Glory Season

One seaman opened a nearby storage locker, revealing a great stack of thin, tilelike objects, white on one side, black on the other. He removed one square wafer and turned it over, checking eight paddles set along its edges and corners. Maia recognized an old-fashioned, wind-up game piece, which sailors used in large numbers to pursue a favorite pastime known as Life. Since infancy, she had watched countless contests in dockside arenas. The paddles sensed the status of neighboring tiles during a game, so that each piece would "know" whether to show its white or its black face at a given time. By the nature of the game, a single token by itself was useless, so what was the man doing, inserting a key and winding up just one clockwork tile?

If programmed normally, the simple device would smoothly flip a row of louvered panels exposing its white surface unless certain conditions were met. Three of its paddles must sense neighboring objects within a certain time interval. Two, four, or even eight touches wouldn't do. Exactly three paddles must be triggered for it to remain still.

The burly sailor approached the small woman, laying the game token on the deck in front of her, black side up. With one foot resting lightly on its upper surface he kept it from activating until, gripping her treppbill in both hands, she nodded, signaling ready.

The sailor hopped back and the tile started clicking. At the count of eight, the woman suddenly lanced out, tapping the piece at three spots in rapid succession. A beat passed and the disk remained still. Then the eight-beat countdown repeated, only faster. She duplicated her feat, choosing a different trio of paddles, making it seem as easy as swatting zizzers. But the piece had been programmed to increase its tempo. Soon the tip of her treppbill moved in a blur and the clock-ticking was a staccato ratchet. Sweat popped out on the small woman's brow as her wooden pole danced quicker and quicker . . .

Abruptly, the disk louvers flashed with a loud clack! turning the upper surface white. "Agh!" she cried out. "Twenty-eight!" a sailor shouted, and the woman laughed in chagrin as her comrades teased her for falling far short of her record.

"Too much booze an' lazin' about on shore!" they chided.

"You should talk!" she retorted, "jutzin' with them Bizzie hoors!"

One of the men started rewinding the game piece for another try, but Wotan's second mate chose that moment to descend from the quarterdeck and call the small brunette over for a talk. They spoke for a few minutes, then the officer turned to go. The woman sailor fished a whistle out of her halter and blew a shrill blast that got the attention of all hands.

"Second-class passengers aft," she called in an even tone, motioning for Maia and the other vars to stand in a row by the starboard gunwales.

"My name is Naroin," the petite sailor told the assembled group. "Rank is bosun, same as Sailor Jum and Sailor Rett, so don't forget it. I'm also master-at-arms on this tub."

Maia had no trouble believing the statement. The woman's legs bore scars of combat, her nose had been broken at least twice, and her muscles, if not manlike, were imposing.

"I'm sure you all saw last night that the rumors we been hearin' are true. There's reaver activity farther north than ever this year, an' it's startin' earlier. We could be a target anytime."

Maia found that a stretched conclusion to reach from one isolated incident, and apparently so did the other vars.

But Naroin took her responsibilities seriously. She told them so, laying the padded bill across her back.

"Captain's given orders. We should be ready, in case o' trouble. We're not goin' to be anybody's sealfish steak. If a gang o' jumped-up unniks tries hopping this ship—"

"Why would anyone want it!" a var muttered, eliciting chuckles. It was the sharp-jawed woman who had cursed earlier about "Lamai brats."

"What kind of atyp bleeders'd hop us for a load o' cffall the half-Chuchyin went on.

"You'd be surprised. The market's up. B'sides, even a coerced split of profits could ruin the owners—"

Naroin's explanation was interrupted by an offensive blat, imitating a fart. When the bosun glanced sharply, the Chuchyin var nonchalantly yawned. Naroin frowned. "Captains' orders needn't be explained to likes of you. A crew that doesn't drill together—"

"Who needs drill?" The tall var cracked her knuckles, nudging her friends, apparently a tight-knit group of tested traveling companions. "Why fret about lugar-lovin' reavers? If they come, we'll send them packin' for their daddies."

Maia felt her cheeks redden, and hoped no one noticed. The master-at-arms simply smiled. "All right, grab a bill an' show me how you'll fight, if the time comes."

A snort. The Chuchyin variant spat on the deck. "I'll just watch, if it's all the same."

Naroin's forearms revealed bowstring tendons. "Listen, summer-trash. While on board, you'll take orders, or swim back where you came from!"