Chapter Twelve

Have an idea for 2 more chapters, but after that I can't guarantee a regular update. I know where the story is going, it's the getting there that's tough.

Morozko hated being kept waiting.

For two years he had been waited on, hand and foot, and his affinity for patience faded a while ago.

He could hardly sit still. The incessant tapping of his feet sounded like a drum in the cavernous waiting lounge. So much so, his father's secretary blatantly sent him a few glares. He chose to ignore the man.

What was taking so long?

He got up and strode to the secretary, intent on taking the shit out of him.

What could keep a dead man walking away from his company's future?

"What is keeping my father?"

The man glared up at Morozko, before cracking out into a very large, very fake smile.

"Sir will call you in soon." He smiled even wider, threatening to split his lips, "I could fetch you some snacks, if you'd like, Young Master."

That fucking bastard.

Morozko knew he would not be respected when he got back home. Being put away in a foreign jail by one's own father, tends to do that to a reputation. He just didn't even imagine he would be laughed at by a mere secretary.

Before he could shoot daggers at the man, a woman's sharp voice reverberated down the hall. "That won't be necessary Kirill. He's already eaten."

Morozko recognized the voice. He just couldn't recall from where.

When the woman finally stepped around the corner, into view, he cursed his stupidity. "Mother."

"Welcome home Morozko." The young woman in a tight pantsuit looked him up and down. "Hmm, you've changed."

"Well you look exactly the same." He regarded the woman he called mother with the same clinical air.

"Funny, boy, funny." She stared him intrepidly in the eye, "You know as well as I do, synthetics don't age."

"I wish you would, I'm starting to look like you." They were so alike in looks and gait, if it wasn't for the woman's waist length white hair and her bright red lipstick, she could be his twin.

An exact replica of his deceased birth mother. Fashioned from a brain scan, taken while she was slowly dying in a coma, and all the collective memories of his father, and her closest friends.

Beautiful Vasilisa 2.0 was created, half a synthetic, half a clone. She was the Tolstoy corporation's greatest achievement, and Koschei Tolstoy's greatest pleasure. She could walk through a firestorm, lift ten times her weight, and still look completely flawless.

And the Weyland-Yutani Corporation still thought they had the groundbreaking artificial intelligence. Their military synthetics were created for wear and tear, with no real personality. They were simple walking talking computers.

Tolstoy synthetics were art. Pure and simple art. A true A.I. that could learn and develop on its own. The natural brain supplemented by the metal, wires and silicone of a synthetic. A biological computer.

One never really had to say goodbye to a loved one. So long as a customer had the money, they could get an exact replica of any creature with DNA. Deceased pets were extremely popular.

However Tolstoy pieces were priced at a hefty penny, but those who could afford them, bought them.

Unfortunately, they were also extremely illegal in the United States, most of Europe, and Canada. Cloning was a touchy subject in many areas, especially human cloning. Something his father ached to change, human rights and justice were highly advocated by his company in order to persuade some people that the Tolstoy Corporation was not in fact the devil incarnate. Something, Morozko suspected, had to do with his 2 year confinement.

Stuck in a foreign juvenile detention center because his father wanted to be on the good side of America, and because he wanted his conniving son as far away from his base of operations as possible.

As if he could keep him away forever. Morozko had a way of doing things; getting information, without anyone being the wiser.

His father didn't even notice the tiny chip in his mother's A.I. And fortunately neither did his mother.

"I've put together a few documents that will help you integrate back into the company." His mother said, handing him a tablet. "It lists our research, new developments, who holds our stocks, and the like." She looked at him seriously, "Make sure you read it carefully, it is all very important."

He rolled his eyes. Because of the tiny microchip he was already up to date, and more, but she didn't need to know that, so he played along. "Yes, mother."

She led him further, and further down the hall, halting every once in a while in front of reinforced doors peppered with extensive security checks.

His mother finally stopped in front of a white nondescript door, and opened it for him.

Stepping inside, it wasn't what Morozko expected.

Instead of bed holding his dying father, a plain office chair sat in the middle of the room on top of a sea of hideous carpeting. In front of the chair laid a hologram projector.

He turned back to her, "What is going on?" He pointed to the chair. "This is not funny."

His mother stared at him stoically, "The doctor does not want you in the same room as your father."

"What? Why?"

She answered simply, "You may be infected with a pathogen." She pointed to the projector, "He will speak with you from there."

"But-"

"He will be with you shortly, and I will come to fetch you in ten minutes."

"Ten minutes? That's it?"

She looked at him quizzically. "Yes. Why would you possibly need more?" And with that she closed the door and left him alone in the massive white walled room.

Morozko grumbled all the way to his seat. "He's my fucking father, for god's sake. You'd think I'd get to see him before he croaks." He crossed his arms. "Fucking better not keep me waiting again."

He didn't. A few seconds later the projector groaned to life, throwing out a long beam of light, ending with the shape of a shriveled old man on a hospital gurney.

"Father." Morozko greeted him.

Koschei Tolstoy regarded him with rheumy eyes. He slowly lifted his wrinkled holographic arm to a pad on the side of the gurney.

"Vasilisa." Croaked a robotic voice.

Morozko frowned "No father, it's me, your son."

Instantly the robotic voice answered. "I have no son. My wife is dead."

"Father, I was born months before she died." Morozko couldn't understand how this could be the great Koschei Tolstoy. From what he understood he was still making all the important decisions in the company. But how could this feeble man, with obvious degenerative Alzheimer's still be the CEO?

"Where is Vasilisa, my wife." The robotic voice churned.

Morozko suddenly wondered if he knew much less than he thought.

If you haven't noticed yet, I adore Russian folklore, so the whole Tolstoy family can be found there. Vailisa the beautiful, Koschei the deathless, and Jack Frost aka Morozko.