Heinlein's Finches Page 10

  At the Academy the response to the news is rather mixed. Half the first years are giving themselves repetitive strain injuries polishing their buttons and ironing their uniforms, practically wetting their pants at the prospect of witnessing that glory. Most of the second years are desperately planning activities that will make them look suitably brilliant, just in case the Colonel notices that they exist. The third years and Adjuncts are oscillating between resignation and dread.

  Most of us were not terribly suited to being Patrolmen to start with. Hanging around an academic institution for years hasn’t made us any more martial. If the Colonel takes a good look at us, he’s unlikely to be impressed. It’s really an issue of deciding whether to try and pretend that we’re Patrol material, or to hide and pray. I’m the worst of the bunch; I’ve never even gone through the Academy selection process, yet here I am.

  I briefly consider getting a haircut, but I decide that if being who I am is going to be a problem, I’d rather get thrown out with my hair intact. I focus on bringing our work up to speed, hoping that’ll be enough to balance out my shortcomings. There’s no denying that not being able to do much but work has increased our productivity. It’s completely altered my role within the process, too. We’ve got a neat system going now.

  Queries come in from active Patrols. Gwen prioritizes them, partly based on urgency and partly on whim. All the queries are always marked ‘urgent’ by the senders, so we can’t go by that. I collect all the relevant background information on the colony in question: ecology, terraforming history, demographic data on the original colonists, and any known factors influencing the colony’s development. Gwen looks at the available data and connects the dots. What factors could have driven the colony to create and maintain their belief system? Are those factors still in play? What steps can Patrolmen take to mitigate the impact of aberrant beliefs, or to replace them over time with viable, less damaging ones?

  It doesn’t sound much like traditional police work, but it’s what needs to be done. Administering justice and keeping order can be hard enough when Patrolmen and their community are in agreement as to what the laws should be. That’s definitely not the case for many of our colonies. They have deviated so far from Terran beliefs and mores that they no longer recognize Fed laws as just. Enforcement of those laws would be perceived as an act of oppression. Ignoring that issue has already proven costly; that’s how the Troubles started, after all.

  We can’t fight people’s beliefs. First of all, it tends to backfire: open repression makes people dig their heels in. Secondly, the suppression of beliefs requires a steady dose of coercion and indoctrination. Even the Fed, in all its might, doesn’t have the resources to achieve that. The territory they cover is simply too vast; there are too many throats and not enough Fed boots to go around. The Fed keep a tight lid on the tubes and major colonies, but that’s all they can manage.

  There are legal and ethical considerations for non-involvement, too. Some people still argue for self-determination, though it can be risky to do so too loudly. Looking at some of the more extreme behaviors some of our colonies display, though, it’s hard to decide whether it’s morally superior to let them carry on or stop them. Thankfully, we don’t have to make that choice. The Patrol is simply spread out too thinly to impose the Fed’s will. The most we can do is damage control. Gwen’s work helps us minimize the damage caused by our damage control. Her theories have changed the way the Patrol handles difficult situations, and it’s not a superficial change. Slowly but surely, from the quiet of her office, she’s changing the culture of the Patrol. She is probably saving lives every day.

  She doesn’t quite see it like that. “There’s a terrible hubris in what I do; in the fact that I dare to do it, really. Every time I reach a conclusion I risk making a mistake. Every mistake I make could cost lives. Even when I get things right, the results could be catastrophic. To even consider this type of intervention is morally questionable. So I lie to myself and pretend that I’m just a stuffy academic, uncovering the mysteries of ancient civilizations; an ornithologist marveling at Darwin’s finches. The truth is that everything I do results in some kind of evil being done, and I’m not sure that the evil we are undoing in the process is enough to balance things out. I’m not sure that even trying to measure evil in those terms isn’t inherently evil.”

