The Hidden Institute

By Brand Gamblin

Rising above your station can be deadly.

Cliffy is a child born on the streets of a Neo-Victorian world. Witnesses to a murder, he blackmails a nobleman, receiving a unique bribe. In exchange for his silence, the nobleman introduces him to the Malcolm Rutherford Holden Institute of Regentrification. There, Cliffy learns to walk, talk, and act like a nobleman, so that he may infiltrate high society. But that type of fraud is punishable by death, and when Cliffy uncovers a plot to assassinate a head of state, he's hunted by more than just the aristocracy.

Royal intrigue, daring escapes, sub-dermal machines, and bear polo. A grand adventure in a not-so-distant world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brand Gamblin
• Release date: Mar 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458068385

Brand Gamblin

A graduate of Texas Tech University with a Bachelors in Computer Science, Brand has been a video game programmer for the majority of his life, working for such companies as Microprose, Acclaim, and Firaxis. He is now working as a User Interface Programmer for a Network Security company. He participated in the National Novel Writing month in 2008, and won with the novel Tumbler. Since that time, Tumbler has been made into a podiobook, and is actively seeking a publisher. in 2009, Brand again joined in the NaNoWriMo, this time writing a Steampunk retelling of George Orwell's most famous work, which he has titled 1884. At the time of this writing, 1884 is still in development.

Book preview

— 1 —

Murder and Blackmail

Lord Wheylan Simmons was not in attendance when his valet was murdered. If one were to ask him whether he ought to have been there, he would smile kindly and change the subject.

Given that it was a violent and unexpected death, it follows that the event was unscheduled. As such, no gentleman could be expected to keep the appointment with any certainty. As strange as it may seem, this information would please Lord Wheylan Simmons. He was always one for proper actions, in their proper time.

On that night, Lord Simmons was engaged in a very improper affair, and had therefore taken all pains to see that it was well hidden politically. A few delicate lies and promises allowed him a few hours, during which no eyes would look for him. He brought his valet, of course, because a gentleman never travels completely alone. It was one of many proper acts used to support his improper one.

The valet in question, Sebastian, was also one for proper actions, more so than his master. On the evening of his sudden termination, he stood in the doorway outside the Handmaid’s Tail. He sighed, gripping his master’s silken gloves tightly behind his back as he stood ramrod straight. Sebastian’s cap was clean and bright, perched at the perfect angle. Every button on his tartan vest shined with the splendor of deliberate attention. The lines of his perfect gray jacket merged seamlessly with those of his perfect gray slacks, making him look more like a granite statue of a man. The shine on Sebastian’s shoes, the glint of his buttons, and the perfect lines in his suit worked to show that this was not a man to be disturbed, but rather a force to be avoided if possible.

He glowered at the street as though trying to will it away. The grubby street held more than the brothel his master patronized. A vacant, nameless bar sat across the narrow alley, windows smashed and boarded. At one end of the alley, a brightly-lit liquor store did listless trade, a single digital bell playing when customers entered or left. In the other direction, a market storefront had closed in upon itself for the night, dropping a metal mesh cocoon around the door and display windows. The cobbles of the alleyway were slick with oil and the evening’s rain. Streetlights cast dim rainbows on the oily road, and flickered as they slowly gave the last ergs of their lives in luminescence.

The still alley echoed with the dripping of leaky gutters, and the occasional scuttling of a cat on the hunt. The only part of this outing that Sebastian appreciated was the silence. If they had to visit a den of iniquity, he wanted to be seen by as few people as possible. That was why he frowned when he saw the young toughs leaving the liquor store, stumbling as they saw him.

The largest of the group put his hands up to his face, running them back through his spiked cyan hair on either side, Spiffy! Sebastian recognized the pompous move, and knew it was intended to insult him.

The other boys snickered and shuffled closer to Sebastian, following the blue-haired leader. Sebastian evaluated them carefully as they neared. They fell into step behind the leader, a thin, wiry teen who nonetheless out massed his brethren due to his sheer height. His bright blue hair stood out in luminescent shocks all about his head, like an explosion of daylight. A younger boy beside him sneered, his face stretching to accommodate the evil leer, Somebody’s stepped outta place, SkyBo.

