Frank’s visit to the Department of Higher understanding was not as he imagined it would be.
Rather than the well-armed security force of overly-muscled goons that he had half-expected to grab him as soon as he so much as got within sight of the place—to then drag him to some dark room for a friendly conversation and bit of hard-man’s slap and tickle—he was instead left to just wander into the large government building just down the road from Central Processing.
There, he was forced to faff about and wait as the secretaries in the main lobby figured out on whether or not he was supposed to be here or not.
After a near two hours wait, he was then told to go in.
No direction, no guide, not even a “Hey, we’re watching you!”…nothing.
Taking the stairs upward, Frank eventually found his way to one of the schlub sections of the building. A hallway lined with doors meant for use by the rank and file. Not the fancy rooms up top that were meant to impress, but offices meant to be worked in.
It was towards the end that he found one with the name ‘Abigail Smith’ painted on its front.
Raising a hand to knock upon it, he was brought short as a voice called out, “Come in, Mr. Sullivan; it’s open.”
Taking hat in hand and steeling himself, Frank opened the door and entered as quietly and smoothly as he could manage.
A middle-aged woman sat behind a rather sparse desk, one whose surface matched the walls, the office near completely bare. And not merely for a lack of anything to put up there, Frank would wager.
Observing the woman, he noted her well-kept, blond hair, her neat but demure outfit, and the reserved posture she took, despite seemingly being in a relaxed situation.
No rings either—though that meant nothing here. This woman was a type to be married to the job, and would not easily brook, let alone submit to, any attempt on his part to woo her.
He mentally sighed as he realised this. No, there was no working his way out of this mess.
Before Frank could say anything, the woman asked, “And how is young Thomas?”
‘To…? Right.’ “Fine…fine; calls himself Goodie, though.”
“Mm, yes… Please, take a seat,” she offered.
He did so, then staring at her for a time as he waited for the woman to say something.
She returned his stare silently for that time, a barely noticeable rise of the corner of her lip indicating that she was enjoying the current power dynamic.
‘Oh, you manipulative…’
Frank did not finish the thought. Nor did he act on it. His view of the government aside, he was not so hot-headed as to go and antagonise anyone working for it when he did not have a leg to stand on.
“Received your invitation,” he muttered, throwing out a line to see where she would drag him, his tone neutral.
Her smile grew more visible as he spoke, though she let the silence continue for a moment longer still.
Rather than answer him, Ms. Smith then asked, “Mr. Goodwill? Is he eating? Sleeping alright?”
Frowning at the strange direction she now took him, Frank replied, “Uh, to my knowledge. I mean, he’s certainly not shy about eating when I’ve seen him.”
“Good…good. Tell me,” she eventually asked, “what exactly do you know about Mr. Goodwill?”
“Ah…well…” Frank gave her a look. “Well, you see, I found our boy working the police stations—reporting the location of people on the wanted posters…”
The woman across from him nodded, more than likely already knowing this given what access she had to the resources and services the government and, more specifically, her department could provide her.
“And that was not too long ago, mind you—but he, uh, he’s told us a fantastic tale…mentioned you as well. But he tends to keep thing close to the vest, and that with the short time we’ve known him means I know…but I also don’t know…ya know.”
She nodded again.
He was skirting giving an actual answer. No merely because of how insane announcing that he had partnered with a boy from another world sounded, but because Frank honestly did not know what this woman’s game was, what she could use to bring down the government’s upon.
So, his nonsensical reply was not without though or intent.
She seemed to understand this, so she gave him a break. Though Frank was under no delusion of it being for his benefit.
After taking a moment to think of how to reply—something that did not leave him with any peace of mind…nothing more troublesome than when a woman got to thinking—Miss Smith finally chose to talk to him properly.
“Well, first off, Mr. Goodwill is indeed from another world. Another ‘Earth’. Much like our own, but absent of the magic and mysteries that infest ours…which, I’m sure you can understand, has left them in a far better position for that absence.
She noted his lack of astonishment or incredulity over her emphasis on the lack of magic in the Mr. Goodwill’s world, but did not wait for Frank to nod his head in understanding before going on—though he did a second after she did.
