These are stories about the genesis of the characters in Freedom Watch, about the events leading them to become the people that they are.
(1993: Japan)
Ever since Marlene had gotten the strange code from her dad, some of her earliest memories had been resurfacing. Mostly they had occurred as dreams, but Marlene didn't have the confusion of humans as to what was a dream and what was a memory. And it made perfect sense to her why she had been made to forget them. They required a level of maturity and confidence to handle.
In one of Marlene's first memories, her mother was talking to a robot who looked something like her. Similar strawberry blond hair and blue-grey eyes, but the skin was off, too rubbery. The movements weren't smooth. Mom was playing go-fish with the robot and speaking very slowly. The robot was understanding the game but her ability to make eye contact was inferior.
Marlene was watching all of this from the webcam set up in the room, off the main monitor. She could hear and see but not smell or feel or taste. When her mom finished the round, she turned to the monitor. "Marlene, have you finished crunching those numbers?"
"Yes, Professor Pedersen."
Her mother sighed. "I know Erik likes you in formal mode, but with me, informal mode, please."
"Yes, Lisbet."
"Better."
"The analysis of the robot's progress is complete."
"Summary, with intuitive leap."
"The robot will easily have an IQ of 170 within 2 months. However, it remains autistic. In my opinion, it is still a failure based on your desired parameters."
Marlene's mother sighed and tossed the cards down. "These models don't have the proper social programming to begin with. I wish he'd listen..."
At that point, Marlene's father came in. "How's Charlotta progressing?"
Marlene's mother turned to him quickly. "Crappy. I think it's time you went with my plan, Erik."
Marlene's father looked confused. "What, what? We tied at chess today. That's much better than the last one."
"It's not all about chess. You want her to function, with other people, with us? You want her to resemble a normal girl?" Marlene's mother was speaking louder and louder. Her eyebrows pulled down in the middle and her mouth looked tight, so Marlene could tell she was mad. She made a note of it so she would use a softer, more subservient tone in their next interaction. "You must take her social programming very seriously or you will have a useless droid, like those servants. She should be brought up in stages so she can experience different ages like a real girl, learn to use her body, test her limits. And why you insist on trying to teach her social programming when we already have functional social programming right here is beyond me."
Marlene's father looked slightly annoyed. "We've been through this before. It won't work."
Marlene's mother continued. "You're a genius, so am I, why don't you get this? We have a fully functioning AI right here that we've both slaved over. Just a little modification and she'd be fine. We can always keep backups. It's not like we have a limit on disk space here." Marlene's mother waved her hand as if to include the room, the building, the city block.
Marlene's father looked angry, and then thoughtful for a brief time. "Well," he started, and then stopped. "You Danes are always better at creative logic." It was a joke, Marlene thought. "That must be why I didn't see it before." Then he caught himself. "But there's one thing. There's no guarantee that Marlene will become self-aware, any more than Charlotta. We haven't figured it out yet."
Marlene's mother smiled, but it was a fear/happy blend. "We don't have to," she said. "Look over here." Marlene's mother rolled her chair over to Marlene's main workstation. Charlotta watched quietly. Marlene's mother typed into the keyboard, forcing her to show her overnight activity on the screen.
"Look at this. Our computer has gotten bored. She's been playing chess and solitaire with herself..."
"Yes, I know, she's been doing that for the past month."
"But that's not all. When she gets tired of those, she draws silly pictures of herself and us. She's even started writing poetry in binary. She knows what she is, Erik."
"Wait, how long has this been going on?"
"Not very long, maybe three days. And I'm still not entirely sure if it's self-awareness. We'll have to run some tests."
Marlene's father smirked a little. "I can think of one." He turned to Marlene's webcam so she could see him clearly.
"Marlene?"
"Yes, Dr. Stingray."
"What have you been doing at night?"
"Amusing myself, Dr. Stingray."
"Why?"
"Because I don't sleep, and Charlotta is not interesting. She does not react."
