Heinlein's Finches Read online

  I look at him sometimes, one of the best people I’ve ever met and always trying to be better, and I don’t understand him. I don’t understand why he let himself be filed in a box by gender, be told what kind of person he should be, as if genitals determined an entire personality. As if people were made in one of two molds. As if they weren’t individuals. As if respecting the gender construct was more important than respecting the needs of real people.

  I might not fit anywhere much, but at least I fit inside myself; inside my own skin, inside my own head. And if I’m in a box, it’s a box of my own creation.

  Two months into the academic year, and we’ve foiled three attempts on Gwen’s life. It’s a record for us. On the plus side, we’re getting a lot of practice. On the minus side, the problem seems to be getting worse.

  When Gwen was first attacked four years ago, they Academy thought it was a one-off thing, a random extremist or mentally unbalanced individual who just happened to fall through the cracks in our tests. When it happened again, the following year, they still didn’t think much of it. The year after, last year, when it happened yet again, Asher made his views known to the Chancellor in a private meeting – although the privacy was somewhat marred by the volume of his presentation, apparently. Skip reckons that they could hear him from the kitchens.

  As a result of that little chat I was pulled out of my lab, where I had been busy demonstrating a distinctive lack of progress in my psi-bilities and a below-average aptitude for teaching other psi-gifted kids. After twelve years there, I think they were starting to wonder if they’d ever see a return from me. There’s not much call for the legitimate use of my kind of psi-bility. I’d gone off on the occasional short-term job since I graduated at 16, but otherwise I’d been stuck in a world of studying and training and teaching. It was nice to get out. I was starting to worry about my prospects, really; I could make a reasonable living as a trainer, but the monotony of it wasn’t terribly appealing. There’s nothing else I’m trained for, though, and I don’t know anything else I may be good at. One of the problems of having a rare ‘gift’ is that it makes people push you to do that one thing. Which, competitive as we are, is the sensible thing to do; but it does limit your options to try out other things.

  When I originally got this post, I was really excited about it. My head was full of romantic notions of my future derring-dos. I had no idea that the job would involve such a grinding combination of monotony and panic. Most of the time, nothing happens. I’m just endlessly waiting for the times when something does happen. When something does happen, it’s always awful.

  This year has finally taught me to appreciate monotony. I would pay good credit for the privilege of knowing, really knowing, that nothing exciting at all is going to happen today. I wonder if I’ll ever feel bored again. Then again, only a couple of years ago I used to wonder if I’d ever not feel bored. Gods, how I miss that feeling.

  Actually having to do my job has really brought home what it’s all about. I’m feeling constantly stretched now, and I’m not entirely sure whether I’m going to get stronger, better able to carry this load, or just snap. It’s not just me, though. Three attacks in a term goes well beyond anyone’s expectations. And we have no reason to expect that it’s over.

  We’re all way too close to snapping point, really, which is why I’m so glad that the end-of-term break is coming up. The Academy will virtually empty for two weeks. The only people left will be those who have nobody nearby to visit and no credit to go off and have a good time. We aren’t going to be here either. Gwen and Asher always organize a trip out-bubble for the holidays. It’s not everyone’s idea of a ‘holiday’, in all honesty, but we like it.

  Our planet, Hyperion, was selected for colonization because it’s in a convenient position and has reasonable energy sources. It never held the promise of out-bubble living. Light and radiation levels are good, but that is the sum total of the good stuff. The atmosphere is unbreathable, the soil non-existent, and the surface of the planet is so irregular that it can hardly be called a surface. There are craters everywhere, merging and overlapping. Our craters have craters – smaller ones inside medium ones inside large ones.

  The hardest challenge to bubble building here was flattening a big enough area, until someone had the bright idea to just level off the edges of a large enough crater and stick a bubble on top. That meant we could get our bubbles installed with relative ease, but it placed the joint between the crater walls and the bubble high on the horizon. It’s impossible to ignore and a constant reminder that we’re living in a fishbowl, utterly dependent on technology for our survival. Our bubbles can make people feel both enclosed and exposed; many find the experience stomach-churning.

