Monterra's Deliciosa & Other Tales & (10 page)

Me-Too

I am an only. My sister is a samer to my brother. Of course, Tommy has been the top of us three since he could speak, even though I'm two years older. Lucy is three years younger than I, and I've been at the bottom of the heap since she could speak—as you would expect.

At least I'm not a one-and-only, as people who try to be nice always say, but that doesn't help. I know I've screwed up my parents' lives. They wanted to be professionals. They wanted six—three sets of two—the recommended, and of course preferred choice for all professionals.

Now it's just a part-time job for them in an almost amateur, definitely gray classification—almost as bad as what professionals scoff at as "SJOHs" (Single-Job-Only-Hobbyists).

I feel bad for my parents. They worked so hard, read everything there was, went through the PPTS (Professional Parenting Training Scheme) run by the Department and cosponsored by all the important companies. When they got their certificate of graduation, they could quote the Handbook, clause by subclause and footnote.

They applied. Just the application to apply process took 18 months.

Now you might think that the huge range of personalities in good positions is a reality. But the truth is, it's almost impossible to register an original combination, and the range that you see is really different labels for the same few. That's why they stress easy me-too's as the only pragmatic avenue for prospective professional parents, unless you have clout.

When the gene craze took over in the early part of the century, this was thought to be the simple answer to efficiency. But it was soon found that, while the easy stuff like health could be dealt with, the important stuff—personality—was as elusive as Thomas Edison's improved lightbulb. Maybe when we're dead they'll have it down, but at the moment, despite what you are told, it's just too expensive for the bulk of society's needs.

That's why lobbyists pushed for the SNP (Semi-Natural Program). As most lobbyists are from industry (and incidentally, also ex-Department), the program is now the only avenue that provides legal, standard product at maximum cost-efficiency. And it was the Semi-Natural Program, Scientific Branch, two subsections down, that my parents went for, to have me.

~

Perhaps the roots of my parents' failure drank in too heady a mix of nutrients, as their ambition was too tall a plant for most.

For their first—me—they went for "Scientific, Subclassification: Creative Diverse." Cynics said, "You might as well try for 'New Personality,'" which should have rung alarm bells.

The lifestyle dreams first visualized by my mother, and then shared by my father, obscured any possible troubles that threatened their project. The house that they would have as part of the package, the access to an upper strata of entertainment, even people on another level—all this made them more sure of their plan. Plus, they looked forward to the postbirth part of the parenting jobs they would have. Their work requirements for my classification for the first years excited both of them much more than a standard me-too ever could have.

On the advice of the helpful Department staff, they were put in touch with Crowley Tithern, ex-Department assistant to the head. Mr. Tithern emanated total confidence. It was just a matter of a few months wait, and some rule-following. Easy as pie. And the matter of his fees and expenses, paid up front, please.

Once Mr. Tithern got my parents through the initial stage of permission to proceed, it was only Mr. Tithern himself who could guide them through the exact procedural specifications. Because of the frequency of spec changes, the nitty-gritty of my actual production was not in any handbook, but rather in the trail of sub- and interdepartmental memos, not actually available to anyone outside the Department.

During this time, Mr. Tithern had frequent call conferences with my parents to relay the instructions "straight from Bob," as he called the project manager for my Division. My parents wrapped their lives around the specs as much as two vines around the only pole in a flat field. No matter how inconvenient or painful, or downright embarrassing for both, they followed the procedures. I've heard them reminisce about my father's fertility treatments and his amazing whiskers. And he told my mother about what IVF used to be like, and they both laughed over how romantic it seemed compared to what they both went through. But still, they had a vision and a common will to make it a reality.

It was the greatest day of their lives, they tell me, when I was born. They were elated that, after all the mental stress and physical pain, I was produced.

They sent Mr. Tithern a bottle of champagne to thank him (even though he had been paid extremely well), and spent all the time they could staring at me in my crib those first weeks. With the confidence of old hands, they were ready to launch immediately into number two (a samer of me, of course), but couldn't yet, because Mr. Tithern was on his annual vacation.

I was assessed monthly as a part of the Product Quality Control/Human Resources program. By month two, when my gurgling fit the template as much as if the template had been designed for me, my father reached Mr. Tithern at his office.

"Now just hold your horses, George," Mr. Tithern drawled in his genial way.

"Edward passed the TD40, one hundred out of one hundred, Mr. Tithern," my father said.

"Yes, you told me that already, George, but the Department likes you to have a pause after the very first. Do you want to go against recommended procedure? I would strongly advise you to wait for one year. For first-timers like you who are not professionals yet, it doesn't look good to be too precipitate."

When my father started to quote the manual—that technically it was supposed to be no problem—Mr. Tithern sighed.

"I can see if I can get the ball rolling for you if you really want. But I'll have to start filings for you through the Exceptional Circumstances Program, if you really insist."

This program wasn't mentioned in any manual my father or mother had ever seen, but that sigh was enough to make my father back down, even if he thought it was just another silly thing to discourage my parents from becoming professionals.

Still, time itself was a hurdle that was tolerable, so my parents jumped over the days in eagerness, enjoying the pass-rate of each test.

I was gurgling to plan, moving my limbs to plan, focusing, sucking my toes. The whole baby thing to plan. When I began to talk at four months they were pleased. When my first words were "mama, dada," they were thrilled. Exactly to spec.

I wasn't a talkative baby. That would have been off-plan. I watched and listened—mostly listened, as I was meant to.

It would be unlikely for you to know a semi-natural of my classification, being that we have low socialization requirements, and indeed, are designed to function most effectively in anthro-free environments. So I'll bring you up to speed regarding our developmental stages.