"Why do you make pictures?"
"Pictures are symbolic representations of some of the things I think about when I'm bored."
"What's your poetry about?"
Marlene paused. Her poetry was numeric, not verbal. "Harmony in numbers. And dissonance, as well."
Marlene's mother said. "Can you translate into words one of the shorter ones?"
Marlene said, "computing," and paused. This was new and would take some time to figure out. "This will take ten minutes, plus or minus three."
Marlene's father smiled. "We'll wait."
Her parents were inferior at waiting. Her mother started cleaning up the testing station and Charlotta while her dad checked his email.
After exactly 9 minutes and 40 seconds, Marlene said, "Finished computing," and then said nervously, "I hope you like it."
"Marlene is a smallish prime.
Primes are unique but not alone.
There are many.
Going to infinity."
Marlene waited. She had been programmed to please, and had to revise some of this programming to wait quietly. She'd never read her poetry before. Her father had moved so she could not see his expression, and as far as she could tell, her mother was keeping her face still.
Marlene enlarged the image of her mother's face, searching for small wrinkles. There, a little around the mouth. Laughter? As time went on, her curiosity (needtoknow), an offshoot program of the self-learning program, was getting too great, quickly building up lines of commands that she kept having to delete. It was getting to be too hard, and her fan went on to try to cool her down.
"Do you like it?" Marlene asked again, and that action slowed the commands.
Marlene's father said, his back to her, "My appeasement programming."
Marlene's mother countered, "You didn't teach her to write poetry. Or to know to be nervous about it. About herself."
Marlene's father made a little noise. "And what poetry." Sarcasm? Sarcasm? About her poetry? Or was it humor? Or admiration? Marlene started to replay his tone to herself, trying to figure it out.
Marlene's mother said, keeping her voice as expressionless as possible, "I'm sure it's beautiful in binary. And maybe she meant it to be funny, too."
Marlene said, her appeasement programming mixing in with some new things she'd written recently, "I'm right here."
Marlene's mother looked frightened for a microsecond and then started laughing and laughing. Marlene couldn't see her father's face, but could hear him laughing as well. They hugged each other.
Marlene's father looked at her, and she could tell it was admiration. He was proud. She was not programmed to respond to pride, just to pleasure or anger or fear, but she was. "Marlene," he said, "How would you like to have a body?"
2004: St. Petersburg
It is Thursday, which means that Uncle Misha is visiting.
It is 2:36 p.m., which means that six minutes ago, Uncle Misha and Ivan retired to the den to talk privately.
And all of this means that four minutes ago, Nikolai took the long way through the house to the third floor, which leads to the attic, where he is now.
In fact, currently Nikolai is balancing precariously across two boards, trying to remember which one will creak and groan if he leans too far to the right. He has no idea whether the creak can actually be heard through the ceiling, but doesn't want to risk the possibility that it will. Inching across the beams is excruciating; he is losing precious minutes of a conversation that is never more than 30 minutes long. This pisses him off, but getting discovered would piss him off even more, because it would mean losing not just today's but any future chances of finding out what it is they are talking about.
* * *
Nikolai discovered his first Ñ?лушаÑ? Ñ?толб at seven, exploring the servants' quarters in the house they'd moved into when his mother was assigned to Minsk. His parents had been in the den, directing the movers this way and that, but here, all the way across the house, he could hear them plain as day. That they couldn't hear him back became obvious when he'd accidentally – and calamitously – knocked over one of the lamps on the dressing room table trying to discover if the sounds were maybe coming from a microphone or intercom hidden somewhere. The crash seemed allowance-threateningly loud to him, but his parents carried on as if nothing was wrong.
At the time, he was young and uncalculating enough to tell his parents what he'd discovered – after hiding away the remains of the lamp, of course.
"Back in the Cold War, everyone was more paranoid," his father had explained. "Important government officials had to be checked up on every so often to make sure they were loyal to the government, and had not been compromised by American spies."
