I was happy. I had found myself, my place, my purpose. I had Dr. Okoro and Kirti and Chuck. I couldn’t think of much more I could want out of life.
-
Except, perhaps, to know how my mother and Carrie were doing.
I’m sure the other kids missed their families, in fact, I knew Kirti did. But they’d all known before they came that they were leaving them behind in every way.
And none of them, no matter how much they missed their parents or brothers or sisters, had the same worries I did. I know I was the only one who suffered quiet moments of panic, wondering if they had food, or if they’d been kicked out of the apartment again, or who had hurt them, now that I was gone. I hadn’t even gotten to tell Carrie how to get the best jobs before the other kids found out about them, or how to sneak extra food into the carrier after Mr. Sacks had already totaled it up.
It ate at me, and scared me more than any nightmare, when I lay alone in bed, with nothing to do but think of how I’d failed them.
-
The next idea came to me while still in bed one morning, about five months after the Dawes Laser, while I was in that muzzy place between asleep and awake. I was aware of very little that happened around me that day. By the end of dinner, I had pages of notes and drawings and equations to take to Dr. Okoro. The project took us ten months from beginning to end and resulted in the Dawes Theory of Intermolecular Force. The next project was birthed from that one and, a year following, the Dawes Second Theory of Intermolecular Force was recorded.
I had been four years at the IIC and made three ground-breaking discoveries. I was twelve. It was easy to see from the reactions of others that this was extraordinary; unheard of. But to me, it just was. In my head, I was doing nothing I hadn’t done every day of my life before the IIC. Only now I had the resources to follow each question to its answer.
Whatever his private opinion of me, Director Kagawa now treated me as a favorite nephew. He gushed over and praised me often in public. He spoke of how he’d always known of my potential and had done his best to bring it out in me. He called me Jacob, something no other adult but Dr. Okoro ever did. It made my skin crawl. He even referred to himself as my mentor. I was quite happy to disappoint him by brushing him off and keeping quiet and to myself.
-
Without the need to justify my place at the IIC, I didn’t have as many burning questions the next couple of years. The urgency, the need to unlock the secrets of the universe took a back seat as I experimented with just being a kid. I spent more time with Kirti and Chuck than I had before. Some of the other children extended overtures of friendship to me. It was intoxicating to be sought after by my peers, even if I never quite lost my resentment for their previous treatment of me.
That year, in biology class, we covered human reproduction.
The empirical biological and sociological information was all the education, philosophizing, or moralizing we were ever to have on the topic. Naturally, being teenagers, we had to conduct additional experiments on our own time to better explore this subject. There were rules in the dorms, about curfews and who was allowed where, but they were for safety and containment, nothing so abstract or intangible as right and wrong.
I didn’t go as far or as fast as the others. Besides the fact that I was younger than all of them, I was too used to being different and separate to change so easily.
In spite of that, physics was still my main interest. Shortly after my fourteenth birthday I presented Dr. Okoro with a new theory. This one Kirti had given me. It happened in one of our lazy afternoons in the practice room.
Though she practiced her exercises and the pieces she was assigned, she often simply played, taking the music where it wished to go. These times were my favorite. Lacking the structure of the written, polished pieces, the music evoked images that often revealed the flow of physical laws in unexpected ways. When she would change direction or tempo, whatever process I had been watching behind my eyelids would often break apart or change as well. And in those random and unexpected transitions or dissolutions I could see things in a new way, and watch as they unfolded before me in ways I’d never thought of before.
It was in one of these sessions that the Dawes First Theory of Wave Mechanics was born. And it was from many of these sessions that the Dawes Second Theory of Wave Mechanics was refined and codified.
Five major discoveries to my name in seven years. I was secure. I knew what my life was and what it would be. The ignominy of my past could never touch me again. This was it. I was home.
fg7
I was fifteen years old when he came to the IIC. At the time, I would have said I was sixteen. I nearly was; my birthday was less than a month away. But, more important than my impending birthday, even to me, was that we were expecting a visit from our new emperor, Rikhart IV.
For all that our importance to the future of the Empire was acknowledged by every emperor, Charles XVII had visited the IIC only once in his twenty year reign. Ferdinand VI, twice in fifty. So for the emperor to come so early in his reign was an incredible honor.
And he was young. As young as we were. He was exactly my age. We shared a birthday, which was as exciting as such random, abstract things can be when they involve an important person.
Such a young emperor was an oddity, but the Imperial Family had been plagued with disasters and tragedies for the past two generations. Charles XVII had been diagnosed with a previously unknown genetic condition, Meyer’s Disease, in his childhood. He had died at thirty-eight years old, only six months earlier.
The entire IIC was in an uproar for the two weeks between the notification and his visit. There was to be an exhibit, the highlights of all the scientific and scholarly advancements and great works of art and music that had come out of the IIC in the recent past.
There were to be seven displays from each department, and so it surprised me when all five of my discoveries were chosen. A large chunk of the physics department helped Dr. Okoro and me to construct the displays.
