Glory Season

  PRAISE FOR GLORY SEASON

  “Glory Season is an imaginative and entertaining novel set in a world where women have decisively won the battle of the sexes.… Fascinating.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  “There is violence and death, pursuit and discovery, betrayal and maturation, immense enjoyment and final satisfaction, all in the service of a thoughtful approach to the question of intergender relations.”

  —Analog Science, Fiction and Fact

  “Glory Season offers thrills, chills, political intrigue, and other good old scientifictional fun, along with yet another round in the battle of the sexes.”

  —Locus

  “The tale of a young misfit forced into rebellion against a corrupt society and helping to overthrow it has been told many times before. Brin tells it as well as any and better than all but a handful.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “A considered and nuanced speculation rather than a stale battle-of-the-sexes tract. Brin’s prose echoes the influence of Asimov, Frank Herbert, and Aldous Huxley.… His world is so painstakingly drawn and is splashed with such radiant and varied hues.”

  —The Christian Science Monitor

  MORE PRAISE FOR DAVID BRIN

  “Brilliantly conceived, intellectually supercharged -novels.”

  —The Sacramento Bee

  “He is not only prolific, but thoughtful and highly original.”

  —Daily Nelvs, Los Angeles

  “Brin … is a natural storyteller.”

  —The Orange County Register

  “[Brin] is notable for … unquenchable optimism, focusing on the ability of humanity to overcome adversity.”

  —Los Angeles Times Book Review

  STARTIDE RISING

  “One hell of a novel … Startide Rising has what SF readers want these days; intelligence, action and an epic scale.”

  —Baird Searles, Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine

  EARTH

  “Big, ambitious.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Boasts enough thrills, special effects and Intriguing speculation to put it at the head of the pack for next year’s Nebula and Hugo awards. It’s a powerful, cautionary tale and deserves an audience well beyond the confines of science fiction fans.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  Bantam Spectra Books by David Brin

  EARTH

  GLORY SEASON

  OTHERNESS

  THE POSTMAN

  THE PRACTICE EFFECT

  STARTIDE RISING

  SUNDIVER

  THE UPLIFT WAR

  BRIGHTNESS REEF

  INFINITY’S SHORE

  HEAVEN’S REACH

  By David Brin and Kevin Lenagh

  CONTACTING ALIENS

  An Illustrated Guide to

  David Brin’s Uplift War

  This edition contains the complete text

  of the original hardcover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  GLORY SEASON

  A Bantam Spectra Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Bantam hardcover edition / June 1993

  Bantam paperback edition / June 1994

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1993 by David Brin.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93–16605

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-57346-9

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  To Cheryl Ann

  who rescued Maia from Flatland

  and me from loneliness

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Part 1 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part 2 Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part 3 Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part 4 Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Afterword

  About the Author

  We would have every path laid open to women.… Were this done … we would see crystallizations more pure and of more various beauty. We believe the divine energy would pervade nature to a degree unknown in the history of former ages, and that no discordant collision, but a ravishing harmony of the spheres, would ensue.

  —Margaret Fuller

  Twenty-six months before her second birthday, Maia learned the true difference between winter and summer.

  It wasn’t simply the weather, or the way hot-season lightning storms used to crackle amid tall ships anchored in the harbor. Nor even the eye-tingling stab of Wengel—so distinct from other stars.

  The real difference was much more personal.

  “I can’t play with you no more,” her half sister, Sylvina, taunted one day. “ ’Cause you had a father!”

  “Did n-not!” Maia stammered, rocked by the slur, knowing that the word was vaguely nasty. Sylvie’s rebuff stung, as if a bitter glacier wind blew through the crèche.

  “Did so! Had a father, dirty var!”

  “Well … then you’re a var, too!”

  The other girl laughed harshly. “Ha! I’m pure Lamai, just like my sisters, mothers an’ grandmas. But you’re a summer kid. That makes you U-neek. Var!”

  Dismayed, too choked to speak, Maia could only watch Sylvina toss her tawny locks and flounce away, joining a cluster of children varied in age but interchangeable in appearance. Some unspoken ritual of separation had taken place, dividing the room. In the better half, over near the glowing hearth, each girl was a miniature, perfect rendition of a Lamai mother. The same pale hair and strong jaw. The same trademark stance with chin defiantly upraised.

  Here on this side, the two boys were being tutored in their corner as usual, unaware of any changes that would scarcely affect them, anyway. That left eight little girls like Maia, scattered near the icy panes. Some were light or dark, taller or thinner. One had freckles, another, curly hair. What they had in common were their differences.

  Maia wondered, Was this what it meant to have a father? Everyone knew summer kids were rarer than winterlings, a fact that once made her proud, till it dawned on her that being “special” wasn’t so lucky, after all.

