"Rusch,_Kristine_Kathryn_-_Millennium_Babies" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

"I will be bringing in subjects from around the country," he was saying. "I had hoped to go around the world, but that makes this study too large even for me. As it is, I'll be working with over three hundred subjects from all over the United States. I didn't expect to find one in my own backyard."
A subject. She felt her breath catch in her throat. She had thought he was approaching her as an equal.
"I know from published reports that you dislike talking about your status as a Millennium Baby, but -- "
"Off," she said to House. Franke's image froze on the screen.
"I'm sorry," House said. "This message is designed to be played in its entirety."
"So go around it," she said, "and shut the damn thing off."
"The message program is too sophisticated for my systems," House said.
Brooke cursed. The son of a bitch knew she'd try to shut him down. "How long is it?"
"You have heard a third of the message."
Brooke sighed. "All right. Continue."
The image became mobile again. " -- I hope you hear me out. My work, as you may or may not know, is with human potential. I plan to build on my earlier research, but I lacked the right kind of study group. Many scientists of all stripes have studied generations, and assumed that because people were born in the same year, they had the same hopes, aspirations, and dreams. I do not believe that is so. The human creature is too diverse -- "
"Get to the point," Brooke said, sitting on a wooden kitchen chair.
" -- so in my quest for the right group, I stumbled on thirty-year-old articles about Millennium Babies, and I realized that the subset of your generation, born on January 1 of the year 2000, actually have similar beginnings."
"No, we don't," Brooke said.
"Thus you give me a chance to focus this study. I will use the raw data to continue my overall work, but this study will focus on what it is that makes human beings succeed or fail -- "
"Screw you," Brooke said and walked out of the kitchen. Behind her, Franke's voice stopped.
"Do you want me to transfer audio to the living room?" House asked.
"No," Brooke said. "Let him ramble on. I'm done listening."
The fire crackled in the fireplace, her wine had warmed to room temperature, bringing out a different bouquet, and her blankets looked comfortable. She sank into them. Franke's voice droned on in the kitchen, and she ordered House to play Bach to cover him.
But her favorite Brandenburg Concerto couldn't wipe Franke's voice from her mind. Studying Millennium Babies. Brooke closed her eyes. She wondered what her mother would think of that.
Three days later, Brooke was in her office, trying to assemble her lecture for her new survey class. This one was on the two world wars. The University of Wisconsin still believed that a teacher should stand in front of students, even for the large lecture courses, instead of delivering canned lectures that could be downloaded. Most professors saw surveys as too much wasted work, but she actually enjoyed the courses. She liked standing before a large room delivering a lecture.
But now she was getting past the introductory remarks and into the areas she wasn't that familiar with. She didn't believe in regurgitating the textbooks, so she was boning up on World War I. She had forgotten that its causes were so complex; its results so far reaching, especially in Europe. Sometimes she just found herself reading, lost in the past.
Her office was small and narrow, with barely enough room for her desk. Because she was new, she was assigned to Bascom Hall at the top of Bascom Hill, a building that had been around for most of the university's history. The Hall's historic walls didn't accommodate new technology, so the university made certain she had a fancy desk with a built-in screen. The problem with that was that when she did extensive research, as she was doing now, she had to look down. She often downloaded information to her palmtop or worked at home. Working in her office, in the thin light provided by the ancient fluorescents and the dirty meshed window, gave her a headache.
But she was nearly done. Tomorrow, she would take the students from the horrors of trench warfare to the first steps toward US involvement. The bulk of the lecture, though, would focus on isolationism -- a potent force in both world wars.
A knock on her door brought her to the twenty-first century. She rubbed the bridge of her nose impatiently. She wasn't holding office hours. She hated it when students failed to read the signs.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Professor Cross?"
"Yes?"
"May I have a moment of your time?"
The voice was male and didn't sound terribly young, but many of her students were older.
"A moment," she said, using her desktop to unlock the door. "I'm not having office hours."
The knob turned and a man came inside. He wasn't very tall, and he was thin -- a runner's build. It wasn't until he turned toward her, though, that she let out a groan.
"Professor Franke."
He held up a hand. "I'm sorry to disturb you -- "
"You should be," she said. "I purposely didn't answer your message."
"I figured. Please. Just give me a few moments."
She shook her head. "I'm not interested in being the subject of any study. I don't have time."
"Is it the time? Or is it the fact that the study has to do with Millennium Babies?" His look was sharp.
"Both."
"I can promise you that you'll be well compensated. And if you'll just listen to me for a moment, you might reconsider -- "
"Professor Franke," she said, "I'm not interested."
"But you're a key to the study."
"Why?" she asked. "Because of my mother's lawsuits?"
"Yes," he said.
She felt the air leave her body. She had to remind herself to breathe. The feeling was familiar. It had always been familiar. Whenever anyone talked about Millennium Babies, she had this feeling in her stomach.
Millennium Babies. No one had expected the craze, but it had become apparent by March of 1999. Prospective parents were timing the conception of their children as part of a race to see if their child could be the first born in 2000 -- the New Millennium, as the pundits of the day inaccurately called it. There was a more-or-less informal international contest, but in the United States, the competition was quite heavy. There were other races in every developed country, and in every city. And in most of those places, the winning parent got a lot of money, and a lot of products, and some, those with the cutest babies, or the pushiest parents, got endorsements as well.
"Oh, goodie," Brooke said, filling her voice with all the sarcasm she could muster. "My mother was upset that I didn't get exploited enough as a child so you're here to fill the gap."
His back straightened. "It's not like that."
"Really? How is it then?" She regretted the words the moment she spoke them. She was giving Franke the opening he wanted.
"We've chosen our candidates with care," he said. "We are not taking babies born randomly on January 1 of 2000. We're taking children whose birth was planned, whose parents made public statements about the birth, and whose parents hoped to get a piece of the pie."