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Tamuka hated Mr. Goop; it wasn't as if it was really his anyway.
He had the unfortunate distinction of being one of those kids. The ones with poor parents, who could not afford to buy their
children Geneforms of their own. Just this morning before class,
in the translucent, dome-sealed playground, Tamuka had yet again
been a victim. Well, at least he had not been alone this time: two
younger kids and their inherited family Geneforms had also endured
the playground circle of laughter and cruel taunts.
Mr. Goop stood motionless outside the classroom; Tamuka could see
its vague shadowy humanoid outline, through the frosted glass wall.
The adult-sized Mr. Goop was too big to be allowed in the classroom.
While everyone else in his class had their small — and very
cute — Geneforms dozing on their desks, or sitting quietly
on their shoulders, he had Mr. Goop standing outside.
Mr. Goop. Tamuka shuddered at the name, given to the Geneform
by his grandfather, Manenji Zimudzi. A bad joke, Tamuka had been
told when he had asked him. One that grandfather had made when he
first bought it in better days, long before Tamuka’s father
was even born, about it being a genetically manufactured lump of
goo, which became a walking Mr. Goop. And the name had stuck. It
would respond to no other, no matter how hard Tamuka had tried to
train it.
Tamuka then thought of grandfather, alone on that mountain top in
Nyanga, where they buried him last year. Tamuka wondered if grandfather
was lonely up there, and vowed to nag his mother into going to visit
him. The truth was he really missed grandfather; he was the one
person who always had time for Tamuka, no matter the hour or problem.
But during all the commotion that had surrounded grandfather's death;
mother in floods of tears, father being strong for her, no-one had
bothered to ask Tamuka how he felt about it all.
'Tamuka, what is the name of the English Isles' capital city?' asked
his teacher, Mrs. Mudarikwa, breaking the spell of memories that
surrounded Tamuka.
'London,' blurted Tamuka.
The class around him erupted in laughter. Mrs. Mudarikwa, a wizened
old lady whose wrinkles probably outnumbered the dunes of the seaward
deserts, motioned for silence. But then she gave him that look,
the subtle one reserved for her brighter students who showed a slight
disappointment, that always left Tamuka feeling very disappointed
with himself.
'No, Tamuka that used to be the capital until… Who can tell
me?' Mrs. Mudarikwa asked, once the laughter had subsided. A dozen
eager hands shot up and she chose Tiny, of all people. Tamuka groaned
inwardly. Tiny really was a small lad, not that it stopped him from
becoming the ringleader in Tamuka's Geneform circle of humiliation.
Tiny glanced at Tamuka, a smirk plastered
on his pixie face, then he turned a solemn face back to Mrs. Mudarikwa,
'The great floods of 2040, Ma’am, forced the permanent relocation
of the English Isles' capital city from London to Birmingham.'
'That is correct, and can you tell me why the Great Floods occurred?'
asked Mrs. Mudarikwa.
'In 2040 due to the exponential runaway effects of global warming,'
Tiny replied promptly, 'the entire continental western shelf of
the Antarctic caved into the South Ocean and melted. This created,
in addition to the 70 meter rise by 2020 from the melting of the
Arctic and Greenland continental ice shelf, a total 90 meter rise
in global sea level and the loss of over 1,710,000 square kilometres
of the Earth's low-land seaward areas,' Tiny smiled proudly. And
at that moment Tamuka couldn't decide who he hated more, Mr. Goop
or Tiny.
*
As Tamuka crunched his way home between
the disused railway tracks, he fiddled with his oxygen mask. Mr.
Goop followed silently behind him, and of course it didn't need
a mask, gene-tailored as it was for the Earth's current environment
among other things. Like being able to virtually live forever, Tamuka
thought irritably. As with all Geneforms, Mr. Goop was of limited
intelligence, but it certainly knew enough to sense Tamuka's moods,
and remained a constant five meters away. Tamuka could feel Mr.
Goop's quiet presence behind him, as he had his entire life. He
could not in fact imagine what life might be like without Mr. Goop.
Tamuka had no brothers and sisters, nor would he ever, with the
one-child family law.
In the low late afternoon sun, the
rusted railway tracks shone like two lines of spun gold. On either
side, Tamuka could see, through their transparent domes, into the
rear of the rich suburban houses of this area. From where he walked,
they all looked to him like big bubbles housing other dimensions
of existence, which could only ever be glimpsed by peeking over
high walls, and through bright laser security systems. From behind
a row of thorny acacia trees that jutted from a dome to his left,
he could hear the sound of splashing water and children's laughter.
Unable to help himself, he leapt from the tracks, down into the
thick vegetation, which thrived in the high carbon dioxide and low
oxygen environment. He battled his way to the plastic-steel wall,
leaned against it, and listened carefully.
Mr. Goop stopped walking and waited patiently in the hot sun. Tamuka
closed his eyes and imagined the happy sun-soaked scene behind the
wall; he could almost smell the chlorine in the water.
