Freedom from Fear (Norman Rockwell)
December 794 U.C., Heinessen
The boy arrived at Yang’s door in the morning. He was so early that Yang had not gotten a chance to dress, and was still shuffling around his house in his pajamas, with his toothbrush dangling forgotten out of the corner of his mouth. He was boiling water for tea when the doorbell rang, and his first thought was that it was the mail, so he opened the door blearily and was surprised to find someone else there.
The boy stared up at him, and the car that had dropped him off sped away as soon as Yang opened the door, eager to be rid of responsibility for the child. There was a small, battered suitcase on the ground behind him, which must contain all of the boy’s worldly possessions. The boy wore a smart little suit— though little was the operative word, since it was too small for him: his bony wrists peeked out from the ends of the sleeves, and it was too tight across the shoulders. The suit’s fit wasn’t helped by the way he kept his arms folded across his chest— not in a defensive posture, but to cradle something ill-hidden inside his shirt. In the moment that he and Yang stared at each other, a mewling sound emerged from his jacket, and a kitten struggled its way free, poking a tiny black-and-white head out from the collar of the boy’s jacket.
Yang blinked, then silently held the door open so that the boy could step past him into the house. There wasn’t much to say, was there?
“You’re Commodore Yang?” the boy asked before he stepped inside. He had a voice that could only be described as hopeful. “I’m Julian Minci. Rear Admiral Cazerne recommended that I be placed with you.”
“I am,” Yang said, mumbling around his toothbrush. As he turned back towards the inside of his house, he winced at the state of it. Thinking of what the boy— Julian— must see in the piles of dishes on the coffee table, and the garbage that had ended up scattered throughout. He wasn’t making a very good first impression as a guardian, but it was too late to change that now.
Julian stepped past Yang into the living room, but then he stood there, watching Yang. This made Yang uncomfortable.
“Make yourself at home,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Julian said, but didn’t move.
Yang had to escape Julian’s gaze, and shuffled off to the bathroom. When he had finally finished brushing his teeth and gotten dressed, he found Julian had at least not stood stock still in the center of the living room, but had wandered over to the bookshelf and was leaning forward to look at the trinkets and volumes there. His hands were still over his chest, keeping the kitten tucked away, though Yang suspected that if he wasn’t holding the kitten tightly, he would have his hands held firmly behind his back— the posture of a museum guest afraid to trip the alarms near the displays.
“Do you like to read?” Yang asked.
Julian hadn’t noticed him come in. He jumped, straightening, and as he did, the kitten finally wiggled free of his clutches and lept to the floor, immediately running off and vanishing deeper in Yang’s house. Julian was torn, hesitating between chasing after it and whatever disapproval Yang might offer.
“Does the cat like you?” Yang asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” Julian said. “He’s too young.”
Yang looked at where the cat had gone— down the hallway, into the open door of his bedroom, though when Yang walked over to look for him, he didn’t see him. Possibly the cat had burrowed under the clothes that were piled on the floor. At least he wasn’t underfoot, and he didn’t have to worry about stepping on the little animal.
“I suppose he’ll come out when he’s ready, won’t he?” he called, and then returned to Julian, who was now hovering nervously in the entrance to the hallway. He quickly stepped out of the way when Yang walked by.
“Yes, sir. Probably, sir.”
“What’s his name?” Yang asked.
“He doesn’t have one, sir,” Julian replied.
“Why not?” When Yang asked this, Julian flushed and looked away. “How long have you had him?”
“Two weeks, sir.”
“That’s plenty of time to give him a name, isn’t it?”
“Joachim said if I named him, I would be sadder when I was told I couldn’t keep him.”
Yang felt distinctly uncomfortable, and, out of vague instinct, began wandering around the living room picking up dirty dishes. “Did you think I would say you couldn’t keep him?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Better safe than sorry, Yang supposed, though he suspected that Julian would be heartbroken to lose the kitten without a name. Even if he had no love for cats, and felt vaguely suspicious of the animal kingdom in general, Yang wasn’t going to start off Julian’s tenure with him by taking away his little companion. It would have been needlessly cruel, and Yang could at least say he wasn’t that.
“Well,” Yang said, “I don’t mind, as long as you take care of him. I don’t know anything about cats.”
“Yes, sir!”
“But give him a name, okay? I can’t call him ‘the cat.’”
