“It was an accident. An accident, I’m sure of it. The implant failed. Aren has a boy in town; they spend all their time together. We thought nothing of it because of the implant, but then it failed, and—we didn’t say anything because we were scared. That’s all. We should have told the committee as soon as we knew. I’m sorry—I know now that that was wrong. You’ll take that into consideration?”
“When did you know? All of you, starting with Aren—when did you know of the pregnancy?”
The young woman’s first words were halting, choked. Crying had thickened her throat. “Must … must have been … two months in, I think. I was sick. I just knew.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No, no one. I was scared.”
They were all terrified. That sounded true.
“And the rest of you?”
Murmurs answered. The men shook their heads, said they’d only known for a month or so, when she could no longer hide the new shape of her. They knew for sure the day that Frain ranted about it. “I didn’t rant,” the man said. “I was only surprised. I lost my temper, that was all.”
Felice said, “I knew when she got sick. I’ve been pregnant—” Her gaze went to the banner on the wall. “I know the signs. I asked her, and she told.”
“You didn’t think to tell anyone?”
“Frain told me not to.”
So Frain knew, at least as soon as she did. The man glared fire at Felice, who wouldn’t lift her gaze.
“Aren, might I speak to you alone?”
The woman cringed, back curled, arms wrapped around her belly.
“I’ll go with you, dear,” Felice whispered.
“Alone,” Enid said. “Bert will wait here. We’ll go outside. Just a short walk.”
Trembling, Aren stood. Enid stood aside to let her walk out the door first. She caught Bert’s gaze and nodded. He nodded back.
Enid guided her on the path away around the house, to the garden patch and pond behind. She went slowly, letting Aren set the pace.
The physical state of a household carried information: whether rakes and shovels were hung up neat in a shed or closet, or piled haphazardly by the wall of an unpainted barn. Whether the herb garden thrived, if there were flowers in window boxes. If neat little water-smoothed stones edged the paths leading from one building to another, or if there were just dirt tracks worn into the grass. She didn’t judge a household by whether or not it put a good face to the world—but she did judge them by whether or not the folk in a household worked to put on a good face for themselves. They had to live with it, look at it every single day.
This household did not have a good face. The garden patch was only just sprouting, even this far into spring. There were no flowers. The grass along the path was overgrown. There was a lack of care here that made Enid angry.
But the pond was pretty. Ducks paddled around a stand of cattails, muttering to themselves.
Enid had done this before, knew the questions to ask and what possible answers she might get to those questions. Every moment reduced the possible explanations. Heavens, she was tired of this.
Enid said, “Stop here. Roll up your sleeve.”
Aren’s overlarge tunic had wide sleeves that fell past her wrists. They’d be no good at all for working. The young woman stood frozen. Her lips were tightly pursed, to keep from crying.
“May I roll the sleeve up, then?” Enid asked carefully, reaching.
“No, I’ll do it,” she said, and clumsily pushed the fabric up to her left shoulder.
She revealed an angry scar, puckered pink, mostly healed. Doing the math, maybe seven or eight months old. The implant had been cut out, the wound not well treated, which meant she’d probably done it herself.
“Did you get anyone to stitch that up for you?” Enid asked.
“I bound it up and kept it clean.” At least she didn’t try to deny it. Enid guessed she would have, if Frain were there.
“Where did you put the implant after you took it out?”
“Buried it in the latrine.”
Enid hoped she wouldn’t have to go after it for evidence. “You did it yourself. No one forced you to, or did it to you?” That happened sometimes, someone with a skewed view of the world and what was theirs deciding they needed someone to bear a baby for them.
“It’s me, it’s just me. Nobody else. Just me.”
“Does the father know?”
“No, I don’t think … He didn’t know I’d taken out the implant. I don’t know if he knows about the baby.”
Rumors had gotten out, Enid was sure, especially if Aren hadn’t been seen around town in some time. The anonymous tip about the pregnancy might have come from anywhere.
“Can you tell me the father’s name, so I can speak to him?”
“Don’t drag him into this; tell me you won’t drag him into this. It’s just me. Just take me away and be done with it.” Aren stopped, her eyes closed, her face pinched. “What are you going to do to me?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
She was done with crying. Her face was locked with anger, resignation. “You’ll take me to the center of town and rip the baby out, cut its throat, leave us both to bleed to death as a warning. That’s it, isn’t it? Just tell me that’s what you’re going to do and get it over with—”
Goodness, the stories people told. “No, we’re not going to do that. We don’t rip babies from mother’s wombs—not unless we need to save the mother’s life, or the baby’s. There’s surgery for that. Your baby will be born; you have my promise.”
Quiet tears slipped down the girl’s cheeks. Enid watched for a moment, this time not using the silence to pressure Aren but trying to decide what to say.
“You thought that was what would happen if you were caught, and you still cut out your implant to have a baby? You must have known you’d be caught.”
“I don’t remember anymore what I was thinking.”
