Maybe all we get is moments, she thought, and decided not to resist quite so hard if another happy memory came to mind.
Calma Lerner hadn’t spoken in some time, perhaps sensing her passenger’s absorption. So Maia gave a start when the woman abruptly announced, “Your stop’s comin’ up. Jopland Hold. Over past that orchard.”
While Maia’s thoughts had turned inward and the afternoon faded, a dark expanse of fruit trees had appeared just beyond a gurgling watercourse. She peered at the plantation, whose disciplined array of slender trunks made ever-changing row-and-lattice patterns. As the wagon clattered across a plank bridge, the cultivated forest seemed to explode around Maia in an ecstasy of planned geometry, a crystalline study in living wood. The rapidly dimming light only enhanced each viewing angle, trading ease of distance for an impression of infinity.
Soon Maia noticed that the trees came arrayed with an illumination all their own. Dim flickerings along the myriad branches made her blink in surprise. At first they looked like decorations, but then she realized they must be glow beetles, setting the orchard’s columns and intersections glittering with earnest, insectoid mating displays. Shimmering wavelets coursed down the serried avenues. One could trace those ripples, Maia observed, much as one might briefly track the parallel harmonies of a four-part fugue … only by letting go.
It must be a sight later on, she thought, wishing she could stay and swim forever in this pocket galaxy, a swarm of miniature stars.
The road emerged from the forest, leaving the rippling lattice behind. Up ahead, the more-stolid light of a lesser moon fell on a cluster of handsome farm buildings, including a two-story house made of adobe or reinforced sod. Antennas aimed toward the sparse array of satellites still functioning in high orbit.
“Jopland Home,” Calma Lerner repeated. “Since it’s late, they’ll put you up in a barn, I figure. Code of hospitality. But if you get on their wrong side, don’t worry. Just follow my wheel ruts northwest three kilos, bank right at the big willow, go two more klicks an’ follow your nose. People say they can smell Lerner Hold long before they get to it. Never noticed, myself.”
“Thanks.” Maia nodded. “Oh, is that easy to do? I mean, getting on their wrong side.”
Calma shrugged. “Everyone around here comes to Jopland for judgments, sooner or later. You learn to be careful how you say things. That’s all.”
The wagon pulled by a tall gate in the slotted fence without slowing. Maia swung out and walked alongside for a few meters. “Thanks for the warning, and the lift.”
“Nothin’ to it. Good luck with your con-sult-ation!” The big woman laughed with an airy wave. Soon the wagon was gone from sight, trailing a low cloud of dust.
Several large carriages filled the drive in front of the main house. A young woman, probably a var servant, curried more horses at a watering trough. This must be the social hub of the county, Maia thought, knocking at the front door. A towering lugar soon answered, dressed in a green-and-yellow-striped vest that had seen better days. The white-furred creature tilted its grizzled head, and an inquiring mew escaped its muzzle.
“A citizen seeks wisdom,” Maia pronounced clearly, slowly. “I ask guidance from the mothers of Jopland Hold.”
The lugar stared at her for several seconds, then made a low, rumbling sound at the back of its throat. It turned, vaguely motioning for Maia to follow.
While the outside walls were adobe, the interior of the mansion was richly lined with veneered hardwood, foreign to these upland plains. Wall sconces gave off pale electric illumination, highlighting a garish emblem over the main stairway—a plow encircled with sheaves of wheat. At least there are no statues, Maia thought.
The lugar spread two heavy, sliding doors and ushered her into a brighter room, presumably the main hall. A drifting haze stung Maia’s eyes. Men, she saw in surprise. There were about a dozen of them, sprawled on somewhat worn sofas and cushions puffing long-stemmed pipes while four young servants hurried from the kitchen carrying steins of brown ale. The male nearest the door was reading quietly under a lamp. Further away, two of them faced a flickering telescreen, watching some faraway sporting competition. Several in the far corner could be seen poring over a miniature Game of Life set, only a meter on a side, its gridlike surface covered with tiny black, white, or purple squares that clicked and throbbed under the players’ concentrated gaze, sweeping mysterious, ever-changing patterns across the board. The rest of the men sat quietly, immersed in their own thoughts. Few had even bothered changing out of their work clothes—red, orange, or black one-piece uniforms of the three railroad guilds. Maia guessed every male within forty miles must be in this room tonight. The clans are starting winter wooing early, just like back home, she thought.
Twice in that first sweep of the room, Maia had seen men yawn. No doubt most had put in a long day’s work before coming out this way. Still, they didn’t appear to be showing fatigue, but ennui.
Looks like I came at a bad time.
