The initial deployment of the fire-team structure has been a success, resulting in a twenty-three percent increase in intra-team soul retention. The post-deployment review committee found no major errors, but wishes to propagate the following clarifications to further-increase the effect of the change:
As always, we appreciate the hard work of our field teams in this important and large-scale revision to soul resource management procedure. The next scheduled review will release its findings at the end of Bounty.
- Institute Circular #3405, 47 Swelter 693.
It was a pleasant day when they finally made it outside of the labyrinthine corridors of the administration hall, but the sun and mild breeze barely registered in Michael’s mind. His thoughts had stayed within the examination room. He had known Luc for a day and the others for mere minutes, but even such a brief acquaintance drove home the horror of what Spark meant to do.
He found himself thinking of the lamb, and how the feel of its warmth and breath had solidified its reality to him in the moments before it died, the brief contact enough to touch some more-primal part of his brain that knew what it meant for a thing to be alive. It was a sort of hypocrisy, he supposed, that he should care more of a life simply because of that - but he could not help that facet of human nature.
He just didn’t want them to die.
A change in the path brought his eyes up; they had moved from the packed earth of the main roads onto a smaller, rougher path. It led to another building made from artificed stone, low and dark, but designed with more care than the blocky and utilitarian edifices he had seen elsewhere. The façade of the building had been detailed to resemble Gharic columns, and the windows on the side shone with well-fitted glass rather than shutters.
“It’s Claude’s,” Luc said, noting Michael’s attention to the differences. “I thought you might be interested in seeing his library, since the doctor wanted me to pick up a text here.”
Michael wanted few things less than to interact with the quiet, pale anatomens - but he could not think of a way to say as much without alienating Luc, so he followed as the other man walked up to the door and knocked. A few moments passed before Claude answered, his deep-set eyes squinting against the sunlight.
The anatomens flicked his eyes between Luc and Michael, then at the two white-shirts standing behind them. “Well, look at all of you,” he murmured. “What brings you to my home?”
“I need a new book to read,” Luc said. “The doctor suggested I ask you.”
Claude nodded and rubbed at his chin for a moment, fingers tracing over skin that was unnaturally smooth and pale. “I have a few suggestions.” His eyes shifted to linger on Michael. “Perhaps nothing too lengthy.”
Michael felt a spidery chill race through him at the implication. Claude knew Spark well, or at least better than Michael; if his assessment was that Spark would resume the killings soon then it was likely accurate.
A noise turned Michael’s head, he saw Stefan and Beni shuffling uncertainly several paces back. Stefan was looking down at Beni, who was pale and sweating. Terrified, Michael realized. He turned back to look at Claude and saw a thin smile on the man’s lips.
Michael cleared his throat. “I think I’d prefer to stay outside,” he said, managing to keep a level tone.
“Really?” Luc said, arching an eyebrow. “Claude has quite the collection.”
“I’m just not in a reading mood,” Michael said. “We’ll wait here until you’re done.”
The anatomens put a hand on Luc’s shoulder and ushered him inside, faint amusement in his eyes as he shut the door. Michael let his breath out and walked back to Stefan and Beni. The two looked calmer, if only a bit. At the edge of Claude’s plot there was a wall; Michael walked to it and sat, motioning for the others to join him. After a moment they did.
There was still tension visible on Beni’s face, his eyes fixed and staring - still watching Claude, Michael realized, although being outside of his immediate presence seemed to have lessened Beni’s terror. How many times had he found himself in a room with Claude and Spark, over the years of his imprisonment?
Michael supposed that the precise number didn’t matter, save that it had been far, far too many. The mad, hopeless light in his eyes was uncomfortably familiar, although it took a moment to trace the thread of memory to the wide, frantic gaze of the pig on the forest floor. Uncomprehending fear, the knife drawing ever-closer.