Skybo nodded, his shocks of hair waving like the branches of a bright blue tree. He held Sebastian’s attention, Say, boy! Whas’ da AllGood? You droppa bad left turn?

Sebastian did not respond, but glared directly into the eyes of the leader. As they neared, he stepped into a relaxed stance, tucking his master’s gloves into a jacket pocket.

SkyBo’s bloodshot eyes narrowed, Now looka that better-than. Treat a body like he too low to hear. Ain’t polite. Put a lily skin in a flash suit, suddenly he can’t hear a body.

Sebastian growled, What would you like me to say?

SkyBo grinned, See? Thass all I’m askin’ for! Bitta the common courtesy, right? As they neared, SkyBo’s followers began breaking off. They slowly flanked the valet, facing him as they circled, arms at their sides. Sebastian crouched slightly and brought his hands up to his waist, open at his sides.

Sebastian nodded, Then I am glad to provide what you were looking for. I expect you’ll be wanting to attend to other business now.

You tryin’ to get shut of me, boy? SkyBo slid closer to Sebastian, grinning, And here, we was just gettin’ to know each other. Now you pull that ‘attend to other business’ chatter, givin’ tha brush-off. His crew laughed maliciously at SkyBo’s insulting impersonation of Sebastian.

The valet turned slowly, taking in the group of leering jackals. He cast a brief glance down the alley to check for witnesses. SkyBo followed his gaze, Whatcha scannin’ for, boy? Expectin’ your peeps to come spring you?

He stepped up to Sebastian, and took a loose stance, similar to the valet’s. He pulled out a wicked-looking, thin knife, and licked the edge of it, laughing at Sebastian, Ain’t nobody comin’. Howzis? How bout you gimmie that sweet lid of yours, and maybe I don’t hurt you takin’ it?

One of the others piped in from behind Sebastian, An them shoes!

Another laughed, An’ your wallet.

Sebastian lunged, his open left hand reaching for SkyBo’s right. He grabbed the knife hand upside down, twisting it as he pulled SkyBo in, and forcing the boy to wrench himself sideways as Sebastian’s other hand came down in a tight fist across the boy’s temple.

SkyBo cried out and fell back as the others watched. Sebastian waited for them to realize what had happened. He knew he could take any of them in single combat. He made eye contact with each of them in turn, to convince them of the fact.

SkyBo dropped to one knee, holding his knife arm tight to his side. He growled, Get tha fucker! and they all lunged as one.

Sebastian was at the top of his class in self-defense, excelling in Torat-Shav. He could defeat any man standing, with minimal preparation. He did well in uneven sparring, where two opponents would attack him simultaneously. However, Sebastian was completely unprepared for a pack of armed men, all striking at once.

They had no organization, they did not leap for different parts of his body. They all lunged for his head and torso, stabbing first. One of the boys actually cut another of his gang in the initial thrust causing both to cry out in pain and alarm.

Sebastian grabbed the weapon hand of one attacker while parrying an attack by another, but was overwhelmed by the remaining combatants. Before he even noticed the others, he was stabbed twice in his back and once in the stomach. One knife struck his spine and buried itself in the bone. Sebastian screamed as they struck, dropping to the ground. They attacked and retreated like an ocean wave, jumping forward together, then receding all at once. Bloodied and feral, they stepped back and watched him, waiting to see if the staggering man would live.

Sebastian looked down at the gouts of blood pouring easily out of his stomach, and put his hands over the wound. He tried to put pressure on the wound, but the strength had ebbed from his arms. A moment later, he was too weak to even try climbing to his feet. He raised his head to call out, but all he could manage was a bloody gurgle. Sebastian drew in one last ragged breath, tumbled forward onto his face and died.

SkyBo walked over to him and snatched the cap off his head, where it had remained perfectly placed throughout the fight. He spat on the man as one of the crouching jackals grabbed for his wallet.