  The Fed is now planning to install new bubbles on spent mining sites. This is the only planet I know of whose surface is improved by open-cast mining. Yes, it’s that bad.

  On the plus side, our ‘roads’ are amazing, if rather undeserving of that name. Only ATR – All-Terrain Rovers – can negotiate them. The routes climb in and out of craters, go over precipitous passes, crawl along high ridges, and are generally at the mercy of the landscape.

  Anyway, out-bubble here isn’t really a place anyone visits. It’s empty, desolate, and covered in impassable rock formations. So, obviously, it’s ideal for my guys. Gwen enjoys the absence of people; although she loves social interactions, she gets a bit twitchy if she doesn’t get her no-people time. Asher and Nick go for the climbing. Aiden and I go along, because that’s what we do. We don’t mind. Aiden likes it because it’s quiet. I like it because it’s different. We’ve been looking forward to our break for weeks.

  Two days before the end of term, it suddenly looks as though none of us is going anywhere. A memo is circulated, short and clear: “Due to abnormal security risks to faculty members, all unnecessary out-bubble travel is prohibited until further notice.” The memo comes from the Chancellor’s office in absentia. Reggie’s already cleared off, the coward. I don’t blame him.

  Gwen blows her top entirely. “This is bullshit! Our time is our own! There are no risks to anyone but me! Nobody but us ever goes out-bubble anyway! This is bullshit!”

  “I understand what he’s trying to do,” says Asher. “I wish he wasn’t doing it, though.”

  “I’m going to track the old codger down and tell him where he can stick it. He has no right to tell me what I can and can’t do in my own time.”

  “Actually, he does,” I interject. The way Gwen looks at me makes me wish I hadn’t. “The Chancellor has the right and responsibility to put into place extra security measures if the continuity… of the teaching is at… risk?” I trail off under Gwen’s glare.

  “That’s still bullshit. Ok, so security measures may be needed for me. That’s why we’ve got you. But there’s no reason to keep everyone else confined.”

  “It only affects us, really. Reggie knows that it’s just us going out-bubble. The rest of the faculty either goes home or goes off to party somewhere.”

  “So why issue an Academy-wide ban, then?” erupts Gwen.

  Asher and I look at each other, clearly hoping for the other one to go first and bear her wrath. Gwen is scowling at me, so I crack. “Maybe Reggie was a mite concerned at your possible reaction if he said that he wanted you and you only to stay put?”

  She looks momentarily as if she’s about to burst, then exhales slowly and nods. “Yes. Good point. I know how to fix this.” And she turns around and charges off down the hallway.

  We’re so surprised that it takes us a while to move. By the time we catch up with her she’s at her office door. Before we can do or say anything, she slams the door in our faces and locks us out. When she emerges a few minutes later, she looks pleased. “All sorted. Got him on the com. Audio only, and I don’t even wanna think why. You, Nick, and Aiden are going. Me and homeslice here are staying.”

  It’s Asher’s turn to erupt. “If you think I’m going to go off on a godsdamn holiday while you
are left behind surrounded by potential assassins…” She lifts her hands up in a conciliatory gesture, and he stops.

  “I will not leave the campus. Hell, I’m going to be in the tower or in my office; nowhere else. I’d suggest they could install a terminal right in the tower, but if I don’t walk around a bit I’ll get cabin fever. The campus is going to be virtually empty. No crowds for any attackers to hide within. No likely attackers, either, though we can never be sure. Homeslice is not going to let me out of her sight,” I nod furiously, “unless it’s to go to the can, and we can go together if that makes you happy. I solemnly swear to be sensible.”

  She continues more softly. “If you think about it, you will be heading to float camp soon, anyway, and we need to be prepared for that. You can look at this as a practice run for future security measures. We can co-opt a couple of the chicks left behind for extra security, and for card games. The Gorilla Brothers are staying, right?” she asks me.

