Lavie Tidhar: The Apex Book of World SF 2

One that shines like a polished cannon ball and is just as hard,

Tamuka thought.

“Tamuka, are you here at all, son?” asked his father, as he hefted another heavy crate.

“Sorry, Father, it’s been a long day,” Tamuka said, hanging his head.

“So I heard from your mother,” his father said. He paused for a moment to gently lift up Tamuka’s chin. “Look, it’s not like I don’t know how rough it can be for you at times. I do remember what it’s like to be twelve. Now, this kid that’s been bothering you…Tiny, is it?” Tamuka nodded gravely, and his father continued. “Have you thought that perhaps Tiny has never been alone without his Geneform, and yet here you are now without Mr Goop.” Tamuka’s eyes widened as he realised what his father was saying.

“That’s right, here I am, alone!” Tamuka said, hatching the beginning of a verbal attack that he could use at the next taunting session.

“You got it, kiddo. And if you are wise, Tiny might just never bother you again.” His father said and ruffled Tamuka’s short spiky dreads as he ambled past.

“You must understand how important school is, Tamuka,” he said while wrestling with what seemed like a very heavy crate. “When your mother and I were growing up there was no schooling, only day to day survival. Now when I was twelve, I—”

“—Was in a mass exodus that crossed the seaward wasteland deserts, walking five thousand kilometres to return to the homeland of our ancestors, during which time you met mother. Yes I know the story,” Tamuka cut in impatiently, still plotting exactly how he would aim his verbal darts.

His father unexpectedly burst out laughing and soon had Tamuka in a fit of sympathetic giggles, although he was not altogether sure why his father was laughing. Their laughter attracted a glare from a management type, standing over a computer terminal at the far end of the warehouse. His father choked his laughter down to snorts of air through his nose, but grinned happily at Tamuka, before he resumed working. Eventually their laughter died down to a long comfortable silence, in which Tamuka just watched his father at work. As always, he marvelled at the way his father seemed to effortlessly flip up the crates and position them within the larger crate.

Tamuka knew those crates were probably very heavy; he’d never managed to budge one. They were all shapes and sizes. His father had once explained to Tamuka that in his mind he held a map. One that he created by first looking carefully at the smaller crates designated for the larger one. He then played a quick game in his mind. In this game he played every possible combination of smaller crates to fill up the larger crate. When he won the game with the best possible arrangement of small crates, he had a final mind map. This meant, added to his immense physical strength, he loaded up the crates with an incredible speed and efficiency that kept him gainfully employed.

His father’s job, like his mother’s, was a position normally reserved for Geneforms or the rare and expensive robots. His mother cleaned apartments, capitalising on those who could not afford either, while his father was assigned to deal with items requiring special care during packing, such as the delicate but heavy ion metal sculptures that were the specialties of the Mbare artistic community, or anything to do with Mbare’s Mayor, the shady Mr Isaac Gondo. So his father was never lacking for this type of work, and it afforded him some liberties since he was nearly indispensable. Liberties such as Tamuka being allowed here while he worked, without much objection from his manager. Still, Tamuka knew, the wages were hardly great, and his parents struggled each month on their combined income to pay the mortgage, something they had both taken pains to explain to him at various points in his life. Mostly as the final “No” when he incessantly nagged them about having a Geneform of his own.

“I think you’d better think about going home in a bit, Tamuka,” said his father. “It’s best not to make your mother wait too long. Even today.”

“But, Father!” Tamuka started, and he wanted to protest further, but his father simply looked at him briefly. And wordlessly he said, it’s time to grow up son, not too much, just a little, enough to show you are worthy of our trust. So Tamuka kept quiet, and his father carried on packing crates. Timing it carefully, Tamuka quickly nipped in, hugged his father and then scampered off. He thought he could feel his father’s glance and loving grin, warm on his back. But he did not need to turn around; it was enough to just feel it there.

Mr Goop wasn’t looking at all well when Tamuka got back to the apartment; its skin was even paler, almost translucent. It still refused to come out of its coffin-sized capsule, but at least the hatch was open.

“See to Mr Goop,” his mother said from the kitchen, “Before you even think about having dinner.”

At first, Tamuka just stood near Mr Goop’s capsule, but when he saw tears roll down Mr Goop’s expressionless face, it all fell into place. Tamuka immediately crawled inside the capsule with Mr Goop, something he had not done for years. It was much smaller than he remembered. But he managed to eventually wriggle his way into a snuggle on top of Mr Goop’s chest. Once there, he lay still and waited for Mr Goop’s reaction.

With a slight sniffle, Mr Goop wrapped its arms around Tamuka, just as it had done many years previously. Tamuka sighed happily. He realised that it had been afraid for his life. For Mr Goop truly loved him in its own special way. The idea of losing Tamuka must have been a great shock and, followed by the strenuous sprint to get Tamuka home and safe, Mr Goop was simply tired and upset.

Tamuka felt quite adult, not only for realising what ailed Mr Goop, but also for being adult enough to put another’s feelings above his own and take the best course of action to help. His mother poked her head in and smiled at them.

“Dinner on the table when you want it,” she said and left them alone.

Tamuka had the notion that this was probably the last time he would be able to fit into the capsule with Mr Goop, so he decided to enjoy the moment a little longer, and right then he felt as if he would burst with his love for Mr Goop. And one day probably, he dreamily mused, so would his own child.

But perhaps sooner than that, Tamuka could ask to go to school without Mr Goop.

The sound of his bedroom door being opened woke Katulo. “What is it?”

“It’s Chama, he’s dying.” Eyo’s voice was an agitated whisper.

“Get the clinic ready.”

Eyo hurried off and Katulo dressed. He snatched his walking stick and stepped into the humid night. This had been the hottest summer Burundi had seen since 2072. In the last two weeks, Katulo had treated a record number of patients for dehydration and angazi fever. As he walked, he tried to call up a mental image of Chama. He could vaguely recall a loud boy with mud-brown skin who had been terrified of syringes. Chama’s father was the chief of village police.

When Katulo neared the clinic, he heard shouting: “We can’t wait for that stupid old man.” He recognised the voice.

“Just wait. He’s coming,” Eyo replied firmly.

It made him proud that his apprentice was standing up to someone twice his size— especially a person as intimidating as Osati. Osati’s nickname since his teens had been “the leopard”. It suited him. He was tightly muscled, and his motions gave the impression he might lash out at any moment. Eyo, on the other hand, had a body that looked like a collection of twigs.