Glory Season

And now Maia recalled where she'd seen that visage before. Several sisters of their clan had been lounging at a cafe on the main square in Lanargh, outside another house equipped with plush curtains. Looking a second time, Maia saw the same emblem above the building overlooking the tracks — a grinning bull, grasping in its jaws a ringing bell.

Most towns possessed houses of ease — enterprises catering to human cravings, especially those of deep winter and high summer. "Escape valves," Savant Judeth had called them. "Bordellos," said Savant Claire, with finality that forbade even asking what the latter word meant.

The reality seemed rather ordinary and businesslike. Such houses provided one outlet for seamen who lacked invitations to clanholds when aurorae made their blood run hot. And in deep winter, when men were more interested in game boards than physical recreations, even normally cool Lamai sisters sometimes felt need of "a comfort." Especially when glory fell from heaven, they would head downtown, to visit one of those elegant palaces catering to richer hives.

Naturally, such profitable establishments were run by specialized clans, although frequent use was made of hired var labor. Maia and Leie had never thought themselves pretty or vapid enough for such a career. Still, they used to speculate what went on inside such places.

Both Tizbe and "Mirri" looked her way, causing Maia to turn quickly, feeling a chill of apprehension. What are such high-class smugs doing out here in the sticks?

It was pure luck of Lysos that no one had been seriously hurt in the wreck, considering how the two trains met in a tangle of sheet metal and spraying lubricants. Medics from the town clinic were still treating scratches and lacerations as the engineer of the second train shouted, pointing at his locomotive, then at the boy, Garn, who looked downcast and miserable.

Garn's older colleague yelled back, clenching his hands menacingly. In a sudden outburst, Jacko reached out and pushed the aggrieved engineer, who stumbled two paces, blinking in surprise. That only seemed to catalyze Jacko. Although physically no larger, he loomed over the retreating engineer, who now raised both hands placatingly.

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.