All Men of Genius

by Lev AC Rosen

  * * *

  FOR his part, the duke thought things were going swimmingly. The professors all reported that the students were doing well, and that the final projects were looking particularly impressive in aim and scope this year. He was concerned that some of the students were overshooting their abilities, but there was plenty of time yet, and the Science Faire at the Crystal Palace was always a success in the end, even the time one of the machines had exploded and knocked an earl unconscious. Afterwards, the Queen told him she thought the big flash and the earl’s body arcing over the crowd of people were quite a sight. She had asked if he could arrange for it again next year, but with a specific courtier.

  London’s autumn wasn’t colorful the way it was out in the countryside. The city, already grey and silver, stayed grey and silver. The sky changed from the color of blue flowers to the color of violets and steel, and in the garden outside the school, the trees shed their leaves and stood straight and tall and pale, like half-built machines. Every fall, Ernest took pots, shovels, and soil out to the garden, and carefully moved those plants that could survive into pots, kneeling in the dirt and patting the soil down around them. He had started transplanting late this year, time seeming so intent on racing forward that it raced right past him. On the Sunday that he moved the flowers, it began to snow, light, careful flakes drifting down slowly and in small numbers, barely snow at all.

  He stopped at one point, to catch his breath and look out at the city, and saw Ashton Adams staring at him curiously through the snow. But when Ashton saw the duke looking back, he turned and walked off, his feet stomping heavily on the ground. The duke waved after him.

  Ernest had wanted to talk to young Mr. Adams since he had relied so heavily on his work for his first lecture, but months had passed since then and he hadn’t had the nerve. How could he, the dean of Illyria, thank a first year for his inspiration without it somehow upsetting the balance of the school? And there was something odd about Ashton, alluring and confusing at the same time, that kept him from broaching the subject in private. Ernest would thank him eventually, would credit him in the paper he finally wrote.

  For since writing his first lecture, the duke had grown fascinated with space travel. Ashton Adams’s essay had inspired him more than he had been inspired in quite some time. Thanks to Ashton’s influx of energy, the duke felt newly enthused about working well into the night, writing formulae for possible combustible fuels, tinkering with mechanical valves and a steering system through the upper æthersphere.

  He had been interested in space exploration as a child, but his father had dismissed it. “You may be able to break through the sky, but then what?” he said to a twelve-year-old Ernest, who held out a model æthership for his father’s inspection. “We don’t know what it’s like among the stars. How thin is the æther? Will the act of flying through it cause waves through all of space that press down on our own terra firma? No, better to stay here. Conquer this world; then we can move on to the emptiness surrounding it.”

  Ernest had never seen his father’s own projects until they existed for the world to see, so showing his father his few ideas—and hearing his critique—was the only way to absorb his genius, though Ernest was never really sure how well it worked. His father always seemed to produce, as if from nothing, some great creation or feat, some conquering of nature, complete with a full text on how it was executed. Ernest never saw his father toiling long nights in a lab, never saw him pound his fists on the table in frustration when some theory didn’t prove true. This is how Ernest knew, even as an adult, that he was not like his father. His father was more conjurer than scientist. Ernest needed a lab, he needed to keep notes, he needed to fail over and over before he could even hope to produce something worth showing to the world. And he never knew what to work on next.

  He knew the world outside Illyria stared at him, anxiously waiting for him to fulfill the promise of his heritage, which was why he stayed in Illyria and emerged only for the year-end faire, when the focus was on the students’ work. He never participated in scientific conversation, always turned down invitations to parties where he would be expected to speak about his new theories or inventions. His life was in Illyria, and that was where he would keep it. He waited, feeling the weight of unfulfilled promise dragging him down, pulling him flatter and flatter, closer and closer to nothingness. He was terrified of it, and yet longed for the day when it would obliterate him. He watched his students create, while his own lab, a huge bronze space with windows and every conceivable convenience, stayed empty.

