Sweet Dreams
Count sheep, don’t count sheep. What’s the use? She rolled over. She rolled over again.
It was no use. She threw off her blanket and sat up.
Her bedroom glowed by the nightlight. Her room was pink, but it was too dark to see any colors. Ghostly shapes and dark shadows surrounded her.
Posters covered her walls. A bucket of kittens stared at her next to a pair of wide-eyed puppies. Above her vid was a poster of Cretaceous Clay bursting from a swirl of ballerinas. A star burst behind the magician.
The clock read the third hour. Half the night was gone, and she had hardly slept.
Her apartment was empty. Oh, not completely empty. She had a bathroom, a computer, a vid, and a sound system on which she could play the Rockhounds or a thousand other bands and a big closet full of clothes. Comfy clothes.
Yes, it’s not empty, but it’s not a home.
She had never had a home. And this isn’t it.
Be grateful for what you have, said a little voice in her head.
“Shove it,” she said. They did that! They put voices in my head! It’s just the programming! They programmed me so I won’t feel bad.
Letting go, she put her face in her hands and began to weep. She cried hot, bitter tears. “It’s not fair!”
No, it isn’t, said the voice.
“Shut up!” she yelled.
I’m only trying to help, said the voice, it’s not that bad. You’re not sick, and you’re not a monster. You’re a healthy, beautiful young woman. They gave you that.
“You’re just an illusion they programmed into me.”
You don’t know that, Angela.
“I’m just a thing they cooked up in a lab! Bio-Soft mixed up in a batch of dwarves and put me in an incubator for nine months. Three years in a crib, three years in a nursery, seven more years at Tollmerak, and they slap a chip on your forehead and you’re done. All baked. And you’ve got a contract on your head that you’ll never pay off unless you find some way to cheat death.”
You’re not dead.
“I’m not alive!”
You have so much to look forward to.
“To what? What? I’m nothing. There’s nothing for me in Nodlon except work and this bedroom. If I killed somebody, I’d get the same darn bedroom.”
On the moon.
“Is that a joke?”
No baby, it’s not a joke. Think of what you’ve got instead of what you haven’t got. You’ve got a day off, and then some. You have a chance. You can go to nursing school at Nodlon Tech. The agency will pay for it.
“Then what? I’ll owe more than I do now.”
You’ll make more.
“I’ll owe interest.”
If Jack Clay succeeds with the Biots Are People Too campaign, there won’t be any interest.
“What makes you think they’re going to succeed? Biots are people too? No one cares about biots.”
I care.
“No you don’t. You’re just a voice in my head to keep me stable. Where do they put you? Are you in my chip?”
No, but I know Jack Clay cares.
“Yeah, so what? Jack’s a nice guy and all, but no one listens to him. He calls his blog The Court Jester. He’s no better than the rest of us.”
Would your chip know about Jack Clay?
She popped out of bed, and went to the bathroom. She turned on the cold water and splashed her face. Cool water soothed her eyes. She pressed the temple of her nose to make the soreness go away. Her eyes were black and blue.
She daubed her face with a clean towel, and looked at herself in the full-length mirror on her door. She was a black dwarf. Average intelligence, average height, average bones, and average athletic ability, added together to make one average female specimen of a biot dwarf.
In the mirror, she looked at her chip. By the nightlight, it was no more than a spot the size of a ping pong ball.
“If I could just rip you out…”
What would that accomplish?
“So I got your attention again, did I?”
I am not your chip.
“Then what are you? Are you me?” She sighed. “I’m nothing. They didn’t even bother to make me pretty.”
Baloney! You’re very pretty. They gave you perfect skin tone, weight balance, and properly sized everything in all the right spots.
“I’m as ordinary as a cardboard box.”
You’re beautiful.
“What? They just don’t want me to throw myself off a cliff.”
No, no, baby. True, they want you to accept yourself. It’s self-serving. It doesn’t do to have dwarves implode mentally.
“I know, I know, they told me. We’re perfectly balanced. No defects, no imperfections, nothing to complain about. We get a health bonus.
“So there’s no reason to go postal, and shoot the designers. But there’s nothing special either. Not enough altitude to get any respect. Not enough sweets to catch any guy with anything on the ball. So we’re stuck. We’re all alike.”
You’re special, Angela!
“I’m unique just like everyone? Stow it, Jiminy Cricket. I’m not buying your baloney. I couldn’t pick myself out of a line up.”
All dwarves have that problem.
“Yeah, I know I’m dwarf. Thanks for the info. I care about my fellow dwarves. I’m not heartless.”
I know.
“But so what, what can I do for them? If I can’t help myself, what do you expect me to do about them?” She knelt in front of the mirror, and closed her eyes. She wished she had a life. She wished she could go somewhere. She wished she could leave everything behind.
Go to the break room. Maybe Marple is there. She’s up late, and she’s always got a new joke.
“I don’t want to go to the break room, or the kitchen or anywhere else. I want to get out of here. I want to marry a hunk, and live in a hut. He’ll fish for our dinner. I’ll fry it up over the fire, and we’ll have lots of babies.”
That’s definitely an idea. You don’t even know how to live without a bathroom.
“What’s it to you? It’s my dream.”
It means a lot to me. I want you to be happy, but you’ve got to be practical. There are lots of nice boys here in Nodlon who would be proud to marry you. I bet they’d give an eye tooth to take you out, if you’d just give them a chance.
“They’re geeks. Scrawny little pathetic losers with a contract just like mine or worse. Besides, the only ones that would want me are the schlubs. I don’t want a dork.”
What are you going to do?
“Kill myself. Then I won’t have to listen to you.”
Don’t do that. What will we do without you?
“Who cares? What’s Nodlon going to do with one less biot? What are you going to do about it? Tell on me?”
I can’t. I told you. I care about you.
“Liar! You’re just a program in my chip to feed me pablum!”
I’m not in your chip, and I don’t work for your agency.
“So I’m crazy? Stuff it! Stuff yourself! Just go away.”
“Thump,” went the door. She started and held her breathe. Who would be knocking at this hour?
She stared at her front door. It was locked. The status indicator was red. She gripped her mirror. She knew she had heard the sound.
Just someone coming off the late shift, she breathed, and he bumped my door. Probably tied on one too many. She put hand over her heart, and willed herself to be calm. Her heart fluttered. Health bonus? Her pulse slowed, and she stood up. Yeah, right! Sometimes the designers make mistakes, and we die. It was almost four.