Heinlein's Finches

by Robin Banks

  “Well, I do love you, so that’s really not an issue, is it? And one of the reasons I love you is that you’d never do that. Same with all that other crap. Yes, you could do that, but you’re not an asshole nor a psychopath so you haven’t and you won’t. And I’ll swear to any god you care to pick that if you ever do anything like that I’ll kill you myself.”

  I realize we’ve been shouting at each other, and that I started. Breathe.

  “So what do you call what I did?”

  “Communication. I call it communication. You didn’t try to fool me that those feelings were my own. You didn’t even try to change my feelings. You just communicated your feelings and Gwen’s in a way I couldn’t misunderstand.” He nods. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it; the intensity of it, I mean. I hope I don’t. Sure it was different. Never felt anything like that before.”

  “I should hope not,” I scoff.

  “Will you cut that out? For as long as people have been people, we’ve been trying to communicate not only our thoughts, but our feelings to each other. Everything we tried has always come up short, only ever worked up to a point. You can pack everything you feel and mean into a painting or a song and the person who sees or hears it may get it or miss it or only half get it, and you’ll spend forever trying to bridge the gap with words. And words fail, too. I mean, I know what the color blue means to me, but I can’t even know for sure that you’re seeing the same color. So I’m using a symbol to convey a feeling and I can never really know if you got it.”

  “Words can fix that.”

  “Words have the exact same problem. The words may mean the same thing, but the whole construct around them could be totally different. Did I tell you about Gwen and Grandmother Zen?”

  “Eh? No.”

  “Terran philosophy called Zen. I don’t really get it, though I haven’t tried very hard and I probably should. Anyway, it requires practice; a kind of thinking practice, and living practice, too. There was a long-ass text Gwen was trying to interpret comparing real Zen and Grandmother Zen, saying that Grandmother Zen doesn’t get you any progress, and she couldn’t get anywhere with it. She just couldn’t parse it, and it was annoying the hell out of her. Turned out that she thought that Grandmother Zen was a particularly mean, vicious form of Zen. Because her grandma was vicious. So the author is trying to convey that Grandmother Zen is too soft, too kind to bring progress, and my girl thought that it might have been too toxic. She’s the smartest person I know, and she couldn’t think her way through that, because for her the word ‘grandmother’ carried connotations so ingrained that she couldn’t even see them. I had to tell her what a grandmother is supposed to be like. It was sad, really.” He turns to look at me with some concern. “You got grandmothers, right?”

  “Yeah, I have three.” He looks perplexed. “Communal household. We’re raised mostly by our aunties, the women who can’t work outside the house for a while, usually because they’re pregnant. We have Uncles too, but there aren’t so many of them and most of them have to go to work, so we don’t see them as much. So aunties come and go, depending on what they can do and where they’re needed, but your grandmothers are always there. They’re the women too frail to work away from the house, for whatever reasons. Some of them aren’t that old, really. Some households have a lot, some hardly any. We had three when I left. The men didn’t use to get to that age, but women are so tough. This generation of men will, though. They’re going to have grandfathers. That should be cool.”

  Asher is staring at me. “So here you’ve got the three of us all using the word ‘grandmother’, which means a pretty definite thing to most people, and assigning it with totally different meanings. And you think I can tell you that I love you, and you’ll know what I mean?”

  “I see your point, but that doesn’t give me the right to invade your head without your consent and change it.”

  “What did you do? Really. Factually.”

  “I used my psi-bilities to project my feelings. And Gwen’s.”

  “Your feelings,” he interrupts. “You used your psi-bilities to convey how you and Gwen feel about me. That’s communication, not brainwashing. You used your psi-bilities to put together and communicate a message. A message I desperately needed to hear and was in no fit state to.”

  “But my training...”

  “But your training was conducted by people who sought to weaponize you.”

  “What? They did their level best to help me control myself!”

  “They did their best to teach you that your power is inherently dangerous or just plain wrong and should only be used under special circumstances. Circumstances set by them. It never occurred to them to trust in your innate goodness. In your morals. Possibly because they didn’t have any.”

  I just want to scream at Asher, but I don’t know what words I could possibly pick, so I say nothing. My brain is spinning.

  “Think about it. There’s a huge difference between using your psi-bility to share your feelings, and using it to manipulate mine. But those jackasses never saw that. Maybe they didn’t know where to draw the line,” he says more gently. “Maybe they were scared that you wouldn’t know where to draw it yourself, so they decided to do it for you. But they hobbled you. Same as telling you that you can’t speak or sing or draw. It’s all communication. You can manipulate me with words. You’ve seen it done; you’ve seen how easy it was for me to…” He stops and works through a couple of breath cycles. “But you wouldn’t do that because you’re not an asshole. You’re not an asshole, and you’re not a freak. You have an ability most of us lack. That’s the extent of it. Gwen is smarter than us both put together; it doesn’t make her a freak. Don’t put yourself into a box just because they told you that you should, ‘cause they didn’t really know you and they didn’t have your best interest at heart.”

  “And you do?”

