26

Loss of consciousness was not the result of her injuries, or even the gassy, pungent odor of anesthesia. What made her let go this time was a morale sapped beyond exhaustion. Distant sensations told her that the world went on. There were noises—anxious shouts and booming echoes of gunfire. When these ceased, they were followed by loud cries of both triumph and despair. Sounds intruded, swarming over her, prying at windows and doors, but none succeeded in making her take notice.

Footsteps clattered. Hands touched her body, lifting objects away so that a hurt of ministration replaced that of crushing injury. Maia remained indifferent. Voices rustled around her, tense and argumentative. She could tell, without caring, that more than two factions engaged in fierce debate, each too weak or uncertain to impose its will, none of them trusting enough to let others act alone.

There was no tenor of vindictiveness in the manner she was lifted and carried away from the bright, ozone-drenched chamber within a hollow mountain-fang. Rocked on a stretcher, moaning at each jostling shock to her stretched-thin system, she knew in abstract that her bearers meant her well. They were being gentle. That ought to signify something.

She only wished they would go away and let her die.

Death did not come. Instead, she was handled, prodded, drugged, cut, and sewn. In time, it was the simplest of sensations that brought back a partial will to live.

Flapjacks.

A redolence of fresh pancakes filled her nostrils. Injury and anomie weren’t enough to hold back the flood that faint aroma unleashed within her mouth. Maia opened her eyes.

The room was white. An ivory-colored ceiling met finely carved white moldings, which joined to walls the color of pale snow. Through a muzzy languor left over from chemical soporifics, Maia had difficulty fixing clearly on the plain, smooth surfaces. Without conscious choice, her mind began toying with one blank expanse—imagining a laying thereon of grainy, abstract, rhythmic patterns. Maia groaned and closed her eyes.

She could not shut her nose. Alluring smells pursued her. So did growls from her stomach. And the sound of speech.

“Well now, ready to join the livin’ at last?”

Maia turned her head to the left, and cracked an eyelid. A petite, dark-haired figure swam into focus, wearing a wry grin. “Now didn’t I say to stop gettin’ conked, varling? At least this time you weren’t drowned.”

After several tries, Maia found her voice. “Should’ve … known … you’d make it.”

Naroin nodded. “Mm. That’s me. Born survivor. You, too, lass … though you love provin’ it the hard way.”

An involuntary sigh escaped Maia. The bosun-policewoman’s presence wrested feelings that hurt, despite her body’s drugged immobility. “I guess you … got through to your boss.”

Naroin shook her head. “When we got picked up, I decided to take some initiative. Called in favors, swung deals. Too bad we couldn’t arrive sooner, though.”

Maia’s thoughts refused to center clearly. “Yeah. Too bad.”

Naroin poured a glass of water and helped Maia lift her head to drink. “In case you’re wonderin’, the docs say you’ll be all right. Had to cut an’ mend a bit. You’ve got an agone leech tapped into your skull, so don’t thrash or bump it, now that you’re awake.”

“… leech…?” With leaden inertia, Maia’s arm obeyed her wish to rise and bend. Fingers traced a boxy object above her forehead, smaller than her thumb. “I wouldn’t touch it if I was—” Naroin started to advise, as Maia gave the box a spastic tap. For an instant, all that seemed muddy and washed out snapped into clarity and color. Along with vividness came a slamming force of pain. Maia’s hand recoiled, hurling back to the coverlet.

“Did I warn ya? Hmp. Never seen a first-timer who didn’t try that, once. Guess I must’ve, about your age.”

The dulling murkiness returned, this time welcome, spreading from Maia’s scalp across her body like a liquid balm. She had seen injured women with leeches before, though most hid them in their hair. I must be hurt much worse than I feel, she realized, no longer resenting the numbness. That fleeting break in function had briefly revealed another blocked sensation, more fearsome than physical pain. For an instant, she had been overwhelmed by waves of all-consuming grief.

“Makes ya feel like a zombie, eh?” Naroin commented. “They’ll crank it down as you improve. Should already be gettin’ back some of your senses.”

Maia inhaled deeply. “I … can smell …”

Naroin grinned. “Ah, breakfast. Got an appetite?”

It felt odd. Her insistent stomach seemed unaware of the blunt nausea pervading the rest of her body. “Yes. I—”

“That’s a good sign. They serve quite a table on the Gentilleschi. Hang on, I’ll see to it.”

The policewoman stood up and started to go, her movements too quick and blurry for Maia to follow clearly. Maia tracked them in a series of receding glimpses as her eyes flickered shut for longer and longer intervals. She fought to hold the lids apart as Naroin stopped, turned back, and spoke once more, her voice fading in and out.

“Oh … almost forgot. There’s a note from … young boyfriend an’ sister over … table by your bed. Thought … ike t’know they made it all right.”

The words carried meaning. Maia felt sure of it as they crested over her, soaked in through her ears and pores, and found resonance within. Somewhere, a crushing burden of worry lapsed into gladness. That much emotion was too exhausting, however. Sleep swarmed in to claim her, so that Naroin’s final words barely registered.

“Not a lot of others did, I’m afraid.”

Maia’s eyes stayed closed and the world remained dark for a long, quiet, unmeasured time.

She next awoke to find a middle-aged woman leaning over her, gently touching the top of her head. There were faint clicking sounds, and Maia’s vision seemed to clear a bit. Swells of rising sensation caused her to tense. “That’s not too bad, is it?” the woman asked. From her manner she must be a physician.

“I … guess not.”

“Good. We’ll leave it there awhile. Now let’s look over our handiwork.”

The doctor briskly pulled back Maia’s gown, revealing an expanse of purpled skin that they both regarded with dispassionate interest. Livid stitches showed where repairs had been made, including a semi-circle near her left knee. The doctor clucked earnestly, making soothing, patronizing, and ultimately uninformative noises, then departed.

When the door slid open, Maia glimpsed a tall woman of soldierly bearing standing watch in the uniform of some mainland militia. Beyond lay the white, fluted panels of solar collectors. Maia heard the soft rush of water along a laminar-smooth hull. The vessel’s rock-steady passage spoke partly of the weather, which was brilliantly fair, and also of technology. This was a craft normally devoted to transporting personages.

But the personage it was sent for did the unexpected. He made his own transportation arrangements, and nearly got away.

