HELPER12

by Jack Blaine

  I do. And as we pull away I see my only friend, Helper15—Kris is her baby name—walking toward the building. We trained together as Baby Helpers, and by coincidence ended up in the same section of the same complex. She’s the only person who knows my baby name. It’s Benna. It was given to me by some unknown Baby Helper, who told it to the Transport Helper who took me to Tracking, who told it to the Tracker Helper who received me, who told it to the Trainer who picked me up from there. When I was old enough to wonder about myself, to wonder what my real name might be, I knew it—Benna—a gift from a series of nameless givers. It’s the only thing I have that hasn’t been recorded in some file somewhere, or listed on some form. It’s my secret, my way of holding onto myself.

  Kris tells her baby name to people the second she meets them, practically, but I’ve not shared mine with anyone but her. She really only knows it because we came up in training together, and I was a lot less private about things back then.

  I want to wave, but I can’t. She couldn’t see me anyway behind the tinted windows of the vehicle. We were supposed to meet tonight, to cut each other’s hair. Somehow Kris has managed to get a pair of trimmers. I don’t know where she got them and I’ve never asked. But they work, and it’s easier than going to the shops every time our skinners get longish. If you’re one of the lower designations, you can get a pretty ugly fine for hair that’s longer than the regulation skinner cut. Kris says the regulation is because skinners are easier to keep clean and tended than long hair styles would be, but I think that’s because skinners keep us nice and recognizable, so the police can spot us right away.

  Tonight, when she buzzes my cube, there won’t be an answer. I wonder how long she’ll stand in the hall. I wonder what she’ll do; if she’ll report me missing immediately, or if she’ll wait until tomorrow.

  She’ll never know what happened to me. The only person who knows my baby name, the only friend I have in this world, is walking into our building like it’s just another day, not knowing that she’ll never see me again. I feel tears running down my cheeks. I wonder if anyone will ever call me Benna again.

  The car slides away from the complex, through the seedy streets east of the city. I watch as the cube complexes give way to the shops and the shops give way to the city-proper, with all its shiny high buildings, and manicured greenways. Soon enough we’re out of the city heading west, and in minutes we turn off onto a side street, where all the dwellings are separate from one another. The whole street. All single units. We slow, and the gate in front of one of the units opens. The gate, flanked by brick columns, is ornate, but it looks strong. I have a feeling it isn’t just for decoration. The car slips inside, into a small courtyard. The gate closes behind us—I watch it from the back window of the vehicle. When I turn back around, we are parked, and the Driver is holding my door open for me.

  I don’t want to get out. I know I have to though, and so I scoot across the long seat and step onto the courtyard. There is a tiny square of lush, green grass—real grass. There are pots with small trees growing in them, and some sort of plant that spills out and drapes elegantly down the sides of the pots. There is a fountain, with a waterfall trinkling musically down into a tiled basin. I’ve never seen this sort of lavishness, at least not in private areas. Some of the places on the vid feeds look like this, but I’ve never seen it in real life. I didn’t think they actually existed until just now.

  The Driver takes my arm, but he is gentle, not like the Director. He’s just showing me the way, though it’s hard to miss the grand entrance to this dwelling. There are carved double doors, flanked by more potted plants. I know the doors are made of some sort of reinforced plastic, but my eyes believe they are wood. On a simple plaque on the left side of the doors, the word Sloane is spelled out in black letters, as though everyone will know what that means. The Driver looks up at a tiny camera mounted above the doors. When a red light comes on under the camera, he looks at me.

  “You’re on your own,” he says, with a grim smile. And he walks away. Before I can turn to watch him get in the car I hear a click. The doors open and a woman wearing a Domestic Helper uniform heaves a huge sigh of relief in my face.

  “’Bout time. Get in here!” She stands aside and motions for me to come. I don’t move at first, but then I hear something.

  It’s screaming. It’s faint, coming from somewhere deep inside the place, but it’s Jobee. He’s screaming. I start forward.

  “Where is he?”

