Fighting Gravity

by Leah Petersen

  “People, of course, will hold their own opinions,” he said. “I know that. But I won’t allow you to be discriminated against or harassed in any way. What happened elsewhere is elsewhere.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to say. He’d always been kind and understanding, but I’d broken the most important of all the unwritten rules of the IIC.

  As a group of scientists and scholars, what we did was beyond the understanding of the majority of the citizens of the Empire and even most of those in authority, those who could and did have a say in our future. We lived and died on our reputation.

  Being known as a group above reproach, who did great—if mostly incomprehensible—things for the Empire, was essential. And, even when it mattered little in a practical sense, it was a reputation fiercely guarded. Internal scandals or failures were kept quiet whenever possible; a rule understood and obeyed by all. We were prestigious and held in awe based largely on an amorphous concept of acetic devotion to the present and future greatness of the Empire.

  I’d transgressed in that area the first time years ago when Director Kagawa had been Resettled; removed publicly and in disgrace. And there were those who judged and condemned me for sullying the reputation of our community with something as vulgar and plebian as a very public love affair. But now I’d been banished to the IIC in infamy. There was no one in the Empire who did not know of my crimes, my fall, and with that, my origins and life story. My ignominy was forever linked to the IIC.

  Communities like ours did not countenance such things. And they enforced their own brand of censure. Director Harris, on the other hand, was implying that I’d done nothing like tarnishing the name of the institution and, by extension, everyone in it; that I wasn’t to be held to account for my crimes against my colleagues.

  He was mad. Generous and kind, but deluded. So I thanked him and excused myself to go and see what would really become of me now.

  -

  I reported to Dr. Bartel in his large office near the entrance to the Physics wing. I entered after I knocked, knowing I was expected. He looked up from his desk, frowning. “I don’t know the habits at the palace, Mr. Dawes, but here it’s customary to wait for an invitation before you enter someone’s office.”

  I’d had my encounters with Dr. Bartel in the years I’d lived at the IIC before. Probably more than with most of the adults. He was stern and serious but I’d never found him unfair or prejudicial. I was to learn that his fair, even-tempered treatment of me before was a product of lack of interest in me personally, and the lack of any particular opinion of me one way or the other.

  He had formed one now.

  “I apologize, sir. I was told you were expecting me.”

  “That makes no difference, Mr. Dawes,” he snapped. I bit my tongue and kept my peace, but he waited for a response.

  “Forgive me, sir. I misjudged.”

  He nodded. “I’ve reviewed your file. You have completed your required education to this point to the satisfaction of the responsible faculty.”

  “I’ve also kept up on my continuing education requirements, sir. I am ahead of my classmates in this.”

  He looked at me with clear disapproval. “Interrupting is also frowned upon here. But you’re correct. I have decided to allow the work you completed at the palace to count toward your lab requirements.”

  I was seething. I had done groundbreaking work over the past few years. He was going to allow that to count toward my lab time requirements? I merely nodded acknowledgement, not trusting myself not to say something unfortunate.

  “Therefore, it is the consensus of the responsible committee with Director Harris’s approval that you be granted the status of junior fellow. If you keep your current pace you will be a Fellow in less than two years. That would be faster than normal which, in spite of your impressive accomplishments, I find surprising.”

  I didn’t answer. I had my hands clasped behind my back to prevent doing anything that I would regret. I realized I was fingering the damn ring again and for a moment I considered taking it off. Only a moment.

  He waited, but I remained silent, so he continued. “You’ll join your classmates in a proper classroom setting for the remainder of your required instruction. For your lab time, I have assigned you as junior assistant to Dr. Zin.”

