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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