  I guess some people agree with here, hence the assassination attempts, hence my presence here. My original role was to pretend to provide basic clerical support while making sure that nobody knocked her off. Gwen quickly realized that my psi-bility also enabled me to identify students on the verge of a major paradigm crisis, so we could support them. I’m fairly sure that if she had been the stereotypical Academy Professor, that’s all I would have ever done. Most of our faculty members seem more invested in maintaining the power their knowledge and position give them than in getting shit done.

  Gwen doesn’t want to be an authority figure. She just wants to get her work done with a minimum of fuss. The expansion of my duties started out when I spotted a couple of mistakes in one of her articles. I was rather reticent to mention them at first; I’d only just started working here, and I worried that she may be touchy about that kind of thing. Turned out that she was grateful: “I’d rather make a fool of myself in front of an audience of one than go public with it, thank you very much.” She asked me to edit all of her work, and I didn’t have a problem with that. It’s interesting stuff to read. When she realized that, unlike her, I’m also methodical and good with numbers, she got me collating her research materials. That gives her more time to do what she likes, which is solving problems. She reckons that working out the connections between seemingly random stuff “makes her brain tingle.”

  We now have the system down pat. By allocating tasks according to who can best perform them, we’re doing twice the work in half the time, and having more fun, too. I’m fairly sure that the rest of the faculty would see our arrangement as abnormal, but neither of us could care less either way. All her papers now go out with me as a co-author. I didn’t even have to ask for that.

  I’m a productive member of my team and of this institution. I’ve got nothing to worry about the incoming visit, really. Nothing apart from the fact that I can’t help being in evidence, and that I’m a pansexual, genderqueer, ex-grubber, psi-freak with no military aptitude or experience working for an über-macho, Terran-Traditionalist, paramilitary institution. What could possibly go wrong?

  When inspection day comes, we get the pleasure of lining up in our finery like little toy soldiers. We’re looking as martial as we can muster; which for some of us is not very martial at all.

  I don’t know what psycho-cultural factors led to the uniforms of the Terrans-in-Space looking as they do. I guess that their designers thought them impressive; I find them outrageous. The higher up the ranks you go, the more ornate they get, with an overabundance of buttons and badges and stars and chains and epaulettes and pips and gods know what else, all topped by some truly swanky hats.

  It’s really weird to see how the uniforms highlight differences between us that either we never thought about or we’d forgotten. There is little correlation between people’s roles at the Academy and their ranks in the Patrol. And, for us lot, there is no correlation whatsoever between our status and how we socialize. For instance, Clint and Clarence are cadets; but then, technically, so are Gwen and Aiden, who never served. Nick’s rank is higher than Asher’s, but Asher is Nick’s supervisor at the Academy. I’m glad none of us cares about that kind of thing.

  It’s been even harder than normal for me to pick what to wear. It’s not a matter of vanity; I don’t want to stick out, but I’m not entitled to a Patrol uniform or to the robes of a Professor. There simply isn’t a costume designated for someone like me, someone who’s come into the Academy via a rather odd-shaped back door and has made no progress since. I could wear my training gear, and look sloppy, or my civvies, and look incongruous. I really don’t want to at
tract any special attention, so neither seems like a good idea.

  Gwen resolves my dilemma by suggesting that we mutilate Asher’s robes, which he never wears, and turn them into a tunic for me. I cannot be accused of wearing a uniform I’m not entitled to, but I should blend in reasonably well.

  When the top brass descend upon us, we’re lined up in unfamiliar groupings in unfamiliar clothes. There are only three of them, at various levels of starred-and-chavroned. That surprises me. The few times we’ve had visits from civil or religious dignitaries, they brought along enough of an entourage to run a couple of communes. Maybe these guys don’t feel that they need to prove their status. I don’t even know what most of their decorations mean, and I’m momentarily ashamed of it. I do know, however, that all these people are more important than me, and any of them could cause me trouble. That’s all I need to know right now.

  At the head of the line is Colonel Darrington in all his glory, trailed by.... Trailed by...

