David Brin - Glory Season

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.