On a world long-lost to Earth, brilliant scientist Yaâshul has everything a man could ask for: the honor of caring for his family, the opportunity to help conceive children, and a groundbreaking chance to prove heâs just as good at science as any woman. Despite the matriarchy he lives in, heâs poised to have it allâuntil the woman he loves gets sole credit for the discovery that should have made his career.
Only one person truly values what Yaâshul can do. Wanderer Andeshe knows the looming solar storms will destroy her peopleâs nomadic way of lifeâunless she and Yaâshul can work together to save the giant pterosaurs her family depends on. But as the unlikely allies plunge deeper into a web of shifting loyalties, ruthless politics, and fragile trust, they must wrestle with the toughest question of all. When is the price of success too high to pay?
Perfect for fans of Dragon Riders of Pern and The Left Hand of Darkness, Pledging Season brings to light the inequalities of sexism and gender discrimination in a gripping alternate reality where gender norms are turned on their head in a powerful matriarchal society.
Note: Contains one consensual sex scene. No violence.
On a world long-lost to Earth, brilliant scientist Yaâshul has everything a man could ask for: the honor of caring for his family, the opportunity to help conceive children, and a groundbreaking chance to prove heâs just as good at science as any woman. Despite the matriarchy he lives in, heâs poised to have it allâuntil the woman he loves gets sole credit for the discovery that should have made his career.
Only one person truly values what Yaâshul can do. Wanderer Andeshe knows the looming solar storms will destroy her peopleâs nomadic way of lifeâunless she and Yaâshul can work together to save the giant pterosaurs her family depends on. But as the unlikely allies plunge deeper into a web of shifting loyalties, ruthless politics, and fragile trust, they must wrestle with the toughest question of all. When is the price of success too high to pay?
Perfect for fans of Dragon Riders of Pern and The Left Hand of Darkness, Pledging Season brings to light the inequalities of sexism and gender discrimination in a gripping alternate reality where gender norms are turned on their head in a powerful matriarchal society.
Note: Contains one consensual sex scene. No violence.
Blindfolded, I canât see the dawn, but I can hear it. Drums keep time until the sun rises, their pulsing sound vibrating in my bones and drowning out the noises that would normally reassure me Iâm not alone. In reality, the rocky outcrop that serves as the fairground stage is crowdedâdebuting men kneel at the front, debuting women pound the giant heartbeat drums anchored behind usâbut the drumbeats wash all that away. All thatâs left is the feeling that the entire community is staring at me. I wipe sweaty palms on my pant legs, then catch myself and return my hands to my lap. Somewhere in the audience, my family is watching. I try not to shift as the rock beneath my knees pushes little thumbs of granite into my shins.Â
A shout cuts through the drumbeats, and their cadence quickens. Another shout, and a last thunderous roll sends echoes reverberating into the distance. In the following quiet, it seems as if all sound has vanished. Even the echoes of drums from neighboring mountaintop cities fade into silent anticipation.
There! A horn sounds, barely audible across the distance separating us from the capitalâs mountain. Like a bursting dam, horns on other ridges take up the call, sound cascading across the range until our head priestess sounds ours. The notes fade, and our thousands of voices begin the hymn of thanksgiving sung at every spring equinox. I pour my heart into the traditional words: thanks to the winter rains for giving us food and thanks to the winter darkness for giving us respite from the desiccating heat of the sun. Thank you, Goddess, that this day is finally here. At the end of the song, my heart is racing. Finally. Here.
A cane taps on stone as Priestess Wekmet shuffles forward. âWelcome to this day!â The priestessâs words carry across the crowd, the amplification so subtle that their firm voice seems to come from the mountain itself. âToday, we give thanks for the winter that has nurtured us and prepared us to withstand the summerâs heat. We give thanks for our foremothers. Let us not forget their deeds.â
I bow my head, as everyone does, and the priestess begins the recitation.Â
âWhen the waters of Earth rose, flames and storms scoured the land and drove our foremothers from their homes. They appealed for compassion, for justice, for a place where they could raise their children in safety, but they were cast out. They were cast out again and again until finally their last hope of welcome lay in the space colonies far from Earth. But they did not arrive at the colony that had grudgingly promised to take them in. Instead, they were stranded on this sun-scorched world, this dwelling place of monsters. Marooned, they forged a new life, carving a future out of this hostile planet through their perseverance and talent. For our foremothers, we give thanks.âÂ
I try to remain still as the priestess names the founders of each clan, describing their deeds as they exited the space shuttle five hundred years ago, their descendantsâ heroics as they battled the waves of solar storms that nearly extinguished the planetâs human presence, the lessons they passed down to ensure that the attitudes that destroyed Earth would never take root again. The thumbs of rock under my legs sharpen into talons.
The priestess turns to address the women at their drums. âYou each come from a line of women who created life on a hostile planet. Your deeds have proved you worthy to take up their mantle. Are you ready in your turn to generate life? To create the planetâs future? To carve the next generation out of your own blood and bone?â
A chorus of assent rises behind me. Bracelets rustle and clink as the priestess anoints their brows from a small bowl of oil. âBe welcomed now to the community of women. Today, you take your place among those who generate life of the body, mind, and soul.âÂ
A breathless silence, then cheers and calls from the audience as the priestess anoints the last woman on the stage. The crowd quiets, and thereâs more clinking as each woman accepts a bowl of holy water. My pulse races.
