When he’s asked, he tells people it’s his entire name: Baines. Nothing more. Nothing less.
According to his mother, the name De’Quandrae was something to be proud of. It’d been passed down through his family for generations, since before they’d migrated to the Stations. Our family was African-American, she’d said once when he’d asked why it was so important. We were dragged from one place to another once, as slaves. This time, we went as people. We won’t forget that, and we won’t forget where we came from.
He’s not so sure whether the folks on the upper levels consider drones to be people, though, and if he ever hears another question about his “ethnicity”—not exactly a socially acceptable concept anymore—or another joke about the word “quandary,” Baines won’t be responsible for his actions. It’s easier to just avoid using his given name. Since there are plenty of other people on the Stations who only have one name, due to their descent from cultures that truly did not have given/family name combinations, nobody questions that.
Unfortunately, changing his name to just be one word isn’t as possible as it is to simply avoid using his given names. Due to the number of drones who have tried to hide from their debts, it can’t be done anymore. Not unless you have a lot of time, a lot of money, or both.
Fortunately, he’s discovered that payroll officers rarely care about much more than your social ID number.
Julia had insisted on getting something more when she ran his baseline physical, but she’d been apologetic about it. “The computer won’t let me move forward unless I put something into the first name field. But it can be an initial, if you want.” That’s what he’d given her, and she’d never asked for more.
Of course, it isn’t like the folks on Eden Advance ask him for a lot anyway. There’s little need for a heating and air conditioning specialist when you live a nomadic life; and here, at Winter Camp, the biologists had already set up a simple, but extremely robust, air handling system. Maintaining it barely takes any work at all.
It was a quandary, he’d reflected once, that somehow his life had dwindled down to nothing but his social ID number, a single name, and work as a general grunt. Even though the people on Eden Advance are careful to always include him, and sometimes even outright ask for his guidance, Baines knows he doesn’t belong here. He has never belonged, not during school when he had to deal with fallout from that ridiculous name; not on his jobs when he’d been nothing more than a number; and especially not now, when he’s barely even useful.
“At least part of it,” Gail Denner had said once, when she was exasperated with his complaints, “is your attitude, Baines. Have you ever thought about learning a new skill?”
Easy for her to say, since her background as a lab assistant had come in handy when they needed to test everything around them for toxicity. She’d become quite the expert on G889’s plant life, cataloging everything from edibles to medicinals to building and clothing materials. She recently passed an exam that certified her as a laboratory technologist in her own right, instead of just being qualified to assist others.
“There are soft skills, too,” Devon said another time. “You’re a natural leader, Baines, and you notice details other people don’t. That’s just as valuable as any technical activity.”
She just doesn’t get it, he decides. Values are different up on the upper levels.
But then one day, he comes across Alonzo and Bess, sitting on a fallen log with their heads together. She’s working on a tablet, and he’s reaching over to change it. At one point, Bess shakes her head in frustration.
“I’m never going to get this,” she says.
“Sure you will. Astronomy’s complicated. It’s not something you can pick up overnight.”
Bess was trying to learn astronomy? What good would that do her? She was barely more than a trophy wife, wasn’t she? Back in camp, he’d never seen any indication she was dissatisfied with that role, and she was often the first to volunteer for homemaking type chores.
That made him look around, though, and when he did, he was surprised: Bess wasn’t the only one. Nor was she only a student; she taught, too. She and Cameron were teaching Yale how to dress, prepare, and cook wild game. Alonzo doggedly spent hours on end in Julia’s tent, learning basic biology and medicine so that he could back her up. Even Devon sometimes took time to sit with Danziger and listen as he explained the inner workings of a machine; Danziger, in turn, occasionally joined the kids’ science lessons.
On the surface, it doesn’t seem like a particularly productive trend. When would any of them ever use extra skills?
“Who knows?” asks Denner when he talks to her about the higher mathematics texts she studies in the evenings. “It keeps me from being bored, and it might come in handy someday. Nobody here can afford to specialize too much, anyway.”
“Don’t tell me you’re actually planning on staying.”
“Cross-training’s useful on the Stations, too. It keeps them from just slotting you into a position like one more cog in the system. I don’t want to be treated like a number anymore. Do you?”
The question gives him pause. He’s never known anything else, but it reminds him of his mother’s words. This time, we went as people. We won’t forget that.
Unfortunately, it leaves him with yet another quandary: what is he going to study?