I still had my alarm set as if I had a job, so the blinds on my windows tilted a little at sunrise, gradually letting in sunlight and fresh air.
“Good morning, sir,” Jeeves said. “You have one priority message waiting.”
Probably Judy, yelling at me for blowing off the museum job. I said, “Play.”
It was Evan Coleridge. I was surprised, simultaneously pleased and frightened to see him. Lydia had quietly come around behind my desk so she could watch the screen as Evan’s image started to talk.
“Good morning, Mister Kovak. I was wondering if you had a chance to look over those course materials yet. But that’s not the only reason I called. I’m hosting an event at the tower tonight, and I’d like you to join us. My students are much more fun than I am; I think you would enjoy them. People start gathering at nine and the real fun starts around midnight. Wear something comfortable, and please don’t be late.”
I smiled and shook my head, impressed by the way Evan’s message had started with an invitation and somehow ended with a demand, blithely assuming I would say yes.
Lydia frowned and pursed her lips. “Timothy, watch out for that one. This man is clever and ambitious; don’t let him use you.”
“You got all that from one phone call?”
“I know the type. And if Coleridge is his real last name, he comes from a family with a very bad reputation.”
“You’re the last person who should judge a man by his last name. You want me to learn magic. Why shouldn’t I learn from him?”
Lydia scoffed. “You won’t learn magic from these bureaucrats. That school wasn’t built to teach mages; it’s a gilded cage. They’ll try to flatter you, seduce you, and buy you off with empty promises, but you’re meant for something greater.”
“Like my grandfather?”
Lydia ignored the insult. She skipped across the room and jumped to her perch, twisting in mid-air like her body had no weight at all. I wasn’t ready to listen, so she just stopped talking.
I spent the afternoon scrolling through Evan’s sales pitch. Serious-looking men and women in tailored suits, supposedly working mages in prestigious corporate jobs. One woman using some kind of divination magic to screen job applicants, a man doing some kind of weather magic on a fancy boat, another one using water breathing to explore an underwater cave, and the only one that looked like actual work, a mage in jeans and a hard hat working on a construction project with Arthur Walton, using transmutation magic to turn a small wooden model into a full-size steel bridge.
I started looking at course materials, but quickly got side-tracked by the housing stuff: photos of social functions and lavish apartments, standard issue for older students learning magic. Adult students had their own complex across the river; more of a hotel than a dorm, with laundry service, maids, and a full-time chef. They even had room service for god’s sake.
I looked around the grimy concrete box I lived in and suddenly felt the weight of how depressing my little world had become. It’s easy to let these things creep up on you, to slowly define “normal” down until you don’t recognize your life anymore. You gradually lower your expectations and turn your emotions off. It hurts to realize how far you’ve fallen, so you just stop thinking about it, hypnotizing yourself so your mind just skips over things that could hurt you, until something makes you come face to face with reality and all that repressed emotion comes flooding in at once.
Judy and I never had much, but together we had a decent little apartment with high ceilings and a modern layout, in a neighborhood where you didn’t need bulletproof glass on your windows.
I hadn’t noticed all the little things Judy did to make our house a home until I lost her, all the time she spent watering plants and setting up flowers, picking furniture that made us look like working adults, instead of just a couple kids making do with hand me downs.
My dad lost all our furniture when we lost our house, and I let Judy keep pretty much everything we owned when I moved out, so I was still using weird mismatched gifts I got from guys at work, or scavenged office furniture from the Zone.
I hadn’t cleaned properly in months, so everything I owned had some degree of dust on it. I was working around a dozen little things that should have been fixed, but I had missed the last few visits from the maintenance bot. The bot came by to do basic repairs once a month, but it had been a long time since I let him in.
So, when I saw the luxury these students lived in, the fantasy carried me away. The people in those pictures looked so happy, bright and young and professional, dressed in clothes I couldn’t afford, pampered with manicures and skin treatments and hair cut by real humans. I could be one of them. I could be one of the beautiful people, all I had to do was show up. It’s ironic to look back on it now. I wouldn’t sell my soul for sex or power, but the thought of daily maid service fucked me right up.
