Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

She was beautiful.

Terson’s fanciful hopes evaporated. It was hopeless—she’d been polite with him to deal with an uncomfortable situation and he’d chosen to interpret it as something else. It wasn’t likely that she’d even recognize him, and approaching her would only lead to embarrassment for them both.

She saw him before he could turn away and waved. Terson worked his way across the room cautiously, expecting whoever she really waved at to appear at any second. The acoustic qualities of the room protected the bar from some of the noise, but she still had to lean close to be heard.

“Bragg was pissed when he came back,” she laughed. “He canceled my appointment to look for you . Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Despite his earlier trepidation she seemed genuinely engaging, a gratifying development in otherwise uncertain territory even if it turned out that she was nothing but a flirt, and he ordered another mug of beer while they chatted. The girl stole sips from it whenever the bartender wasn’t looking, a transgression that she acknowledged might cost her a job, but which Terson found appealingly rebellious. He finally asked if she wanted to do something when she got off.

“I’ll have to go home and change,” she said, picking a tangle from the end of her maligned tresses. “I hope you don’t mind waiting.”

Terson’s gaze fixed on two uniformed figures that appeared in the mirror behind the bar, strutting through the crowd with the same mien as the Marines on Algran Asta. He watched them stiffly as they approached, but they weren’t Commonwealth Marines, he realized, though the uniforms were somewhat similar. The crowd edged away from them discretely, maintaining a cautious distance in spite of the press.

“Cadets from the EPEA academy,” Virene volunteered, identifying the source of his sudden tension. “They’re assholes.”

The Environmental Protection and Enforcement Authority was notoriously brutal in dealing with poachers, both actual and suspected. Nivian law authorized EPEA agents to shoot poachers on sight, and anyone beyond certain boundaries were automatically defined as poachers whether they were observed engaging in the activity or not.

“Look close; you can see their scars,” Terson said, aiming to regain their lighthearted conversation.

“What scars?”

“The ones left by the lobotomy.”

Virene snorted beer through her nose and buried her face in the towel. The hair rose on the back of Terson’s neck. The cadets were staring back.

The drinkers around Terson darted away like a school of fish at their approach. He drained the mug and belched. The cadets settled in on either side of him, mean-eyed and drunk.

“You looking for trouble, little fella?” one asked.

“Not tonight.”

“Then why you lookin’ at us?”

“Just imagining how excited you must have been to find out your IQ was low enough to be an Eepee.”

The cadet stared, certain that Terson had insulted him but too drunk to figure out exactly how. He gave up after a moment, moving on to the more obvious issue: “Hey, you’re a goddamned phig!” he exclaimed, and threw a punch.

Nineteen years in Algran Asta’s high gravity paid dividends in strength and reflexes; Terson moved his head slightly and the intended blow whispered past his chin. The cadet looked puzzled, tried again with the same result. The bad asses where Terson usually drank had learned their lessons early, but he wasn’t drunk enough to want a fight tonight. He grimaced apologetically to the girl as he slid off the stool to leave.

An open hand caught him in the side of the head.

The blow wasn’t that strong; the delivery was sloppy and ineffective, intended to intimidate rather than do real damage, a sign of self-important arrogance on the part of the assailant and contempt for the person on the receiving end.

That made Terson angry.

Pent up frustration from months of trying to fit the expectations of a society that wouldn’t cut him a centimeter of slack for the slightest mistake welled up as icy, focused rage. He slapped the next punch aside with one hand and drove forward with the heel of the other. Blood sprayed from the cadet’s nose.

Terson blocked a round-house kick from his partner with his forearm and caught the man’s foot before he could recover. The first assailant advanced on him while his hands were busy; Terson wrenched the foot around, ripping cartilage in the knee and effectively taking its owner out of the fight before addressing the threat.

He struck the advancing cadet in the ribs, snapping bones with each blow. Terson caught him by the front of his collar before he fell and held him up while he drove a fist into his face over and over, battering the flesh until it sprayed fluid like a blood-soaked sponge.

Someone in the crowd jabbed Terson in the kidney with a stunner. His head snapped back as a blue halo blazed around his body. His jaws clenched like a vise as every muscle in his body convulsed. He landed on his side, vision reduced to a tunnel that rapidly collapsed into total darkness.

Terson’s hearing took place after three days of motions and legal gibberish. Bragg acted as his council, a duty that irked the police officer to no end. He took the responsibility seriously, however. If Terson Reilly was to be crucified it would be by the book.

Terson sat through the proceeding listlessly. His head throbbed and he really, really needed a drink. An abrupt silence fell around him. Terson looked up slowly to find the magistrate, prosecutor and Bragg all looking at him expectantly.

“What?”

“I asked,” the magistrate repeated, “if you wish to make a statement.”

“You people are insane.”

The magistrate pursed his lips. “Would you two gentlemen leave us alone for a few minutes?”

“Your Honor, I object,” Bragg said while the prosecutor gathered his documents without trying to hide a smile. “Mister Reilly has the right—”

“I am fully aware of Mister Reilly’s rights, Captain,” the magistrate sighed. “Indulge me.” He leaned back in his chair after the door closed behind them. “Terson, do you know how natural selection works?”

The odd question threw him off his mark. “Natural selection?”

“The means by which an organism adapts to its environment,” he explained, taking Terson’s question for a negative response, “though it applies to populations, not individuals. Say for instance you have a herd of horses and you apply a selective vector artificially—every so often you shoot half of the horses that have four legs. One of three things has to happen: eventually you have a herd of three-legged horses, the horses become immune to bullets, or the herd becomes extinct.”

“I know what natural selection is,” Terson snapped.

“Good. Then you know that a similar process operates within human societies. To survive in a community we develop artificial standards that we call culture,” the magistrate continued. “Now, human cultures are amazingly diverse and adaptable when viewed as a whole, but for individual humans culture dictates conformity. Those who cannot conform disrupt the community and endanger the survival of the entire group.

“Obviously a society can’t cull every non-conformist any more than a breeder could continue shooting four-legged horses. Minor nonconformities can be tolerated, but the more significant ones must be dealt with. A horse can’t survive by choosing to drop off a leg, but a human can be encouraged to conform—up to a point. Past that point society must remove the offender to protect itself.

“This brings us to you.” The magistrate pushed a document across to Terson with his finger planted on a signature block. “Your continued participation in this society will be decided within the next few minutes. My signature, on this spot, will remand you back to Commonwealth custody. I couldn’t care less what happens to you then.”