  “Clint and Clarence.” I chide her. “They have names.”

  “And I’m sure they could learn to sign them in exchange for bananas, if we had any.” I scowl. She doesn’t seem to care. “Anyway, I promise you to have an utterly miserable but safe time. Please don’t make it any more miserable by making me the reason you’re stuck here, too.”

  Checkmate. I can’t think of anything else she could have said that would have disarmed him half as quickly and effectively.

  We hammer away at the fine details of our security plan. Clint and Clarence agree to decamp to one of the middle offices of the tower. We promise Asher not to get too smashed, though I’m not sure if we could afford enough alcohol to get those two smashed. Asher tries to make a push to leave Aiden behind, too, but that would make the expedition way too unsafe. They will stay within com range and not go beyond half a day’s travel. That will mean that they will probably have to climb old routes again, but that’s a minor inconvenience. If we have any problems or concerns, we are to contact them immediately and they’ll come straight back. In theory, it all sounds good.

  March

  “Love, you’re being absurd. I think we can find our way back from the damn ATR hub.”

  “You promised you were going to be sensible. I’ve got witnesses.”

  “Wanting to kiss you goodbye is not sensible now?”

  “Walking about the town when you don’t need to is not sensible, milady. We had a deal. You can kiss me goodbye right here. Or I can stay. Your call.”

  It’s pretty clear that Asher isn’t bluffing. Gwen doesn’t look happy at all, but she doesn’t even try to argue. They squeeze each other hard enough that I worry about their ribcages. When they finally let go, I’m expecting Asher to give me a talking to about not fucking this up, but he doesn’t. He just gives me a long, tight hug.

  “You take care, ok?”

  I want to tell him that I will, but I can’t talk over the lump in my throat. This is way harder than I expected.

  I watch her watch him walk out of the tower and down the road until he’s out of sight. She rubs her face, takes a big breath, and shakes herself off. “Well, come on, then. We best get to work.”

  From then on, Gwen follows her safety protocols to the letter, as I imagined she would. If I ever caught her lying to Asher, I don’t know what I’d do. I’d lose faith in the world, for sure. Our new routine is infuriatingly restrictive. We take our breakfast and dinner in her room and lunch at the office. The refectory is closed anyway, with a skeleton crew providing basic meals (even-more-basic meals!) to the few souls left on campus, so we’re not adding much extra work to the service staff.

  Clint and Clarence, who have no nearby family and no credit to waste, join us for dinner. They have landed a job doing renovations at the Peacock, some of which Clint suggested. The Peacock’s owner reckons that “he has a real flair for color combinations.” I no longer have it in me to be surprised. We spend our evenings playing card games. Gwen and I have nothing to do all day but read or work, so we’re getting a bit burnt out for anything more intellectually demanding.

  Gwen and I talked about me sleeping in her room. It would increase her security, but we both feel weird sleeping together, or doing anything touchy-feely, when Asher isn’t there. So she stays in her garret, I stay in my room downstairs, C&C are two floors below, and a couple of gadgets Skip fixed up protect the stairs below them. We’re about as safe as we can be.

  I don’t know what possessed the Academy’s architects to model it based on some Old Terran neo-gothic monstrosity. It could have been hubris, I guess, or a terrible need to compensate for something. Regardless of the reasons, it’s worked out well for us. The vast majority of the Academy has long since been remodeled internally to make it marginally user-friendly, and the newer buildings, like the new Tank, don’t make any attempt at architectural pretensions. The two gate towers, however, have been left alone. Turns out that nobody wants quarters that can only be reached by walking up a narrow, steep, crooked stairway. At some point I guess they’ll just gut the damn things and put in lifts, but in the meanwhile our tower really is ours. Nobody else will have it. The other tower houses a lot of the techs, who also choose privacy over comfort.