The priestess addresses the newly proclaimed women. âThese men will be your helpmeets as you work to make this world what it could be. They will lighten your load and remove obstacles from your path. Your drums have returned them to the darkness and the heartbeat of the womb. Now help rebirth them into the world of men.â
Footsteps scramble over the rocks behind us with an urgency that matches my pounding heart. A warm hand grips my shoulder, and my breath catches. The priestessâs charge to us to fulfill the duties of men fades into meaningless noise as I strain my senses for any hint of whose hand it is.
Strong fingers give my shoulder a tiny squeeze, and my heart nearly stops. Please let it beâ
Water pours over my head, so cold it steals my breath. The invocation is over. The hand leaves my shoulder, replaced by a rough towel mopping at my face. A waft of smell of cinnamon and musk curls around my nose, and I sag in relief. It is Nareen.
The towel finishes with my face, then fingers slide up the nape of my neck to push the blindfold free.
âGot you, Yaâshul,â Nareenâs throaty voice purrs in my ear.
Her upside down face emerges from the blinding daylight. Her short, black curls flop forward as she braces both hands on my shoulders and leans over me, a mischievous smile broadening her round cheeks. Cinnamon drifts over me again, and my mouth goes dry. Everyone in her family wears that scent, but for me it will always be the smell of her.
She lets me go, then steps around in front of me, holding out her hand. It hovers in the air between us, braced by the confidence she always exudes. I set my palm in hers, and her blunt fingers close around mine, the beige of her skin contrasting with the darker ochre of my own. Every finger tingles against my skin as I lean on her to pull myself upright.
She catches me as I stumble, my feet as numb as if theyâve turned to pillow stuffing.
âSorry,â I tell her breathlessly. I thought Iâd managed to keep my legs from falling asleep. Surreptitiously, I shake them out, and the bells sewn into my presentation clothing jingle as I try to restore the blood flow to my feet and toes.Â
âNot a problem.â She slips an arm around my waist, her plump curves pressing against my side, and my mouth goes dry. âTake your time.â Thereâs a wicked twinkle in her eye as she glances up at me and snuggles her hip closer to mine.
Heat pools in my groin. Plenty of my cousins have ignored my grandmotherâs oh-so-traditional insistence that we remain celibate until adulthoodâuntil this festival in fact, when debuting makes us eligible to participate in pledging ceremonies. I, on the other hand, have always held back, priding myself on not being ruled by my passions. Moments like this make me wonder why.
Her fingers flex, then slip down to cradle my hip. I stop breathing. In all the years weâve known each other, sheâs been circumspect, properly respectful of my grandmotherâs dictates. The heat in her eyes as she looks me over now shows me how much sheâs restrained herself.
Yes. Please, Goddess. It takes all my will power not to melt against her. I should move away. I should move away before this ends with her pressing me up against the rock wall at the back of the stage. Thereâs still an entire festival to go. An entire festival of negotiations and last-minute alliances to make before the eveningâs pledging ceremonies seal the deals. You know her family is going to ask for you. I know. But they havenât. Not yet. Not for hours. I grit my teeth.Â
âIââ I take a shuddering breath. âIâm all right now.â The words rasp from my throat.
She steps away with a little sigh. Her fingers trail heat across my lower back.Â
I bury my face in the towel, regaining my composure while she picks up another and wipes the sweat off her bare torso. When I look up, sheâs standing in front of me, holding out a pot of scent-infused sunblock.
âMy back needs touching up,â she tells me as I take it, then she turns away. When I donât move, she glances back at me, eyes crinkling in amusement. I stop breathing.
âAre you trying toâŠâ My voice trails off in a strangled choke.
If her grin were any wider, her face would split. âDonât worry,â she tells me, âIâll do my front. Besides, picking you means Iâm close as family for today, remember.â She snags my blindfold, which is soaked in my familyâs traditional perfume, and ties it in a loose loop. Slipping it onto her arm, she tightens the knot with her teeth and waggles the ends at me.
My eyes feel too big. In the olden days, choosing someone at this ceremony was part of a larger mating ritual. Time has attenuated its meaning into little more than this quaint vestige of a tradition, but a thrill shivers over my skin nonetheless.
Nareen laughs and pushes the short curls of her hair up so that the back of her neck is fully exposed.
Oh Goddess. Iâm glad that men are no longer picked from a line at this festival like slabs of meat. I am. Iâm glad that negotiations between families give me a chance to lobby for who I want to be pledged to. But if I have to wait even ten more minutesâŠ
I dip a shaking hand into the pot of sunblock and reach toward her back. Her skin is warm under my palm as I smooth on the ointment with all the restraint I can muster. The little noise of pleasure she makes as I work my way down her spine sends a shiver through me.
âItâsâitâs all set.â I wipe my fingers on the towel and tug at the neck of my shirt. It was all well and good to have pride in my self-control when I was sixteen and convinced that my debut was less than a year away. But now, three more years have passed, my family deciding each festival that Iâm almost ready. The delay has left me cursing my grandmother and my pride in equal measure.
âOh, good.â Nareen takes the pot back and turns away to apply the rest of it. Her hand follows the curve of her neck and shoulder, then itâs only my imagination that fills in the feeling of smoothness giving way to the puckered scar just below her collarbone as her hand slides lower.
I look away. Around us, the formal ceremony is dissolving into talking and mingling as initiates return to their families. I rub at my new beard. When I lower my hand, the scent of her lingers in the stubble.Â
Thereâs a satisfied smile on Nareenâs face as she leads me off the stage and through the crowd toward the back of the fairground, where families have staked out their areas and are arranging low tables full of food for the fast breaking. I shade my eyes. The strengthening sun gives the celebration a determined edge, as if everyone is squeezing the most out of the dwindling time before summer makes it unsafe to venture outdoors without a sunshade. A few more proactive families have already erected canopies, and Nareen steers me toward where my family has claimed a prime spot in the middle.
