Si Vis Pacem (Heinlein's Finches) Read online

  “It was based on a lie. Everything we believed was a lie.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It would work perfectly well if everyone subscribed to it.”

  “People don’t. You know that. That’s how I got here in the first place.”

  “Yeah, well, so I learnt my lesson. I should have listened to our elders. Our way may not have been perfect, but it’s a lot better than the alternative. You should know that better than any of us.”

  “Why?”

  “You can’t survive here. Look at you: you are small, you are weak, and you are alone. You don’t stand a chance. Jake and I, we may be able to make it. We could make this work for ourselves. We could join with the assholes who pick on us and survive like that, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to be any part of this system. The only two choices we’re given is to take shit or dish it out. I’m choosing option three: I’m going home.”

  “Home? There’s nothing left of everything you knew.”

  “So I can rebuild it and make it better. I can try and find a way to temper it with common sense, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe it was as good as it ever could be. What I know for sure is that what we had was way better than what they have here.”

  Jake inhales sharply. “Are you sure about this?”

  Noah nods. “Yes.”

  “Good. Me too. Though I hope they decide not to mess with our brains.”

  “I don’t know. It may be better than remembering all of this.”

  Jake’s eyes drop to the floor. “You might be right.”

  My head feels fuzzy and a knot is clamping down my throat. I find it hard to find words. “You guys are serious? You’re going for it?”

  Noah answers without looking at me. “Yes. You should come with us. You really should. It’s not safe for you here. You’re not going to make it.”

  “It wasn’t safe for me there.”

  “That was just a blip.”

  “You call me nearly getting raped just a blip?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t normalized. Here… I don’t know. I’m not made for this place, is all I know for sure. I don’t think you are either. Think about it. We have been given a chance to undo a mistake – to undo a whole bunch of mistakes, perhaps. We have a chance to make things better.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  “Then we’ll know that things were as good as they could ever be.”

  Come morning I walk to the docking bay to watch the guys leave. I don’t go with them: I follow them from a distance, just so I can see them go. I wish them the best, I really do, but I also hate them for going. Maybe I hate myself for not going too. I’m not sure. What I’m sure of is that my life is broken. Everything is just too much, and nothing feels real.

  When I go to the refectory for my breakfast, the current crop of assholes stop me before I can get to a table. Two of them stand either side of me while one looms over me, grinning broadly.

  “Where are your white knights?”

  “Gone off to find their horses.”

  “What? Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Nope. That’s the honest truth.”

  “Too bad. I’ll have to take your food instead.”

  A hot, bubbling sensation is growing in the pit of my stomach and cancelling everything else out. “Go on, then. Give it a shot.”

  “What?”

  “It’s mine. If you wanna fight over it, give it a go.”

  He laughs in my face and his two friends laugh with him. They’re laughing at me, and the hot feeling is filling up all of me. I’ve had enough of this. “This is how it is. You touch my stuff, I’m going to fight you. If you win, you’re gonna get arrested for beating up a little girl. Everyone is gonna know you did that: I’m going to make damn sure of that. If you lose…” I feel a grin splitting my face “…can you imagine that?”

  “You’re crazy,” he snarls.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re alone. There’s three of us, and any of us could take you.”

  “Look around you. You want to put on a show?”

  His grin echoes mine. “No. But next time you’re on your own…”

  “Oh yeah?” I let the hot feeling take hold of my voice. It gets louder than I thought it could be. “Are you threatening me?”

  A bunch of people turn to look at us.

  He hisses. “Shut. Up.”

  “No. I will not shut up and you will not take my stuff and if you get within five feet of me ever again I will consider that an assault and I will deal with it as such. Get away from me!”

  That’s loud enough and clear enough to call a Guard over.

  “Is there a problem?”

  As if she doesn’t know what’s going on. I know I can’t talk without screaming and there’s a burning sensation behind my eyes that could too easily convert into tears, so I just stand there, still holding my damn tray, trying not to shiver. The assholes mumble something vague while shuffling their feet. When the Guard doesn’t leave, they do.