That wound was still too raw, too gaping to bear. What hurt most about the image seared in her mind was how beautiful the explosion had been. A wondrous convulsion of sparks and dazzling spirals, which scattered glowing shards across a sky so chaste and blue. It had no right being so beautiful! The memory triggered a welling of tears, which brimmed her lower eyelids and crested over, spilling salty, silent streamlets down her cheeks.

Her last waking episode felt no more real than an unraveling dream. Had she really met Naroin? She recalled the ex-bosun saying something about a letter. Turning to look at the side table, Maia saw a neatly folded piece of heavy paper, sealed with wax. By heavy, conscious effort, she reached over to take it in one clumsy hand, slumping back amid receding waves of pain. Lifting the letter, she recognized her own name scrawled across the front.

From Brod and Leie, Maia recalled. She was able to feel gladness, now … a colorless, abstract variety. Gladness that two people still lived whom she loved. It helped ease the sense of desolation and forfeiture lodged in her heart, ready to emerge as soon as the doctor turned down the agone leech some more.

Her vision was still too blurry for reading, so she lay quietly, stroking the paper until a knock came at the door. It slid open, and Naroin leaned into the room. “Ah, back with us. You missed breakfast. Ready to try again?”

She was gone again without waiting for Maia’s answer. So, I didn’t imagine it, Maia thought, starting to wonder about the implications. Why was Naroin here? Where was here? And why was Naroin helping look after her? The policewoman surely had more important things to do than play nursemaid to one unimportant summerling.

Unless it has to do with all the laws I’ve broken … the places I’ve been that I wasn’t supposed to … Things I’ve seen that the Council doesn’t want widely known.

Another knock on the door. This time a young woman entered, bearing a covered tray. Maia wiped her eyes, then opened them wide, staring in surprise.

“Where do you want this, ma’am?” the girl asked. Her voice was softer, a little higher, but otherwise almost identical to the last one Maia had heard. The face was a younger version of the last one Maia had seen. Realization came in a rush.

“Clones …” Maia murmured. “A police clan?”

The youngster wasn’t even Maia’s age. A winterling fiver, then. Yet there was something in her smile. A hint of Naroin’s relaxed self-confidence. She put the tray on the side of the bed, and occupied herself propping pillows, helping Maia to sit up.

“Detectives actually. Freelance. Our clan stays small on purpose. We specialize in solitary field work. Normally, you never see two of us together, outside the hold, but I was sent when we got Naroin’s urgent-blip.”

It was hard to credit. The fiver spoke with a crisp, upper-clan accent. She had none of Naroin’s scars. Yet, in her eyes danced the same vigorous zest, the same eagerness for challenge. Theirs must certainly be quite a family.

“I guess you don’t think me a threat,” Maia suggested, “to break your cover.”

“No, ma’am. I’ve been instructed to be open with you.”

Sure. What harm can I do? Maia trusted Naroin to some extent, enough to pull strings so that Maia’s next cage would be more pleasant than any she had occupied before. That didn’t mean letting her run around Stratos, blabbing what she’d seen.

The fiver placed the table-tray securely over Maia’s lap and lifted the cover. There were no pancakes, but a predictable, medically appropriate bowl of thin porridge. Still, it smelled so heady Maia felt faint. Rivulets of orange juice ran over her fingers as she clutched the tumbler in both shaking hands. The reddish liquid tasted like squeezed, refined heaven.

“I’ll wait outside,” said the young winterling. “Call, if you need anything.”

Maia only grunted. Concentrating to control her trembling grip, she pushed a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. While her body quivered with simple, beast-level pleasures of taste and satiation, a small part of her remained offset, pondering. I wander what their family name is. I should’ve known. Naroin was always too damn competent to be another unik var.

Sooner or later, Maia knew she must start cataloging her ream of losses, against her slim résumé of assets. Later sounded better. One thing at a time—that was how she planned living from now on. Maia had no intention of giving up, but neither was she ready yet for linear thinking.

Despite her earlier famishment, she couldn’t more than half finish her meal. Feeling suddenly fatigued, Maia let Naroin’s younger version carry off the tray. Not once did she look directly at the neatly folded letter, but she kept in physical contact with it, as a drowning woman might hold onto a plank from a shattered ship.

When she next awoke, it was dark outside. Shreds of a dream were evaporating, like shy ghosts fleeing the pale electric lamp by her bedside. Her body was prickly with goose bumps and beads of sweat. Her thoughts still seemed dispersed, one moment focused and coherent, and the next hurtling somewhere else, like windblown leaves.

That made her recall Old Bennett and his rake, in the courtyard of Lamatia Hold. What would he think of where I’ve been … what I’ve seen? Probably, the coot no longer lived. Which might be best, given what Maia had done—inadvertently delivering into the archreactionary hands of Church and Council the last remnants of that secret hope the old man had kept next to his heart. A dream gone blurry from being passed down generations in secret lodges—as if men could ever know the constancy of clones.

Renna, Bennett, Leie, Brod, the rads, the men of the Manitou … there was room enough for all on the honor roll of those she had let down.

Stop it, Maia told herself numbly. The deck was stacked long ago. Don’t blame yourself for things you couldn’t prevent.

But she might as well tell the winds and tides to stop, as shuck off that sense of fault, which seemed less refutable for being so vague.

Maia saw that she still tightly clutched the letter. Red bits of crumpled wax lay scattered across the coverlet. She tried smoothing the paper with her hands. Lifting it to the light, she peered to make out, amid wrinkles, a fine, flowing hand.

Dear Maia,

Wish I could be with you, but they say we’re needed here. I’ve got to play tour guide, showing all sorts of vips around the defense center. (They sure act mad, so I guess it was secret from a lot of high mothers in Caria, not just the public!) Leie has a job, too—

Naroin had said they both lived, but this confirmation was stronger. Maia abruptly sobbed, her vision clouding as emotion flooded back from being dammed away.

—Leie has a job, too, demonstrating that incredible simulation wall you found. Neither of us can match you for figuring this stuff out, but we’re helping each other, and look forward to talking to you, soon as you’re well.

I guess by now they’ve filled you in, and I’m kind of rushed getting this off before the Gentilleschi takes you away. So here’s what happened from my point of view.

When you didn’t return by an hour before dawn, I pulled in the cable, as you made me promise to do. I hated doing it, but then something changed my mind. Just after sunrise, fighting broke out, down on the ships. I later learned it was the rads, who you’d helped escape—

Maia blinked. I what? All she had done was make a promise to Thalla, one she never got a chance to keep. Unless the big var had managed to use the scissors, somehow. As a lockpick, perhaps? To slip their chains, then trick the guards? Or perhaps Baltha and Togay had already pulled the sentinels away, when battle seemed imminent with the men.

