Progress

Gavril now, more or less, lived in his lab. And he loved it.

“I should have done this years ago,” he mused to himself. He hadn't been home or slept in his bed in days, staying instead in a cot in the corner of his lab, a coffee pot set up on a gas burner on the counter. Papers everywhere, another blackboard brought in and covered in equations and diagrams. A stack of clothes, both dirty and clean, by the door. A small shower stall in the corner.

And the work. Ah, the work. One lab was no longer sufficient for his work. By orders of the Emperor Himself and with funds directly from the royal coffers Gavril now occupied the largest basement lab in the National Science Center. Such a thing had never been possible before, but now with Imperial permission...

“You cannot do this!” Professor Alton Agorian gasped when Gavril stumped down to the basement lab to claim it. “We have a grant from several different holders. Our work is tied to Operation: Skylight and, and our work on chemicals is critical to-” But he shut up when Gavril waved the Imperial decree under his nose. It was with a smug sense of satisfaction that he watched Professor Agorian and his assistants haul all of their work out of the lab and up three flights of stairs. Bastard. That would show him for kissing up to the Minister of Scientific Progress and leaving Gavril's department, well, slightly underfunded in various regards.

“My thanks to you, Chancellor Pjeter,” Gavril said as he regarded his vast new laboratory. He stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, looking about and feeling a deep satisfaction. Maybe it would be wrong to use the good graces of the Emperor Himself for petty departmental revenge, but really, really, what else was money for? Professor Agorian was just the first on the list, too.

Priorities. Gavril enlisted the help of others in his lab to move his equipment downstairs. He would have helped but his back had been flaring up lately and besides, he had more important matters to attend to, such as ordering everyone about. No one else could do that important task, oh no. None could give orders like Dr. Kazarian could.

Soon enough, the basement lab was set up exactly to the scientist's specifications.

Mordania's national superhero program had diminished as of late. Yes, it had been powerful some thirty, forty years ago when both the expanding Mordanian Empire and the First Union had been competing to create the most powerful armies. Mordania, though, had gotten caught up in its own political quagmire and had crumbled during a bloody coup that had placed House Rorian on the throne. In the madness, the First Union had thrived and the remnants of Mordania had been forced to watch as the Mighty Men became the new world police. Part of it, the doctor was sure, was that the First Union naturally had more mages born within its borders. The Empire might encompass a greater expanse of land and include more diverse countries, but it had fewer mages. Cockamamie nonsense and all that.

To begin, Gavril poured over every scientific publishing he could find on the nature of mages and the origin of their powers. He stayed huddled in a corner of his lab surrounded by stacks of paper, a pencil dangling out of the corner of his mouth as he read, his nose coming closer and closer to the paper the longer he read. Cups of dark coffee sat forgotten on the edge of his desk, growing cold and gritty with neglect. Most of what he read was, of course, crackpot theories. No one had made any progress on this and nothing definitive had been discovered. What did Varaz think would happen, that the brilliant Dr. Kazarian would tap his feet and clap his hands and pull the answer out of thin air? That a bit of hard work was all it would take to produce artificial mages? Oh, it would take more than that. The more he read, the more Gavril became convinced that this was a fool's mission and the Emperor Himself was stupid or worse for considering it possible.

Still, the literature all seemed to point towards the blood as a likely place where powers were held, and so Gavril decided to start there. He called Chancellor Pjeter on the voiceline. “If His Excellency permits it,” Gavril said into the mouthpiece of the device, “I would require the presence of his magical guard at my laboratory as soon as possible.”

“And leave the palace undefended?” The Chancellor's voice sounded muffled as it emitted from the little speaker in Gavril's hand. He pressed it up against his ear, the better to hear. “I do not know if that is possible. Perhaps, sir, it would be better for you to come here, depending on what you require.”

“That I do not yet know. Blood samples, at least. Perhaps more, in time to come.” It would be a nuisance to have to do everything away from the comfort of his nice new lab. Too many variables to consider if he did this elsewhere. Possible contamination. Potential to lose samples or tools. But if the Emperor's safety was to be compromised...“Very well. Have a room set up in the palace for my tests. I want it cleaned floor to ceiling. Allow no one in without my permission.”

They set a date, and once Chancellor Pjeter had organized everything, Gavril made his way to the palace with his equipment. A royal car picked him up, as before. Gavril sat huddled in the backseat, protected by the pale sunlight by the tinted glass windows. A small bar was in the back of the car, complete with frosted bottles of liquor and glasses clinking with ice, but Gavril ignored it. He needed a clear head to run his tests, and besides, he'd been dry for a long time now.