As we approach, my mother looks up from arranging a plate of food in an artistic spiral. She holds out a hand, and I help pull her to her feet.
âCongratulations!â She kisses my cheek, then turns to Nareen, holding the plate out to her favorite apprentice.
Nareen accepts it with a grateful duck of her head. âTo you as well, Viya-lun. I can only hope that my career might be as fruitful as yours.âÂ
My mother chuckles indulgently. Even though I knew it was coming, itâs still strange to hear my mother receive the honorific -lun. Just as Nareen started her initial transition into womanhood at puberty, my mother is transitioning out. In the year since her menstrual cycle stopped, she has been wrapping up her work in the family laboratory and preparing to transition from woman to zoman. Under her serene exterior, I canât tell if sheâs excited about the next part of the festival or nervous. Her upcoming ceremony isnât just about changing pronouns from âsheâ to âthey;â itâs about taking responsibility for all one hundred and fifty people in our family.
Nareen catches my motherâs hand. âCome! Now that Iâve delivered Yaâshul back to you, you must accept my familyâs hospitality. Itâs the least we can do for all youâve given meâand continue to give.â She casts me a significant look, then gives my motherâs hand a little tug.
âOf course,â my mother tells her. Her golden-brown face crinkles with amusement, then sobers as her attention settles on me. âYaâshul, are your presentation materials still back at home?â
âOf course.â There isnât room to store them up here while the fast breaking tables are set up. Itâs only once those are dismantled that weâll set up the booths where men and women can present their accomplishments to the community.
âYou should probably go get them now. Marin-lun has been asking if youâre ready.â
I look around warily. My grandmother demands perfection at the best of times, but during festivals, the stress of being the zoman in charge sends their tendency to find fault into overdrive. Negotiating all the alliances between our family and others requires attention to the smallest details.
âEven before I eat?â The smell of frying bread teases my nostrils, and my stomach grumbles a complaint. Surely, even my grandmother wants me fed and comfortable before the dayâs scrutiny.
My mother gives a sympathetic shrug. âUp to you.â The arch of her eyebrow makes clear itâs anything but.
I nod, and my mother finally allows Nareen to tow her off into the crowd. This presentation, along with the opening dances, is my last chance to impress Nareenâs family. Dodging around my bustling kin, I head toward the far edge of our familyâs area.
âWhere are you going?â My grandmother materializes in front of me with a flash of metal and the wave of an age-spotted hand.
I jump. Like many zomen, Marin-lun is frail enough that they rest in a spider-like mechanical walker whose six metal legs pick a path through the crowd. I have no idea how itâs possible to sneak up on people in that thing, but they manage it often enough to keep me on my toes.
âAhâŠâ I eye the zomanâs frown. âHome to pick up the materials for my presentation?â
A glimmer of approval sparks, then dims. Elegant gray eyebrows snap together over the wide-set eyes we all share.
âBy yourself?â
I blink. Technically, I should be chaperoned by a family member, a sign that weâre serious about guarding the family genome. For all that things have changed in modern times, theyâve changed less for my grandmother than anyone else.
âOf course Iâm not going by myself,â I lie. A flash of movement out of the corner of my eye comes to my rescue. âIâm taking Yaâkinem.â I nod to where my sixteen-year-old brother is desperately trying to distract the five-year-old heâs supposed to be caring for. At least in this day and age, little brothers count as chaperones.
My grandmotherâs eyes narrow, but they donât call me out for my lie. âI expect your presentation to be perfect,â they finally say, pinning me with a look. âMake your family proud. Thereâs a lot riding on how well we impress people this year.â
Iâll say. Thereâs always some reason my grandmother thinks that being perfect is The Most Important Thing, whether itâs trying to keep our familyâs seat on the ruling council or simply striking the best bargains for our myriad alliances. But this year, itâs personal. Now itâs my chance to impress everyone and show that I deserve to be pledged out to carry my familyâs resources into fruitful collaborations with others.
As unobtrusively as I can, I make my way over to Yaâkinem.Â
âI need to go downslope,â I murmur. âWant to âchaperoneâ me?â
His lips twist, and he rubs at the scraggly beard that he finally managed to grow. âWas Grandmotherââ
âOoooh, ooooh!â five-year-old Uâkylay squeals, cutting off whatever he was going to say. âIâll come chaperone you!â
Yaâkinem looks at the child, then shrugs. âWorks for me.â A gust of wind catches his sunshade, and he wrestles it back into place before the equinox sun can strike his unusually pale skin.
âThis way!â the child says, wriggling between a pair of adults and speeding off toward the low stone buildings that line the side of the fairground. Halfway there, Uâkylay veers to the right, darting instead into the gardens at the far end.
âUâkylay!â Yaâkinem calls.
âItâs a shortcut!â Spikes of straight black hair, strands somehow already stuck together in disarray, bob behind a strand of rustling grass as the childâs deep-brown limbs whisk out of sight.
I turn the corner myself with a pained grunt. We can get back home this way, but a shortcut? Hardly.
