Glory Season

The next day, on her breakfast tray next to the orange juice, Maia found a newspaper. A simple, four-page tabloid, printed on fine, slick paper. From the price and circulation, both written on the masthead, it was clearly meant only for subscribers at the pinnacle of Caria's many-tiered social strata. Several portions had been razored out. The lead article was riveting, nonetheless.

Strike Outlook Positive

While seaborne traffic remains snarled in most ports along the Mediant Coast, analysts now predict a quick conclusion to the work-stoppage by seventeen shipping guilds and their affiliates. Already, defections have weakened the resolve of the ringleaders, whose objective, to pressure the Planetary Reigning Council into reopening the infamous Jellicoe Sanctuary, appears no longer to have any realistic chance of success. …

So, Maia thought. It was her first partial accounting of events since her capture. Also her first clue to her status as a pawn in big-time struggles.

The reavers were crushed. Kiel's rads are broken. Loose alliances of liberals, like those backcountry temple vars, might lean toward change, but they lack cohesiveness. The high clans have long experience coping with such grumblings.

But there's another group giving them a scare. The sailing guilds.

In Ursulaborg, the Pinnipeds had spoken of propaganda. The Great Former means nothing, they had been told. The Wissy-Man was not your kind. . . .

Maia didn't overrate her own contribution. The sailors might have rejected the official line anyway. But her narrative must have helped when she told what she had learned about the ancient Guardians — about a forlorn struggle by ancient men and women to devise another way. A way of including more than one round patch of earth and sea and sky, in the Stratoin tale. A way to amend, without rejecting, what the Founders had once willed their heirs.

And she had spoken of Renna, the brave sailor whose sea was the galaxy. The man who flew, as no man of this world had since the banishment. When they departed on that day, she had felt certain the seamen knew her friend from the stars. That he was one of them. That he was owed a debt of honor.

The Persim brought me here to help undermine the strike. That's why they flaunt me around town. The men at the opera must have reported back to their guilds. If I was in Odo's company, how serious could I ever have been, about being the starman's comrade?

Reading between the lines, it grew apparent why the high clans were concerned. The sailor's job action was hurting.

… Half of the sparking season was over before the walkout was declared. Still, it is clear that lack of male cooperation will depress this winter's breeding program.

That caused Maia to smile, proud that Clevin and the others hadn't missed a trick.

Perkinite priestess-advocate Jeminalte Cever today demanded that "those responsible for this flagrant neglect of duty must be made to pay."

Fortunately, this radicalization took place after Farsun Day, so politicians needn't fear a rush to polling booths by disgruntled males. Their irate minority vote might have swung several tight races in recent elections.

Will it remain a factor by next winter? Estimates based on recent episodes of male unrest, six, ten, and thirteen decades ago, lead savants at the Institute for Sociological Trends to suggest that this somewhat more severe interlude may not pass in time to prevent short-term economic loss to many of our subscribers. However, they predict that, by next autumn, only residual ferment should remain, at a level corresponding to ….

It went on, describing how the guilds would predictably fall away from each other, accepting generous deals and compromises, unable to maintain righteous ire in a season when the blood ran cool. Maia sighed, finding the scenario believable, even predictable. The dead hand of Lysos always won.

No wonder they let me see this. She allowed for the fact that the reporting was biased and incomplete. Nevertheless, the newspaper left her depressed.

Odo arrived as Maia finished dressing. She expected the Persim matriarch to gloat over the article, but apparently Odo had other matters on her mind. Clearly agitated, the old woman dismissed the maids and bid Maia sit down. "There will be no excursion today," she said. "You have a visitor."

Maia lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Shortly, you will meet Brill Upsala in the east conservatory. You'll be supplied pencils, paper, other equipment. Brill has been informed that you are willing to be examined, under the terms of ancient law, but that you do not wish to discuss matters having to do with the alien.''

Odo met Maia's eyes. "We will be listening. Should you make liars of us, or imply distress of any sort, you might as well accompany the Upsala when she goes . . . and live forever with guilt of your sister's fate. Let it be on your head."