The revolt went well, at first. But then reavers rushed out before the rads could set sail. There was shooting. Some rads escaped in a little boat after setting fire to both ships.

It didn’t seem a good time to lower myself down. I paced like crazy, worrying about you, till I arrived at the east end of the tooth, looking to sea. That’s when I saw the flotilla coming up from Halsey. Not just the creaky old Audacious, which had been on duty when I was last there, but the Walrus and the Sea Lion, too! I guess the guild finally decided it had enough of its former clients, and was coming to settle accounts.

I ran to the elevator, went downstairs to the bathroom and broke a mirror. Grabbed a piece and hurried back up. The sun in the east made it easy to signal the ships. To give them some idea what to expect. There was shooting when they tried to enter the lagoon, then Sea Lion broke through just about the time everyone else in the world arrived!

One pair of fancy ships swung around the south side of Jellicoe, waving temple banners. And up north, I saw several fast cruisers appear. Later learned these were from the Ursulaborg Commercial Police Department! A little out of jurisdiction, but who cares? Naroin had called ’em out as militia, it seems. Honest, local cops with no Council connections.

Just as this crowd was jostling into the lagoon, and smoke started pouring out of the old sanctuary, that’s when a big, smuggy zep’lin showed! I didn’t like the looks of the clones leaning out of the gondola. (They were mad as hell!) So I turned on the winch and lowered myself. Made it down in time to help my guildfolk settle with the temple nuns and Naroin’s posse that we were all on the same side.

It took a while overcoming the reavers’ rear guard—they’re hellion fighters—then we ran after them while they chased after you …

Maia’s eyes blurred. Although Brod’s simple account was dramatic, she had only limited stamina and her mind felt full to bursting. Not rushing matters, she waited for vision to clear before resuming.

Things were a mess, especially outside the auditorium, where your Manitou people had fought the reavers. Fortunately, there were docs along, to care for the wounded.

That wall of lights stopped us cold for a moment, and I got scared when I saw Leie, groaning on the floor, and thought it was you. She’s fine, by the way, but I already said that. Just woozy from a bump on the head. Leie wanted to chase after the ones chasing you. But I was told to help her out to where the air was better, while Naroin’s pros led the pursuit from there.

We limped outside just in time to get knocked to our knees by what seemed like thunder. We looked up and saw the space launcher fire its pod into the sky … and what happened next.

I’m sorry Maia. I know it must hurt awful, like when they brought your poor body out, and I thought you were dying. To me, that felt like you must have, when you saw your alien friend blow up.

Again, Maia’s heart yawned open. This time however, she was able to smile poignantly. Good old Brod, she thought. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her.

Leie and I waited outside while the nun-doctors operated on you. (That’s the one group I still can’t figure out where they came from, or why. Did you call them?) Meanwhile, there were so many questions. So many people insisting on hearing what everyone else knew, even though it meant repeating everything over and over. The story’s still coming out, bit by bit, while more boats and zeps keep arriving all the time.

Oh, hell. I’m being called again, so this’ll have to be it for now. I’ll send more, later. Get better soon, Maia. We need you, as usual, to figure out what we oughta do!

With winter warmth, your friend and shipmate.

—Brod.

There was an afterword in another hand—a left-handed scrawl Maia instantly recognized.

Hey, Sis. You know me. Lousy at writin’. Just remember, we’re a team. I’ll catch up, wherever they take you. Count on it. Love, L.

Maia reread the last few paragraphs, then folded the letter and slipped it under her pillow. She rolled over, away from the soft light, and fell asleep. This time, her dreams, while painful, seemed less desolate and alone.

When they wheeled her on deck the next day, to get some sun, Maia discovered she wasn’t the only recuperating patient aboard. Half a dozen other bandaged women lay in various stages of repair, under the gaze of a pair of militia guards. Naroin’s young clone—whose name was Hullin—told her that others rested below, too ill to be moved. The injured men were being carried separately, of course, aboard the Sea Lion, which could be glimpsed following a parallel track, so sleek and powerful it almost kept pace with this white-winged racer. Hullin couldn’t give Maia any information about which of the Manitou crew survived the fight at Jellicoe Sanctuary, though she promised to inquire. There had not been many, she knew. The doctors, inexperienced at treating gunshot wounds, had lost several on the operating table.

That news left Maia staring across the blue water, dejected, until a presence wheeled up alongside. “Hello, virgie … S’good to see you.”

The voice was a pale shadow of its former mellow, persuasive croon. The rad leader’s nearly-black skin now seemed bleached, almost pale from illness and anemia.

“That’s not my name,” Maia told Kiel. “The other thing’s none of your business. Never was.”

Kiel nodded, accepting the rebuke. “Hello, then … Maia.”

“Hello.” Pausing, Maia regretted her harsh response. “I’m glad to see you made it.”

“Mm. Same to you. They say survival is Nature’s only form of flattery. I guess that’s true, even for prisoners like us.”

Maia was in no mood for wry philosophy, and made her feelings known through silence. With a heavy sigh, Kiel rolled a few feet away, leaving Maia to watch the world-ocean glide by in peace. There were questions Maia knew she should be asking. Perhaps she would, eventually. But right now, her mind remained stiff, like her body, too inflexible for rapid changes of inertia.

A little before lunch, ennui began to rob even petulance of its attraction. Maia reread the quick-scrawled letter from Brod and Leie a few more times, allowing herself to begin wondering about what lay concealed between the phrases. There were tensions and alliances, both stated and implied. Local cops and priestesses? Acting at odds from their official bosses, in Caria? Had their union with the Pinnipeds extended only to wiping out a band of pirates? Or would it go farther?

What of the special, secretive defense clans who had also arrived at Jellicoe to secure their hidden base?—which was no longer hidden, after all. Then there were Kiel’s radical supporters, on the mainland. And the Perkinites, of course. All had their own agendas. All felt passionately endangered by possible change in the order of life on Stratos.

It might have been a situation fraught with even more violent peril, perhaps risk of open war, had the object of their contention not evaporated in midair before everyone’s eyes. With the centerpiece of struggle removed, the frantic mood of excess may have eased. At least the killing had stopped, for now.

It was much too complicated to focus her mind on, for long. She was glad when an attendant came to wheel her back to her room, where she ate, then took a long nap. Later, when Naroin knocked and entered, Maia felt marginally better, her mind a little farther along the path toward rational thinking.