Uâkylay is standing stock-still in the middle of the path, face skyward, wide eyes fixed on something high above my head. My breath catches in my throat as a giant pteradon glides over the fairground. It flares its leathery wings for a landing and alights on the towering, rocky promontory that juts up behind the fairground stage. The beast folds its majestic wings and plants its elbow-hands on the ground, crouching to allow its riders to dismount. The bony red crest on its head flashes in the light as it cranes its impossibly long neck to peer around. A plump figure in garish riding leathers slides down its neck, then turns to assist a thinner figure, this one clad in similarly garish robes. On the ground, their tiny figures only highlight how massive the beast really is. The pteradon tosses its head, and I suck in my breath. No matter how many glimpses of one Iâve caught, the beasts are still awe inspiring.
âIÂ want to climb up there!â Uâkylay exclaims.
The promontory is by far the tallest point in our village, a jagged upwelling of rock that sharpens the tip of our ridge into a rugged prow. Over the millennia, the river that meanders through the mountain range has bent around it, carving cliffs on three sides that plunge to the river below. The view must be spectacular: From up there, the entire top layer of our village would be laid out like a patchwork throw, with stone buildings surrounding the central fairground and bordered in turn by a line of wooden platforms at the top of the northern and southern cliffs. At the far end, the gardens and orchards would be a verdant boundary between our settled area and the wildness of the remaining ridge, whose sides slope steeply off into a mix of trees and grazing land.
Iâve never seen that view myself, though. Our villageâs temple to the Goddess is directly under the promontory, and a flock of sacred ptercels, the pteradonsâ smaller cousins, have been cajoled to roost in the tiny caves that dot its surface. Itâs not exactly sacrilegious to climb on it, or to land a pteradon on top of it, but itâs not far off. Disturbed ptercels wheel around, chattering their outrage.Â
âCome on, Uâkylay, we need to get back home,â I say, steering the child onward.
âBesides, you know weâre not allowed to climb higher than the stage,â Yaâkinem adds.
I glare at him. Now youâve done it.
Uâkylay stops. âThey went up higher.â
The two riders pick their way down as the pteradon flips its wings again and curls up among the rocks, indifferent to the screeching ptercels.
âWell,â I venture, âtheyâre Wanderers. They do things differently.âÂ
Yaâkinem snorts at the understatement. Most clans escaped the intense solar radiation of this world by burrowing deep into the cliffs and staying there for generations, but the Wanderer families didnât. To this day, theyâre still nomads, building wooden settlements out in the open and moving them every few handfuls of years.
âBut why?â Uâkylay asks.
âI donât know. Theyâre merchants. Maybe they need to move around a lot.â
âBut they make trips here even when they donât live here,â Uâkylay protests.
âThen ask them,â I snapâan error. The last thing we need is Uâkylay trying to slip off to the Wanderer settlement that, as of this past year, now perches on the ridge only a short walk away from our village. I rub my forehead. The synthaglove Iâm wearing taps the time into my palm. I still need to eat, set up, and change into my dance regalia.
âOr better yet,â I say, âmaybe after we go down and get my materials and come back up again, you can go around the festival and see if you can find the ones who just landed.â Iâve never actually spoken to a Wanderer, but with any luck Uâkylay will have forgotten the possibility by the time we return.
The child finally starts moving. Slowly.
âI donât have time for this,â I mutter. Yaâkinem gives me an apologetic look, and I regret taking my nerves out on him. I know how hard it is to manage Uâkylayâand how sensitive Yaâkinem is about whether heâs good at traditional manly duties like caring for children.Â
He nudges me. âThink of it this way,â he jokes. âGuiding Uâkylay down and back up again ought to give you enough material to add an entire section to your manhood presentation about your caregiving experience.âÂ
A laugh almost forms in my throat. âLike I have time to make changes now. Donât scare me like that, Yaâkinem.â I run a hand through my hair, then hastily pat it back into place.
âYouâll be fine,â he tells me. âJust rememberâUâkylay! Get out of the dirt, please, youâre wearing festival clothes.â
Uâkylay, a stick clutched in one hand, emerges from under a broad-leafed plant. In the childâs shadow, light-blue spots glow against the dirt. I blink, but the blue spots remainâtiny, glowing mushroom caps that have been meticulously arranged into the shape of a vulva.
Yaâkinem snickers.
âOh, for the love ofââ I bury my face in my hand.
âWell,â my brother says, patting me on the shoulder, âat least someone appreciates your fungus.â
Make your family proud. My grandmotherâs admonition echoes through my mind.
âWhat are they?â Uâkylay asks.
âPart of Yaâshulâs capstone presentation project.â Yaâkinem tries to suppress a smirk, but his lips twitch until I glare at him.
âBut what are they doing here?â My hands clench with the urge to gather them up. They should be in the compost pile where Iâve been growing my experiments.
âDonât worry about it.â My brother pushes my hands down and brushes at my disarranged hair. âThere were still a lot left the last time I looked.â
âLast timeââ My head whips around, and he steps back. âWhat do you mean âlast time you looked?ââ
He has the grace to look chagrined. âItâs not like you were using them anymore. They were just growing and growing andâŠumâŠI may have shown them to some people, and they transplant really easily, you know, andâŠwell, theyâre pretty popular.â
âPopular,â I echo, heart sinking. I close my eyes, but the glowing afterimage is burnt into my retinas. âIâm going to be a laughingstock. Marin-lun is going to kill me.âÂ
âNo, no.â He waves his hands. âMaking little drawings out of them is only a thing among the younger crowd.â
âYou madeâoh, Goddess.â I rub my forehead. Uâkylay starts moving again, and I follow, my heels hitting the ground with staccato thumps. âI need people to take me seriously, Yaâkinem, not this!â
He pats my shoulder. âDonât worry, youâll do fine. We all trust that your presentation will be very, very serious.â Ahead of us, Uâkylay stops next to one of the platforms at the edge of the cliff, swings on the railing once or twice, and starts skipping down the wooden stairs that lead to the family dwellings carved into the cliffs below. âYouâll be fine,â my brother repeats as we start our own descent. He deepens his voice and begins, âIâm Yaâshul, creator of glowing mushrooms. And glowing mice. And glowing goats. And everything awesome. Pick me!â He gives me an exaggerated frown until my lip finally twitches.