—

Lord Wheylan Simmons was not looking forward to the return trip home. He fully expected a night of quiet passive-aggressive innuendo from his valet, as it was still a long drive back to the villa. For this reason, as much as any other, he had delayed emerging from the brothel.

Simmons did his best to protect his identity, and the slight chill in the air aided him there. He pulled the camelhair coat tight about him, and tugged his weather-beaten cap down over his eyes. As he stepped out, softly whispering thanks to the silky hands that held the door, he cursed himself for losing his gloves.

As he turned to face the empty street, he found only the body of his man flattened before him. Blood pooled around the body, making a dark pattern in the cobbles of the street.

Simmons took two quick steps over to him, then stopped. One hand covered his face, then he bit his thumb as he looked back at the brothel. The proper course was clear. Medical attention. Reports to be filed. He would be discovered.

Someone in the brothel could say they found the body. For the right price, any number of plausible truths could be constructed. But Sebastian was still his man. The lord would be linked to this death, even if only as the owner of a whore-monger. And such would surely ruin his valet’s reputation.

Simmons looked back at the prostrate man. He considered that medical attention may not even be necessary. If the man were dead, it was another matter entirely. Political ramifications could be avoided much more easily.

He walked over to the corpse slowly. The lord’s breathing hitched once as he looked down at his servant of five years. Of course, no one wanted him to die. It was Simmons duty as a nobleman to save the life of his bound man, if at all possible. But if the life were already lost, his duties were more muddied. Rather than purchasing truths from the doxies, he could enlist their silence, and even their help in removing the body.

Lord Simmons knelt next to his valet, and reached underneath him to feel for a pulse. As he lifted the shoulder and groped with one hand, his other hand moved to the thin, wicked dagger in his back. Simmons gripped it, hoping to wrest it out, when he was suddenly bathed in a bright, white light.

A thin boy of no more than thirteen years crouched near the marketplace opening to the alley, glaring at Lord Simmons. His pale, pasty skin shone with a halo from the street lamps. From the boy’s finger, a powerful, bio-luminescent spotlight flooded Simmons, trapping him. The nobleman froze, agape, and stared at the boy. He sputtered, What are you doing?

The boy walked closer, crouching and ready to run, Oh, it’s one for the dailies, all right. Ain’t never seen a killin’ before. As he neared, Simmons saw the blinking red light on his finger. Between the floodlight, and the blinking red light of his ring, Simmons realized the boy was wearing a netcam.

The nobleman looked around himself, suddenly recognizing his position. He knelt in his valet’s blood, one hand gripping his throat and the other holding a knife in his back. The blood drained out of his face as Simmons pulled his hands back like a shot. No! No, you don’t understand. It’s not what it looks like!

The boy grinned, It’s nothin’ to me. One dandy kills another at the steps of the Handmaiden. I hear tell it happens all the time.

But I didn’t do this! Simmons jumped up and staggered back from the body. His knees showed dark stains where he’d been kneeling in blood. He looked down at them, then quickly back at the boy, You must understand. I wasn’t even here when He took a deep breath, and composed himself. Lord Simmons reached out, imploring, to the youth, Please, what do they call you, son?

The lighting shifted as the boy’s fist flexed. He couldn’t have been more than five years junior to the lord. I’m Cliffy.

The lord smiled hugely, Wonderful. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cliffy. My name is Lord Simmons. The boy’s brow furrowed, and Simmons corrected himself quickly, But it would please me if you’d use the name my friends do, and call me Wheylan.

The lord took two slow steps away from the body, holding Cliffy’s gaze as well as he could, Now we have found ourselves in a grave misunderstanding— He realized that his hands were slowly rising in defense as he walked over to the boy.

The boy noticed it at the same time and piped up, No point steppin’ on me. Feed’s waved into the cloud. You kill me, my peeps’ll figger it, an’ make you a star.

Simmons backed up, hands held up by his shoulders, No. Of course. I beg your pardon. I meant no offense. . . I just— He cast a quick glance at the brothel doorway. There wouldn’t be too much time before someone else would stumble upon them.