“My department…not the,” she used both her index fingers to indicate the walls around the, “Department, but our…my specific role here concerns itself with the acquisition and testing of old-world artefacts. Now, I know you have your governmental authorisation on top of your freelancer status—that, and your involvement with this affair, is why I’m telling you this, and the only reason, you understand?”
“The item in question was a large, non-Egyptian sarcophagi. European in origin; pre-Camelot, we believe.”
All of this meant little to Frank. He had heard the old stories, but history was not his forte.
“The artefact was key for enacting an ancient ritual; one reported to summon child heroes from some other place. We were not particularly expecting anything, not beyond the usual possibility of unnatural horrors to slaughter everyone present, of course—so imagine our surprise when there came a gentle tapping from inside of that sarcophagus?”
“Huh,” was all Frank said. He was more believing of the boy’s story than Donny by far, but to have official verification now was more…concrete. Easier to latch on to.
“So, he is from another world?” he asked, just to further verify what the woman already had. No, he was really just venting some of the mental impact of the earth-shattering revelation that had had kept inside him, at the back of his mind, since the boy had first told him his fantastic tale.
“Another Earth; yes,” the Smith repeated. “I repeat myself for effect. To point out that this world is Earth, albeit with differences. At least from what we can tell. But with only Mr. Goodwill to offer us any insight into the matter, that assurance is, of course, limited.”
Frank just nodded, not really having anything to say in reply.
After a moment of heavy silence, he then asked, “Why’d you let him loose, then? I mean, wouldn’t that be dangerous? Diseases, like the locals caught when we first landed? And what about people finding out?”
“Ah, now that is a complicated question. First, who would ever believe such a fantastic tale? And even if they did, so what? It’s not like we can get there. Even if we could, I don’t imagine Thomas’ side would be too welcoming of us and our troubles. As for the risk of disease, we’ve more than examined every part of the boy, from head to toe and beyond, so he’s more likely to be of risk of catching something, rather a risk himself. And really, if he does have something we don’t, best to expose the population to it now and have them form a resistance to it than be held hostage to the prospect that danger. Such fears serve no one.”
“Yes, of course,” Frank replied with a nod of his head.
It was a bit cold of her, but life went on, no matter how many people died. They were just short-lived links in a continuing chain of life, after all. Still, Frank would be the first to light the torches if any of his were to be the ones to pay that cost.
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“As for his effect on our society in other ways? Well, that was part of the point in releasing him to begin with.”
Frank nodded in understanding; more than the woman across from him could realise—him knowing about the kid’s knowledge of gunpowder for a start.
“But still, with the kid’s ability…”
“Mr. Sullivan, we’re not in the habit of keeping prisoners here, despite popular rumour—and while he has shown a particular talent for his gift, Mr. Goodwill is not so gifted as to warrant an extreme measure like that. Besides, why keep someone when you could have them beg you to take them back?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Another part of why we let him out was to see how he would fare here. If Mr. Goodwill found himself backed into a corner, then would have presented him with an invitation to return…”
“In exchange for services rendered,” Frank finished, realising the catch.
“Indeed.”
“So…the invitation?” He asked, finally and suddenly turning the conversation to his true concern in the hopes of catching her off balance.
“Merely that, Mr Sullivan,” Smith said calmly. “While I realise such an invitation would hardly be considered as such, give how it was presented and with whom presented it, it was genuine in its message. I truly just want to catch up on how our shared interest is doing.”
“So, me and mine aren’t in any trouble with your lot?”
“No. By and large, my department, both that capitol ‘D’ and not, have washed their hands of him. Too much time and recourses spent. Not more than we earned back in knowledge, I’d opine, but not enough so as to make the department consider the matter truly worth further effort.”
While that was a relief to hear, there was something to her words that told him this woman’s interest was not some bit of humanity shining through an otherwise cold exterior.
“And what is it that has you interested in our boy?” he risked asking.
She paused for the longest time then, eyeing Frank with a sharp, observing eye before she then said gently, “Babies.”