The former bosun carried a stack of thin, leather-bound volumes. “These were sent over before we sailed, for when you felt better. Gifts from the Pinniped commodore.”

Maia looked at Naroin. The detective’s accent had softened quite a bit. Not that it was posh now, by a long shot. But it had lost much of its rough, nautical edge. The books lay on the side of the bed. Maia stroked the spine of one, drew it closer, and opened the fine linen pages.

Life. She recognized the subject instantly and sighed. Who needs it?

Yet, the paper felt rich to the touch. It even smelled voluptuous. Brief glimpses of the illustrations, featuring countless arrays of tiny squares and dots, seemed to tease a corner of her mind in the same way that a bright, sharp light might tickle the beginnings of a sneeze.

“I always figured that for some men it was, well, addicting in a way, like a drug. Is that how it is with you?” Naroin seemed genuinely, respectfully curious.

Maia pushed the book away. After several seconds she nodded.

“It’s beautiful.” Her throat was too thick to say more.

“Hm. With all the time I’ve spent around sailors, you’d think I’d see it, too.” Naroin shook her head. “Can’t say as I do. I like men. Get along with ’em fine. But I guess some things go beyond like or dislike.”

“I guess.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Naroin moved closer to sit on the edge of the bed.

“That’s why I was on the ol’ Wotan, when you first came aboard, in Port Sanger. My experience as a sea hand gave me cover for my assignment. The collier would make many stops along the coast. Let me look around all the right places for clues.”

“To find a missing alien?”

“Lysos, no!” Naroin laughed. “Oh, he was already kidnapped by then, but my clan wasn’t brought in. Our mothers knew somethin’ fishy had happened, all right. But a field op like me sticks to her assignment … at least till given clear reason to switch tracks.”

“The blue powder, then,” Maia said, remembering Naroin’s interest in events at Lanargh.

“That’s it. We knew a group had started pushin’ the stuff again, along the frontier coast. Happens every two or three generations. We often pick up a few coinsticks helpin’ track it down.”

There it was again, the change in perspective separating vars from clones. What a summerling had seen as urgent must appear less pressing in the patient view of Stratoin hives. “The powder’s been around a long time, then. Let me guess. Each appearance is a bit less disrupting than the last time.”

“Right.” Naroin nodded. “After all, winter sparkings don’t have any genetic effect. It’s only during summers that new variants come about, when a man’s efforts profit him in true offspring. Males who react less to the drug are just a little better at stayin’ calm and passin’ on that trait. Each outbreak gets a smidgen milder, easier to put down.”

“Then why is the powder illegal?”

“You saw for yourself. It causes accidents, violence during quiet time. It gives rich clans unfair advantages over poor ’uns. But there’s more. The powder was invented for a purpose.”

Maia blinked once, twice, then realized. “Sometimes … it may be useful to have men …”

“Hot as fire, even in the dead o’ frost season. You get it.”

“The Enemy. We used this stuff during the Defense.”

“That’s my guess. Lysos respected Momma Nature. If you want to push a trait into the background, fine, but that’s not the same as throwin’ it away. Thriftier to put it on a shelf, where it might come in handy, someday.”

Maia’s thoughts had already plunged ahead. The Council rulers must have flooded Stratos with the stuff, during the battle to fight off the Enemy foeship.

Imagine every male a warrior. Almost overnight, it would have multiplied the colony’s strength, complementing female skill and planning with a wrath like none other in the universe.

Only, what happened after victory?

The good men—those who might have been trustworthy on any Phylum world, even before Lysos—would have voluntarily given up the powder. Or at least kept their heads until it ran out. But men come in all types. Its not hard to picture a plague like the Kings’ Revolt erupting during the chaos after a war. Especially with tons of Tizbe’s drug floating around.

Was that enough cause to betray the Guardians of Jellicoe?

Maia knew that the Council didn’t do things without reasons.

“I guess your assignment changed, by the time we met again,” she prompted Naroin.

The petite brunette shrugged. “I heard some odd things. Known mercenaries were gettin’ offers, down the coast. Radical agents were reported drifting into parts around Grange Head. Wasn’t hard to figure where I might get a billet close to things going on.”

Maia frowned. “You didn’t suspect Baltha …”

“Her treason, going over to the reavers? No! I knew there was tension, of course. Lookin’ back, maybe I should have surmised …” Naroin stopped, shook her head. “Take it from an experienced hand, child. It’s no good blamin’ yourself for what you couldn’t prevent. Not so long as you tried.”

Maia’s lips pressed together. That was exactly what she had been telling herself. From the look in Naroin’s eyes, it didn’t get much more believable as you got older.

That evening she learned who had lived, and who had died.

Thalla, Captain Poulandres, Baltha, Kau, most of the rads, most of the reavers, nearly all of the Manitou crew, including the young navigator who had helped Maia and her twin find their way through the dazzling complexity of the world-wall. The tally was appalling. Even hard-crusted Naroin, who had seen many formal and informal battles, could scarcely believe the prodigious manufacturing of bodies that had taken place at and near Jellicoe. Is this what war is like? Maia thought. For the first time she felt she understood, not just in abstract, but in her gut, what had driven the Founders to such drastic choices. Nevertheless, she felt determined not to let Perkinite propagandists seize on this episode. If I keep any freedom of action at ally I’m going to make sure it’s known. Poulandres and his men were forced to fight. This was more than a simple case of males going berserk.

What was it, then? There would surely be those who pictured Renna as the culprit, a blight carrier whose mere presence, and threat to bring more of his kind, inflamed the worst in several branches of Stratoin society. To Maia, that seemed cruelly like blaming the victim. Yet, the point could be made.

After dinner, while Hullin wheeled her along the promenade deck, Maia encountered Kiel a second time. On this occasion, she saw the other woman more clearly, not through a curtain of resentment over things that were already ancient history. The rad agent had lost everything, her closest friends, her freedom, the best hope for her cause. Maia was gentler with her former cottage-mate. Commiserating, she reached out to console and forgive. In gratitude, the forceful, indomitable Kiel broke down and wept.

Later, as dusk fell, the western horizon began to glitter. Maia counted five, six … and finally ten slowly turning beacons whose rhythmic flashes cut across the miles of ocean with reassuring constancy. From maps studied in her youth, she recognized the tempos and colors and knew their names—Conway, Ulam, Turing, Gardner … famed lighthouse sanctuaries of the Méchant Coast. And, beyond far Rucker Beacon, a vast dusting of soft, glimmering diamonds covering a harbor and surrounding hills. The night spectacle of great Ursulaborg.