A guard showed Gavril to the promised room while a footman moved all the equipment in. “Leave it at the door,” Gavril snapped to the footman. “I won't have you messing it up.” The room itself was lavish. Hardwood floors and rich rugs, white-painted columns and paintings of various important dead people on the wall. They frowned down at Gavril as he set up his equipment on the long wooden table, their painted expressions unchanging and hard, their whiskers bristling and clothing precise.

In twenty minutes the doctor was ready. Lines of test tubes and syringes covered the table. A soft knock at the door, and Chancellor Pjeter poked his head into the room. “Are you ready, sir?”

“Yes.” Gavril stood, smoothing down the front of his long, white lab coat. He adjusted his spectacles, picked up his clipboard and pencil, the better to look official with, and said, “Send them in.”

One by one the palace mages marched in through the doors. Gavril questioned each of them extensively on the nature of their powers and asked for demonstrations. “When did your powers first emerge?” “How far have you pushed your powers?” “Do you have any children, and if so, are they magical, and is their other parent magical?” “Are any of your ancestors mages, and if so, what powers did they possess?” And so on. In turn the mages would rise into the air, move chairs across the room without touching them, dim the lights in the room or walk up the walls as though it were the floor. Then Gavril took a sample of their blood and deposited it in a carefully labeled vial. This went on for hours until the last of the super guard rolled up his sleeve, buttoned back up his coat, and left the room.

“Is that all?” Chancellor Pjeter asked, and Gavril jumped. He had not seen nor heard the Chancellor come back into the room.

“God and Avatar, don't do that!” yelped the doctor. He took a moment to settle, and then said, “For now, that shall do. I reserve the right to summon up any one of these guards at a moment's notice for further testing, should I need it.”

“Of course,” Chancellor Pjeter said with a deep bow. “Stay in touch.”

His notes and precious blood samples were moved back to the lab at the National Science Center. Now, though, came the hard part: figuring out what the hell to do with it all.

He studied the various blood samples under microscopes and compared them to human samples, spent so long staring at drops of blood between plate glass that his eyes hurt and his fingers were so tense from fine-tuning the knobs that he felt he must throw something to vent his twitchy frustration. No matter how he looked at it, he could see no difference between ordinary human blood and mage blood. The literature confirmed such facts. But there had to be a difference. There had to be, somewhere! There had to be something, something deep in the elementary particles of a being that made them special. Something that gave them their spark. Something that a deathray could parse apart and weaponize.

“Gah.” Gavril slumped back in his seat and took a sip of coffee.

The days turned to weeks. Sunlight and rain became strange things. His frustration mounted. Colleagues passes him in the hall, Dr. Zakarian and Dr. Rinehart and Professor Dorst, and each of them wanted to know how the superhero program was going? Their questions were polite and inquisitive and perfectly natural, but Gavril couldn't help but feel suspicious. They wanted to know. They wanted to take the credit for themselves. They wanted to help, but what help could they offer? They would have to, somehow, be dealt with. All the while, the massive labs on the third floor devoted to Operation: Skylight continued, quietly taunting Gavril. Look, look at me! A project so secretive and important that not even the Emperor's favor could grant him that space.

So Gavril turned inwards until he felt as dark and bitter as the used grounds settling at the bottom of his cups.

When Chancellor Pjeter called, as was his weekly custom, Gavril found himself unsure of what to say. “Progress is good.”

“Excellent,” the Chancellor said. “Have you anything else to report? When, perhaps, do you expect to be able to present before His Excellency, the Board and Science and the military?” All those important people. It made Gavril seize up with anxiety.

“That is impossible to say.” Indeed it was. What did the Chancellor expect, that this sort of thing would happen according to a perfect schedule? Science wasn't always a well-oiled machine that spat out results on a regular basis. Science was messy. The processes were laid out in stone, but everything else was liquid, a torrential rain running over the stone edifice of the scientific method, and nothing was ever certain. “When I've made a breakthrough, you'll be the first to know.”

“Good. Do send me your reports, if you will.”

“You'll find them highly boring.”

“On the contrary. I look forward to them immensely.”

It was clear that Chancellor Pjeter Barrian, despite his collected exterior, was very excited about the project. Probably enjoyed his job as an administrator far too much.

