Katya eased the study door shut, fingers resting on the brass handle until its mechanism clicked into place. The briefcase—laden with garage meeting schematics—dropped onto her desk with a muted thud. Air escaped her lungs, shoulders sagging as she shrugged off Yegor's brittle mask for the first time that day.
Motion stilled her mid-breath.
An off note tainted the room's usual dry scent of paper and graphite; Carven Pour Homme—her father's French-imported cologne—hung beneath it like an unwelcome guest. The scent triggered a visceral memory: being summoned to his study at eleven years old, standing straight while he scrutinized her school performance as he would a military contract. Muscles tensed while her gaze hunted across the bookshelves, glimpsing languid shadows creeping with quiet intent.
Stanislav advanced, lamplight carving brutal facets from the contours of his face. Between blunt fingers, he held a circuit board—her creation—the modified timing chips gleaming beneath his regard.
“What exactly is this, Yegor?” The question sliced through the silence, voice steady but knife-sharp.
Her throat constricted. The calculator watch on her wrist seemed to tick aloud, counting down the seconds until she must respond. She tapped a binary rhythm against its plastic edge, a self-healing pattern maintaining her composure. Stanislav rotated the board, focusing on the delicate modifications she'd made just three days prior.
“It's nothing,” she eked out, forcing her voice into its lower register. “Just tinkering. A hobby.”
Stanislav flipped the board with surprising care, eyes narrowing as they followed the modified timing chips. Lamplight intensified the calculation frozen into his features.
“This isn't standard Soviet design. Explain.”
No chastisement about wasted effort, no scolding for childish diversions. The customary lecture never arrived.
Katya's rehearsed excuses withered. Usually, her father dissected technical work the way he reviewed munitions reports—probing for flaws, weighing value. Tonight, though, his gaze charted the copper veins with a flicker of strategic assessment.
“It's—” Her voice snagged. She cleared her throat, reassembling the baritone she maintained in his presence. “A timing circuit mod. For the Pentagon.”
The board spun slowly in his grasp, thumb skating across solder joints she'd painstakingly smoothed off. “Markedly clean work.”
Responses flashed through her mind. A trap? New interrogation tactic? Prepared to fend off wrath or contempt, she instead faced this… unsettling examination.
“A temperature-controlled iron,” she said, careful. “My design circumvents redundant memory checks. Saves clock cycles.”
Stanislav inclined his chin marginally, his expression unreadable. “Those parts aren't local manufacture.”
“Western equivalents.” Her fingers twitched, itching to snatch back the fragile proof of her rebellion. “Run at higher frequencies without instability.”
He set the board down between them, establishing a fragile bridge over their usual gulf. The United Russia pin on his lapel briefly caught the light as he leaned closer.
“You understand the practical applications, then.”
Not a query, but a statement layered with implication. Pulse hammering, she parsed silent calculations—what did he recognize in her project to warrant his sudden interest? These optimizations birthed a private resistance, not an invitation for scrutiny.
“It's mostly about speed,” she hedged. “Improving outdated hardware.”
He cut her off. “Incorrect. This is architectural thinking. Strategic.” One finger tapped beside the quartz oscillator. “Show me what else you've designed.”
Motionless, Katya teetered between dread and a discordant surge of pride. Not once had her father asked to see her work. Yet here he prowled, not as proud parent but as resource assessor.
“There isn't much else,” she lied, mind racing through the dozens of stashed plans, shards of her veiled self.
His expression remained impassive, but calculations kindled anew behind those eyes—variables shifting, assumptions reassessed.
“Software. An operating system,” she confessed, lips dry.
“Hm.” A single syllable suspended between implication and assessment, arithmetic unresolved.
From the shadows behind him, Stanislav produced a Manilla file. His fingers unfurled like a weapons inspection as he extracted a single sheet of graph paper. Graphite geometry shimmered in lamplight as he held it out to her. Like a contract awaiting signature, the paper hovered between them.
“This?” The single word cut through the room, its edges honed by years of political interrogation disguised as ordinary conversation.
Katya blinked, uncertain when the diagram had passed from her hiding place into his grasp. A chill ran along her collarbone. What else had he seen?