  I had heard Dr. Zin’s name before but I knew nothing about him other than that he existed. It wasn’t halfway through a day with him that I figured out why. He had to be the most unimaginative man I’d ever met. He was a genius, of course, but he had an absolute focus that excluded the bigger picture and prevented him from seeing what was right in front of his nose. Not only that, but he actually took offense at any of the precious, hallowed rules of physics being questioned. He did not belong in a place dedicated to discovery and advancement. He was the type who could slip through the cracks because of the selection process being based on impersonal numbers and involving such young children.

  It would have made sense, to one who knew little of the situation and the personalities involved, that I had been assigned to him as a necessary counter to his stymieing, intractable view of physics. But to Dr. Zin, the rules of seniority and organization were as revered as the accepted laws of the universe. To him I was a capable pair of hands to be directed, not a source of opinions or ideas.

  The assignment couldn’t have been a more blatant insult. I embraced it. It was exactly what I wanted. Working for Dr. Zin was tedious busywork; purposeless and time consuming. It left me little time to think. It was an unspeakable relief.

  Dr. Zin’s other assistant, a junior fellow named Sean, was the perfect companion for me at that time. He was quiet, and calm, and spoke little. Not unfriendly, just not a talker. In what conversation passed between us I discovered he had a good sense of humor and a kind, charitable spirit. He was far too valuable a physicist to be assigned to Dr. Zin but he didn’t complain. He’d enjoy a wry joke at Dr. Zin’s expense or a self-deprecating one from time to time, but he wasn’t resentful. It was very restful to work with him. If Dr. Zin was a punishment, Sean and my own mood nullified the effect.

  fg31

  The next morning at breakfast, I joined the others for the first time since my return. It was uncomfortably familiar, this experience of being judged, censured, hated by whatever group I happened to be among at the time. My classmates, with whom I sat, were quiet and subdued. Kirti sat halfway down the table from me and pretended I wasn’t there. I’d expected that, but it hurt all the same.

  Eventually the shyness or the scruples of my tablemates—one or the other—were conquered. Heather asked, “So you’ve returned for good then, Jacob?” Kirti glared at her, but I was ready to have this over and done with.

  “Yes. For good. I’ve been Resettled here. I won’t be leaving the IIC again.” A collective gasp sounded from the table. “But you’d heard that already.”

  “Of course we’ve all heard lots of things. But you don’t always know what to believe,” she replied. I nodded, conceding the point. “Does that mean that you, well, that is, they say that you tried to kill the Emperor.”

  It wasn’t the worst one I’d heard. I noticed Kirti incline her head slightly in my direction, listening.

  “No. No, I’m guilty of what I was convicted of, but not quite so bad as that. I said some unacceptable things to His Excellence, and I hit him.” My face was hot but I lifted my hands in a shrug. “That’s treason. The emperor was merciful and commuted the sentence of death. So I’m here.”

  It felt like a weight off my chest. More than feeling ashamed of what I was confessing to, I felt relief at being able to assume the blame for what I’d really done, instead of hiding from all the things they imagined.

  “Why would you do something like that?” someone else asked from down the table. I flushed.

  “It’s complicated. But His Excellence is good and just; I was entirely in the wrong, and I deserve what I got.”

  “Damn right,” Sasha said. He was sitting directly acro
ss from me.

  I looked him in the eye, holding his gaze for a long time before looking away. He was only agreeing with me, I couldn’t contradict him.

  He chuckled and said under his breath, “His Excellence. Did he make you call him that in bed, too?”

  I reached across the table, grabbed a fistful of his collar, twisted to tighten it around his neck, and hauled him to his feet. “You will not speak of your emperor that way,” I hissed.

  His eyes had gone wide but when I spoke they narrowed. “That’s funny, coming from you.”

  “Well maybe I’ll learn from my mistakes,” I said, tightening my grip. His face went red, and I shoved him. He fell over his chair and onto the floor. “If you’re smart, you’ll learn from them, too.”

  “Is everything all right here, gentlemen?” Director Harris asked from behind my shoulder. Chuck was standing beside me, his eyes fixed on Sasha.