These are the specs for my classification: Full adult vocabulary at four. Tech-grade reading at five. Streamed into an industry subclassification by seven, and by thirteen, fully fledged, working to designated capacity—as a team member finding new uses for company products.

One other thing I'm sure you don't know (I only found out by accident in one of my research forays). Accelerated growth was played around with for all classifications just a few years ago. There was such a hue and cry that it never went further than Accellera's first success. The threat to diversity was truly terrifying. Only with full developmental and socioeconomic diversity can there be a balance maintained for healthy marketing—and developmental stages are the most important excess production sinks. So that's the reason my body lags my brain in such annoying ways, and that most twenty-first century children of natural and semi-natural types are just that—children.

~

So for me, day followed day as I learned in my care pod. My parents plugged in the teaching modules, and the screen smiled down at me for the prescribed hours. Sound took meaning, shapes took meaning. I learned from everything. When my parents were home, the screen was off, and through the thin walls of the apartment, I listened to everything my parents said, no matter what room they were in.

My nursery doubled as a home office for my father, and he kept his papers on a desk by my pod. During the day, I used to pull myself up the sides and hang from my hands clutching the top rail. Those papers fascinated me, but were also a source of deep frustration.

One night shortly after my fourth-month birthday, there was a full moon—the white walls of my room were lit, and the puny night-light was almost lost in the room's glow. There was a big unfolded colorful piece of paper on the desk, and I pulled myself up to look at it for a long time.

The next morning, my father came into the office to see me before work, and picked up the piece of paper. I thought he was going to put in his case, but my mother said something from down the hall, and my father dropped the paper on the desk. That day, they forgot to load the day's lessons. So all day, I played at holding myself up in my pod, looking at that paper.

I was happy when my father came to see me when he came home from work. I always liked to see his face. I smiled my slobbery gummy grin, and pulled myself upright in my crib. I pointed as well as I could to the top paper in the pile on his desk.

"That calculation in the middle panel is wrong. The dosage should read, 'four milligrams,'" I said. I'm not sure how much he could understand, because I couldn't pronounce s's then, and had never said a four-syllable word before.

My father looked funny and sat down.

"Besides," I said, "the logic of treatment in that directive is flawed. Wouldn't common sense dictate -"

My father's head wobbled and he fell out of his chair. I was surprised. He didn't seem any more coordinated than I.

My mother must have heard the noise, as she came into the room, and looked awfully worried. She propped him up with difficulty, and after a few minutes, he looked at me.

"Are you questioning standard procedure for treating HBD patients?" he said.

My mother looked at my father like he was having a brain seizure.

"Of course I am," I answered.

And then my father had to take care of my mother.

~

Obviously, the advice Mr. Tithern gave to my parents was wrong, even though he had just retired out of the public service six months before.

My parents considered suing Crowley Tithern, but that phase lasted only until they dug up his bills, at the bottom of which were clear "all care, no responsibility" warnings amongst all the other stuff that they never read. Then they thought of suing the Department. They asked the confidential advice of Ken Mooresmith—known as a real terrier.

"Noooo," he said, examining the ceiling. "Whatever went wrong, you can't sue the Government. In fact, if you try, be worried about the tables being turned. Why don't you just shut up and try again."

The bill that they got for their half hour with Mooresmith made Crowley Tithern look cheap.

After one more angry session with Mr. Tithern, it was made clear to my parents that they should thank their stars that this hadn't happened in the Social Resource Program. In my stream, extra intelligence was always just classified as excess to requirements, and would not have disqualified me for registration, but in the Social stream, this would have been a product for rationalization. Instead, I would be made legal and given some sort of classification, and they should be thankful. I would have to be kept home, of course. "Of course," my father answered.

~

With the hard lesson of me, my parents had no more fancy ambition left. Only a determination not to be beaten. They would be professionals, if only run-of-the-mill professionals. They would still get a house, but the social level they could attain and the work satisfaction aspects would be lower than they had hoped.

When I was a year old, my parents tried for number two—this time, without using Tithern.

Tommy was the easiest "me-too"—"Technical, Fully accommodatable." This was the category and level that they had been urged in their course to choose.

It still took time, and a whopping processing fee to the Department (bank checks only accepted). But conforming to the Guidelines was easy.

By the time Tommy was three months old (unusually early, but he showed unusual levels of conformity characteristics), he was assessed as passing. My parents were thrilled, and Lucy followed, naturally as a samer to Tommy.

But it was application renewal time again. An only, first off, was a black mark against them even though followed by what looked so far like a model Handbook me-too and successful samer.

Then, just when they were planning their next set, they found out that their new application would have the same status as first-time applicants with no records. The rules had changed yet again, and my parents knew both money and time were against them.

They resigned themselves to amateur rating forever, and swallowed the failure of my being, with grace. With their prospective jobs now at the highest level each would reach, they both had to forget their valiant project to move themselves up the social scale. Of course, any house, even a pokey one, was only something they could live in while they slept, in their dreams.

~

I told you that Tommy received his registration in record time, but Lucy's registration number is still pending. Samers always take five years. That's the rules. It used to be worse.

I'm legal, barely. While I don't have a registration number, the Department did issue me with an HR Card that classifies me as C43/204. The C43 is translated as "rural work. population under 5,000. casual. speech-free environment." My parents asked what the 204 meant, and were told, Don't ask. Without a registration number, I might as well be an illegal. My whole family always knew I couldn't stick around long. It's always been a fact among us that when I'm a decent age (ten), I would leave, to go "foraging." The details are my problem, but the reality for them is my disappearance. The stress on the family otherwise would be too great.