Bridgebuilders
Page 8
“Did she give you a reason?”
He held his breath, thinking, then let it out in a rush. “No, ma'am, except to say that her parents will not give their permission.” He decided to take a risk. “Would you have any information about the family that might shed light on that?”
She hesitated, which surprised him. But she sat back in her chair, jaw tight with decision. “You understand this is sensitive information. You must not speak of it to anyone. If you feel it will help with Miss Sherman, by all means speak to her about it. But she must not know this came from me.”
He nodded, thoroughly alarmed. “Of course.”
“I have nothing specific, you understand. But my years at this school have given me a sixth sense, if you will, about the girls in my care.”
He nodded again.
Her gaze seemed to shift inward, as if searching for the right words. “I suspect Miss Sherman's family lives in a Fundamentalist Protectorate. If so, this may be what is holding her back from college.”
Andy realized he was holding his breath, and he sighed as he shook his head. “She's never mentioned anything of the sort.”
“Has she mentioned anything, Mr. Green, about her life or family?”
“Of c ...” but a dawning uneasiness rose in his chest. He stared at the desktop, ransacking his last two years in Moira's company. He shook his head in shameful disbelief. “No, she hasn't,” he said. “I can't think of a single instance.” He gazed at the Lioness, mentally kicking himself for missing this. “But I can assure you, Headmistress, that Miss Sherman does not subscribe to a fundamentalist belief. If her family belongs to one, she is there unwillingly.”
For the first time in his experience, Headmistress Lionel-Spencer looked disturbed. She caressed her desk, her hand gliding a feather's width above the sheen, her eyes following the movement. Her cheek twitched. “Hence, her hope to wait until she is eighteen, and can legally leave.” She met Andy's gaze. “It is the scenario which makes the most sense, given what little I know of her family, and of my observations of her over the years. It would be helpful if you could find out what the situation is. Encourage her to speak to me, please. I have tried a few times, but she never opens up. She may feel more comfortable with you. Assure her that there are steps I can take, including holding a slot for her application to university. This is allowed in special circumstances, and I would make sure she qualifies. But she must declare herself in need of asylum.”
“She's afraid,” Andy said, his voice soft.
“I know,” the Headmistress said. “It's the one consistent emotion I've seen in her during her years at Strickert.”
~~~
Later, in his lab at Oxford, Andy inserted Kebbie’s datastick into his computer and called up the Read Me file. Cargo manifests for NISS? What in bloody hell do they want with that information?
He chewed his bottom lip while he thought about it. The data stream for The New International Space Station lay under an extra layer of security in Sun’s servers. He could get into them, of course. He even had a low level clearance for some of it, as he sometimes worked with scientists stationed on NISS. But shipping did not fall under his certificate.
Best to go in through an unrelated back door, he decided. Don’t leave crumbs for them to chase. He set it up, taking his time to triple-code the worm before he slipped it into the system. The worm went to work, restoring his computer to its proper functioning. The stick lit up as data began streaming onto it.
Andy nodded once, then flipped his screen to a concealed search engine, and called up the archives for the British parliament. Headmistress Lionel had mentioned protectorates, and he wanted to look over the actual law which had first established them. This took longer than his usual searches as the government had never learned how to store data efficiently. But in about ten minutes, he had it up and began to read.
Fundamentalist Protectorates
Be it enacted by the King’s most Excellent Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this present Parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:
A declared Fundamentalist Protectorate holds clear and inviolate protection under the law, to function solely according to the established and recorded creed of its members ...
Andy swallowed in distaste, lifting his hand from the keyboard in an effort to put some distance between himself and the abhorrent law. He'd never agreed with this ruling. But parliament had passed it fifty years ago, in response to the famines and religious wars of the 2020's, amid the public's clamoring for safety and food. His reading of history showed the work of tyrants and war lords, in the guise of priests, imams, and ministers, convincing the starving survivors of their need to repent, to live in enclaves of strict discipline, to obey in all things.
That the enclaves had worked, was more a sign of how bad things were, in Andy's opinion, than of any truth or reason to the creed.
You don't know that Moira's family belongs to one, he chided himself. But he couldn't shake the feeling the Lioness was right in her assessment of Moira. And that he, with all his vaunted admiration of the girl, with all his secret, hopeful love for her, had never even suspected.
Do I truly care for her? Or just for the idea of such a brilliant girl being with me?
He turned to the computer behind him, protected against traces with the best fail-safes he could write. His fingers hesitated over the virtual keys, his jaw working as he thought, before he typed,
Was it that easy?
Fool. Foolish, eejit bastard, so lost in the turn-on of getting a genius like her to notice you.
“I never saw her pain.” He spoke out loud, unable to move his eyes from the screen.
And opened the first web page.
~~~
Andy could not stop trembling the next evening, as he entered his class room, which was empty of all except Moira, who was perched on a stool near the windows. Her back was to him, her attention on the lab reports turned in by the fifth-year students. He let the door close, clutching his Pad in both hands, biting his lip so hard he winced. He would do anything in the world to not hurt or frighten her. Yet he was certain that tonight, he would do both.
