Unnaturals

To my love, Alex

Prologue

Normal girls didn't use their computers for reading, or for breaking into others' message boxes.

Meliora was five years old. Like any normal girl not sleeping or exercising, she had her computer in her lap—but there the semblance to a normal girl ended.

"See what I mean, Doctor? Look at her eyes, just look at her eyes!"

Meliora's eyes were what her mother called unnaturally still. They didn't dart from this end of the doctor's office to the other like Mommy's. They didn't swing towards the screen above the doctor's head and then towards her own computer screen, and then again.

The doctor looked at Mel's eyes, then at Mommy's fingers. His eyebrows rose slightly before he looked at Mel's eyes again.

Mommy's fingers were typing madly on her tiny portable keyboard. Mommy also had her computer in her lap, and she was sitting on the doctor's couch, which was green. Meliora had read in the interweb that the color green made people calm and happy.

Mommy pressed a button with a perfectly manicured finger, changing the feed's address. And again, glancing at what each of her friends had to say in the last few seconds or so. She laughed, she cried, the normal things. Then she pressed the button for her own feed and would have started typing, but happened to glance at a few previously typed words.

Mel switched her own screen to Mommy's feed and message box, though she already knew what she'd find there.

I've brought Meliora to the doc,
the feed said,
because she's unnatural.

@Doc: look at her, will you? Fix her up.
Mommy sent the doc a message this time. She didn't want to talk to him with her voice. Messages were easier even when one communicated with a natural person, and a doc was different from naturals.
Doctor
was a dirty word. Mel had read this on the feeds' interweb—had read it in the long articles, the ones that no one cared to read any more, be it in Lucasta or the other cities. At least, no one commented on them.

Mom's message would pop up on one of the doctor's screens, sooner or later, in one second or ten. How many screens was the doc holding in his hand? Five? Ten? His eyes were jumping between them all now, and he was humming. Mommy only had virtual screens, which were windows that appeared on her single physical screen when she pressed buttons. Mel only had virtual screens, too.

Hey, you know about the new humming interfaces?
Mommy wrote to BarbButterScotch123.

This was a private message, Mel wasn't supposed to be able to see it. Even Mommy didn't know that she could. Daddy had taught her how, and Mel never talked to Mommy about Daddy.

Mel wasn't supposed to see BarbButterScotch's reply, either—and she didn't. She switched the screen to an old article, instead. Those were more interesting than private feeds. Private feeds were all the same. Barb would say something like.
Yes, I know about it! Latest cry of usability and fashion! Translates pure emotions, offered in the form of song, into pure communication without ambiguities! Now, we don't even have to talk!
What was posted on the advertiser's feed. People rarely said anything different.

"Well, young lady, let's see what pictures you have there, now, shall we?"

The doctor's voice was quiet, like Mommy's. Mommy always talked to Mel softly, as if to a sick person of once-upon-a-time. Mel talked softly to Mommy, too. Because of Daddy, and because Mommy cried at night when she thought no one was listening. Talking softly wasn't unnatural. People were quiet and polite when they talked directly to others and not into the microphones of machines. However, crying because of something—because of the same thing over and over again—
was
unnatural.

Mel switched the screen to Mommy's message box again. Mommy had stayed quiet for too long, Mel had better see if all was well.

It was. Mommy was messaging like a natural person should.

You know, the doc's not used to talking,
Mommy wrote to PearlGirl989. Mommy didn't know who PearlGirl989 was, but PearlGirl had been very interested in doctors when Mommy had posted yesterday (and today, of course, and this morning—who'd post such a message only once?) that she was taking Mel to a doctor.

But does he look like a person?
PearlGirl wrote.
You sure he's not a machine?

@PearlGirl989: Yeah, yeah, I'm sure,
Mommy wrote to PearlGirl and her other friends.
He's not a medstat, right? He's a doc. Human. Looks human, acts human. And you know what? He has eight screens, little ones, in his hand! I counted them—screens like, the physical stuff, the ones you can peel, not virtual.

Expensive screens, Mel knew. Some time would pass before normal people could buy them.

Yay, @BunnyCuteSmart24!
AmelieChocolate2 wrote back to Mommy.
I want new screens, too!

Amelie would have them soon. Mommy, too, and everyone else. Like the advertisers said, it was the Lucastan way. New stuff always, and always happy people. Happy Mommy.

All was fine with Mommy's messages, so Mel looked at the doctor.

"So you're a real doctor? Like those who used to cure disease once upon a time? Can you cure disease? Can you tell me how?"

"See, Doctor! See the kinds of questions she asks! It must be because of all that
reading!
"

Mel wasn't reading now, but she knew her mommy didn't think that made anything better. It made everything worse. Before, Mel's eyes had at least not been
absolutely
still. Before, she was just watching her computer like no normal person should, looking at the same virtual screen for a long, long time, but at least her eyes moved slowly from left to right, then down. Now Mel was staring at a person, fixedly, and Mommy hated that more than anything.

Mommy sent another message to her friends, then started crying.

"There, there, you've upset Mommy now..." The doctor touched Mel's shoulder, then handed Mommy a glass of water.

"I apologize, Mommy," Mel said softly. "I love you, Mommy." Just to be sure, she also sent a message to Mommy and listened to Mommy's computing device beep. Mommy sniffed, then reached out and patted Mel's head. Mommy loved her, too, she knew. Mommy loved her so much that she'd brought her to the doctor, him being dirty and everything.