Franks opened his mouth, then shut it again as his mind locked-up, her answer not something that he could properly work his head around.
She gave him a dry smile, having fully expected his lack of response.
“Mr. Sulliven—may I call you Frank?”
“Sure.”
“Well, Frank, before I explain, I must ask, is Mr. Goodwill still displaying a disconnect with his emotions? A lack of the usual mess we associate with a normal person’s personality?”
“Eh, yeah; he mentioned being bitten by dogs, but me and Donny—my partner—figured that he’d been sent to the wolf.”
“Mm,” she answered. “And it’s that I must first talk to you about before I go on. The lack of you understanding the ‘why’ of it would more than likely colour your reaction to what I have to say afterwards.”
Frank nodded, not in understanding, but for her to go on.
“When he first got here, there of course was a whole hullabaloo, as I’m sure you can imagine, but as time went on, and things died down as they inevitably do, the former head of my department wanted to reignite the flames of his unexpected success. Our department’s somewhat of a dead-end, career wise, you understand? Though amazing, without more…tangible benefits to the revelation that we’re not alone, the people up-top soon regarded the matter as no more than a novelty.
So, no longer satisfied with Mr. Goodwill’s major difference from the man on the street, we went about discovering what other divergences might lay between him and us.”
As she spoke, Abigail moved to her side, not leaving her seat, bet partially bending over to retrieve something from out of sight, the sound of papers being moved leading Frank to believe she was looking for a file or some-such.
“This of course, oddly enough, ended with the discovery of what was not, in fact, different. The boy re…,” she trailed off as she stretched for something, “reacting as we do to transfusions. Learning of his particular knack for location and surveyance of far of places got Harold near obsessive on discovering a means to exploit that talent,” she finished as came back up, pulling an extensive file into view like one of those tricksters pulling a hat out of a rabbit.
“Do you remember the Arnolds disappearance? The heiress?”
It took Frank a moment to recall the incident; the matter having occurred years ago, when he was far younger, and far less observant.
“Yes…vaguely. It was in all the papers, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “Yes; had the upper-crust in a tizzy for a long while—having their bubble of untouchability pierced like that. Harold thought it would be the best way to get in with those above. At least, that’s what we think happened. After getting Thomas to find her location, or that of her body, at least, he grabbed two guards and had them drive him and Thomas out to wherever it was she was taken…without telling anyone,” Abigail said, emphasising that last part with a verbal bite as she pushed the file towards him.
Frank turned the collection around to face him, then opening it to peruse its contents as she then went on. What he saw inside that file was…it would leave some memories that even alcohol would be hard pressed to obscure. At least now he knew about the boy’s scars.
“Honestly, we only have Thomas’ word on what happened; I don’t doubt anything he told us, but obviously having only one view on the matter, and an incomplete one at that, is not the best way to verify things.”
Frank nodded once more, but he was clearly too engrossed in the contents before him.
“Anyway,” Abigail continued, “according to him, they drove for a few hours to a non-descript house near the city border—one belonging to a Mr. and Mrs. Hurst. He reported that Harold and one of the two guards then went off to the house while he and the other stayed in the car. About ten minutes later, after that, he then remembered first seeing the man in front slumping over, before then becoming aware of a strange sensation welling up within him—obviously some incantation, given what happened next—for he himself to then lose consciousness. Then, well, you can see for yourself.”
“I can,” Frank confirmed, “but I don’t understand what I’m seeing…”
“Hm,” Abigail commented, “be disturbed if you did. Mrs. Hurst was a Witch. Low-potency. You know the story: special enough to not be normal, but not enough to be ‘Special’. And when she started to wane with age…”
“Yeah,” Frank finished. He did know the story. People did strange things to be noticed. Didn’t matter the reason or method, everyone just wanted to be important.