Fingers curled around the edge of her graph paper. Carefully crosshatched timing sequences mapping the Pentagon's video signal like cardiac rhythms. That secret lattice of clock cycles—her sanctuary—now exposed to his intense appraisal.
She recoiled from his cologne as it soured the air between them. His scent brought not just childhood memories but the specific taste of fear—metallic, like copper wiring stripped by teeth—that accompanied his midnight interrogations about school performance, political loyalty, masculine comportment.
She tapped the page where vertical lines intersected the horizontal scan.
“The ULA refreshes pixels row by row—like this. But the processor can't access video memory during active display. So you hijack the vertical blanking interval.” Her voice levelled, clinical. “Eighteen milliseconds between frames. Enough for 5,292 clock cycles.”
His thumb grazed the margin calculations—Katya's meticulous Cyrillic numerals accounting for every nanosecond.
“And this?” He jabbed at a red-bordered window labelled ISR.
“Direct memory access.” She swallowed—too late to unsay it. “Rewrite attributes mid-scan. It looks impossible because… it is.”
Her pulse counted silent beats as he absorbed it. The concept's beauty transcended function: bending hardware physics through sheer arithmetic audacity. Now her work lay dissected for tactical potential.
“With the right implementation, the refresh rate could double without hardware modification,” she concluded, suddenly aware she'd been speaking freely for nearly a minute.
She pulled her hands back, tucking them behind her back in the stance her father preferred. The invisible wall between them reasserted itself—a barrier more complex than mere technical specifications could bridge.
“This technique, it's from the demoscene?”
The question struck her like an unexpected branch instruction. How did her father, with his military hardware procurement and political manoeuvrings, know about the underground digital art community?
“Yes,” she admitted. “The Chaos Constructions team pioneered it in '96.”
“I reviewed their work during the Science Academy evaluation. Application potential identified and catalogued.”
She blinked, recalibrating her understanding of him. Apparently, he viewed the demos not as art or technical achievement, but as resources to be exploited and repurposed.
“The practical application,” he continued, “is in real-time signal processing. Your interrupt handler approach—it's similar to what Mikoyan uses for radar timing.”
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Her father laid a second document beside the first—not just more graph paper, but a complete system architecture diagram. Where the first showed timing sequences, this revealed her entire memory management system—a leap beyond the first revelation.
Vertical and horizontal lines bisected the page into perfect quadrants—each crammed with her handwriting in alternating blue and black inks. A complexity of vectors and priority queues mapped across the page like constellations.
“Explain.” The word didn't cut so much as puncture. A surgeon's scalpel between ribs.
Katya’s fingertips hovered a centimetre above the grid lines. Compared with her earlier attempts—a tangle of redundant branches and awkward synchronizations—this felt ruthlessly precise. Every register shift counted. Each memory call sharpened into necessity, no waste, no slack. She’d modelled it on the Burroughs B5000’s recursive purity. Ephemeral beauty like frost on a windowpane. The glib academics at Moscow State would never catch the reference hidden in her call stack. The scheme orbited her thoughts for months, refining itself during tram rides, sleepless nights, moments stolen beneath textbooks, until it finally coalesced here in pencil graphite and discipline.
“A scheduler.” She kept her voice level, professional. “Z80 variant with memory management. For real-time systems.”
His index finger pressed against the page's edge, a quarter-inch from her memory mapping diagram. Too close. “Your notes reference '1986 Mikoyan Defence Review.' Explain.”
Her sweat cooled between her shoulder blades. Those source documents lived in classified archive stacks—she'd transposed their concepts into civilian contexts, never expecting anyone to track the lineage.
“Priority-based thread switching.” She tapped three layered execution queues in descending order. “I modified their signal processing algorithms for general computing.”
His breath smelled of Armenian cognac when he exhaled through his nose. “This exceeds NATO reports on our air defence systems.”
Katya blinked. Wrong answer. The truth bound her tighter than any lie: that she dreamt in processor cycles, that queues and semaphores sang in her blood. That she built an entire operating system because the metal demanded it.
He turned the page sideways, studying register allocations at oblique angles, seeking weaponisable patterns. The party emblem on his lapel glinted as he leaned in.
