—I know, but how much do we have?
—Difficult to say. Most of it we owe to the Eighty-Seven. They made a fortune in the Dutch East India Company. You can do the accounting. You should know where the money is.
Aaaaand. She wins. She knows how much I hate accounting.
—It’s okay, Mother. You know about these things a lot more than I do.
—It was not a suggestion, Mia.
I really don’t like where this conversation is going.
—Mother, what is going on? You do the accounting, you buy people, you get the Russians to build V-2s. Why me? Why not you? Why do I have to do all this?
—Because it is time, Mia.
—Time for what?
—It is time for you to have a child, time for us to be the One Hundred.
23
Gloomy Sunday
Fuck no! I know the rules. Mother and me plus one is three. There can never be three, not for long anyway.
She’s my mother. I’m not ready for her to go. I’m not ready for anything without her. She’s my protector, my guide. She shows me the path and I follow. It took a hundred generations to get us here. I’ll mess that up in a week. I won’t ruin everything because Mother is having a midlife crisis. We are the Ninety-Nine and I live in her world. I like it there. I trust her a hell of a lot more than I trust myself. I’m not… right. I still hear the dead in my sleep.
“Don’t you want to know what happened in Bad Saarow?”
I’m a mess. I shouldn’t be in charge of anything. I’ve been trying to run things for about five seconds and already the Allies are accusing the Soviets of breaching the agreements on the liquidation of the German war machine. They’re right, we’re not dismantling anything. We’re building more rockets, German rockets the Americans already have, but at some point we’ll want to work on new designs. If they send inspectors, they’ll know what we’re working on. They might know already. Russians are supervising but they aren’t learning anything. We have a bunch of Germans trying to build a German rocket, in Germany. For the most part, they’re all free to move around. Anyone could talk, defect. This was a bad idea from the start.
Mother knows it but she won’t say. She wants me to figure it out for myself. I have, but it doesn’t mean I’m any closer to a solution. The scientists here aren’t up to the task, not even close. They were ahead of the game not that long ago, but Stalin has a way of ruining things. I wasn’t ready for any of this. I need Mother. That’s the one thing I know.
“It is time for you to have a child.” I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I’m nineteen years old and I’ve never had sex! Does she think I don’t want to? I want to. I want what every girl my age has. There’s so much I’ve never experienced. I can calculate thrust coefficients with my eyes closed but I don’t know what it’s like to sleep next to someone, to feel their chest move with every breath, or how much heat two bodies can generate. Shit, I even crave the physics of it. I want someone to make me feel… normal. I want it with every fiber in my being, but I won’t kill my mother for it. I won’t watch her die, even if it’s what she wants. I’ve seen enough death already. Fuck her. She can’t die.
I wonder if she knows. I wonder if she thinks I’ve been with someone before. She gave me a diaphragm when I turned sixteen. Thanks, Mother! I had to ask a friend what it was. That was… embarrassing. She should have known I’d never use it. As if I’d trust her life to a piece of rubber. If there were a pill, maybe. For the longest time, I thought: She must know, she knows everything. Now I’m not so sure. She knows everything about us, but I don’t know how much she knows about me. There is a me.
Does she know I’m seeing someone? I do my best to complain every time I leave for brainwash group, but I’m sure Mother senses I’m not as reluctant as I used to be. Billie—I love that name. She… She’s not me. That’s what drew me to her. She knows things I don’t. She wants things I don’t. I don’t know what I want. I’m not… attracted to her, I think, not the way she is to me. I don’t know. I’ve never felt those things, with anyone. Maybe that’s what it feels like. I keep asking myself if I want to be her or be with her. I don’t know if there’s a difference.
She kissed me— We kissed once. I like the way she kisses. It’ll never lead anywhere. Not here, not with me. Maybe that’s why I let myself enjoy it. It’s unsettling, in a good way. To be close to someone, to look at her and see something familiar and yet completely different, to look at a woman who’s not me… I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it, but I feel… unique when I’m with her. I feel good. I’m me. There is a me.
Maybe that’s what bothers me most. Maybe it’s not Mother I’m so afraid to lose.
I look at Mother and I see glimpses of myself, but some of it I don’t recognize. I haven’t lived enough yet. I’ve never seen myself her age, but she has. The flow of time is the river that separates us. It’s a one-way mirror neither of us can put down, and I don’t want to switch sides. Mother is us. She bears the weight of a hundred lifetimes. She’s her and me, and everyone that came before us. She feels their pain, cries their sorrow. Mine, too. She knows what I think and feel, what I fear. She knows me better than I know myself. We are the Ninety-Nine.
I’ve seen myself pregnant before. I’ve had dreams about it, bad fucking dreams. I’ve seen Mother rip through my stomach and crawl up to my face. I’ve seen myself do it. Bloody, small versions of us, limbs bent and broken, speeding up my body like a spider. Each time, I bleed to death while my child whispers: “Ma. Ma.” I’ll die if I have a child. I know it. Not like that—I won’t stop breathing. I’ll still get up every morning—but I’ll die. There won’t be a me anymore.
Mother said it. She’ll be born and I’ll lose myself, instantly. One look at her, that’s all it’ll take. I’ll see myself staring back and I’ll know I’m on the wrong side of the mirror. I’ll know that I was never me. I was her the whole time. I was always the Kibsu.
24
“Murder,” He Says
—You’re lucky. You might not always feel it. You might not feel it now. But you are. You have everything. A nice apartment—small, but cozy—in New York City. I like this place. I’ve been here two hours and I like it already. You’re a—what is it you do again? You told me when we met. Oh yes. You’re in family finance. I’ll be honest, I have no idea what that means. I imagine it’s a valuable service. You do whatever it is you do and people are better for it afterwards. I bet you’re good at it, too! You must get some sense of accomplishment, some pride for what you do. There are bad days, of course. I’m sure you feel worthless at times, but overall you strike me as a happy person. Are you? Don’t just stare at me. Nod or something.
Oh, you wish you were more. I understand. Everyone does. You wish you were… special. Well… Let me give you some advice, honey. Don’t. You’re not. You’ll never be special. You’re as ordinary as they come. You’re the luckiest woman in the world.
Me and my brothers—did I tell you I have three brothers?—we’re special. We’ve been told from birth how special we are. We’re not like you, that’s for sure. We’re… stronger. We’re—how do I put this in a way that’s not insulting?—we’re more… intelligent. I must sound so full of myself right now. Believe me, I’m not. I wish I were like you. I wish I were in family finance. But I’m not. I can’t. You see, my brothers and I, we have a mission, a function. We were born with purpose. We’re like medieval knights on a holy quest. Do you want to know what that quest is? What our GREAT mission is all about?