Fighting Gravity (3 page)

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3

We buzzed with nervous energy the next morning. It was still early when our last three classmates followed Director Kagawa into the lounge; two boys and a girl.

The three newcomers were minor celebrities for the rest of the morning. Of the three off-worlders, two weren’t human. Verishr, a too-tall, too-thin girl was Ramarian, and her pale violet-blue skin glowed faintly if she stood near the windows. Io was a Tlo, black as night with hair and eyes a shining, metallic silver. The other children were as affected as I was by the novelty—though Sasha blustered about his father being friends with the Tlosian ambassador and how he’d stayed at their house before—and the excitement helped the morning pass.

About an hour and a half after lunch, the director entered the lounge and announced that we were approaching the IIC. We rushed to the large window and watched for a first glimpse.

The transport passed into a long, level valley covered in a thick carpet of new green grass. Soggy patches of snow littered the ground at the base of the mountains. A flat, glassy lake in the center of the valley reflected the mountains in reverse; its mirrored surface creating the illusion of another world opening up just below the water.

I leaned close to the window, drinking in the sight of the water flashing by. The other children’s excited murmurs made me look up and I saw a cluster of buildings coming into view. They were stark white, as white as the snow on the mountains, with no frill or ostentation; matter shaped and defined for a purpose far more important than subjective beauty. The transport circled around to the front of the main building, touching down before the public entrance to the IIC. The massive front doors were of a polished black wood that gleamed like metal. We disembarked in an overawed unison.

The director led us into the main lobby of the building. White stone, maybe even marble, covered the floors and walls. A mural was set into the wall all around, strips of metal and shiny polymers twisted among and around wood, stone, and bright splashes of color. The effect resolved into scenes of scholars poring over tablets, scientists in their labs, even the Newtonian apple falling from the tree. And one image of a lone boy staring up at a star-splashed night sky.

The director brought us to stand before a large statue in the middle of the room, carved from ebony stone.

“A representation of our great founder,” he intoned. “You are the twenty-second Selection.” He fixed each of us in turn with a serious look. “The process of Selection, as it is now, dates back only a hundred years. But the IIC, the idea of the IIC, is over three hundred years old.”

He paused to make sure we were properly impressed.

“Thirty decades before your parents were born, in the days when the people of Earth were still being liberated from their broken, squabbling nations, still recovering from their religious wars—still being consolidated into our great Empire—the new Duke Edmund, brother of our second emperor, James II, envisioned a collection of all the best minds in the world. He proposed to his brother a home for the growth of ideas, a place to nurture the great genius scattered among humanity, and thus the Imperial Intellectual Ministry was born. At its founding, it was a voluntary grouping of scientists and thinkers. As it grew in size and scope, the first building of what was to become the Imperial Intellectual Complex was constructed; the very building in which you stand.”

We all looked around again, as if the building would look different now.

“Every five years, twenty children are chosen for this great purpose. It is now your turn to join this illustrious institution; to add your genius to the greatest minds of your time. This is a privilege and a responsibility beyond measure. A responsibility you will take seriously. The work you do here is a sacred duty to the Empire.”

He turned and bowed his head in reverent silence before the statue. His theatrics were entertaining, but I was already bored with them. He obviously had a high opinion of himself by way of his connection to this place.

At the conclusion of his moment of silence, he turned back to face us. “Because this place,” he gestured to the area surrounding the statue, “is a vivid reminder of the august purpose of this institution, it is here that I teach you a very important lesson in the responsibilities you now bear and the expectations we have of your conduct.”

He turned to me. “Mr. Dawes.” He said my name as if it tasted bad in his mouth.

My heart stuttered and I felt my stomach hit my shoes.

“By rights, you should not be here. Your behavior and personality scores disqualified you from Selection. However, because of your exceptionally high academic scores, your file was given special review and it was the decision of the Committee to grant you an exception. In other words, a more deserving, more appropriate child is not here because the Committee chose to ignore what you are, and excuse your obvious failings.”

My heart was pounding in my ears. I knew what it meant to be me. Nothing good came out of the unclass. We were little better than animals. Of course they’d never allow one of us in a place like this. It was as logical and inexorable as gravity, inertia, or the speed of light in a vacuum.

I knew.

But I suppose I’d thought that the IIC was different. Like fairytales or null gravity. The old rules wouldn’t apply, anything was possible.

But they did, and it wasn’t.

“After that disgraceful scene in your home, I petitioned the Committee to reconsider. They did not. But I have been assured that, should your behavior continue in that vein, I may submit future incidents for consideration toward your removal and replacement. It is only a matter of time. I am confident that you are incapable of acting otherwise.”

My face was hot. I was torn between paralyzing fear and an ache to punch his arrogant face.

“Your disruptive, offensive behavior will not be tolerated. I will be keeping an eye on you. The entire faculty will be informed of your unsuitability and will be charged with reducing your negative impact on the other students and members while you remain here. And to make that clear, you will not proceed one foot further into this venerable building until I have impressed that point on you and all your classmates.”

The steward had left us earlier, but now he returned and handed the director a thin, flexible cane. “Bend over that table,” he ordered. I burned with fury, humiliation, and the injustice of the situation. This wasn’t punishment for punching the policeman, it was not discipline; it was something else entirely. He meant to shame me in front of the other children.

I had a strong urge to spit in his face, but had the sense and restraint not to. Defiance would be a waste of effort. They would just hold me down and I would cause myself that much more embarrassment, without avoiding the whipping at all.

But I had my own resources that he knew nothing about. I held his gaze just until he began to draw a deep, angry breath. Before he could say anything, I moved to the table he had indicated, and bent over.