  “Upstairs. Go, quickly.” She points at a staircase off to the left. I start up it.

  At the top there is a corridor and there are lots of doors, all closed. I head toward the noise. When I reach the door it’s coming from, I don’t even hesitate. I’ve never heard Jobee scream like that. I barge right in.

  She’s got him thrown over her shoulder like he’s a bag of laundry. She’s walking back and forth, bouncing him up and down as she goes. Her face is just about as red as his, and she looks like she’d like to throw him.

  I don’t say anything; I just hold out my hands. She holds him away from her and I take him. He’s tight, and hot. His screams come out like they hurt him.

  There’s a bed in the room, and I lay him on it. I start taking off his clothes.

  “Does he have a change of clothes?” I don’t look back at her. “I need to get him into dry clothes.” He’s been perspiring and his garments are damp. I check his diaper but it’s dry. “I need a damp cloth. Warm.”

  “Helper!” Ms. Sloane shouts, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s not shouting at me. The Domestic Helper appears.

  “A damp cloth. And some fresh clothes for him.” Ms. Sloane hovers while I soothe Jobee by rubbing his feet. He always did like that. By the time I have him undressed and have gently washed his sweaty little body, he’s calm. I dress him in a fresh set of clothes.

  “What was wrong with him? He just screamed and screamed and screamed.” Ms. Sloane sounded less angry, more disgusted.

  “Did you have him inoculated last night?”

  “Of course we did. For his safety.” Ms. Sloane sounded a bit defensive.

  “He’s having a reaction. Between that and being taken away from everything he knows, he’s upset.” I wanted to slap her. I wondered how long Jobee had been screaming like that.

  “He seems fine now.” Ms. Sloane spoke in an even tone, but I could hear something beneath her words. Something that told me to tread carefully. I picked Jobee up and started to put him on my shoulder, but thought better of it. I held him out toward her.

  “No.” She eyed Jobee like he was a snake. “You take him for now. Mr. Sloane and I will be going out soon.” She started out the door of the room. Then she turned back. “Helper can show you your room. I think we’ll have the crib moved into it, just until he sleeps through the night better. I’ll have Helper take care of it. Oh, and there are clothes for you in the closet—get rid of that dreadful uniform.” She left then, without another look at her new son.

  Chapter Seven

  My room is on the third floor. It’s small, but still bigger than my cube was. It’s got a tiny bathroom attached to it, and a window. There is a narrow bed along one wall, which is softer than anything I’ve slept on before. And there isn’t a vid screen anywhere.

  Honestly, that is the thing I notice the most. In the complexes, every cube had a vid screen, and there was no way to turn them off. There was a constant stream of ads, stories, and news updates twenty-four hours a day. Even the Ward had a screen, and all of the shops had them. I used to think that they were just background noise to me. Until I came here, and realized what silence was like. The Sloanes do have a screen—they have several. But all their screens have controls. They can switch them on, or switch them off. It’s their choice. The silence in the house is amazing. I feel like I can hear myself think for the first time ever.

  The Domestic Helper did get the crib moved into my room, that first day. She had the Driver do it. It sits in the corner by th
e window, so Jobee gets sun sometimes. The Driver brought a changing table in too, and a chest of drawers filled with baby outfits. Neither of them said much to me. They still don’t. The Domestic Helper just waggles her eyebrows a lot, and looks like I’m getting in her territory. The Driver doesn’t come in the house much.

  Mr. Sloane is the most talkative of the bunch, and he doesn’t say more than a few words to me a day. Ms. Sloane comes in to see Jobee in the morning, and I don’t see her again until dinner. She wants Jobee to eat with them, at the big table downstairs, so that means I eat with them, too.

  I wear the clothes that were in the closet, instead of my Baby Helper uniform. They are all different colors, and they are of a finer material than anything I’ve ever owned. All of the tops have long sleeves, to cover my designation tattoo. Although I’m certain that Ms. Sloane didn’t mean for it to happen, I look pretty good in the clothes. I have to stop myself from admiring the cut of a skirt, or the drape of a sweater, sometimes. I’ve never felt the way those clothes make me feel.