They were quite impressive in my opinion, detailed, with a logical progression so that the process and its inevitable conclusion were clear. Our new emperor was known to be interested in the sciences, so we didn’t skimp on the technical language and detail. The scientists who were old enough to remember the last emperor’s visit were excited about this—when an explanation of a new discovery must stick only to the basics, it often misses the point.
The whole place was in a frenzy of preparation, much of which I missed, being practically cloistered in the physics department for those two weeks. It felt strange to emerge and rejoin my classmates when the morning of his visit arrived.
We had eaten breakfast and assembled afterward in the great hall wearing our dress uniforms. Mine was stiff and scratchy—from disuse, and probably an overexcited starching. We stood in groups, buzzing with whispers, where we would soon form up in rows. The teachers kept looking back and shushing us, but it didn’t have much effect. They weren’t willing to move from their groups to deal with us, and many of the adults were just as full of nervous murmurs as we were.
The entire membership of the IIC was assembled and organized by rank. We were in five rows of seventy people, the most senior in front. This meant that all of the students were in the last row. It wasn’t a logical arrangement from a practical standpoint, with the smallest children standing behind rows of adults, but seniority is often weighted heavier than practicality. It was no great hardship for me. I’d hit a growth spurt and was already taller than many of the adults.
I was as jittery and anxious as anyone, perhaps more. After all, any minute now the emperor himself was going to see my work—was going to see five of my projects. Rumor had it that physics was one of his favorite sciences. I was bouncing on my toes.
After an eternity of waiting there was a flash of movement from the area of the lobby and everyone froze, silence descending like a curtain. A palace functionary entered, spoke to Director Kagawa, and left. Kagawa t
urned and announced that the emperor would soon be entering. We were to get in our places, make no sound, remember the proper forms, and be on our best behavior throughout. His voice was low and promised dire consequences to anyone who stepped one foot out of line. He returned to his own position and we stood at rigid, noiseless attention.
It was probably only two minutes later, though it felt much longer, when there was movement again from the lobby. A different functionary entered the room, looking exactly the part of a herald in a uniform heavy with embroidery. He moved off to the side and announced His Excellence Emperor Rikhart IV. It seemed like the whole room took a breath at the same time, and held it.
And then he was there. He walked into the room just like any person walks into a room, on two feet. I almost laughed at myself. What had I expected?
Of course, there was much that set him apart from others; the obvious things like his clothes and jewelry, the circlet on his head, his position at the head of the group. But there was also something about the way he carried himself. It wasn’t stiff-backed arrogance or affected dignity, but more a calm confidence. He knew who he was, and his place in the world—and the fact that his place was above everyone else was only a minor detail.
He was not handsome so much as interesting to look at. He had a shock of honey-colored hair, deep blue eyes, and cinnamon skin set in strong, solid features. He was followed by four guards and two servants. An older man, someone of importance, walked beside him.
As a group, we dropped into a deep, formal bow. When I straightened I could see something like a smile on his face. But not self-satisfied. No, more like genuine happiness. He said a few words of greeting, most of which I didn’t really hear. But it was something about an honor and being excited and being grateful for what we did for the Empire. There was also something about our contribution being undervalued in his opinion and he hoped to see that changed in the future. There was a roar of applause at that.
When the choreographed introductions were over, the emperor was led to the first of the displays. The director and department heads followed.
At the third display, a chemistry project, the emperor turned to Dr. Warvrinosossi, the head of the chemistry department, and asked him a question. I couldn’t be sure—I was only lip reading—but it seemed to me that he had addressed his question to the proper person by name without any guidance.
He spent close to ten minutes at each display. Watching him stand in one place, then move along to the next, quickly became boring. It was shocking to find his visit dull after all the sleepless nights of anticipation, but all we were doing was watching someone else look at things. We were too far away to hear anything that was going on. He may have been the most important man in the galaxy, but he was still just a man walking and talking the way any man would. What was there to look at?
He came to the first of my displays. I held my breath and watched as he examined it. I watched him ask Dr. Bartel questions, turning back again and again to study the work. And then I watched as he moved on.
I thought about crying. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I was expecting something. The emperor himself had seen my work! This was supposed to be some monumental, life changing event. Instead it was…nothing.
If I’d been bored before, now I was bored and depressed. It only worsened when my second display came around and, just like the first, he gave it thoughtful, in-depth examination, and moved on. The disappointment, as irrational as it was, was overwhelming. I wanted the whole thing to be over, but the morning dragged on.
So I didn’t even notice when, near midday, the emperor came to my third display, the Dawes Laser. I was startled out of my self-pity by a voice at my side.
“Mr. Dawes?”
I jumped, whirling around to find one of the uniformed men who had been in the emperor’s train standing beside me.
“Yyyyyes,” I stammered.
“His Excellence asks if you would join him.”
