That proved easier said than done. There were many sails in Port Sanger, from hand-carved, hard edged wind-wings, to stormjammers, to clippers with flapping sheets of woven squid-silk. At the diplomatic docks, just below the harbor fort, there was even one rare, sleek cruiser whose banks of gleaming solar panels basked in the angled sunshine. Maia and Leie did not bother with such rich craft, whose crews would have spurned their paltry coinsticks as fishing lures. They did try their luck with well-turned freighters flying banners of the Cloud Whale League, or the Blue Heron Society, voyager guilds whose gray-bearded commodores sometimes called at Lamatia Hall to interview bright boys for lives at sea.
According to childrens' fables, once upon a time boys like Albert simply joined the guilds of their fathers. Even summer girls used to grow up knowing which Daddy Ship would take them someday, free of charge, to wherever opportunities shone brightest for young vars.
Clone-child you must stay within,
Home-hive to protect, renew.
Var-child you must strive and win,
Half-mom and half-man, it's true.
Let the heartwinds blow away,
Winter's frost, or summer's bright.
Name the special things that stay,
Fixed, to guide you through the night.
Stratos Mother, Founders' Gifts,
Your own skill and eager hands.
One more boon, the lucky lifts,
Father ticket to far lands.
One old teacher, Savant Judeth -- a Lamai with unusual sympathy for her summerling charges -- once testified that truth underlay the old tales. "In those days, each sailing society kept close contact with one house in Port Sanger, carrying clan cargoes and finding welcome in clan hostels, summer and winter both. When var girls turned five, their fathers -- or their fathers' compeers -- used to carry them off as treasures in their own right, helping them get settled in lands far away."
To Maia it had sounded like romantic drivel, much too sappy to be true. But Leie had asked, "Why'd it stop being so?"
Momentarily wistful, Savant Judeth looked anything but typical for a stern-browed Lamai.
"Wish I knew, seedling. It may have to do with the rise in summer births. There seemed a lot when I was young. Now it's up to one in four. So many vars." The old woman shook her head. "And rivalry among the clans and guilds has grown fierce; there's even outright fighting..." Judeth had sighed. "All I can say is, we used to know which men would lodge here, to spark clones during cooltime and sire sons during the brief hot. Oh, and beget you summer girls, as well. But those days are gone."
Hesitantly, Leie had asked if Judeth knew their father.
"Clevin? Oh, yes. I can even see him in your faces. Navigator on the Sea Lion he was. A good egg, as men go. Your womb mother, Lysos keep her, would favor none other. You got to know men in those days. Pleasant it was, in a strange way."
And hard to imagine. Whether as noisy creatures who sheltered in the getta during summer, slaking their rut in houses of ease, or as taciturn guests during the cool seasons, lounging like cats while the Lamai sisters coaxed them with wine and plays and games of Chess or Life, either way, they were soon off again. Their names vanished, even if they left their seed. Yet, for one entire year after hearing Savant Judeth's tale, Maia used to search among the masts for the Sea Lion's banner, imagining her father's sunburnt face when he laid eyes upon the two of them.
Then she learned, Pinniped Guild no longer sailed the Parthenia Sea. The var daughters its men had sired, five long cycles ago, were on their own.
None of the better ships in harbor had berths for them. Most were already overloaded with uniques -- hard-eyed var women who glared down at the twins, or laughed at their plaintive faces. Captains and pursers kept shaking their heads, or asking for more money than the sisters could afford.
And there was something else. Something Maia couldn't pin down. Nobody said anything aloud, but the mood in the harbor seemed... jumpy.
Maia tried to dismiss it as a reflection of her own nerves.
Working their way along the docks, the twins found nothing suitable departing in under a fortnight. Finally, exhausted, they arrived on the left bank of the river Stopes, where tugs and hemp barges tied up at sagging wharves owned by local clans that had fallen on ill fortune, or simply did not care anymore. Dejected, Leie voted for going back to town and booking a room. Surely this string of rejections was an omen. In ten days, maybe twenty, things could change.
Maia wouldn't hear of it. Where Leie fluxed from wrath to smoldering despair, Maia tended toward a doggedness that settled into obstinacy. Twenty days in a hotel? When they could be on their way to some exotic land? Somewhere they might have a chance to use their secret plan?
It was in a grimy hostelry of the lowly Bizmish clan that they met the captains of a pair of colliers heading south on the morrow tide.
The world of men, too, had its hierarchies. The sort who were smart-eyed and successful, and made good sires, were wooed by wealthy matriarchies. Poorer mother-lines entertained a lower order. Stooped, sallow-skinned Bizmai, still gritty from the mines they worked nearby, shuttled about the guest house, toting jars of flat beer that Maia wouldn't touch, but the coarse seamen relished. The twins met the two collier captains in the stifling, dank common room, where carbon particles set Maia's nictitating membranes blinking furiously until they moved outside to the "veranda" overlooking a marsh. There, swarms of irritating zizzerbugs dove suicidally around the flickering tallow candles until their wings ignited, turning them into brief, flaming embers that dropped to the sooty tabletop.
"Sure will miss this place, betcha," Captain Ran said, smacking his lips, laying his beer mug down hard. "These's friendly ladies, here. Come hot season, uptown biddies won't give workin' stiffs like us a fin or fizz, let 'lone a good roll. But here we got our fill."