I never actually decided to go. I just took a shower at eight o’clock and started hunting for clothes. I grabbed my best pair of jeans and a clean white shirt. I didn’t have any good shoes, so I tried to clean my sneakers in the sink. I combed my hair carefully and added a drop of cologne. It was chilly, but I was too ashamed to wear my jacket.
Lydia caught me walking out. “Please be careful. Don’t give yourself away.”
The anger hit me, sharp and sudden. “Your boss has already taken my soul, Lydia. There’s nothing left to steal.” I stalked out and slammed the door behind me.
* * *
I was running late, so I sprinted down the turnpike at full speed, stopping to compose myself when I saw the tower. I counted twenty people on the lawn, laughing and talking and sipping what looked like champagne.
I approached them carefully, like I was about to disturb a pack of wolves. Evan saw me creeping and waved me in. I adopted a gentle grin, the expression I reserve for first dates, job interviews, and old people in the hospital. Evan made a quick circle through the party and introduced me to everyone. I made a special effort to smile and say hello to his girlfriend/familiar, just to piss her off.
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It was happening too fast. Too many names, too many faces. I had this terrible urge to shake hands, but I had to beat it down. I locked my hands behind my back and bowed like a Japanese businessman, imitating Danny Carter. I was bobbing my head so much; I got a little dizzy.
Somebody put a glass in my hand, filled with pink stuff that turned out to be flavored water. I didn’t really like it, but the glass gave my hands something to do. I took tiny sips and tried to look cool. The party looked like a picture from that recruitment brochure, an equal number of men and women, with four obvious couples. Youth and expensive clothes made the women look beautiful. I remember a magnificent redhead in a black gown, and a willowy brunette in a red dress.
I surveyed the women and scoped my competition. Most of the men looked like Evan, tall and skinny, like food was always an afterthought for them. I saw one fat guy in the corner, surrounded by cronies or disciples. The crowd swirled around a muscular giant named Marcus. He had dark hair, steely blue eyes, and the kind of rugged face you see on romance book covers - a Greek god, wrapped in cardigan. Three women circled him like moons.
The men were dressed in sweaters and sport coats. Marcus was also wearing jeans, but I was the only one in sneakers.
This crowd made me look like a delivery boy. I circled the lawn, trying to pick up conversation, but none of it made sense. They were talking about professors I’d never met, and classes I couldn’t pronounce.
At precisely nine o’clock, Evan opened the tower and led us to a courtyard. It was still outdoors, but the lights were brighter, and there were tables covered with tiny food. The hors d’oeuvres looked like the women - rich, mysterious, and tightly wrapped.
* * *
I asked Evan who the fat guy was and learned his name was Simon. I was drawn to him immediately because Simon was fat, and I had never seen a fat wizard before. All the mages on TV were going for the super clean corporate look now. Not overtly muscled, but super trim and dignified, like Arthur Walton, dressed in dark, expensive suits, with maybe a tie or a handkerchief for color. So, for a mage to buck that trend and go full Teddy Roosevelt in 2058, I had to meet him.
Body shaping pills were pretty cheap now, so only unemployed people got really fat. Everybody still ate shitty food, but anybody with a job could afford glucose blockers, and if you had a good corporate job, you could afford muscle stimulants that made one hour in the gym build muscle like three.
Polite society tended to shun anybody who was too fat or too muscled, so it was really hard for fat people to get jobs, now that the discrimination laws were gone. Nobody said it out loud, but fat was a real class marker now. I had been on carb blockers from the first day I got health insurance, and even now, I was pretty sure I would be three hundred pounds, if I let myself keep junk food in the house.
So, for a mage to be fat, to start with the ultimate high status and throw it away for a fashion statement, that sounded like someone I wanted to meet.
Simon had a cluster of guys around him, but no women, which I should have taken as a warning sign. He was obviously holding court, cracking jokes and talking shit about people walking by.
He saw me coming and yelled, “Love the jeans!”
I had been mortified and self-conscious about my clothes all night, so I was immediately defensive. “Are you fucking with me?”
Simon looked hurt at being misunderstood. “What? No way. Working Class Wizard! It’s brilliant. It’s a totally unique look.”
Well, I was in the nerd circle now, for better or worse. I joined his disciples and said, “I thought we weren’t supposed to use that word.”
