Even so: if a few pats of tree-bark powder hadn’t become an indispensable element of beauty on my homeworld, "Ugly Screaming Stink-Girl" would have been just a childhood nickname instead of a life sentence.
Here’s why. My mother was allergic to thanaka. She could never wear the tiniest beauty spot without rashes and bloating. She tried a host of substitutes, but found fault with every one. My mother refused to be satisfied — nothing but real thanaka was good enough. (Another of those fixations the Buddha called "unskillful.")
So my mother went bare-faced and became a social outcast. Or so she told me years later. How can a daughter know if her mother is telling the truth? Was my mother really treated badly for being different? Or did she just blame the normal disappointments of life on the way she looked?
As a girl, I had no patience for Mother’s tales of woe. She wearied everyone she knew, demanding sympathy for the way her peers had ostracized her. At the age of fifteen, I finally had a frothing hysterical fit, screaming, "People don’t hate you because of your face. They hate the way you whine! Whine, whine, whine, whine, whine. I hate it more than anyone. And I hate you. As if you know anything about being ostracized!"
I was more emotional back then. Subject to outbursts.
Now I’ve got past the rage. I’ve changed. But I’ll get to that. At the moment, I’m explaining about my mother.
She thought her lack of thanaka had ruined her life. And before I was born, or even conceived, she decided to create a corrected version of herself, a daughter who would be beloved and popular, never suffering social rejection.
My mother found a man reputed to be an expert gene-splicer… even though human-engineering was illegal on my home planet and every other planet in the Technocracy. For a fistful of rubies (passed down as a sacred inheritance through ten generations and never touched until my mother spent them all), this DNA doctor promised to produce a perfect daughter who was smart, fit, and beautiful. Extremely beautiful. In particular, she would have vivid permanent thanaka-like beauty patches on her cheeks, forehead, and nose.
You can see where this is going, can’t you? But my mother couldn’t. For a woman who claimed to know suffering, she’d never learned much about the universe’s love of irony.
It’s no challenge to create a baby who’s intelligent, robust, and exquisite. The technology is well established. Building better babies has always been the driving force behind bioengineering, even if proponents pretend otherwise. Since the earliest days of gene-splicing, scientists have muttered about "improving agricultural stock" or "facilitating medical research," but those are just side issues. The primary target was and is the production of superbabies; any other result is a lucky offshoot. Never mind that manufacturing uberchildren has been banned for five hundred years. Laws or no laws, money continues to change hands to create gifted progeny who’ll outshine their peers. DNA technicians have all the equipment and expertise needed to produce smart, athletic, attractive offspring…
…provided one keeps to conventional notions of brainpower, fitness, and beauty. That’s what the black market does well. If, on the other hand, you make a special order — such as yellow-white streaks in specific regions of a little girl’s face — then the gene-engineers have to improvise.
They have to try untested genes and histones. They have to wing it.
Therefore:
I was born adequately bright. In the ninety-ninth percentile of human intelligence.
I was born an adequate physical specimen. Small but strong. Thin but not scrawny. By my teen years, I excelled at five forms of solo dance. I even performed, to great acclaim… at least in Anicca’s yein pwe dances, where all the dancers wore masks.
I had to wear a mask because I was not born adequately beautiful. My hair was black and lustrous, my skin resembled feather-soft silk, and my body had tastefully generous curves. But I was still an Ugly Screaming Stink-Girl.
Sometime before birth, the yellow-white pigments intended to adorn my face congealed into a single palm-sized blob glaring from my left cheek. A leprous puckered livid spongelike weeping mass of tissue.
Mostly, it wept a thin, oily ooze. If I told gawking strangers the fluid was just sweat, they said they believed me. But it wasn’t sweat. I obsessively studied biochemistry till I could determine the fluid’s exact chemical composition… then obsessively fell into the habit of listing those chemicals under my breath, reciting their names like a chant that could drive away demons. (I’d recite them for you now, but I’ve given up being neurotic.)
The fluid from my cheek stank of gangrenous pus. At least it did to me. Others assured me they couldn’t smell a thing, so perhaps I just imagined the stench. A psychosomatic olfactory delusion. It’s possible.
It’s also possible people were lying when they said there was no putrid reek of necrosis. I accused them of that many times, shrieking, "Admit it, admit it, admit it!"
As I’ve said, I was more emotional back then. Subject to outbursts.
Occasionally, when I was under stress or drank too much caffeine, my cheek wept blood. I still told people the fluid was sweat; then I glared, daring anyone to contradict me.
Few did.
Inevitably, my face drew the attention of the Explorer Corps. Explorers are "brave volunteers" — draftees — whom the navy sends into unknown situations. Or into known situations that are too damned dangerous for unblemished personnel.
Explorers are expendable. If someone has to die, let it be an Ugly Screaming Stink-Girl. Otherwise, there might be repercussions. Measurable drops in morale and productivity.
In Explorer Academy, we were forced to read studies that showed just how badly navy personnel reacted to the death of normal or attractive-looking crew members. Performance ratings plummeted; clinical depression became rampant; people on duty made serious mistakes from shock and grief. Why? Because modern society resembles a character from Bamar sacred stories… a young prince named Gotama. The prince was brought up by his royal father in a luxurious pleasure palace where he was kept unaware of old age, disease, and death. He grew up knowing only the joys of his harem, and parties and feasts and games. But the gods refused to let Gotama waste his life in superficialities. Through trickery, they showed him the ugly truths his father had concealed. When Gotama finally learned that the world had a dark side, he was devastated — affected so deeply that the experience set him on the road to enlightenment. Prince Gotama became a Buddha: our Buddha, the most recent in a long line of Awakened teachers who’ve pointed the way to wisdom.
But normal Technocracy citizens aren’t ready for Buddhahood. They’re not emotionally equipped to leave the pleasure palace. When confronted with anything that suggests their own mortality, they don’t get stronger — they crumple.
They’ve never learned to live with untimely death. How could they? Old age has been alleviated by YouthBoost treatments. Disease can almost always be cured. As for fatal accidents, they’re virtually nonexistent thanks to the League of Peoples. The League, headed by aliens billions of years more advanced than Homo sapiens, regards willful negligence as equivalent to deliberate homicide; and the League never hesitates to punish those responsible. If, for example, a corporate executive approves the design for a vehicle, or a body implant, or a nanopesticide that hasn’t been sufficiently tested for safety — sufficient to satisfy the League, not just human inspectors — the negligent executive will be exterminated the next time he or she enters interstellar space. It doesn’t matter if the product is safe; failing to test it thoroughly shows callous indifference toward the lives of others. Therefore, the League considers the culprit a "dangerous nonsentient creature"… and the League instantly kills any dangerous nonsentients attempting to leave their home star systems. There’s no escape, no appeal, and no sentence but summary execution.