Stoked by urgency, she focused on that object and lunged, seizing and twisting. Inanna teetered with a cry and came down hard, loudly striking the stone floor with her pelvis.
Again, Maia struggled to get out. This time she had one knee on the shelf and pushed …
The other woman recovered too quickly. She rolled over, knocking Maia back, throwing her into the water once more. Then Inanna’s arms and fists were windmills, landing blows around the girl’s head. One hand seized Maia’s scalp, pushing her below the surface. Maia pulled hard to get away, to swim elsewhere, even the middle of the pool. The tunnel might offer shelter, of sorts, though beyond that lay the open sea and death.
She got some distance, then stopped with a sudden, jarring yank. Inanna had her hair!
Maia burst out, sucking air, and felt herself hauled back toward the edge. She kicked against the stone jetty, hoping to drag Inanna in with her. But the big woman held fast, pulling Maia near then, once again, resumed pressing Maia’s head, forcing her under.
Bubbles escaping her mouth, Maia clutched at her belt. The blanket strips got in the way, but at last she found the sliver of stone. Working it free from folds of belt and trousers brought her almost to her limit before success rewarded her. Desperately, without much effort to aim, she flung her arm around and slashed.
A scream resonated, even underwater. The pressure gave way and Maia emerged, grabbing air with shattered sobs. Then, almost without respite, the hands returned. Maia stabbed at them, connecting another time. Suddenly, her wrist was seized in a solid grip.
“Good move, virgie,” the reaver snarled through gritted teeth, biting back pain. “Now we’ll do it slowly.”
Still holding Maia’s wrist, Inanna used her other hand to resume pushing Maia’s head deeper … then yanked her up again to gasp a reedy wheeze. The blurred expression on the woman’s face showed pure enjoyment. Then the moment’s surcease ended and Maia plunged down again. Still struggling, she tried to leverage against the wall, straining with her thrashing legs. But Inanna was well braced, and weighed too much to drag by force.
Numbness from the cold enveloped Maia, swathing and softening the ache of bruises and her burning lungs. Distantly, she noticed that the water around her was turning colors, partly from encroaching unconsciousness, but also with a growing red stain. Blood ran in rivulets from Inanna’s cuts, down Maia’s arms and hair. Inanna would be weakened badly. Good news if the fight had much future.
But it was over. Maia felt her strength ebb away. The stone sliver fell from her limp hand. The next time Inanna hauled her head out, she barely had the power to gasp. Blearily, she saw the reaver look down upon her, a quizzical look crossing her face. Inanna started to bend forward, pushing for what Maia knew would be the final time.
Yet, Maia found herself dimly wondering. Why is there so much blood?
The woman kept coming forward, leaning farther than necessary just to murder Maia. Was it to gloat? To whisper parting words? A kiss goodbye? Her face loomed until, with a crash, all of her weight fell into the water atop Maia, carrying them both toward the bottom.
Astonished surprise turned into galvanized action. From somewhere, Maia found the strength to push away from her foe’s fading grip. Her last image of the reaver, seared into her brain, was the shock of seeing an arrowhead protruding through the base of Inanna’s neck.
Breaking surface, Maia emerged too weak for anything but a thin, whistling, inadequate, inward sigh. Even that faded as she sank again … only to feel distantly another hand close around her floating hair.
It was the last she thought of anything for a while.
“I suppose I could of conked her, or done somethin’ else. I had one nocked, though, ready to fly. Anyway, it seemed a good idea at th’ time.”
Maia couldn’t figure out why Naroin was apologizing. “I am grateful for my life,” she said, shivering on the chair, wrapped in what seemed a hectare of sailcloth, while the former bosun went over Inanna’s body, searching for clues.
“That makes us even. You saved me from bein’ a dolt. I figured on followin’ the bitch, too, but lost her. Would of fell into that crater, too, if you hadn’t lit the torch when you did. As it was, I had th’ devil of a time, findin’ those stairs after you’d gone in.”
Naroin stood up. “Lugar steaks an’ taters! Nothin’. Not a damn thing. She was a pro, all right.” Naroin left the body and stepped over to the table, where she peered at the comm console. “Jort an’ double jort!” she cursed again.