“I’ll think of one, sir!”
As Yang picked up dishes to put in the sink, Julian’s eyes followed him. To fill space, Yang said, “Your bedroom is through there. Mrs. Cazerne got it all set up for you. Er— if there is anything you need, let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
He dumped his stack of dishes in the sink with a clatter and got started on the trash, though his hands quickly became full, and when he went to put it in the garbage bin, he realized that was full, too, and so Yang ended up frozen in stasis, not sure what to do with his handful of things.
“Do you want me to help, sir?” Julian asked.
“Er—” Yang said. He did not want Julian to feel responsible for all of this— he was reminded of the letter— but Julian’s voice was so hopeful, Yang also didn’t want to refuse him. “Sure,” he said.
Julian was more efficient than Yang had anticipated, springing into action. Within moments of Yang’s permission, he had located the fresh garbage bags underneath the kitchen sink, emptied the trash can, relieved Yang of his burden, and when he asked where the outdoor trash was, a flustered Yang only had to point in the vague direction outside of the house before Julian was off, lifting the over-full trashbag with all the strength his twelve year old arms possessed. Yang took the opportunity while he was outside to take a breath and try to get his thoughts in order, but Julian was back before Yang could process much at all.
It was Yang’s turn to stand in the center of the room and watch the other, and he felt very bad that Julian had taken the responsibility for making Yang’s house livable upon himself. After he finished with the trash, he began neatening every object in the living room, and wiped down the coffee table with a damp paper towel.
“You don’t have to do that, Julian,” Yang said.
“I like to help, sir.”
Yang sighed and watched him, until he grew too uncomfortable doing so, and went back off to his bedroom to find the kitten. It wasn’t hard to find the kitten at all, luckily. He had jumped or clawed his way up Yang’s bed, and was curled up on his pillow. When Yang sat down next to him the kitten stared at him.
“What am I going to do with you?” Yang muttered at the cat.
Primly, the cat got up, arched his back, leaped off the bed (landing on the floor with a barely-audible thump), and scurried off down the hallway. Yang flopped back on his bed and sighed.
The next morning, when he stumbled his sleepy way through the house, Yang found that Julian had already cooked breakfast. Indeed, he may have cooked quite some time ago: he was sitting at the kitchen table and reading the newspaper. Two clean place settings were laid out on the table, a plate of pancakes was keeping warm in the oven, and all of the cooking dishes were already neatly washed and put away.
“Good morning, Commodore,” Julian said when Yang came in.
“Morning,” he mumbled in reply. Yang rested his hands on the edge of the sink and peered out the window, trying to squint into the sun, mostly to avoid looking directly at Julian. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. You didn’t have to do that. I usually just—” Yang trailed off into mumbles, and put the kettle on for tea. He watched the electric display on the kettle tick up, but it would be a long minute before it reached the boil.
“I thought it’s polite to eat together, sir,” Julian said.
“It’s more polite on my part to not keep you waiting.” He fished around in the cupboards for a teabag, found one, and again waited for the water.
“You like tea, sir?” Julian asked.
“Yes. It’s better than coffee.” Yang’s brain was still waking up, and his words felt sluggish and rote.
“My late father liked it, too. He taught me a lot about it.”
“I don’t know anything fancy,” Yang said. “Boiling water is the extent of my cooking skills.” In fact, the ingredients that Julian had used to make the pancakes were all leftovers from when Lapp and Jessica had been visiting. Yang had grocery shopped after Julian arrived, to get food for the still-nameless cat, but he hadn’t gotten much outside of that.
“Oh, well, I’m happy to make it for you!” Julian said.
“You really do not have to,” Yang replied, though when he glanced back at Julian, he seemed crestfallen, and dodged Yang’s gaze by looking down at the newspaper in front of him. Yang turned away from him, wincing at his apparent misstep.
It was quite obvious that Julian was eager to help as a way to ensure he was able to remain in the house. There was no way to tell him that this was completely unnecessary— if he said it in as many words, he doubted Julian would believe it.
The kettle clicked off, and Yang poured his mug. He got out the pancakes from the oven. “Thank you for cooking,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
“Not a problem at all, sir!” Julian said, relief ringing like a bell in his voice.
“Here,” Yang tried to push the pancakes towards him, and Julian seemed about to protest that Yang should go first, but then smiled tightly and took the top one off the stack.
