"Not a whole lot. Just shake it up a little. Knock down some deadwood to make room in the forest, so t'speak. Let in enough light for a new tree or two."
"With you being a founding root, I suppose." "Why not? Don't I look like a foundin' mother to you? Can't you jus' picture this mug on a big painting, hangin' over th' fireplace of some fancy hall, someday?" She held her head high, chin outthrust.
Trouble was, Maia could picture it. The founding mothers of a lot of clans must have been just as piratically tough and ruthless as this rugged var. "Fine. Let's say you knock down a clearing and set your own seed there. Say your family tree grows into a giant in the forest; with hundreds of clone twigs spreading in all directions. What'll be your clan policy toward some new sapling, that tries to set root nearby someday?"
"Policy? That'll be simple." Baltha laughed. "Spread our branches an' cut off th' light!"
"Don't others also deserve a place in the sun?"
Baltha squinted at Maia, as if amazed by such naivete. "Let 'em fight for it, like I'm fight'n right now. It's the only fair way. Lysos was wise." The last was intoned solemnly, and Baltha drew the circle sign over her breast. Maia recognized a look of true religion in the other woman's eyes. A version and interpretation that conveniently justified what had already been decided.
Lasting silence settled after that. They rode on and the afternoon waned. Baltha consulted her compass, correcting their southwestward path several times. At intervals, she would rise in the stirrups and play her telescope across the horizon, searching for signs of pursuit, but only twisted shrubs with gnarled limbs broke the monotony, reminding Maia of legendary women, frozen in place after encountering the Medusa-man.
When the party of fugitives stopped, it was only to stretch the kinks out of their legs and to eat standing up. There were no more jokes about Renna's wincing accommodation to his saddle. By now they were all hobbling. Dusk fell and Maia expected a call to set camp, but apparently the plan was to keep riding. No one tells me anything, she thought with a sigh. At least Renna looked as tired and ignorant as she felt.
Two hours after nightfall, with tiny, silvery Aglaia just rising in the constellation Ladle, Baltha called a sudden halt, motioning for silence. She peered ahead into the darkness, then cupped her hands around her mouth and trilled a soft birdcall.
Seconds passed.
A reply hooted from the gloom, then a pause, and another hoot. A spark flashed, followed by a lantern's gleam, barely revealing a bulky form, like a rounded hillock, several hundred meters ahead. As they rode forward, shadows coalesced and separated. The object appeared to be squared off at one end, bulbous at the other. Hissing softly, it stood where a pair of straight lines crossed from the far left horizon on an arrow-straight journey to the right. The blurry form resolved, and Maia abruptly recognized a small maintenance engine for the solar railway, sitting on a spur track, surrounded by tethered horses and murmuring women.
There were cries of joyful reunion as Baltha galloped to greet her friends. Thalia and Kiel embraced Kau. Renna dismounted and held Maia's gelding while she descended, heavy with fatigue. Leading their tired beasts around the dark engine they handed the reins to a stocky woman wearing Musseli Clan livery. Another Musseli gave Renna a folded bundle that proved to be a uniform of one of the male rail-runner guilds.
So, the Musseli weren't in cahoots with the Perkinite farmer clans. It figured, given their close relationships with guildsmen, some of whom were their own brothers and sons. Too bad I never got a chance to see what life is like in a clan like that. It must be curious, knowing some men so well.
Apparently, the cabal were going to try getting Renna out the fast way, in one quick dash by rail. Without cars to weigh it down, the engine might reach Grange Head by midday tomorrow — assuming no roadblocks or search parties cut their path. Thalia, Kiel, and the others might be collecting their reward money by dinnertime. Maia figured they'd even provide a good meal and night's lodging to their virgin mascot, before sending her on her way.
Renna grinned happily, and gave Maia's shoulder a squeeze, but inwardly she felt herself already putting distance between them, protecting herself from another inevitable, painful goodbye.
Peripatetic's Log:
Stratos Mission:
Arrival + 40.177 Ms
Caria, the capital, surrounds and adorns a plateau overlooking where three rivers join the sea. Inhabitants call her "City of Gold," for the yellow roof tiles of clanholds covering the famed thirteen hills. But I have seen from high orbit a sight more worthy of the name. At dawn, Caria's walls of crystalline stone catch inclined sunlight, reemitting into space an off-spectrum luminance portrayed on Cy's panels as an amber halo. It's a marvel, even to one who has seen float-whales graze on clouds of frothy creill, above and between the metrotowers of Zaminin.
Often, over the last year, I have wished for someone to share such visions with.
Travelers enter Caria through a broad, granite portal, topped by a stately frieze — Athena Polias, ancient protectress of urban dwellers, bearing the sage visage of this colony's chief founder. Alas, the sculptor failed to catch that sardonic smile I've come to know from studying shipboard files on Lysos, when she was a mere philosopher-professor on Florentina, speaking abstractly about things she would later put into practice.
As our procession arrived from the spaceport, all seemed peaceful and orderly, yet I felt sure those majestic city walls weren't built just for decoration. They quite effectively demark outside from inside. They defend.
Traffic flowed beneath Athena's outstretched caduceus — its twined snakes representing coiled DNA. To avoid attracting notice, our cavalry escort peeled off at that point while my guides and I went on by car. My landing isn't secret, but has been downplayed. As on most deliberately pastoral worlds, competing news media are banned as unwholesome. The council's carefully censored broadcasts somehow portray renewed contact with the Phylum as a minor event, yet one also tinged with dire threat.
Radio eavesdropping could never tell me what the average woman-on-the-street thinks. I wonder if I'll get a chance to find out.
Envisioning life on a planet of clones, I couldn't help picturing phalanx after phalanx of uniform faces . . . swarms of identical, blank-eyed bipeds moving in silent, coordinated lockstep. A caricature of humans-as-ants, or humans-as-bees.
I should have known better. Bustling crowds thronged the portals, sidewalks, and bridges of Caria, arguing, gawking, haggling, and laughing as on any hominid world. Only now and then did I make out an evident pair, or trio, or quintet of clones, and even within such groups the sisters varied by age and dress. Statistically, most of the women I glimpsed must have been members of some parthenogenetic clan. Still, people are not bees, and no human city will ever be a hive. My blurred first impression showed a jumble of types, tall and short, broad and thin, all colors . . . hardly a stereotype of homogeneity.
Except for the near absence of males, that is. I saw some young boys playing, and a scattering of old fellows wearing the green armbands of "retirees." But, it being summer, mature men were scarcer than albinos at high noon, and twice as conspicuous. When I caught sight of one, he seemed out of place, self-conscious of his height, stepping aside to make way for surging clusters of bustling womankind. I sensed that, like me, he was here as a guest, and knew it.
This city was not built by, or for, our kind.
The classical lines of Caria's public buildings hearken to ancient Earth, with broad stairways and sculpted fountains where travelers refresh themselves and water their beasts. The clear preference for foot and hoof over wheeled traffic reminds me of civic planning on Dido, where motorcars and lorries are funneled to their destinations out of sight, leaving the main avenues to more placid rhythms. Following one hidden guideway, our handmade auto swept by the squat apartment blocks and bustling markets of a crowded quarter Iolanthe called "Vartown," then cruised upslope behind more elegant, castlelike structures with gardens and polished turrets, each flying the heraldic banner of some noble lineage.