Confliction: Chapter 8

         Rocac stood outside the front doors of the science labs with a trio of guards behind him.  The nights were still blessedly short, and the warmth of the previous day continued to cling to the air even as the sun of a new one began to spread.  It was five in the morning and the offices were just opening up, although any dedicated scientists had most likely arrived over an hour ago.  The lot lights were off and only a single white light shone from a room on the fourth story up.  This building was situated in southern Anoosa and it had taken him an hour to get here.  His guards stood at clear attention, but were showing signs of frustration from being awake so early, often trading glances and sharing yawns.  Rocac was tired too, although he refused to show it, fighting an internal war with each yawn as it built up behind his ears and disappeared defeated down his throat, only to raise up in rebellion mere minutes later.  He had not slept this night, nor the night before it, relying on whatever chemical was available to him at the time in order to keep himself thinking clearly.  He took the last sip of his coffee and threw the cup to the ground.
         The plastic doors burst open with a clunk and a very awake looking man in a white coast walked briskly outside and up to Rocac standing there.  His guards stiffened up.  Rocac smiled and reached out his hand into the waiting hand of the scientist in front of him, who grabbed his with both.
         “Lord Commander Farlar, it is great to see you again,” he said shaking vigorously.
         “Doctor Miski.  A pleasure as always.” 
         They stood and smiled at each other in awkward silence for a moment.  “Oh, please, come in, you must be cold and tired.  Can I get you some coffee and a danish?  We have four kinds today.”  He led them in through the doors into the surprisingly homey, yet sterile corridor.
         “Just a coffee for me, but I think my men here are tired and hungry,” Rocac said motioning to his guards as they walked.
         “The cafeteria is just down the hall to the right,” Miski said to the guards, and they broke off without a second invitation, leaving Miski and Rocac alone.
         The hallways were a light brown and there was a light grey carpet beneath, which distinguished the place from the usual hospital style labs that he had been in before.  Plants rested on jutted shelves in every corner and some easy listening music was loud enough to hear the lyrics over the PA.  The hum of machinery came behind various doors as they passed, and occasionally a voice could be heard from within rooms.  It was impossible to tell the time of day from inside here, he noticed.  There were no clocks and no windows.  Inside here, it was like it's own world, separated from everything that went on outside, except by mission.  He knew for a fact that a great deal of the workers here slept here, sometimes at their desks and sometimes in a bedding chamber in the western wing.
         Miski was a small man, weak in Rocac's way, but strong in his own.  His head had started balding in a peculiar way, from the sides first, and while his white coat was clean, the clothes he wore underneath were stained.  He had a way of speaking with a jargon which often made it difficult to follow what he was saying.  Far more than simply being annoying, it was dangerous.  He was smarter than the majority, and it was clear that he knew it, and knew how to use it.  Many an investor had been wrangled in by this man's talk, possibly including Rocac himself.
         The scientist kept moving his hands in and out of his pockets, nervously grabbing at something inside, most likely a handkerchief.  He was taking small hurried steps as he gave him a quick tour of the facilities, pointing out where some of the research had been done.  He had been on this tour before and just smiled at everything that was said as they worked their way towards the main laboratories.
         “I must tell you, your funding has been most generous, Lord Commander.  I cannot begin to tell you what has been made possible because of your contributions.”
         “I hope you can at least begin, Doctor Miski.  That's why I'm here,” Rocac said.
         “Perhaps I can, but I think it would be much more fitting to show you.”  He stopped at a door that had always been closed to Rocac in his previous visits, and slid the access card around his neck through the reader.  It buzzed and he pushed through.
         A wash of blue light greeted him from a vast lining of angled windows that walled the corridor ahead of them.  He walked in, and peered through the windows.  At first glance, it appeared to simply be leading into the research labs, but on second inspection, the  room it looked into was an entirely new room.
         It was a vast honeycomb of enclosed cubicles no bigger than a bathroom.  The rooms had no windows or doors, but were instead open at the roof while an array catwalks and ladders provided both access and observation for scientists.  Some of the rooms had a transparent roof that was locked in place.  The ceiling was several metres up, and yet more walkways stretched along the empty space in tiers, covered in various instruments and panels.  There were scientists everywhere, watching, and analyzing data.  A wall on the far side had a birds eye of the honeycomb diagrammed in digital, with various rooms lit up and spraying numbers and other data to the crowd of eager doctors below.  Each room that was in use had at least one man standing in the catwalks above it, observing first hand, and Rocac suspected that at least two more were assigned to each room in other parts of the facility.
         Inside each cubicle in use was a single person that Rocac knew to be a mage who was the test subject.  He saw what was clearly an aeromancer blowing wind turbines as fast as he could.  Two cubicles over, a Hydromancer was submerged under water without any equipment while two men in white coats watched.  The cubicle closest to Rocac was covered, and surrounded in men, while an inferno raged within the walls.  The flames were so bright that Rocac couldn't see the one inside.