She was taken to a temple. Not the grand, marble-lined monument dominating the city from its northern bluffs, but a modest, one-story retreat that rambled over a fenced hectare of neatly coppiced woods, several kilometers upriver from the heart of the busy metropolis. The semirural ambience was an artifact, Maia could tell, carefully nurtured by the small but prosperous clanholds that shared the neighborhood. Clear streams flowed past gardens and mulch piles, windmills and light industrial workshops. It was a place where generations of children, and their daughters’ daughters, might play, grow up, and tend family business at an unhurried pace, confident of a future in which change would, at most, arrive slowly.

The walled temple grounds were unprepossessing. The chapel bore proper symbols for venerating Stratos Mother and the Founders in the standard way, yet Maia suspected all wasn’t orthodox. Vigilant guards, arrayed in leather, patrolled the palisade. Within, the expected air of cultivated serenity was overlaid by a veneer of static tension.

Except for Naroin and her younger sibling, none of the women looked alike.

After passing the chapel, the lugars bearing Maia’s palanquin approached an unassuming wooden house, detached from the main compound, surrounded by a covered plank veranda. The doctor who had treated Maia aboard the Gentilleschi conferred with two women, one tall and severe-looking, dressed in priestly habits, the other rotund, wearing archdeaconess robes. Naroin, who had walked alongside during the brief journey from the riverside quay, took a quick lope around the house, satisfying herself of its security, while Hullin briskly looked inside. Upon reuniting near the porch, the pair exchanged efficient nods.

With the help of a nurse-nun, Maia stepped down, bearing stoically the profound pain spreading from her knee and side. They assisted her up a short ramp into the house, pausing at the entrance when the tall, elderly priestess bent to meet Maia’s eye. Maia experienced a moment’s surprise on seeing mannish features—bony chin and cheek and eyebrow ridges, the flat, broad line of the collarbone. Yet the face was hairless as a woman’s, and when the cleric’s frown turned into a warm smile, Maia doubted her first diagnosis.

“You will be at peace here, child. Until you choose to leave, this will be your home.”

The round woman wearing deacon’s robes blew a sigh, as if she did not approve of promises that might prove hard to keep. Despite pain and fatigue, Maia felt she had learned more than they intended. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely, and let the nurses guide her down a veranda of polished wood into a room featuring sliding doors made of paper-thin wood panels, overlooking a garden and a small pond. The mat bed featured sheets that looked whiter than a cloud. Maia never remembered being helped to slip between them. The sounds of plinking water, and wind rustling boughs, lulled her to sleep.

She awoke to find, next to her bed, the slim volumes given her by the Pinnipeds, plus a small box and a folded slip of paper. Maia opened the note.

I’ll be gone a while, varling, it read. I’m leaving Hullin to keep an eye open. These folk are all right, tho maybe a bit nutty. See you soon, Naroin.

The detective’s departure came as no surprise. Maia had wondered why Naroin stuck around this long. Surely she had work to do?

Maia opened the box. Inside a tissue wrapping she found a case made of aromatic leather, attached to a soft strap. She opened it and found therein a gleaming instrument of brass and gleaming glass. The sextant was beautiful, perfect, and so well-made she found it impossible to tell how old it was, save by the fact that it possessed no readout window, no obvious way to access the Old Net. Still, it was on sight far more valuable than the one she had left behind, at Jellicoe. Maia unfolded the sighting arms and ran her hands over the apparatus.

Still, she hoped Leie would manage to recover the old one. Cranky and half-broken as it was, she felt it was hers.

She pulled the blanket over her head and lay in a ball, wishing her sister were here. Wishing for Brod. Wishing her mind were not full of visions of smoke spirals and glittering sparks, spreading sooty ashes amid stratospheric clouds.

A week passed slowly. The physician dropped by every morning to examine Maia, gradually notching downward the anesthetic effects of the agone leech, and insisting that the patient take gentle walks around the temple grounds. In the afternoons, after lunch and a nap, Maia was carried by lugar-litter for a promenade through the suburban village and up to a city park overlooking the heart of Ursulaborg. Accompanying her went several tough-looking nuns, each flourishing an iron-shod “walking stick” with a dragon-headed grip. Maia wondered why the precautions. Surely nobody was interested in her, now that Renna was gone. Then she noticed her attendants glancing backward, keeping a wary eye on a foursome of identical, formidable-looking women trailing ten meters behind, dressed as civilians but walking with the calm precision of soldiers. It marred the sense of normality that otherwise flowed over her while passing through bustling market streets.

For the first time since she and Leie had explored Lanargh, Maia felt immersed back in ordinary Stratoin life. Trade and traffic and conversation flowed in all directions. Countless unfamiliar faces came in trios, quintets, or even mixed-age octets. No doubt it would have seemed terribly exotic, had two innocent twins from the far northeast come ashore here on their first voyage from home. Now, a myriad of subtle differences from Port Sanger only seemed trivial and irrelevant. What she noticed were similarities, witnessed with new eyes.

Within a brick-lined workshop, open to the street, a family of artisans could be seen making a delicately specialized assortment of dinner ware. An elderly matriarch supervised ledger books, haggling over a wagonload of clay delivered by three identical teamsters. Meanwhile behind her, middle-aged clonelings labored at firing kilns, and agile youths learned the art of applying their long fingers to spinning wet mud on belt-driven wheels, molding shapeless lumps into the sturdy, fine shapes for which their clan was, no doubt, locally well-known.

Maia had only to shift her mental lens a little to imagine another scene. The walls withdrew, receding in the distance. Simple handmade benches and pottery wheels were replaced by the clean lines of pre-molded machinery, accurately tuned to squeeze clay into computer-drawn templates, which then passed under a glazing spray, then heat lamps, to emerge in great stacks, perfect, untouched by human hands.

The joy of craft. The quiet, serene assumption that each worker in a clan had a place—one that their daughters might also call theirs. All that would be lost.

Then, as her litter bearers threaded the market throng, Maia saw the stall where the potter clan sold their wares. She glimpsed prices … for a single dish, more than a var laborer earned in four days. So much that a modest clan would patch a chipped plate many times before thinking of buying a replacement. Maia knew. Even in wealthy Lamatia Hold, summer kids seldom dined off intact crockery.

