Free The Fresco by Sheri S. Tepper Page B

one,” my inceptor called in a firm voice. “A candidate for selection, now come to the age of reason.”
    â€œSo we all hope, Chiddy,” muttered the receptor clutching my other arm, giving me a firm look. Ke wasn’t my own receptor. My own receptor (though one should really not say or write or even, if one is very observant, think the words, “my own”) had left the family earlier in the year for a time of specialized training. Ke had licked my eyelids tenderly and left me to the care of the nootch, for ke was retiring from receptorhood to go on to something else. Unlike the nootchi or the campesi or many other categories, receptors and inceptors were often picked for genetics alone, even when they had no inclination for the task. Those without inclination were allowed to change category later on. If one was selected as a nootch or a campes, however, it was considered permanent except in those rare cases where everyone agreed the selector had made an error. It did happen. We all knew it, and we all regretted the tragedy it caused. My receptor had been selected, as ke often said, for genetics alone. Ke certainly was not inclined to be a carer, as everybody knew, including the ket. That’s what my old nootch often said about it. Everybody including the ket knows Tithy’s no carer.
    Sounds came from behind the door, rattlings and bangings and long, ominous hummings, like gigantic engines. At last the door opened and the voice called, “Enter.”
    I looked helplessly at my family, but they merely made shooing motions, as though I were a flosti they were shooing from the garden. I would rather have been a flosti, flying away to the top of a tree or anywhere else, but there wasn’t a chance. The family was a solid phalanx between me and the stairs; another family with another candidate was marching behind them toward the second door, and beyond them were still others headed farther down the terrace; the only comfort came from the nootch at the left, who gave me a little nod and a tiny smile. The open door was the only way out.
    So, I did what every twelve-year-old has been doing since time immemorial. I entered.
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    Looking back on that time, the strangest part of it was that nobody seemed to care if I did well or not. At home, when I was a child, people did care. Foot coverings were meant to be polished and put away. Body covers were meant to be washed and smoothed and hung up. Sleeping and eating places were meant to be kept neat, and houses and people were meant to be kept clean. Animals were to be fed; persons were to be fed, in that order; and both persons and animals were to be kept healthy. All of this required attention and care, and it was important that one’s tasks, whatever they were, should be done dependably and well. Wanting to do things had nothing to do with doing them. If things weren’t well done, then one got a rap on the head from a proffe or inceptor, or one did without sweetness at meals, or one spent the whole day helping the campesi clean out the compost house.
    Selection is different from that, as I soon learned.
    The person behind the desk was clad in a dark brown robe. The person was to be referred to as selector, licos pronouns were third level, le and lic, and one was not to speak to lic until spoken to. So much I knew.
    â€œWhy is someone here?” selector asked.
    â€œIt is the time of selection,” I said breathlessly.
    â€œIs someone frightened?”
    â€œI think so,” I muttered. “A little.”
    â€œIt will pass,” said selector. “One may look back on this time as the easiest time of someone’s life, for no one will discredit someone on teros behavior, no matter what it is. For this time, someone is to behave as someone likes, as someone is moved to do, as someone’s inclinations guide. Understand?”
    I did not understand, but I bowed, murmuring, “Mentor,” to show I had heard.