He walked to her side, silent. She glanced up, her smile of greeting fading as she saw his face. He held the Pad to his chest, a shield.
“I've done some investigating,” he said. Her face went pale, but she didn't look away. “You may hate me, you have every right to hate me. But you must talk to me about this.”
He set the Pad in front of her, its screen displaying the home page of the Chelmsford enclave, the leader’s visage staring at them from an upper corner.
Her hands flashed in a violent slash, sending the Pad clattering off the table to slide along the floor. She moved faster than he thought possible for anyone to move, dashing past him to the door. But he caught her before she could open it, holding it closed and touching her shoulder with all the tenderness he could muster. Her hand slapped the handle, her mouth open in a silent scream.
“Moira, please.” He knew he should remove his hand, but he couldn't let her go. “All this time, I never knew this. I considered myself your friend, yet I never guessed. You may never forgive me, but please, please, let me help you. If not me, then the Headmistress. Or another teacher. Someone.”
She stiffened, facing the door, her head bowed, eyes squeezed shut. He controlled himself enough to remove his hand from her arm. He took her hand in both of his. “I understand that you never wanted anyone to know. That you don't trust anyone to help you. You may have very good reasons for feeling that way. But I am your friend. It would be improper for me to say how much I care for you, but you must at least know that I am your friend. That I will never rest until you are safe, and until you have the future that you deserve.”
There was the slightest release of
tension in the hand he held. She still did not move, but she bit her lip. She was listening.
“You have plans for your future. Plans for attaining it. I am in awe of the strength and courage that must take. You may feel you can't share your plans with me, and that's fine. I won't press. But talk to me, Moira. Please.”
The hand in his pulled away, and he let it go. She stared at the door handle. “I'd like to go, please.”
It was a test. And he knew as sure as he knew anything that the rest of his life depended on passing it.
He opened the door. “Certainly. You know where to find me.”
She disappeared down the hall without a word. He turned and sank to the floor, resting his head against the wall, swiping tears from his face. He didn't know how to help her. Should he go to the Lioness? He was certain the Headmistress knew all of it. She was as capable of research as he. But would Moira consider it a breach of trust? Did it matter, if in the end she was safe?
Footsteps stopped at his door and he looked up, uncaring of whatever explanation would be demanded for his state.
Moira stood in the doorway, her face washed, tissues clenched in her hands. She looked at him with trepidation, then shook her head a little and slipped into a chair.
“Where do I start?”
Relief warred with his nerves. Don’t scare her again. Questions crowded his mind, but he started with safest topic he could think of.
“I read the creed. Some of his articles, some of the debates. He holds one of the most misogynist viewpoints I've ever seen published. Why did he send you here, to a school famous for turning out strong, independent women?”
She twisted the tissues, not looking at him. “He has a couple of reasons for that. One is that he can be sure I'm kept from boys. The other is that I'm an embarrassment to him. Girls in the enclave are not educated past the seventh year. If I were home, and attending the local school, I'd be a constant affront to the other parishioners. This way, I'm sort of out-of-sight, out-of-mind.” She shrugged. “I can't tell you exactly why he chose Strickert, but I can tell you he couldn't care less about its reputation for a strong education.”
“Okay.” Andy steepled his fingers, tapping his lips. “But why is he continuing your education? Why didn't he pull you out after the seventh year?”
She stared at the shreds in her hand. “I think it has something to do with my father.”
“Your father? I don't understand.”
“Cyrus Sherman is my stepfather. My mother ... left my father, and brought my brothers and me to the enclave when I was eight. My father didn't want us to go, but he was sick, and couldn't stop her. In fact, he was dying, although I didn't know it at the time. Evidently, he made Cyrus promise to educate me. Cyrus told me he was honoring my father's death-bed request.”
She glanced up to meet Andy's gaze. “He teaches that honor between men is sacred, something about the agreement between the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” Her lips twitched, possibly at the doubtful astonishment Andy couldn't keep from his face. “My father was not a Christian, at least not how Cyrus defines one, and his request was improper, Cyrus said. Nevertheless, Cyrus felt it was his duty to carry it out.”
“He's looney, isn't he?”
She nodded. “Although in this case, it's worked to my advantage. Cyrus is so entrenched in running the enclave, and in his own teachings, that he truly never considered I would learn about the real world. About history, and the reasons for our current government. He never considered I would learn I could be free.”
She ended on a whisper, and Andy had to look down, breathing deep to hold back tears. He had to know more.
When he could speak again, he raised his head. He had to be careful how he phrased this. “I read his teachings that women are the cause of evil in the world. That they gain their salvation through a man.” He stopped to swallow, to quell the nausea his words caused him. He could hardly speak such hateful nonsense. How did other people live and die by it?
Moira shrugged into his pause. “I decided a long time ago I'd rather not have salvation on those terms. I no longer believe any of it is true, anyway.”