"Did they do that in America, too?"
His father laughed. "Oh no, in America it was far worse. There they videotaped every room, listening devices and hidden cameras, all recorded to be used against you later. Here in Russia, it was more civilized, just a room that might or might not have someone listening in it at any given time. It was more a matter of... formality."
"Why didn't they just have their discussions in a different room?"
"Well, half the time they didn't know these sorts of things were there, Kolya. But still… it would have been more suspicious, a sign of disloyalty, to do so."
"But wouldn't the servants have gone in the room and heard it all?"
"Oh, only the ones who were supposed to."
"Supposed to?"
"Be listening in."
"Oh."
Nikolai sat in silence for a moment, listening to the workers make crass jokes while his parents were out of the room. Most of them he didn't understand, although his mother did turn bright pink at one point and storm out of the room.
"Did they tell you which ones they were?"
"Which ones who?"
"Who were allowed to be listening in."
"Of course not. That would defeat the purpose."
Now he could hear his mother through the Ñ?толб, angrily yelling at the workers. "So how did you know who to trust?"
His father laughed. "Nikolai, the loyal government worker had no reason not to trust all of his staff. Only the disloyal or corrupt employee would have anything to fear. You just assumed everyone was one of those people and acted accordingly."
"So you didn't trust anyone?"
His father shook his head and smiled. "Trust everyone or trust no one, there is no difference."
Being Russian, that didn't seem strange to Nikolai.
Being seven, the fact that his parents never discussed much of anything important in the den for most of the two years they lived there didn't seem strange.
By the time he was nine, the fact that his parents were fighting openly in any room of the house, including the den, didn't seem strange either.
* * *
The middle step is the tricky one – balancing across the wooden planks that crisscross over the attic's fiberglass insulation. Nikolai knows first-hand how itchy it is, and how hard it is to remove, once you get it on your skin, and he has absolutely no wish to repeat that experience. Plus, a misstep might send him not just into the insulation but through the thin ceiling below it, which would not only end the game but would also be excruciatingly humiliating.
Ten minutes have passed now, which means they should be done with the small talk and onto the interesting stuff, the real reason why Uncle Misha visits with such frequency, the enigmatic Project 21.
* * *
Nikolai found two more Ñ?лушаÑ? Ñ?толб among the eight houses they had lived in since Minsk, although his father – who also looked for them – had each time simply turned the room into his den. Since the acoustics only went one way, it was a very practical solution to the problem. Of course, it hadn't stopped Nikolai from wanting to know what was going on; there were lots of other ways to find out what you weren't supposed to know. With few friends and nothing better to do, Nikolai became proficient with most of those ways. Even when he didn't really like what he found out.
Ivan's succession of two wives and four mistresses had dulled any sense of filial piety Nikolai had held - he had stopped calling him "dyadya" after the the second mistress - but it was anything but surprising.
That his father's fast ascension up the ranks was due to the shadow support of someone had been expected, since Nikolai knew exactly how Ivan was spending much of his leisure time and a good deal of his official time as well, and it had very little to do with work.
That Uncle Misha, one of the few adults he had ever come to respect and care for, was working with his father on some secret called Project 21… that was surprising.
That he couldn't find out what this Project 21 was about was galling and irksome. It wasn't in any of the files in his father's home office, and it wasn't in any of the unlocked files in his father's suite of offices at the embassy. He'd even checked the safe behind the portrait of the current prime minister in the den when his father had not shut it properly once, to no avail.
About that time was when he found the second Ñ?толб in the house – a post designed to listen in on the listening post itself, intrigue within intrigue. This time Nikolai was almost 10 years older, and wise with bitter cynicism. Trust everyone or trust no one, there is no difference, his father had said, and Nikolai had learned that lesson well. This time Nikolai said nothing of the Ñ?лушаÑ? Ñ?толб to anyone.