They ate in silence for a bit. When Julian finally got bored of looking at Yang, and Yang got bored of staring down into his tea and pancakes, Julian again reached for the newspaper that was lying beside his plate. The paper was delivered to every house in the neighborhood— this was officer housing, and Yang suspected that the free delivery was a publicity ploy on the part of the publisher— but Yang rarely looked at it.
Yang took the opportunity to study Julian while he was reading. He looked exactly like his photograph, the one that Cazerne had shown him, which surprised Yang. ID photographs had always felt like particularly poor representations of their subjects, artificial and stiff. But perhaps the impression left by Julian’s photograph and letter matched what Yang saw in front of him, not because they were an accurate impression of him, but because he was trying to make himself an accurate reflection of the documentation. Who was Julian? Yang didn’t know, and didn’t know how to find out.
Even if Julian was, to his core, a competent but anxious people-pleaser, which Yang doubted, he at least wanted to know what else there was to him. There had to be something. But Yang didn’t have the faintest clue how to find out what that was.
He almost told Julian that he looked like his photograph, but Julian was very absorbed in reading the paper, and Yang didn’t want to interrupt him.
He had the paper open to the military news. Since there wasn’t much new to report, the section was fairly slim, and contained continuing commentary on the Grand Canal affair. The headline image was of the husk of the ship, taken when, at the fleet’s behest, an effort had been made to recover the bodies of the crew. Considering how most graves for fleet soldiers were simply stones laid on the earth, without holes or bodies to put in them, this was a morbid and completely unnecessary spectacle. How long would the dead be dragged around?
“You’re quoted in here, sir,” Julian said, quite surprised.
“Am I?” Yang asked. “And what do I say?”
“‘Commodore Yang Wen-li, the Hero of El-Facil, wrote a letter to the Heinessenpolis Register expressing his support for the project, saying, ‘Closure is important. The crew of the Grand Canal sacrificed their lives so that others might continue living. [This project] helps the families of the dead to continue their lives.’’” Julian helpfully indicated the indirect quote by making brackets in the air with his hands when he spoke.
Yang made an annoyed face, and when Julian looked at him questioningly, Yang said, “They made me write an apology letter that they could use to do damage control,” and stuffed his pancake in his mouth. “I don’t like to give quotes.”
“Why not, sir?”
“Why does my opinion matter at all?” Yang asked. “I wasn’t there. I didn’t have the power to change it then, and no matter what I say, it isn’t going to bring back the dead.” He frowned and ate more pancakes.
Julian nodded silently and looked back down at the paper. The expression on his face was a familiar one to Yang— it seemed that Julian was studying the picture at the top of the page, like Yang often did with battlefield reports. Watching Julian as he contemplated life and death twisted a knot in Yang’s stomach— the idea of a child being burdened with the same things he felt about the war was too much. He was tempted to stop Julian— tell him to put the paper away— or at least ask him what he was thinking when he looked at the photograph, but they were both interrupted by the kitten entering the room.
He came around the corner into the kitchen at a sprightly pace, and fearlessly leaped up from floor to chair to table— more agile than Yang had ever thought such a young animal could be.
“Oh!” Julian said, and scrambled to catch the creature before he could put his face in the pancakes. The cat seemed content to let himself be caught, though he put up token swipes at the food before settling in Julian’s arms. When Julian smiled down at the cat, Yang took the opportunity to clear the table, dumping the dirty dishes in the sink and folding the newspaper and putting it on the counter.
“You don’t have to do that, sir,” Julian said. “I can get it.”
“Ah— it’s fine,” Yang said. “You can feed the cat.”
“He’s already been fed, sir,” Julian said. “I did it when I woke up.”
“Oh.” Yang scratched the back of his head, then finally turned back to look at Julian, who was giving the kitten a piece of pancake from the remaining stack anyway. “Have you thought of a name for him yet?”
“Yes, sir!” Julian said.
“And what is it? Or are you going to keep me in suspense?”
As they spoke, the kitten decided that the pancake that Julian had offered was actually repulsive, and he squirmed away and lept to the floor, though he didn’t go far, going to stand in the patch of sunlight by Yang’s feet.
“I’ll call him Admiral,” Julian said. “After you, sir.”
