David Brin - Glory Season

Those must be winter daughters, Maia decided, estimating their ages at four and five. The other two girls, older and not as well dressed, were definitely not identical and probably var employees.

Several men glanced up when Maia entered. Most quickly lost interest and went back to what they had been doing, but one young fellow, clean-shaven and tidier than the others, took more than a moment in his perusal, and even smiled faintly when she met his eyes. He shifted in his chair, and Maia felt a fluttering panic that he was about to come over and speak to her! What could she possibly say if he did?

At that moment, a brush of air told Maia of doors opening behind her. The young man looked past her, sighed, and sank down again. With an odd mix of relief and disappointment, Maia turned to see what had caused such a reaction.

“Who are you , and what are you doing here?”

The imperious tone seemed not at all anomalous coming from the short, dowdy figure confronting Maia, arms crossed. Apparently Joplands went to flesh with age, although the woman’s shoulders implied considerable strength, even late in life. The lovely skin tone of the youngsters had gone to leather, but the silken black hair was unchanged. That was another thing about being a var. Unlike normal folk, you had no clear idea what you’d look like when you got older. Maia wasn’t sure she didn’t prefer it that way.

“A citizen comes beseeching aid,” she said, bowing courteously before the elder Jopland. “I’ve seen your uplink, O Mother, and must ask aid in consulting the sages of Caria.”

She hadn’t meant to speak loudly, but her words carried. Suddenly, the room’s relative quiet fell to utter hush. A glimmer of interest seemed to rise beneath the hooded eyelids of the nearby men, much to the irritation of the Jopland matriarch.

“Oh, must you, variant-daughter? You figure on saying something the savants might be interested in?”

“I do, Mother. And I see your system is operational.” She gestured toward the ancient tele. From the look on the old woman’s face, Maia had just given her one more reason to hate the machine, but it was a valued accessory for attracting men to soirees like this one. “By the ancient codes,” Maia concluded, “I ask help arranging my call.”

A deeply pursed frown. The elder obviously hated having codes quoted to her by a statusless stripling. “Hmph. You have lousy timing.” There was a pause. “We aren’t obliged to pay your charges. I expect you can cover them?”

When Maia reached for her purse, the crone hissed. “Not here, witling! Have you no shame?” Maia blinked in confusion. Was there some local Perkinite custom against handling money in front of men? “Forgive me, Mother.” She bowed again.

“Mm. This way, then. And you!” The old woman snapped her fingers at one of the var serving girls. “That gentleman’s glass is empty!” With a sniff, she turned and led Maia down a narrow hallway.

The corridor took them by a room where, in passing, Maia glimpsed several young women making preparations. Jopland fems were handsome creatures in their prime, Maia conceded, between ages six and twelve. Especially if you liked strong jaws and boldly outlined brows. But then, there was no accounting for the tastes of men, who grew increasingly finicky as Wengel Star receded and the aurorae died.

The young Joplands shared mirrors with one pair and a trio of clones from other families—the first type tall, with frizzy hair, and the other broad of shoulder and hip, with breasts ample enough to feed quadruplets. Apparently, Jopland shared the expense of hosting with a couple of allied clans. By the looks of banked enthusiasm Maia had witnessed in the Main Hall, they probably had to throw several such evenings to get just a few winter pregnancies.

Given the size of the house, Maia had expected to see more fecund Joplands, till she realized. There’s talk of a population drop in the valley, just when it’s rising elsewhere.

Of course. The boom along the coast comes mostly from “excess” summer births. But these smugs are Perkinites. Men are kept away in summer, just to avoid that kind of pregnancy! That explained why she had seen no var-daughters, women half-resembling their Jopland mothers.

Maia wanted to linger, curious how these frontier women managed something even rich, attractive, seaside Lamatia found tricky at times. “ This way,” the elder Jopland hissed, interrupting her perusal.

“Uh, sorry, ma’am.” Bending her head, Maia hurried after her reluctant hostess.

The communications chamber was spare, barely a cabinet. The standard console lay on a rickety table, bundles of cable exiting through a hole in the wall. Only the chairs looked comfortable, for mothers to use during long-range business calls, but those were pulled away and a bare stool set in front of the table instead. With a gnarled finger, the aged Jopland touched a switch causing the small screen to come alight with a pearly glow.

“Guest call. Accounting on completion,” she told the machine, then turned to Maia. “If you can’t cover the charges, you’ll work it off. One month per hundred. Agreed?”

Maia felt a flare of anger. The offer was outrageous. The rudest Port Sanger summerling has better breeding than you, “mother.” But then, breeding and style weren’t what it took to win and hold a niche out here on the prairie. Once again, Maia recalled—a var’s place wasn’t to judge.

“Agreed,” she bit out. The Jopland smiled.

This had better not cost a lot! Working for clones like these would be patarkal hell.

Maia sat down facing the standard-model console. Somewhere she had heard that it was one of just nine photonic devices still mass-produced in ancient factories on Landing Continent. Others included the all-purpose motors used on the solar railway, and the Game of Life set she had glimpsed minutes before, in the main hall. Maia had never actually used a console in earnest. She tried recalling Savant Judeth’s cursory lessons back at Lamatia. Let’s see … it’s on voice mode, so if I phrase my request—

Maia suddenly realized she hadn’t heard the door close. Turning, she saw the Jopland matriarch leaning against the jamb, arms crossed.

“I ask the courtesy-right of privacy,” Maia said, hating the other woman for making it necessary. The crone smirked. “Clock’s already ticking, virgie. Have fun.” With a click, the door closed behind her.

Damn! Now Maia saw the chronometer display in the upper left corner of the screen, whirling rapidly. It showed charges of eleven credits already! Nervously, she spoke toward the machine. “Uh, I need to talk to someone… a savant? Or someone in the guardia?”

This was going badly. “Oh yes! In Caria City!”

The screen, which had so far remained obtusely blank, at last resolved into a pattern of boxes. A logical array, she recalled from lessons. Along the top it said:

Query Address Zone — City of Caria

generic reference-type sought

Imprecise partial cues — “savant” and/or “guardia”

Suggested clarification — SUBJECT MATTER? _______

Maia perceived it would be a mistake to try parsing her question in the proper formal way. What she saved in processing costs would be more than lost in connection time. Perhaps, if she just talked at it, the machine would extract what it needed.

“I’m not sure. I’ve seen strange things, in Lanargh and in Clay Town. Men acting like it was summer, but it’s not, you know? I think they must’ve eaten or sniffed something. Something people want kept secret. Some kind of blue powder? In glass bottles? …”