David Brin - Glory Season

Maia nodded. It was favored fare in books and on the tele.

“Animal chaos!” The woman waxed passionate. “Picture how violent and uncertain life was, especially for women and children. Now realize, it’s probably still going on out there! That is, on whatever worlds haven’t been destroyed, by the Enemy, or by aggression among male humans.”

“But the Outsider proves some colonies still—”

“Exactly! There may be dozens of surviving, battered worlds, crying out for what we can offer—salvation.”

Maia had backed away until a gritty wall jabbed her spine. Yet she felt torn between flight and fascination. “You think we should welcome contact… and send missionaries ?”

The dedicant, who had been hunching forward in pursuit, now stood straighter and smiled. “I was right about you being a sharpie. Which brings up my original comment about there being a reason for everything, including the surge in summer births, even though niches seem so few.” She raised one finger. “Few here on Stratos! But not out there .” The finger jabbed skyward. “Destiny calls, and only timid fools in Caria stand in the way!”

Maia saw fervor in the young woman’s eyes, a belief transcending logic and all obstacles. Suppose you find yourself insignificant in the world, dwarfed by the mighty. How to feel important after all? All you need is a convenient conspiracy. One that’s keeping you from taking your rightful place as a leader toward the light.

Only there are so many lights…

Maia withheld judgment on the Venturist’s actual idea, which had a grand sound, and might even be worth discussing. “I’ll give it a read,” she promised, holding up the pamphlet. “But…”

Her voice trailed off. The priestess was staring past her shoulder. In a distracted tone, the young dedicant said, “Very good. But now I must go. To the stars, sister.”

“Eia, sister,” Maia replied conventionally to the unusual farewell, watching the striped robe vanish into the crowd. She turned to see what had spooked the heretic, and soon caught sight of four sturdy women pushing through the throng, nonchalantly swinging walking sticks they didn’t seem to need… not for walking, at least.

Temple wardens, Maia realized. There were priestesses and then there were priestesses. Although heresy was officially no crime, the temple hierarchy had ways of making it less comfortable than following classical dogma. Of the fringe groups, only Perkinism was strong enough that no one dared rough up its adherents.

Oh, I guess there are still niches, Maia thought, watching the stern women move along, causing even members of the city watch to step aside. Vars with muscle can always find employment in this world.

Which suddenly reminded her, she was due back at the Wotan before dusk. Kitchen duty. And there’d be patarkal hell to pay if she was late!

Maia stuffed the heretical tract into a pocket, to show Leie later. Giving the Temple warders a wide berth, she found her bearings and hurried through the market crowd toward the unmistakable aroma of the docks.

“Work now, gawk later!” Bosun Naroin snapped, late on their fourth day in port.

Maia’s attention had wandered toward a distracting sight at the foot of the wharf. Drawing back quickly, she nodded—“Yessir”—and concentrated on resetting the conveyor belt, making sure that buckets hauling coal out of the ship’s hold did not jitter or spill. Sometimes it took muscle to lever the balky contraption into line. Even after all seemed in perfect order, Maia watched the buckets warily for a while to be sure. Finally, she lifted her head above the portside rail once more.

What had drawn her gaze before was the arrival of a car, cruising with a methane-driven purr down the bay-side embankment, toward the pier where Wotan was moored.

A car , she thought. For personal transport and nothing else. There had been two in all of Port Sanger—used on ceremonial occasions or to carry visiting dignitaries. Other motor vehicles had been nearly as rare, since most products entered and left her hometown by sea. In cosmopolitan Lanargh, one might glimpse a motor-lorry down any street, each employing a driver, several loaders, and a guardian who walked in front bearing a red flag, making sure no children fell beneath the rumbling wheels. They were impressive machines, even if their growling, chuffing rumble frightened Maia a little.

For several days, one battered, ugly high-bed had been coming to the pier to fill its hopper with coal from the Parthenia Sea. The unloading crew grew to hate the sight of the thing. But hey, it’s a job , Maia thought as the truck’s bin filled with Port Sanger anthracite, bound for a family-run petrochemical plant for conversion to molten plastic, then used by certain other Lanargh clans for making fine injection-moldings.

Her gaze drifted once more to the foot of the wharf. The car had parked, but no one had yet emerged. Curious.

She turned back to make sure the returning, empty buckets weren’t clipping Wotan’s cargo hatch. If the conveyor jammed, the sweating team below would blame her. “Hold!” Maia cried when the clearance narrowed thinner than she liked. Naroin echoed with a shout. While the saw-toothed buckets rumbled to a halt, Maia kicked free a pair of chocks and set a pry bar under the conveyor’s frame, straining to jigger the massive apparatus several times until the new arrangement seemed right. Finally, she bent to pound the chocks back into place, then called, “Ready away!” Naroin threw a lever and precious electricity poured from the ship’s accumulators, setting the scarred machinery into motion with a rumble of grinding gears.

It was hard work, but Maia felt grateful to be out on deck. Her stints below, shoveling coal into the ever-hungry buckets, had been like sentences to hell. Floating grit stuck to your perspiration, running down your arms and sides in sooty rivulets. It got into everything, including your mouth and underwear. Finally, like the others, she had stripped completely.

Nor could she complain, for this crew was luckier than most. Half the ships in port used human-powered winches to unload, or doubled-over stevedores, groaning as they dumped gunnysacks onto horse-drawn wagons. Even those freighters equipped with electric or steam-driven gear used it sparingly, relying mostly on muscle power.

“Savin’ wear and tear on the machinery,” Naroin had explained. “Some seasons, var labor’s cheaper’n replacement parts.” This year, it seemed especially so.

Not that summer women worked alone. Clones supervised unloading delicate merchandise, and men appeared whenever their specialized skills were needed. Still, the sailors mostly spent time caring for their precious ships, and no one expected different. What men and vars had in common was that both had fathers—though seldom knew their names. Both were lowlife in the eyes of haughty clones. Beyond that, all resemblance dimmed.

Everything seemed to be running smoothly, so Maia returned to the portside rail, fleeing the dust. Rubbing the back of her neck, she turned and saw that someone had left the motorcar at the base of the pier, and was walking this way. A man, dressed in foppish lace and wearing a wide-brim hat, sauntered toward the Zeus and Wotan, dodging the black plume wafting from the truck bed. Whistling, the male paused to inspect the paint flaking from the Wotan’s aft. He buffed his shoes, then squinted at the sky. So that’s what a person looks like when they’re trying not to look suspicious , Maia observed with amusement. This character was no sailor, nor did he look like the type to be kept waiting.

Sure enough, three crewmen appeared, one from her own ship and two from Leie’s, hurrying down the gangways with exaggerated nonchalance. The stranger, with a courteous flourish, led the sailors behind the girth of the motortruck, where bucket after bucket of black hydrocarbons showered into an already-creaking loading bin.