“What is it?”
Naroin shook her head. “What it isn’t is a radio. Thing must be a cable link. Maybe to a infrared flasher, set up on the rocks, outside.”
“Oh. I … hadn’t th-thought of that poss-ssibility.” There was nothing to do about the shivering except stay here, enveloped in the sail taken from the tiny skiff. No dry clothes were to be had from the dead, and Naroin was much too small to share. “So we can’t call the police?”
With a sigh, Naroin sat on the edge of the table. “Snowflake, you’re talkin’ to ’em.”
Maia blinked. “Of course.”
“You know enough now to figure it out, almost any time. I figure, better tell you now than have you yell ‘Eureka’ all of a sudden, outside.”
“The drug … you investigated—”
“In Lanargh, yeah. For a while. Then I got reassigned to somethin’ more important.”
“Renna.”
“Mm. Should’ve stuck with you, it seems. Never imagined a case like this, though. Seems there’s all sorts that don’t care what it takes to make use of your starman.”
“Including your bosses?” Maia asked archly.
Naroin frowned. “There’s some in Caria that’re worried about invasion, or other threats to Stratos. By now I’m almost sure he’s harmless, personally. But that don’t guarantee he represents no danger—”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Maia cut in.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Naroin looked troubled. “All I can speak for is my direct chief. She’s okay. As for the politicos above her? I dunno. Wish th’ Lysodamn I did.” She paused in silence, then bent to peer at the console again.
“Question is, did Inanna have time to send word o’ the escape attempt tomorrow? Have to assume she did. Kind of sinks any plan to take advantage of our uncovering her. With a reaver comin’, there’s no way to even use this little dinghy.” Naroin gestured toward the boat moored nearby. “Sure, you saved a bunch o’ lives, Maia. The others upstairs won’t sail into a trap now. But that still leaves us stuck here to rot.”
Maia pushed aside the folds of rough cloth and stood up. Rubbing her shoulders, she began pacing toward the water and back again. Through the tunnel came sounds of an outgoing tide.
“Maybe not,” she said after a long, thoughtful pause. “Perhaps there is a way, after all.”
Peripatetic’s Log: Stratos Mission: Arrival + 52.364 Ms
I might have it all wrong. This grand experiment isn’t about sex, after all. The goal of minimizing the danger and strife inherent in males … that was all window dressing. The real issue was cloning. Giving humans an alternative means of copying themselves. If men were able to carry their own duplicates, as women can, my guess is that Lysos would have included them, too.
Psychologists here speak of womb envy among boys and men. However successful they are in life, the best a male Stratoin can hope for is reproduction by proxy, not personal creation, and never duplication. It’s a valid enough point on other worlds, but on Stratos it’s beyond dispute.
Preliminary results from the cross-specific bio-assays are in, showing that I’m not overtly contagious with any interstellar plagues … at least none spreadable to Stratoins by casual contact. That’s a genuine relief, given what Peripatetic Lina Wu inadvertently caused on Reichsworld. I have no wish to be the vehicle for such a tragedy.
Despite those results, some Stratoin factions still want me kept in semiquarantine, to “minimize cultural co
ntamination.” Fortunately, the council majority seems to be moving, ever so gradually, toward relaxation. I have begun receiving a steady stream of visitors—delegations from various movements and clans and interest groups. Security Councillor Groves isn’t happy about this, but there is nothing, constitutionally, she can do.
Today it was a deputation from a society of heretics wishing to hitch a ride, when I depart! They would send missionaries into the Hominid Realm, spreading word of the “Stratos Way.” Cultural contamination that is directed outward is always seen as “enlightenment.”
I explained my ship’s limited capacity, and they were little mollified by my offer to take recordings. Not that it matters. In a few years, or decades, they will get to deliver their sermons in person.
When I was sent to follow up remote robot scans of this system, I expected iceship launches to await receipt of my report. But the Florentina Starclade wasted no time. Cy informs me that her instruments have picked up the first iceship already. It appears the Phylum will arrive sooner than even I expected, sealing permanent reunion, making moot all of the sober arguments by councillors and savants about preserving their noble isolation.