“That's good,” Andy said. “I didn't think you believed it, but I'm glad to hear you say so. But Moira,” he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “his teachings are so extreme. He doesn't describe methodology on the website, but I am concerned. Moira, does he use ... that is to say ... does he teach that it's acceptable ... to use violence against women?”
Her gaze dropped back to the tissues, her face flushed with color. Seconds passed. When she nodded, his heart seemed to split in two.
He stood and lifted a small chair, to place it quietly next to her. He sank into the chair, near enough to touch her, but taking care not to do so. “Has he hurt you?”
Her feet slid forward, as if to carry her away, but she brought them back against her chair. The tissues were dust in her hands.
“Yes. Nearly every day I'm home.”
“God dammit.” He whispered the curse, overcome with agony. He touched the back of her head, her hair soft against his fingers. He murmured her name, then other things, not quite aware of what he was saying. He could not see past the rage and shame her words had roused in him, and he felt helpless to control himself. He kept his hand on her head, his forehead pressed to her crown as he whispered.
“Don't.” She stood in one swift move and stepped away, before turning to face him. “You're shocked because you've just learned this,” she said, her words spilling out as tears fell down her cheeks. “But I've lived with it for years. I don't want your comfort. I want what you've always given me. Do you have any idea how much you've helped me? Your respect for me and your friendship. All the talks we've had, how you spoke of your studies, all the things you were discovering. You shared that with me, all of it, as if ... as if I were your equal, as if my thoughts and opinion mattered. It seemed to make you happy, helping me to learn, and I never want that to end. I always wanted to be free, but you showed me a life to be free for. Please, don't ever stop showing me that.”
“I never will.” He stood, reaching for his own tissues and turning to his desk. By the time he got there he'd pulled himself together, at least as much as possible. He faced her, propping himself against the desk.
“You're quite right, pity won't help you. Although, in my defense, pity is far from what I'm feeling. Still,” he paused, studying her for a moment as she wiped her face. When she glanced at him, he continued. “Miss Sherman, it has been the highest honor of my life to be your teacher. To be your friend is my greatest delight. I am horrified at what I've learned today. On some level, I feel that I've failed you.” He held up a hand against her protest. “I do, and you must allow me this. I've worked with you for two years and never saw this. All the holidays, when I simply said good-bye, never knowing what you went home to.” His voice shook, and he stopped to bring it back under control. He tapped the desk near his leg. “It ends,” he said. “I don't know how, but I will see to it, that it ends, now.”
She sighed. “Are you thinking of police? Of social services and courts?”
“It's a place to start.”
“No, Mr. Green.” She came up the aisle between desks, to toss the shreds of tissues into the wastebasket and stand in front of him. Her cheeks were splotchy from crying, but her eyes were dry and determined. “It's been done, you see. Four years ago, some new people moved next door to us, and saw my stepfather beating me. They called the police. Who came promptly, to stand guard while he finished the beating. The neighbors filed reports with social services, even went before a judge. But the law is quite clear in these cases, Mr. Green. And in Chelmsford, most of the townspeople belong to my stepfather's enclave. All of the police do. All of the elected officials, including the judges. The neighbors moved away quite soon, with reason to fear for their lives.”
He couldn't make himself speak. A sad smile curved a corner of her lips, and she turned to stand next to him, leaning against the desk. Her
shoulder brushed his arm. “I've made plans for getting away. They are far from perfect, but I must work within the reality I have. I don't intend to go home this summer.” She glanced up, as if to gauge his reaction, before continuing. “Most enclave girls are married off by fourteen, for convoluted reasons having to do with husbands and salvation. My stepfather takes my salvation quite seriously. Enough, I'm afraid, to overcome his sense of duty to my father. I'm almost seventeen, and I don't believe he'll allow me to return to school next year. His recent lessons have taken a turn toward this, and I'm sure he plans to marry me off this summer.” She shook her head. “I cannot be there for that to happen.”
He felt himself coming undone again, but he managed to stop his hand before it touched her. He let it drop back to the desk. “Most assuredly not,” he said, his voice shaking. “I'm relieved to hear you say that. You must understand that I would not be able to stand by and watch you go back there.”
She turned her head to regard him. Her voice was gentle, but her words were firm. “I do not want you to get involved, Mr. Green. I do not want you to help me.”
She may as well have stabbed him. “Why? Do I frighten you, that I care for you as much as I do? That I haven't always acted properly? Because I swear I'll never put you in an awkward ...” She was shaking her head, and he stopped. “Do you just want to handle it yourself? I can understand that, but this is far too big a problem for one person. No one can escape from these things, alone.”
Her eyes were full of affection, enough to make him hold his breath in wonder, but she remained serious. She placed a hand on his arm, its warmth making him shiver.
“I need you, Mr. Green. I need you to do what you do, and be what you are. So that when I'm free, when later I begin to build my life again, you'll be there. I'll need your references, your contacts, anything you can do for me, to help me get back into school. If you try to help me now ... the penalties are too severe. If it doesn't work, I could be trapped for life, and so could you. You could spend your entire life in prison. If you'll take no other arguments, take this one: if I do get away, you won't be able to help me from prison.”