Maia well believed it. Of the Bizmai in sight who were of child-bearing age, half were heavy with summer pregnancies. Her nostrils flared in distaste. What would a poor clan like this do with all those uniques? Could they feed and clothe and educate them? Would they, when summer offspring seldom returned wealth to a household? Most of those babies would likely be disposed of in some ugly way, perhaps left on the tundra... "in the hands of Lysos." There were laws against it, but what law carried greater weight than the good of the clan?
Perhaps the Bizmai would be spared the trouble. Many summer pregnancies failed by themselves, spontaneously ending early due to defects in the genes. Or so Savant Judeth had explained it. "All clones come as tried and tested designs," she had put it. "While every summerling is a fresh experiment. And countless experiments fail."
Nevertheless, the var birthrate kept climbing. "Experiments," like Maia and Leie were filling the lower streets in every town.
"That's one reason we're on a short haul, this run..." said the other officer. Captain Pegyul was thinner, grayer, and apparently somewhat smarter than his peer. "... carryin' anthracite to Queg City, Lanargh, Grange Head, an' Gremlin Town. We may not be one o' those big time, fruity guilds, but we got honor. The Bizmai want us stoppin' back again mid-winter? We'll do that for 'em, after they been so kind durin' hot!"
That must be why the mining clan was so accommodating to these lizards. Men tended to get sentimental toward women carrying their summer kids -- offspring with half their genes. In half a year though, would these idiots even notice that few of those babes were still around?
"Gremlin Town will do fine," Leie said, draining her stein and motioning for a refill. The destination was south instead of west, but they had talked it over. A detour could be corrected later, after they had worked a while at sea and on land. This way, they'd arrive at the Oscco Archipelago seasoned, no longer naïve.
The thinner of the two masters rubbed his stubbled jaw. "Uh huh. So long's you both'll do what yer told."
"We'll work hard. Don't worry about that, sir."
"An' yer mother clan taught you all the right stuff? Like, say, stick-fightin'?"
Maia was sure Leie also picked up the sailor's sly effort at nonchalance. As if he were asking about sewing, or smithing, or any other practical art.
"We've had it all, sir. You won't regret bringing us aboard, whichever of you takes us."
The two seamen looked at each other. The shorter one leaned forward. "Uh, it's both of us you'll be goin' with."
Leie blinked. "What do you mean?"
"It's like this," the tall one explained. "You two is twins. That's nice, but it can make trouble. We got clan women booking passage from town to town, all along the way. They may see you two, scrubbin' decks, doin' scut work, an' get the wrong idea..."
Maia and Leie looked at each other. Their private scheme involved taking advantage of that natural reaction -- the assumption that two identicals were likely to be clones. Now the irony sank in, that their boon could also be a drawback.
"I dunno about splitting up," Leie said, shaking her head. "We could change our looks. I could dye my hair --"
Maia cut in. "Your vessels convoy together all the way down the coast, right?" The captains nodded. Maia turned to Leie. "Then we wouldn't be separated for long. This way we'll get recommendations from two shipmasters, instead of just one."
"But --"
"I won't like it either, but look at it this way. We double our experience for the same price. Each of us learns things the other doesn't. Besides, we'll have to go apart at other times. This will be good practice."
The startled expression in her sister's eyes told Maia a lot about their relationship. There was a soft pleasure in surprising Leie, something that happened all too seldom. She never expected me to be the one accepting a separation so easily.
Indeed, Maia found she looked forward to the prospect of time by herself, away from her twin's driving personality. This should be healthy for both of us.
Hiding her brief discomfiture behind an upraised beer stein, Leie finally nodded and said, "I don't guess it matters --"
At that instant, a flash whitened their faces, casting shadows from the direction of town. A sparking, spiraling rocket trailed upward from the harbor fortress, arcing into the sky and then exploding, lighting the docks and clanholds with stark, crawling patterns of white and dark. Silhouettes revolved around pedestrians stunned motionless by the abrupt glare, while a low growling sound rapidly climbed in pitch and intensity to become an ululation, filling the night.
Maia, her sister, and the two captains stood up. It was the seldom-heard wail of Port Sanger's siren... calling out the militia... alerting its citizens to stand to the defense.
What should be our desiderata, in designing a new human race? What existence do we wish for our descendants on this world?
Long, happy lives?
Fair enough. Yet, despite our technical wonders, that simple boon may prove hard to deliver. Long ago, Darwin and Malthus pointed out life's basic paradox -- that all species carry inbuilt drives to try to overbreed. To fill even Eden with so many offspring that it ceases to be paradise, any more.
Nature, in her wisdom, controlled this opportunistic streak with checks and balances. Predators, parasites, and random luck routinely culled the excess. To the survivors, each new generation, went the prize -- a chance to play another round.
Then humans came. Born critics, we wiped out the carnivores who preyed on us, and battled disease. With rising moral fervor, societies pledged to suppress cut-throat competition, guaranteeing to all a "right to live and prosper."
In retrospect, we know awful mistakes were made with the best intentions on poor Mother Terra. Without natural checks, our ancestors' population boom overwhelmed her. But is the only alternative to bring back rule by tooth and claw? Could we, even if we tried?
Intelligence is loose in the galaxy. Power is in our hands, for better or worse. We can modify Nature's rules, if we dare, but we cannot ignore her lessons.
-- from The Apologia, by Lysos
Continue reading sample 6, 7 and 8, or purchase Glory Season.
The Real Culture War
