Renee - Waiting

A Belafort Story

Renee sat in the small, dingy, rented room in silence, holding a torn photograph in her hand, her legs dangling listlessly from her perch on the bed. Noise from the hustle and bustle of the city below blended with the murmur of several small receivers tuned to various live newsreels. The traffic and yells and skycabs blended with the voices of politicians, market analysts, and sports commentary until they blurred into meaningless static. Renee filtered it without thinking, passively searching for threads that might matter. A beautiful, well groomed and yet whimsical-looking woman looked back at her from the tattered picture in her hand, attired in a dress with accoutrement that implied very elevated social station.

She had everything she needed for the moment - shelter, money, and Dr. Teresa had pointed her toward a shell-owned "independent" biolab for her TNP cocktails. Survival was no longer an immediate concern. But long term direction was foggy. The only lead she had was the woman in the photograph, Vivienne. And apparently, this woman was of the company line - by blood, if not name. Not Dr. Teresa's daughter, but another woman's.

She was confused. Dr. Teresa didn't tell her about any personal connection to company ownership. People are entitled to privacy, of course, privacy made sense - constant personal exposition devalued everything that was exposed, every time it is exposed. Renee saw no malice in the omission itself, nor did she detect it from Dr. Teresa at any point. But in context, it was strange.

Dr. Teresa was always very forthright with Renee, even going as far to say that she didn't tell Renee everything she knew, or there was to know about her. Still, with the amount of time the two had spent together, the absence of any sort of personal exposition, even incidental, indicated clear intent. It didn't take much to find references to Dr. Teresa's fellowship at Max Planck Society in Liepzeig - and the associated federal charges. Curiously, those had been dropped promptly when the Company had expressed interest in her work. A wry smile passed her lips at the thought.

Renee's attention was periodically drawn away from her meditations on Dr. Teresa's motives by the tried and true "breaking" and "this just in" or the novel "producer just informed me". She sighed in frustration - how are people supposed to take you seriously if you use the same attention hook for reporting war crimes and fashion choices? The question would have to wait. Renee put it on the stack, and returned to her line of inquiry.

Omissions aside, Dr. Teresa could not hide her rage and grief from Renee - reading emotions was what she was good at, even if it was only academic. But that was no secret, it was part of her conditioning. All the novels that she had read suggested what it was like - an unbidden pressure behind the eyes or in the chest that short circuits decision making. It sounded horribly incoherent. Renee could only wish there was something she could do to help more directly. In any event, Dr. Teresa no doubt had a reason for withholding her personal information. Whatever it might be, if following this trail was the best she can do to help, then she would follow it.

Currently, however, it seemed to lead nowhere particularly attractive or diplomatic. After Vivienne's mother, Seraphine, was killed, her face in public interviews suggested subtly that something deeply rooted had become unmoored. Renee had seen something vaguely similar in the eyes of disaster survivors or returning soldiers. It was difficult to surmise anything beyond that, but the woman would no doubt be swarmed with security, and how does some strange girl come out of the aether and just make contact with someone in that position?

"...France's own face of classical piano..."

Renee went still, and focused in on the voice, all other sound filtered.

"...and daughter of the tragically slain opera alto, Serpahine, has confirmed her place as a contestant in the second BFI Combat Invitational."

Her vision refocused, and the vibrant green eyes of her reflection gazed back at her as she contemplated the sudden expansion of her options.

Serendipity.