“Hey! I’m only a commodore— don’t say I should be working above my paygrade!” Yang made sure to inject a joking tone into his voice, and Julian’s serious expression gave way to a truly cheerful smile, though he did still glance up at Yang for approval. Yang didn’t like the cat’s name, nor its reasons, but he had no desire to crush Julian’s enthusiasm, even if it was pointed wholly in the wrong direction, so he smiled back.
“But you’ll get promoted soon, sir. And he would get confused if we keep changing his name.”
Yang sighed. “But now I have to take orders from a kitten.” He gave a mock salute to the cat. “And would the admiral like a second breakfast?”
Admiral mewed, then sauntered away. Julian hid a laugh in his elbow.
For a while, Yang and Julian got used to each other’s presence without much happening. It wasn’t difficult to fall into a new way of living. They became two celestial bodies orbiting a shared barycenter: a planet and its moon. It felt less like they had grown to know each other, but more like they had fallen into the only arrangement that made sense at all, a path of least resistance, each of them following their own natural inclinations. The one thing they had in common was being overly cautious around the other: Julian didn’t want to make any move that might upset Yang— out of an instinct that was combined self-preservation and a quiet awe for his guardian— and Yang, who had no parental instincts whatsoever, walked on eggshells to avoid doing any damage to his ward.
They spoke at mealtimes, but it was cordial, light talk— nothing serious. On the third night that they had eaten together, Julian made the mistake of bringing up El Facil.
“Can I ask you a question, sir?” Julian asked.
“Sure, go for it. I can’t promise I have the answer, though.”
“What was El Facil like, sir?”
Yang sighed. “Why do you want to know?”
Julian was immediately aware that he had misstepped, and he put down his fork and wiped his hands on his napkin in a little fastidious expression of discomfort. “It seemed like it would be important to you, sir,” he said.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t remember very much of it.”
“But you’re the hero, sir,” Julian said. It pleased Yang that Julian’s curiosity overcame his shyness, and so Yang felt like he had to reward that, even if he had never liked discussing El Facil. He was quiet for a moment, and Julian looked away.
“It was chaotic,” Yang said. “That’s what I remember. Thousands of people whose names I didn’t know, and watching them all try to pack themselves into that airport. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat much— I don’t know. It all blended together.”
“But you did— you were the hero.”
Yang laughed a little at that. “I was lucky. If things had gone differently— if someone in the Imperial fleet had been a little more observant and had caught us— they wouldn’t call me a hero in the textbooks. They’d say that I was selfish and tried to put my commanding officers and the rest of my fleet in danger, by using them as a bait for the Imperial fleet to focus on.” Yang shrugged. “I’m not much of a hero. It’s just the way people talk about me.”
From the furrow in Julian’s brow, it was clear that he didn’t quite see the difference. Maybe he would someday, but Yang was glad that he let the subject drop for now.
It reared its head days later, at a time that neither of them were expecting. It was a Saturday, warm and sunny, and Yang had taken Julian out to buy as many new clothes as he wanted. Julian was the most conservative shopper on the planet, and only chose a tiny number of outfits, but Yang wasn’t going to press (especially since he worried that Julian’s care was due to the annoyed grumblings Yang had made about the deceptive advertising of sale signs, and the actual costs of the garments). But he picked a couple outfits, and they emerged from the department store bearing shopping bags and with Julian arrayed in a smart new blue coat.
On the street outside the store, amid the crowded rush of Heinessenpolis shoppers, the two of them stopped at a street cart to get lunch. As Yang waited for their hot dogs to be prepared, Julian wandered a little way down the street to the next cart— a newsstand. He always was interested in the news more than he was interested in the floppy comics, but this time he exchanged his pocket money with the vendor and returned to Yang’s side clutching a colorful magazine. Yang glanced down at it enough to read the title.
“I said that you might enjoy something less serious than the Financial Times , but I didn’t expect you to jump to Pretty Woman ,” Yang said as he passed Julian his hotdog.
“You’re in it, sir,” Julian said, pointing to an inset on the front cover, which announced the presence of the Hero of El Facil in the issue.
“I’m in one a month,” Yang said. “It’s a regular thing, and I promise it’s not worth reading. Absolutely no literary value whatsoever. And a relationship to the truth that’s tenuous at the best of times.”