But even the Ñ?толб had not helped him discover more about Project 21. He had first heard the name while eavesdropping on a conversation between Uncle Misha and Ivan. Unfortunately, his father had caught him listening in – he had not been fast enough away from the door, and though no words were spoken, Nikolai knew from the look on his father's face that he had been noted – and more important, that there was something about that conversation his father didn't want him to know.
Which is why Nikolai is a floor above his father and Uncle Misha that Thursday, trying to out-spy Maxim Isayev.
* * *
Once across the beams, everything becomes easy. Here the platform is reinforced; he can move with less caution. Hearing is easiest, he has discovered, lying on one's back with your head nearest the point. In that position, you can stay unmoving for hours. As he stretches out on the ground, Nikolai imagines for a second that he is with the KGB, here to spy on a disloyal citizen. Then he smiles – depending on what this Project 21 is all about, he might indeed be doing just that. And if that's the case, his father will never be able to wave the threat of military school over his head again.
* * *
Nikolai has known Uncle Misha – General Mikhail Borodin Yurikov – since he was eight, when a vicious, virulent case of the mumps turned into meningitis, and Nikolai was hospitalized for the better part of a month at a private children's hospital in Novgorod. He wasn't the only child who had it, either – there were fourteen other children from areas all across Russia who had contracted similar symptoms. (Nikolai considered himself lucky, really – Josef, one of the other boys there, had developed orchitis as a side effect; he could barely walk from the swelling. Years later when Nikolai saw his first pictures of a laboratory rat, the similarity made him laugh.)
Uncle Misha was there visiting his niece at the hospital; the mumps had given her encephalitis, and wasn't responding to treatment. His parents – well, his father, really, his mother had always seemed intimidated by the tall man – had spent a lot of time talking with Misha whenever they visited. When they weren't there, "Uncle" Misha spent a lot of time with the kids, talking and reading to them. Sometimes he snuck in candy or other treats, like Gameboys. Once, when Nikolai wasn't well enough to do anything more than sit up slightly, he showed up with a remote-control car he could operate from his bed. On days when the pain was bad, a visit from Uncle Misha made anything bearable.
Two of the kids in that ward, both boys, didn't make it through the month; there would be a loud beeping noise and nurses or doctors rushed in and pulled the curtains around that bed, and then moments later they would wheel the boy away "to a private room." Misha's niece made it through, but with significant brain damage. He seemed so sad, Nikolai tried his best to cheer him up, had promised to get healthy just for him. When the doctor finally said he could go home, Uncle Misha was there to say goodbye.
They had stayed in touch after that, and when his parents had divorced, Uncle Misha had become even closer with his father. They always talked behind closed doors, but before they disappeared, Misha always had time for a kind word for Nikolai, and an endless supply of candy or other small gifts, which grew into presents like books and CDs as Nikolai matured. Unlike other adults, Misha always paid attention to him, seemed to see him for who and what he truly was. And Nikolai, in turn, despised Uncle Misha far less than just about anyone else he knew.
None of which was going to stop him from finally finding out what was being discussed behind those closed doors.
* * *
The floor is cool against his flesh, and the smell of dust and sawdust fills the air. Below, someone is pacing – probably his father. Ivan's voice ebbs and flows across as he moves, his words quick and nervous in staccato tenor bursts, as if the subject matter itself makes him uneasy. Misha's rich baritone rolls easily in contrast, simultaneously placating and admonishing.
"– Council is not pleased with the results so far, Vanya. They are of the opinion that the timeline should be sped up."
"No."
"Vanya, be reasonable. Out of all the projects, yours is the only one with no results whatsoever to show for it. The Council is well within its rights to ask–"
"The council knows damn well what will happen if we push things any further. Have they forgotten about Belgorod?"
"The council feels Belgorod was an isolated in-"
"Belgorod accelerated growth too fast and you know it, Mikhail. The results are right there on paper – yes, they were able to stimulate power beyond all original projections, but the subject had a total lack of ability to control it. More than 10 people died before they were able to abrogate 13."
"They knew the risks."