Now magnify that by a thousand products and services, any of which might be enhanced, multiplied, made immeasurably cheaper and more widely available with applied technology. How much would be gained?

Moreover, she wondered, What if one of those clone daughters someday wanted to do something different, for a change?

She spied a group of boys running raucous circles around the patient lugars, then onward toward the park. They were the only males she had seen, even now, in midwinter. All others would be nearer the water, though no one barred their way this time of year. Maia found it odd, after so long in the company of men, not to have any around. Nor were vars like her common, either. Except within the temple grounds, they, too, were a tiny minority.

On arrival at the park, Maia gingerly got off the litter and walked a short distance to a walled ledge overlooking Ursulaborg. Here was one of the world’s great cities, which she and Leie had dreamed of visiting, someday. Certainly it far exceeded anything she had seen, yet now it looked parochial. She knew the place would fit into the vest pocket of any metropolis, on almost any Phylum world … save only those others which had also chosen pastoralism over the frantic genius of Homo technologicus.

Renna had earnestly respected the accomplishments of Lysos and the Founders, while clearly believing they were wrong.

What do I believe? Maia wondered. There are tradeoffs. That much, she knew. But are there any solutions?

It was still terribly hard, thinking of Renna. Within a corner of her mind, a persistent little voice kept refusing to let go. The dead have come back before, it insisted, bringing up the miraculous return of Leie. Others had thought Maia herself finished, only to find out reports of her demise were premature.

Hope was a desperate, painful little ember … and in this case absurd. Hundreds had witnessed the Visitor’s vaporization.

Let go. She told herself to be glad simply to have been his friend for a while. Perhaps, someday, there might come a chance to honor him, by shining a light here or there.

All else was fantasy. All else was dust.

As she gradually improved, Maia started getting visitors.

First came a covey of erect, gracile clones with wide-set eyes and narrow noses, dressed in fine fabrics, modestly dyed. The priestess introduced them as mother-elders of Starkland Clan, from nearby Joannaborg, a name that sounded only vaguely familiar until the women sat down opposite Maia, and began speaking of Brod. Instantly, she recognized the family resemblance. His nose, his wide-open, honest eyes.

Her friend had not been exaggerating. The clan of librarians did, indeed, keep caring about its sons, and even, apparently, its summer daughters, after they left home. The elders had learned of Brod’s misadventures, and wanted Maia’s reassurance, firsthand. She was moved by their gentleness, their earnest expressions of concern. Midway through an abbreviated account of her travels with their son, she showed them the letter proving he was all right.

“Poor grammar,” one of them clucked. “And look at that penmanship.”

Another, a little older, chided. “Lizbeth! You heard the young lady speak of what the poor boy’s been through.” She turned to Maia. “Please excuse our sister. She true-birthed our Brod, and is overcompensating. Do go on.”

It was all Maia could manage, not to smile in amusement. A prim, slightly scattershot sweetness seemed a core, heritable trait in this line. She could see where Brod got some of the qualities she admired. When they got up to leave, the women urged Maia to call, if she ever needed anything. Maia thanked them, and replied that she doubted she would be in town for very long.

The night before, she had heard the priestess and the archdeaconess arguing as they passed near her window, no doubt thinking she was asleep.

“You don’t have to wade through the thick of it as I do,” the rotund lay worker said. “While you var idealists sit here in a rustic stronghold, taking moral stands, there’s heaps of pressure coming down. The Teppins and the Prosts—”

“Teppins cause me no unsleep,” the priestess had answered.

“They should. Caria Temple spins at the whim of—”

“Ecclesiastic clans.” The tall one snorted. “Country priests and nuns are another matter. Can the hierarchs call anathema on so many? They risk heretics outnumbering orthodox in half the towns along the coast.”

“Wish I felt as sure. Seems a lot to risk over one poor, battered girl.”

“You know it’s not about her.”

“Not overall. But in our little corner of things, she’ll do as a symbol. Symbols matter. Look at what’s happening with the men …”

Men? Maia had wondered, as the voices receded. What do they mean by that? What’s happening? With what men?

She got a partial answer later, after the matrons of Starkland Hold departed, when an altercation broke out at the temple gates. Maia was by now well enough to hobble onto the porch of her guest cottage and witness a fierce argument taking place near the road. The var dedicants who doubled as watchwomen warily observed a band of clones like those Maia had seen before, following her litter through town. These, in turn, were trying to bar entry to a third group, a deputation of males wearing formal uniforms of one of the seafaring guilds. The men appeared meek, at first sight. Unlike either group of women, they carried no weapons, not even walking sticks. Eyes lowered, hands clasped, they nodded politely to whatever was shouted at them. Meanwhile they edged forward, shuffling ahead by slow, steady increments until the clones found themselves squeezed back, without room to maneuver. It was a comically effective tactic for males, Maia thought, compensating for winter docility with sheer bulk and obstinacy. Soon, they were through the gate, leaving the exasperated clone-soldiers puffing in frustration. The amused temple priestess made the men welcome, gesturing for them to follow Naroin’s younger sister. Shaking her head, Hullin led the small company to Maia’s bungalow.

The leader of the company wore twin crescent emblems of a full commodore on the armlets of a tidy, if somewhat threadbare, uniform. His bearing was erect, although he walked with a limp. Under a shock of dark gray hair, and dense eyebrows, his pupils reminded Maia of the northern seas of home. She shivered, and wondered why.

Inside, they seated themselves on mats while nuns arrived with cool drinks. Maia struggled to recall lessons about the courtly art of hosting men during this time of year. It had all seemed terribly abstract, back in summerling school. In the wildest dreams she and Leie had shared in their attic room, none had pictured facing an assembly as lofty as this.

Small talk was the rule, starting with the weather, followed by dry remarks about how lovely the men found her veranda and garden. She confessed ignorance of the exotic plants, so two officers explained the names and origins of several that had been transplanted from far valleys, to preserve threatened species. Meanwhile, her heart raced with tension.

What do they want from me? she wondered, at once excited and appalled.

The commodore asked how Maia liked the sextant she had received as a replacement for the one abandoned on Jellicoe. She thanked him, and the art of navigation proved an absorbing topic for several more minutes. Next, they discussed the Game of Life books—more as fine exemplars of the art of printing and binding than for the information they contained.

Maia tried hard to relax. She had witnessed this sort of conversation countless times, while serving drinks in the Lamatia guesthouse. The prime commandment was patience. Nevertheless, she sighed in relief when the commodore finally got to the point.

