P A N T O T E • Z E T E I N
T E N • A L E T H E I A N
T E N • A L E T H E I A N
Ash 28, 121 Age of Steel
Undergraduate research positions were coveted beyond measure at universities the world over, and the Greater Institute of Zaichaer was no exception. The opportunity to place ones name next to a learned professor was exciting in the extreme to those who cared about such things, and the vast majority of students matriculated without having ever managed to be employed in such a manner. Typically, only those who showed exceptional promise or aptitude, or even better those who had already come to the attention of the College of Inventors. Nominally, Anton had received his position upon the latter qualification, his demonstration at his entrance exam having drawn the right sort of eyes.
However, almost everyone, Anton included, assumed that the Michaelis heir had immediately taken one of the most prized posts available to him on the strength of his name more than anything else. It was well known that General Michaelis desired for his son to make a name for himself, and quickly, and there were always individuals who sought to fulfill the unspoken desires of the great and the good in order to further their own careers. Frankly, the lordling was not certain whether or not he cared how he received his position, but instead sought to make the best of it.
In light of his initial research, he was assigned to the renowned chemist Professor Otto Haber, an esteemed member of the Hall of Inventors who generously donated his free time to the College of Sciences. His current focus of study was utilization and refinement of electric arcs for the production of steel, both the scientist in particular and Zaichaer at large intensely interested in the opportunities for production that electrification created. Such techniques had long been mastered in the Imperium, but even the City of Brass was not privy to all of its secrets, and made do reverse engineering the principles of what they knew was a working process.
There was a strange energy in the air - metaphorically, as well as the very literal electricity - within the professor's lab, he and his other assistants moving with great speed. It was clear that this was no idle quest, but one that someone important had clearly taken an interest in. Anton supposed that made sense, as the process was known in the Imperium to be an excellent method to not just create steel from pig iron, but recycle and reclaim otherwise worthless scrap metal. Still, a fire had been lit under the feet of the scientists judging by how quickly they worked, furthering the student's suspicion that he had indeed acquired his job out of politics rather than ability. This was considered important, potentially even vital, by the State - or at least someone high ranked enough that those working on it saw no difference. Surely the managers of the project hoped that having a General's son on the job would reflect well in the all too political framework that even military affairs were viewed through.
No matter. Professor Otto had cheerfully greeted his newest assistant, assigned him to a graduate student to follow after like a lost puppy, and then immediately ensconced himself within the bowels of the arc furnace. The more senior student gave his junior a swift rundown on the goings on of the project, so swift that even with an elementary understanding of the mechanics at play Anton was effectively still lost, before just as swiftly informing him that his job would be data collection. An exceptionally unglamorous task, but perhaps the only one for a researcher so fresh that would still permit him to at least come close to the vast assembly.
"Look, it's simple. Weigh the reagents before they go in, weigh what's left after the arc has finished, report the difference as out gassing and slag. The porters can handle all the lifting, just make sure to note down the numbers in the notebook. Got it?" the graduate student asked.
"Understood," Anton replied, happy that such a simple job was explained swiftly and he could just go about his tasks.
"Fantastic. After the day is done, go ahead and calculate the daily average loss rate and the variance from the prior day's results. Do the same with the running average before updating it with the current day's take. Still got it?" the older man pressed.
"I am rather good with my numbers, if that's what you're afraid of," Anton replied, his happiness immediately dissipating. Holding himself somewhat straighter, he began to wonder if the student thought that just because he owned a famous name he couldn't also possess a keen mind. Nepotism may have gotten his foot in the door, but he was adamant about proving his worth, however scanty that might be.
"Just make sure the logs are filled out. Great to have you on the team." The reply came so quickly, the other man already walking away onto a new task barked at him by a senior researcher, that Anton could not tell if it was a rushed but genuine compliment or some sort of snark. He chided himself for already getting paranoid as he became acquainted with the notebook, the familiar surge of power coursing through his form as he activated his Cardinal Rune.
The imprints left upon the page told a story in their own right, one far more truthful than any on the team were likely to give him. Flipping through the entries, Anton was heartened and unsurprised to see that the first were written in an excited hand, each refinement, each test showing a noticeable decrease in loss and increase in efficiency. Even as the writer changed, the sense of accomplishment was palpable, a proud satisfaction that slowly but surely began to peter out as the technology matured and the early wins were replaced by far less spectacular improvements. Tweaks, marginal changes, enough to give one hope, but enough to create any sense of joy were the order of the day for those middle pages. And eventually even that faded away. They had hit a wall.
Frustration spilled out in front of him, the identical readings - or worse, back slides - written in a rapidly switching series of hands, but all of them were growing tired. Day after day, week after week, with nothing to show for it. The lingering aura of the last records matched that of the graduate student to whom Anton had spoken, the lordling realizing that no one actually working cared whether or not he got the job by the virtue of his father's name. Only that they were happy to have another set of hands doing anything, anything that could give them an edge and make the furnace a benefit instead of a drain.
Resolved to do his best, not just for glory or even for Zaichaer, but for the sake of those hardworking souls he found himself with, Anton threw himself into his relatively minor role. He refused to take shortcuts with his work, checking and recalculating the averages from the beginning of the log as those around him prepared for the first experiment of the day. His focus upon arithmetic was suddenly interrupted before he could finish such an exhaustive review however, as the acrid tang of electricity assaulted his senses. A song unlike any he had heard before was taken up as he stared at the test arcs, the furnace warming up.
Power and fury assaulted his arcane faux sight, a wave of barely contained sound crashing down upon his mind. The arc was a thrum of raw strength, like a distant avalanche, deadly to any who approached it but safely distant - for now. It whipped and writhed through the air, the sound growing louder and softer, fiercer and meeker, following no law Anton could discern as if it held a life of its own. This was the caged god electricity that first the Imperium and now Zaichaer had tapped, and it was a deity filled with wrath at being trapped and used.
Realizing that he was running out of time, he quickly summoned the porters to bring the test's supply of scrap metal to the scales, swiftly recording the weight before sending them off to stand ready at the furnace. Any notion of checking the math of those who had come before him was now quite forgotten, his focus entirely upon the furnace. His physical eyes weren't of course, the researcher dutifully following experimental protocol and averting his 'gaze' from the active device. But luckily he didn't need eyes to see. The metal was fed into the open maw as the soaring roar of electricity eagerly devoured and transformed that which dared enter its cage, its cruel song overpowering the slow symphony of the solid iron.
The beauty of the chemical process was laid bare in a way that those cursed to still rely upon their eyes could never understand, individual strands of being unraveling and reforming into something new. Some things. Steel was a familiar song, its solid drone forming in the belly of the beast, but it was not alone. The light rolling notes of gasses escaping solid shells, the plaintive wails of slag, these too joined the chorus. And as he saw, Anton wrote, his pen flying across blank paper as he recorded the truth that could never be seen.