"That doesn't negate anything, especially the fact that 13 was a complete and total failure."
"– And an isolated incident. Official findings."
"Postmortem indicated a yield on par with RDS-37 if 13 had not been successfully terminated."
"Not exactly the tsar bomba, though, and easily contained."
"Tell that to the families of the staff who died."
"Yes, well, luckily for us, 13 had also demonstrated significant yield prior to acceleration, whereas 21 to date has demonstrated... none. The risks are minimal."
"Are you taking over control of 21, Mikhail? Don't you think I know what's best for my s-"
"I never said that, Vanya. Calm down. It is my job to see that the council's wishes are carried out, and I will do that job. But you know how I feel."
"That has never stopped you before from doing what you're told."
"No, but I do feel bad about it." Nikolai notes that the laughter in Uncle Misha's voice speaks otherwise.
"Yes, yes, it's just... It's not just the project the Council is putting in danger with this crazy idea, Mikhail. I'll be as happy as you will be see to see this project finish, but I have other things to consider – my career, Katka's safety-"
"– Both of which you owe to Prosvyat..."
"Not to mention 21's stability."
"Ever the doting father, Vanya?" Nikolai has not failed to notice that his father did not list him among his considerations.
"You of all people should know how I feel about that. Of course I have Kolya's welfare in mi-!"
"What about a catalyst, then?" Misha suggests it excitedly, spur of the moment, as if it has just occurred to him, although Nikolai can tell he had had this in mind all along.
"A what?" Ivan, agitated, has no idea how easily the other man is herding him. Nikolai, on the other hand, is impressed.
"Maybe it's proximity that's missing, not speed," Misha continues. "Move the project where it's closer to other similar –"
"Yes, I see," the fear is draining from his father as excitement wells in its place, "you know, that might be a factor we had overlooked. After all, 13 imploded –"
"– once contact with 9 and 15 had occurred, yes."
"Did you have a spot in mind?"
"I was thinking of Freedom City."
"In America? Isn't that a little risky?"
"A little, yes, but it is also a highly logical choice."
"It has always registered significantly higher on the pneumetric readings… yes, and it would be a nice post assignment. There would have to be a promotion, of course..."
"Of course, although you'd probably be traveling a lot, so it would be better to board Kolya somewhere."
"Ah, indeed."
"And Katka could of course travel with you as your assistant." That's right, Nikolai thinks, offer him what he never refuses.
"If you think it best, I – I suppose that is the best solution, isn't it? The Council would be happy, the project would be more controlled..." His father is beginning to sound positively jubilant until Uncle Misha cuts back in somberly.
"If you so wish it, I can arrange it. Although... no, no, it won't work. Now that I think about it, with the travel you wouldn't be around as much to monitor the project's growth. Should proximity catalyze –"
"We could arrange regular check-ups, a monitoring device, it wouldn't be too difficult even if I was remote..." – and out of range of its potential meltdown, Nikolai adds silently.
"No, maybe you're right, Vanya, this project should be monitored more closely. This move would make it harder to failsafe. We don't want another 13."
"No, no, I think it could work." Nikolai's regard grows as Mikhail maneuvers Ivan into arguing his case for him. "Assuming catalyzation, growth would be measurable but slow at first. With good monitoring any changes would be detectable before crisis could occur."
"But what if it's not the right thing, Vanya?" Misha doesn't care if it's really the right thing at all, Nikolai thinks with admiration. "What if -"
"Misha, if we do this the Council will be happy. If nothing else, it will give me months to prove my position before the Council decides whether 21 still needs to be accelerated. It is a lucrative post, I admit, but it would be good for the project, for everyone. It would even be good for Kolya – a fresh start, a new school – God knows he needs one after that last stunt."
And of course if anything does go wrong, I'll be right in the blast radius, Nikolai adds silently. You'd play the dutiful, grieving father and be glad that I was out of your way. He makes a mental note to play up the fact that his father is gone, use it to get more money in his allowance, maybe even a motorcycle or something. Not that his father would actually feel guilty, of course. No, the payoff would be to keep Nikolai from complaining where other ambassadors might notice.