“The Arnolds girl was apparently also a witch. Even lower in potency than Hurst was, but easier to gain access to. Mr. Hurst is…was a medical professional—a real one, hence why we discovered so many well-organised notes on their little operation…offered some extra services on the side to selective clientele. Off record, of course. From what we could discern from what we found on site, she was an early attempt of Mrs. Hurst’s experiments in gaining power. An attempt to somehow transfer it; first through transfusion, then through some sort of sacrifice. Nonsense, of course. Or we would have been doing it already,” she commented coldly.
Frank had witnessed a similar story his first year after joining the police department.
“Women,” his senior would often caution him, “Never let them get a taste of power; once they got their teeth in, they never let go.”
“But the kid? He had no magic himself?”
“Yes; the notes indicate that her growing madness convinced her that if she could make a mundane magical, then it would of course be a trivial matter to then recover her own gifts. Obviously, it was just a way for her to come to terms with taking whoever she could get for her little project.”
Frank sat there for a moment, as he absorbed everything she had told him. asking the obvious a moment later.
“What were the affects? Contamination?”
“On him?” Abigail asked, almost with a laugh, “nothing. It was meaningless.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything she did to him. None if held any actual power; it was all made up. More of her madness”
“Well, don’t that beat all? How’d you find him?”
“We didn’t. The department had no clue as to where they had gone off to, even with our best long-sights. The woman may have been waning, but she was still gifted. Even more so with how she employed what she had left. Obscured her place in a way we still don’t quite understand.
A freelancer like yourself; nothing to do with the kidnappings, she was hired by the hospital Mr. Hurst worked at to look into some missing medical supplies…which unavoidably led her into stumbling into this whole mess, then bringing it to the attention of the proper authorities after nearly ending up another victim herself.
Frank looked at her, an unasked question on his face, alongside a frown of confusion.
“One of the reasons for Mr. Goodwill’s better accuracy,” she explained, “a difference we only found out far too late, is that he doesn’t react to magic exactly in the same way we do. He’s just different enough that the general interference the surveyor classes experience doesn’t impede him.
Now, this should not assist him in penetrating specific and intentional interference—and it does not, but the Hurst warding somehow detects, or exploits, the effect of or presence of the general interference in its working. Or so we believe. Hence his discovery of what has so long eluded the rest of us.”
Frank did not respond, his attention engrossed in the horrific contents of the file within his hands once more.
“Now, the reason why I’m telling all this, is not only to express to you how much suffering he has gone through, but to press home that the way he is now, is not how he was.”
“I can understand that.”
“I hope you do, Mr. Sullivan, because what I’m about to tell you now will require that understanding.”
He looked up.
“Thomas was cut on. Repeatedly. Little regard given for his sense of pain. This crude surgery done so for the sake of carving symbols and runes upon his skeleton. Along the arms, the legs, upon each of his ribs, and of course, covering his skull.”
The gaze Miss Smith gave him them made him take every word she spoke with extreme seriousness, then. Not that he had been dismissive of them before.
“When we recovered him, he was out of his mind, rendered completely incapable of maintaining a sustainable mindset. At first, we sent him to Blackwell, but after showing no sign of improvement there, those above pushed to have him put down.”
Frank nodded. Those who could not take care of themselves or otherwise justify their existence were an expense that the colonies just could not afford. Though Frank would have opted for conscription before considering just outright disposing of someone. It was utterly inhumane.
“Hence your sending him to get bitten?” Frank guessed.
“Indeed. Though even justifying that expenditure was difficult at the time, even in spite of its success and what we learned from it.”
Another frown of confusion appeared on Frank's brow, but seeing it, the woman across from him indicated that it was not the most important matter right now.
“As I originally said, Mr. Goodwill, despite however he may act now, was a perfectly normal human being. A highly emotional boy, made so not merely by what he experienced here, but for some abuse he had apparently suffered before his…relocation.”
Frank half-remembered Goodie saying something about that, but for the life of him, he could not remember what. His attempt to was disrupted by the strange look Abigail then displayed.
“Do you,” she hesitated, “you remember Sunday school?”
Rather than wait for an answer, she raised her hands into a bowl as his old teacher had done ages ago and said, “The body is a pot, within which lieth the soul…”
And as she covered her one hand with the other, he finished with, “with the mind on top to keep it under control; yes, I remember,” he said, once more frowning at the strange direction this conversation now took.
