Brainchild Possible Opening, Take 349
“Some of these questions might be difficult for you, but I need you to answer them objectively.”
“Is that possible?”
Cython Makani skimmed his fingertip over the screen of his multi to adjust the noise filter on the audio recorder. The metallic blue device lay face-up on the table between him and his latest interviewee, a fragile and dignified woman with silver hair spilling straight over her shoulders. The young scholar leaned back in his chair and answered mildly: “I don't see why not.”
The woman averted her eyes before lifting her eyebrows and tightening her mouth in polite skepticism. “All right,” she agreed patiently, folding her thin hands in front of her. “I will try.”
Her name was Shui Vel, born 2218, and to Cython's eyes her hair had whitened long before its time. She was not as old as most of his subjects-not yet fifty-but in spite of that she professed to have memories of the war which might prove useful in answering his questions. Cython usually had to comb through official censuses and directories to identify and locate relatives of Proxies, or rarer still, the few Proxies who had survived. Not all of them granted an interview. To have had Shui volunteer her story through a mutual friend was a stroke of luck, even if Cython was wary of memories formed at seven years old. She had invited him to her home two weeks ago, and now he found himself at her kitchen table, in the small flat where she lived alone.
The silence mingled with the bright sunlight filtering through the window, and the multi recorded, blinking, on the table.
Cython waited another minute. Then he prompted: “How old were you when the war began?”
She had incredibly blue eyes. He had not appreciated just how blue they were before Shui raised them abruptly to his face. If he included this interview material in his thesis, Cython resolved,, he would mention these eyes. For that human touch. “Well, I suppose I must have been five or six when it actually started, but it never really affected me until at least two years in.”
Cython leaned forward. Two years in-they had begun to lose two years in. The Proxies had failed two years in. “Then when did the war begin for you?”
Shui sighed; folded her longer fingers together; unfolded them and tucked stray hair out of her fine-boned face. Cython catalogued this nervous tick as he catalogued everything: like he breathed.
“The war...I believe the war truly started when my aunt came to stay with us. Ah, with my father and me.”
Cython had withdrawn his worn notepad from his bag at his feet and flipped to the first empty page. He was already sketching a rough family tree. “And your aunt was your father's sister?”
“Actually, she was his cousin, but they were close. I think they must have been, anyway. The night she came to stay with us, my dad only told me that she was my aunt.”
“And what were their names? Your father and your...aunt.” Second cousin, really.
Shui touched her lips, then her hair again. “My dad's name was Patrick Vel. My aunt...” She shook her silver head. “I only knew she was Aunt Constel.”
Cython filled them both in on the family tree. Constel; no surname. She was a dead end. He tapped his pen beside her name in the beginnings of impatience; he couldn't see where she was going with this. “I assume she was connected to your father's death.”
The look she gave him was almost sharp, like that of a woman restraining a reprimand for a boy not her son. “Somewhat,” she replied after a moment. “You know, there was more to the war than just the Proxies. There was much more than that.”
“I understand,” he placated. “Please, go on. Why did the war start with your aunt?”
“My aunt was the first solider I ever saw. And, not long after she came, that was the first time we were bombed. And my father died.”
Shui could not sleep that night. She never wanted to go to sleep when her father sent her, of course. Dad always put her to bed at 20:30, and he never let her see zero o'clock, no matter how she begged or pestered-and no matter how she tried, Shui could never stay awake to see anything past 22:00 before falling, without realizing, to sleep.
That night she saw the numbers on her clock blink from 00:00 to 00:01, glowing huge and green in the dark of her room. Shui imagined she had been staring at them for hours now, possibly since dad had said good night and shut her door. The black velvet fastened tight over her window had kept her room pitch black for nearly two years now. Dad said that it kept Earthan soldiers from seeing their house, but her friends at school said that the soldiers could see you in the dark anyway, from their planes and from their satellites.
There was a solider in her house right now, downstairs in the living room. That was why Shui could not sleep. It was why seeing zero o'clock that night felt like something strange and dreadful. She didn't even think to sneak out of bed to take a picture of it as she had always planned. She could only think of the solider and her baby in the next room, and wonder what was wrong.
Something had been wrong from the moment she came to their door. Dad had told her that morning that Aunt Constel was coming to visit, that she might stay with them a while. Shui had never heard of Aunt Constel. “Does she have any kids?” she had asked, hoping to play.
“Yes, she's bringing a baby.” Dad had smiled apologetically from across the kitchen table. They had been eating sweetbread for breakfast. “But I don't think they're going to want to play, little bit. Your aunt's very tired. She needs to rest.”
“Why?”
Dad had looked strange, like he was unhappy. “Well, she's been fighting the Earthans, bit. And fighting the Earthans for a long time makes you very, very tired. So Aunt Constel and her baby just need to rest while they're here, okay?”