'YOU ARE UNAUTHORISED TO BE NEAR THESE PREMISES,' bellowed a disembodied
voice, 'PLEASE VACATE THE IMMEDIATE AREA IN TWENTY SECONDS, OR BECOME
LIABLE TO ARREST AND PROSECUTION.,'
It scared Tamuka so badly that he jumped backwards, deep into a
very dense and thorny wait-a-bit bush that he had already
so carefully avoided. As Mr. Goop plunged off the tracks to get
to him, Tamuka kept very still. He could feel blood starting to
drip warmly, where the small needle-sharp thorns had painfully punctured
right through his sun-screen coveralls and school uniform. Well
it wasn't called the wait-a-bit bush for nothing, Tamuka
thought. The trick was to keep very still and remove each thorn-studded,
vine-like branch, one by one. The property had to belong to some
really rich and important person, to have such a security system.
Tamuka tried to stay calm, but his breathing was hard and deep,
steaming up the clear oxygen mask. At least he had remembered to
strap the vulnerable oxygen line underneath his clothes before leaving
the school airlock. And so far, he could hear the steady hiss of
the mask: no thorns had penetrated it.
'NINETEEN'
Mr. Goop reached Tamuka, its grey skin paler than usual, and began
to gently remove the thorny branches, one by one.
'EIGHTEEN.'
Mr. Goop had done this before, Tamuka could see. There was no hesitation
in his movements.
'SEVENTEEN.'
Tamuka was mentally racked by visions of armed and armoured men,
jumping from fliers in the sky to capture him at any moment.
'SIXTEEN.'
There was a measured haste to Mr. Goop's actions now; Tamuka could
tell that it knew, in its way, what could happen if Tamuka was arrested.
'FIFTEEN.'
The surface of the wall began to hum and several holes opened like
pupil irises along the top. From these apertures sprung robotic
necks with camera heads, which swung themselves around and whined
into focus on Tamuka and Mr. Goop.
'FOURTEEN.'
Faster now, and with no thought to the thorns that were scratching
his own skin, Mr Goop started on the branches wrapped around Tamuka's
head.
'THIRTEEN.'
New holes opened along the wall and out popped several sleek, gun-bearing
robot arms. Beams from their blue lasers roamed Mr. Goop and Tamuka's
bodies like glowing beetles.
'TWELVE.'
The last branch finally came free and Mr. Goop hauled Tamuka over
its shoulder and sprinted up to the tracks. Though the countdown
had ended, the robot cameras and guns continued to track them.
Mr. Goop did not stop when it made the safety of the tracks, or
when Tamuka flailed to be let down, or even when its own breathing
became ragged and its footfalls heavy. Tamuka lay helpless in its
strong grip, wondering at Mr. Goop's reaction. Surely they were
safe now.
Still, he had been twelve seconds from a fate possibly worse than
death; the faster they went and the further they were, the better
for him. Tamuka then had a flash of what might have happened had
he not been with Mr. Goop. What use would a normal kid's Geneform
have been, he thought? He would certainly have been arrested, or
worse.
*
Mr. Goop set Tamuka gently down by
the front entrance to their apartment block, before collapsing in
a heap. It gasped for air like a stranded fish, but just as Mr Goop
did not speak, it did not sweat either — none of the Geneforms
ever did. Digging for the remote digikey in his schoolbag, he looked
upwards and squinted at the thin clouds whipping past floor one
hundred and twelve. Their apartment was one of ten thousand in the
government housing block. They were on the ninety-second floor.
Just below the cloud-line, Tamuka thought grumpily, not that they
could have seen anything anyway, set right in the middle of the
block as they were, with no external windows. Their block was officially
called Tsvangirai Heights, after some ancient, long dead prime minister,
back when this was a country, not a state, called Zimbabwe.
Tamuka found the digikey, pulled it out, and waved it at the thick
glass doors. They swung silently open to the air lock chamber beyond.
Tamuka ambled in slowly, giving the tired Mr. Goop enough time to
rise and join him. If Mr. Goop was locked outside it would be denied
access until a registered owner came to fetch it.
As usual, there was no-one home when they arrived. After tending
to Tamuka's cuts and scratches, Mr Goop opened a cup of Instacook
noodles and set it out on the kitchen counter. Then it climbed into
its capsule in the adjoining scullery and closed the hatch. It wanted
to be left alone then. Tamuka stood in the kitchen and munched on
the now steaming hot noodles, whilst absently staring out the fake
windows.
Out there, if you believed the windows, it was a late summer day
and a brisk wind blew leaves around silently. The wind swooped down
from the thick European pine forests, just past their back garden
fence. You could turn the sound on, even the smells with some of
the newer models he had seen on display in the mall. You could also
change the scene with those new ones. Not these ones though; these
were all standard issue and came with the apartment. They had one
built-in scene: Remote European Countryside. Throughout the whole
apartment all you could see were these damn forests, cows in rough-walled
fields and the odd blackbird. Not forgetting, never forgetting, the damn scarecrow in a wheat field outside Tamuka's bedroom
window.
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 States 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 stories 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,
which 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 was 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. Though 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 just 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 slowly broke 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 had 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 hello, 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 foot 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, one that shone like a polished cannon
ball, and was 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 indispensible. Liberties such as Tamuka
being allowed to be 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 saying nothing
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 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 like 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 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.  |
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