The Trouble with the V-Series
by
Larry O'Neal
The Rahnings had a multitude of choices at their disposal beyond the standard gender/race profile: six standard eye colors and three virtual blends; height-weight ratios; disposition factors and personality panels; language modules; 36 hair colors and styles that could be programmed to correspond with one’s mood, seasons or weather patterns. Mrs. Rahning couldn’t decide on the lip-type for her future daughter, wavering between bow-shaped and heart-shaped. Fortunately, Ms. DaSilva was patient. These were important decisions that would affect a new Parallax-8 Citizen’s entire future. Heart-shaped. It would be heart-shaped. But then, Mrs. Rahning second-guessed her eye color and shape choice. Mr. Rahning groaned, but in one deft flourish, Ms. DaSilva brandished a holo-com unit, flicked a button, and summoned a Prenatal Profile intern to the room with a tray full of eyes.
Natalie VU-9 looked down at the ocular assortment in her hands: 25 glossy eyeballs stared up at her, six standard colors and three virtual blends. They seemed to remind the teenage girl of something or someone, but she couldn’t--
“Natalie. Today, please. The Rahnings are eager to make their selection.”
Natalie was a V-Series operative, not chosen by loving parents during a Prenatal Planning consultation. Her eyes were standard-issue gray; her lips were neither heart-shaped nor bow-shaped. If her hair had been programmed to respond to her mood or the temperature outside, it would never be the short, nondescript basin water brown that it was. Natalie had been designed by the Parallax-8 Population Control Authority to serve as an institution laborer. She was taken from her birth mother in infancy and raised in parallaxis by the State, conditioned to serve. Like all V-Series models.
“Well, I’m partial to blue,” said Mr. Rahning, interrupting the awkward silence. “Always been a sucker for pretty blue eyes.” He snorted a nervous laugh that no one shared.
Natalie stared at the vacuous glistening orbs on the tray she held, her arms trembling slightly.
“Natalie. Set the tray down and leave us, please.”
But she couldn’t. The eyes would not release Natalie from her assignment. She saw in them a history that may have been her own or a future bound by common strands of DNA that wound and formed perfect entwining helixes; some people knew her, not as an operative, not as a V-Series subservient, not as a nameless means to a meaningless end, but as a--
“Natalie.” Ms. DaSilva was on her feet now and glowering at the girl, her hair shimmering from a highlighted blond to a fiery, burnished auburn. “Look at me, Natalie.”
She wouldn’t.
“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Rahning. The trouble with the V-Series is they can sometimes be a touch unreliable. This one is new—”
“Completely understandable. I think we can stick with our first choice—”
“No, Glenn. I want to see the goddamned eyes, please. My daughter has to be perfect in every way. We’re paying for perfection, and we’re going to get it.”
For a V-Series model, Natalie’s noticeable defects made her undesirable, and Ms. DaSilva would see to it that she was transferred immediately to--
“My mother,” said Natalie, taken aback by the unfamiliar sound of her unsteady voice, “had eyes this color.” Natalie could detect sparks and flashes of memory in neural synapses she’d never used. There were images that didn’t include stark white walls and other featureless children in gray uniforms, or plastic nutrition drips programmed to respond instantly at the touch of a button. These were images of a woman, a loving woman with warm, compassionate eyes that looked into Natalie’s soul and found a conjunction of history, an affiliation held together by a shared bloodline, a promise of security, a covenant of love.
“God damn it. Natalie. Release the tray.”
Natalie broke her concentration on the plate of prosthetic eyeballs, realizing her surroundings for the first time: an angry superior hovering above her, an embarrassed woman with a toxic scowl, a nervous man hiding behind a Prenatal Planning tablet, and a holo-com unit on the table. She dropped the metal tray to the floor, sending colorful glass spheres scattering in all directions across the slate floor.
Mrs. Rahning shrieked as if the eyeballs were skittering mice. Mr. Rahning sprang to his feet. Ms. DaSilva yelped and snatched at the holo-com. But Natalie had grabbed it first. Before she could even process what she was doing, Natalie had pressed every button on the holo-com numerous times. The result was nearly instantaneous. Doors opened and closed, lights flickered, music played and stopped, and a siren blared. And fifty or so V-Series children marched into the room, silently awaiting commands from their superior.
