A Toast to the Children of the Future

Aymon Sandreas enjoyed parties, on occasion, but not when they distracted him from more important matters. He kept himself patient throughout the evening, speaking cordially to all the masters of the Academy: the oldest ones who had been his own teachers long ago, some who had been his peers, and some of whom he didn't know at all. It was a low key event, and the food was pleasant, but it stretched on.

He asked Marca Windreshon, the head of the Academy, when he would be allowed to finally go and choose his apprentices, a task that he didn't want to do but might as well get over with.

"The students have until eight to get their projects into the hall," Marca said, detecting his impatience, despite his even tone. "If you take a long, slow walk through campus, you can leave in fifteen minutes and get there as soon as the hall is empty."

Aymon smiled and thanked her. He would wait a little longer than fifteen minutes, for politeness' sake, to not seem as though he was rushing out. It was important to maintain the image, which, in this case, was that he respected and enjoyed working with the people at the Academy. He did, to the extent that he ever thought about them.

The Academy lived in his mind as squarely a relic from the past. Although so many of the people he worked with came from these halls, and he trusted them on some level because of their shared upbringing, he rarely contemplated or had much nostalgia for his youth spent here. He had been a different person then, with so much less to think about.

When Aymon did finally leave the party, it was with relief. He did take the opportunity to walk the grounds to the exhibition hall, flanked at a respectful distance by his guards and at a much closer distance by Halen, one step behind his right shoulder, a steady presence.

The night sky was slightly cloudy, obscuring the stars, and a light breeze pulled Aymon's cape out behind him like a banner. Aymon was of average height and build, with a sharp, pale face and piercing dark eyes. His hair was short and swept back from his forehead, streaked with grey among the dark brown. He was good looking, and looked younger than he actually was.

Halen, behind him, was massive, though he moved with the quietness of a large cat. He had square jowls and light brown hair that had receded slightly, then stopped receding. His face was flushed a permanent, splotchy red, which tended to give people the first impression that he was chronically angry, which couldn't be further from the truth.

"Can I make a bet with you, Aymon?" Halen asked, speaking so softly that only the two of them could hear each other.

"About?"

"Your future apprentices."

Aymon smiled. It couldn't be anything else. "And what's the wager?"

"If I win, you open up the bottle Vaneik sent you for your birthday."

Aymon scoffed. "And if you lose?" He didn't turn to look at Halen, but he knew that Halen would be smiling.

"Your choice."

"You tease me."

"Of course."

"Well, what specifically are you betting on?"

"To forewarn is to forearm, isn't it? I'll tell you when you come back out." They had arrived at the exhibition hall, though they stopped a good ten yards away from the Academy security guard at the door, far enough away that they could carry on their low conversation.

"You're not coming in?"

"I'm sure my presence would cloud your judgement. They'll be your apprentices, after all."

Halen was right, though Aymon didn't like it. "You'll be outside the door."

"Of course."

They approached the imposing building, then, and the security was quick to let them in. The halls were dark, and their shoes made soft sounds on the marble floors. "Right this way, sir," the guard said, leading them to the destination.

Aymon knew the way. After all, he had once exhibited his own project here. The guard unlocked and pushed open the heavy double doors to the exhibition hall proper. Aymon considered saying something more to Halen, but then the guard was right there, and instead he slipped inside the long hall, shutting the door behind him.

The lights were off in the hall, except for emergency exit signs, but it was plenty light from the large moon's glow spilling in through the tall windows that stretched to the vaulted ceiling.

Projects were arrayed in rows on huge tables, each one with a numerical code, which Aymon was supposed to write down to make his selection. Some of the projects were large, some were small, but if he stretched out his awareness in the power, he could feel each one suffused with a warm glow, the echoes of the spirit of the student who made it.

Aymon walked the perimeter of the hall for a minute, taking in the sights, but it would take too long to examine each project individually. He didn't want to be here all night. So he sat down on the cold floor in the center of the room, breathed deeply, let the silence fill his ears, and closed his eyes. He sank down into a trance as though he were slipping on a piece of clothing. Here, in this state, feeling completely bodiless and at one with the universe, he could stretch out his awareness and listen as the universe spoke to him. He could feel Halen, waiting just outside the door with the rest of the guards, but he turned his attention away from Halen and towards the projects on tables.

At first, he had a worry that nothing would call to him, that this was the wrong year to choose apprentices after all, but as he sat and just let the sensations travel through him, he found what he needed to find, far faster than he had thought he might. Three sparks fixed in his mind. The feelings that they gave him were not easily described, but they brought to mind certain physical memories: sticking his hand into a running stream of water, lighting a match and holding it to a candle wick, catching his own reflection unexpectedly in a window and being surprised at what he saw there.