This would never do. The whole point in coming here was to keep his dalliances a secret. Socially he would be ridiculed and ostracized. Politically, he would be stymied at every turn, unable to move for the better part of a year as compatriots distanced themselves from him. Lord Simmons looked back at the boy. This was a disaster, but not an irreparable one.

Now Cliffy. I realize how this must seem to you, but mine was not the hand that killed this man. I just . . . He ran his hands through his hair, pulling his hat free. He wrung the hat between his hands, I just cannot be seen here. There are people who would destroy me if they knew. The lord looked back at Cliffy, It would please me to know that I could help you. Perhaps a thousand, right now, and we could agree to destroy the feed. You can track it down and remove the file.

The boy’s scowl deepened, but the light on his finger switched off. In the sudden dimness, Simmons could see the red light on his finger fade to nothing. Cliffy said through a pout, Don’ want your green.

Simmons frowned, Ah, but you say you would take the dailies money.

Not tha same. Not a jot. They lay green by me for reportin’ a vicious. Civic duty, in fact.

Simmons posture eased slightly. He didn’t know this area, these people, or the culture. But they were talking now, negotiating. And no one could beat Simmons when it came to twisting words. I see. So, was it part of your plan to tell the police? Or does your civic duty find its limits at being paid for juicy gossip.

Cliffy looked up and down the alley, That’s for th’ daily. They’ll have th’ footage, timestamp and jeepus. Don’ need me when they make reports.

One corner of Simmon’s mouth curled slightly, So, you do not intend to be available when they speak to the constabulary. I wonder why that is?

Cliffy took a step back, Not your business, not theirs either. He stabbed a finger at the Lord, I ain’t done a thing wrong! Just don’t want my name in nobody’s files, tha’s all.

Lord Simmons put one manicured finger to his lips, I see. So, let me try to understand. Your plan is to take money for implicating me in a crime which I did not commit. The dailies, having taken your footage and given you your thirty pieces of silver, would then inform the police. The police, having identified me, would then come to visit me, and I would explain my attendance and my reasoning. It will be an embarrassment to be sure, but one which needs would force me to bear. At that point, it would occur to the constabulary that they have a suspect who claims innocence, and a body, but a witness who desperately tries to hide his identity.

Cliffy hugged his arms, Ain’t hiding. Just no need to go sticking my nose in.

Simmons nodded in thought, The police would then wonder how you came to be here at just the right time, when no one else was around. They must wonder why you would not come forward. Hmm. . .

The boy was visibly nervous now, That don’ make sense! ’s not me! It’s you! You’re the one did it!

Lord Simmons held his breath for just a beat, praying this step didn’t go wrong, Cliffy, when they come for me, they will ask for your name. And I know your name, Cliffy. I can describe you.

Cliffy blinked and hugged himself tighter, Ain’t fair. I didn’t do nothing. I was minding my own. Thought I’d do right by the stiff, now I’m all suspect and such.

Simmons nodded slowly, I believe I still can help you, Cliffy. When the police come for me, I can keep your name out of it. I can keep you safe.

Cliffy nodded, Right. Wha- How?

If you may find your way to erase the feed, I will make every effort to ensure that they never darken your door. Simmons wore his most friendly smile, and reached for the boy with one hand.

Cliffy kept nodding, smiling now, then he looked back at the body, and something clicked. He turned back to Simmons, No. Wait. You’re the devil, sure.

Simmons’ smile dropped as he brought his hand back, What do you mean? I just want to help you.

Naw. The cops wouldn’t even be coming for me, lest you sick em on me. And you can’t sick em on me if’n I don’t turn in the feed. If I do for you, you don’t ever need doin’ for me.

Wheylan took a step back, So. . . I see. We’ve come full circle then. What could I do for you, Cliffy? I think my offer of a thousand was more than generous.

The boy frowned, Don’t want your money. He nodded toward the valet. I want that.

Simmons eyes widened, You want the body?

Nah, ya dandy moo-brain. I want in ta that livin’. I wanna ride in the velos, sleep in the suites. I’ll do for you tha same as him. Cliffy shrugged, Looks like you got an openin’ in the manservant department.

