Get Off the Unicorn (9 page)

 

 

Daughter

T
HE MOMENT HER
father began to yell at her twin brother Nick, Nora Fenn edged toward the door of the Complex office. George Fenn's anger always seemed to expand in direct proportion to the number of witnesses. She knew it humiliated Nick to be harangued in front of anyone, and this time there was absolutely nothing she could say in Nick's defense. Why hadn't he waited till she got back from school and could help him program the Planter?

“Fifty acres clearly marked corn,” and Father viciously stabbed a thick forefinger at the corner of the room dominated by the scale model of the farm. He'd spent hours last winter rearranging the movable field units. In fact, Nora thought he displayed a lot more concern for the proper allocation of crops than he did for his two children. He certainly didn't berate the corn when the ears weren't plump or turned to ergot.

“And you,” roared Father, suddenly clamping his hands lightly to his sides, as if he were afraid of the damage they'd do if he didn't, “
you
plant turnips. What kind of programmer are you, Nicholas? A simple chore even your sister could do!”

Nora flinched at that. If Father ever found out that it was she, not Nick, who did the most complex programming . . . She eased past the county maps, careful not to rustle the thin sheets of plastic overlay that Father had marked with crop, irrigation, and fertilizing patterns. The office was not small. One wall, of course, was the computer console and storage banks, then the window that looked out onto the big yard of the Complex, the three-foot-square relief model of the Fenn Farmlands on its stand. But two angry Fenns would diminish a Bargaining Hall.

Nora was struck by a resemblance between father and son, which she'd not really appreciated before. Not only were both men holding their arms stiffly against their sides, but their jaws were set at the same obstinate angle and each held one shoulder slightly higher than the other.

“I'm going to see that so-called Guidance Counselor of yours tomorrow and find out what kind of abortive computer courses you've been given. I thought I'd made it plain what electives you were to take.”

“I get the course I'm able to absorb . . .”

Oh, please, Nick, breathed Nora, don't argue with him. The Educational Advancements will be posted in a day, two at the most, and then there's nothing he can do to alter the decision.

“Fenns are landsmen,” Father shouted. “Born to the land, bred by the land!”

The dictum reverberated through the room, and Nora used the noise to mask the slipping sound of the office door. She was out in the narrow passageway before Father realized that he'd lost part of his audience. She half ran to the outer door, the spongy-fiber flooring masking the sounds of her booted feet. When she was safely outside the rambling trilevel habitation, she breathed with relief. She'd better finish her own after-school chores. Now that Father'd got started on Nick, he'd be finding fault elsewhere. Since there weren't any apprentice landsmen on the Fenn Farm Complex right now, “elsewhere” could only be Nora. Mother never came in for Father's criticism, because everything she did in her quiet unspectacular way was perfectly done. Nora sighed. It wasn't fair to be so good at everything. When her children complained Mary Fenn would laugh and remark that practice made perfect. But Mother always had some bit of praise, or a hug or a kiss to hearten you when she knew you'd
tried
. Father . . . if Father would only say something encouraging to Nick . . .

Nora stayed to the left of the low, rambling, living quarters, out of the view afforded by the office window. She glanced across the huge plasti-cobbled yard which she had just finished hosing down. Yes, she had washed down the bay doors of the enormous barn that housed the Complex's Seeder, Plowboy, and Harvester. And done a thorough job of cleaning the tracks on which the heavy equipment was shunted out of the yard and onto the various rails leading to the arable tracts.

Turnips! If only Nick had blown the job with a high-priority vegetable, like carrots or beets. But turnips? They were nothing but subsistence-level food. Father cannily complied with Farm Directives and still managed to plant most of the Fenn lands to creditable crops like corn and beets. Fifty more acres of turnips this year might mean Nick would have that much less free credit at the university.

