Glory Season

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.

This must be what made the weapons Brod and I saw, that were used against the Enemy. Now Caria will be able to manufacture all it wants, to shoot down Renna's ship and any other that dares venture dose.

Oh, Lysos, what have I done?

"If only we had time," the doctor went on. "We could make things. Guns to defend it. Radios to call our guild, an' some honorable clans."

As they hurried along, he turned to survey the row of storage bays to the right. "Maybe the Guardians left some-thin' behind. You see anything useful?"

Maia sighed. Most of the enclaves contained machines or other items that were completely unrecognizable. Nevertheless, she learned something from what she had just seen and heard. Lysos and the Founders didn't turn completely away from science. They felt it needful to hold onto this ability. It was a later, frightened generation that damped down, scared of what trained, independent minds might do.

It made her angry. The councillors in Caria didn't know about this place — not yet. But surely the savants at the university had books containing the basic wisdom all this technology was built upon. How? she wondered. How could people with access to so much knowledge turn away from it?

The question underlay so much of her pain at all the death and futile struggle. Like a trail of broken pieces, she had left in her wake first Brod, then Leie and so many others. And ahead . . . Where was Renna? Was she a judas goat, foiling his brilliant escape?

Now the bays on the right revealed frayed remnants of curtains, drooping from teetering rods. There were beds, chairs, items of clothing. "Legend says, after the banishment, a secret lodge stayed at the Former." The doctor sighed. "No one knows what for. In time, those with the secret died out."

On Stratos, continuity was reserved to clans. Commercial companies, governments, even the sailing guilds, had to recruit members from the offspring of hives, who controlled education, religion. These barracks — this sad tale of perseverance — had been doomed to futility. Perhaps the effort lasted many generations . . . still too little time to make any difference.

Maia wondered if Renna had slept in one of these alcoves. Had he combated ennui, and slaked his curiosity, by piecing together the melancholy tale of this lost refuge? Had he found anything to eat? Maia feared discovering his corpse, and thereby knowing that all of this — losing everything — had been for nothing.

They had crossed more than three-quarters of the vast chamber when the cabin boy noticed a sound. "Listen!" he urged. They paused, and Maia detected it. A bass thrumming, which came from somewhere up ahead. "Come on," she said.

The doctor looked longingly at the mammoth machine, the Former. "We might try . . ."

There came another sound, a faint bang of metal far behind them, accompanied by shrill, excited exclamations. Come on," urged the big sailor. They limped forward and made it through a set of doors at the chamber's far end, just in time to look back and see a crowd of women warriors pile through the distant entrance. The reprieve won by the brave rear guard was over.

The fugitives plunged into a new corridor, this time as dark as a mine. Only a single glow ahead eased their way. As Maia and the others approached, they saw that it was a hole in the right-hand side of the passageway. She sighed at the welcome touch of sunlight and fresh air. For a moment, despite the dread of pursuit, the four of them paused to look out upon the lagoon, and each, in his or her own way, expressed astonishment.

Down below, where two sailing ships had lain moored to a narrow dock, only one stood partially intact — the smaller Reckless, whose sails were burned away, its masts singed. Of the Manitou, just the burnt prow remained, still tethered to the smoke-stained pier. The sailor and cabin boy moaned at the sight. But there was more.