"
Doctor
is a dirty word," Meliora said, and then, a moment later, "but that's what it says, Mommy, please don't cry! Doctor, tell Mommy. Here, Doctor, take a look!"

She pushed her computing device towards the doctor. The screen was set on a page with black letters and no pictures. She knew kids' faces became blank when she did this to them, but not all adults become blank immediately. It took some of them a long time—say, thirty seconds. Perhaps the doctor would even be different, given that he was a dirty word.

The doctor exceeded her best expectations. He watched her page for two whole minutes, and in the end Mommy's mouth became one big silent
O
and she even forgot to look at her screen.

The doctor raised his head and patted Mommy's hand. Mommy cringed. "You understand, I am sure, Madam," the doctor said, softly, carefully, "that, in order to fight and defeat what is still imperfect in our perfect world, we sometimes need to look imperfection in the eye—and look at it for a long time. We must know imperfection and be it."

Mommy wanted to go now, Meliora knew, and she didn't even send a message to her friends to tell them so. Meliora grew worried.

"
Doctor
is not a dirty word, young lady." He was watching Meliora again and watched for a long time. Ten seconds, Meliora counted. Longer than anyone but Mommy, and Mommy was special. He looked away, then watched her for ten seconds again. "These black and white feeds that you read, the ones with nothing but words in them..."

"Articles," Meliora said.

"Yeah, right." The doctor blinked, looked at his screens, looked at the pretty pictures on his wall, hummed a note, then looked back at Meliora. "Articles. So, each of those articles, young lady, has something on it called
a date.
Look at each one, note the date. The ones that say
doctor
is a dirty word are from eighty years ago, young lady."

"That's a long time ago, then, isn't it? Like the fairytales?"

The doctor nodded.

Mommy sniffed. "Fairytales. Doctor, should a child be reading such things on her own, tell me? She isn't even going to school yet! They'll tell her all the fairytales she needs to know in school! Why does she have to go and take them all from the interweb by herself?"

"But," Meliora said carefully, "the fairytales say that
once upon a time
or
long ago
there was a king, and he did something. The articles say that something
is
, not
was.
"

"Well..." The doctor smiled, vaguely. "When the king in the fairytale was alive, they didn't have the interweb yet. The king didn't write anything. Eighty years ago, they had the interweb, and they liked to write long in those days. They wrote a lot, but later—say, thirty years ago—people wrote other things. Find an article with a date from thirty years ago. You'll find that they explicitly state that '
a doctor is a previously unfortunately overlooked, libeled person who is indeed an important, vital, member and building block of the community
'."

Mommy's mouth was an even bigger
O
now. "But then they say different things!" Mommy exclaimed. "How is she to know what is true if they say different things and she reads all that junk! Everything in the interweb is the product of people's honesty and goodwill, out of their very souls. Right, Doctor? How can writings be
different!?
"

"Well," the doctor said, "Remember, Madam, the days when the web's feeds said that speech interfaces were too expensive for normal people? I am sure your friends sent you this information, I am sure you sent it to your friends. Then, they became less expensive, and you all wrote differently. Well, Madam, the old information is still out there."

"It isn't! We don't see it!"

"Because, Madam, you only look at what is coming at you now, or what you're thinking of now, and what your friends are looking at and thinking now. No one digs deeper if they don't have to—if they are not, say, doctors or teachers."

"But even if the old messages are still there, we
know
they are no longer true."

"You do—but will someone eighty years from now know what, or when, the truth was?"

"It's all her father's fault! He, with his
notions
! He taught her to read, and she was only two! I should have taken her to a doctor, I should have taken her to a doctor
then!
No, I should have taken her even earlier. She was so still and thinking, even as a baby. I remember. People don't remember their babies—it's so long ago, right? You have a bigger child now, and that's what matters—but I do remember! Because she was unnatural! Because
I
am unnatural! I see more than just the
now,
Doctor. I can hide it well, so well that almost no one notices—but you noticed, didn't you? You noticed that I am still typing and not using the speech interface. He made me like this! He told me that I should leave a place in my mind, just a tiny, little piece, he said, empty of buzz so that there is space for thinking. He said typing would help. I shouldn't have listened to him! I shouldn't have let him pick the child's genes, either! BabiesAsYouDream, Inc. is good enough to decide everything, I said, better than you and me, better than everyone—and
everyone
lets the baby corporation choose the genes. People don't even know there is such a thing as genes! But he said that no one was stopping us from making our own choices, and that he wanted his child to be smart. I shouldn't have let him! I shouldn't have even had her made! I am so glad he is gone and I hope he never comes back!"

"But
I
want him back! I want Daddy!"

"You unnatural little—you little—"

Mommy had foam at the corners of her mouth. She hiccuped. She fainted. The doctor put a hand on Mel's shoulder to stop her from rushing to her, then took out a syringe.

A moment later, Mommy was awake. There was no foam, and she was breathing heavily but looked natural, with eyes darting everywhere and fingers typing.

"Love you, Mel," she said in between strokes and smiled, then continued communicating.

Then, thirty seconds later, "What did you do to me, Doc? Am I unnatural? BrightRoseAms731 wants to know."

"I did nothing that a computerized medical station like the one you have at home wouldn't have done, Madam." Then, at her blank look, he added, "A medstat. You're not unnatural. Meliora is not, either." He smiled. "She just has a...disorder. You might have heard of it. It is called
Attention Excessive Concentration Disorder
." Upon Mommy's new blank, partly frightened look, he added, "AECD, that's how it is in the feeds. Or, ACD for short."