  Until this year. Now he worked, possessed by the dreams of his youth. He’d forgotten them, but the Adams boy had rejuvenated him—had dared, without knowing it, to engage him. He went up to the observatory on clear nights, walked out among the clock statues, and stared long and hard at the promise of space.

  “What are you building in there?” Ada asked on one of her Sunday visits, as they walked past the door to his lab. Cecily trailed behind them, pulling Shakespeare on his golden leash.

  “An æthership,” the duke said, smiling.

  “Oh,” Ada said, and she began to smile back. “Oh,” and then she laughed, until she was laughing so hard that she had to put her hand on Ernest’s shoulder to keep herself upright. “Very good,” she said, patting him on the cheek. She smiled to herself and walked ahead of them. Cecily looked curiously at Ernest, who shrugged.

  It wasn’t lack of ambition that kept Ernest from working all these years, nor was it really lack of inspiration. He never sought inspiration, as he feared to do so would be an endless chase. Inspiration had to find him. His father had always been inspired. It was part of his genius. The duke hid himself, his science, because he knew he wasn’t his father but didn’t want the rest of the world in on the secret.

  But, space travel! Impossible, his father had said. If Ernest tried to create something his father had said was impossible, there could be no comparison between them; he would just prove his father right or wrong.

  Still. He wished he were truly his father’s son at times, wished he could set his mind to a thing and produce it, completely, without a hint of work, without even the use of a lab. He once asked Ada how his father had done it, but she just shrugged and smiled. “He was a genius,” she’d said.

  A sudden chilly wind came through, and the smell of London and her rising fog swept over the duke as he knelt in the garden. He much preferred the smell of the soil that covered his hands. He wiped his hands on his trousers—old, worn ones, just for this purpose—put the last few potted plants in the wheelbarrow, and went inside.

  Cecily was just inside the residence, sitting at the window, Shakespeare in her lap. “Has it stopped snowing?” she asked.

  “Help me with the last of these plants,” he said. She nodded and jumped up to help him, placing Shakespeare on the seat.

  “I don’t know why you won’t just hire a gardener,” she said as she lifted a pot and carried it to the small room that Ernest had turned into a conservatory.

  “I prefer to do it myself,” Ernest said.

  “But why?” Cecily asked, selecting a shelf. The room was circular, with a glass roof. Ernest had no idea what it originally had been designed for. Cecily delicately placed her potted flower on the shelf, then twirled to face her cousin.

  “I find it refreshing to work with soil and plants after a day of working with chemicals and metal. Flowers generally smell sweeter.”

  Cecily raised an eyebrow as though she didn’t quite believe him. “We should find you a wife,” Cecily said, and left the room.

  Ernest stared after her, puzzled, then placed the last plant on the ground. The room was pearl colored in the fading light, and the greens of the flora seemed to glow brightly.

  Ernest realized that it would be time for supper soon, and he ought to bathe. The residence was, he thought, unnecessarily spacious. Four stories, like the college, the top story set aside for his personal chambers: bedroom, water closet, dressing room,
office, and laboratory. Below that were Cecily and Miriam’s rooms. On the first story were additional bedrooms and smaller water closets, a library, a smoking lounge. On the ground floor was a dining room, a parlor, and the conservatory, sticking peculiarly off the side. The dining room was seldom used, so it and the parlor had become something of a classroom for Cecily, for those lessons that could not be learned by sitting in on classes in the college. So Miriam taught French, German, art, music, and various other classes that Ernest knew Cecily loathed. But, Ernest was sure, these were things a lady needed to know. His father had told him so, and Ernest had no reason to think otherwise.

  The great wall of gears powered their quarters as well, forming one side of his lab, the smoking room, the parlor, and one of Cecily’s rooms. He and Cecily had practically grown up with the sound of it, and he found its steady clanking hum comforting, letting him know that Illyria was functioning properly.