  “Fine, sir,” I answered. Sasha scrambled to his feet, glaring murderously at me, but when he met the director’s eye he just shrugged.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” the director replied. “Jacob, I’d like a word with you.”

  “Yes sir,” I answered, turning to face him. I wouldn’t allow myself to bow my head, though I wanted to. I didn’t regret what had passed with Sasha, but I hated that Director Harris had seen it.

  We left the room together. Once we were alone in the hallway he put his hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  I turned to him, surprised. “I thought this was discipline?”

  He smiled. “I think being required to leave the dining hall with me like a naughty schoolboy is sufficient punishment, don’t you?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Jacob, I have no doubt that things are very difficult for you right now, and that Sasha was doing his best to provoke you. But you’re spoiling for a fight and I cannot, I will not, tolerate fighting in this institution.”

  This time I hung my head. “Yes, sir. I am sorry. I’ll try to do better.”

  “You will do better,” he said; not as a command but as an expression of confidence in me. “The worst is probably over. After what passed just now, I doubt anyone will be tweaking your nose anytime soon.” He grinned. “How did things go with Dr. Bartel yesterday?”

  I grimaced but quickly smoothed it off my face. “Fine, sir.”

  He frowned in disbelief but didn’t press the question. “Please come to me with any concerns or anything I can help you with. I mean that.”

  I searched his face. “Don’t you want to know what really happened, if I really did all of those horrible things you’ve heard? I wouldn’t think you’d be eager to help me if some of them were true.”

  “I don’t need to know what happened. I’m sure you made some sort of significant mistake and used poor judgment, maybe let your temper get the best of you like you did just now, but that doesn’t make me disinclined to help you. You’re too hard on yourself, Jacob. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  I fought tears and barked a mirthless laugh. “Most people have the sense not to make their mistakes quite so dramatically and publicly.”

  “You hardly had any other option in that arena, though, did you?”

  I didn’t contradict him. He was right, of course, but I didn’t want to be understanding or forgiving of myself.

  “I will be having a conversation with Sasha later today,” he continued, “but you’re not supposed to know that.” He winked. I watched him, bewildered, trying to understand why he would be so kind to me but I could see nothing on his face but genuine sympathy.

  The bell rang indicating the end of breakfast. “I imagine you have somewhere you’re supposed to be now,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I will see you later. Please don’t hesitate to come to me for any reason, all right?”

  “Yes, sir.” He gave me a parting smile and walked away.

  -

  That evening, I tried to block out any thought at all—thinking was dangerous, it lead to feeling, and feeling was horrid—by scanning the offerings on the vid screen.

  That was a terrible mistake. I was stopped on one of the documentary channels by the mention of my name. It was a piece on my demise and banishment. The details of the whys and wherefores were complete fabrications, but they did have one thing in complete and perfect detail. There was a full video of my sentencing and the execution of my punishment.

  I watched in abject horror as I stood before Pete and heard my sentence read. The camera was on me, then on Pete, then on the crowd. Oddly, I looked less afraid than I remembered being. I heard my little helpless, pathetic speech. I watched myself being led away and stripped naked in front of thousands. I saw myself hoisted onto the frame, shackled. And then I watched, trembling and sweaty, blood pounding in my ears, as I was beaten. Cameras had captured the entirety of the horrific experience. I could hardly breathe when suddenly the playback ceased. Chuck stood in front of the screen. I hadn’t even heard him enter.

  “Bad idea,” he said.

  I couldn’t talk for a long moment. “You’ve seen that?”

  He gave me a sympathetic look. “Everybody’s seen that.”

  I was shivering now from the adrenaline withdrawal. Chuck cocked his head to the side, examining me.

  “You going to throw up?”

  I shook my head, afraid of opening my mouth and indeed throwing up.

  He gave me a ‘do I look that stupid’ look. “Sure. By the way, green’s not a good color for you. ‘S all right.” He came over and squeezed my shoulder. “I don’t like an audience either. You going to be OK?”