I bump him with my shoulder. âThe glowing isnât the point. And the traditionalists who think wearing color is sinful donât like it, anyway.â
âHave it your way.â His mock sober expression reappears. âIâm Yaâshul, the serious and boring. But at least I figured out how to stop phosfoz from poisoning everything.â
âIt wasnât poisoning everything; it was building up in the tissues of mammals and making them sickly and less likely to produce milk.â
âLike I said.â
âGetting the details right matters!â
He makes a face. âThatâs why youâre the one who spends all your time in Motherâs lab rearranging genomes, not me. A, C, GâŠclose enough.â
âNo,â I insist, âit matters.â On this, at least, Iâm confident. âKnowing that a common toxic compound on this planet is phosphorescent is the detail that made me realize that bacteria in the compost pile were concentrating it. And being precise meant that I could splice those genes into fungi when I was younger, instead of wasting all my time on boring practice splices. And thatâs what made it possible to engineer mice that would concentrate phosfoz in their fur and nails instead of their other organs, which is what taught us how to do the same with goats so that now they donât get sick.â
Yaâkinem gives an exaggerated yawn. âOr I could let you worry about all that becauseâŠoh waitâŠyou already did. Like I said, your presentation is going to be fine. Youâve got this.â
âYou really think so?â
He grins wickedly. âAs long as you donât get tongue-tied every time your coauthorâs name comes up. Oooooh, NareeeeeeeeenâŠâÂ
I rub my beard-roughened cheek, feeling the rising heat. âWeâre just colleagues,â I protest. âWe had to work together; theyâre her familyâs goats. Improving them is the whole reason they apprenticed her with us in the first place.â
Yaâkinem snickers. I retaliate with a brotherly knuckle rub to the scalp until he squirms away, laughing.
âYouâre just colleagues for now.â He waggles his eyebrows.
âOh, would you look at that.â I nod to the wooden platform that branches off from the stairs at our feet. âWeâre almost home.â
I shoo him across the platform and toward the deep ledge in the red and gold rock that forms the entrance to our familyâs caves. On normal days, the ledge would be filled with zomen talking with visitors or conducting business, but today thereâs only one elderly man sitting and watching the entrance while Uâkylay clings to his arm. The child joins us as we enter the main antechamber and turn into the childrenâs common room, where my presentation materials are stored on an upper shelf. I gather them up, pausing to take a last look around. Iâd thought Iâd feel only joy to leave these rooms behind, but now the cheerful carvings on the stone walls make a lump rise in my throat. The sun shines comfortingly through windows high in the wall where the rock has been carved translucently thin, glowing golden with accents of orange and white and red. Other windows stand open, letting in the breeze. The common room for adults on the other side of the antechamber is even finer, but itâs not home in the same way.
Yaâkinem seems to absorb the solemnity of the moment. Quietly, he comes to stand next to me and offers to take part of my bundle. Having the strength to carry large loads is such a key marker of manliness that giving him a portion of my burden, especially materials for my manhood presentation, feels intimate. I want to hug him like we used to do when he was younger, when he would run up and throw his arms around me with so much enthusiasm that Iâd have to brace myself not to be knocked over. Weâre too old for that now, though, so I just hand him my box of specimens with a grateful smile.Â
On our way out the door, he looks around. âWhereâs Uâkylay?â
I cock my head, listening, then bite back a curse. Now of all times for the child to sneak off.Â
âYou search the common areas, and Iâll search the sleeping areas. Message me if you have any luck.â As we tuck my materials back inside the door, I waggle my synthaglove, then reach over to feel its battery monitor. Unfolding the crank, I start winding the battery back toward full charge while we split up to search.
The family cave system is not that large. Our family may be a branch of a wealthy clan, but carving enough chambers into solid rock to house an eventual hundred and fifty people is not cheap. The sleeping chambers are communal and quick to search, but fruitless.
As I hurry down the stairs to the dining and bathing areas, voices and clattering at the entrance announce the arrival of the other members of our family who will present today. I hesitate. More people searching would get us out of here faster, but it would shame Yaâkinem to have lost his charge.
I tiptoe downstairs. The kitchen and dining areas on the middle floor are likewise empty, as are the bathing areas on the lowest. Emerging back up into the dining room, I meet Yaâkinem coming down from above. The dim light filtering through the windows highlights every crease of his frown.
âI asked at the entrance,â he murmurs in a low voice. âUâkylay hasnât left the cave, at least.â
I scratch my beard. Together, we contemplate the one place we havenât searched: the lightless tunnel where the zomen who rule the family have their private areas. Iâm almost certain none of them would be home right now.
A soft giggle gives away our quarry. I listen at the first curtained doorway, then cautiously push the draped fabric aside. The luminescent outline of a childâs festival clothing is bouncing up and down on the cushion seat behind Marin-lunâs low desk. Behind me, Yaâkinem inhales sharply.
