Monterra's Deliciosa & Other Tales &

by Anna Tambour

  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.r />
  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.

  When Lucy's registration fully passes, as when all samers are fully registered, the Department issues the parents their Parents Producers Number—theoretically valuable, even if they still have to go to the back of the line to submit for another project. The feeling is that these will be increasingly harder to obtain. My parents have been told that there is some sort of black market for these numbers, but wouldn't know what to do with theirs if they wanted to. But they don't, and know that they're too old now for it to be any good for them, so they've talked about the whole thing like some ugly but old photo to be stored in a damp drawer, curling and forgotten. Still, it's necessary for Tommy's files.

  ~

  I'm seven now. Lucy is four. And tonight, my parents are a bit worried. They're in bed now, but I'm in my room with the light on, so I can talk to you.

  When we all came home after eating, they all sat down to watch the Thursday Night Comedy Show. Every minute or so I could hear their laugher in time with the show. I was sitting at the table near the kitchen, as usual. My parents never liked me to disappear into my room, as it was unnatural. I don't remember what it was that I'd just thought through. I've got several interests at the moment, but I limit myself to two developments an evening. More than that, and I tend to get a little excited and mumble a bit to myself, and the effect on the family is too great.

  They were laughing. The show was halfway through. I know because that sequence where people do funny things with their bodies was on. A man stuck quarters up his nose last week. For days afterward, Tommy tried unsuccessfully to store dimes in his ears. His current ambition is to be on that show one day.

  I'd looked up momentarily, between projects, and someone was pulling handfuls of loose skin from his face.

  Tommy was beating his hands against his chair, making choking noises. This was his favorite part.

  My parents chuckled a bit condescendingly. They'd hoped to be above this, but missed.

  Lucy got out of her chair and wandered around the back of the room, pacing with her head lowered. This was the first time in her three years of viewing that Lucy had ever taken her eyes off the screen for longer than it took to sneeze. My mother got of her own chair to see what was wrong. My father turned around in his big chair, his eyes steady, his forehead creased up the middle. Tommy suddenly found his own lap fascinating.

  The show laughter, like a museum clock, ticked on.

  My mother stopped Lucy in midpace, and gave her a cuddle. "Her forehead feels a bit warm," she said, and my father got up from his chair.

  "Come on, honey," he said to Lucy. "It's a big school day tomorrow. Why don't I tuck you into bed with a story?"

  "Daddy—" Lucy said, as my father scooped her up in the air with a "Weeee."

  My mother got up and made a slow rush for Tommy, hitting her knee against the sofa on the way. Tommy was already out of his chair, and my mother and he sang the "Better with Beacon" ditty loudly all the way to his room, where she was unusually chatty putting him to bed, and Tommy was unusually ready for sleep at that hour.

  Over the din, Lucy opened her mouth again, but she didn't have to yell, because my father put her down, and put his head down close to hers.

  "Let's play whispers," he said.

  "Daddy," Lucy whispered, but she looked cranky at all the interruptions.

  "What if, instead of the man pulling at his face, the show showed the people laughing at the man who pulled his face."

  "Why would they show that, honey?"

  "Because it would be funnier," Lucy said. She put her thumb in her mouth, something she quit doing when she was six months old.

  My father was still as an old tree.

  Lucy's thumb came out of her mouth with a pop caused by a gust of tinkly laughter. "And Daddy, what if the people watching -"

  "Oooh," he scratched his head like Mr. Monkey, Lucy's favorite character. He looked at his watch like it was a bird that just flew onto his wrist. "It's ice cream time again."

  Ice cream is Mr. Monkey's favorite food, and Lucy's too, but it didn't work. In fact, her chubby face mottled.

  "Daaddy. Lissen. What if the people watching -"

  My father knelt in front of her again, and took her hands. "Lucy. It wouldn't be funny."

  She took her hands out of her fathers and folded them in front of her chest, grown-up style. "Why? You don't know."

  I caught my father's eye.

  "Why don't we find out what silly Edward has been doing?" he suggested. That was the private fun the family—actually Tommy and Lucy—had daily. I'd tell them briefly what my projects were that day, and my parents would lead the laughter.

  It wasn't at me. It was with me they said—but also—it's the family joke program, for no one else. Tommy and Lucy knew this was so, and obeyed. If Tommy were older, he would have beaten me up, but reserved his interactions to laughing with me when our parents were around, and at me, with Lucy or by himself.

  By the time I finished lightly telling Lucy and my father my evening's projects, he chuckled, just like at the face-puller. Lucy laughed her tinkly little girl laugh. She'd forgotten her thoughts about the show.

  With a tickle-tickle session all the way down the hall, Lucy was easily put to bed. I gathered up my papers and went to my room, and a few minutes later my parents came in to kiss me goodnight.

  Their room is next to mine. It is now three o'clock in the morning, and I can still hear them talking.

  ~

  Tonight was Friday Drama of the Week on Channel 7. A big treat for Tommy and Lucy, as it's the night to stay up late till the movie finishes.

  This one, "Disaster at Sea," had been advertised for weeks, and we'd come home from eating in time for my father to make a bowl of popcorn, and my mother to hand out big checked handkerchiefs to Tommy and Lucy, and arm both herself and my father with a box of tissues. They all had a last trip to the bathroom, and the movie began.

  It was about a ship that sank with most of its passengers. Everything had been going fine. My parents each had a pile of used tissues beside them, and my father was blowing his nose, my mother making little sobby noises. Tommy was bawling so loud that my father had to up the sound to hear the screaming.

  Lucy started laughing. "Look at that silly woman," she pointed. She opened her mouth to say more, but rolled off her chair onto the floor, unable to watch, she was giggling so much.

  My father clicked the screen off, but Tommy had already l
eft for his room. In less time than it would have taken to fetch it from the closet, my mother had the fever strip against Lucy's head. Her mouth tightened as she read, "Normal."

  My mother put Lucy to bed, and it took a while before she joined us again at the table.

  My father looked at me, and his eyes asked. My father is a doctor. My mother is a human resource assessor.

  "Flu?" I offered, and my mother laughed mirthlessly before he could even second my suggestion.

  "Good try, you two, but she's not just minor aberrating. I've never seen anyone go this far. Except Edward."

  "What happens to your reports, Grace?"

  "Minor aberrators go for treatment, then return to unit. Serious cases like Lucy's lateralizing, I just report. I've never asked ..."

  Suddenly my mother couldn't talk. Only blubbery sounds came out, as her face crumpled behind her hands.

  ~

  Saturday night now. Lucy and I spent it playing in my room. While the laughter reached out from the living room, I was to do my bit, amusing her with a report of my day's projects.

  She didn't laugh. Not only that, but on the second project, she offered a solution I'd thought of myself, but discarded.

  Tonight my parents' laughter was so perfectly in synch with the program that it was hard to distinguish, except that I know my father's little snort, and it was particularly sharp, and my mother coughs at the end of her program laughs.

  Tommy pounded his chair and made his choking noises as usual, but maybe a bit more uproariously.

  I put Lucy to bed myself, after reading from her favorite storybook. But she didn't finish any of the memorized phrases, or sing the song at the end.