“Let’s get you back to the kitchen for a drink of water, hmm?”
By the time they got back to the common room, Aren had stopped crying, and she even stood a little straighter. At least until Frain looked at her, then at Enid.
“What did you tell her? What did she say to you?”
“Felice, I think Aren needs a glass of water, or maybe some tea. Frain, will you come speak with me?”
The man stomped out of the room ahead of her.
“What happened?” Enid said simply.
“The implant. It must have failed.”
“Do you think she, or someone, might have cut it out? Did you ever notice her wearing a bandage on her arm?”
He did not seem at all surprised at this suggestion. “I never did. I never noticed.” He was going to plead ignorance. That was fine. “Does the local committee know you’re here?” he said, turning the questioning on her.
“Not yet,” she said lightly. “They will.”
“What are you going to do? What will happen to Aren?”
Putting the blame on Aren, because he knew the whole household was under investigation. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“I’m going to protest to the committee, about you questioning Aren alone. You shouldn’t have done that, it’s too hard on her—” He was furious that he didn’t know what Aren had said. That he couldn’t make their stories match up.
“Submit your protest,” Enid said. “That’s fine.”
* * *
She spoke to every one of them alone. Half of them said the exact same thing, in exactly the same way.
“The implant failed. It must have failed.”
“Aren’s got that boy of hers. He’s the father.”
“It was an accident.”
“An accident.” Felice breathed this line, her head bowed and hands clasped together.
So that was the story they’d agreed upon. The story Frain had told them to tell.
One of the young men—baffled, he didn’t seem to understand what was happening—was the one t
o slip. “She brought this down on us, why do the rest of us have to put up with the mess when it’s all her?”
Enid narrowed her gaze. “So you know she cut out her implant?”
He wouldn’t say another word after that. He bit his lips and puffed out his cheeks, but wouldn’t speak, as if someone held a knife to his throat and told him not to.
Enid wasn’t above pressing hard at the young one, Susan, until the girl snapped.
“Did you ever notice Aren with a bandage on her arm?”
Susan’s face turned red. “It’s not my fault, it’s not! It’s just that Frain said if we got a banner next season I could have it, not Aren, and she was jealous! That’s what it was; she did this to punish us!”
Banners were supposed to make things better. Give people something to work for, make them prove they could support a child, earn a child. It wasn’t supposed to be something to fight over, to cheat over.
But people did cheat.
“Susan—did you send the anonymous report about Aren?”
Susan’s eyes turned round and shocked. “No, of course not, I wouldn’t do such a thing! Tell Frain I’d never do such a thing!”
“Thank you, Susan, for your honesty,” Enid said, and Susan burst into tears.
What a stinking mess this was turning in to. To think, she could have retired after the murder investigation and avoided all this.
She needed to talk to more people.
By the time they returned to the common room, Felice had gotten tea out for everyone. She politely offered a cup to Enid, who accepted, much to everyone’s dismay. Enid stayed for a good twenty minutes, sipping, watching them watch her, making small talk.
“Thank you very much for all of your time and patience,” she said eventually. “I’ll be at the committee house in town if any of you would like to speak with me further. I’ll deliver my decision in a day or two, so I won’t keep you waiting. Your community thanks you.”
* * *
A million things could happen, but these people were so locked into their drama she didn’t expect much. She wasn’t worried that the situation was going to change overnight. If Aren was going to grab her boy and run she would have done it already. That wasn’t what was happening here. This was a household imploding.
Time to check with the local committee.
“Did they talk while I was gone?” Enid asked.
“Not a word,” Bert said. “I hate to say it but that was almost fun. What are they so scared of?”
“Us. The stories of what we’ll do. Aren was sure we’d drag her in the street and cut out her baby.”
Bret wrinkled his face and said softly, “That’s awful.”
“I hadn’t heard that one before, I admit. Usually it’s all locked cells and stealing the baby away as soon as it’s born. I wonder if Frain told the story to her, said it was why they had to keep it secret.”
“Frain knew?”
“I’m sure they all did. They’re trying to save the household by convincing me it was an accident. Or that it was just Aren’s fault and no one else’s. When really, a household like that, if they’re that unhappy they should all put in for transfers, no matter how many ration credits that’d cost. Frain’s scared them out of it, I’m betting.”
“So what will happen?”
“Technology fails sometimes. If it had been an accident, I’m authorized to award a banner retroactively if the household can handle it. But that’s not what happened here. If the household colluded to bring on a bannerless baby, we’d have to break up the house. But if it was just Aren all on her own—punishment would fall on her.”
“But this isn’t any of those, is it?”
“You’ve got a good eye for this, Bert.”
“Not sure that’s a compliment. I like to expect the best from people, not the worst.”
Enid chuckled.
“At least you’ll be able to put this all behind you soon,” he said. “Retire to some pleasant household somewhere. Not here.”
A middle aged man, balding and flush, rushed toward them on the path as they returned to the town. His gray tunic identified him as a committee member, and he wore the same stark panic on his face that everyone did when they saw an investigator.
