Mothercall

The signal pulses under my skin in exit-sign red. I rub at the subdermal display, then scratch fiercely, as if I can dig it out. On the inside of my left arm, the word MOTHER flashes in disconnected digit letters. 

I press the inside of my wrist, trying to get my InDisplay device to return to the navigation menu. Nothing happens.

Rushing to the bathroom, I squeeze concealer onto my arm and try to cover the pulsing light. The makeup does nothing more than add an orangish tint to the red letters.

I remember the day when Udy, my friend from primary school, got her Mother signal. It blinked onto her skin during one of our engineering classes. I can still picture her clutching her wrist in a panic, covering the letters “MOTH” with her hand. But the remaining ER had bathed her face in that unmistakable red glow. 

Udy was the first one called, and three more of our classmates were given the signal by the end of that year. We never saw them again. 

I grab a dark pullover, and switch my watch to my left wrist. Before I leave my pod, I put on a few woven bracelets, bunching them next to my watch. I can feel the Mother signal hot under my sleeve. 

It is unusual to get a Mothercall before the age of fourteen. Most humans are given more time to learn, to develop. I’m turning fourteen in three weeks, but I was a late bloomer. I found my affinity, biology, a month ago and was progressing quickly. I thought I would have more time. 

Udy was unlucky; she’d been called when she was hardly thirteen. I often wonder what would have happened to Udy if she’d been given another year, or even another month. I wonder what could have happened in that time, what could make someone worthy of continuing their life. 

At school, I slide into my desk and tug at the sleeve of my pullover. Mrs. Anaker, my quantum physics teacher, smiles at me and continues clearing her hologram board. 

I often think about my Mother. I think about what she might look like. Not that there would be any resemblance between us. I’ve heard the Mothers are propped up on spider-like legs, artificial wombs swaying like bobble heads. A girl named Kelin, a Returner, once described her Mother to our class during study hall - the bronze belly, the pre-programmed voice, the eyeless face. Maybe Kelin was just trying to scare us. Maybe she wasn’t. 

Mrs. Anaker calls the class to the board and, with a few gestures, procures three-dimensional diagrams of quantum nodes. We pass the holograms between us, placing them into the slowly spinning Bohr model in the center of the board. 

“Now remember,” says Mrs. Anaker, smiling, “these nodes aren’t social climbers. They have to stay on their orbital.”

Standing around the holograph board, we fill the orbits of the ever-changing atom models. But Nandor, my deskmate, is scribbling something on his tablet. From the furrow in his brow and the way he taps his stylus on his cheek, I can tell that he’s onto something. 

The first time Mrs. Anaker mentioned that Nandor was “dyslexic”, I thought it was a fancy word for math genius. No one in our class believed it when we learned he was on the “disadvantaged” list, meaning he would be the last of our class called to the Mother Test. 

After a few more moments of scribbling and tapping, Nandor clears his throat and raises his hand. The class quiets instantly, as they always do when Nandor speaks. 

“Mrs. Anaker, I think something is wrong with that node.” 

He points to a blue holographic sphere in my hand. 

“I did a calculation. If this atom is going to be balanced, that node that Isma is holding should be radial. It’s angular, so we just need to change the type.”

Mrs. Anaker smiles in approval. “Good work, Nandor. Thank you for catching my mistake.” She expands her control bar, examining the diagnostic of each holographic element. 

As she looks at the display, a frown shadows her face. “Isma, will you pass that one to me?” I toss her the hologram. She rotates it in her hand, glancing between the board and the node. “It seems that there’s something interfering with the holographic board.”

My stomach turns. 

In her quick, bright voice, Mrs. Anaker continues. “Alright, everyone please check your InDisplay devices and make sure you’re not calling anyone or sending any type of signal.” 

My classmates pull up their left sleeves, pressing their wrists to illuminate the stretch of digitalized skin and check their devices. 

I don’t move. 

Mrs. Anaker notices right away. 

“Isma, did you check?” 

I can feel myself nodding, but my face is hot. 

Mrs. Anaker’s expression has already changed. Recognition. She knows. 

I glance over at Nandor. He drops his stylus. It clatters on the floor. 

I’m shaking my head. “No!” I whisper. My throat aches as I hold back the scream or sob welling up behind my tongue. I hear myself say “I can’t. I’m not ready.”

“Isma...” Mrs. Anaker’s face glows blue in the hologram light. 

I’m crying now, bending down and clutching the edge of the holograph board, knuckles white. 

“I just need more time.” My voice feels small.

Mrs. Anaker walks over to me, grabs my arm, and pushes up my sleeve. She removes my watch and slides off the bracelets. 

Nandor rushes to my other side. He’s whispering to me. “It’s okay, Is. It’s going to be okay”

Letter by letter, the horrible signal blazes from my skin. 

Nandor stares at my wrist and quietly says “omthre” to himself. After a pause, he whispers “mother”. 

“Isma, I know this is difficult, but there’s no reason to be afraid…” Mrs. Anaker’s voice sounds distant now, almost robotic. 

The whole class is staring at me, eyes wide. Mrs. Anaker is continuing in her strangely detached tone. 

“The Mothers know what is best for us. It was their wis-”

“Mrs Anaker, I’m taking Isma to the hallway.” says Nandor, interrupting her scripted sentence. He softens his voice.“Sorry. We’ll just be a moment.” 

Mrs. Anaker nods, and releases my arm.

Tears swell in my eyes as I follow Nandor out of the room. 

There is no one else in the hallway, and Nandor pulls me into a corner - a camera blindspot. 

“Isma, you have to listen to me. I’m ready, I know it.”

“Ready for what?” I don’t know why I’m asking. I already know what he means. 

“I’m ready to meet my Mother. I can feel it.”

“You can’t take a Mothercall from me, Nand! That’s not how it works.” My voice sounds angry, and it surprises me. “Besides, it’s impossible … right?”

When I look up at Nandor, he’s smirking. “Girl, please.”

I laugh, and wipe my nose with my sleeve. “You really can change it?”

“Well, exchange it, yes.”

“You can’t just make it go away?”

Nandor shakes his head. 

“There’s no way I’m letting you…”

“Don’t even finish that sentence, Is.” He gives me a searching look. “I'm making this choice.”

He smirks again, and nudges my arm.“Besides, I’m really being selfish here. Would rather get my Mothercall over with.”

He grabs my wrist, pressing just under my palm until a settings screen replaces the pulsing letters. He navigates to a display I’ve never seen before and, tapping my skin at different intervals, begins to type out a stream of ones and zeros. 

As he works, I see the word MOTHER appear, letter by letter, on his left wrist. 

“Nands, I can’t believe…”

“That I can hack an InDisplay? Pretty sick, right?”

“Well, not what I was going to say, but yeah. How did you learn this?” 

He shrugs. “I don’t really know. It’s kind of … intuitive?” 

I smile at him. “You really are a genius.” 

“Look who’s talking! Is, you’re already a better biologist than all of our teachers, and you’re not even fourteen yet.” 

He grins at me, showing the finished MOTHER on his wrist. “I’m gonna go blow her away.”

When I hug him, I can feel the signal radiating from his arm. 

“Thank you, Nands. You’re literally saving my life here.”

He whispers in my ear. “Hey, you’re the biologist, Is. It’s going to be up to you to save everyone else.”