Aphelion

There were only 200 days in a year, as any good schoolgirl knew, and so work had to be done without delay. Dara tried to handle complaints about the duty schedule with this straightforward logic. "Surely you don't expect us to take extended breaks with Sun Day approaching so soon?"

"No," Ivet answered sheepishly, "I don't mean that, of course. I just think that we're missing something in all this." She gestured to the vast work project grounds below them: at least 1,000 people per yard, with dozens of yards making up a complete unit of progress.

Dara squinted into the distance, then back at the progress charts before her. "I don't see anything missing," she pronounced.

"No, no, I don't mean that. Perhaps, the project itself is ... flawed?"

"That's a serious accusation to make." Dara frowned, thinking hard. "Perhaps you want to take things up with one of the Head Mistresses?"

Ivet shook her head. "No, thank you, I don't think such a conversation would be productive." She smiled sadly. "I'm sure they knew best, and I want Sun Day to succeed, truly. I simply ... sometimes, I wonder, what the best Offering is, if we're going about it the right way."

Dara shrugged. "That's not for you or I to determine. Our task is simple: make the Offering presentable for the solstice, when we orbit closest to the ideal launch window, so we me survive the winter with the Sun's blessing."

"Of course." Ivet bowed formally at the qausireligious precept. "Thank you for the reminder, Mistress Dara. I'll return to my post."

Dara returned to her own work, checking progress from the various checkpoints on her computer screens. The manufacturers were nearly done with the Offering's capsule and propulsion system. The agrarians were right on schedule. It was the artisan quarter that lagged behind as usual, Ivet being a typical example of their slovenly pace. Always wanting to philosophize at the wrong moment, never wanting to commit to a specific course. Some day the Head Mistresses would really need to get a firmer handle on that set.

Her own coterie of organizers were keeping things in check to the best their abilities, but Ivet was right about one thing: it was debatable if this year's Sun Day would be up their usual standards. Every season they increased their expectations, diligently pledging to offer better for civilization, and yet every solstice it seemed harder and harder to act in accordance with the standards meted to them. This, despite the scientific advances that had swelled their population in both numbers and ability. There were more talented workers than at any other time in history. The offering should yield with far less effort. Yet with only a month until launch there was still so much left to do.

This worry intensified like a bad toothache. After a week Dara took her own advice and approached a Head Mistress with her concerns. "People are lazy," she was told. "You must push them harder. The Sun must be appeased."

Of course. People did complain, and there were unproductive trends everywhere. "How should I do so?" Dara asked with the firm faith of the already convinced.

The Head Mistress in question raised two elegant eyebrows. "By setting an example yourself," she answered dismissively. "Would you have me take on your labor?"

Abashed, Dara returned to her post and vowed not to budge until all her assigned areas performed above requirements. Sleep left her, and food became an afterthought. She gave the Sun so much that by the end of the month she was a bare husk, gasping as if she'd flown the Offering to the fiery pedestal herself.

As the offering was readied for launch Dara stood swaying with the other Demi Mistresses, barely able to stand and salute at the appointed time. But she pushed herself to remain where she was despite the worried glances shot her direction, wanting to hear the words of the divinely appointed Mother Nedelya herself. "You were all given to this world by the Sun," the old woman intoned from the large screen above them, her long hair crowned about her wrinkly face. "And you have given so much. I thank each one who offered their all. Your names will travel with me as I give back our best to the orb we owe are all to."

The camera panned back to show the Mother's cocoon of gifts: all their world had to offer, sheltering the best of them. "Remember your mothers, daughters. Desire above all to serve the Sun, my bridegroom, to give as I am giving. Make our world safe."

The screen now showed the offertory nursery, all the little pods of potential next holy Mothers who would one day take on the mantle of Offering if so chosen. These precious daughters represented the apex of their culture: perfect specimens who would never know the burden of their parasitic sisters, those who depended on their sacrifice to appease their celestial father. Dara knew such imagery was to cover the camera crew's exit from the capsule as it was prepared for launch, and yet she was moved nonetheless.

She watched in spellbound awe as the camera returned to the Offering, solemnly willing it forward as it soared up, up, into the stratosphere, a realm without air, all light, so bright ... she could barely breathe or see herself. She grasped at reality, and heard someone shout for a nurse as gravity pulled her down, down, her vision blurring. "I'm alright," she tried to say, even as hands caught and carried her into a cool place.

"What's the matter with her?" a voice above her asked, and she recognized it: the Head Mistress who'd set her on this path with her acidic advice. Dara longed to speak and answer, but her dry lips barely gasped a groan.

"Just a Demi," another, sweeter voice replied. "Fainted at the launch, poor dear: I don't know if she'll recover."

"These clones grow frailer every year," the first said. "We'll have squeezed all the limits of engineering within another generation, and they're growing to smart to be appeased with mere religiosity. We barely made our quota as it was this year."

"A bargain made with the Crusader is not one soon forgotten. We knew that when we made this deal." Her words sounded strange in Dara's ears, their rough meaning at odds with the gentle purr giving them voice. "It's not a complete lie, after all: he's called the Sunlord for a reason. Without these annual bribes his armies really would scorch this planet."

"Of course, that's not the problem." This reply was fainter, growing distant as the two women departed. Dara's heart raced, and she felt death creeping forward; whether it was her own or her world's, or something even deeper, she couldn't guess. She strained with her last moments of clarity to hear what was said next.

"Like I said, we've grown them too smart. How long before one of them realizes Sun Day brings us to the exact opposite end of orbit from their god?"