That's the old residence sanctuary. The portion of Jellicoe the Council didn't seal off, she realized. As far as history is concerned, it's the only part anyone knows about. Long-abandoned ruins of a lost era, free to he used by any band of derelicts that happens along.
Neither the ships, nor the ledge, nor any windows lay conveniently beneath her. She was headed for a swim. Not my best sport, as I've well learned. Maia didn't look forward to it, but her confidence was bolstered by experience. I may not swim well, or fast, but I'm hard to drown.
Distance was difficult to gauge, since only a few warbled lamplight reflections distinguished the inky lagoon surface. As she descended, Maia fought a crawly sensation of vulnerability. If she was spotted now, she would be easy meat for reaver sharpshooters before ever climbing out of range, even if Brod read her signal at once and reversed traction. Maia consoled herself that any lookouts would be posted to watch for ships approaching from sea. Besides, reliance on lanterns only ruined a woman's dark-adaptation. Old Bennett had taught her that long ago, when she first learned to read sky charts by starlight.
I'm no more visible than a spider dropping at the end of a web. True or not, the mental image cheered Maia. To protect her eyes' sensitivity, she resisted the temptation to look at the lanterns, even as shouting voices could be distinguished, floating past like smoke up a chimney. Maia looked away, allowing her gaze to stroke the outlines of two score mighty peaks, looming like the outstretched fingers of Stratos-Mother, pointing at the sky.
Pointing specifically at a dark nebula known as the Claw, which lay overhead as Maia looked up. It was a fitting symbol, of both obscurity and mystery. Beyond that great, starless sprawl lay the Hominid Phylum. All the worlds Renna knew. All that Lysos, and Maia's own fore-mothers, by choice left behind.
It was their right, she thought. But where does that leave your descendants? How far do we owe loyalty to our creators' dream? When have we earned the right to dream for ourselves?
Time once more to check her progress toward the water's chill surface. As she lowered her eyes, however, she caught a flicker. Faint as a single star, it gleamed where no star should — amid the sable blackness of Jellicoe's inner flank, where an expanse of dark stone should block light as adamantly as the Claw. Maia blinked as the dim, reddish spark shone briefly, then went out.
Did I imagine it? she wondered afterward. It had been across the lagoon, far from either her own towering peak, which concealed the Council's defense base, or the adjacent one containing the old public sanctuary. Peering at a now-unrelieved wall of blankness, it was easy to convince herself she had seen nothing but a mote in her own eye.
Much closer nearby, the sheer cliff was a blank enigma that occasionally reached out to brush Maia's feet or knees. Her arms were starting to hurt from holding on to the cable for so long. Diminished circulation set her legs tingling, despite Brod's improvised padding, but she could only shift gingerly, lest the makeshift, knotted harness loosen and drop her toward the inky surface below.
Seawater smells rose to greet her. Shouts that had been garbled resolved into spoken words, surging in and out of decipherability as echoes fluttered against the cliff, meeting Maia's ears at the whim of random rock reflections.
". . . callin' for ever'body …"
". . . quit that an'come help! I tol'y a-there's no …"
". . . wasn't my dam' fault! …"
It didn't sound all that festive to Maia — certainly not like the normal, whooping frenzy of Farsun Eve. Maybe her calculations were wrong. Or, since there was no frost, and the only males present were presumably hostile, the reavers might be in no mood to celebrate.
In that case, all this nighttime activity worried Maia. Perhaps the pirates were packing up, getting ready to leave. A sensible move, from their point of view, but a damned nuisance — and possibly fatal — from Maia's.
Other sounds reached her. A soft rippling, the lapping of gentle waves against rock. I must be getting dose. She peered straight down, trying to gauge the remaining distance to a vague boundary between shades of black.