No adult women were visible, yet. Except in summer, men generally preferred evenings that started quietly, without pressure. So the chosen Joplands were probably in back somewhere, changing from ranch gear into garments the mail-order catalogs promised would stoke that dormant spark of male desire. Maia glanced at the four serving girls stepping carefully around their guests, trying to be unobtrusive. Two of them, though of different ages, wore identical features—olive of complexion, small-built, but with well-toned muscles. Their proudest adornment was their silky black hair, which they kept long despite the valley’s ever-wafting dust.
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?”
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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?…”
The screen flickered several times, with boxes rearranging themselves across the screen, each containing one or more of her spoken words. An array of interlinking arrows kept shifting connections between the boxes as she spoke. Maia had to concentrate to keep the dazzling puzzle from transfixing her. “… there was a girl from one of the pleasure clans, I think they use an emblem with a bull and a ringing bell. She’s carrying the bottles like some sort of courier—”
Suddenly the boxes seemed to collapse, as if her thoughts had abruptly resolved in neat cubes, coalescing into a configuration of pristine clarity, a logically consistent whole. The picture lasted just an instant, too brief to read consciously. Maia felt a pang of loss when it vanished.
The pattern was replaced by a human face—a woman wearing her slightly wavy brown hair in a simple fall down one side, kept in place by an elegant gold barrette. In handsome middle age, the woman regarded Maia for a long moment, then spoke, with a voice of authority.
“You have reached Planetary Equilibrium Security. State name and nascence affiliation.”
Maia had never heard of the organization before. Nervously, she identified herself. For official purposes a var used the last name of her maternal clan, though it felt strange mouthing the words—“Maia per Lamai.”
“All right, please go back over your story. From the beginning this time, if you please?”
Maia was gnawingly aware that charges had eaten half her meager savings. “It all began when my sister and I took our first var-voyage jobs on the colliers Wotan and Zeus. When we hit Lanargh I saw a man in fancy clothes who wasn’t a sailor come down to the docks and meet three of our sailors who then acted real strange, pinching me and saying summery stuff even though it was autumn and I was filthy and, well, they couldn’t have smelled any, well, you know, I’m just a …”
“A virgin. I understand,” the official said. “Go on.”
“In fact, my sister and I …” Maia swallowed hard, forcing herself to concentrate on bare facts. The Lysosdamned clock seemed to be speeding up! “We saw men acting that way all over town! Then in Grange Head I got this job working on the railroad and I saw the same thing happen in front of a house in Holly Lock that’s run by the same pleasure clan and Tizbe—”
“Hold … hold it!” The woman in the screen shook her head in puzzlement. “Why are you talking so fast?”
In agony, Maia watched the counter take up her last savings. Now she was doomed to a month working for the Joplands. “I … can’t afford to talk to you anymore. I didn’t know it would be so expensive. I’m sorry.”
Downcast, she reached for the cutoff switch.
“Stop! What are you doing?” The woman held up a hand. “Just … hold it a second.”
She turned to her left, leaning out of Maia’s field of view. Maia looked up at the corner of the screen where the counter spun on for a moment and then … stopped! She stared. An instant later, the digits rippled, turning into a row of zeros!
“Is that better?” the woman asked, reappe
aring. “Can you talk easier now?”
“I … didn’t know you could do that.”
“Your mothers never mentioned reversing charges on important calls to the authorities?”
Maia shook her head. “I guess … they must’ve thought it’d make us spendthrift, or lazy.”
The policewoman let out a snort. “Well, now you know. So. Are we calmer? Yes? Let’s backtrack, then, to where you say you first saw this bottle of blue powder.”
In the end, Maia realized she hadn’t a whole lot to offer.
Her fantasies had ranged from disaster—her story proving to be trivial or stupid—all the way to miraculous. Could this be what that savant on the tele in Lanargh had been talking about, when she offered big rewards for “information”? She had wondered.
The truth seemed to lie somewhere in between. The official, who called herself Research Agent Foster, promised Maia a small but worthwhile fee to come to Grange Head in fourteen days, and tell her story in detail to a magistrate who was scheduled to pass through about then. Her expenses would also be covered, so long as they were modest. Agent Foster did not volunteer any explanations for the events Maia had seen, but from her demeanor of attentive but unbothered interest, Maia got the impression this was one of many leads in a case already long under way.
They seem awfully calm about it, Maia thought. Especially if someone was meddling with the sexual cycle of the seasons. It had already caused one accident, and who knew what chaos might ensue if it got out of hand?
The agent gave her a number to use if she ever had to call again, then signed off, leaving on the screen something else Maia hadn’t heard of before, a requisition on Jopland Clan for one night’s guest lodgings and a meal, at Colony expense.
When she went to the door, Maia found the matriarch standing there, wearing a broad smile. “Did you finish your consultation, daughter?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes. I’m finished now.”
“Good. I’ll have one of the servants show you a pallet in the barn. In the morn we’ll discuss how you’ll work off your debt.”