  I haven’t seen their son Thomas since the night in the Ward. He’s away at school. That’s what they call it: school. It’s not training—he’s not been tracked for anything as far as I can decipher from their conversations. He just studies all kinds of things. The Sloanes talk about him to each other at dinner sometimes, about how smart he is, or how great he’s doing in some subject of study.

  “Thomas sent word that his project was the winner,” Ms. Sloane will say to Mr. Sloane.

  “Wonderful.” Mr. Sloane will be looking at his plate, cutting his meat or buttering bread.

  Then there will be silence, while utensils click delicately against plates. After a bit, Mr. Sloane will ask Ms. Sloane about her day, and she’ll tell him about some lunch she went to, or what event they have to attend that evening. Rarely do either of them look over at Jobee. When he makes some noise or fusses, Mr. Sloane will look up as though he’s forgotten they bought a baby, and say something like “The boy seems strong.” Ms. Sloane will nod, and say something like “He is doing so well.” Then she changes the subject.

  It’s strange. They took a great risk bringing Jobee here. At the Ward, Ms. Sloane seemed almost desperate to have him. If they were discovered, I don’t know what would happen to them. So for them to act as though he’s not that important to them—I just can’t figure it out. There are things going on here that I don’t know anything about. And they scare me.

  I feel like I’m blind, like I’m groping along walls in an unfamiliar room, trying to find my way. That would be bad under any circumstances, but I can’t protect Jobee from these people while I’m blind. I have to find out what is happening here, and how to make Jobee matter to these people. Because I know how disposable he is, how disposable I am. We can disappear in an instant from here, just like we disappeared from the Ward. Only next time I don’t think we’d be going anyplace this nice.

  I am not allowed to leave. I can go outside, but I can’t go beyond the gate. The other dwellings on the street aren’t visible from the courtyard; they’re not visible from inside, either. We might as well be the only people on the planet.

  I love taking Jobee out to the courtyard, even though I know it’s just another part of a prison, for us. It’s still the most beautiful place I’ve been. The colors of the pots, the way the light makes the leaves of the plants glow. The sound of the water in the fountain. All of it is so foreign to me, and yet it feels like the way things should be. Jobee likes it too—it always calms him when he is fussy.

  Ms. Sloane doesn’t call him Jobee. She told me the day I arrived that they had named him William. I don’t call him that; I just say baby when they’re around. But when we’re alone, I hum his name to him. Jobee, you are Jobee, I whisper into his ear. My name is Benna, I say. I tell him so he won’t forget, so neither one of us will forget who we are.

  “How is William today?”

  Ms. Sloane’s voice makes me jump. She doesn’t usually come out to the courtyard when we’re here. I turn to her with a smile fixed firmly on my face.

  “He’s well.” I offer him to her; the more she holds him, the better. Half the time she refuses him, but today she is feeling beneficent. She reaches out, clasps him to her. He starts to fidget a little.

  “Remember how he likes his feet rubbed.” I watch her carefully, trying to gauge whether this will anger her; sometimes she resents being told how to handle him. Today it’s okay—she cups his foot in her hand and gently smoothes it with her finger. She looks into his eyes. He smiles up at her; unknowing, unblinking.

  “He really is such a handsome baby, aren’t you Mr. William?” She coos and smiles back at him.

  This is good. The more she connects with him, the better chance he has of making it here. I don’t know exactly what not making it would look like, but I know it wouldn’t be good. I have to do everything I can to make her love him.

  Love.

  That’s the thing. That’s what isn’t allowed, where I come from. It’s not illegal, or anything, it’s just . . . impossible. Impossible to have a relationship based on feelings. All of the relationships in the complexes are based on need, like my relationship with my Jacket, or comfort, like my relationship with Kris. I like Kris; she and I provide each other a companion on treks to the shops for haircuts or supplies—that can be a dangerous trip for a woman alone. It’s also a comfort to have someone to share small talk with, and on rare occasions, Kris and I have come close to actually speaking honestly about things. But I base our friendship on the assumption that she would report me in a second if she knew I was violating a regulation.