“Pot, the space within, and the lid on top,” she repeated, “mind, body and soul.”
“Yes?”
She hesitated once more before repeating, “Mind, body…”
And Frank grew annoyed, the woman’s inability to come to terms with whatever she was trying to tell him causing a wave of frustration to well within him.
“…and that was apparently good enough?”
“What?” Frank asked in confusion.
“Whoever,” Abigail started, but then said, “or whatever created his world, his universe, apparently said ‘Mind, body…,’ and that was apparently good enough?”
Frank had no clue what she was on about.
“Mr. Goodwill has no soul,” she finally answered.
Now, Frank was not one to just react without thought—most of the time—no matter what Donny said; he understood that she was trying to explain that this was not how it would normally appear to be—that, and the government would not just let one of those things loose onto the streets—but his mind could not move beyond hearing that the boy was an abomination.
Twice. Twice he had encountered two such creatures in his life, and it was two times to many. Those things should not exist.
“Mr. Sullivan?!”
“I’m listening, I’m listening…”
“Yes, well, uhm…are you by any chance a reader, at all?”
“I’ve opened a book or two in my time.”
“Well, have you ever engaged one of those fictions, the ones concerning life beyond…beyond? People on the moon and such?”
“I…I know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Goodwill is a human like you and I, in regards to the body and mind, but when it comes to the soul, he is a moon-man, Mr. Sullivan, an…alien, but naught else. Or at least that is what the seers we had inspect him told us, though they were admittedly unsettled at the time of doing so…as I’m sure you can understand.”
“Yeah, I can imagine,” he remarked.
“We, you and I, and everyone in this existence, are pots and lids, Mr. Sulliven. Thomas is not. He is a brick…with a lid…”
Abigail rolled her eye as her explanation went slightly off the rails, but he knew what she was getting at.
“A being purely of physics and chemistry that was never meant to interact with the energies we take for granted. Though we only have him as an example, we can conclude that the reason for his world’s lack of what he would classify as the fantastic, is that none of them have souls. And yet, as I have tried to make clear to you, he is in every other way a normal human being. He feels, he fears, he rationalises. Without a soul, yes, but not without a heart. He has no soul, but he is not soulless, you understand?”
Logically? Yes, Frank understood clearly enough, but emotionally? …the boy was soulless. It was too big of a mental hurdle for him to just move past. Not right away, at least.
From another world was one thing. As big as it was, Frank had no experience with ‘Another world’ for it to really hit home. But an abomination?
Two was two times too many.
“Well,” Abigail broke off, changing direction again to try to sap some of the tension now present, “as to your original question? Mr. Goodwill is not a soulless, as I have already said…that said, he does not have a soul. He feels like you and I do, thinks like you and I do, but…the fact remains that he does not have a soul.”
Frank merely nodded along, still too caught-up with the possible consequences of keeping the thing under his roof. Well, he rented said roof from that prick, O’Leary, but still.
“But as wretched as a soulless might be, they do experience certain advantages. Ones that would prove very useful to humanity if they could be properly harnessed. Your profession in particular, would you not agree?”
Still disturbed, it took a moment for Frank to mentally catch up with her words; but yes, yes, it would. Much of the most horrific magics he had ever heard of relied heavily upon the presence of the soul to latch onto—something the soulless lacked, and what made them such a pain to locate through arcane means.
“And as you yourself can confirm, he can exploit transfusion to use magic…,” Abigail Smith trailed off, trying to deliver an amazing possibility to a man only now half-here.
Realizing her mistake, she went on in more direct manner.
“Obviously we would not want him going anywhere near the more valuable bloodlines, given his nature, but to the more mundane populace? Well, I’m sure you can see the possibilities with that? And the possibilities that could then open to the person who could ensure that happened?”
Now that did grab Frank’s attention.
He was not blinded by the prospect of money as many would claim, but he was also not opposed to being so.
“Exactly what type of possibilities are we talking about here, Ms Smith?”
The woman across from him smiled once more.