âUâkylay!â I hiss. âGet out of there! We donât have time for this.â
The bouncing stills, and the arms of the outfit cross belligerently. âNo.â
How did Uâkylayâs clothing end up covered in luminescent paint? We donât even have any. That I know about, at least. Goddess, that had better not get on Marin-lunâs cushions.
âOnly zomen are allowed in here!â
âIâm going to be a zoman, afterâŠafter puberty andâand menâŠmen uhâŠmen-uh-pause. I belong here!â
âYesterdayâs lesson from Teacher was on the four genders and their responsibilities,â Yaâkinem whispers in my ear. âUâkylayâs been going on and on about eventually becoming a woman and then a zoman and then getting to tell everyone else what to do.â
I cover my face with my hand. âThatâs not what âa zoman has the right and duty to guide the family they gave life toâ means.â
âI want a gender!â Uâkylay whines. âEveryone else has one. I donât want to be just âenâ anymore!â
âYou do have a gender,â I tell the child. Children may be hairless, immature, and unable to reproduce, but they still count as the fourth gender. âAnd âenâ is a perfectly respectable pronoun.â
âI want a real gender!âÂ
âWhen youâre older,â my brother soothes. âAt puberty. Youâll grow, and your hormones will change, and your brain will change, and your menstrual cycle will start, and youâll get your adult pronouns. You just have to be patient.â
Truculent silence greets this statement.
I run a hand through my hair. âCome out, Uâkylay. Youâre not a zoman, yet. Youâre not even a woman.â
âYouâre not even a full man. So there.â
âI am, tooââ I snap my teeth shut. Almost. All I need to do is get back up there and present to the community, and Iâll be done.
âHere,â my brother says in a low voice. âIâll handle this. You go catch up with the rest of the family.â
I squeeze his shoulder in thanks and hurry up the stairs.
Iâm too late. By the time I collect my materials and emerge blinking into the sunlight at the cave entrance, my family is nowhere in sight. Even the man who was watching the entrance has gone inside, leaving me alone among the lacework of wooden walkways and stairs.
Should I wait for Yaâkinem? The time tingling against my hand decides me, and I lug the boxes along the walkway. Marin-lun will never know that I was wandering around unchaperoned. Itâs a ridiculous expectation, anyway.
I struggle up the stairs, almost bumping into a tall man. He steps aside with an apologetic murmur and edges past me as I rest my load on the railing. The sun has barely risen, but already sweat is trickling down my back. I turn to call after him, but his quick footfalls are already retreating into the distance.
âNeed a ride?â a lazy voice asks.Â
Ahead of me, the stairs broaden into a landing next to the wooden tracks that run straight up the cliff. A mechanical lift is parked there, its upper deck crowded with boxes and struts for booths, and a well-dressed woman lounges against a control panel watching me. Sheâs maybe half a head shorter than I am, built of sculpted muscle that she shows off as she pushes herself upright and strides across the deck. She pulls the gate of the lift open and steps aside, her posture an invitation. A peppery, floral scent wafts from her. I recognize itâher family head comes by to consult my grandmother often enoughâbut the woman herself is unfamiliar.
I hesitate, and she makes a little beckoning motion. I shouldnât be getting into a lift with a woman I donât know, but the lift has an open deck, and weâre in full view of everyone on the cliff face. A burst of masculine laughter rises from the lower deck, and the whole thing rocks slightly. Her familyâs men must be on the other side, loading the lower deck. I should be fine. And I need to hurry.
âYes, thank you,â I tell her, juggling my materials as I navigate the gap from the stairs to the deck. Our families are well acquainted, at least. A call from below announces that the men are onboard and ready to push the winch that powers the lift.
A heavy-lidded smile broadens her lightly tanned face as she secures the gate behind me.
âWould you like me to help below deck?â I offer.Â
âNo need.â She indicates a gap in the pile of boxes where I might stand. I arrange my belongings and tuck myself into the nook as she secures a few bundles more tightly, then squeezes past me to release the anchoring clamps. Her arm brushes against my chest, and I press back as far as I can into the boxes that are roped down behind me.Â
As she returns to the control panel, she brushes against me again more firmly. I plaster myself against the sharp corners of the boxes at my back. The aisle between me and the next pile of struts is narrow, but not that narrow. Surely I left enough space?
The lift shudders into motion, and she turns back to me, settling once more into a languid pose. âYou wanted a ride?â She packs innuendo into the last word as she looks me over, her gaze lingering at my groin where my too-tight pants are designed to create an artificial bulge. My breath catches.
Shit. I knew not to do this.
She advances on me and draws a finger down my chest, flicking one of the bells attached to my festival clothing. I try to nudge her hand aside, but she entwines her fingers in mine.Â
âWhatâs a handsome man like you doing out all alone today, hmm?â Her other hand takes over, tracing a path down my chest until she nears the laces at my waist. I recoil as far as I can, but my pantsâ fashionable tailoring refuses to signal that I am the opposite of interested. She smiles lazily.
âIââÂ
Excuses die in my throat. Weâre in full view of everyone on the cliff and just above her family. If I struggle, if I make a scene, everyone will look, and they wonât blame her. Everyone knows men are always panting for sex, and no one expects a woman to resist temptation all the time. A respectable man makes sure not to do anything, like having an erection or getting into a lift alone with a strange woman, that could be construed as an offer. I imagine my grandmotherâs reaction when she finds out that I was seen unchaperoned and being pawed over before the festival is even fully started. Breath going shallow, I clutch at the cargo behind me. Shit. A rope digs into my palm.Â
She steps back just enough to run lingering eyes up and down my body. Her smile widens.