  She dimly recalled summertime’s storms, the smell of static electricity and the drumbeat of heavy rain on Port Sanger’s corbeled roofs. Whenever the clouds parted, shimmering sky-curtains used to dance like gauzy giants across distant tundra slopes, far beyond the locked city gates. Now, winter constellations replaced summer’s gaudy show, glittering over a placid, frost-decked sea. Maia already knew these seasonal changes had to do with movements of Stratos round its sun. But she still hadn’t figured out what that had to
do with kids being born different, or the same.

  Wait a minute!

  Struck by a thought, Maia hurried to the cupboard where playthings were stacked. She grabbed a chipped hand mirror in both hands, and carried it to where another dark-haired girl her own age sat with several toy soldiers, arranging their swords and brushing their long hair. Maia held out the mirror, comparing her face to that of the other child.

  “I look just like you!” she announced. Turning, she called to Sylvina. “I can’t be a var! See? Leie looks like me!”

  Triumph melted as the others laughed, not just the light-haired crowd, but all over the crèche. Maia frowned at Leie. “B-but you are like me. Look!”

  Oblivious to chants of “Var! Var!” which made Maia’s ears burn, Leie ignored the mirror and yanked Maia’s arm, causing her to land hard nearby. Leie put one of the toy soldiers in Maia’s lap, then leaned over and whispered. “Don’t act so dumb! You an’ me had the same father. We’ll go on his boat, someday. We’ll sail, an’ see a whale, an’ ride its tail. That’s what summer kids do when they grow up.”

  With that surprising revelation, Leie returned contentedly to brushing a wooden warrior’s flaxen hair.

  Maia let the second doll lay in her open hand, the mirror in the other, pondering what she’d learned. Despite Leie’s air of assurance, her story sounded easily as dumb as anything Maia herself had said. Yet, there was something appealing about the other girl’s attitude … her way of making bad news sound good.

  It seemed reason enough to become friends. Even better than the fact that they looked as alike as two stars in the sky.

  PART 1

  Never understate the voyage we’re embarked on, or what we knowingly forsake. Admit from the start, my sisters, that these partners cleaved to us by nature had their uses, their moments. Male strength and intensity have, on occasion, accomplished things both noble and fine.

  Yet, even at best, wasn’t that strength mostly spent defending us, and our children, against others of their kind? Are their better moments worth the cost?

  Mother Nature works by a logic, a harsh code, that served when we were beasts, but no more. Now we grasp her tools, her art, down to its warp and weft. And with skill comes a call for change. Women—some women—are demanding a better way.

  Thus we comrades sought this world, far beyond the hampering moderation of Hominid Phylum. It is the challenge of this founding generation to improve the blueprint of humanity.

  —from the Landing Day Address, by Lysos

  1

  Sharply angled sunlight splashed across the table by Maia’s bed, illuminating a meter-long braid of lustrous brown hair. Freshly cut. Draped across the rickety night-stand and tied off at both ends with blue ribbons.

  Stellar-shell blue, color of departure. And next to the braid, a pair of gleaming scissors stood like a dancer balancing on toe, one point stabbed into the rough tabletop. Blinking past sleep muzziness, Maia stared at these objects—illumined by a trapezoid of slanting dawn light—struggling to separate them from fey emblems of her recent dream.

  At once, their meaning struck.

  “Lysos,” Maia gasped, throwing off the covers. “Leie really did it!”

  Sudden shivers drew a second realization. Her sister had also left the window open! Zephyrs off Stern Glacier blew the tiny room’s dun curtains, driving dust balls across the plank floor to fetch against her bulging duffel. Rushing to slam the shutters, Maia glimpsed ruddy sunrise coloring the slate roofs of Port Sanger’s castlelike clan houses. The breeze carried warbling gull cries and scents of distant icebergs, but appreciating mornings was one vice she had never shared with her early-rising twin.

  “Ugh.” Maia put a hand to her head. “Was it really my idea to work last night?”

  It had seemed logical at the time. “We’ll want the latest news before heading out,” Maia had urged, signing them both for one last stint waiting tables in the clan guesthouse. “We might overhear something useful, and an extra coin or two won’t hurt.”

  The men of the timber ship, Gallant Tern, had been full of gossip all right, and sweet Lamatian wine. But the sailors had no eye for two adolescent summerlings—two variant brats—when there were plump winter Lamais about, all attractively identical, well-dressed and well-mannered. Spoiling and flattering the officers, the young Lamais had snapped their fingers till past midnight, sending Maia and Leie to fetch more pitchers of heady ale.

  The open window must have been Leie’s way of getting even.

  Oh, well, Maia thought defensively. She’s had her share of bad ideas, too. What mattered was that they had a plan, the two of them, worked out year after patient year in this attic room. All their lives, they had known this day would come. No telling how many dreary jobs we’ll have to put our backs to, before we find our niche.