Wheylan crossed his arms, I’m terribly sorry, but I simply couldn’t do that.

You can viddie me, see? I’d be around all twenty-four. You can keep peepers locked so’s you know I don’t squeal.

Wheylan shook his head, No, I’m sorry, Cliffy. You don’t understand. He couldn’t think of a way to tell the boy that they would be found out.

The boy’s face sunk into a pout, How’s prison chow?

Lord Simmons raised his hands in surrender again, Now, please. Let’s not do that. I’ve already explained in detail how dangerous it would be for you, should you decide to turn that tape in.

Cliffy kicked at a loose cobble in the street, Take my chances.

Well I’m afraid I won’t. . . Damn! Simmons started wringing his hat in his hands again, then his eyes brightened. See here, my new friend; Once news of my valet’s disappearance is circulated, there will be a line of noblemen reaching around the block, all petitioning for this position. If I should decide to hire someone with no qualifications or background, the entire community would smell a rat.

Cliffy’s head fell to one side in amazement, Now you callin’ me whiff?

Simmons brought both hands up, No, no! Not at all. I’m warning you that people would dig into your past. Unscrupulous fellows with no sense of a gentleman’s privacy. They would pick over information regarding your parents, your upbringing, your schooling, your relationships. They would study you as the scientist studies the bug, and if they should find the slightest thing wrong . . . a misspelled word, a dropped letter in your speech, anything . . . they would have us both under suspicion.

Cliffy looked away, admitting the logic of it. He took one step backward, ready to leave.

Simmons stepped forward quickly, But still . . . ah. It’s not altogether impossible . . . I just cannot be directly associated with it. He plucked a card out of his pocket and produced a pen from another, However, I have some small connection with a group who could help you.

The young lord began writing quickly on the back of the card, I can get you an introduction with people that you could never, on your own resources, be able to meet. People who could teach you. They call it ‘Regentrification.’

Cliffy stood still for a long time, then took one step closer, Whassat mean?

The young lord gestured with his hands to indicate all of Cliffy, They can change you. Improve you. He grinned and held out the card, Make you noble.

— 2 —

Hard Won Freedom

Cliffy kicked a dilapidated box out of the way, then knelt to look at the stack of boxes behind it. Dull orange boxes were labeled, Clothes, Bathroom, and Stuff. His father scowled at him from the mattress in the middle of the small room.

Don’t see it. Every way I viddie, still come up trappish.

Cliffy grabbed a handful of clothes from one of the boxes and threw it at the mattress, No trap, da. Got me a sponsor. It’s a proper school.

Cal leaned forward on his knees and scratched at a sore under his mottled chin. He didn’t like sitting on the mattress. He had trouble with his back every time he sat down or stood up. At thirty-five, he was too young for that sort of trouble, but there it was. He felt old and tired all the time, with sunken eyes and pasty yellow skin. He’d given up the glow a few years back, but it still showed up in his skin, and people still treated him like a junkie. Between the free clinic and his days spent begging for work or money, Cal had lost his sense of trust. To see his son preparing for some kind of finishing school didn’t just feel dangerous. It felt insulting.

Why you? Cal tried to keep the sneer out of his voice.

Said already. Got a sponsor. Set up for bigger an’ better, yeah? Cliffy pulled out a pair of pants and sniffed them. Shrugging, he threw them at the bed.

So how long are you goin’, and where is it?

Dunno. ’s a big secret. Don’t expect I’ll be droppin’ in with tha howzits. Cliffy pawed through the box without looking through their contents. He waited to hear his father’s response.

Cal looked down at his sneakers, Don’ expect ya ever did.

For a few moments, they were both silent, as Cliffy finished with one box and snapped open another. Then Cal shook his head and stood up, No. I won’t have it. The effort took him longer than he would have wanted, and ruined the effect, but he tried to ignore the pain.

Cliffy grabbed a weather-beaten hemp bag from within the box and turned to face him, Wozzat?

