - Glory Season

“I’ll pick the sailboat,” Leie said. But Maia shouted, “No!” She coughed, a series of rasping hacks, and shook her head. “Too obvious… go… with the arrow.”

Behind them, they now heard screams. More gunfire and an angry clamor of combat. Leie’s brow furrowed, running with perspiration, her eyes riveted on the screen. Wheezing from the effort, she brought the red dot into the square chosen by Maia.

A deep-throated tone rose beneath their feet. A growling,, deeper than the groans coming from the hallway. Those shouts grew closer as Maia and Leie fell back from the podium, which began vibrating powerfully. Rumbling from age and disuse, a hidden mechanism rolled the heavy stone aside. Light spilled from the widening gap, along with a welcome rush of cool, fresh air.

Masked figures were tumbling down the aisle behind them. The first rush of males arrived in an orderly fashion, bearing wounded comrades. After them spilled others, panicky, near-doubled-over, their makeshift smoke veils askew. There was no time for organization. “In here!” Leie cried, guiding refugees toward a set of stairs that had appeared below the podium. Sailors tumbled downward, pell-mell, although Maia now wondered.

What have I done?

A rear guard fought on, five or six men wrestling desperately with twice as many smaller figures, expertly wielding trepp bills. A gunshot bellowed, and one of the men clutched his abdomen, falling.

“Come on, Maia!” Leie screamed, shoving her into the bright aperture. Howls of angry pursuit rose as three reavers broke free to leap down rows of benches after them. One tripped and fell, then Maia was too busy negotiating the steep steps to look back. At bottom, a waiting man took her arm, preventing her from turning.

It’s okay, Leie was just behind me, Maia told herself as she fled with other fugitives along a narrow hallway, under a low luminous ceiling, between cables and conduits. The constrained passage filled with sound as everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Alternate steps sent waves of pain swarming from her knee. At last, they reached a set of double doors made of sheet metal. An ad hoc squad of wounded men were using whatever they could find to wedge one of the doors shut. As soon as Maia was through, they started on the other. “Wait!” she cried. “My sister!”

She kept screaming while they finished, ignoring her pummeling assaults. It was the doctor who took Maia’s face in his hands and repeated, over and over, “There was reavers behind ya, honey. Just reavers, a little ways behind ya!”

In confirmation, the doors shook resoundingly as they were struck from the other side, again and again. “Go on!” one dark, bloodstained man urged, leaning against the portal. “Get outta here!” Blinking, Maia recognized her recent fellow investigator—the navigator.

“But—” she complained, before being lifted into the arms of a massive sailor, who turned and ran, leaving crimson blemishes behind him on the cold stone floor.

What followed was a blur of shaking, wild turns, and sudden reverses. Yet, combined with pain and fear and loss came a strange sensation, one she had not experienced since infancy—of being carried and cared for by someone much larger. Despite knowing countless ways men were as frail as women—and sometimes, much frailer—it came as a kind of solace to feel engulfed by such gentleness and power. It coaxed a deep part of her to let go. Amid a headlong plunge through eerie corridors, chased by despair, Maia wept for her sister, for the brave sailors, and herself.

The passage seemed to stretch on and on, at times descending like a ramp, at others climbing. They mounted a steep, narrow stair where some men had to duck their heads and others lagged behind. Sounds of pursuit, which had faded a while back, now grew closer once more. At the top, the diminished band of fugitives found another metal door. Several men laid down their wounded comrades and formed one last rear guard, vowing to hold on while Maia, her bearer, the doctor, and the cabin boy hurried ahead.

What’s the point? Maia thought miserably. The men seemed to believe in her ability to work miracles, but in truth, what had she accomplished? This “escape route” was intrinsically no good if the foe could follow. Most likely, all she had done was lead the reavers straight to Renna.

Her original thought was that she had found a secret path to the old defense warrens, which the Council in Caria had kept preserved for millennia. Now Maia knew they had traveled much too far, no doubt threading narrow stone bridges through one after another of the Dragon’s Teeth comprising the Jellicoe cluster. Except for Renna, they might be the first humans to tread these halls since the great banishment, after the Age of Kings.

They heard no more clamor at their rear. The last detachment must still be holding out at their barricade. Upon coming to a flat stretch, Maia insisted that the panting sailor let her down. Gingerly, she put weight on her knee, which throbbed, but deigned to let her walk. The sailor expressed willingness should she need help again. “We’ll see,” Maia said, patting his huge forearm and hobbled ahead.

Soon they came to another set of doors. On pushing through, the group stopped, staring.

A vast chamber stretched ahead, taller than the temple in Lanargh, wide as a warehouse. She marveled that the entire spire-mountain must be hollow. Maia’s eyes couldn’t take it all in at once, only by stages.

To the right, a series of semicircular bays had been gouged out of the rock, ranging from ten to fifty meters across, each containing jumbled mechanisms or piles of stacked crates. But it was the wall to the left that drew them, in awe. It appeared to consist of a single machine, stretching the entire length of the chamber, consisting of a numbing combination of metals and strange substances embedded in stone, plus crystalline forms like the huge, dimly flickering entity she and Brod had glimpsed, back in the Defense Center. At intervals along its length, there were what appeared to be doors, though not shaped for the passage of people. Maia guessed they were meant for the entry or egress of materials, and speculated as much to the doctor.

The old man nodded. “It must be … We all thought it lost. The council had it. Or else it was destroyed.”

“What?” Maia asked, drawn by the man’s reverential tone. “What was lost?”

“The Former,” he whispered, as if afraid of disturbing a dream. “Jellicoe Former.”

Maia shook her head. “What’s a former?”

As they walked, the doctor looked at her, struggling for words. “A former… makes things! It can make anything !”

“You mean like an autofactory? Where they produce, radios and—”

He shrugged. “The Council keeps some lesser ones runnin’, so as to not to forget how. But legends tell of another, the Great Former, run by the folk of Jellicoe.”

Blinking, Maia grasped his implication. “Men made this?”

“Not men, as such. The Old Guardians. Men an’ women. All banished after the Kings’ revolt, even though the Guardians had nothin’ to do with macho traitors.

“The Council an’ Temple were scared, see. Scared of such power. Used the Kings as an excuse to send ever’one away from Jellicoe an’ the other places. We always thought Caria kept the tools, for themselves.”

“They did, some of them.” And Maia spoke briefly of the Defense Center, elsewhere in this honeycombed isle, maintained by specialized clans.

“Just as we thought,” the doctor said moodily. “But seems they never found this!”

Till now, Maia pondered unhappily. It might have been better if they had all died, back in the sanctuary. Over the short term, this windfall would give Baltha and her reavers more power, wealth, and influence than they needed to set up their own dynasties, enough to win high places on the social ladder of Stratos. Once established, though, they would quickly become defenders of the status quo, like any conservative clan. In the long run, it would not matter that criminals first seized this prize. Council and Temple would control it.