Lois Bujold: Falling Free

“Hello there, Tony,” Van Atta greeted him with cheerful familiarity.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Van Atta,” the youth replied deferentially. He smiled at Leo, and cocked his head at Van Atta in a pantomime plea for an introduction. “Is this the new teacher you were telling us about?”

“Indeed he is. Leo Graf, this is Tony—he’ll be among your first trainees. He’s one of the habitat’s permanent residents,” Van Atta added with peculiar emphasis. “Tony is a welder and joiner, second grade—working on first, eh, Tony? Shake hands with Mr. Graf.”

Van Atta was smirking. Leo had the impression that if he hadn’t been in free fall, he would have been bouncing on his heels.

Tony pulled himself obediently over the control panel. He wore red shorts—

Leo blinked, and caught his breath in shock. The boy had no legs. Emerging from his shorts were a second set of arms.

Functional arms, he was even now using his—his lower left hand, Leo supposed he’d have to call it—to anchor himself as he reached out to Leo. His smile was perfectly unselfconscious.

Leo had lost his own hand grip, and had to fumble to retrieve it, and stretch awkwardly to meet the proffered handshake. “How do you do,” Leo managed to croak. It was almost impossible not to stare. Leo forced his gaze to focus on the young man’s bright blue eyes.

“Hello, sir. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” Tony’s handshake was shy but sincere, his hand dry and strong.

“Um…” Leo stumbled, “um, what’s your last name, uh, Tony?”

“Oh, Tony’s just my nickname, sir. My full designation is TY-776-424-XG.”

“I, uh—guess I’ll call you Tony, then,” Leo murmured, increasingly stunned. Van Atta, most unhelpfully, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying Leo’s discomforture.

“Everybody does,” said Tony agreeably.

“Fetch Mr. Graf’s bag, will you, Tony?” said Van Atta. “Come on, Leo, I’ll show you your quarters, and then we can do the grand tour.”

Leo followed his floating guide into the indicated cross-corridor, glancing back over his shoulder in renewed amazement as Tony launched himself accurately across the chamber and swung through the shuttle hatch.

“That’s,” Leo swallowed, “that’s the most extraordinary birth defect I’ve ever seen. Somebody had a stroke of genius, to find him a job in free fall. He’d be a cripple, downside.”

“Birth defect.” Van Atta’s grin had grown twisted. “Yeah, that’s one way of describing it. I wish you could have seen the look on your face, when he popped up like that. I congratulate you on your self-control. I about puked when I first saw one, and I was prepared. You get used to the little chimps pretty quick, though.”

“There’s more than one?”

Van Atta opened and closed his hands in a counting gesture. “An even one-thousand. The first generation of GalacTech’s new super-workers. The name of the game, Leo, is bioengineering. And I intend to win.”

Tony, with Leo’s valise clutched in his lower right hand, swooped between Leo and Van Atta in the cylindrical corridor and braked to a halt in front of them with three deft touches on the passing handgrips.

“Mr. Van Atta, can I introduce Mr. Graf to somebody on the way to Visitor’s Wing? It won’t be much out of the way—Hydroponics.”

Van Atta’s lips pursed, then arranged themselves in a kindly smile. “Why not? Hydroponics is on the itinerary for this afternoon anyway.”

“Thank you, sir,” cried Tony, and darted off with enthusiasm to open the air safety seal before them at the end of the corridor, and linger to close it again behind them on the other side.

Leo fastened his attention on his surroundings, as a less-rude alternative to surreptitiously studying the boy. The Habitat was indeed inexpensively constructed, mostly pre-fab units variously combined. Not the most aesthetically elegant design—a certain higgledy-piggledy randomness indicated an organic growth pattern since the Habitat’s inception, units stuck on here and there to accommodate new needs. But its very dullness incorporated safety advantages Leo approved, the interchangeability of airseal systems for example.

They passed dormitory wings, food preparation and dining areas, a workshop for small repairs—Leo paused to gaze down its length, and had to hurry to catch up with his guide. Unlike most free-fall living spaces Leo had worked in, there was no effort here to maintain an arbitrary up-and-down to ease the visual psychology of the inhabitants. Most chambers were cylindrical in design, with work spaces and storage efficiently packing the walls and the center left free of obstruction for the passage of—well, one could hardly call them pedestrians.

En route they passed a couple of dozen of the—the four-handed people, the new model workers, Tony’s folk, whatever they were called—did they have an official designation, Leo wondered? He stared covertly, breaking off his gaze whenever one looked back, which was often; they stared openly at him, and whispered among themselves.

He could see why Van Atta dubbed them chimps. They were thin-hipped, lacking the powerful gluteal locomotor muscles of people with legs. The lower set of arms tended to be more muscular than the uppers in both males and females, power-grippers, and thus appeared falsely short by comparison to the uppers; bow-legged, if he squinted them to a blur.

They were dressed mostly in the sort of comfortable, practical T-shirt and shorts that Tony wore, evidently color-coded, for Leo passed a cluster of them all in yellow hovering intently around a normal human in GalacTech coveralls who had a pump unit half-apart, lecturing on its function and repair. Leo thought of a flock of canaries, of flying squirrels, of monkeys, of spiders, of swift bright lizards of the sort that run straight up walls.

They made him want to scream, almost to weep; and yet it wasn’t the arms, or the quick, too-many hands. He had almost reached Hydroponics before he was able to analyze his intense unease. It was their faces that bothered him so, Leo realized. They were the faces of children…

A door marked “Hydroponics D” slid aside to reveal an antechamber and a large airy end chamber extending some fifteen meters beyond. Filtered windows on the sun side, and an array of mirrors on the dark side, filled the volume with brilliant light, softened by green plants that grew from a carefully-arranged set of grow tubes. The air was pungent with chemicals and vegetation.

A pair of the four-armed young women, both in blue, were at work in the antechamber. A plexiplastic grow tube three meters long was braced in place, and they floated along its length carefully transplanting tiny seedlings from a germination box into a spiral series of holes along the tube, one plant per hole, fixing them in place with flexible sealant around each tender stalk. The roots would grow inward, becoming a tangled mat to absorb the nutritive hydroponic mist pumped through the tube, and the leaves and stems would bush out in the sunlight and eventually bear whatever fruit was their genetic destiny. In this place, probably apples with antlers, thought Leo in mild hysteria, or potatoes with eyes that really winked at you.

The dark-haired girl paused to adjust a bundle under her arm… Leo’s mind ground to a complete halt. The bundle was a baby.

A live baby—of course it was alive, what did he expect? Leo gibbered inwardly. It peered around its—mother’s?—torso to glower suspiciously at Leo-the-stranger, and tightened its four-handed clutch on home base, taking a squishy defensive grip on one of the girl’s breasts as if in fear of competition. “Ackle,” it remarked aggressively.

“Ow!” The dark-haired girl laughed, and spared a lower hand to pry the little fat fingers loose without missing a beat of her upper hands parting sealant in place around a stem. She finished with a quick squirt of fixative from a tube floating conveniently beside her, just out of the infant’s reach.