His father shook his head and crossed his arms. Then, feeling stupid in the posture, tried to play it off as brushing his arms off, Won’t have it. No son of mine runnin’ off to secret schools or whatnot. And me here with no idea where or how long. Jehosaphat, you’ve not got more than ten years now.

Cliffy started filling his bag with the pile of clothes that sat on his mattress, Thirteen this past May. Not that you’d notice.

Cal squinted at him, Never.

Cliffy frowned down at the bag, shaking his head, Not your place anyway. Ain’t been for a dog’s age. I’m goin. Be back when I can.

Cliffy slung the bag over his shoulder and started for the door. His father scrambled to get in front of him, one palm on the boy’s chest. Not so. Still legal guardian. I’ll be whipped if I’m letting my blood go off to some poncey school, may not even be real, and leave me here with no wheres or whens.

Cliffy shrugged off the hand and tried to step around him, but Cal shifted to the other side of the crumbling doorway. The boy gripped the strap of his bag tightly in one hand. In his other hand, he held a card, which he used to point at his father, Not your place. Not anymore.

I’ll be the judge of places, as long as— Cal looked down at the card his son was poking into his chest, Wozzat there?

Cliffy tried to pull it back, but the old man always did have fast hands. Cal plucked the card away from him, and shoved him backwards. Cliffy staggered and tumbled onto the mattress. Cal held the thin, plastic, fine-paper grain card close to his eyes. He frowned at the few lines of block letters in his slightly-shaking hands, then flipped it over. He scowled at the boy, not wanting to admit that he couldn’t read it any better than the boy could. This your ticket in then?

The boy shrugged as Cal took the card in both hands and tried to tear it in half. The gesture was thwarted as the resilient self-healing fiber stretched to almost twice its length before snapping back into place as one end slipped out of his hand.

From his bed, the boy snickered at him. Cal’s face reddened as he used the card to point back at Cliffy, Don’t matter none. You’re not getting in, save for my leave, which you ain’t gettin. He took two steps out and slammed the door behind him. The door had warped with age and water damage, so it didn’t slam properly. As it bounced open, Cal grabbed the handle, and pulled it tight.

He shouted through the door, And you’ll not come out ’til I say it so!

Cliffy fumed and balled up his fists as he stared at the door. He knew the futility of shouting, and knew that it might bring worse reprisals. All the same, he got up and threw his bag against the door. Then he turned and dropped, face first, onto the mattress.

Cliffy rolled over and contemplated the room. No windows, no other doors. One section of the ceiling was weak, but it would take a lot of work to pull it open. And besides, his father would hear it.

In the other room, he could hear his father pacing. Cal couldn’t stop him forever. But if he found a way to destroy the card, or hold Cliffy long enough, the opportunity would pass. The Lord told him that they took applicants on the first morning of every month, but he didn’t say how long they would wait, if at all.

Eventually, Cliffy heard the set switch on, and the creak of the old recliner that they had found by the side of the road. Although he couldn’t hear the directed audio that shot into his father’s ears, he could tell by the hum of the set that he was watching

Reviews for The Hidden Institute

[darushawehm-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

For fans of steampunk or possibly Dickens, this is a great SF read. I was completely drawn in to the beginning and instantly intrigued by the Neo-Victorian world created here. However, the pacing and ultimate lack of fleshing out that world stopped this from being a four or five star book.

As a coming of age tale in a interesting world of intrigue and extreme class division, the story was great. The major flaw, for me, was that there wasn't enough of it. I wanted to know more -- a lot more -- about the world our hero Cliffy lives in. What is daily life like for the "commoners." Do they work? At what? And what's the deal with the nobility? How did they take power, and what are they doing with it? How did such an obvious gulf open between the social classes? And what exactly are these wars about that get mentioned but never explained?

I also found the pacing a bit off. The first half is very detailed, giving us a great view into Cliffy's day to day life. But it seems that in the second half, where things are getting really interesting, entire years disappear in the breaks between chapters.

If this were a draft of a novel, it would have me super excited to read the final version. As is, it's a good story that I wish had gone more places.