  After watching them go, the Guard turns to me. “Are you OK?”

  I want to say that I’m not and why, but I know that’d come out as an uncontrollable scream, so I close my lips tight and nod.

  “Fine. If you have any problems again, come and speak to one of us.”

  My mouth opens of its own accord and words fall out. “Yeah. Because that’d help so much.”

  She looks down her nose at me. “We are tasked with keeping the peace.”

  “Easy job, that, as there’s none of it about.”

  She takes a sharp breath. “If you believe that, then you have no idea.”

  We stare at each other for so long that my eyes start itching again, but I’ll be damned if I back down. She shakes her head and walks off first.

  I take my tray to the nearest empty table. The food has congealed into rather repulsive lumps, but I don’t care: it’s mine and I’m going to eat it.

  FED Youth Sorting Centre, Alecto, Year 2465 Terran Standard

  1.

  I thought the ships and the nexus were crowded. I was wrong. I didn’t know what “crowded” meant until I got to the Fed Youth Sorting Centre.

  Alecto is a tube: a long, cylindrical, ominous shape slowly rotating in the void. I don’t realize how godsdamned huge it is until we get close up, and when we do I nearly lose my shit: it looks like it’s about to roll over us and crush us flat. It can’t, of course, but it’s definitely sucking us in.

  When its gravity grabs us, I feel as if my joints are being driven into the floor. Because the fucking thing is so huge, the g-force in the outer regions is way higher than terra-normal, which is what I’ve been used to all my life. I hadn’t realized what this meant when I read up on it; I memorized the official g-force figures at various levels, but I didn’t know what they meant when applied to human bodies. Turns out that at this level it means that every movement is a struggle. Just holding myself up requires all my effort and seems to grind my joints.

  This won’t affect me unless I fuck up, though. The high-g areas are where they cram debtors and criminals, and for now I’m neither. Kids like me are parked in the slightly-too-low gravity areas below the administrative quarters, which are obviously at 1-g: nothing but the best for the faithful servants of the Fed. The lift that takes us from the ship to our future home sends my stomach travelling from the pit of my abdomen to halfway up my lungs. I manage not to hurl, thank the gods. They’d probably make me clean it up.

  The induction into the Sorting Centre is just as warm and heartening as all the interactions with the Fed I’ve had so far. Aside from holos of our loved ones, of which I have precisely none, all our stuff is taken away for its safety and our comfort, or vice versa. We will get it back when we leave here. That must be a great relief for the kids who arrive here when they are eleven and leave at nineteen; nothing like having clothes that no longer fit you and comfort items you’ve missed for eight years to cheer you up.

  They don’t just take from us. We’re given uniform
s, assigned a dormitory and a study room, shown a list of rules as long as my arm, and told at length just how lucky we are to be here. I guess we are: I wouldn’t like to be one of the third-class kids we left behind near the surface. We’ve got all sorts of perks here: ‘freshers with timed showers nearly long enough to get us clean, a daily laundry service for our uniforms and a weekly one for our bedding, and the opportunity to take as many classes as we can manage. We can study at our own pace, too, because all of our studies will be solo efforts on a monitor until we’ve demonstrated that we’re worth an instructor’s time by graduating basic ed. If we don’t graduate basic ed before we turn sixteen, we get moved upstairs, with the third-classers and sundry rejects. If we do, however, we can look forward to a few years of nearly-personal tuition – all the attention a Professor can give to a class of up to 200 pupils, anyway – and nearly-private living quarters in the form of a shared bedroom.

  I absorb as much of the information as I can, try to read between the lines, and reach the dormitory with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Discovering that my bed is a metal cot fixed to the floor, identical to the shoal of cots around it, its only unique feature the number carved on the headboard, does nothing to cheer me up.