“This level of cycle-exact code optimization is exactly what the defence systems need.”
There it came—the inevitable pivot toward military applications, procurement deals, strategic leverage. Yet beneath that expected angle, something unanticipated: authentic technical grasp.
“Efficient.”
His fingertip hovered over the diagram mid-sentence. Katya braced herself for critique or condescension. Neither arrived.
“Like your mother's work.”
Her head jerked up. Her father never mentioned Mother. Never. The subject preserved in a dusty portrait beneath glass, a presence entombed in silence.
“Mother's work?” Her effected masculine pitch cracked.
He kept his gaze on the sketch. Expression unfathomable. Neither approval, nor his usual cold calculation reserved for promising subordinates. Instead, an acknowledgement of utility flickered there.
“She tuned compiler routines on the Elbrus project. Adroit solutions where others entangled themselves in complexity. Eliminated seventeen million roubles from the budget.”
Tension climbed her throat. Not once in twenty-nine years had he spoken of her mother's mind. The woman in the photograph remained a cipher, occupying only conversational voids.
“I didn't know she was a programmer,” Katya murmured.
“Our finest asset.” An elusive expression flashed, too fleeting to dissect. “Your interrupt handler—shares her economy.”
Her fingertips trembled atop the graph paper. A connection unspooled between herself and the mother she barely remembered—woven in assembly mnemonics and algorithmic elegance. As if stumbling across hidden subroutine in well-worn software she'd studied for years.
Stanislav's posture stiffened as he stepped away. The fragile moment fractured, yet the afterimage burned within her thinking—an error surfacing inside a well-tested system.
Measured strides brought him to the window. He peered out at Moscow through a haze of drizzle rinsing neon across glass panes. His silhouette carved an angular shadow, shoulders squared with soldier's severity.
“Colonel Baranov will consider these timing refinements… valuable.” He slipped back into his official cadence. “General Kuznetsov's electronic warfare group likewise.”
Katya halted mid-sketch over the circuit map. These men inked signatures beneath billion-rouble contracts. Their realm inhabited sealed dossiers and whispered corridors.
Raindrops and city glow merged his reflection with fading light, a ghost overlaid on towers beyond. His mouth tilted as if pride tempted him. Yet in his eyes, calculation churned—tabulating assets, weighing leverage, projecting yield. The familiar negotiation mask.
“I'll schedule meetings next week.” He didn't glance over. “Wear the navy suit from Bogachev's tailor.”
“This design supports medical imaging.” Her lowered tone smoothed around the words. “Cycle-exact timing sharpens MRI clarity, sidestepping costly equipment upgrades.” One knee twitched beneath the table; she quashed it. “Even Moscow State's outdated labs could use the method to simulate advanced systems.”
Stanislav pivoted sharply. The flicker of interest vanished beneath a hardened stare.
“This intellect wasted on obsolete machines.” His dismissive gesture cut across the schematic. “Resources squandered.”
The sharpness in those words cleaved straight through the fragile kinship she'd glimpsed. The party emblem glowed on his lapel as he reassumed his role as Minister Volkov.
“The defence complex requires minds like yours,” he pressed on. “This tinkering is… peripheral.”
Katya concealed any flicker of agitation behind the composure honed over years of family dinners and political functions. The routine shift—project dissection into resource politics—played out yet again.
“These modifications hold signifi—”
“Exactly why they're interesting,” he cut in curtly. “If channelled properly. Not left as trivial toys.”
He flicked a speck from his immaculate sleeve, recalibrating their roles to default settings. Father and instrument. Politician and resource.
“Nearly thirty, Yegor. Enough delay. Time to apply this talent toward real objectives.”
He set the circuit board down sharply on the polished desk. A full stop. Process terminated. Transaction committed.
“Your technical aptitude is noted,” he said, reverting to his official cadence. “However, more urgent concerns take precedence.”
Stanislav pulled a slim leather portfolio from his jacket—double-headed eagle embossed across its glossy surface. It cracked open, revealing crisp documents stacked in perfect alignment.
“The Petrov arrangement proceeds ahead of schedule.”