My synthaglove buzzes. A message taps itself against the back of my hand. Where are you? Itâs from Nareen.
Lifts. Help. Without taking my eyes off the woman in front of me, I form the commands for the message, then freeze. What will Nareen think?
The woman leans in and murmurs in my ear. âToo bad itâs such a short trip up the cliff. Maybe next time.â She tweaks my nipple.
I gasp, but sheâs stepping away, attention already turning to the controls. As soon as the lift stops, I grab my boxes and tumble out of the gate, shaking and nearly crashing into Nareen. Her firm grip steadies me.
âAre you all right?â She frowns, eyes searching my face. Without letting go of my arm, she shifts to give the woman in the lift a narrow-eyed look.
Words stick in my throat. The lift operatorâs bland gaze crosses mine. I can imagine what comes next: Nareenâs face flushing with outraged protectiveness, her immediate confrontation, the attention it would draw. I swallow. She canât protect me from the gossip that would result. Or from the judgment of our settlementâs elders.
âIâmâIâm fine.â My words come out broken by a little gasp.
The lift operatorâs lips twitch in a tiny smirk. I turn away, bile rising in my throat.
With a final suspicious look, Nareen steers me away from the cliff edge, hand steadying my elbow. âWhat happened?â she asks when weâre out of earshot. âJamerolâs not the type Iâd trust around men.â
âNothing.â The word comes out too quickly, and I grimace. Nareenâs too loyal to let go if she thinks someone she cares about might need protection. âI justâIâm just nervous about the presentation.â The lie tastes like ashes in my mouth.
âYouâre sure?â
I make myself nod. Thatâs all it is. Nothing else happened. I force my trembling to subside.
Nareen presses gently on my back, guiding me and my load of boxes through the maze of stone buildings between the cliffâs edge and the fairground. âDo you want to talk about it?â
No. But thereâs still a line creasing her forehead. âItâs nothing,â I repeat. âItâs just⊠I need everything to go right. My grandmotherâyour family headâI canât afford any embarrassments.â Can she hear the apology in my voice? I need this to go away. On any other day, Iâd tell her. âItâs rare enough that a man who has just debuted gets picked for a pledge. Everything needs to be perfect.â
She nods slowly, and I let out a breath. I feel for one of the shallow stone stairs with my foot and take a firmer hold on the boxes Iâm carrying. Their weight reminds me of their contents: weightlifting and speed cleaning trophies, testimonials about how well I take care of children, worker-of-the-month certificate from the compost piles, a scale model of the lab extension I helped build, my prize for winning the 100% recycling challengeâall the accomplishments that show I deserve manhood. Thatâs what this day is really about: presenting what I can do for the community. I can do this.
Nareen runs her teeth along her lower lip. âPerfect, yes.â
Something in her tone makes me glance over at her. She catches my look and shakes her head. âItâll be fine,â she says.
âWhat will be fine?â
She hesitates. âYouâve been working so hard on getting your presentation together, I wasnât going to say anything.â
My arms prickle even in the growing heat. âSay anything about what?â
For a moment, I think sheâs not going to answer, but finally she swallows. âAre you sure itâs a good idea to boast to everyone that you gave birth to a new scientific discovery?â
I stop dead in the middle of the street. Everything Iâm carrying is a sideshow compared to my real work.
âWhat are you saying?â The words come out sharp.
âNothing,â she says quickly. âYou justâyou were talking about how important it is that your presentation is perfect. You donât want people to think youâre exaggerating.â
My breath hisses out between my teeth. âIâm not exaggerating!â
âI know, I know.â She makes a soothing gesture with her hands. âI was there, remember? I know. But other people? Think about it. People are astonished that I pulled it off by twenty-two, and youâre only nineteen. You know what they say: The more a man puffs, the less there is to him.â
âI would neverââ I know as well as she does that exaggeration spoils a manâs attractiveness. âIâm presenting what I did. I discovered the gene. I did all the trial and error to figure out how to splice it in. I know the discovery wasnât entirely mine, and I was careful to give you credit, but the part Iâm presenting is the part I did genuinely discover!â How could she think I wouldâ
âI know. I wouldnât have said anything. Itâs just that my family head is being ridiculous.â
âRidiculous?â My voice sounds flat to my ears.
âThe alliances. Ever since they decided our family should make a serious bid for the council seat thatâs coming open, theyâve been renegotiating almost all of them.â
My breath goes shallow. âNot the one with my family, surely.â They canât be. Not when I have so much riding on it.
She says nothing for a long moment. âNot the major points, but which man from your family will be sent to guarantee the pledge was never officially decided. Orzea-lun could ask for anyone.â
Breathe. âYouâve been asking for me, though.â I fight down the rise in my voice. My family head is supposed to promise Nareenâs family support as they establish her new lab. Whoever gets sent to guarantee it wonât just be symbolically sealing the deal, heâll be her assistant for the foreseeable future. Orzea-lun and Marin-lun are only altering our familiesâ alliance now because of Nareenâs transition to full womanhood. It could be years before they feel the need to change anything again.
âIâve been asking, that doesnât mean theyâll do it.â
Iâm not going to hyperventilate. Iâm not. The boxes shift in my suddenly sweaty palms.
âYou thinkââ I canât say the words.