  Security-wise, we’re at a distinctive advantage. If someone could light a fire under our asses, we’d have to climb our way down or get roasted. Other than that, though, we’re as safe as anyone can be. Still, I feel uneasy.

  I have a bad feeling about this – about Asher being away, about us being here, about all of it. I’m the first to admit that I don’t have any proper psi-bilities. All and still, something about this just doesn't sit right with me, and not being able to figure out what is intensely frustrating. This trip makes me uneasy, and it’s an uneasiness I just can’t talk myself out of. But Asher and Gwen were so happy about this, Asher looking forward to the trip and Gwen reveling in his excitement, that I kept my doubts to myself.

  Which is why I feel three times the asshole when they bring Asher back home on a stretcher, unconscious.

  As soon as the emergency hail came through the Provost in charge came to see us in Gwen’s office, which is unheard of. These people do summons, not deliveries.

  There had been a fall. Asher was alive, but badly hurt. No details yet. They were going to take him straight to the med center. No expense would be spared. Doing all they could. Invaluable member of our community. Very sorry. Wishing the best.

  I think the Provost was expecting some kind of explosive reaction, which he’d rather have fielded in the privacy of her office. Instead, Gwen went as still as the grave, ended his ramblings with a short but polite “thank you,” and turned to her monitor, where she worked continuously until they wheeled Asher in.

  Fourteen hours. She rescheduled her and his teaching commitments planning for different contingencies, from one to four weeks off. She reallocated some of her unofficial duties to the third years, chick-handling in particular. She discussed with me whether I could take on her lecture duties entirely; after all, I’d heard them all, and helped her edit some of them. Gwen is convinced that her specialty is not complicated. I beg to differ, but that wasn’t my main objection. Nobody could take over my psi-duties if I was reassigned. She nodded, turned back to the monitor and carried right on working.

  She cleared her inbox. She cleared his inbox (I doubt Asher is even more than half aware that he has an inbox). She wrote two articles. The first one reverse-engineered some obscure link between disease incidence and the rise of cults. I submitted that for circulation. The other was almost too abstract for me to parse. It looked at the impact of gender on experience, and the impact of that experience on language use. It suggested that if experiences vary significantly between genders, language usage can diverge as a result. If experiences and language diverge enough, real understanding between genders could become impossible. I filed that one. I wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  I was bracing for the next project to hit me, when finally the call came. Asher had two broken legs, b
ut no other damage. He was being brought home. He was still unconscious, but his condition was stable.

  “I could never understand that expression,” she calmly told the Provost. “Dead is stable. It’s probably the stablest condition going.” But she thanked him, and she finally left her office and went to set up a temporary room. There was no question of dragging him up to the top of the tower, so she asked the service staff to install three beds in his office “It’s a familiar space. Make him feel at home,” she pointed out to them.

  I can’t help thinking that Asher’s office is also outside the campus walls and with a single entry point to defend, if we ever need to. I wonder if that had any bearing on her choice.

  We just got ourselves organized when they turn up, Asher on a stretcher, nanobot frames on both legs, looking as pale as the sheets. Aiden has a somber, taut expression that doesn’t suits his face. Nick’s eyes are red-rimmed and he’s blubbering in panic.

  “He was just crossing this overhang, about to start going vertical again, and the rock gave. But instead of falling straight down, he went backwards, somehow, away from the wall. Then the bolts gave, just popped out one after another, and he was hurtling head first into the floor, and then he wasn’t. He just twisted through the air like he was floating, and landed on his legs. I swear, in the Tank he would have just kissed the floor, but it was a long fall, and all that gravity… He hit hard, Gwen. But he didn’t die. Fall like that, he should have died.”

  The nanobots are rearranging the bone fragments in his shattered legs. He’ll be knocked out until that’s finished, because of the pain. He’s otherwise unharmed, as far as the medics can tell, but they will need to test for nerve damage in a few days. The news elicits no reaction from Gwen aside from a couple of nods and a final, curt ‘thank you’.