TWACK! The boy gasps as a stick hits the back of his hand.
“Do it again, and use your head this time,” snarls the man in a strict military uniform as he paces behind the boy. The man’s beady eyes peer over his nose, reading what the boy writes on his sheet of paper.
“That’s better, Marlowe,” he states when the boy is done.
Removing his feather from the paper, the 15 year old replies, “Thank you, Mr. Clayton.”
“Remember, diplomacy is what drives us to the top, Marlowe. Remind me, why is that again?”
“Because we can’t cast magicks.”
“Precisely. Negotiation and deception keep us in power, you ought to become familiar with both if you want to live up to your family’s prestigious name,” he added.
He walks around the desk and stops in front of Marlowe, “Class is over. You are to study and practice chapter 21 and 22. Don’t disappoint your father. Dismissed.”
Marlowe gets out of his chair, bows to Clayton, and leaves the room. The pain on his hand swells as his body relaxes, and he sighs. Could’ve hit somewhere else, he thinks to himself.
He passes numerous doors with plaques on them: “C. Hayward”, “B. Wryhurst”, “T. Dalcarden”. Personal studies for reputable scholars in which students receive one-on-one lectures, as befits the perfumed halls of Strathmere College.
Large doors creak open as the dining hall shows its impressive array tables and chairs under a beautifully painted dome. Several groups of boys sit dotted around, their conversations echoing through the chamber.
“Pheasant and asparagus, Mr Strathmere,” announces a butler as Marlowe passes him. Marlowe nods and the butler snaps his fingers to signal the kitchen.
Marlowe scans the room for a place far from others and decides on a spot. He opens his book to study while waiting for his lunch.
“Chapter 21: Positions of power,” he sighs to himself. “Of course, what else…”
He's seen this concept being abused more times than he can count, often by his own father. The negotiation isn't going well? ‘I'll have you hanged and/or dishonored!’ Do you want something immoral? ‘He's got no backbone, he'll do as you say.’
It's no wonder his teachers reprimand him more than the other boys, but it’s not as if he or his teachers have another choice. They’ve got their duties to fulfill, he’s got a mold to fit into. Not that he ever truly will.
As he eats his lunch, his mind can’t help but wander off and dream about different lives he could have had. An enjoyable life looking after livestock, perhaps the sweat dripping on his brow working a forge, or even experiencing the world for no reason other than curiosity. Anything other than constant conversations with narrow-minded loyalists.
Commotion stirs him from his daydreaming; rapid footsteps and excited voices head toward the plaza. Marlowe gets up with a sigh and follows the crowd. Must be another fight, he thinks.
The sun blinds his vision for a moment as he steps outside. Students and professors alike are flocked around a curious machine sitting in the middle of the plaza. Brass pipes connected to a set of cuffs join into a glass receiver, as well as various wires and gizmos acting as what looks to be transformers.
“Is everyone here?” a voice asked over the crowd. “Excellent. My colleague and I have been working hard to make the impossible possible, and it is my great honor to present to you our prototype.”
Marlowe soon recognizes the voice: Gregory Holcomb, lead scholar on scientific magicks. While his goals to offset the main disadvantage humans have are admirable, he’s proclaimed similar feats in the past and they’ve all ended as duds. Unless proven otherwise, it’s safe to assume this will end the same.
“Here we have a pallabrite,” Gregory continues, “it’s a new material we’ve fabricated for the exact purpose of retaining magickal formulae. I know what you’re thinking: ‘Magick is not a formula, it’s abstract!’ You’re right, only if we’re talking about traditional magicks.”
He places the small crystal into the glass container, “Now, the machine you see before you has been arranged with a specific formula, defined by these sockets which contain intricate converter scrolls.”
“These cuffs are where the magic happens,” he continues, raising an eyebrow and smirking while looking at the crowd. A few onlookers ironically laugh.
Gregory clears his throat and asks “Anyway, does someone want to volunteer? You'll barely feel it.”
Some moments pass and no response is heard.
“I'll do it,” Marlowe says and steps forward.
“Mr. Strathmere!” Gregory responds, slightly taken aback. “It would be an honor. If you could stand right here, please… Perfect.”
He flicks a couple switches and a low hum emanates from the machine.
“Now, when you're ready, put your hands through the cuffs. The final step is to imagine energy flowing through to your hands, like how you think you can shoot a fireball when you were a small child.”
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Gregory turns to the crowd stating, “The breakthrough we've made is that humans do, in fact, have aether. We simply lack the means to manipulate and expel it. This machine absorbs your aether and transforms the pallabrite’s properties to match the formula, using your aether as fuel, like any other race would.”
He nods to Marlowe and continues, “It sounds mad, and I admit it is a little mad. However…”
The machine's whirring intensifies and a high-pitched whistle joins the noise as Marlowe does as instructed. This may be one of the few times his imaginative sense of adventure is useful, as he imagines a great wave of water flowing from his fingertips. He feels an odd sensation in his arms and hands, as if something is slowly draining his strength.
Before the feeling got worse enough to stop the experiment, an electrifying crackle discharged in the pallabrite’s glass container, and soon after the machine ceased its workings.