Nora sighed. When Educational Advancements were posted, the suspense would be over, the pressure off the graduating students. Who'd go on to Applied or Academic in her class, she wondered? But there was no way of finding out short of stealing Counselor Fremmeng's wrist recorder. You only got pass/fail decisions in elementary grades. An arbitrary percentile evaluation defeated the purpose of modern educational methods. Achievement must be measured by individual endeavor, not mean averages or sliding curves. Young citizens were taught to know that knowledge was required of contributing citizens. Computer-assisted drill constantly checked on comprehension of concept and use of basic skills. Educational Advancement, either Applied or Academic, depended as much on demonstrated diligence as inherent ability. Consequently, the slow student had every bit as much chance, and just as much right to education as the quick learner.

Well, Nora told herself briskly, it doesn't contribute anything to society to stand here daydreaming. You'll know in a day or two. In the meantime . . .

Nora went through the grape arbor toward the skimmer shed, near the far left compound wall. She had just turned in to the building when she felt the reverberation of rapid thudding through the linked plasti-cobbles. Then Nick came pounding around the side of the building.

“Nora, lend me your skimmer?” he begged, unracking it as he spoke. “Mine's still drying out from Saturday's irrigating.”

“But, Nick . . . Father . . .”

Nick's face darkened the way Father's did when he met resistance.

“Don't give me any static, Nor. I gotta change state . . .”

“Oh, Nick,
why
didn't you wait until I could've checked you out?”

Nick set his jaw, his eyes blinking rapidly.

“You had to see Fremmeng, remember? And when I got home, the orders were waiting and I couldn't. I'm due over at Felicity's
now
.” Nick turned up the pressure gauge, filling the tanks of the skimmer. “Orders. Orders. That's all I ever get from him. That and ‘Fenns are crop farmers,' “ Nick snorted. “He thinks he can program kids like a computer. Well, I'm
not
a crop farmer. It switches me off. Off!”

“Nick, please. Keep unity. Once you get to the university,
you
choose the courses you want. He can't go against Educational Advancement. And if he tries, you can always claim sanctuary against parental coercion. There isn't anyone in the Sector who wouldn't support your claim . . .”

Nick was staring at her incredulously, but suddenly the anger drained out of his face and was replaced by an exaggerated expression of tolerant forbearance.

“Claim sanctuary? I haven't lost all sense of unity, Nora,” he told her sternly. “Hey, what did Fremmeng want
you
for?”

“Me? Oh, he had the absolutely more irrelevant questions! About how you and I get along, my opinions on family harmony and social contributions, and pairing off.”

Nick regarded her with an intent, impersonal stare.

“He did, huh? Look, Nor,” and her brother's mood changed state completely, “I need to see Felicity. I gotta blow out of
here!
”

Nora grabbed his arm as he inflated the skimmer.

“Nick, what
did
you say to Father?”

Nick gave her a sour look now. “I told him he'd better hold off making so many big plans for me to be the Fenn Complex's Master Ruralist, until he sees the Educational Advancements.”

“Nick, if you don't get Advancement, Father will just . . . just . . .”

“Abort and sulk!” Nick finished for her. “No, I'll get Advancement, all right. On my terms! There's not a blasted thing wrong with Applied. It's Father who tried programming the university for me. But I've had different plans.” Nick's look turned as hard as Father's could when he'd lost crops.

“What do you mean, Nick? What have you been doing?” Nora was suddenly scared. What had Father driven Nick to do?

“Nora, sweetie, Old Bates at the Everett Complex is about due for retirement. Felicity Everett and I want to pair off as soon as the E.A.'s have been posted. And it's just possible that Landsman Everett would opt for me as assistant.” Nick's expression altered again, this time to enthusiasm, and Nora felt relief at the change.

“Oh, he would, Nick. You know what he said about your term paper on ovine gene manipulation.” Then Nora caught the significance of his plan.

“Yes, indeedy, sister mine. Nick can cut a program on his own, without your help or Father's.”

She was so astonished at the calculation in his smile that he was able to loosen her fingers from the handlebars. He was off on the skimmer at a high blow before she could stop him.

“Nick . . .”

“Give my love to our foul-feathered friends!” he called over his shoulder cheerfully, and launched the skimmer straight across the meadows toward the Everetts' Herd Complex.

Resolutely, Nora made for the distant poultry house on foot. Father proclaimed that chickens and turkeys were a woman's business. She hated tending them and usually swapped the chore with Nick. Nick found poultry a trifle more engrossing than the tedious crop programming.