         “That is our newest volenteer,” Miski said quietly.  Rocac had forgotten he was here, as he stood transfixed on the scene in front of him with awe.  He looked back at the doctor who almost looked bored.  “A pyromancer artist.  Her name is Malery.  We've been studying her intently  since she came in, trying to find out everything we can as quickly as possible.”
         “You are paying her well, I trust?”  Rocac had seen the advertisements in the paper offering substantial payment to artists who would participate in government tests and trials.  He knew the payments were good, and he had always been surprised that so few had turned up.
         “Indeed.  She is the last piece of the collection.  We have an artist of all six types now, on top of the various mages.”
         “She was also the most urgent.”
         “Well, she only came in two days ago, so our data isn't all compiled, but so far, we can draw the same conclusion as any other artist.”  Miski spoke as if he had rehearsed this.  “They are orders of magnitude more powerful than mages, in both physical and mental strength as well as their realistic abilities.  A member of my team put it most eloquently the other day when he said that Mages wield their powers like a weapon, while artists wield it like it is a part of their own body.”
         “That and they are more powerful.”
         “Naturally,” Miski said.  He had a pride in his voice that irritated Rocac.  Miski was watching artists in a laboratory; but he had seen them in battle, roasting the flesh off the bones of his men, and ripping them in half with their bare hands.  “Would you like to see them?”
         Rocac stiffened, but smiled.  “I would like nothing more.”
         Miski turned his heels and walked towards the end of the hallway and punched a musical code into a pad on the wall, opening up a panel in the glass.  Rocac followed him through it, and found him on the metal walkways surrounded by scientists, all approaching Miski to ask, or to tell or to report their findings for the morning.  Rocac walked behind him, a good three inches taller than the tallest man there.  He clomped his heavy leather boots as he walked, which made a loud sound on the metal below him.  The people around him looked nervous looking at him, and some eyed his sidearm.  He smiled politely at the precious few who made eye contact with him.  Not enough.  Was this fear, or respect?  A different form of power, both with their uses. 
         The cloud of white coats dispersed, heading back to their duties, while Miski led Rocac down steps and just above the honeycombed chambers.  From here, the true immensity of the room was made apparent, as the rooms were larger than they had appeared from above.  His escort began to explain some of the facts he found interesting about the test subjects.  This one had been a miner before the reality sickness began to turn his skin hard as rock.  This one's body temperature is below freezing and seems to go lower when he is stimulated.  The one just behind has been working on possessing other peoples' bodies, but hasn't been successful yet.
         Rocac stopped to peer into a chamber that was filled with water.  Inside a man was churning the waters in a whirlpool, while he stood, completely dry in the centre eye.  The man looked up and made eye contact with Rocac, briefly before going back to his concentration.  His hands were balled up in fists and he was shaking.
         “This is a mage, am I right?” Rocac asked.  He had seen both mages and artists in battle, and had learned to tell the difference between the two, even though they didn't look different at first glance.  Mages had more difficulty controlling their powers, often taking great physical exertion to do so, and getting exhausted relatively easily.  He had learned to take advantage of these moments of weakness.  It wasn't so simple with artists, who had been so named,\ because of the elegance and personality they employed while fighting.  He had never seen one get tired before, and had certainly never seen one die, although he had known them to flee.
         “It is,” confirmed Miski.
         “What's he doing?”
         “We are measuring how fast he can turn a turbine.”  He gave a sharp whistle and one of them men overseeing the room walked over and handed him an electronic tablet.  “He is generating about 60,000 watts at the moment.  So roughly enough to power eight small houses.”
         Rocac had to make a notable effort to keep his eyes from widening.  “And that's just a mage.”
         Miski cracked a huge smile.  “Yes it is.  The results from our artists are proving to be quite impressive.”
         “I want to see them,”  Rocac said, continuing to stare down into the chamber.  Inspiring effort and concentration was in the eyes of the man down there.
         Miski's smile disappeared.  “The results, or the artists?”
         “Both, if you don't mind.”
         “The artists are just this way, but I'm afraid the results aren't ready yet.”
         Rocac turned away from the Hydromancer and gave Miski the most neutral look he could muster up.  “Why not?”
         “We don't have many Artists, here, so our research has been slow.”
         Rocac looked around the vast array of test chambers.  While there was certainly a lot of work going on, less than half of them were in use.  “I heard in a report once that artists only need to sleep one night a week.  Surely they wouldn't mind working around the clock for the amount that you are paying them.”  He was trying to sound objective, but he caught his toes tapping inside his boots.
         Miskis confidence seemed to be fading.  “If only all my researchers were artists, then we could indeed work around the clock.  We simply can't afford such things.”
         He was careful to deflect the money comment.  “Artists are a priority at the moment, Doctor Miski.  The tests on the mages can wait.”
         “For every hundred unaffs, there is a single mage, and for every hundred mages, we have an artist.  We have a multitude of tests to do on each artist before we can begin adequate study, so things progress slowly.”  Miski looked away from Rocac across the catwalks to a bunch of men standing around the giant screen at the end of the facility.  A pensive look came across his face, before he looked back.  Rocac had noticed and his eyes narrowed.  When Miski spoke again, he was speaking quietly.  “There are a few here who have been making suggestions to improve our speed, but they aren't exactly...”
