HELPER12, Jack Blaine [reading in the dark .TXT] 📗

We make our way across the Commons more quickly than I expect, and before I know it we’re approaching an exit gate.  Thomas seems to be having a good time with Jobee’s whizby—he swerves it back and forth with the handle so that Jobee giggles.

“The Public Information Center is outside this gate, just a little ways.  We’ll go check it out, get what you need for now, and then grab some food.”  Thomas adjusts the whizby handle to make it shorter.  “I’m hungry, aren’t you?”

I am hungry.  I didn’t eat much of my breakfast.  But I don’t want to leave yet.  I will never get another chance to see this, I just know it.  Thomas must see the disappointment written on my face.

“We’ll come back the same way.  There will be plenty of time to look.”

“I suppose this sort of thing bores you, by now.”  I feel silly.

“No,” he says.  “Actually I like this place a lot.  It’s got a sort of carefree air, wouldn’t you say? You can sort of forget yourself, here.  And the animals are great.”

We step outside the Commons onto the street.  It’s not too busy yet, but it’s definitely less ‘carefree.’  Thomas is suddenly watchful, checking all around us as we venture toward the Public Information Center.  He stops before we go more than a few steps.

“I want you to carry William for now.  I think it’s less risky than the whizby.  I’d carry him, but I want my hands free.”

He settles the whizby and then unbuckles Jobee.  I take him and Thomas slings the bag of baby supplies over his shoulder.  A flick of some switch I can’t see, and the whizby folds in on itself until it’s a cube, small enough to stow in the baby bag.

“What do you think could happen?”

Thomas shrugs. He scans every person we pass, as though he can tell if they are good or bad by how they look.  “You hear things.  People get grabbed in the city.”  He looks at me, smiles.  “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but I’d rather be careful.”

I know it’s something to worry about.  I’m glad he is being this careful.  But if someone ran up and tried to take Jobee, they’d have to kill me to get him.

The PIC looks like a business center.  I’m almost as excited to see it as I was to see the Commons.  I’ve never been to one.  The closest I’ve come is the Teller machine outside my building in the complex; sometimes there’d be a cheap story listed that I could afford.  I loved putting in the token and waiting for the chip to vend, then popping it in my player when I got back to my cube.  Some of the stories weren’t well-told, but some were wonderful; the voice of the narrator would capture the tale, and you could imagine just what they were telling you about.

The PIC has rows and rows of tables with two chairs each.  Thomas leads me to one and unfolds the whizby.  I settle Jobee in it and give him a red boggle toy to play with; he seems to love the color red lately.  Thomas gestures to one chair and sits in the other.

“Now,” he says, digging his C-card out of his pocket.  He swipes it on a scanner set into the tabletop.

I sit back in my seat fast—a monitor slides up out of the table top with no warning.  Thomas doesn’t notice my reaction; he’s busy flipping through some listings on the screen.

“Okay.  Babies, baby developmental stages, zero to four months, five months to nine months . . . hmmm.”  He sits back.  “What do you think?”  He lets me lean in to see the screen.

There are a lot of words there.  Some I know, some I don’t.

“I . . .”  I shake my head.

Thomas watches me, and I can tell he doesn’t realize.  At least, not for a minute.

“You can read?”  He sounds incredulous.

“I can read some.”  I feel so disappointed.  I thought the PIC would have narratives.  I wonder . . .

“Don’t they have narratives?”

“Narratives are for fun, not for—”  Thomas stops himself.

“How much can you read?”

“I can read the Ward charts.  I can read medical notes.  They taught us all the navigational signs for the train routes, and instructions of various types—cooking, cleaning, medications.  The basics.”  I watch his face as this sinks in—he’s never even given it a thought.

“How much can you read?”  I really want to know.

“More than that,” he says, not unkindly.  He crinkles his brow, thinking.  Then he snaps his fingers together.

“I know just what to do.”  He turns back to the screen, and flips through more listings.

“Here we go.”  He shows me the section he’s called up.

“Dictionary.”  I read it out loud.

“Yes.”  He looks pleased.  “We’ll just get one of these too, and the baby books through, say, three years old and then, let me see, a couple more things.”  He flicks through the checkout screens and we’re done.

“I don’t have a reader.”  I only have a player—a cheap little one at that—for my narratives.  Helpers don’t generally need readers.  I couldn’t afford one even if I did get clearance for it.

“I’ll lend you my old one.”  Thomas stands up.  “Let’s go get some food, shall we?”

I follow him.  He carries Jobee in the whizby until we reach the street.  I stand ready to take him again, but Thomas shakes his head.

“I can carry him—it’s not far.  Just there.”  He nods to a lighted sign a few doors down.  The word DEEN’S flashes on and off on the sign.  Under it is a door.  No windows, no indication that food is actually served there.  I feel myself tensing.  Maybe he really is going to sell us.  Or at least me.  I watch him start toward the door holding Jobee.  I want to run to him and wrench Jobee free, run somewhere where both of us can be safe.  Instead, I follow numbly.