The stream first, then.

He stood on legs that creaked a little in protest, and, with eyes still closed, walked gingerly to where the first spark was. He reached out to touch it without looking, felt a cool, hard surface of glass, and the tingle of his power meeting the power of the student's creation. He opened his eyes and looked down at what he was touching.

It was a glass sphere. Inside it, illuminated only by the ghostly moonlight, were gently rustling aquatic plants. In between them darted a small goldfish. It seemed so alive, Aymon almost believed it was. But he probed at it with his power and the layers of tricks that made it up were revealed to him: chemical processes guided along by brute force, neurons in the brain of the fish firing through magic. There was no spark of life here, but it was as close to creating real life as one could get. And, at the heart of the fish, right in the center, there was a bit of humor, a kind of joy in its creation. Aymon couldn't help but smile when he felt that echoed happiness.

It seemed like such a pure and innocent thing to create. The student was obviously talented, there was no doubt about that-- this had taken an absolutely fiendish amount of work to put together. And they were smart, had learned well. He wanted this student, but he hesitated before writing the number down. Clearly, this project had been designed for a specific audience: the attention to anatomical, biological, and chemical detail screamed that the student wanted to go into science of some sort. If they had simply wanted to create the illusion of life, to make something purely fun, there were many less elaborate routes they could have taken.

He would be taking that future away from this student if he wrote their number down. And he would probably be taking the sheer joy of creation away from them, too. There was little levity in his line of work. In fact, by writing the number down, there was a good chance he was signing this student's death warrant.

Still, he did it anyway. The project had called to him, and he was obliged to answer the call.

Aymon walked on to the next project, the one the one that felt like the match, burning the tips of his fingers. It was far larger than the last one was, so much so that he needed to take a few steps back to take it in.

It was a statue, made of solid metal, mostly iron. It was a genderless figure, dressed in a long, swirling robe, holding a sword above their head, ready to strike. The figure looked down at the person standing beneath the sword with a face wrought in shining gold. It seemed to trap and hold Aymon's attention, and it filled him with a particular thrill of fear, as though the sword were liable to come down upon his head, should he be judged and found wanting.

He wondered what the criteria for judgement were. He reached out his power into the statue and laughed aloud at what he found, the sound echoing through the empty hall.

The statue was designed to make the viewer afraid; it was actively projecting that feeling into his mind. And, as for the judgement criteria, there were none. The figure could move, could swing its sword, but there was a deliberate, empty blank where a trigger condition should be. Aymon had the sudden temptation to put one in himself, but he resisted the foolish urge and just considered the student who had made the project.

An eye for beauty, a necessary understanding of the workings of the human heart and mind. An appreciation of fear. A love of being able to split the world into right and wrong with the slash of a sword. A complete lack of follow through.

That could be fixed, perhaps. Aymon did have an appreciation for people who understood image, and this student reminded him of his own project, long ago. He wrote the number down.

And then it was on to the last one.

Another statue, he found. They seemed to be common this year, though they hadn't been when he had graduated. Back then, the fad had been music. This year, the hall was dead silent, but he remembered how chaotic and noisy it had been when he had graduated, and could almost summon to life that memory-- all his old friends talking and laughing as they walked around the room together, looking at what they had made. He cleared those thoughts from his mind, and looked at the reality before him.

This statue was pale and waxy, human sized, and hovering a few centimeters off the ground. It was nude, except for a tablecloth wrapped around its waist and clumsily tied. The tablecloth was not made with the power, Aymon found as he probed at it with his own power. It was just fabric, probably taken from one of the campus dining halls. As his power touched the statue itself, though, he took a step back. The statue began to warp and shift, taking on the exact likeness of Aymon himself, down to the thick scar that crossed the length of his chest.

He raised his hand. The statue raised its hand. He said, "Oh Lord, who made your humble servant from starlight..." And the statue said it back to him, in the same voice, at the same time.

It was a perfect mirror, down to the last detail. The statue even breathed as Aymon did. When he pressed his power against it, all it reflected was his own intentions. He couldn't even feel how the thing was built, it was that slickly disguised.

And what did that tell him about the student? They were adaptable, maybe. Clever, certainly. They had done a good job of tricking this process, the one process that was supposed to reveal their own beings. They had taken that and twisted it. It was impressive, but... He hesitated still.