My heart stopped beating. I couldn’t breathe. “OK,” I squeaked, and followed.
The man stopped short of the emperor and waited for a pause in the conversation. “Your Excellence, Mr. Jacob Dawes.”
The emperor turned to me and blinked. “Mr. Dawes?” he asked, looking at me, his brow creased in doubt. “Mr. Jacob Dawes of the Dawes Laser?”
I was too overawed to be angry, the way I usually was when people expressed disbelief that my work was actually mine. “Yes, Your Excellence.”
A sudden smile lit his face and he chuckled. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Dawes. I should be the last person to judge someone based on their age, shouldn’t I?”
I wasn’t sure if agreeing or disagreeing with that was the right way to go, so I said nothing. That seemed to be fine.
“I am surprised, though, Mr. Dawes, because I have seen this laser in action. It was installed in one of our most important refineries. The head of the facility went on and on about what an exciting thing it was, all the wonderful improvements it would mean. He was quite overcome.” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “But that was several years ago. You would have been much younger.”
“I was eight,” I answered, finding my courage again in the easy flow of his conversation. Several long seconds passed. “Your Excellence!” I added.
He smiled and waved his hand as if to dismiss the lapse.
“Eight,” he mused. “But it wasn’t just the invention of a new device, was it? There was a new theorem as well?”
“Yes, Your Excellence. The Dawes Theory of Stimulated Emissions.”
He studied me for a moment. “Well,” he said. “Tell me about this.” He gestured toward the display.
So I moved closer and took him through the process from the original idea through the completion of the work, just as I would have in a formal presentation.
“What it means, Excellence,” I concluded, “is that we can make laser devices out of more abundant and more versatile materials, so the same quality beam can be produced by a much smaller instrument. This not only improves efficiency and accuracy, it means laser technology can be implemented in areas it couldn’t before, because of size limitations.”
He nodded, still examining the display.
He surprised me. He was as he was rumored to be, not only interested in the sciences but well versed for a layman. He asked good questions and understood the answers. But there was also something so unpretentious about him, I almost felt like he was trying to put me at ease. That thought made me wary.
He turned to me and smiled. “I think I’ve already seen your name on one or two displays today, Mr. Dawes. Will there be any more?”
“Yes, Excellence. There are two more.”
The look of surprise was brief and well controlled. He laughed. “Well then, I want you to join my retinue. When we come to your other two displays, we can discuss them.”
I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hoot in triumph or throw up.
fg8
At lunchtime we assembled as usual and stood in silence, waiting for the emperor—it was probably the first time the dining room had been so quiet. It wasn’t long before he entered the room with everyone else who was important enough to sit at the head table for the emperor’s visit.
They took their places and the emperor deferred the blessing to Director Kagawa. He intoned the traditional phrases to which we chorused “May the emperor live forever,” before we sat down. I watched the emperor to see how he would respond. He didn’t. He acted as if nothing had been said about him at all. I didn’t like that. I felt like he should have said thank you or something. It was reassuring to have some of my unflattering preconceived notions about people in high positions confirmed.
The lunch that was served outshone any meal I’d ever had. Wine was served at the head table, though it was only lunchtime. The emperor was given wine even though I—the other fifteen year old in the room—never got so much as a sniff of an alcoholic beverage. Not with permission, that is.
When lunch concl
uded we all stood in place as the emperor left the room and then we followed him back into the great hall. Everyone else went to re-form their rows but I hovered near the emperor’s servants. One of them indicated that I should join the director and the heads of departments. I did, but hung back as much as possible.
Though I felt awkward and conspicuous, at least the afternoon wasn’t boring. I was close enough to hear everything now. The emperor studied each display. He asked questions about each one—interesting, thoughtful questions on every subject. And while it was obvious he was more educated about some disciplines than others, he knew enough about all of them to be able to carry on an intelligent conversation.
About mid-afternoon we came to my fourth display. As soon as he read the name on it he gestured for me and I approached, bowing again just to be safe.
“Your Excellence.” He nodded in acknowledgement.
“Tell me about this, Mr. Dawes,” he said, gesturing toward the display.
So I did. As before, he asked questions. I got caught up in the science itself and found myself standing level with him. He either didn’t notice or didn’t mind, but I tried to slide back without drawing attention to my movement. After a couple more questions he thanked me and moved on.
Near the end of the exhibit he came to my last display. We stood side by side as I presented, explained, and answered his questions. We hadn’t been at it long and he was just starting another question when the dinner bell rang. There were still two more displays to go.
“This has been very interesting Mr. Dawes, and I have more questions for you. You can sit by me at dinner to continue this discussion.”
I gaped, but he was already moving on. I shuffled through the next two displays in terrified shock. I was going to sit at the head table with the emperor? It was one thing to present my work to him within the exhibit, and quite another to face the prospect of spending an hour right beside him. What would I say? What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to not do? I was trembling by the time I followed them toward the dining room.
Fighting Gravity Page 5