In the noise and confusion, Natalie VU-9 slipped out the door unnoticed and raced down the sterile, windowless hallway. She didn’t exactly smile since she had never been conditioned to do such a thing, but she allowed a smirk to transform her face. As she ran, she glanced down at the holo-com in her hand. Who knows what other doors this little thing could open?
Natalie VU-9 looked down at the ocular assortment in her hands: 25 glossy eyeballs stared up at her, six standard colors and three virtual blends. They seemed to remind the teenage girl of something or someone, but she couldn’t--
“Natalie. Today, please. The Rahnings are eager to make their selection.”
Natalie was a V-Series operative, not chosen by loving parents during a Prenatal Planning consultation. Her eyes were standard-issue gray; her lips were neither heart-shaped nor bow-shaped. If her hair had been programmed to respond to her mood or the temperature outside, it would never be the short, nondescript basin water brown that it was. Natalie had been designed by the Parallax-8 Population Control Authority to serve as an institution laborer. She was taken from her birth mother in infancy and raised in parallaxis by the State, conditioned to serve. Like all V-Series models.
“Well, I’m partial to blue,” said Mr. Rahning, interrupting the awkward silence. “Always been a sucker for pretty blue eyes.” He snorted a nervous laugh that no one shared.
Natalie stared at the vacuous glistening orbs on the tray she held, her arms trembling slightly.
“Natalie. Set the tray down and leave us, please.”
But she couldn’t. The eyes would not release Natalie from her assignment. She saw in them a history that may have been her own or a future bound by common strands of DNA that wound and formed perfect entwining helixes; some people knew her, not as an operative, not as a V-Series subservient, not as a nameless means to a meaningless end, but as a--
“Natalie.” Ms. DaSilva was on her feet now and glowering at the girl, her hair shimmering from a highlighted blond to a fiery, burnished auburn. “Look at me, Natalie.”
She wouldn’t.
“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Rahning. The trouble with the V-Series is they can sometimes be a touch unreliable. This one is new—”
“Completely understandable. I think we can stick with our first choice—”
“No, Glenn. I want to see the goddamned eyes, please. My daughter has to be perfect in every way. We’re paying for perfection, and we’re going to get it.”
For a V-Series model, Natalie’s noticeable defects made her undesirable, and Ms. DaSilva would see to it that she was transferred immediately to--
“My mother,” said Natalie, taken aback by the unfamiliar sound of her unsteady voice, “had eyes this color.” Natalie could detect sparks and flashes of memory in neural synapses she’d never used. There were images that didn’t include stark white walls and other featureless children in gray uniforms, or plastic nutrition drips programmed to respond instantly at the touch of a button. These were images of a woman, a loving woman with warm, compassionate eyes that looked into Natalie’s soul and found a conjunction of history, an affiliation held together by a shared bloodline, a promise of security, a covenant of love.
“God damn it. Natalie. Release the tray.”
Natalie broke her concentration on the plate of prosthetic eyeballs, realizing her surroundings for the first time: an angry superior hovering above her, an embarrassed woman with a toxic scowl, a nervous man hiding behind a Prenatal Planning tablet, and a holo-com unit on the table. She dropped the metal tray to the floor, sending colorful glass spheres scattering in all directions across the slate floor.
Mrs. Rahning shrieked as if the eyeballs were skittering mice. Mr. Rahning sprang to his feet. Ms. DaSilva yelped and snatched at the holo-com. But Natalie had grabbed it first. Before she could even process what she was doing, Natalie had pressed every button on the holo-com numerous times. The result was nearly instantaneous. Doors opened and closed, lights flickered, music played and stopped, and a siren blared. And fifty or so V-Series children marched into the room, silently awaiting commands from their superior.
In the noise and confusion, Natalie VU-9 slipped out the door unnoticed and raced down the sterile, windowless hallway. She didn’t exactly smile since she had never been conditioned to do such a thing, but she allowed a smirk to transform her face. As she ran, she glanced down at the holo-com in her hand. Who knows what other doors this little thing could open?
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