They walked over to a nearby park bench and sat down. Yang smiled into the cloudless sky as he ate, but Julian was distracted by the closed magazine resting on his knees. He finally opened it. When he did so, he was silent, so much so that Yang didn’t notice anything was wrong for a long time, staring off into the distance as he was.
Julian put his hotdog down into its cardboard basket, and finally Yang looked down at what was in the magazine, and he froze, as Julian had.
Instead of the usual candids and official photography of Yang, there were now instead pictures of Julian: childhood photos with his late father and grandmother, pictures from his group home, a distant snapshot of him walking in a park with Yang (taken only a week ago, Yang thought), and a fragmented copy of his letter— the one he had written for the Officer Placement program application. There was a long column of text about the program, and Yang adopting Julian, but Yang didn’t read it.
Immediately, he took the paper out of Julian’s hands. Julian didn’t protest. Yang looked at it for a long time. He didn’t know what to say.
“I’m so sorry, Julian,” was what eventually came out.
“It’s alright, sir. I don’t mind.” He sounded like he was telling the truth, or trying to tell the truth, which made it worse. Julian’s cheerful resignation cracked something inside Yang— perhaps the same impulse that had caused him to comment on the Grand Canal affair. He rarely got angry, and never for his own sake. But for Julian’s? It was a little too easy.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. “No,” Yang said. “You don’t deserve this— you’re not a zoo animal. You’re not earning a paycheck from it. It’s—” He didn’t look at Julian, and instead fumbled with his phone contacts list until he found the number for the Pretty Woman offices.
When Yang finally got through various automated menus to a real receptionist, he didn’t waste any time. “Hello, this is Commodore Yang Wenli. I’d like to speak with Patricia McCall, please.”
The receptionist must have heard the tightness in his voice, because she didn’t try to give him a runaround. Or perhaps Patrica had known that Yang would call her after seeing the latest issue of her magazine.
The phone clicked through the receptionist connecting them, and Patricia picked up after a minute.
“Mr. Yang,” she said, a sickly, pleased tone in her voice. “I’m very surprised to hear you calling me.”
“No, you’re not,” Yang said. “You know exactly what this is about.”
“Do I?”
“Never print another picture or article about Julian again,” Yang said.
“It’s a free press, Mr. Yang,” Patricia said.
“You’re taking advantage of a twelve year old war orphan.”
“It’s not taking advantage. Good press will pay hugely when he’s older. And this is a positive story. Did you read it?”
“There’s nothing positive about it! It’s bad enough when the fleet PR department wants to turn tragedies into inspiring stories when it’s adults. But you can’t do this to a child.”
“I was under the impression that for once in your life, you were making a positive and savvy PR move by taking him in.” Patricia’s voice was almost cold. “That was the way this story was pitched to me.”
“You’ve been stalking me for half a decade. I thought you at least had a higher opinion of me than that.”
“On the contrary, I’d have a higher opinion of you if it was the case. We’re two different people, Mr. Yang.”
“We are.”
“And what will you do when I’m asked to write another column on this subject?”
“If you print a single photograph of him before he’s an adult—”
“What, Mr. Yang?”
“I can cause a scandal,” he said. “You’ll never be able to write an article on me again.”
“You’d do that?” She laughed, but it was unclear if she thought he was bluffing or not.
“I don’t care about my image,” Yang said. “I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
“I’m trying to help you,” Patricia said. “You could be grateful.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“You know, right now I’m writing up a line for the next issue to spin this. ‘Because of Commodore Yang’s enduring care for his ward, he respectfully asks that no pictures be taken—’”
Yang hung up the phone and stuffed it into his pocket. With one hand, he chucked the copy of Pretty Woman into the nearby garbage bin, then leaned back. His half-eaten hotdog slid off his lap and fell to the ground. He looked at it dolefully, then stared up at the sky. He and Julian were silent for a long time.
“I didn’t mean to cause you trouble, sir,” Julian said.
“You’re not any trouble. I’m trouble to you.”
“No, you’re not, sir.” He hesitated. “Can I ask why you chose—” Julian began, then fell silent.
“I don’t know what my reason was,” Yang said. “It just wasn’t that one. Forget about it, Julian.”
“Okay, sir,” Julian said. He glanced over at Yang, and when their eyes met, Yang couldn’t possibly tell what Julian was thinking.