She shrugs. âI donât know. The thing is, giving life to a new idea yourself instead of just assisting with itâŠitâs one of the most feminine things you can do. Normally, it wouldnât do more than raise a few eyebrows, but itâs not just my family head. Your grandmother is the one who ultimately decides if youâre available for pledging at all. And werenât you complaining to me last week that theyâve been ridiculous lately about âhow men are supposed to behaveâ? Is it worth the risk? You have so many other accomplishments.â
I pace forward, unable to stand still. âNone of those come anywhere even close to this discovery.â I thought you admired what I could do. âBesides, why did Grandmother delay my presentation if not so I could present this?â Women get longer to debut, but almost all men do so by seventeen. My brother somehow finagled sixteen. Iâve had to grit my teeth until nineteen, pretending not to hear the increasingly snide speculation about whatâs wrong with me.Â
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. âAre you sure thatâs why Marin-lun did it?â she asks softly.
A chill of doubt creeps up my spine. âOfâof course.â This is the day that was supposed to vindicate me, to show all of them that the reason that I took longer was because I was doing extraordinary work. Marin-lunâs voice echoes back to me. Make your family proud.
Nareen says nothing.
âGrandmother ought to be happy to have me present something like this,â I say. âIsnât this one of the ways weâre better than the Wanderers?â Marin-lun has been insistent on showing them up ever since they moved their settlement here. âTheyâre so sexist that they donât allow men to fly pteradons at all. Weâre better than that. Here, men can follow their talents.â
She raises one shoulder. âThereâs a difference between whatâs okay to do and whatâs attractive to boast about. Family heads want men who will be helpful and supportive, not ones whose egos will be difficult to manage.â
Every word strikes me like a blow. âThis is my proudest accomplishment.â I scrabble for my mental footing as everything I thought was true dissolves under me. âIâm not going to just not mention it.â
âNo, no.â She waves the thought away. âIâm not saying you need to take it out entirely, just make it moreâŠyou know, helpful.â
My carefully prepared materials feel like theyâve doubled in weight.
âItâs not fair, I know,â Nareen presses, âbut I also know how much youâve had your heart set on the alliances turning out the way we wanted.â She glances away. âHow much we both have.â
I barely manage to swallow past the tightness in my throat. Iâd thought the future was certain. Nareen would debut and return to her family to head a new lab, and my family would send me as a guarantee of our ongoing support and the closeness between our families. Surelyâsurely thatâs still whatâs going to happen.
âWhat if I just read over what youâre going to say,â she coaxes. âSuggest some edits if it seems like something might not work. You can decide later.â Her voice lowers to a whisper as we come within earshot of my family. âIâll have time while youâre busy with the opening dance.â
Centimeter by painful centimeter, my fingers curl into the command that sends my presentation from my âglove to hers. She gives a tiny wave of farewell and strides off, âglove already twitching.
At the pile of unassembled booths, I finally deposit my boxes and scrub my hands over my face. My newly grown beard scratches against my palm. Iâm not sure I can even force food down right now. The dance. Just focus on getting through the dance.
ï»żï»żï»żPledging Season is an emotionally rich, page-turning read that flows almost like a TV show or movie than a book, in a good way.
I do want to note from the outset, as it was not clear in the book's 'synopsis'/description, that this is a heavy LGBTQA+ book with A LOT of potential triggers (scroll to the end for my list).
The synopsis sets us up for the sci-fi aspect of a scientist establishing his place in a matriarchal world and saving the world from looming solar storms. It leaves out, though, that a heavier amount of the book (over a third of the book in page count, from my calculations) is devoted solely to gender and societal structure issues head-on, alongside the 'main' story.
The plot is intriguing, unpredictable, and left me wanting to read more. One of the reasons for my rating, though, is that there is just too much left unresolved at the end of this book. Because this is a spoiler-free review, I cannot go into too many specifics here, but I will say that what we're given to follow as 'main themes' from the synopsis:
1.) Does Ya'shul ever receive recognition for his work?
2.) Do they find a working solution to save their way of life?
3.) Do they really feel it is worth the price in the end?
Is all missing from the ending of book one. While series have over-arching connected storylines that aren't all resolved in the first volume (and I love that), I walked away from this book with a blatant cliffhanger on every single theme that was started.
I was still drawn in by the world, I just wish that there had either been less time repeating gender norms so we could get into the meet of the plot quicker (there are sections where the same facts are re-stated after already being stated, as opposed to just being the accepted 'normal' way of life), or that the book had been long enough to at least show us how one of the key plot points turns out; even if that's a temporary "win".
Diversity is clearly important to this author, as is equality and the value of life in all its forms. The characters throughout the story are brilliant examples of how we as people are all mixes of good and bad traits.
Forgiveness, repentance/restitution, the importance of open, honest dialogue, and social responsibility are masterfully told in Pledging Season.
Ya'shul's injustice was like a blow to the heart. Andeshe's desire to be free from a strict culture of tradition and appeasing others for slights no longer their own is invigorating. And Nareen's heart-wrenching balance between duty and love is inspiring.
If you are looking for a book that celebrates empowering others to find (and use) their voice to enact positive change on the world around them, I definitely believe Pledging Season is a read to add to your list. Just be prepared to have to wait for volume two to see what happens to the characters we grow attached to.
**Trigger Warnings: Racism, Arranged Marriage and Sexual Acts of Minor Children Under Age 18 Mentioned But Not Shown, Prejudice Against Certain Groups of LGBTQA+ Community Mentioned (but fought against by two of the MC's), Dead-Naming, Gender Shaming, Animal Testing/Death Mentioned**