  “And I do. I fucking love you, asshole. And you have my best interest at heart, too, and that’s why you did what you did even though you thought it was a bad thing, an evil thing, a thing that made you an evil person.” I flinch at that. “You were full of shit, as it happens, but you were willing to do something bad to yourself in order to do something good for me.”

  “Wait. That doesn’t really stack up. It’s your mind I invaded…”

  He rolls his eyes. “You showed me a picture. A beautiful picture, too.” His eyes soften. “Thank you. I never thought… I mean, I know the woman loves me, because she’s said it and she’s lived it. Gods know that she wouldn’t have to put up with a lot of crap if she didn’t love me.” He sighs. “See, I think something like that, and it used to hurt. It used to hurt like hell. But now I think it and I see what she sees. I see what she sees in me. And it scary, too, you know? Because I have to live up to that. But she loves me so… solidly. And I respect her opinion. I respect her. That means I have to respect her opinion, otherwise my respect is bullshit. So I had my picture of her feelings for me, but now I have her picture, too; and they’re nothing like each other.” He looks amazed. “She really loves me. As do you. I really, really know that now. It’s not something I can ignore or talk myself out of. It’s not something I want to shit on. So yeah, you kinda changed my life, because you made me understand things better. My mind was all tangled up about it, for a long time, and then that asshole…” He frowns and trails off.

  “But now you’re better?” I don’t want him to think too hard about that episode.

  “Heh. I feel like I’ve been living all my life on a hoverboard. You can get on and do stuff, you know, but you constantly have to make an effort to keep balanced. Even when you get good at it, it still takes it out of you. It makes everything harder. But now I’ve got something solid to base my life on. I mean, even if we all die tomorrow, it will not erase how it was. We know each other, and we really love each other, and we’re good for each other. It’s a big deal. Way we feel, our happiness and sadness are all intertwined. But more than that, your pictures of me a
re real. You two can see the real me. You can see how I am in the real world. And that guy doesn’t suck.” I laugh at that. “You think this is funny?” he frowns.

  “Hilarious. I could have told you that. Anyone could have told you that.”

  “No, they couldn’t. You could. The way you put it across was the only way I could get it. So you still think you’re a monster who did a terrible, immoral thing?”

  I can’t seem to find a good answer. “I don’t think the end justifies the means. But maybe you’re right about the means, too. I will have to think about it.” I lock eyes with him because I really need to know. “So you’re ok? You’re ok with me doing that?”

  “I’m ok with you doing that. I’m fucking thankful. Even if I hadn’t needed it, and I did, it would have been something. But right there and then,” he shakes his head, “I was all torn up, and you helped me get myself back together. More together than I was before. This changes everything for me. And now I have to live with those changes, no going back, and that’s scary as hell. But it’s good.”

  “I still don’t know that I did the right thing, though.”

  “If you don’t believe what I say, come and look for yourself. You know how to. You only have to do it.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Show you how I feel the best way I can? Why wouldn’t I?” He sighs and puts his hand on my cheek. I lean into it; things have been so hectic lately that we’ve had next to no physical intimacy. I realize now how much I’ve missed it. I’ve missed having him close to me. And I also realize that this is closeness is nothing compared to the closeness we could have if I lowered my shields. Knowing that he’d let me do that is dizzying.

  I put my hand over his, and hold it there.

  “So are you going to try now?”

  “Try what?”

  “See how I feel. Lower your shields and let me show you. Let me take that weight off your shoulders, like you took mine off. I miss you. And I think you owe me that.”

  “Owe you?”

  He grins. “You showed me yours. You should give me the opportunity to show you mine. It’s only fair.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I will just have to keep telling you the same shit until you’re bored rigid with it, or until you believe me. But showing is better.” And with that he pulls me down on the bed next to him. I thought he’d be angry, but his eyes are full of sadness.

  “Don’t leave me out. Please. And don’t let me be the person who caused you to leave everybody else out, too. I don’t want to bear the guilt of that.”

  He puts his hand on my chest, over my heart. And I realize how much I’ve missed him; how his presence in a room, next to me, in my bed, is so much paler and vaguer when I only look at him with my eyes. He looks as wistful as I feel. I can’t bear to have him so close and so far and so sad. I have to unshield then.

  When I open my ‘eye’ he’s right there, feelings rushing from sadness to hope to relief to joy, the sense of him, everything that makes him, flooding me. When I close my eyes, I can still feel him. I’ve missed him so much without admitting it to myself that now I don’t want to shield up again, but I know that I’m projecting and I know that’s wrong. But because I’m projecting, he senses my shame and my pulling away from him, and he reaches forward in my mind following the path I laid down and shows me. He really isn’t angry at me. He really isn’t. He’s glad. And he is better. Less fractured. Mending.

  I think back on the days since we got here, and not once have I heard him cry in his sleep.

  He reads the unspoken question in my eyes, and answers. “It’s not over. Not yet. Maybe it will never be over. But it’s ok. It’s good enough. Manageable. And knowing that makes it all ok. Make sense?”

  “No. But I can feel it.”

  We lie on the bed for a few minutes reveling in each other’s presence. Then he shakes himself off and takes a deep breath.