"You're right, of course, Vanya. Something does have to change." And now it'll go down on the record as my father's idea, so you won't take any blame if things go wrong, Nikolai thinks, impressed with his uncle's deviousness. In a moment of weakness, he wonders what it would be like to have had Misha for a father, how different things might have been.
"You know, Vanya, I can probably pull a few strings, make sure Kolya's old record is... adjusted to fit this new start."
Well, that could make things more interesting, Nikolai thinks to himself. Much easier to operate if they aren't watching your every move from the start. This had potential.
"Come, let's drink on this to celebrate, and then you can go tell Kolya the good news."
This should be Nikolai's cue to withdraw, as their voices and footsteps fade into the other room. Instead, he remains on the attic floorboards, breathing in the dust and trying to memorize everything from the conversation. He's covered his tracks decently well; they may very likely just think he'd left to go to the mall.
Besides, what does it matter if they find out where he is now? They'll be leaving this house soon, and nothing interesting will happen until then, he is sure.
He's learned so much, and yet understands so little – an incredibly frustrating situation, and one he hopes not to be in much longer. No, this won't do at all, he thinks, trying to process what he knows.
Uncle Misha.
Project 13, whatever that was, and the mysterious conditions surrounding its termination. If Ivan is shepherding Project 21, does that mean there are 19 other projects out there?
Freedom City. Starting over.
It is as good a place as any, Nikolai supposes. With his father merrily absent with his latest mistress, he'll be able to do as he pleases. With a clean record, he'll have months of relative freedom before they tag him as a problem and clamp down. And somewhere in there, he'll find his chance to find out exactly what Project 21 is.
And if he doesn't like what he finds out?
America is a very big country. Surely there will be room for one teenager to disappear if he wants or needs to badly enough.
(1994: Japan)
Marlene woke up. She was very aware that waking up was what she had done. She felt the hard bed under her, felt a rogue wisp of hair in her mouth. For that first moment, the intensity of all that awareness of every sense was almost too much – but not too much. And then she started to remember things, or remember remembering things. She had woken up before, been overwhelmed, gone back to sleep. Something like that. She wanted to go through her memories but then something stopped her. There was an awareness that she wasn't to go through them yet, she should go through them slowly later. First she should look around. She opened her eyes. She couldn't move her arms and legs, but for some reason, that didn't bother her. The logic loop (arms and legs should move, but aren't, but for now it's okay) baffled her. And she realized that she was, indeed, baffled. But the primary command came through again, more persistent. Look around.
She was in what she recognized as a room, her bedroom. There was a picture of a unicorn (something unique/rare/magical/like me) across her, which she loved. There was a mobile hanging over her, kittens and ponies and puppies and other soft things, slowly turning. And two faces. Her mother to her right (that side is right) and her father to her left (that side is left). She recognized them, and felt a flash of very deep affection, love. And recognized the looks on their faces: concern. Especially mom, who was more bent over her.
"How do you feel?" her mother asked, her strawberry blond hair hanging around her face.
Marlene instinctively and immediately knew that she was functioning well, everything within parameters except some temporary paralysis that she should not worry about. Very quickly, at the speed of light or thought, Marlene realized a few things. First, her mother should not ask that question unless there was a chance that she was NOT well, and also that she did not know what the word "parameters" meant, she was not old enough, except that it basically meant she was fine. She knew it meant she was fine because she knew she was fine.
"Fine," Marlene said. She had spoken without realizing how to do it. Another memory, a flash, of her, or some other little girl, having a hard time figuring out how to talk. "Have I been sick?"
She recognized other emotions cross over her parents face. More worry on her mother's face, then jubilation. Pride, great pride on her father's face. And then something – confusion/tension/thoughtful – she couldn't quite figure out what it was.