  Trailed by an angel, or a devil. Trailed by the most beautiful man I ever laid eyes on. He’s at least as tall as Asher, but infinitely better built. He’s muscled without being bulky like me. His shoulders look almost too broad for his hips. His hair is jet black, like Gwen’s, but his eyes are a perfect cadet grey, matching his uniform. I’ve never been sure what ‘alabaster skin’ meant, but I think that’s what he has. His jaw is to kill for. He is so perfect he doesn’t quite look real.

  As he walks past our assembled form, he will feel my gaze upon him and turn to look at me. Our eyes will lock as fate dictates, our pasts having unfolded the way they have just so we could meet, here and now. That one glance will tell us everything we need to know about each other, and will dictate our futures. It seems inevitable. This is what I’ve been waiting for all my life.

  Instead he walks right past me and sits down.

  Which is just as well, because I don’t think I look my best when my mouth is hanging open.

  Military formalities ensue. I’d be mildly fascinated with their novelty if I wasn’t so comprehensively distracted. The man of my dreams is right in front of me, and I can’t do anything about it. Though even if I could, I don’t know what I would do. How long will they be here for, anyway? How do you explain to someone you’ve never met that they’re your soulmate? What if your dream comes and he doesn’t recognize you?

  Once the ceremony is over, the top brass, the Chancellors, and the Proctors go off for a banquet. I rush to talk to the guys. I need some kind of plan, and I need it fast.

  “Did you see the second guy in?” I ask Gwen.

  “Captain Kendall?”

  “Eh? What? How do you know?”

  “They introduced them. That was the whole point of this rigmarole. To introduce and welcome the big honchos.” Gwen squints at me. “Where were you? What’s going on?”

  “I’m in heaven or in hell. Or in love. Come on, did you see the guy?”

  “Hard not to, what with all those shiny buttons.”

  I glare at her until she snorts. “Ok, out with it. What’s going on?”

  “Well, I think,” I can feel myself blushing, which only makes this worse, “I think he’s rather dashing.”

  “Dashing, hey,” says Asher with a smile. It’s good to see him smile again, but I wish it weren’t about this.

  “Yes, dashing. He looks so fine, with all those medals and pips and things. Has a good job. Gets to travel.”

  “He’s pretty,” interjects Gwen. “Don’t leave that out. The Colonel has even more medals, and travels just as much, but is nowhere near as pretty. I have the feeling that this dashingness you’re noticing may have quite a bit to do with the fact that Captain Kendall is a very pretty boy.”

  “Should I worry?” asks Asher, not sounding worried at all.

  “Pah!” exclaims Gwen. “Not my type. So not my type, all prissy and primped.” She shudders. “We could never get on. We’d have terrible fights about who’s hogging the mirror. I’m so glad you’re a slob.”

  “Enough already!” I squeak. It surprises me as much as it surprises them. “You don’t even know the guy and you’re dissing him. You’re being prejudiced and unfair, and that’s not nice.” I manage to say more calmly.

  “We are being prejudiced,” Asher agrees. “Whether we are also being unfair remains to be seen. There’s no way the guy’s not a first classer; you can just tell. We’ve probably dealt with a lot more first classers than you.” He sighs. “And yes, it’s made us prejudiced. But I can promise you that if this flower of the Patrol turns out to be a good guy and treats you right…”

  “What do you mean ‘treats me right’?” I blurt out in alarm.

  Gwen and Asher exchange a look. “Well, you like the guy, right? So when you tell him…”

  “I can’t tell him that! That’s ridiculous! I can never ever tell him. It’d be… Well, it’s just ridiculous.”

  Gwen squints at me. “You said that. Twice. But why is it ridiculous?”

  “I can’t. I mean… If he finds out I like him, he would be offended.”

  Asher rubs his forehead. “All right. I realize I’ve been off the market for a while…”

  “I should bloody well hope so,” mutters Gwen.

  “…but since when is telling people that you like them offensive?”