Presently, despite their decaying instrumentalities, the savants of Stratos will know as well, and start demanding answers.
Better that I tell them first.
Before that, another matter must be dealt with … my worsening mental and physical health.
It is not the gravity or heavy atmosphere. Periodically, I suffer spells when my symbionts struggle, and I must rest in my quarters for a day or two, unable to venture outside. These episodes are few, fortunately. For the most part, I feel hale and strong. The worst problem facing me is psychoglandular, having nothing to do with air or earth.
As a summertime male visitor, unsponsored by any clan, my position in Caria has been ambiguous. Even those clans who approve of my mission have been wary in private. It would be too much to fancy they might treat me like those favored males they welcome each aurora time. No one wants to be the first risking accidental pregnancy with an alien whose genes might perturb the Founders’ Plan.
That near-paranoiac caution had advantages. The chill attitude helped restrain my dormant drives. Even after long voyages, I have never sought the attentions of women, save those who cared for me.
With autumn’s arrival, however, attitudes are softening. Social encounters grow warmer. Women look, converse, even smile my way. Some acquaintances I now tentatively call friends—Mellina of Cady Clan, for instance, or that stunning pair of savants from Pozzo Hold, Horla and Poulain, who no longer bristle, but actually seem glad of my presence. They draw near, touch my arm, and share lighthearted, even provocative, jests.
How ironic. As my isolation lessens, the discomfort grows. By the day. By the hour.
Iolanthe, Groves, and most of the others seem oblivious. While consciously aware that I function differently than their males, they seem unconsciously to assume the autumnal diminishment of Wengel Star also damps my fires. Only Councillor Odo understands. She drew me out during a walk through the university gardens. Odo thinks it a problem easily solved by visiting a house of ease, operated by one of those specialist clans who are expert at taking all precautions, even with a randy alien.
I’m afraid I turned red. But, embarrassment aside, I face quandaries. Despite the female-to-male ratio, Stratos is no adolescent’s moist fantasy come true, but a complex society, filled with contradictions, dangers, subtleties I’ve not begun to plumb. The situation is perilous enough without adding risk factors.
I am a diplomat. Other men—envoys, priests, and emissaries through all eras—have done as I should do. Risen above instinct. Exercised professionalism, self-control.
Yet, what celibate of olden times had to endure such stimulation as I do, day in, day out? I can feel it from my raw optic nerve all the way down to my replete roots.
Come on, Renna. Isn’t it just a matter of sexual cues? Some species are turned on by pheromones, or strutting displays. Male hominoids are visually activated—chimpanzees, by rosy, estrous colors; Stratoin men, by estival lights in the sky. Old-fashioned hu-men react to the most inconvenient incitement cues of all—incessant, perennial, omnipresent. Cues women cannot help displaying, whatever their condition, or season, or intent.
No one is to blame. Nature had her reasons, long ago. Still, I am increasingly able to understand why Lysos and her allies chose to change such troublesome rules.
For the thousandth time … if only a woman peripatetic had drawn this mission!
Dammit, I know I’m rambling. But I feel inflamed, engulfed by so much untouchable fecundity, flowing past me in all directions. Insomnia plagues me, nor can I concentrate at the very time I must keep my wits about me. A time when I shall need all of my skills.
Am I rationalizing? Perhaps. But for the good of the mission, I see no other choice.
Tomorrow, I will ask Odo … to arrange things.
20
The bitchies are gettin’ impatient,” Naroin commented, peering at the tiny screen. “I caught sight o’ their prow a second time, an’ a glint o’ binocs. They’re just holdin’ back till the right moment.”
Maia acknowledged with a grunt. It was all she had breath for, while pulling at her oars. Powerful, intermittent currents kept trying to seize their little boat and smash it against the nearby cliff face. Along with Brod and the sailors, Charl and Tress, she frequently had to row hard just to keep the skiff in place. Occasionally, they had to lean out and use poles to stave off jagged, deadly rocks. Meanwhile, with one hand on the tiller, Naroin used Inanna’s spy device to keep track of events taking place beyond the island’s far side.