  “See? I was right and you were wrong. Again. You should get used to it.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Later. I have to help Uncle Charlie with one of his gewgaws, and Martha could walk in on us. Plus Gwen would be jealous. I’m sure that blonde hair has gone to her head. Pun not intended. She’s way too full of herself these days. Damn near unbearable and utterly uncontrollable.”

  “Could be the fact that she doesn’t have to worry about getting killed all the time, and she’s actually having fun for a change?”

  “Could be. I hope it’s the blonde hair, though. Then it would grow out.”

  He hauls himself off the bed and hobbles towards the door, leaving me there, amazed and relieved and more than a little bit horny, but not trapped inside myself. Not anymore.

  While Gwen and Aiden are away, I’m left with nothing to do. That’s allowing me way too much spare time for fretting about them, so I try to keep busy. I spend a lot of time pestering poor Martha, who is immensely patient and kind but also very busy. Everything takes twice as long when I try to help her, but she genuinely doesn’t mind. I know this, because I’ve felt it. And she doesn’t mind the fact that I’ve felt that, either.

  I’m trying to do something new with my psi-bility; namely nothing. I hardly ever consciously force the rest of my senses to operate in a certain way, or shut them down. I let my eyes and ears and nose and skin work on autopilot. When it comes to my psi-bility, I haven’t let it operate unchecked since they took me away to the lab. When I told Asher, he was more stunned than I expected.

  “You’re telling me that you’ve spent the last twelve years consciously managing your psi-bility? Never giving yourself a break?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Every minute of every day?”

  “Unless I’m asleep, yeah. I thought you knew. I mean, you know I meditate and shield and do focusing exercises.”

  “Yeah, but I thought you only messed around with that when you had to. I didn’t know you did it all the time. That sounds exhausting, and completely uncalled for. Can’t you just let it do its thing, whatever its thing is?”

  “It doesn’t really seem fair. I mean, I have an unfair advantage on people. I have a sense they don’t expect me to have.”

  “And that differs from having unusually good hearing or eyesight or observational skills or analytical abilities how?”

  “Oh, come on. It does, really. I see stuff other people don’t. Not that it always helps. Marcus made that abundantly clear.”

  “Heh. That’s what happens when you fall for a pretty face. It’s easy to forget to look at what’s behind it.”

  “Keep rubbing it in, why don’t you. And anyway when he was around I was actively trying not to read him. Like I actively try not to read people unless I have to.”

  “But why? I mean, I understand not projecting, or not reading on purpose. But why can’t you just let it be?”

  “Seems intrusive. And unfair. Underhanded.”

  “Only if you don’t tell people about it. It’s not underhanded if you tell them. And if they don’t want you to use your gift around them, you can shield. Hell, if you’re not shielding and you tell them and they’re not happy, you’ll bloody well know about it. So what’s the fuss?”

  “I think you’re oversimplifying it.”

  “I think you’re overcomplicating it.”

  “I think you might be right. Now what?”

  “Well, either you get on with it, or you don’t.”

  “But how do I start?”

  He shrugs. “Any way you like. How about, the first person you meet, you tell them? See what they say. I’m pretty sure you’re making a huge fuss over nothing, but I could be wrong.”

  If I tell myself that I’m just waiting for the right moment, I’ll end up waiting forever, so I decide to take Asher’s advice. The first person to walk into my room is Raul, bearing gifts. Well, kinda. He’s holding a little tank inside which floats a brown, spherical blob about as big as my two fists.

  “There you go. Here’s your DN
A bag.”

  I stare at it a while. “Well, I’ve got to say, that is one of the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”

  He frowns. “Thank you? They take a lot of work to make, you know.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s just something about it I’m finding intensely creepy. What exactly is it?”

  “A little bag of you. Mostly fat and blood, wrapped in your very own skin. I made you one each. I’m about to take them out and freeze them, because otherwise they don’t last, but I thought you might like to take a look.”

  “That’s my skin there? My actual skin?”

  “Yeah. I wasn’t strictly necessary, but it’s fun to do. It makes it a bit more of a challenge. Plus this way when you blow them up you can get chunks of skin splattered all over the place. Better for the forensics.”

  I stare at him, torn between admiration and revulsion. “You never cease to surprise me. Scare me, too.”

  He beams. “So, you want to touch it?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “You won’t get another chance. Probably ever.”

  I shake my head. “You’re a terrible influence. Do I have to stick my hand in there, or are you going to get the damn thing out?”

  “You can fish it out yourself.”

  “I know I’m going to regret this, but I’m going to regret not doing it even more.”

  I stick my hand inside the tank and give the floating blob a couple of pokes. It feels unpleasantly squidgy. Raul is struggling not to laugh at me, so I take a deep breath, lower my hand below the blob and scoop it out of the tank. I hold it for long enough to prove my bravery before I have to put it back in. It’s making me want to gag.

  “Well, that was it. I did it. Happy now?”

  “You tell me.” He’s suddenly looking uncharacteristically sheepish.

  It takes me a few moments to work out what he’s on about.

  “Hang on a moment. Did Asher put you up to this?”