  “It’s like... It’d be like me saying that I think I’m good enough for him. He’d laugh at me. Or be offended.”

  While we’re talking, we’ve arrived at the office door. Gwen turns around, stands on her tiptoes, puts her hands on my shoulders and stares at me long enough for it to be uncomfortable, then lets out a long sigh.

  “Loveling, I’m torn between hugging and kissing you, and hitting you on the head with a shoe.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You say you respect Asher and me, yes? That you value our opinion.”

  “Yes! Of course!”

  “Yet when we tell you that we like you, that we think you’re a great person, why we think you’re a great person, you just reject that off hand. You tell us that you respect our opinion, but when it clashes with yours you show us clearly that you don’t.”

  “No! It’s not like that!”

  “It is like that. You say one thing and do another. You say you respect our opinion when you routinely discount it. That doesn’t show any respect for our opinion. Or for us. So, maybe, instead of thinking about how you could offend a stranger by giving him a compliment, you might want to think a bit about how you constantly insult your friends. Every time you run yourself down, you’re insulting everyone who knows and likes you. Maybe think about that.”

  And with that she turns around and walks into her office. Asher pats me on the back and follows her in. I stand outside the door, frozen in shame, until I hear her say “…will you stop being a giant silly and get in?”

  I run to her and she hugs me. “I’m sorry, loveling. But it needed saying. And now you need to tell me all about this boy you like. I’ve been a terrible girlfriend.”

  So I sit on the bed next to her, telling her about his eyes and his smile and his hair and how he looks so majestic just standing there, while she makes all the proper noises of agreement and appreciation. Meanwhile Asher is flopped in his ATR with his eyes closed, occasionally wincing at some of my observations.

  When I have finished gushing, he shudders and straightens himself in his seat. “If men only knew how you talk about them, the shame would kill them. But darlings, you don’t even know if the poor creature is straight or gay or indifferent. He could be married with six children.”

  “We can still think he’s pretty,” Gwen retorts, and I nod frantically. “But yes, for our purposes it would be better if he was that way inclined. And looking.”

  “Well, you’ll have a chance to find out about this angel of perfection while he interferes with our private lives.”

  “Oh shit, I almost forgot!” Gwen blurts out, and pokes me in the chest. “Did you pay any attention to the speeches, or wer
e you too busy drooling? He’s their chief security officer. We’re bound to have to deal with him.”

  I can’t help smiling. She’s unimpressed. “Can you keep it in your pants, please? This is serious. They’re unlikely to be here to tell us how awestruck they are by our security measures. You are part of those measures. And I’m the one who’s going to be affected by any changes.”

  Asher cuts in. “We need a plan and we need it fast. We should have thought about this sooner, really. I’ve yet to see anyone that high up the ranks come up with a decision that made any godsdamn sense. We need to know,” he counts on his fingers, “what we want, what we absolutely don’t want, and what we can live with. Chances are we won’t get what we want, but if we steer them away from what we don’t want, we might just be able to pull through this.”

  Gwen whimpers. “I just want them to leave me alone, really.”

  “Do you? Really?” asks Asher.

  “What are you on about?” she frowns.

  “Well, there’s no denying that things have been getting worse for us. More attacks. We’ve dealt with them, but do we want to keep dealing with them as we are? And I’m out of commission.” He thumps his hands on his casts in frustration. “Until I can get these things off me I can’t do a damn thing to help. So we’re a man down, facing a worsening threat. Do we want to continue as we are?”

  “What are the alternatives?”

  “We could quit.” Gwen looks about to interject, but he goes on to say “But I know you don’t want to. So that’s off the menu. We can stay, but ask for greater security.”

  “And how would they achieve that?”

  “Patrol escort.”

  “Oh hell no. If my movements are restricted anymore, I shall lose it. This is getting as bad as being on a tube.” She points at me. “We’ve been damn lucky with our existing babysitter. I don’t think we can expect this kind of getting along with your average bodyguard. Let alone a herd of them.”