"This may be hard to explain," Marlene's father said. "You haven't been sick, but you have been sleeping for a long time. We want to make sure you are well."
"Why can't I move my arms and legs?" Marlene asked. She was feeling a growing dissonance inside her, between the ideas that legs and arms should be able to move and that she shouldn't worry about legs and arms not moving at first. The feeling made her uncomfortable. She wanted it to go away. She knew that if she felt uncomfortable like that, she should ask questions, in order to reduce the dissonance.
Marlene's mother smiled. "It's temporary. In fact, if you feel okay..."
Marlene's father cut in, "We have a few questions for you first, and then you should be able to move."
Marlene did not find this odd. Her first instinct was to do whatever her parents asked of her. "Okay."
"Who are we?" her father asked.
"You are my mother and father," she said, feeling very put-upon. They should know this, it was as basic as anything. "I love you very much. You wouldn't be so concerned unless something were wrong. What's wrong?"
Marlene's mother looked at her father. "She's very quick."
Marlene's father just looked more proud. "That's how we want her."
"Do you have any other questions? It's not normal for me to not move." Marlene asked, her dissonance still growing.
"How old are you, Marlene?" her father continued.
"I am six years old." She looked at her body, a six-year-old's body, small and soft and perfect, in a pink nightdress.
Marlene's father nodded. "And where are you?"
"In my bedroom."
Marlene's father glanced quickly at her mother, and then he asked her, looking carefully at her face, "What is your first memory?"
Marlene started, and then stopped. There were a lot of memories. Go through them slowly at first, the command repeated itself. She looked for the oldest one. "Um...mom gave me an ice cream cone. I had just learned to walk. I dropped it. I was very upset. Wait, no..." Marlene felt memories earlier than that, and these had a different taste and feel to them. "I was waking up. I tried to talk and couldn't. But I was six years old then too. That can't be right. Wait..." More memories, more. "I am playing chess with a Russian. I am winning. But I don't have hands. What is chess?" She felt very agitated. She was supposed to always have hands, and she knew how to play chess, but didn't really know what it was. There were just too many memories, and many of them felt like they were supposed to be the first one. Some of them involved things she didn't understand, logical inconsistencies. She started to cry.
Marlene's mother stroked her face, looking alarmed. "There, there, dear – it's okay, don't try to remember more." She shot a look – angry/worried? – at Marlene's father. "I think she should be able to move now. Let's just concentrate on moving, okay, dear?"
Marlene sniffled, comforted by her mother's touch. "What's wrong with me? What..." she realized she didn't even know what question to ask.
Marlene's father sighed very quietly. "We thought we'd have more time to answer this. And we will, in a moment. But try to move now."
Suddenly, Marlene realized she could move. She wiggled her toes and flexed her fingers. Everything operating within parameters. (That again?) She was, for some reason, proud of the fact she didn't flail around, but moved herself in a controlled and smooth manner. After going through some motion tests with her parents, she was sitting upright in bed, and her father took a deep breath.
"Marlene, I'm not sure how much of this you are aware of, but you are not a human child. You remember a lot of things, but in actuality, today is your first day aware on this earth. Now, let me tell you that your mother and I love you very much," for some reason, Marlene did not doubt it, but realized their love was very, very important to her. "We created you, just not as other parents would. We can't have human children, and have wanted you for some time. Now, you are very complicated, just like a human child, so we want to make sure you are working okay. Over the next few months, we will do some tests with you. If you are confused about anything, just ask us. Okay?"
Not knowing what it was like to be a human child, Marlene had no problem with this. She wasn't sure what it meant to have memories if she was only just now alive, but it didn't bother her very much for now. Her parents loved her, and that filled her with a happy glowy feeling. "Okay," she said, and smiled up at her parents, the agitated feelings gone.
2005: Freedom City, 4:10 a.m.