  If you know someone is violating regulations and you don’t report them, you’ll get a Charge By Association if they’re ever caught. CBAs are double what the original penalty would be, and if someone is caught, all of their associates are examined. Sometimes, people get CBAed even when they knew nothing at all about their friend’s violating behavior.

  So, if I were charged with a violation because they found my drawings, Kris would be examined. If they decided she knew about my crime, she’d be given double my punishment. For acting outside your tracked designation, that would be somewhere between 20 years to life, imprisoned in one of the labor camps. If she knew about my drawings, Kris would feel like she had to report me, in order to avoid getting a CBA.

  I used to ask myself if I would report her, if I knew she was violating. Sometimes I’m afraid of the answer to that question.

  The thing that is illegal in the complexes is family. In the complexes, you have to live alone. One person, one cube, that’s the rule. You can have sex, you can visit people, you can go places with friends, but you cannot live together. You cannot form a family. You cannot have babies, your own or anyone else’s. No love. No families.

  I’d always thought that was what rich people bought with their money. Love. Family. I don’t know how it is in other family units, but I don’t see love here between Mr. and Ms. Sloane. There’s something, but I don’t think it’s love. Still, I’m hoping that I can kindle some love, between Ms. Sloane and Jobee, so he is safe.

  So we’re both safe.

  “Mr. Sloane and I will be leaving tonight for our trip.” Ms. Sloane is handing Jobee back to me. I take him, trying to remember what trip she might be talking about. I must have a dumbfounded expression on my face.

  “Our anniversary trip.” She studies me for a minute. “We’ll be gone for three weeks. And while we’re gone, I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

  “Yes, Ms. Sloane.” I wonder what she means.

  “You’re to stay inside or out here, as usual, no going past the gate. If you need anything the Driver can get it for you. Helper will be cooking the meals, and she has the list of contacts should any outside assistance be required. The physician we’ll be using for William, that sort of thing.” She pauses. “Is that all clear?”

  I nod.

  Helper. Every time I hear her say it I think she might be talking to me, but
she isn’t. When she says Helper she means the Domestic Helper. That woman must have a number, but they don’t use it here. They call the Driver ‘Driver’ too, like it’s his baby name or something. I’ve heard her call me the girl, when she was talking to Mr. Sloane about me. The girl will need to be told to bathe William before dinner. The girl should probably eat after she tends to William at our table, not with us.

  “Thank goodness this trip is to a proper resort.” Ms. Sloane purses her lips. “The last vacation we planned, Mr. Sloane had his heart set on visiting a remote village in the Tongal region, of all things. I didn’t join him for that—I stayed in the hotel on the mainland.”

  I wonder where Tongal is—they didn’t cover that in Baby Helper training.

  “Well.” She reaches out, touches Jobee’s foot one more time. “Sweet William. We’ll be back soon enough.” She turns and walks away.

  It’s barely noon. She said they were leaving tonight. But it seems clear that she isn’t planning on seeing Jobee again today. So much for my kindling any love between her and this baby.

  Chapter Eight

  The Sloanes have been gone two days. We—Helper, me, and the Driver—have settled into an uneasy routine. Helper cooks for the three of us. We gather only at meals, and eat around the table in the kitchen instead of the table in the formal dining room. None of us says much. I feed Jobee his meals while I eat mine. Helper doesn’t like him; she rarely spares him a glance, and when she does it’s usually a glare because he’s spilled something.

  The Driver—I am beginning to suspect he is not just a Driver. For one thing, there’s nobody here to drive anywhere right now. All the household supplies are delivered. There is no reason for him to stay here, but he’s sleeping in one of the guestrooms. I smell security. I wonder if he’s watching out for us, or just watching us.

  He kind of likes Jobee. I see him watching at our meals, and he smiles when Jobee giggles, or squeals at something that he’s discovered. He looks away as soon as I notice.