“We’ve had reports,” he began with a low rumble, stroking the tendons of one hand with the other. “From members of our guild who participated in the … incidents at Jellicoe Beacon. We Pinnipeds have also shared observations with our brethren of the Flying Tern Guild—”

“Who?” Maia shook her head, confused.

“Those to whom loss of Manitou … Poulandres and his crew … come as blows to the heart.”

Maia winced. She hadn’t known the guild name. At sea, with Renna, it hadn’t seemed important. On meeting the Manitou crew again, deep underground, there hadn’t been time to ask.

“I see. Go on.”

His head briefly bowed. “Among the many guilds and lodges, there is much confusion over what was, what is, and what must be done. We were astonished to learn the true existence of Jellicoe Former. Now, however, we are told its discovery is unimportant. That its significance is solely to archaeologists. Legends mean nothing, it is said. Real men do not seek to build what they cannot shape with their two hands.”

He lifted his own, scarred and callused from many years at sea, as lined as the eyes which had spent a lifetime squinting past sun and wind and spray. They were sad eyes, Maia noticed. Loneliness seemed to color their depths.

“Who’s been telling you this?”

A shrug. “Those whom our mothers taught us to accept as spiritual guides.”

“Oh.” Maia thought she understood. Few boys were born to single vars or microclans. For most, the conservative upbringing Maia shared with Leie and Albert at Lamatia was the norm. It was as important to the Founders’ Plan as any vaunted genetic manipulation of masculine nature, and explained why flamboyant exploits such as the Kings’ Revolt were doomed from the start.

“There is more,” the commodore went on. “Although there will be compensation for our losses, and those of the Terns, we are told that no blood debt was incurred with the ruin of the so-called Wissy-Man. He was part of no guild, nor ship, nor sanctuary. We do not owe him any bond of memory or honor. So it is said.”

He means Renna, Maia realized. Her friend had spoken of the cruel nickname back on the Manitou. While admiring the hearty, self-reliant craftsmanship of the sailors, Renna had implied that it trapped men in a ritualistic obsession, forever limiting the scope of their ambitions.

After Jellicoe was forcibly evacuated, how many generations did it take for the high clans to accomplish this? It can’t have been easy. The legend must have fought back, clung to life, despite suppression at nearly every mother’s knee.

Whether or not she ever learned the whole story, Maia was already certain of some things. There had once been a great conspiracy. One that had come close to succeeding, long ago. One that might have altered life on Stratos, forever.

The Council in those days had not been without reason, when it used the pretext of the Kings’ Revolt to seize Jellicoe Beacon and oust the old Guardians, as the Manitou’s physician had called them. Those ancient wardens of science had been up to something more subversive, more threatening to the status quo, than the Kings’ dim-witted putsch. The existence of the orbital launching gun used by Renna made it all clear.

A plot to reclaim outer space. And with it a radically different way of living in the universe.

More remarkably still, the Guardians managed to keep secret the location of their great factory—their “Former.” The Council swiftly confiscated the great engines of defense without ever guessing how close nearby a secret remnant continued working to complete the plan. For generations it must have gone on. Men and women, sneaking in and out of Jellicoe Former, carefully recruiting their own replacements, losing expertise and skill with each passing of the torch until, at long last, the inexorable logic of Stratoin society ground their brave, forlorn cabal to extinction. A thousand or more years later it was but a threadbare fable, no more.

Renna must have found the ship and launcher almost completed. He used the Former, programming it with his own experience and knowledge to make the last needed parts.

It was a staggering accomplishment, to have achieved so much in but a few days. Perhaps he would have made it, if not forced to launch early by the premature discovery of his hiding place.

Guilt was a more potent voice than reason. But now Maia felt something stronger than either—a desire to strike back. It would be futile, of course, especially over the long run. In the short term, however, here was a chance to lay a small blow in revenge.

“I … don’t know the whole story,” she began hesitantly. Maia paused, inhaled deeply, and resumed with more firmness in her voice. “But what you’ve been told is unjust. A lie. I knew the sailor you speak of, who came to our shores as a guest … with open hands … after crossing a sea far greater and lonelier than any man of Stratos has known …”

It was late afternoon when the men finally stood to take their leave. Hullin helped Maia hobble with them to the porch, where the commodore took her hand. His officers stood nearby, their expressions thoughtful and stormy. “I thank you for your time and wisdom, Lady,” the guildmaster said, causing Maia to blink. “In leasing one of our ships to wild reavers, we unintentionally did your house harm. Yet you have been generous with us.”

“I …” Maia was speechless at being addressed in this fashion.

The commodore went on. “Should a winter come when your house seeks diligent men, prepared to do their duty with pride and pleasure, any of these”—he gestured at his younger comrades, who nodded earnestly—“will cheerfully come, without thought of summer reward.” He paused. “I, alone, must decline, by the Rule of Lysos.”

While Maia watched in stunned silence, he bowed once more. With a tone of flustered, confounded decorum, he added, “I hope we meet again, Maia. My name … is Clevin.”

There was glory frost that night, floating slowly downward from the stratosphere in a haze of soft, threadlike drifts that touched the wooden railings, the flagstones, the lilies in the pond, with glittering, luminous dust. Most of it evaporated on contact, filling the air with a faint, enticing perfume. Maia watched the gossamer tendrils waft past, and felt as if she were rising through a mist of microscopic stars. For a long time after, she would not go to sleep, afraid of what might happen. Lying in bed, her skin tingled with strange sensations and she wondered what would happen if she dreamed. Whose face would come to her? Brod’s? Bennett’s? The men of Pinniped Guild?

Would womanly hormones set off renewed, painful longing for Renna, her first, though chaste, male love?

The shock of meeting her natural father had not ebbed. Her thoughts roiled and she tossed in confusion. When Maia finally did dream, it was a strangely intangible fantasy—of falling, floating, amid the startling, abstract, ever-changing figures of the Jellicoe wonder wall.

Soon after dawn, the doctor arrived and announced in satisfaction that it would be her next-to-last visit. When she removed the agone leech, it was a chance for Maia to look closely at the box that had suppressed full vividness from both her body’s ache and her heart’s grief. It seemed a modest item, mass-produced and, plentiful enough to furnish even the humblest medic, anywhere on Stratos. Now Maia also knew it as another product of a lesser Former, one of those automatic factories still operated under close watch by the Reigning Council. Clearly, some items were too important to be left to pastoral puritanism. If Perkinism prevailed, however, even these merciful boxes might go away.

