Lavie Tidhar: The Apex Book of World SF 2

Ever since he could remember, he had been absolutely terrified of that damn scarecrow. That was before he was old enough to realise that none of it was real, or could ever be real anymore, not even in Europe itself. However, even when he had finally caught on, the irrational fear remained and he was even more scared than before. Eventually, against government policy, he had pinned up a large picture of an extinct puppy over the window. The picture was still there, and his parents let it stay, even though it would mean a fine if it was ever discovered. Tamuka vaguely remembered that the “windows” had something to do with the psychological-well-being of the approximately thirty thousand inhabitants of Mbare, which was his block’s informal name.

Tamuka knew the unofficial name used to belong to a high-density suburb that existed here once, when this had been the capital city—not just the state capital city—Harare. The current Mbare was the first of the really big housing blocks to be built in the United Federation of Africa. The proper name for the block was an Arcology. Every basic need was met within the arcology, apart from their schooling. Tamuka wasn’t sure exactly why school was outside Mbare, but it was also something to do with that psychological-well-being stuff. Inside Mbare was a huge interior mall, thirty storeys high and filled with all the shops, cinemas, playgrounds, gyms, sports grounds, restaurants, nightclubs, lakes and parks one could ever need. Quite a few of the adults—including his parents—worked here, too. Some had never left the arcology and were quick and proud to say so.

Although the idea of forever living in Mbare was not for Tamuka, he could understand why others could do so. It was, he supposed, like living in one huge, close-knit village. People could know you, and you them, for your whole lifetime. Families often made deals to move their apartments closer together. Tamuka’s closest friend, nicknamed Chinhavira, was surrounded by no less than twenty apartments, all belonging to members of her extended family. They were strict traditionalists and her father, Mr Tonderai Mpofu, held a senior position in the Tsvangirai Height’s People’s Council. Chinhavira already had an apartment that was being rented out until she married. It seemed to Tamuka that she had no choice either in her parent’s choice of apartment, or her future genetically-selected, arcology-born marriage partner.

Tamuka slurped the last of his noodles down, opened the atomiser by the sink and threw the cold cup inside. He flicked the lid down and it automatically locked in place with a vacuum hiss. A muffled bang came from inside as the cup was atomised and sucked away. Gone, forever. Like his grandfather, even if his parents said he was with all their ancestors, watching over all their living family.

“Can you hear me, Grandfather?” Tamuka whispered, half expecting, half dreading an answer. The apartment remained silent.

“Tamuka!”

His mother’s call jerked Tamuka rudely awake on his bed where he had fallen asleep while reading. He leapt up and tossed the digital screen-reader to the bed. Quickly, he wiped his face and straightened his clothes. It would not do for mother to know he had been asleep, on top of whatever else was obviously bothering her. He hurried out of his bedroom; if she had to call twice, there would be hell to pay.

Mrs Kundiso Zimudzi was a formidable woman when stirred to the occasion. His father often said that it was this fiery quality that had drawn him to her in the first place. But the look Tamuka got as he rounded the corner into the kitchen made him wish his father had found another, less dangerous quality. Most people did not recognise the danger signs—distracted by her jet-black eyes and slim elegant eyebrows, neatly shaven head and skin the colour of burnt wild honey. Her short body was fit and generously proportioned. Her bland grey domestic worker’s coveralls were always touched with a bit of colour and individuality. Today, Tamuka noticed that it was in the form of a fake but beautiful golden scarab beetle brooch. All these attributes could—if you did not know her well enough— keep you distracted until she suddenly had you at her mercy. Tamuka knew her all too well.

“Perhaps you would like to tell me why Mr Goop is in the capsule, and won’t come out when I call?” she asked. She placed her hand on her hip and Tamuka’s danger meter shot up about ten points. She hardly ever did that!

He took pains to be totally honest, and yet very careful. “I’m not sure,” he replied tentatively, “we had some trouble on the way home and Mr Goop carried me; perhaps it’s just tired…?” He turned away, trying to look anywhere except at his mother.

“Not boring you, I hope?” asked his mother lightly.

Of course, what she was really saying was, if you don’t look me in the eye right now and fully answer my questions, there’s going to be hell to pay. He turned and looked her squarely in the eyes. It was no easy task.

Tamuka relayed the whole day’s events in one long breath, and had to breathe deeply afterwards. His mother was silent, another rare thing; she regarded him carefully as though seeing him from a whole new perspective. Although she said nothing, her eyes glistened more, he thought, before she crossed the kitchen and enfolded him in a tight hug.

“Don’t you ever be so foolish again, Tamuka,” she whispered but held him even tighter for the longest of moments. And just then he wasn’t a big boy of twelve, embarrassed by parental displays of affection. He was a little boy who’d had a big scare. He cried a little and his mother hummed sympathetically while gently swaying from side to side.

“Your father is working a double, up at the air docks,” his mother said, after she had slowly broken their embrace. She then bustled around the kitchen making dinner. Presently, she turned to him, “Now hold on, what do we have here?” She whisked out his father’s blue lunch box from behind her back. “Methinks, young sir, that your father would be rather pleased to see this. Why don’t you take it up to him?”

Tamuka wiped away his tears and grinned excitedly. “But what about Mr Goop?” He realised he hadn’t even considered going without it.

“Don’t worry about Mr Goop for now. You go on, and I want you back in an hour for dinner, that’s one hour only, mister.” Tamuka turned and ran down the short hallway to the front door.

“And don’t forget to put your coat on, it gets very cold up there after sunset,” his mother called out after him.

Tamuka had forgotten, and dutifully put on the coat before slamming the door open, and then shut. What a day it’s been so far , he thought as he eagerly ran down the corridor—from the morning’s humiliation to the afternoon’s ordeal…and now he got to go and see his father at work—without Mr Goop. It was a strange feeling not having Mr Goop in his shadow. A bit scary even, but he felt wonderfully grown up, just like a short adult really. He stopped running and a few people passed by. He nodded hellos, and felt even more adult when they nodded back.

“Thanks, son,” murmured Tamuka’s father as he man-handled a small crate into position inside a much larger one. Tamuka placed the lunch box in his father’s work bag, which hung on a nearby hook. In the dim light of the cavernous warehouse underneath the rooftop runway, his father, Mr Tapiwa Zimudzi, sweated profusely. It ran down in sheets over his enormous bare barrel chest, staining dark his light green labourer’s coverall, which was knotted at his waist. Standing at over six feet eight, his father was as huge as his mother was diminutive, one of his arms alone was as big as both Tamuka’s legs put together. Tamuka had sometimes heard laughter when they all walked together in the mall, but normally all it took was one look from either of his parents to shut that person up. His father had a square face and blunt, craggy features and could not really be called handsome—until he smiled. He, too, sported a clean scalp.