  Just as Maia was thinking about slipping back between the covers, the North Tower bell clanged, rattling this shabby corner of the sprawling Lamai compound. In higher-class precincts, winter folk would not stir for another hour, but summer kids got used to rising in bitter cold—such was the irony of their name. Maia sighed, and began slipping into her new traveling clothes. Black tights of stretchy web-cloth, a white blouse and halter, plus boots and a jacket of strong, oiled leather. The outfit was more than many clans provided their departing var-daughters, as the mothers diligently pointed out. Maia tried hard to feel fortunate.

  While dressing, she pondered the severed braid. It was longer than an outstretched arm, glossy, yet lacking those rich highlights each full-blooded Lamai wore as a birthright. It looked so out of place, Maia felt a brief chill, as if she were regarding Leie’s detached hand, or head. She caught herself making a hand-sign to avert ill luck, and laughed nervously at the bad habit. Country superstitions would betray her as a bumpkin in the big cities of Landing Continent.

  Leie hadn’t even laced her braid very well, given the occasion. At this moment, in other rooms nearby, Mirri, Kirstin, and the other summer fivers would be fixing their tresses for today’s Parting Ceremony. The twins had argued over whether to attend, but now Leie had typically and impulsively acted on her own. Leie probably thinks this gives her seniority as an adult, even though Granny Modine says I was first out of our birth-momma’s womb.

  Fully dressed, Maia turned to encompass the attic room where they had grown up through five long Stratoin years—fifteen by the old calendar—summer children spinning dreams of winter glory, whispering a scheme so long forming, neither recalled who had thought it first. Now … today … the ship Grim Bird would take them away toward far western lands where opportunities were said to lay just waiting for bright youths like them.

  That was also the direction their father-ship had last been seen, some years ago. “It can’t hurt to keep our eyes open,” Leie had proposed, though Maia had wondered, skeptical, If we ever did meet our gene-father, what would there be to talk about?

  Tepid water still flowed from the corner tap, which Maia took as a friendly omen. Breakfast is included, too, she thought while washing her face. If I make it to kitchen before the winter smugs arrive.

  Facing the tiny table mirror—a piece of clan property she would miss terribly—Maia wove the over-and-between braid pattern of Lamatia Family, obstinately doing a neater job than Leie had. Top and bottom ends she tied off with blue ribbons, purchased out of her pocket. At one point, her own brown eyes looked back at her, faintly shaded by distinctly un-Lamai brows, gifts of her unknown male parent. Regarding those dark irises, Maia was taken aback to find what she wanted least to see—a moist glitter of fear. A constriction. Awareness of a wide world, awaiting her beyond this familiar bay. A world both enticing and yet notoriously pitiless to solitary young vars short on either wit or luck. Crossing her arms over her breast, Maia fought a quaver of protest.

  How can I leave this room? How can they make me go?

  Abrupt panic closed in like encasing ice, locking her limbs, her breath. Only Maia’s racing heart seemed capable of move
ment, rocking her chest, accelerating helplessly … until she broke the spell with one serrated thought:

  What if Leie comes back and finds me like this?

  A fate worse than anything the mere world had to offer! Maia laughed tremulously, shattering the rigor, and lifted a hand to wipe her eyes. Anyway, it’s not like I’ll be completely alone out there. Lysos help me, I’ll always have Leie.

  At last she contemplated the gleaming scissors, embedded in the tabletop. Leie had left them as a challenge. Would Maia kneel meekly before the clan matriarchs, be given sonorous advice, a Kiss of Blessing, and a formal shearing? Or would she take leave boldly, without asking or accepting a hypocritical farewell?

  What gave her pause, ironically, was a consideration of pure practicality.

  With the braid off, there’ll be no breakfast in the kitchen.

  She had to use both hands, rocking the shears to win them free of the pitted wood. Maia turned the twin blades in a shaft of dawn light streaming through the shutters.

  She laughed aloud and decided.

  Even winter kids were seldom perfectly identical. Rare summer doubles like Maia and Leie could be told apart by a discerning eye. For one thing, they were mirror twins. Where Maia had a tiny mole on her right cheek, Leie’s was on the left. Their hair parted on opposite sides, and while Maia was right-handed, her sibling claimed left-handedness was a sure sign of destined greatness. Still, the town priestess had scanned them. They had the same genes.

  Early on, an idea had occurred to them—to try using this fact to their advantage.

  There were limits to their scheme. They could hardly put it over on a savant, or among the lordly merchant houses of Landing Continent, where rich clans still used the data-wizardry of the Old Network. So Maia and Leie had decided to stay at sea awhile, with the sailors and drifter-folk, until they found some rustic town where local mothers were gullible, and male visitors more taciturn than the gossipy, bearded cretins who sailed the Parthenia Sea.