  Ernest’s water closet was tiled from floor to ceiling in sand-and-white marble, with bronze pipes running along the side, pumping water to his bath and sink. The wall facing the bath featured a small pattern of bronze circles in the tile, and within each circle, a few molded, unmoving gears, which added a touch of whimsy to the room. Ernest loved a warm bath. He loved the illicit feeling of stripping naked and stepping into a pool of steaming water. He let the soil, sweat, and grime lift from his body as he laid his head back on the stone tub. Perhaps this was what space was like, he thought—like a warm bath. If that were the case, then space was certainly worth exploring. Perhaps he would move there. He could build a small home that orbited the Earth as the moon did, a beautiful glass home with windows on all sides to look out at the stars. He could live quite happily there. Maybe with a large greenhouse to grow his flowers in, and a small lab, and rooms for Cecily, of course, and possibly a wife, a beautiful clever wife with auburn hair and clear gray eyes, much like Miss Adams. But not her, of course, he thought, shaking his head; she was confusing. No, his wife would be easy to understand, and inspiring. But certainly she could look like Violet Adams. It was just a fantasy, after all. He closed his eyes and dipped his head under the water, letting a few air bubbles escape to the surface. He loved the way the water caressed him and how he could handle his body. To live forever in the warm bath of space. How nice it would be.

  After relaxing a while longer in the bath, the duke rinsed the dirty water off himself and changed for supper. The dining hall was mostly empty. On Sundays, students weren’t required to be in the dormitory for meals, so many with family in London went home for supper. He and Cecily sat alone at the professors’ table, joined only by Professor Curio, who seldom made conversation, and was often more distressing than pleasant when he did. Ernest didn’t mind, though. He enjoyed quiet Sunday suppers.

  “You know, s-s-sir,” Curio said suddenly, in his quiet voice, “young Miss Cecily here has very nearly invented a q-q-quite brilliant formula.”

  “You’re kind, Professor Curio,” Cecily said, “but I do not know if it is very nearly complete.”

  “What formula is this?” Ernest asked.

  “I’ve told you about it,” Cecily said, looking glumly at her food. “It should harden, like a clay, but into a nearly indestructible form, like steel. So far, though, it always crumbles when a moderate amount force of is applied to it.”

  “Not your most r-r-r-recent attempt, Miss Cecily,” Curio said. “It stayed quite firm until you spent several minutes p-pounding on it with a hammer.”

  “Yes,” Cecily sighed, “but it should have held up to that.”

  “I’m s-sure it will soon,” Curio said. “You work on it so earnestly.”

  “It isn’t just for me,” Cecily said. “I’m trying to help a friend.”

  “What friend?” Ernest asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Ashton. I told you. He has a genius engine planned, and I think my formula, if it works, would be a much more suitable material for it than bronze.”

  “I hope you’re not distracting him from his work.”

  “I don’t think I could,” Cecily said. “All he does is work on it, and go see his cousin on Sundays.”

  “His cousin?” Ernest asked. “Not his sister?”

  “I didn’t even know he had a sister,” Cecily said, then sighed heavily and stabbed her food, leaving the fork planted in it like a flagpole. “May I be excused?” she said. Ernest looked her up and down. She had eaten little, and was flushed, but he could tell she would put up a fight if he protested, so he nodded his assent.

  He was not meant to be a father. Cecily was a little sister to him, and he knew he was indulgent with her. Miriam would have been able to coax her to eat a little more, but Miriam wasn’t here. Outside the windows of the dining hall, it began to snow again, the light from the windows catching on the flakes in the darkness. The duke finished his meal in silence and bid Curio good night before heading back to his lab.

  Having a giant space to call his own and to use solely for science was his favorite privilege. Ernest’s lab was gigantic and just as messy or organized as he was at any given moment. Today there was a large table strewn with tools and bent metal, a board covered with sketches of his theoretical æthership, and a smaller table covered in bottles of clear liquid. He was lately more interested in shapes of potential æther vessels. Certainly, the aerodynamics differed slightly than with seafaring ships, and there was no need for sails. No, an æthership would need to be as streamlined as possible, so as to protect the riders during the initial blast of launch, not to mention any possible stellar debris. And of course, there was the aesthetic question: How could this metal sphere—or tube, more likely—be artistic? He tried to curve a sheet of metal, creating a smooth shape, something that could flow through the æther smoothly, like a fish through water. It was just a model, of course, not big enough to hold anyone, but he preferred to work with three-dimensional forms rather than sketching. He loved bolting bronze pieces together after softening them in the fire and then hammering them. It was like growing something, he felt, coaxing the shape of the invention out of the metal and heat. But tonight he didn’t have the kind of bronze he wanted. He needed a thicker sheet of it to curl into a tube. He would take some from the mechanical lab. Bunburry wouldn’t mind—after all, it was his school.