Another fruitless week passed, marked by fresh laundry and guest lectures in the Science Center. The coffee and failures all blurred together into a formless, indistinguishable mass so that Gavril couldn't remember what he'd done the day before, or even hours before. He began to concoct other methods to discover the source of powers, something other than blood analysis. Something in the brain, perhaps, or the sex cells. It could be that mages could not be artificially created, but only bred, in which case a state-wide breeding program would have to be initiated. Well, that could be addressed when the time came. Let the governmental departments deal with that.

Gavril made sure that he was not interrupted during the day. He told everyone in the lab that he should be left completely alone unless in the event of an emergency, and even then he should only be disturbed if it was something truly horrible, like the moon was about to crash into Helmsberg. Notices all over the lab door reinforced his message. His only visitors were the assistants that cared to his needs, clothes and food and the like.

About three weeks – or had it been three and a half? – after his experiment at the palace (Gavril had lost track of the days and was no longer sure what the date was. Time was measured by Chancellor Pjeter's check-ins) someone broke that rule. He heard a knock on the door at the far end of the lab. It made him jump, and the sound echoed throughout the concrete tomb. “Go away!” he shrieked, not looking up from his work. And then, unthinkably, the door creaked open. Did I not lock it? he thought. Evidently not. Gavril swung around in his chair and saw someone – a student – slipping in through the open door.

“Haldo?” the student called. He wore a buttoned white lab coat, and his wavy dark hair was smoothed back from his round face. “Dr. Kazarian?”

“Get out, get out!” Gavril shouted, now out of his chair and stomping flat-footed across the room, around tables and giant racks of narrow test tubes. “I am not to be disturbed! Get out, you brat!”

The student flinched, backing towards the door. “Please, sir, I'm here from Professor Agorian.” There was something odd about his accent, Gavril decided. He sounded like he was from the southern regions of the empire. No, not that. Yorish, perhaps? That didn't make sense.

“Then I'll talk to him myself. Now get out!” Gavril flapped his hands at the student.

“Please. It's important.”

“I've never even seen you around here before. Who are you?” He was feet away from the student now. The boy couldn't have been older than fifteen, small and round. He looked down at the ground as Gavril approached, a folder clutched in his hand. With his other hand he reached up to fiddle with the top button on his lab coat.

“I?” With a quick snapping motion his hand moved inside his coat and pulled out a pistol, dark and gleaming. Gavril inhaled sharply, the breath catching in the back of his throat, as the boy shoved the gun against Gavril's chest. “I am Lord Malice.” Gavril opened his mouth to scream for help, but the words died on his tongue. What would it matter, anyway? No one was to disturbed him. He'd wanted privacy. No one would hear him, and even if they heard the gun, it would be too late. One bullet to the heart, and the boy would have fled. “Smart move. Stay quiet.”

“What do you want?” Gavril finally managed. “Information? Money? I have nothing. Is this sabotage? Who sent you? Unioners?”

“I sent I,” said Lord Malice in his schoolboy's voice. It could have been a grand statement, or else grammatically flawed Mordanian. He gestured with the barrel of his gun to one of the stools around the lab. Wordless, Gavril sat down on the stool and sat facing the boy, hands clasped tightly in his lap. How foolish. This boy holding me at gunpoint, calling himself by the name of larger men. Yet the blackness of the gun barrel held his gaze. Every small twitch of Malice's trigger finger made him flinch. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead and underarms. “No,” snapped Lord Malice. Some of the softness and fear had melted away from his face, and his voice had taken on the quality of the villain lords before him. Was it the boy himself, or was it the weapon in his hand? “You speak Union Standard?” he asked suddenly. “Yorish? Old Yore?”

 “Yes,” Gavril said in Union Standard. “What do you want?”

“You, Dr. Kazarian.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“For what? If you mean to hold me hostage, the Emperor Himself will pay it.”

“I don't need money,” Lord Malice said. Good though his Mordanian had been, Standard was clearly his native tongue. “I need answers.” He flung the folder onto the lab bench with a flick of his wrist. Papers slid across the table. Malice nodded at Gavril, and the scientist took the cue, spreading the papers out and bending over them. “Blueprints,” Malice said. “My father's.”

Gavril did not understand them. They were blueprints, clearly, but that was only part of it. The design seemed only half-developed, the equations sloppy. The rest of the document was pages of notes done in messy handwriting. “You want me to build this.”

“If you can. I'll take instructions and guidance for now. How do I build it?”