“Is that possible?”
Cython Makani skimmed his fingertip over the screen of his multi to adjust the noise filter on the audio recorder. The metallic blue device lay face-up on the table between him and his latest interviewee, a fragile and dignified woman with silver hair spilling straight over her shoulders. The young scholar leaned back in his chair and answered mildly: “I don't see why not.”
The woman averted her eyes before lifting her eyebrows and tightening her mouth in polite skepticism. “All right,” she agreed patiently, folding her thin hands in front of her. “I will try.”
Her name was Shui Vel, born 2218, and to Cython's eyes her hair had whitened long before its time. She was not as old as most of his subjects-not yet fifty-but in spite of that she professed to have memories of the war which might prove useful in answering his questions. Cython usually had to comb through official censuses and directories to identify and locate relatives of Proxies, or rarer still, the few Proxies who had survived. Not all of them granted an interview. To have had Shui volunteer her story through a mutual friend was a stroke of luck, even if Cython was wary of memories formed at seven years old. She had invited him to her home two weeks ago, and now he found himself at her kitchen table, in the small flat where she lived alone.
The silence mingled with the bright sunlight filtering through the window, and the multi recorded, blinking, on the table.
Cython waited another minute. Then he prompted: “How old were you when the war began?”
She had incredibly blue eyes. He had not appreciated just how blue they were before Shui raised them abruptly to his face. If he included this interview material in his thesis, Cython resolved,, he would mention these eyes. For that human touch. “Well, I suppose I must have been five or six when it actually started, but it never really affected me until at least two years in.”
Cython leaned forward. Two years in-they had begun to lose two years in. The Proxies had failed two years in. “Then when did the war begin for you?”
Shui sighed; folded her longer fingers together; unfolded them and tucked stray hair out of her fine-boned face. Cython catalogued this nervous tick as he catalogued everything: like he breathed.
“The war...I believe the war truly started when my aunt came to stay with us. Ah, with my father and me.”
Cython had withdrawn his worn notepad from his bag at his feet and flipped to the first empty page. He was already sketching a rough family tree. “And your aunt was your father's sister?”
“Actually, she was his cousin, but they were close. I think they must have been, anyway. The night she came to stay with us, my dad only told me that she was my aunt.”
“And what were their names? Your father and your...aunt.” Second cousin, really.
Shui touched her lips, then her hair again. “My dad's name was Patrick Vel. My aunt...” She shook her silver head. “I only knew she was Aunt Constel.”
Cython filled them both in on the family tree. Constel; no surname. She was a dead end. He tapped his pen beside her name in the beginnings of impatience; he couldn't see where she was going with this. “I assume she was connected to your father's death.”
The look she gave him was almost sharp, like that of a woman restraining a reprimand for a boy not her son. “Somewhat,” she replied after a moment. “You know, there was more to the war than just the Proxies. There was much more than that.”
“I understand,” he placated. “Please, go on. Why did the war start with your aunt?”
“My aunt was the first solider I ever saw. And, not long after she came, that was the first time we were bombed. And my father died.”
Shui could not sleep that night. She never wanted to go to sleep when her father sent her, of course. Dad always put her to bed at 20:30, and he never let her see zero o'clock, no matter how she begged or pestered-and no matter how she tried, Shui could never stay awake to see anything past 22:00 before falling, without realizing, to sleep.
That night she saw the numbers on her clock blink from 00:00 to 00:01, glowing huge and green in the dark of her room. Shui imagined she had been staring at them for hours now, possibly since dad had said good night and shut her door. The black velvet fastened tight over her window had kept her room pitch black for nearly two years now. Dad said that it kept Earthan soldiers from seeing their house, but her friends at school said that the soldiers could see you in the dark anyway, from their planes and from their satellites.
There was a solider in her house right now, downstairs in the living room. That was why Shui could not sleep. It was why seeing zero o'clock that night felt like something strange and dreadful. She didn't even think to sneak out of bed to take a picture of it as she had always planned. She could only think of the solider and her baby in the next room, and wonder what was wrong.
Something had been wrong from the moment she came to their door. Dad had told her that morning that Aunt Constel was coming to visit, that she might stay with them a while. Shui had never heard of Aunt Constel. “Does she have any kids?” she had asked, hoping to play.
“Yes, she's bringing a baby.” Dad had smiled apologetically from across the kitchen table. They had been eating sweetbread for breakfast. “But I don't think they're going to want to play, little bit. Your aunt's very tired. She needs to rest.”
“Why?”
Dad had looked strange, like he was unhappy. “Well, she's been fighting the Earthans, bit. And fighting the Earthans for a long time makes you very, very tired. So Aunt Constel and her baby just need to rest while they're here, okay?”