She didn't know, and she didn't ask. The final agreement she signed was personalized—it guaranteed her access to her file, a copy of the completed study, and promised that any study her information was used in would concern success and failure only, and would not be marketed as a Millennium Baby product. Her lawyer asked for a few changes, but very few, considering how opposed he was to this project. She was content with the concessions Professor Franke made for her, including the one which allowed her to leave after the first two months.
But the first two months were grueling, in their own way. She had to carve time out of an already full schedule for a complete physical, which included DNA sampling. This had been a major sticking point for her lawyer—that her DNA and her genetic history would not be made available to anyone else—and he had actually gotten Franke to sign forms that attested to that fact. The sampling, for all its trouble, was relatively painless. A few strands of hair, some skin scrapings, and two vials of blood, and she was done.
The psychological exams took the longest. Most of them required the presence of the psychiatric research member of the team, a dour woman who barely spoke to Brooke when she came in. The woman watched while Brooke used a computer to take tests: a Rorschach, a Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Interview, a Thematic Apperception Test, and a dozen others whose names she just as quickly forgot. One of them was a standard IQ test. Another a specialized test designed by Franke's team for his previous experiment. All of them felt like games to Brooke, and all of them took over an hour each to complete.
Her most frustrating time, though, was with the sociologist, a well-meaning man named Meyer. He wanted to correlate her experiences with the experiences of others, and put them in the context of the society at the time. He'd ask questions, though, and she'd correct them—feeling that his knowledge of modern history was poor. Finally she complained to Franke, who smiled, and told her that her perceptions and the researchers' didn't have to match. What was important to them wasn't what was true for the society, but what was true for her. She wanted to argue, but it wasn't her study, and she decided she was placing too much energy into all of it.
Through it all, she had weekly appointments with a psychologist who asked her questions she didn't want to think about. How has being a Millennium Baby influenced your outlook on life? What's your first memory? What do you think of your mother?
Brooke couldn't answer the first. The second question was easy. Her first memory was of television lights blinding her, creating prisms, and her chubby baby fingers reaching for them, only to be caught and held by her mother's cold hand.
Brooke declined to answer the third question, but the psychologist asked it at every single meeting. And after every single meeting, Brooke went home and cried.
She gave a mid-term exam in her World Wars class, the first time she had ever done so in a survey class. But she decided to see how effective she was being, since her concentration was more on her own past than the one she was supposed to be teaching.
Her graduate assistants complained about it, especially when they looked at the exam itself. Her assistants had tried to talk her into a simple true/false/multiple choice exam, and she had glared at them. “I don't want to give a test that can be graded by computer,” she said. “I want to see a handwritten exam, and I want to know what these kids have learned.” And because she wanted to know that—not because of her assistants' complaints (as she made very clear)—she took twenty of the exams to grade herself.
But before she started, she had a meeting in Franke's office. He had called her.
Franke's office was in a part of the campus she didn't get to very often. A winding road took her past Washburn Observatory on a bluff overlooking Lake Mendota, and into a grove of young trees. The parking area was large and filled with small electric and energy efficient cars. She walked up the brick sidewalk. Unlike the sidewalks around the rest of the city, this one didn't have the melting piles of dirty snow that were reminders of the long hard winter. Instead, tulips and irises poked out of the brown dirt lining the walk.
The building was an old Victorian style house, rather large for its day. The only visible signs of a remodel (besides the pristine condition of the paint and roof) were the security system outside, and the heatpump near the driveway.
Clearly this was a faculty-only building; no classes were held here. She turned the authentic glass door knob and stepped into a narrow foyer. A small electronic screen floated in the center of the room. The screen moved toward her.
“I'm here to see Dr. Franke,” she said.
“Second floor,” the digital voice responded. “He is expecting you.”
She sighed softly and mounted the stairs. With the exception of the electronics, everything in the hall reflected the period. Even the stairs weren't covered in carpet, but instead in an old-fashioned runner, tacked on the sides, with a long gold carpet holder pushed against the back of each step.
The stairs ended in a long narrow hallway, illuminated by electric lights done up to resemble gaslights. Only one door stood open. She knocked on it, then, without waiting for an invitation, went in.
The office wasn't like hers. This office was a suite, with a main area and a private room to the side. A leather couch was pushed against the window, and two matching leather chairs flanked it. Teak tables provided the accents, with round gold table lamps the only flourish.
Professor Franke stood in the door to the private area. He looked at her examining his office.
“Impressive,” she said.
He shrugged. “The university likes researchers, especially those who add to its prestige.”
She knew that. She had published her thesis, and it had received some acclaim in academic circles, which was why she was as far ahead as she was. But very few historians became famous for their research. She doubted she would ever achieve this sort of success.
“Would you like a seat?” Franke asked.
She sat on one of the leather chairs. It was soft, and molded around her. “I didn't think you'd need to interview every subject to see if they wanted to continue,” she said.
“Every subject isn't you.” He sat across from her. His hair was slightly mussed, as if he had been running his fingers through it, and he had a coffee stain above the breastpocket of his white shirt. “We had agreements.”
She nodded.
“I will tell you some of what we have learned,” he said. “It's preliminary, of course.”
“Of course.” She sounded calmer than she felt. Her heart was pounding.
“We've found three interesting things. The first is that all Millennium Babies in this study walked earlier than the norm, and spoke earlier as well. Since most were firstborns, this is unusual. Firstborns usually speak later than the norm because their every need is catered to. They don't need to speak right away, and when they do, they usually speak in full sentences.”
“Meaning?”
“I hesitate to say for certain, but it might be indicative of great drive. Stemming, I believe, from the fact that the parents were driven.” His eyes were sparkling. His enthusiasm for his work was catching. She found herself leaning forward like a student in her favorite class. “We're also finding genetic markers in the very areas we were looking for. And some interesting biochemical indications that may help us isolate the biological aspect of this.”