  It doesn’t matter if the dormitory gives me the creeps, because we don’t get to stay there long; they give us just enough time to stash our spare uniform in the drawers under the bed and herd us out. We’re only allowed in the dormitory during sleep hours – precisely 8 of them, and fuck you if you need more or if you fail to fall asleep on cue. The refectory, another cavernous room crammed with fixed metal furniture, is open a generous three hours per day for our three meals. The rest of the time we have to be in our study rooms, at our monitors, unless we’ve managed to earn privileges like screen time. I don’t know what that means and I’m not sure I care, but the chorus of oohs and aahs suggests that it’s a big deal. Aside from that, we have two hours per day we can spend on Recreation and Physical Culture, either in large open spaces that pretend to be courtyards or at a gym. Judging by the people we see on our little tour, it’s the courtyard for the girls and the gym for the boys.

  By the time we are taken back to the refectory for our first meal, I’m regretting coming here so much that I could punch myself. Getting my mind wiped must be better than this. Our entire life here is public and regulated. Even our ‘fresher breaks are timed: if we want to piss or shit outside our designated slots we have to ask permission. What I see in the refectory completes the picture. The obvious carving out of territories. The contrast between the kids who stride, often in groups, and those who scurry, always alone. The patterning of bruises on some of the kids, the multitude of hues describing a history of suffering. The stark contrast between the pretty girls in their packs and the ugly ones in their herds. I know which one I am, and I know that I can’t live like this.

  I need to do some thinking and I need to do it fast, because staying here is going to break me. The refectory is so crowded and loud that my brain is overloading on sensory information and refusing to function, so I grab a couple of bites without sitting down, return my tray, and walk straight to the study room.

  The room is huge and hollow; even the hundreds of desks inside it don’t manage to make it feel full. There is nobody else here and the silence is heavenly, but I still can’t think clearly. Maybe that Fed virago back on Pax was right: adoption or even marriage don’t sound so bad by comparison. There’s no chance of finding anyone willing to adopt me while I’m here, though, and I’d have to wait two years to get married, even if I could find someone desperate enough to take me. I’m not sure I have two years of this in me.

  I start messing about with my terminal mostly out of habit, comparing the qualifications I have to those available, sorting courses into mental folders based on how much work it would take me to complete them. When I finally see my way out, it seems obvious. Not easy to walk, maybe, but right in front of me, clear as anything. I latch onto it, turn it into a guiding principle and a hope to keep the light on in my heart, and I get to work. It’s going to take a while and it won’t be easy, but knowing that there’s a way out of here takes a load off my mind. That’s the nature of hopes: they’ll work for you if you work on them.

  That’s for tomorrow, though, or rather for a tomorrow a long way away from now. Until I can realize my hope, I have to stay alive. I have to do what it takes to stop this place from crushing me.

  No.

  It’s such a weird word, that one. When some people say it, it’s so final, like a pressurized door closing, or a burst seal. NO. When other people say it, it’s a nothing, a puff of air, an inconsequential sound that doesn’t achieve anything besides letting the universe know that that thing is not OK for that person. Only the universe doesn’t care, and most of the time neither do the people in it. If they’re listening at all, it’s more for their own amusement than any other reason. They said no. Great. This is another sign of our power.

  The worst “nos” are litanies, strings of sound designed to deny a reality too unpleasant to be accepted, too harsh to be fought against. No, oh no, please no, no, no, no. They go on forever, fading into silence or raising into screams, wails, ululations. Those “nos” are badges of honor for those who earn them. I made them say “no” fifty times, and still I did it. They screamed “no” so loudly they must have heard it on the next floor, and still I did it. Did it to them. Did them.