What the director could not know, and would not be expecting, was that he couldn’t win this way. I was no stranger to punishments in this manner, but far more important than that, I was a longtime veteran of my father’s beatings. Father’s thrashings had been much worse, more painful and terrifying, than anything Director Kagawa could ever do. They had, of necessity, been endured in silence—infinitely worse if I whimpered or shed a tear that he could see. And so, from much practice, I could hold my peace even through a vicious beating.

Kagawa brought the cane crashing down and I clamped my tongue between my teeth and made no sound. By the eighth bruising blow, I was trembling with the effort of holding back any reaction he could see, but I had succeeded. I had won.

“Stand up,” he snapped.

I did, fighting the crazy urge to grin at him as triumph throbbed through me in time with the pain in my backside.

The other children were watching me, wide eyed. I slipped back into the group beside Kirti. Tears streamed down her face. I reached over and took her hand, squeezing it in reassurance. With a frustrated huff, Director Kagawa led us out of the lobby and into the great hall, stabbing the cane on the floor in time with his steps.

The great hall was enormous, the size of a football field and three stories tall. The empty space was broken at intervals by large tables covered in fresh flowers or graceful sculptures, sort of tortured and writhing, that looked like nothing at all.

There was a group of adults waiting for us, all dressed in the uniform of the IIC.

They were introduced to us as the various department heads, the teachers, and Mr. Shrik, the Head of Dormitories. We were presented to them as a group, but Director Kagawa pointed me out as an individual. He warned the assembled to be wary of me as a discipline issue, a disruptive element, and a dangerous influence on the other children. He instructed them to keep a close eye on me and to tolerate no offense whatsoever, no matter how minor.

My face was hot but I refused to bow my head or lower my eyes, instead meeting their disapproving looks with one of defiance. Looking back, I realize that wasn’t a terribly intelligent response to the situation. No doubt, it only confirmed what the director had said.

Director Kagawa did me an incredible favor that day. Had he watched me and plotted in silence, he might very well have gotten the proof he needed to have me removed from the IIC. I was always stubborn and rebellious, but by setting up the expectation for me to misbehave, he gave me something to rebel against that helped rather than harmed me. So I resolved to be exemplary in word and deed, academically and personally. I vowed to myself that whatever I truly thought or felt, he would never see it and would never have opportunity to condemn me for it.

It is humbling now to realize how much I owe that man, whom I so passionately hated.

-

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a tour of the main buildings, and lessons in the rules and routines of our new home.

As we were walking through the building set aside for medical facilities, I was pulled aside by a young woman in a white smock.

I cast a glance at the teacher conducting the tour but he just nodded for me to go.

I followed the woman into a stark, sterile room.

“Sit there,” she said, pointing to a raised table with a stepstool in front of it. I did as she said, trying not to squirm—and not just because of the stripes I was sitting on.

She joined a man on the other side of the room and they both cast a glance back at me. The man grimaced.

“You were right,” the woman said, “they really did bring one.”

The man scoffed. “Unbelievable. Have you seen this? No medical data on this one. None at all. If he didn’t have a citID I’d have a hard time believing he was real.”

“Emperor only knows what we’re going to have to treat him for.”

“Everything. Whatever it is he’s probably got it.”

“I’m going to have to order most of the inoculations. We don’t even stock that stuff.”

“Well we’ve got the STD panels, at least.”

“He’s probably too young to start those, isn’t he?”

“An unclass? I’d be surprised if he didn’t have half the diseases already. Wouldn’t hurt to start the repro-control either. Can’t start too early with them.”

I rejoined the group an hour later, my face still burning. Kirti cast me a questioning look but I just shook my head and wouldn’t look at her.

-

At the end we were shown to our own rooms.

The room I entered took my breath away. This couldn’t be for me alone. It was huge by my standards at the time—fifteen by twenty feet, with a large window in the wall across from the door.

There was a sitting area, and past that a bed with a nightstand on each side. A full double bed.

The closet was full of clothes. There were ten complete uniforms: navy jackets, crisp white shirts, slate gray pants, two of them dress uniforms. There were casual outfits and sports suits, and on the floor of the closet were four different pairs of shoes.

In the drawers beside the closet were an unfathomable number of pairs of underwear and socks. (I blushed to imagine the embarrassing situations they must have been anticipating, to provide so many at one time.) There were even undershirts, something I couldn’t begin to imagine a necessity for in this place that was surely always warm enough. Another drawer was full of sets of pajamas. It was an embarrassment of riches.

To the right of the entry door was the most incredible desk. The entire surface was one continuous vid screen. I turned it on with a touch. With only a few swipes of my fingers I was able to open at least ten different documents while leaving ample room in the middle front to input my own work. Happiness tingled in my whole body.

On top of that shock, I discovered I had a bathroom all my own. The shower was big enough to wash yourself in without ever hitting your elbows on the walls.

I wandered back over to the closet, looking down the line of crisp, new shirts. I stripped out of the borrowed clothes and, almost trembling, put on one—one of several—of my new suits of clothes. I was running my hands over the selection of socks when I heard the dinner bell. I looked up in panic. Dinner. I was supposed to be in uniform and on time.

I stumbled into socks and shoes, fought with one of the confounding neckties, grabbed a coat and dashed into the hall and the noisy press of the other boys. Chuck grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop.

“Here,” he said, “like this.” With one tug my tie unraveled, and in a flurry he had it rearranged so that it looked like everyone else’s.

“Thank you,” I breathed.

“I’m not helping you with your fly, though,” he said over his shoulder with a laugh as he rushed ahead to join the other boys. I zipped up and hurried after them.

-

The dining hall was as impressive as the great hall, in its way. There were long, dark tables set in parallel lines across the width of the room, enough to accommodate the more than 350 members of the IIC, from the youngest student (me, actually) to the oldest fellow, a centenarian from twenty Selections ago.