Why couldn't Nick focus a little more attention on what he was doing instead of expending all his energies thwarting Father? Irritably, she scuffed at a vagrant pebble in the track that led straight from the low-rambling Farm Complex, set in the fold of the soft bills, toward the Poultry house. She could see the glitter of the round roof as she topped the next rise.

Educational Advancement! She so hoped that she'd qualify . . . at least for Applied Advancement. That would prove to Father she wasn't all that stupid, even if she was a girl. Maybe, if she could make Journeyman Class Computer . . . she really felt that she understood mathematics and symbolic logic. If she got Journeyman, Father mightn't be so disappointed when he finally realized that Nick was absolutely set against crop farming. While Father might feel that women were being educated far beyond society's profit, no contributing citizen could argue with the Advancement Board's decision. For the board was impartial, having the best interests of society
and
the individual at heart. Father might scoff at the premise that everyone had the constitutional right to shelter, food, clothing
and
education as long as he maintained a class average. But then, Father disparaged a system that rewarded the diligent student with credit bonuses for something as intangible as academic excellence.

“That doesn't feed anyone, make anything, buy or sell anything,” he'd say when he'd started on that tangent. There was no use explaining to such a pragmatist.

If Nora could get certified in computer logistics and was able to handle the Complex's Master Ruralist, then surely he'd be proud of her. He wouldn't mind that one of his children was a girl, not the second boy
he'd
printed into the Propagation Registration.

Father never let Nora, or her mother, forget that he had not computed twins, nor mixed sexes.
He'd
opted for both legal progeny to be male. Since early sex education in school, Nora had wondered how her mother had managed not only a multiple birth but a split in sexes without Father's knowledge. For one thing, multiple births had been uncommon for the last hundred years, since Population Control had been initiated. Most duly registered couples opted for one of each sex, well spaced. Of course, George Fenn would complain about PC, too. Or rather, the provision which permitted only exceptional couples to have one or two more children above the legal number—in return for extraordinary contributions to society.

“They put the emphasis on the wrong genetic factors,” Father would argue bitterly whenever the subject came up. “If you breed for brain, the species weakens physically, flaws develop.” He'd always flex his huge biceps then, show off his two-meter-tall, one-hundred-kilo frame in support of his argument. He'd been disappointed, too, when Nick, scarcely an undersized man, stopped slightly short of two meters in height. Father'd glower at Nora, as if her slender body had robbed her twin of extra centimeters.

How had Mary Fenn, a woman of muted qualities, coped so long and amiably with her husband? Her quiet, uncritical voice was seldom raised. She knew when you were upset, though, or sick, and her capable hands were sure and soft. If anyone deserved Maternity Surplus, it was Mother. She was so good! And she'd managed to remain completely in control of herself, a presence unperturbed by her husband's tirades and intemperate attitudes, efficiently dealing with each season and its exigencies.

Of course, it was no wonder that Mother was quiet. Father was such a dominating person. He could shout down an entire Rural Sector Meeting.

“A fine landsman,” Nora heard her father called. “But don't cross him,” she'd heard whispered. “He'll try to program things his way, come hell or high water. He knows the land, though,” was the grudging summation.

“Knows the land, but not humans,” Nora muttered under her breath. “Not his children. Certainly he doesn't know what his son really wants.”

Maybe once Nick gets away to university, harmony will be restored between father and son. Nick ought to have a stronger desire to maintain family unity . . .

Crop farming wasn't all that bad, Nora thought. By punching the right buttons, you could now mow a thousand-acre field, as Nora had done as a preteen, when the apprentices let her. You could winnow and cull with a vacuum attachment; grade, bag, clean your field far more efficiently than the most careful ancient gleaners. You could program your Plowboy to fertilize at five levels as the seed was planted. One Complex with two families or a couple of responsible apprentices could efficiently farm an old-time county-sized spread and still turn a luxury credit. Not to mention having fresh and ready supplies of any edible and some of those luxuries above the subsistence level that the City Complexes craved.