By David Brin
Hugo and Nebula award-winning writer David Brin is among the so much eloquent, ingenious voices in technology fiction. Now he returns with a brand new novel wealthy in texture, common in subject matter, enormous in scope--pushing the style to new heights.
Young Maia is quick imminent a turning aspect in her life. As a half-caste var, she needs to go away the extended family domestic of her privileged part sisters and search her fortune within the world. With her dual sister, Leie, she searches the docks of Port Sanger for an apprenticeship aboard the vessels that sail the exchange routes of the Stratoin oceans.
On her far-reaching, perilous trip of discovery, Maia will undergo worry and starvation, imprisonment and loneliness, bloody battles with pirates and separation from her twin. And alongside the way in which, she is going to meet a traveller who has come an unbelievable distance--and who threatens the fragile stability of the Stratoins' conscientiously maintained, ideal society....
Both interesting and insightful, Glory Season is an important novel, a transcendent saga of the human spirit.
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To my amazement, approximately every little thing else, from chassis to furniture, was once crafted out of finely carved wooden! I later surmised that this doesn’t simply replicate the planet’s comparative poverty in metals. it's a assertion of a few style. I sat by myself in a single compartment, remoted from the others via a pane of glass. Which used to be simply to boot. My intestines complained noisily from prelanding remedies and, regardless of having spent a number of megaseconds acclimatizing to a simulated Stratos surroundings, my lungs worked audibly within the heavy air. An attack of odd odors saved me busy stifling sneezes, and the carbon dioxide partial strain prompted recurrent yawns. i need to were a sight to behold. but, none of that appeared to topic in my elation to be down ultimately! This turns out any such refined, dignified global and folks, particularly compared to what I met on Digby, or on godforsaken Heaven. I’m convinced we will achieve an realizing. As our automobile reached the sting of the touchdown box, escorts fell in forward and at the back of … squadrons of finely-arrayed cavalry, creating a most excellent exhibit in glittering cuirasses and helmets. The effect of uniformity and self-discipline used to be stronger while I observed that the unit consisted totally of tall girls from a unmarried kin, of Stratoin clones, exact right down to every one glossy button and lock of hair. the warriors appeared bold. My first shut view of extended family specialization in motion. On leaving the touchdown quarter, we handed the opposite a part of the spaceport, the launching facility, with its ramps and booster rails for sending cargoes skyward, which needs to ultimately hold my very own trip, while the time involves go away. I observed no signal of job. via an intercom, one of many students defined that the power was once absolutely sensible. “Carefully preserved for infrequent use,” she acknowledged with a blithe wave of 1 hand. i couldn't think what the note “occasional” intended to those humans. however the observe left me uneasy. 14 Ocean surrounded her, threatening to engulf her. She clung to a splintered, oily trees, bobbing and jerking as opposite waves fought to own it. Rain fell in blinding sheets, angled by means of gale-driven winds. within the distance, she watched a crusing vessel flow away, cutting via towering swells, ignoring her calls, her pleas to show again. at the deck of the departing send, a lady stared in her course, blindly, unseeing. the woman had her personal face. … Dread welled up. Maia desired to break out. yet goals had a fashion of trapping her via making her put out of your mind there has been a “real” global to escape to. It took a whisper of actual sound intruding at the dreamscape, to supply whatever to keep on with upward, outward, towards realization. She questioned muzzily how she got here to be mendacity right here, wrapped in a scratchy woolen blanket, stretched upon gritty floor. Stone canyon partitions felt like her reformatory telephone, chilly and enclosing, and the low clouds hung overhead like a dour ceiling. She propped up on one elbow, rubbing her eyes, the leftover embers of a tiny campfire, then on the tethered horses, shopping shrubs all the way down to naked twigs over through the circulate.