Willem is on one side of the table, staring at the miniatures and not looking too happy. Opposing him are Edda and an intense black woman—Anika. The name comes to Ximena through the psych-link as if a memory of her own. She is Edda’s mother. And her biological mother too, from the looks of her—older by a few years than her brother Willem. Edda’s biological father was an unknown dowry merchant, she remembered reading somewhere.
Ximena’s own family is Goahn, of course. In the GIA everybody’s is. No exceptions. It’s Goah’s Gift, after all. Even in Hansasia and Botswana most families are also still Goahn. Supposedly. But she has heard that there is an increasing tolerance—and even acceptance—of the barbaric practice of the Sexual Families of old, surely a result of the pagan cultural influence of Nubaria, spreading like cancer across the old world. Ximena gives Mark an involuntary side glance. This Neanderthal, sitting right there next to her, has been pulled out of the vagina of a woman. A woman that had carried him inside her guts for nine excruciating months. Worse, his father had impregnated his mother! Oh, the thought is… She cringes, and can’t repress a shudder of disgust running up her spine. Goahns have sex, of course. Plenty. But just for fun. Or to bond with lovers, for those lucky to have time for that. And always—always—outside the family, Goah’s Mercy!
She doesn’t get it. There is no upside to the Sexual Family. They are brittle. Short lived. And, inevitably, a bitter source of loneliness and alienation—especially to the eldest. Compare that with the naturality and certainty of Willem and Anika’s fraternal relationship. Watching them playing together over the war miniatures, Ximena projects her own relationship to her brother Juan: unbreakable, unshakable, forever in the same household, from birth to death. So is the bond that lies at the core of every Goahn Family. Siblings to each other, they are parents to the next generation, and grandparents to the next after that. And so it goes on, indestructible, the immortal Goahn Family.
Ximena turns her attention to Edda and takes in her exultance—the family evening, the belonging, the intense love for her parents, the imminent victory in the game. Yes! But… There is also a pinch of sadness, hiding in plain sight. Something powerful and ominous. Yes, Ximena realizes, observing Anika closely. Burrowed shallow, right below the fragile surface of happiness, there is darkness and rage. Injustice—and death.
“Our gambit has worked!” Anika says, eyes wide with delight and disbelief. You are a genius, baby. “And you, my dear brother, for the first time ever,” she puts a finger on Willem’s chest, “are toast!”
Edda giggles and claps. “We got him, Mom!” She excitedly points at one of the miniature sets. “Maneuver this battalion up this ridge into Napoleon’s ass!”
“Napoleon’s rear, baby.” Anika laughs. “Yes, sure, let’s do that. We are taking Napoleon himself down. Ha! Down goes the tyrant!”
“A tyrant.” Edda pronounces the word carefully, as if for the first time. “Is he a baddy, Mom?” She meets her mother’s gaze with large, open eyes.
“You tell me, girl: a defender of the civil rights for the people, but to spread those revolutionary ideas, he first conquered and oppressed those same people.”
“Hmm,” Edda twists the tip of one of her long braids. “Napoleon was a, er, hypocrite. Did I say it right?”
“You did, baby Edda! You absorb knowledge like Dad’s troops absorb casualties.”
“Beginner’s luck.” Willem scratches the back of his head. “Or you are indeed a genius, girl.” He winks at Edda. “Your mother has never beaten me before. And I’m playing the French, who historically won Austerlitz. But your Russians,” he points over at one side of the table, “and Austrians,” he points over at the other side, “are everywhere! Well done! But…”
“What?” Anika asks. “There’s no way you can turn the tables.” She actually looks worried and scans the battlefield. “What are you hiding this time, you sneaky bastard?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Willem laughs. “Except that your general Kutuzov down here, by the lake,” he points with the finger, “is in real trouble now.”
“Let’s save Kutuzov, Mom,” Edda says. “Our victory will be complete!” She touches the miniature rider—wearing a Russian general uniform and leading a cavalry battalion—with sudden affection. Ximena feels it too, like the figure were… Abuelo? “But look, Mom. He is surrounded by an army of retreating French troops.”
“You can kiss your dear Kutuzov goodbye, dear sister,” Willem says with exaggerated glee. “I may have lost the battle, but I’m sure as Dem taking Kutuzov down with me!”
And then something snaps.
What was that? Ximena thinks, as she and all the students next to her sit bolt upright in sudden attention. Ximena exchanges a silent glance with Mark, and then squints intensely at the floating scene. She has felt something strange, a sort of vibration. Something out of place.
“Look at her face!” Mark whispers in her ear.
And then she sees it. Anika’s maternal sweetness is gone, her face distended like she were dead, and her eyes—Ximena gasps—the iris and pupils are absent! Anika stares now with blank, almost radiant, white eyes.
But such is the nature of dreams that changes happen unnoticed to the dreamer. Edda seems too absorbed by the tough situation of Kutuzov’s battalion on the battlefield. French enemy troops on their west, on their north, and on the east; and a lake on their south.
“We can still escape, Mom,” Edda says, and puts a finger on the table, “Satchen Lake is frozen!”
The scene begins to slide slowly, approaching Edda from behind, while she is bent over the drama unfolding on the table. The scene camera passes over her head and begins to glide down onto the battlefield from far above. Now it looks almost like