“You’ll still be needin’ a bit more rest an’ recoop here in Ursulaborg,” Naroin explained later that morning, on returning from her urgent errand. “Then it’s off to Caria for a command performance before as posh a gaggle o’ savants as you’ve ever seen. What d’you think o’ that?”

Maia unfolded the arms of her replacement sextant and sighted on a grimlip flower. “I think you’re a cop, and I shouldn’t say anything more till I see a legalist.”

“A legalist?” The small woman’s brow knotted. “Why would you be needin’ one?”

Why, indeed? Naroin might be her friend, but a clone was never entirely her own person. Once Maia was brought to Caria, Maia could think of a dozen excuses the powers that ruled Church and Council might use to lock her away. In a real prison, this time. One without secret byways, patrolled by clone guardians tested over centuries, genetically primed for vigilance.

Maia had decided not to let it come to that. This time, she would act first. Before she was taken from Ursulaborg, there should come a chance to slip away. Perhaps during her daily ride. Once away through the city crowds, she would seek shelter in an out-of-the-way place where important people might never trace her. Some quiet, dead-end seaside town. I’ll find a way to get word to Leie. Brod. We’ll open a chandler’s shop. Repair sextants damaged by lazy sailors.

Perhaps Naroin could be persuaded to look the other way at the right moment. Best not to count on it, though.

“Never mind,” she told the short brunette. “Had a nightmare. Can’t shake the feeling I’m still living in it.”

“Who could blame you, after all you’ve been through.” Naroin grinned. When Maia failed to respond, she leaned forward. “You think you’re under arrest or somethin’? Is that it?”

“Could I walk out the front gate, if I so chose?”

The wiry ex-bosun frowned. “Wouldn’t be wise, right now.”

“I thought not.”

“It’s not what you think. There’s folk who don’t hold your health as dear as we do.”

“Sure.” Maia nodded. “I know you’re lots nicer than some would be. Forget I asked.”

Naroin chewed her lower lip unhappily. “You want to know what’s goin’ on. It’s all changing so fast, though … Look, I’m not supposed to say anythin’ till she arrives, but there’s someone comin’ tomorrow to talk to you, and then escort you to the capital. I know it’s fishy sounding, but it’s needful. Can you trust me till then? I promise it’ll all make sense.”

A petulant part of Maia wanted to cling to resentment. But it was hard to stay wary of Naroin. They had been through so much together. I’d rather be dead than so suspicious I can’t trust anybody.

“All right,” she said. “Till tomorrow.”

Naroin left again. Later, Maia and her escorts were about to depart on the afternoon litter ride when Hullin reached up to hand Maia a second folded sheet of heavy paper, sealed with red wax. Maia’s heart lifted when she saw Brod’s handwriting. She waited until the palanquin was jostling through the suburban market square, then tore it open.

Dear Maia,

Leie’s fine and sends her love. We both miss you, and are glad to hear you’re in good care. Here’s hoping life is nice and boring for you, for a while.

Maia smiled. Just wait till they get her next letter! Leie would julp with jealousy that she hadn’t met Clevin first! There were other, more serious matters to discuss, but it would be good to report that one of their childhood fantasies had actually come true.

Lysos, how she missed Brod and Leie! Maia desperately wished they would come soon.

We’ve been less busy lately. Spending most of our time just standing around while high-class mothers point and wave their arms and yell a lot. In fact, I’m surprised Leie and I are still here, since a bunch of savants arrived from the university with big consoles, which they proceeded to attach to your picture wall! They’ve been making it do amazing things. Stopped asking Leie questions about it, so I guess they think they’ve figured it out.

Maia wondered, Why does that make me feel jealous? Now that the secret was out, it only made sense to have scholars investigate the wonders of another age. Perhaps they’d learn a thing or two … even change their minds about some stereotypes.

All the men are gone now, except those serving the ships which bring supplies. So are the vars and local cops who helped retake Jellicoe from the reavers. We’ve been told not to talk to any of the sailors, who aren’t allowed into the Sanctuary or Former. The men spend whatever time they have, between loading and unloading sealed crates, just rowing around the lagoon, checking out caves, sightseeing. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble slipping this letter to—

The litter jerked, breaking Maia’s concentration. The market was unusually crowded today. Peering over the throng, Maia saw a disturbance a few dozen meters ahead. A trio of shoppers were arguing vehemently with a storekeeper. Suddenly, one of them picked up a bolt of cloth and turned to leave, causing the merchant to screech in dismay. Maia picked up the word “Thief!” shouted over the general hubbub. Ripples of agitation spread outward as clone sisters of the sales clerk spilled out of the building behind her. Others converged to aid the shoppers. Shoving and yelling escalated with startling rapidity into unseemly grabbing, and then blows, spreading in Maia’s direction.

The temple wardens moved to interpose themselves while Hullin tugged at the upset lugars, urging them to turn around. They managed to swing off the main thoroughfare into a side alley, the only avenue of escape, ducking awkwardly under a jungle of clotheslines. “Uh,” Maia started to suggest. “Maybe I should get down—”

Hullin gave a startled cry. The fiver’s head vanished under a blanket thrown from a nearby shadowed doorway, drawn tight with cord. The lugars grunted in panic, dropping one pole of the litter, teetering Maia vertigously outward as she grabbed futilely after Brod’s fluttering letter.

Suddenly, she found herself staring straight into the blonde-fringed face of—Tizbe Beller!

Maia had only an instant to gasp before black cloth surrounded her as well, accompanied by the rough clasping of many pairs of hands. A jarring tumult followed as she sucked for breath while being lugged, pell-mell, along some twisty, abruptly shifting path. It was a hurtful, bone-shaking ordeal, surpassed only by her frustrated helplessness to fight back.

At last, the black cover came off. Maia raggedly inhaled, blinking disorientation from the searing return of sunshine. Hands yanked and pushed, but this time Maia lashed out, managing to elbow one of her captors and catch another in the stomach with her right foot, before someone cuffed her on the side of the head, bringing the stars out early. Through it all, Maia caught brief glimpses of where they were taking her, toward a set of stairs leading upward, into the belly of a gleaming, bird-shaped contraption of polished wood and steel.

An aircraft.

“Relax, virgie,” Tizbe Beller told Maia as they trussed her into a padded seat. “Might as well enjoy the view. Not many varlings like you ever get to fly.”