Free The Speed of Dark by Elizabeth Moon

When I was a child, my parents took me there for evaluation and for three years I went to the special class. Then my parents decided that the group was more interested in doing research papers to get grant money than in helping children, so they put me in another program, at the regional clinic. It is the policy of our local society to require researchers to disclose their identity; we do not allow them to attend our meetings.
    Page 31

    Emmy works at the university herself, as a custodian, and I suppose this is how she knows Marjory works there.
    “Lots of people work at the university,” I say. “Not all are in the research group.”
    “She is a spy, Lou,” Emmy says again. “She is only interested in your diagnosis, not in you as a person.”
    I feel a hollow opening inside me; I am sure that Marjory is not a researcher, but not that sure.
    “To her you are a freak,” Emmy says.“A subject.” She made subject sound obscene, if I understand obscene .Nasty.A mouse in a maze, a monkey in a cage. I think about the new treatment; the people who take it first will be subjects, just like the apes they tried it on first.
    “That’s not true,” I say. I can feel the prickling of sweat under my arms, on my neck, and the faint tremor that comes when I feel threatened. “But anyway, she is not my girlfriend.”
    “I’m glad you have that much sense,” Emmy says.
    I go on to the meeting because if I left the Center Emmy would talk to the others about Marjory and me.
    It is hard to listen to the speaker, who is talking about the research protocol and its implications. I hear and do not hear what he says; I notice when he says something I have not heard before, but I do not pay much attention. I can read the posted speech on the Center Web site later. I was not thinking about Marjory until Emmy said that about her, but now I cannot stop thinking about Marjory.
    Marjory likes me. I am sure she likes me. I am sure she likes me as myself, as Lou who fences with the group, as Lou she asked to come to the airport with her that Wednesday night. Lucia said Marjory liked me. Lucia does not lie.
    But there isliking and liking. I like ham, as a food. I do not care what the ham thinks when I bite into it. I know that ham doesn’t think, so it does not bother me to bite into it. Some people will not eat meat because the animals it came from were once alive and maybe had feelings and thoughts, but this does not bother me once they are dead. Everything eaten was alive once, saving a few grams of minerals, and a tree might have thoughts and feelings if we knew how to access them.
    What if Marjory likes me as Emmy says—as a thing, a subject,the equivalent of my bite of ham? What if she likes me more than some other research subject because I am quiet and friendly?
    I do not feel quiet and friendly. I feel like hitting someone.
    The counselor at the meeting does not say anything we have not already read on-line. He cannot explain the method; he does not know where someone would go to apply to be in the study. He does not say that the company I work for has bought up the research. Maybe he does not know. I do not say anything. I am not sure Mr. Aldrin is right about that.
    After the meeting the others want to stay and talk about the new process, but I leave quickly. I want to go home and think about Marjory without Emmy around. I do not want to think about Marjory being a researcher; I want to think about her sitting beside me in the car. I want to think about her smell, and the lights in her hair, and even the way she fights with a rapier.
    It is easier to think about Marjory while I am cleaning out my car. I untie the sheepskin seat pad and shake it out. No matter how careful I am, there are always things caught in it, dust and threads Page 32

    and—today— a paper clip. I do not know where that came from. I lay it on the front of the car and sweep the seats with a little brush, then vacuum the floor. The noise of the vacuum hurts