This wouldn’t be so difficult, if only we could stand off where the water’s calm, Maia thought, while fighting the merciless tide. Unfortunately, the fibers leading to Inanna’s farflung microcameras were of finite length. The skiff must stay near the mouth of the underground cave, battling contrary swells, or risk losing this slim advantage. Their plan was unlikely enough—a desperate and dangerous scheme to ambush professional ambushers.
I only wish someone else had come up with a better idea.
Naroin switched channels. “Trot an’ her crew are almost done. The last raft parts have been lowered to the sea. They’re lashin’ the provisions boxes now. Should be any minute.”
Maia glanced back at the display again, catching a blurred picture of women laboring across platforms of cut logs, struggling to tie sections together and erect a makeshift mast. As predicted by Maia’s research, the tides were gentle on that side, at this hour. Unfortunately, that was far from true right now at the mouth of the spy tunnel.
At last, the sea calmed down for a spell. No wall of rock seemed about to swat them. With sighs, Maia and the others rested their oars. They had passed a busy, sleepless night since the fatal encounter with Inanna, the reaver provocateur.
First had come the unpleasant duty of rousing all the other marooned sailors, and telling them that one of their comrades had been a spy. Any initial suspicions toward Maia and Naroin quieted during a torchlit tour into the island’s hidden grottoes, and were finished off by showing recorded messages on Inanna’s comm unit. But that was not the end to arguing. There followed interminable wrangling over Maia’s plan, for which, unfortunately, no one came up with any useful alternative.
Finally, hours of frantic preparations led to this early-morning flurry of activity. The more Maia thought, the more absurd it all seemed.
Should we have waited, instead? Simply avoided springing Inanna’s trap? Let the reavers go away disappointed, and then try to slip away in the skiff at night?
Except, all eighteen could not fit in the little boat. And by nightfall the pirates would be querying their spy. When Inanna failed to answer with correct codes, they would assume the worst and try other measures. Not even the little skiff would be able to slip through a determined blockade by ships equipped with radar. As for those left behind, starvation wou
ld solve the reavers’ prisoner problem, more slowly, but just as fully as an armed assault.
No, it has to be now, before they expect to hear from Inanna again.
“Eia!” Naroin shouted. “Here they come! Sails spread and breaking lather.” She peered closer. “Patarkal jorts!”
“What is it?” young Brod asked.
“Nothin’.” Naroin shrugged. “I thought for a minute it was a big bugger, a two-master. But it’s a ketch. That’s bad enough. Fast as blazes, with a crew of twelve or more. This ain’t gonna be easy as mixin’ beer an’ frost.”
Charl spat over the side. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know,” the tall Méchanter growled. Tress, a younger sailor from Ursulaborg, asked nervously, “Shall we turn back?”
Naroin pursed her lips. “Wait an’ see. They’ve turned the headland and gone out o’ view of the first camera. Gonna be a while till the next one picks ’em up.” She switched channels. “Lullin’s crew has spotted ’em, though.”
The tiny screen showed the gang of raft-builders, hurrying futilely to finish before the reaver boat could cross the strait between neighboring isles. It was patently useless, for the most recent image of the sleek pirate craft had shown it slashing the choppy water, sending wild jets of spray to port and starboard as it sprinted to attack.
“Will they board?” Tress asked.
“Wish they would. But my guess is takin’ prisoners ain’t today’s goal.”
The current kicked up again. Maia and the others resumed rowing, while Naroin turned switches until she shouted. “Got ’em! About three kilometers out. Gettin’ closer fast.”
Keep coming … Maia thought each time she glanced at the display, until a looming expanse of white sailcloth filled the tiny screen. Keep coming closer.
At last, the raft crew cast loose their moorings of twisted vines. Some of them began poling with long branches, while two attempted to raise a crude mast covered with stitched blankets. For all the world, it looked as if they really were trying to get away. Either Lullin, Trot and the others were good actors, or fear lent verisimilitude to their ploy.