  I nodded.

  He gave my shoulder one last squeeze and left.

  -

  They sent me back to Dead End.

  And there, I was sentenced to permanent solitary work detail, until I died.

  I screamed. I screamed until there was nothing left to do but die of screaming. But at least then they could never send me out into that heatless, heartless, humanless expanse of darkness and—

  I woke alone in a cold sweat.

  Somehow it was worse than waking alone on Dead End. At least there, ironically, I still believed there would eventually be an end to the torment. This should have been better. This was home. Though that thought brought an unexpected and vicious twist of pain. Yet here, at least, I wasn’t alone anymore.

  But I felt alone.

  I took the blanket from my bed and slid to the floor in the closet, closing the door behind me. In there, I could touch the wall on every side, the clothes above a false ceiling, only inches from my head. Within my illusion of safety, curled into a ball under the blanket, I could sleep again.

  -

  Life went on, or some semblance of such. Each day I got up, I dressed, ate, worked, even played when I was instructed to. But it was all pretense and dissembling. I was no more engaged in life than I would have been asleep. If anything, I lived more in my dreams. On the nights the memories of Dead End didn’t drive me to the cocoon of the closet, I dreamed of Pete. Sometimes waking up is the cruelest of life’s jokes.

  I didn’t speak of Pete or my life at the palace at all. As much as possible, I did not even allude to those three years, as if I’d never left the IIC. And not once did I utter Pete’s name. If it was absolutely necessary to reference him I did so by title. I hardened myself, drew into myself, shut down. When I was spoken to, I replied. When I was invited somewhere, I went—though that only happened when Dr. Okoro or Chuck manufactured some unusual circumstance. In spite of Director Harris’s assurances, the faculty did their best to enforce an unofficial shunning. I couldn’t have cared less. I worked when it was time to work, and when my obligations were over I returned to my room, all in a fog of numbness and loss.

  I expected it to get easier over time, and in a way it did. The emptiness became familiar. The hollow feeling in my chest never went away, but I learned to operate around it. The world was tainted by my grief; it was a haze in f
ront of my eyes and a film over my heart. I did not live, I existed.

  In one of those strange twists that life can sometimes take, in those early months one of the few people I found it bearable to be around was Mr. Kagawa. He sought me out regularly. I suppose there was a sort of understanding of each other now; a shared experience of profound loss.

  Months passed. Two, three, four, five. It was approaching half a year since I’d returned to the IIC when, sitting in my room one night, reading, I was interrupted by the sound of the door chime.

  “Come in.”

  It was Kirti. I wasn’t sure how long it took me before I remembered myself and shot to my feet.

  “Hello. Come in. Sit down.” She did. It took me another moment to think of what to say next. “How are you?”

  “I’m not here to talk about me.”

  I waited. “Why are you here?”

  “Because someone has to kick your ass, Jacob, and apparently I’m the only one who can do it properly.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You’ve been back for six months, and for all that time you’ve moped around here like your life was over. You’re no more living than you would be if you’d actually lost your head. Now some amount of that is fine, and to be expected. But it’s been a year, Jake. You’re being ridiculous and self-absorbed. You need to talk to someone. I’ve been asking around and you’re not talking to anyone. That’s your problem.”

  “I talk all the time.”

  She gave me a look that clearly said I was being stupid. “No. You don’t. I’ve talked to Dr. Okoro, and Chuck, and your lab partner, and Director Harris. Oh, you respond when you’re spoken to and even carry on conversations. But you’re not talking to anyone. You can’t just hold it all in, you have to get it out, all the hurt and anger and shame. You’re just wallowing in it right now, letting it fester. You have to talk to someone. And since no one else is going to force you to do it, I will.”

  It was almost amusing, after years of not speaking to me, now she came to comfort me; by telling me off.

  “I don’t have anything to talk about.”