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

Benna.”  He waits to see if I’m following his words.  “What they’ll need, Benna, in terms of labor.”

I stare at him.  I know he’s trying to tell me something, but I have no idea what.

“So?”

“So.  If the government gets statistics from my father, and from other consultants like my father, which all indicate they will have a high demand for, say, Laborers of one sort or another, in twenty years, then that’s what they plan for—lots of laborers in twenty years.  Or if the consultants all come back with reports that Surgical Helpers will be in short supply, then that’s what they plan for.”

“What do you mean, plan for?”  I’m confused.  “What if there aren’t enough babies testing out as Surgical Helpers?”

Thomas watches me in silence.  I frown at him and shake my head.

“Sometimes,” Thomas continues, “the consultants will make a mistake.  There will be a faulty algorithm, or something, and they’ll get results that aren’t accurate.

“For example, about seventeen years ago, the consultants all came up with reports indicating that there would be a huge need for Breeders, around now.  But then, they did some more figuring, and they found that there was a problem with the model they were using.  So they retracted their first predictions, and scaled down the number of Breeders they said would be required.

“Some of the quotient had already been defined, as my father calls it.”  Thomas looks down at my arm.  “So they had to fix that.”

“And then, horror of horrors, years later they found out that the original modeling was actually correct.  That can be troublesome, because then you have a shortage, in this case, for example, of Breeders.  Which means you have a shortage of babies, right about now.

“Had you noticed a shortage of babies, Benna, before you left the Ward?”

I stare at my arm, at the pale, lasered B—a ghost of what was—and at the faded black of my H.

“They just . . . assign the babies to tracks?”

“Yes.”  He says the word gently, as though he can stop it from hurting me.

“I could have been . . . anything?”

“You still can.”

I laugh.  I laugh at him.  Because he’s so stupid.

“No I can’t,” I say.  And I take Jobee upstairs.

Chapter Twenty Seven

I hear them screaming all the way up in my bedroom.  The Sloanes arrived shortly after I took Jobee upstairs, and they were greeted with the news that their oldest son had been expelled from school and their youngest son was dead.  Ms. Sloane started at top volume, right away.  I can’t make out many words, but I can feel the anger.

“ . . . saying you didn’t know, Mother?”  That’s Thomas, shouting.  I hear her shrieking something and then he roars back at her.

“ . . . like to have me wiped, too—”

That’s cut off by Mr. Sloane’s voice, sharp and short.  I don’t know what he says but I can hear Ms. Sloane’s shrieks getting quieter.  Doors slam.  I stand behind my door on the third floor, trembling.

I have to go down finally, to get Jobee some cereal.  He’s been fussy all day; I think he can feel the tension as much as I can.  He needs something more than formula to help him settle.  I carry him with me, and creep down the stairs past the second floor as quickly as I can.

The kitchen is empty.  I find the cereal and mix some up.  I’m searching for a spoon when I hear something behind me.  I turn.

It’s Ms. Sloane.  She looks awful.  Her eyes are red and her hair is flat on one side of her head.  She jumps when she sees me.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer.

“Oh!”  She shakes herself, as though a spider is crawling on her.  “I had no idea you were in here.”  Her expression softens.  “My baby, my William.  She reaches for Jobee.  “Give him to me.”

I don’t want to, but I have no choice.  She takes him, too fast, and he starts to cry.

“There, there, now William, there.”  Ms. Sloane jounces him on her hip.  Jobee cries harder and reaches out for me.  She turns him away from me immediately.  He cries harder.

“What was that he liked?’

I can barely hear her over Jobee’s screams.

“I’m sorry?”  I cup my hand behind my ear.

“What was it that calmed him down!”

I shake my head; I can’t think.  Then I remember.  “His feet—he likes it when you rub his feet!”

She starts squeezing his toes, pushing at them and pulling them.  Jobee is so upset at this point that nothing would have calmed him anyway, and he continues screaming.  She shoves him at me, a look on her face that makes me take him as fast as I can.

“Take him out of here!”

I grab the spoon and the bowl of cereal and back out of the kitchen.  For some reason I want to keep her in front of me.  Once I am out of her sight, I turn and run back up the stairs to my room.

We don’t leave my room again, that night.

The next morning, Helper raps on my door.  When I open it, she holds out fresh towels.

“You’re to be at dinner with the baby this evening in the formal dining room.  Per Ms. Sloane.”  She raises her eyebrows at me.

“Fine.”

“Prompt at seven,” she says.

“Thank you.”  I close the door in her face.

I dress Jobee carefully, and make sure he has a full stomach before we descend the stairs to dinner.  I want him to be amiable toward Ms. Sloane, and a full stomach can’t hurt.

It’s five minutes until the hour, but Mr. and Ms. Sloane are already seated. Mr. Sloane smiles wanly when I enter the room.

“Good evening, Helper12.  I hope all has been well for you while we were gone?”

“Yes sir.  It’s been fine.”  I settle Jobee in his high chair.

“The boy looks good,” says Mr. Sloane.  “Healthy.”

“Yes, he’s very healthy, sir.”

Ms. Sloane looks at Jobee with no expression.

There is no place set for Thomas.

“Is your son away?”  I