Did he want an apprentice who wasn't even willing to show their true self? Perhaps that was as much of an advantage as it was a weakness. After all, being a leader was about cultivating an image as much as anything. If he thought of a leader as the pure reflection of the society that they came from, and a student as the reflection of their teacher, yes, perhaps this would work.

He wrote the student's number down. Maybe it was delusion. Maybe it was a mistake. But he made his choice, and then pulled all his power back inside his body. The statue returned to being waxy and still. Without his power floating around him, the hall suddenly felt cold and empty, and Aymon wanted to leave.

He took one final look at the statue, the rows of projects on tables, then hurried out of the hall, back to Halen who smiled at him as the door opened. "Make your decision?" Halen asked.

Aymon nodded.

"Did you need to talk to--"

Aymon waved his hand. "No, I can just send a message."

Halen nodded, understanding Aymon's desire to leave. "Right. The car is waiting."

The trip back to Stonecourt was short and silent, and when they arrived, Halen followed Aymon to his private quarters, as was their usual ritual.

Aymon's rooms were richly furnished, bright, and neat. They could have never been called cozy, but Aymon had called them home since he had inherited the title of First, and they were at least filled with the things that Aymon had gathered and enjoyed over the years: knick knacks on shelves, photographs and paintings on the walls, and Halen smiling at him.

"Are you going to break out Vaneik's birthday gift?" Halen asked as he sat down on Aymon's couch, crossing his legs and taking up most of the space. Aymon sat across from him.

"You'll have to tell me what I was betting on first."

"You won't open it up simply in honor of your future apprentices?" Halen asked.

"Think you're about to lose your bet?"

"No," Halen said. He stared up at the ceiling. "I had a most interesting conversation with one of the Academy people, right after we arrived."

"I had wondered what that was all about."

"I figured there was no need to worry you about it earlier. You had some accidental party crashers lurking in the back."

"Oh?"

"Two students and one of their families. One of the masters had let them in."

"And this came to your attention because?"

"It would be my prerogative to pick out interlopers regardless," Halen said. "But one of the students was on the edge of a complete panic. Obviously, that kind of thing catches my attention, especially when it's that clear over the crowd noise."

Aymon frowned. "Panic?"

Halen smiled. "Yes."

"I assume you found out why."

"I was on my way to investigate, but the one who invited them in stopped me and told me who they were."

"And they are?" Halen was drawing out the story for suspense, but Aymon found he was unexpectedly tired and not in the mood for suspense or entertainment. Choosing apprentices had been more draining than he had realized. Halen picked upon this and smiled gently.

"It's funny," Halen said. "Usually, when we walk into a room and panic ensues, it's over you. But she was a spacer, must have seen me for a pirate right away, got herself worked up a little. Anyway, I spoke to her mentor. By his account, she's quite talented."

"And you think I've picked this spacer child to be my apprentice? Wouldn't it be a problem if she panics whenever she's in a room with you?"

Halen laughed. "I think we could learn to work with each other."

"Alright, tell me the name, and I'll check it when I get their profiles."

"I'll do you better-- her master described her project to me, which I assume you saw."

"Fine, fine," Aymon said. "There were hundreds of projects in that hall, though. And I only picked three."

Halen closed his eyes. "Was one of them a fishbowl?"

"You were spying on me, you liar," Aymon said, incredulous.

Halen stood. "I wouldn't lie to you."

"If you could tell just from being in a room with the girl that I would want her as my apprentice, why do we go to the trouble of making projects to begin with?"

Halen had already wandered away, into the dining room area, where he was pulling out the bottle from the wine fridge and gathering two glasses from the cabinet. "I'm a special case. Besides, you wouldn't want to pick students out of a hundreds long police lineup. And if you had seen how she was feeling with me standing behind you, you wouldn't have wanted her."

Aymon sighed. "I'm shocked you aren't saying something about how the Academy is arcane and stupid."

"And the Academy is arcane and stupid," Halen said, returning with a smile. "May I?" He held up the bottle of wine, set the glasses down on the table.

"You won," Aymon said, leaning back in his seat.

Halen put the bottle down on the coffee table, then came around behind Aymon and put his thick hands on Aymon's shoulders. Aymon relaxed into the touch. Halen's power was working on him, relaxing the tension in his neck, releasing the knot in his back that he hadn't been fully aware of. "Don't be so grim," Halen said, then sat down next to Aymon.

He uncorked the bottle with his power, not bothering with a corkscrew, and poured the wine into the two glasses, passing one to Aymon.

"What are we toasting to?" Halen asked, holding up his glass.

"To the future leader of the Empire," Aymon said.

"Let's just say to the future." Halen clinked his glass against Aymon's, and they drank.