Millennium Babies

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 ru

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 ru

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 Mille

“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.”

“You're moving fast,” she said.

He nodded. “That's what's nice about having a good team.”

And a lot of subjects, she thought. Not to mention building on earlier research.

“We've also found that there is direct correlation between a child's wi

Her mouth was dry. “Meaning?”

“No matter how successful they are, the majority of Mille

“Including me,” she said.

He nodded. The movement was slight, and it was gentle.

“Why?” she asked.

“That's the thing we can only speculate at. At least at this moment.” He wasn't telling her everything. But then, the study wasn't done. He tilted his head slightly. “Are you willing to go to phase two of the study?”

“If I say no, will you tell me what else you've discovered?” she asked.

“That's our agreement.” He paused and then added, “I would really like it if you continued.”

Brooke smiled. “That much is obvious.”

He smiled too, and then looked down. “This last part is nothing like the first. You won't have test after test. It's only going to last for a few days. Can you do that?”

Some of the tension left her shoulders. She could do a few days. But that was it. “All right,” she said.

“Good.” He smiled at her, and she braced herself. There was more. “I'll put you down for the next segment. It doesn't start until Memorial Day. I have to ask you to stay in town, and set aside that weekend.”

She had no plans. She usually stayed in town on Memorial Day weekend. Madison emptied out, the students going home, and the city became a small town—one she dearly loved.

She nodded.

He waited a moment, his gaze darting downward, and then meeting hers again. “There's one more thing.”

This was why he had called her here. This was why she needed to see him in person.

“I was wondering if your mother ever told you who your father is. It would help our study if we knew something about both parents.”

Brooke threaded her hands together, willing herself to remain calm. This had been a sensitive issue her entire life. “No,” she said. “My mother has no idea who my father is. She went to a sperm bank.”

Franke frowned. “I just figured, since your mother seemed so meticulous about everything else, she would have researched your father as well.”