Katya's fingers drummed silently against her thigh, betraying what her face could not. She forced herself to focus on the papers he pushed across the desk—thick cream stationery, watermarked with official seals, crowned with refined Cyrillic: “Предварительный Брачный Договор.”
Pre-nuptial Agreement.
“June fourth.” He flipped to a calendar marked with red circles and coded annotations. “After the President's re-election, before the G8 summit. Optimal timing for both families.”
Compressing bandages squeezed Katya's chest, slicing breath into shallow gasps. The timeline offered scarcely seven months—only two hundred ten days remaining to claw free of a life sentence.
“The Petrov girl meets every specification.” A photo emerged—slender woman's polite, resigned smile fixed on glossy paper. “Her father commands three procurement committees. Her university credentials are acceptable. Medical examination confirms fertility.”
Each clinical appraisal struck Katya like a physical blow.
“Introduction next week. Press announcement follows immediately after.”
Katya dug her thumb into her calculator watch, tapping buttons in rhythm with the Z80's fetch/execute cycle—a silent, desperate rhythm to anchor herself as her future constricted into predefined parameters.
“Bogachev sees you tomorrow.” From his ticket pocket, Stanislav drew the tailor's business card. “He'll ensure appropriate presentation for the announcement photos. His discretion is guaranteed regarding any… anomalies.”
An icy spike shot through her. The room seemed to contract—not quite an accusation, but a warning. What exactly did he suspect? How deeply had his agents pried into her being?
“Your input is unnecessary,” he concluded, interpreting her silence as acquiescence. “The arrangements are finalized.”
He snapped the portfolio shut, leaving the documents sprawled across the polished wood—each sheet another component in the political machinery enclosing her.
Straightening to full height, he rotated the enamel party insignia a quarter turn. He positioned himself between Katya and the exit—deliberate and daunting.
Tapping the contract with his index finger, his gold signet ring clicked sharply.
“Venue booked. Guest list cleared. Statement drafted.”
In her mind, Katya counted the T-states of this conversation. If she allocated op-codes to each demand, how many cycles remained for her to derive an escape route?
“Father—” She forced out, the pitch drilled low from habit.
“This isn't a negotiation, Yegor.”
Stanislav circled the desk's edge, crowding the narrow space with each step. Cologne sillage thickened, triggering nausea born in childhood interrogations.
“Your technical abilities,” his tone sharp with evaluation, “will be directed appropriately after the marriage. After your position in Petrov's R&D division is secured.”
Katya's thoughts spun through options: Refusal meant immediate consequences—passport frozen, funds severed. Stall, buy scant days more. To submit meant loss of self, but… continued access to resources, and perhaps she might preserve fragile routes to freedom by playing along.
His silence about the woman's name mirrored her own erasure. Just as he refused to perceive Katya beyond the engineered identity of “Yegor.” Replaceable modules. Variables his pursuit of control.
“I trust you comprehend the stakes.” Tone dipped into warning, threats concealed by formality. “The Volkov name carries obligations that supersede personal… idiosyncrasies.”
Stanislav eased a platinum fountain pen from an inner pocket, double-headed eagle etched into its clip. He set it onto the contract with stilted calm.
“Your signature. By morning.”
The pen shone under the desk lamp, its shadow stretching across the documents designed to nullify her future. Not suggestion. Not even diktat. Simply a statement of course, as inevitable as the increment of a program counter.
At the threshold of the doorway Stanislav's broad shoulders filled the frame, sealing off light—and options.
“The family requires this alliance. Russia requires it.”
The door clicked shut. Katya collapsed into her chair, tremors rippling through her shoulders.
She focused on the scattered marriage documents: sixteen dense pages of scheduling, site assessments, reproductive forecasts charted quarter by quarter.
A wry curl tugged her lips. Timing diagrams remained her native tongue—the count of cycles between interrupts, those narrow windows when memory permitted unimpeded access. Her code threaded through such constraints with sharp-edged logic.
Meanwhile, her life's own timing diagram collapsed inward. June fourth. Tailor fitting tomorrow. Press conference next week. Each deadline advanced with the same remorseless tempo as a television's electron beam sweeping left to right—unyielding, indifferent to whatever lay exposed beneath its glow.
