Daughter 4254

Chapter 18

“Wake up!” The door to my quarters flew open. I was wrapped up in the soft linens of my small bed studying an electronic reading assignment for Western Civilizations.

“I’m not asleep, I just like my bed.” That week passed slowly. We had an off day at the week’s end that consisted of personal study time and chore assignments for those who chose not to visit home. While I missed my father, I felt no desire to take the long ride home to see him and possibly spend the entire two days in silence around the house. Nor did I want to see anyone that had known me my whole life and receive their scorn for being elevated to a higher station.

Classes were much the same during the week. I kept my head down and plotted and planned, gathering information where ever I could from whatever books I could.

“You’re the laziest genius I’ve ever met.”

“I finished your math assignment. It’s on the counter.” I pointed to my small gray desk. “It was actually quite challenging. I had to read the lesson to understand how to do it.”

“Ha! Listen to you!”

“What?”

“You were giving me lectures a week ago when I talked about my plans for your ‘talents’. And here you are jumping right on board as soon as you found out I had something you wanted,” she smiled wickedly.

“Things have changed.” I looked back to my assignment and asked casually, “Have you discovered anything yet?”

0203 flopped on my bed. I was tense, completely ready to hear the worst from her, although I wasn’t sure what that could be.

“Thanks for the math. I found out some interesting little facts you’re going to owe me big for.”

I looked at her then, curiosity getting the best of me, “Let’s hear it!”

“You were right, your mother never went to this school.”

“How do you know?”

“I checked with my source at the head office. He owes me a few favors and doesn’t mind looking up old records when I’m in a pinch. I gave him her numeral and just asked him if she had ever been a student here. Either she was and they erased her or she never came at all.”

“But then how did she know Professor789?”

“Here’s the other interesting story I got. Turns out your little idea was right. 789 Blowface hasn’t always been a professor. He used to work in some highly classified project for the government in the capitol. He was only there for a few years before he was transferred here to teach.”

“What years?”

“Oh at least twenty years ago.”

“That might make sense I guess. My mother was just a few years younger than him and I was born in our community. She could have been assigned there with him before going to 699.”

“It gets better. It seems that whatever his project was, it failed and so this little job as a professor is pretty much the same as being sent to sewage patrol in the far end of the country. My good buddy in security happened to let me know that your professor has the highest amount of flags on his security detail of anyone in the leadership of the school.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means that they watch him like a hawk. He must have really screwed up to still be a top security priority twenty years after the fact.”

“Hmm...” I was trying to put the pieces together when she spoke again.

“I’m sorry,” she looked and sounded sincere.

“About what?”

“Your mother. My buddy told me she was put to final use not long ago. That’s too young to die. I’m sorry. I assumed she was still living and just wouldn’t tell you anything.”

I looked away. I’d never experienced sympathy from anyone other than my mother. It was too much to take in. “It’s ok,” I muttered. “Take a look at this.” I picked up my reader and scanned to the page I had been studying, trying to change the subject. “This is called a painting.”

“I’ve studied Western Civ my dear. This is Guernica by Picasso.”

“Alright, but look at it! It’s magnificent.”

“Magnificent isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe it. Something more along the lines of disturbing.”

It was a sharp black, white and gray rendering of people and animals obviously struggling, in pain or dying. There were random shapes with sharp points and edges jutting everywhere to form their bodies and to frame their obvious grief. The animals were misshapen and startled, there was a person crawling on the right and on the far left it was clear that a woman was holding a deceased infant and had lost herself deep in mourning. A light generator at the top center seemed to be illuminating this terrible scene, forcing the viewer to look and take it in - opening our eyes to the tragedy. To me it was my heart carefully drawn out on a flat surface and lit by the fire of hope that I carried within me. I felt as if someone else shared my aching need and had validated it. But how could I tell this to someone who only saw it as proof that the past was evil and our future was better off without them or their paintings?

“0203, I know they are trying to teach us that this is a painting celebrating war and suffering, that the ancestors only used art to celebrate their vain accomplishments, but that is a lie. I know it is!” My voice was hushed now, almost frantic with passion, I desperately needed her to believe me. “They were not all horrible people. I believe that this painting was made to expose and try to remedy some of their mistakes - to somehow make them right.”  I looked at 0203’s face carefully, searching for any hint that I should stop or go on. She was still gazing at the stark image, quiet.