"Mm. Indeed." Shaking his head, Renna took back the stylus and drew a glider gun on the other side of the board, aimed at the figure she had just drawn. He restarted the game clock, causing a series of flapping missiles to be fired straight toward with the pattern of concentric waves. They collided . . .
. . . and each one was swallowed with scarcely a ripple!
"I'll be damned." He shook his head admiringly. "But how would you defend this pattern against something larger, like was thrown against us last night?"
Maia snapped. "How should I know? Do you think I'm a boy?"
Several of the rads chuckled, uncertainly, and Maia didn't care if they were laughing with, or at her. One of the young women got up with a sniff and walked away. Maia rubbed her chin, looking at the game board. "Now that you mention it, though, I can suggest one way to fend off that bulldozer contraption the cook and cabin boy used against us."
"Yes?" Renna made room on the bench and another var reluctantly gave way as Maia sat down. "Look, I don't know the terminology," she said, with some of her accustomed uncertainty returning. "But it's obvious the thing's crossbar doohickey reflects certain patterns which . . ."
She drew as she spoke, with Renna occasionally interjecting a comment, or more often a question. Maia hardly noticed as the other vars drifted away, one by one. Their opinions didn't matter anymore, nor was she any longer embarrassed being seen interested in the male-silly game. Renna took her seriously, which none of her fellow womenfolk ever had. He paid close attention, contributing insights, sharing a growing pleasure in an abstract exercise.
By suppertime, they thought they had a plan.
Peripatetic's Log:
Stratos Mission:
Arrival + 45.290 Ms
What is sentience to the universe? Brief moments of insight? The self-contemplation of mayflies? What is the point of human life, if so much of it must be spent climbing through awkward childhood and adolescence, slowly gathering the skills needed to comprehend and create . . . only to begin that long decline to extinction? Lucky the woman or man who achieves excellence for even a brief span. The light shines brightly for mere moments, then is gone.
On some worlds, drastic life extension is justified in the name of preserving rare talents. It starts with good intentions, but all too often results in a gerontocracy of habit-ridden minds in robot-tended bodies, suspiciously jealous of any thought or idea not their own.
Stratoins think they know a better way. If an individual proves herself — say in the marketplace of goods or ideas — she continues. Not with the same body or precise memories, but genetically, with inborn talents preserved, and a continuity of upbringing that only clone-parenting provides. When all factors are right, the first mother's flowering of skill carries on. Yet, each daughter is a renewal, a fresh burst of enthusiasm. Preservation needn't mean calcification.
Stratoins have struck a different arrangement with death. There are costs, but I can see the advantages.
Fortunately, summer council sessions are brief. I needn't endure more than a few hours of sullen looks from the majority, or hostile glares by extreme Isolationists. Much of my time is spent with savants at the university. What I like best, however, is observing life on Stratos, with Iolanthe Nitocris often serving as my keeper/guide.
Yesterday, to my delight, she finally obtained a pass to show me Caria's Summer Festival.
The fairgrounds lay upstream, in the morning shadow of the acropolis. Banners flutter above silken pavilions and avenues bedecked with flowered arches. Zenner trees sway to the musical murmur of the crowds, while pungent, exotic aromas loft from food stalls. Jugglers caper, thrilling all with feats of derring-do. Outside the walls of Caria, citizens seemed eager to drop the serene pace of daily life in favor of a livelier beat.
I felt conspicuous, and not just because I'm an alien. Some in the throng surely knew, or guessed. Most of the time, I was also the only mature male in sight. Shouting boys ran a gauntlet of knees, like children on any world, and there was a sprinkling of old men, but virile adults remain at safe distance, in their summer sanctuaries. Several times Iolanthe, as my vouch-woman, was asked to show my papers. The council seal, plus my calm demeanor, reassured the marshals I was not about to start bellowing and tearing off my clothes at any minute.
Iolanthe seemed pleased. This would score in my favor.
If only she knew how difficult I find it here, at times.
The day's procession was led by a chariot bearing the festival grand matron, whose spear and crested helm harkened to the goddess of the city gates. Behind came musicians and dancers, blowing pipes and performing fantastic, whirling leaps, as if this vast world were no heavier than a moon. Their floating gowns seemed to catch the air, and laid hooks in my heart.