  I know what I’m built and raised to be and do. I can read it in people’s eyes when they look at me. I’m made to whisper my “nos” in fear, hopelessness, and denial. I am made to wail them at the stars, as a soundtrack to the actions of those stronger than me – and that’s everybody. I have no power here. I have no power anywhere. I am physically weaker than everyone else. I have no family or friends who would protect me or avenge me. I have no credit. I have no role. I serve no purpose. In the whole of the cosmos, the only person who cares if I hurt is me, and whether I care or not makes no difference because there’s fuck-all I can do about it. Hurting me is so cheap it’s free, so I have to make it worthless. I have to make sure that there’d be no fun in it.

  I know how to go blank. I know how to keep what I feel and think so far from my body and my face that people don’t even know that I feel and think at all. That’s the first step: not giving them anything, no fear or pain, and definitely no empty, powerless, pathetic “nos.” Until I have nothing else, that’s my power: the power to make their victories empty. It’s not much, but it’s enough, because there are plenty of kids here who quail and cry and beg before a blow has even landed. You can get a real kick out of watching them suffer without raising a hand, without risking anything. You can make them piss their pants with a glance or a leer. It’s free power, with no consequences. What are they going to do, go to one of the Supervisors and tell them that someone looked at them funny? That wouldn’t go anywhere, and they’d be too scared to do it, anyway. They’re the sort you can do anything to and will come out saying that they fell over or walked into a door or something. They seem to think that’s safer, that not challenging anyone is safer. They seem to think that weakness can be a strength. What they don’t seem to get is how tasty their fear is, how much they are feeding the beasts.

  No fear. Not for me. They can hurt me, but they cannot make me cry. They cannot make me beg. They cannot make me say no. I know they could, I know that anyone who’s willing to go far enough could, but I know they won’t because it would be too costly. Bumps and bruises don’t get reported. Anything requiring a visit to med bay does. If they cannot make me cry without starting an investigation, that’s a power for me.

  Calling things by their name is another one. No “we were just playing.” No “it was an accident.” No “it was rougher than I expected.” No taking away their costs for them. Always tell it straight, no matter how bad it sounds, to yourself and to everyone else. He punched me. They threatened to push me into the biomass recycling. If you touch me, this will be an assault.
If you carry on, this will be a rape. Call things by their name, calmly and clearly, and if that name is ugly, so much the better.

  Be boring. Be dull. Be inconsequential. Don’t be a threat unless provoked, then go all out with no brakes whatsoever. Be someone who wouldn’t do anything for their status if they defeated you. I’m sure your friends will be so impressed that you managed to beat me up. There is nobody here who wants to gain the badge of crazy, who wants to be known as the one who tortures little girls. Not yet, anyway. If one ever comes, that will probably be the end of me.

  This is all I can do for now, so I do all of it. Even so, I spend most of my time avoiding trouble. The main hassles generally start in the refectory and finish in the ‘freshers, or in the dormitories after lights out. All I have to do is avoid being in trouble spots at trouble times whenever possible. I’m up and out of the dormitory as soon as I’m allowed to, so I can be in and out of the ‘fresher before anyone much is even awake. In the refectory I don’t even sit down: I pick up my food and eat it off my tray on the way to the return point. That keeps me out of all the politics of where to sit and what that means. I make sure I’m the first one in the classroom. I can’t do anything to protect myself in the dormitory, but I’m one of dozens of kids. Nobody knows me, so nobody has any specific issues with me. That’s nowhere near enough reassurance for my taste, but it’s all I can get. I can’t precisely sleep tight, but I need my rest, so I take it.

  I really do need it, because I’m working hard. I’m working as hard as I can. While everyone is busy with power games and actual games and making friends and mating and generally living, I mine at the source of the only real power I see within my reach. I do so quietly and constantly. It doesn’t matter if I’m tired. It doesn’t matter if I’m scared. It doesn’t matter if everyone else is out there trying to have a good time, if everyone else is becoming a part of a hierarchy bigger than they are, a hierarchy that will cradle and protect them, perhaps even protect them enough. I don’t believe in that. Not anymore. My power, when I get it, will be something I take, not something I’m given.