“What makes you think-”

The pistol rose again. The hammer clicked. The smell of gun oil. That twitching finger. Hazel eyes narrowed in a theater mask's angered squint. “Don't try and fool me, Dr. Kazarian. You were working on a Mordanian deathray before this.”

“You presume-”

“I presume nothing. I know. You're the best in the Empire, perhaps even the world. If anyone can figure this out, you can.” Lord Malice took a step closer, and jabbed at the papers with his free hand. “This is a deathray. I've figured that much out. But there's more. It's supposed to move, somehow. Be mobile. Fly, for all I know. But I don't know how.”

“I don't know,” Gavril said. He felt safe, somehow. If Malice needed him, he would not shoot. The gun was an intimidation tactic. But it was working. “If I knew, Mordania would have its deathray by now. And likely we'd be trading potshots with the First Union.”

“You've worked on it. You're the best man for the job.”

“Why not go to the men in the Union that built the damn thing? Go to Ray of the Mighty Men.”

Something changed in Malice's expression. Disgust twisted his mouth for a second, and he said, “No. It must be you. The Union would never help me.”

“And you think I will?” A bold move, he realized. Too bold. The pistol moved and the cold ring of metal was pressed against Gavril's chest. His cold sweat redoubled.

“I can always abduct you and force you to work for me. Malice Tower has very nice labs. Not quite this, but they'll do.”

“The Empire won't stand by and let you capture me. Nor will the Mighty Men,” he said in a desperate gambit.

Lord Malice snarled. “Then you'll do the work here.”

“You-”

“Don't think you can't, Dr. Kazarian. I will have my father's dreams realized, and you'll help. There can be no other way.

“So. Will it be an ignoble death, surrounded by your incomplete work, or the eternal gratitude of Lord Malice?”

Clearly, the boy would not be dissuaded. “If you insist.” Anything to get the gun away from him, anything to get the boy out of his lab.

“Good.” The gun was lowered. “Good.” He tapped the papers strewn across the table. “I will leave you with these copies. I have the originals. I expect progress, doctor. I expect the best from you.” Malice walked backwards, gun pointed downwards but still live and ready. “Don't call for help when I leave. Don't tell anyone. I'll know.” Gavril nodded, mouth shut. The boy stopped before the door, tilted his chin up and said, in a breathy stage whisper, “Fear my malice.” Then he was gone, the door shut behind him. Gavril exhaled and collapsed backward onto the lab bench, the center of his chest burning where the pistol had touched him.

Despite Lord Malice's warnings, he told Chancellor Pjeter about the incident. After terse words exchanged on the phone they met in person at the palace. “A boy, really. Threatening me with a gun in my own lab!” A day after the incident it all seemed so absurd. “I don't even know how he made it into the Science Center. Security's not what it used to be.”

“I will, of course, inform the Emperor of this,” Pjeter said, tips of his fingers pressed together. “Do tell me everything that happened.” And he did, and Pjeter informed the Emperor Himself, and the decision was filtered back down to Dr. Gavril Kazarian just hours later. Pjeter swept back into the room and cleared his throat. “The Emperor has decreed that you shall meet Lord Malice's demands.”

Gavril felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. “What?”

Pjeter shrugged. “His word is law and his will is ours.”

“But...but the mage project! How can I work on two such projects at once?”

“The Emperor has furthermore decreed that he shall provide you and Lord Malice with the necessary resources and funds to complete the project.”

“But...”

“And he plans to enter into an alliance with the young Lord Malice.”

“No. Out of the question.” Gavril crossed his arms and glared at Chancellor Pjeter. He had had no reason to trust the advisor, other than his polite nature, but he felt that some trust had been betrayed. “I refuse to work with the boy that threatened me. Besides, neither of us know fully what his plan is! He shows me these damnable blueprints that don't even make sense! And an alliance with a boy? A Malice he may be, but he's green as they come.”

Again, the shrug. “It is not my place to question His Excellency. I suspect, perhaps, that Emperor Varaz has turned his gaze to Yoreland, which the Malices have long occupied. A good place to look for expanding the empire, and a loyal ally all in one stroke.”

“And yet it is I who will bear the burden of keeping the boy happy. I who must produce results for Emperor Varaz and Lord Malice!”

“You shall not want for help.”

Gavril returned to the lab soon thereafter. There would be no use in trying to get the Emperor to change his mind, and Chancellor Pjeter had proven to be of little use, bowing to the Emperor and letting things happen. Alone, Gavril pulled out his old notes on deathrays, swept clear a table, and began anew, ever aware of the specter of Malice's gun drilling into his chest.