Marlowe removes his hands from the cuffs, shaking them to get rid of the tingling feeling that remained.
The awestruck silence is broken, “Behold, the result!” as Gregory takes from the machine the now red pallabrite and proudly displays it to onlookers.
“It may not look like much, but watch,” he takes a throwing stance and without hesitation launches the crystal at an empty wall. The moment it hits the wall, a bright shatter is followed by an eruption of fire materializing at the point of impact. Then, only a scorch mark remains.
“And that is, so far, as close to magic as we will get. Please give applause to Mr. Strathmere for his generous assistance!” he concludes.
Excited applause fills the air, followed by several professor's disorderly analysises as they approach Gregory for interrogation.
Marlowe stands astonished. Did he truly have a hand in creating this pallabrite? Floored, he looks at the encircled inventor. He achieved his goal, the impossible now possible. A seed takes root in Marlowe's mind. Would it be possible for him to achieve his dream as well? Perhaps this invention could be the catalyst for a just and fair world, or the exact opposite.
The curse of abundant privilege may yet be a blessing after all, if he can steer it out of conformity. Yes, Gregory must be spoken to later.
For now, he returns to the dining hall to finish his now cold lunch and heads home.
Extravagant mansions and well manicured greenery compliment the vicinity of Strathmere College. The upper strata are nothing short of perfection. Built with only the highest quality materials and cleaned thoroughly every day by a small horde of commonality, Elysians live in absolute comfort. Exclusively obtained through birthright and usually arranged marriage, its inhabitants’ status often exceeds what they are worth. Leeches, the lot of them, Marlowe thinks to himself.
Great iron gates with a pair of glistening, steelclad guards make way for Marlowe as he approaches. The long driveway through the courtyard accentuates the grand scale of the Strathmere Estate. It is seldom walked on foot and without fail the guards inquire to prepare a horse, which Marlowe refuses each time. Easier to go ahead and walk than wait and let others do busywork. A little sweat does no harm.
Large doors with stained glass swing open as Marlowe ascends the flight of stairs leading to the mansion. Patrick stands in the portal. He’s been the family butler as long as Marlowe can remember. A good man, but strict, as is expected of him.
“Your mother awaits you in the conservatory, Mr. Strathmere,” he announces calmly.
“Thank you, Patrick,” Marlowe replies.
He composes himself for the upcoming conflict. He wouldn’t be called directly if it was for anything other than that. The bruise on his hand is far from faded as well, another item for mother to rant about.
The main hallway brims with portraits of various family members through time. Surely the concept is to feel pride seeing how far his lineage reaches, yet he can’t feel anything but utter indifference. Just because they are part of the family, doesn’t mean they are special. They’re human after all, like any other person in this city, and it’s easy to achieve greatness with infinite wealth.
He reaches the conservatorium. Countless varieties of plants and exotic specimens imported from all over the world fill the space. The humidity is high and the temperature warm; an artificial climate created by various machinae.
Kathleen sits perched perfectly on a lounging chair reading a book. Some sort of romance novel, probably, Marlowe thinks.
“Mother,” he says, “you wanted to see me?”
She closes her book and puts it aside, “I did, how are you, my child?” she asks.
“I’m fine, thank you. I hope you are doing well too, mother?”
“I am, this book is quite a thrill, as are your exploits today, I hear. Will you care to tell me what happened, Marlowe?”
The pleasantries are always fleeting. Sometimes Marlowe wonders why he even tries to have a normal conversation with his mother. Or father, for that matter.
“Well,” Marlowe started, “Mr. Holcomb created a machine that-”
“Put your life in danger. That man is not all there upstairs. You know this, young man!” She sneered.
“He is more brilliant than you can imagine, mother.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps you are less brilliant than you think. Or do you belong in the same category or brilliance as him? A man of our family does not partake in foolish experiments.”
“It was not foolish. What he created is beyond imagination,” Marlowe rebuked.
“So I heard. What I find beyond imaginable is your hand. Pray tell me what that is about?”
Marlowe hides his hand and states, “Mr. Clayton. He was not happy with my answer.”
“And the question?”
“What I would do if someone betrays me.”
Kathleen stares Marlowe in his eyes and raises her eyebrows.
“I would want to know why he did it,” he muttered.
“The bruise is well deserved then. Mr. Clayton has what you should have: ruthlessness,” she scolded. “You need to learn, and fast, or you won't survive here.”
I don't want to be here anyway, he thinks. I'll be gone before you know it.
She continues, “You will study until you can recite your homework. Patrick will ensure so. Leave me.”
“Yes, mother.”
He bows and restrains himself from closing the conservatory doors too quickly. This is enough annoyance for the day.
He will do as he's told, for now. One way or another he will do away with this rotten world, or it will do with him.
Once returned to his own chambers, he looks out the window. Acres of unused land under spotless skies stretch far and wide. A small village could be built here, yet it exists for no purpose other than looking nice.
A few men in the distance are tirelessly working to perfectly cut a bush into equally sized cubes. Marlowe always preferred the natural look of greenery. Just like his family, perfection is the chosen veneer over petty power struggles.
An uneventful evening awaits him as he opens his book and continues to study the game which only rich men and women play.