“You must be Trevor?” Enid asked him, when he was still a few paces away, too far to shake hands.
“We didn’t know you were coming, you should have sent word. Why didn’t you send word?”
“We didn’t have time. We got an anonymous report and had to act quickly. It happens sometimes, I’m sure you understand.”
“Report, on what? If it’s serious, I’m sure I would have been told—”
“A bannerless pregnancy at the Apricot Hill household.”
He took a moment to process, staring, uncertain. The look turned hard. This didn’t just reflect on Aren or the household—it reflected on the entire settlement. On the committee that ran the settlement. They could all be dragged into this.
“Aren,” the man breathed.
Enid wasn’t surprised the man knew. She was starting to wonder how her office hadn’t heard about the situation much sooner.
“What can you tell me about the household? How do they get along, how are they doing?”
“Is this an official interview?”
“Why not? Saves time.”
“They get their work done. But they’re a household, not a family. If you understand the difference.”
“I do.” A collection of people gathered for production, not one that bonded over love. It wasn’t always a bad thing—a collection of people working toward shared purpose could be powerful. But love could make it a home.
“How close were they to earning a banner?” Were. Telling word, there.
“I can’t say they were close. They have three healthy young women, but people came in and out of that house so often we couldn’t call it ‘stable.’ They fell short on quotas. I know that’s usually better than going over, but not with food processing—falling short there means food potentially wasted, if it goes bad before it gets stored. Frain—Frain is not the easiest man to get along with.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You’ve already been out there—I wish you would have talked to me; you should have come to see us before starting your investigation.” Trevor was wringing his hands.
“So you could tell me how things really are?” Enid raised a brow and smiled. He glanced briefly at Bert and frowned. “Aren had a romantic partner in the settlement, I’m told. Do you know who this might be?”
“She wouldn’t tell you—she trying to protect him?”
“He’s not in any trouble.”
“Jess. It’s Jess. He works in the machine shop, with the Ironcroft household.” He pointed the way.
“Thank you. We’ve had a long day of travel, can the committee house put us up for a night or two? We’ve got the credits to trade for it, we won’t be a burden.”
“Yes, of course, we have guest rooms in back, this way.”
Trevor led them on to a comfortable stone house, committee offices and official guest rooms all together. People had gathered, drifting out of houses and stopping along the road to look, to bend heads and gossip. Everyone had that stare of trepidation.
“You don’t make a lot of friends, working in investigations,” Bret murmured to her.
“Not really, no.”
* * *
A young man, an assistant to the committee, delivered a good meal of lentil stew and fresh bread, along with cider. It tasted like warmth embodied, a great comfort after the day she’d had.
“My household hang their banners on the common room wall like that,” Bert said between mouthfuls. “They stitch the names of the babies into them. It’s a whole history of the house laid out there.”
“Many households do. It’s a lovely tradition,” Enid said.
“I’ve never met anyone born without a banner. It’s odd, thinking Aren’s baby won’t have its name written anywhere.”
>
“It’s not the baby’s fault, remember. But it does make it hard. They grow up thinking they have to work twice as hard to earn their place in the world. But it usually makes people very careful not to pass on that burden.”
“Usually but not always.”
She sighed, her solid inspector demeanor slipping. “We’re getting better. The goal is making sure that every baby born will be provided for, will have a place, and won’t overburden what we have. But babies are powerful things. We’ll never be perfect.”
* * *
The young assistant knocked on the door to the guest rooms early the next day.
“Ma’am, Enid? Someone’s out front asking for the investigator.”
“Is there a conference room where we can meet?”
“Yes, I’ll show him in.”
She and Bert quickly made themselves presentable—and put on their reputation—before meeting.
The potential informant was a lanky young man with calloused hands, a flop of brown hair and no beard. A worried expression. He kneaded a straw hat in his hands and stood from the table when Enid and Bren entered.
“You’re Jess?”
He squeezed the hat harder. Ah, the appearance of omniscience was so very useful.
“Please, sit down,” Enid said, and sat across from him by example. Bert stood by the wall.
“This is about Aren,” the young man said. “You’re here about Aren.”
“Yes.” He slumped, sighed—did he seemed relieved? “What do you need to tell me, Jess?”
“I haven’t seen her in weeks; I haven’t even gotten a message to her. No one will tell me what’s wrong, and I know what everyone’s been saying, but it can’t be true—”
“That she’s pregnant. She’s bannerless.”
He blinked. “But she’s alive? She’s safe?”
“She is. I saw her yesterday.”
“Good, that’s good.”
Unlike everyone else she had talked to here, he seemed genuinely reassured. As if he had expected her to be dead or injured. The vectors of anxiety in the case pointed in so many different directions. “Did she tell you anything? Did you have any idea that something was wrong?”
“No … I mean, yes, but not that. It’s complicated. What’s going to happen to her?”
The Year's Best Science Fiction - Thirty-Third Annual Collection Page 36