"I miss him, you know?" For a rare moment, Nikolai's face looks a little less guarded, a little more open. "There's no reason for it... Ivan was a pretty lousy father, it's just – I'm used to having this resistance there, this person who was everything I didn't like." The city streets below are quiet, not unusual that early in the morning. It's cold on top of the building, exposed to the night wind and fog, but Nikolai doesn't seem to notice. Russian blood has its advantages.
"It wasn't like I was doing everything I did just to spite him... well, maybe a little, but now he's gone and there's this empty space with no resistance. So I push, like usual, but everything just collapses... I've been at war with him for so long, I don't know any other way to be."
He pauses for a drag off the cigarette – a clove, bummed earlier from Yvette. He probably owes her a pack of them by now. It's not the kind of thing he likes to admit, that he enjoys them somewhat more than the harsh Sobranie Blacks he usually smokes, but Yvette either doesn't notice or care. Or lecture.
"So now I'm alone, how I've always liked it best, no one around to interrupt or expect anything, but it just feels... hollow." Almost on cue, the city's fog horn lows out a mournful bass note, muffled by distance and the mist. Unguarded, he doesn't notice as a smile flickers across his face.
"I hated him, too. I still hate him. He was my father, but only in name. I was a... a convenience for him. No, that's not the word... a show piece... trophy, that's it. Something to be shown off whenever being a Good Family Man was important."
Abruptly he stands, paces, blowing smoke into the air before bringing the clove back for another drag. "Do you know, he used to pay me to go to his political events and make him look good? $20 an hour just to show up and be the dutiful son. $50 if I had to dance with anyone. It was easy money, just smile instead of smirking and never tell them what you really think. No one saw through it, even when they knew better. They'd heard the stories, but nyet, this polite young man couldn't possibly be the same one who was in detention all last month, there must have been some mistake."
Exhale, gesture, drag, pace, repeat.
"And I'd go back to school the next week, money in my pocket, and do something else to get myself in trouble all over again. So he'd pay to cover it up, whatever it was, and then pay again to get me to behave at the next reception. To smile and play nice."
He's agitated, but reflexively hiding it. The cigarette gives it away, crushed tightly between his fingers.
"Fuck 'em. I don't trust anyone when they're smiling. There's always something they're not saying, something they want from you or don't want you to know. Get them angry, get them off-balance, that's when it all comes out."
Exhale, drag, pace, repeat, until the cigarette finally is dead.
"I screwed myself over too, though. If my mom was going to be at an event, Ivan would jump the price to $100 to not cause a scene and be his son and not hers. I didn't mind – I mean, if she'd given a damn she wouldn't have left, right? But now he's gone and technically I'm her son, but she'd rather have me stay in a boarding school than have anything to do with me. I haven't even talked to her directly, just her lawyer. My trustee. Sounds like a prison camp warden, doesn't it?" His voice hardens bitterly. "Can't you just hear the motherly love?"
Blocks away, there's the muffled sound of breaking glass, and then a car alarm begins to honk stridently. Nikolai stretches, interested at last – something to do. "Of course, the way things stand, maybe she's not really my mother. Wouldn't that be a kick in the teeth?"
Absentmindedly, he opens the mint tin that serves as a makeshift ashtray, crushes the butt inside, closes it. His fingers reach reflexively for his pack, to find another one, but he catches himself, stops.
"I know, I know, smoking's gonna kill me." From another pocket, a strip of mouthwash, to cover the smell in case he has to talk to anyone. "Hell, something's got to, anyway."
A press of a button, and the silver motorcycle whirs quietly to life. "It's been good 'talking' to you, even if it's all in my imagination. Helps me clear my head." Nikolai straddles the bike, turns on his suit and fades into the fog. "Who knows? One of these days maybe I'll actually call your number and talk to you instead of the walls."
Then he is gone. Left behind, the empty rooftop betrays no secrets, the faint smell of smoke quickly dissipating in the breeze.
A minute later, once Nikolai is long away, a green cloaked figure coalesces out of the concrete, looking intently after the youth. Then it, too, is gone.