David Brin - Glory Season

Jacko punched him in the face.

Onlookers gasped as the engineer fell down Whimpering, he tried crawling backward, holding a bloody nose. With dismay he saw Jacko follow, bearing down, clearly intent on more mayhem. Reading the engineer’s bewilderment, Maia sensed the fallen man was furiously trying to remember something he had known in the past, but lately forgotten—like how to form a fist.

Abruptly, the woman Maia had mistaken for Tizbe was at Jacko’s side, tugging his arm. It looked impossible, like trying to restrain a berserk sash-horse. Panting hard, Jacko appeared not to notice until Mirri reached up and took his ear, twisting it to get his attention. He winced, paused, started to turn. Gradually, her crooning words penetrated, until he finally nodded jerkily, allowing her to pull his elbow, drawing him about and leading him through the hushed crowd toward the red-curtained house.

Of course. That’s another of their jobs. Despite all the laws and codes and sanctuaries, despite the well-tended hospitality halls of the great clans, there were always troubles in coastal towns during high summer, when aurorae danced and bright Wengel Star called out the old beast in males. Rutting men with nowhere to go, brawling and making enough noise to shame storm-season tempests. Pleasure clans knew sophisticated lore for handling such situations. The house mistress seemed quite skilled, luckily for the poor engineer.

Only it’s not summer! Maia thought, struggling with confusion. This shouldn’t have happened.

Through the dispersing throng, Maia glanced past the wreck at Tizbe—the real one this time—who looked right back at her, eyes filled with a glint of dark speculation.

Humans aren’t like certain fish or plants, for whom sex is but one option. Something in sperm is vital to form the crucial placenta, which nurtures babies in the womb. Reproduction entirely without males—parthenogenesis—appears to be impossible for mammals. The best we can do is emulate a process used by some creatures on Earth, called amazonogenesis. Mating with a male is still needed, to spark conception, but the offspring are clones, genetically identical to their mother.

“Fine,” said the early separationists of Herlandia. “We’ll design males to serve this purpose, and no other!”

Remember the Herlandia drones? Tiny, useless things, their creation cannot be called cruel, since they were programmed for unending bliss, stroked like pampered lap dogs, always eager at beck and call, to do their duty.

They were abominations! To take powerful, graceful beings such as men—so full of curiosity and zest for life—and turn them into phlegmatic freaks, this was abhorrent. Naturally it failed. Even without direct genetic involvement, pallid fathers will sire a pallid race.

Besides, shall we eliminate variability entirely? What if circumstances change? We may need the gene-churning magic of normal sexuality, from time to time.

The Enemy’s arrival at Herlandia brought that experiment to an abrupt, well-deserved end. Naturally, the womenfolk of that colony world defended their brave new civilization with no end of ingenuity and courage. But when they most needed that special wrath which makes warriors, they found that they had purposely jettisoned one of its primal fonts. Lap dogs aren’t much help when monsters prowl the sky.

That, my sisters, is another reason we should not entirely abandon the male side.

Our descendants may encounter times when it has its uses.

There were no recitations from the travel guide when the journey recommenced. Tizbe read her book in silence, or stared through the dusty window at the monotonous countryside. Maia found the silence unnerving. Her thoughts roiled from all she had seen, and more she suspected lay unseen. Until now, she had attributed many queer incidents to “other ports, other lands.” Now she knew with a sinking feeling. Something’s happening. And I don’t think I’m going to like it.

Back home, one thing always used to make her more aggressive than Leie—curiosity. Even punishment seldom dissuaded Maia from pursuing inquiries that were “none of a summerling’s business,” She had sworn to suppress the trait, especially since the storm. I’m practical now. A lone var has to be. But there was no real option of turning away, this time. Like a loose tooth, the agony of leaving this mystery alone would drive her crazy.

Whenever she felt certain the other woman wasn’t looking, Maia sneaked glances at Tizbe’s carpet-sided valise, which almost certainly held more than just clothing.

Dammit. Can I afford more trouble?

The young blonde yawned, put her book aside, and stretched across the gunnysacks, giving Maia a good look at the dark roots of her dyed hair. After Clay Town, she knew this was no spoiled summerling, wandering in idle search of a cushy niche, but a full daughter-member of a hive with connections stretching far beyond Maia’s own limited experience. Tizbe wasn’t just “looking around.” She was on duty, working for her family business.

Picture a rich, powerful clan. Its chief livelihood is pleasure houses. A complex, profitable enterprise, demanding much more than strong hands and a pretty face.

Although they ran no house in Port Sanger, she had seen the type on occasion, walking proudly in fine traveling robes or riding lugar-borne litters, tending business at the best holds, and even dropping by for visits with the Lamai mothers.

Special, door-to-door massage service? Maia wondered. But that was too simplistic. Few of those visits had been in high summer or winter. Lamais were a self-controlled lot, who never thought of sex at other times of year.

Couriers, then? A door-to-door message service? Their main business would be a perfect cover for a profitable sideline, delivering communiques between allied clans, for example. But what sort of message would be worth the fees they’d charge?

Pretty damn dangerous ones, Maia figured. Or, she added, looking at the valise. Dangerous goods.

That bottle of blue-green powder, glistening and sloshing like liquid … It was something you gave men, apparently. Something linked to one youth’s inconvenient erection, another man’s unseasonal rage. Maia recalled the earlier incident aboard the Wotan, when those sailors seemed aroused by her nakedness, despite it being autumn and she a mere summerling, a virgin, and filthy besides. That time the mysterious courier had been male, but after weeks at sea and on the rails, she now knew groups of women and men were capable of cooperating in complex endeavors.

Including crime?

The blonde woman lay sprawled with one arm over her eyes, snoring softly. Maia stood up with a sigh. I know I’m gonna regret this.

She took one hesitant step.. Another. A floorboard creaked, making her flinch. She peered near her feet. Through the dust, nail heads showed where the joists were. Maia resumed her creep more carefully, until finally she crouched next to the sleeping woman.

The suitcase was woven from coarse fabric, with designs of abstract, interlocking geometric forms. A soft hum told of some metal part vibrating in harmony with the magnetic-pulse impeller of the locomotive. Examining the lock mechanism, she saw that the simple keyhole was cosmetic camouflage. Three small buttons protruded along one side. Maia blew a silent sigh, recognizing expensive technology. There would be a code for pressing them in a certain order, or an alarm might go off.

Maia backed away cautiously, and returned with a thin, stiff length of wire, normally used to bind heavy articles of baggage. Checking once more that her “assistant” still slept, she began working one end of the wire between the heavy fabric’s warp and weft. With a final shove, it pierced through and met softer resistance, presumably Tizbe’s clothes. Pushing farther revealed nothing. Maia drew the wire out again, and repeated the procedure a few centimeters away, with the same result.