         Rocac picked up where he left off.  “Ethical?”  He looked to the floor to confirm.  “I need everything that goes on in this facility to be ethical, Doctor.  That's absolutely vital and I cannot stress that enough.”  He was speaking involuntarily sternly.  “That is why I am funding you.  This is why the artists and mages are being payed to be here.  They are not prisoners of war, and everything is voluntary and it absolutely must stay that way.”  Rocac looked towards the crowd of men that Miski had glanced at.  “Who is making these suggestions?”  Miski seemed reluctant to speak against his peers, but he managed to pull the names of three scientists: Doctors Vinus, Drinc and Zanuck.  “You will need to refill their positions.  We cannot risk their ideas spreading, so they must be made example of.  I will speak to them privately before I leave today.”
         Miski showed signs of displeasure, but just nodded his head once.  He knew where his funding came from and was in no hurry to jeopardize that.  Rocac turned at once and walked in the direction of the Pyromancer artist that he had seen from above.  Miski trotted after him and caught up to him as he arrived at the thick covered glass.
         As thick as the glass was, it did not filter out all the heat of the firestorm going on inside.  The three men watching it looked to be uncomfortable.  They had taken off their lab coats and sweat stains were showing through their shirts.  Rocac understood why.  It was like an oven there.  He tried to get close to the glass to peer inside, but the heat was so ridiculous and he could see so little that he had to back away before seeing anything of value.
         “What test is this?”  he yelled over the roar of the flames.
         “An endurance test.  We are seeing how long she can maintain the heat.”
         Rocac called over one of the men overseeing it and pointed at his tablet.  He gave a nervous glance at Miski, who nodded, before giving it to him.  He looked at it, trying to make sense of the array of numbers and graphs that were presented to him.  “Four hours?”
         Miski nodded coyly.  “That sounds about right.”
         Rocac was startled.  He could feel the temperatures coming out of there, and as he stared at the screen in front of him, he watched them plotted on a time graph, which indicated that it hadn't declined at all since she had started, staying at close to 250 degrees.  He examined the numbers to try to find more info.  He leaned towards Miski and pointed.  “What does this number represent?”
         “The power she is generating,”  he said.  He had begun talking to one of the accompanying doctors.
         Without reacting, Rocac handed the tablet back to the scientist who had been waiting for it, who took it and scampered off to the side.  He walked away from the room top and the noise, tugging on Miskis coat as he passed.  He followed.
         “Have you seen enough yet, Lord Commander?”  He sounded anxious to end this meeting.
         “I have.”  Now came the games.  “I'm afraid I'm going to need to cut your funding by ten percent over the next month.”
         Miski looked horrified.  Rocac couldn't tell if this was him playing his part or if the large number had genuinely scared him.  “Sir, you can't do that.  We are doing incredibly valuable research here, and if that were to...”
         He cut him off.  “Valuable to who, Mr. Miski?”
         He looked confused and opened his mouth, letting nothing come out.
         “Are you getting funding from other sources?”
         “No, sir.  This is a government facility, and the nature of our work makes it illegal for anyone else to provide funding to our research.  That's why we need this so much.”
         Rocac looked around the room, watching the research going on, oblivious to their convorsation.  “This is a military research lab.  I need military research being done here.  All I see is corporate research.”
         Miski continued to look concerned and confused, without saying anything.  He waited for Rocac to elaborate.
         “We are in a war.  Please tell me the military applications of a Hydromancer spinning a turbine.”
         “Well, he could...”  Miski tried very hard to come up with something, but couldn't.
         “There is none.  Nor is there any need for a Pyromancer to stand still generating four hours of electricity, even if it is enough to light up a small city.”  Rocac walked closer to his silent friend and lowered his voice.  “Not only is this of no use to me, but this is incredibly dangerous information.”
         “How do you mean, Lord General?”  He was getting offended now.  “The Realistic Split affected the way everything works, not just the war.  Any and all research is vital, if you ask me.”
         “It is.  But understand this.  This war will end one day, one way or another.  People will live on and go about their daily business, whatever that may be.  But nothing will ever be the same.  Mages and artists are here to stay.  Imagine what will happen when corporations start taking an interest and find out how much energy these things can generate.  Two or three of them can run a power plant by themselves.”  He snapped his fingers. “There goes three hundred unaff jobs.  How many other jobs can be done better by artists and mages?  Maybe all of them.  And do you think those unaffs are going to be okay with losing their jobs?  They will be out for blood.”
         Miski was leaning back slightly and his eyes were wide.
         “This haunts me every day, Miski.  The war we fight now is frisky foreplay next to the civil war we have ahead of us.  That will be the real conflict of our time, and not one of us is ready for it.”  He paused for a moment, and smiled, putting a hand out and slapping the small man on the shoulder.  “That's why I need you to focus, my friend.  The longer I can delay a civil war, the longer I have to prepare.  You see?”  Miski nodded.  “Excellent.  As long as you see that, I don't think I will cut your funding after all.  Now, how about that coffee?”