  He could hear students coming back in through the main gate as he left the residence and headed for the mechanical lab. He liked the sound: their footfalls, their murmurings, the way genius and potential and youth radiated from them. Illyria was itself a giant machine, churning out scientists, but it wouldn’t work without the students, and when they were absent, the school seemed dark and empty, switched off.

  He found a thick sheet of bronze in Bunburry’s lab and was lifting it when he heard footsteps at the door. He looked up and saw Ashton. “Mr. Adams,” he said, feeling a little like a thief caught in the act, but also oddly happy.

  “Sir,” Ashton said coolly.

  “I was taking some bronze up to my lab,” Ernest said. They looked at each other for a moment. “I’m happy to meet you like this, though—I’ve been meaning to talk to you since my first lecture of the year.” Ashton paused in the doorway, backlit, and walked farther into the dimly lit lab. He looked at the duke expectantly. “I wanted to say thank you. I found your paper inspiring.” Ashton said nothing, but made a little huffing noise. “Yes,” the duke said. “Well. I can tell you’re extremely grateful for my thanks.”

  He picked up the bronze and headed for the door. He was suddenly very annoyed. Had a student just huffed at him? For a thank you? What incredible gall. Ernest grew angry just to think of it. Best to leave now.

  “You weren’t inspired,” Ashton said as the duke was leaving. “You simply plagiarized my essay.”

  “I—what?” the duke said, turning. He leaned the bronze against the wall. This was incredible. “I did no such thing. In fact, if you have anything to be sore about, it would be that my lecture was a vast improvement on your paper. I pointed o
ut all your mistakes in logic.”

  “Mistakes?” Ashton said, approaching the duke. “What mistakes?”

  “Well, for starters, I said we would, in fact, need combustion to launch.”

  “No, we won’t!” Ashton said, turning a shade redder. “Not if we launch from a high enough place. That’s precisely what I said: Combustion, and the fuel you’d need to carry, weighs down the ship and severely limits the design of the ship itself.” Ashton’s eyes flashed. He took a deep breath and licked his lips.

  “Without combustion,” the duke said, stepping closer to Ashton, “we’d just end up sailing around the globe, just above it, like a hot air balloon. We can’t expect to keep going in a straight line, past the horizon and into space. Gravity will hold us. We must launch right up, with as much force as possible.” The duke felt sweat forming around his brow. He licked his own lips. The air seemed warmer, and the lab glowed in the light of the forge.

  “How limiting.” Ashton said, folding his arms, “Think of da Vinci’s aircraft designs. They went directly up, using only gears and fans.” The duke noticed sweat beading on Ashton’s forehead as well.

  “We’re talking about breaking through the air and into the æther of space,” the duke said. “Do you really think we can do that with fans and gears? Space travel is complex.”

  “I know it’s complex,” Ashton yelled, “I wrote the paper!”

  Ashton’s cheeks were a pretty shade of pink, and Ernest felt his body warm. His clothes were suddenly too tight. He breathed in the silence, frustrated beyond belief at this arrogant student, and pulled at his collar.

  And then they were kissing. Ernest couldn’t say how they got there. He suffered a moment without memory, where he moved from staring down at his student to pressing his lips against his, their tongues soft and salty in each other’s mouths. Ernest even felt his hand clutching the small of Ashton’s back, pulling him closer. His mind was blank, and it wasn’t. He thought about pushing Ashton against the wall and tearing his shirt off as they kissed longer and deeper; he thought about licking Ashton’s taut stomach.