“What? Wizard? Because some TV show ruined it for us ten years ago? Fuck that guy, we’re taking it back.”
I raised my glass and toasted them. “So, is this how real mages dress now? American Gilded Age?”
Simon looked hurt again. “You really don’t recognize this? The Caretaker from Bartleby’s Billions, the BBC show?”
“Sorry. My family didn’t let me watch shows with wi— with mages in them.”
“Oh, that’s right, this whole thing is new to you. You didn’t even find out you were one of us until like yesterday? Welcome to the club, man. A lot of people here are going to envy you. You got to live a real life.”
I shook my head. “Real life sucks.” I gestured to the party. “I spent my whole life wishing I could have this. It’s like the opposite of how I grew up. It sounds perfect, knowing exactly who you’re supposed to be from the day you’re born. Admired. Respected. Maybe people are a little scared of you. You should try being mundane for a week. The whole world pushes you around.”
He got serious then. The whole group seemed to deflate and tighten up.
Simon said, “It’s a trap. The money is a trap. The respect is fake. And the parties? Everything you see here is fake. It’s fancy on top and cheap underneath. The food on those silver platters is the same food any normie can buy at distro, the school just paid somebody to put it on a cracker.”
“Yeah, but that’s just window dressing, right? You guys get to learn real magic here, real power.”
The whole group got quiet and looked at each other, like they were deciding who would get to break it to me.
Finally, Simon said, “I love that look in your eye, and I don’t want to be the one to take it from you, but somebody should tell you, don’t believe everything you hear from the recruiter. It’s Evan’s job to gloss over the boring shit and make you think it’s all parties and pretty girls, but that’s all marketing and fluff now. The most important magic you can learn these days is how to dress and how to act - to learn all the buzzwords and talk like a mage on TV. Corporations don’t pay us to kill dragons or fight duels. They hire us to transmute construction materials and levitate heavy shit on loading docks. Why do you think corporations sponsor Bluestar teams?”
“Bluestar teams fight bad guys and save people from earthquakes, isn’t that a huge PR win for a company? Same reason they write checks to food banks?” In the mirror, I was shocked by my own innocence. I couldn’t even remember thinking like this.
Simon barked laughter and cut himself off, like he was trying not to be rude. “No, man. It’s not charity. It’s not even PR. Do you realize how much footage of a super fight is worth? The whole rights structure has changed since corps replaced the government.”
One of his guys said, “Careful...” in a warning tone, but Simon waved him off.
“Let’s say you catch Bluestar 3 fighting some bad guy in the street. Smashing buildings, throwing cars around. You get it all on your phone, you dump it on the public feeds, and you get ten million hits. For twenty-four hours, you’re a superstar, but you know how much money you get? Zero. GAC owns the likeness rights for everybody in Bluestar Chicago, and that means they own everything.
“Fifty years ago, any fight that happened in a public space was fair game, but not anymore. GAC revenue bot will flag that shit the instant you put it up and collect every dime in ad money. You’ll get famous, sure. Your grandma will call you and tell you you’re a brave boy for getting so close. Maybe an old girlfriend calls when she sees your name on the news. But only the sponsors make money.
“Let’s say you get a scholarship from Trinity Healthstar and work out a way to use magic to speed up blood tests. You think you get rich? That’s work product. Everything you do from the minute you take their scholarship is work product, even what you do in school. They own everything,” he gestured to the fountains and the catered food, “and all this shit, everything you see around you, even down to the wardrobe budget and the house you live in, that’s all rented. That’s all corporate property that you’re only allowed to use as long as you’re corporate property. If you quit, or violate the terms, they can take the clothes off your back.”
Simon’s buddy said, “Dude...” again in a low, urgent voice. “Don’t scare the new guy.”
But Simon went on. “It’s still a good life. Better than the old way, when you just went in debt for millions and could lose everything to a money manager. You’re still popular. You’re still famous. You’ll still get a comic book movie and a biopic when you die, but you don’t actually own any of it. And the minute you fuck up, if you lose market share or say the wrong thing in an interview, it can all go away overnight. That’s how they get you, and that’s how they keep you in line.”
“So, what’s the alternative?”
“There’s not one. Play the corporate game or join a meta dictatorship in South America and learn to sleep with both eyes open.”