He scowled and closed his eyes, tracing the memories that spidered out from that point in their gossamer complexity. There was so much yet to set right in his mind, and he was increasingly sure that he did not have the time to continue chipping away at it piece by piece - not unless he wanted to watch Beni, Stefan and Luc die in front of him.
Jeorg had been right. He needed to find that small change, the one thing that would set all the rest in motion after it. It was too bad that his advice had not extended to more specific courses of action, but Michael could hardly complain. It wasn’t really Jeorg’s advice, after all. Just Michael’s self-deception.
“And self-deception isn’t worth the effort,” he murmured, leaning forward as a few more memories settled into place. Stefan turned to look at him curiously, but Michael barely noticed. The words he spoke resonated in his mind with an uncommon vibrancy, drawing his focus back to them. The image of Jeorg had been consistent in saying that it was not really Michael’s friend and mentor, and that he only knew what Michael himself did.
At some level Michael knew exactly what it was that he needed to hear, even if his waking mind shied away from it. He exhaled, long and slow, then lifted his eyes to meet Stefan’s.
“I had a friend,” he said. “Someone who took me in when there was no other place for me to be.” He paused, taking the space for a breath. “Spark killed him.”
Stefan’s brow furrowed. Michael could see the tiny conflicts raging behind his expression, the natural inclination to think ill of Spark coming up against the implacable mandate that the doctor was right.
“I didn’t want him to go,” Michael said quietly. “It seemed wrong that a man like him should die. I thought I might have saved some small part of him, but-”
He broke off and shook his head, feeling a tremor creep into his voice. Stefan inched closer with a look of concern on his face, too hesitant to do more than hover uncertainly over Michael’s hunched form.
“But he’s gone.” Michael said the words with deliberate care, and when he spoke there was a pendulous moment of quiet. “He can’t help me. Or, rather - he has already given me all of the help that he could.” He stood, then straightened up. “And now it is on me to use what he left. His lessons are my knowledge, his example is my goal. His soul-”
The words stopped in Michael’s throat once more, the air laying thick and heavy around him. Beni’s gaze had sharpened, and for once the man’s dark eyes looked into Michael’s own.
Michael saw nothing, his mind full of more than a mere image. The craggy face, the smell of pipe smoke, the little flares of irritation at word games and riddles. The furtive glimpses of a man who was more than he allowed himself to be.
Old men like me have had many gardens, of one sort or another. They are all with me, wherever I go.
“And now, we go once more,” Michael murmured. “Thank you, Jeorg.” He focused on the face in his mind for one moment longer - then let go of the lie in his heart. There was no Jeorg, no garden, no ruined landscape to worry over and set to rights.
“Just one man, just one soul.” Myriad branches and possibilities fell away, leaving a single path that tore forward through the skein farther than his eyes could see. “Only me,” Michael said, feeling the will knit together behind his words, the belief. He could not hope to convince the world to bend if there was a shred of doubt in him.
It was not trust in Jeorg he needed - but, then, that was not what Jeorg had given him. He clenched his fist and focused on the feeling of his soul, the ravenous void and the lightning that tore through him, the distant feelings of understanding. When he reached for it in his greatest need, it had been there. It was his - it was him. “And I am whole,” he said, feeling the truth as he spoke it.
There was a noise like a sigh, like a passing cloud, like the air in an empty room. A voice spoke his will in the tongue of the universe, and the universe bent. Mirrors flashed and burned with a thousand faces. Some were still terrifying to him, beyond his comprehension - but in the eyes, in the soul, they were all Michael.
When the mirrorlight faded, he saw the two white-shirts edging back nervously. Something significant had happened, they could tell, but they did not have the sight nor will to grasp it.
It took a moment to adjust. Nothing was overtly different, but the world had gained a sort of highlight that lay over every edge and curve. Permutations lurked behind everything, some dull and solid while others flickered like fire. Stefan and Beni were the brightest by far, jumping and twisting just at the edge of Michael’s sight even as their physical forms were frozen by apprehension.
Michael smiled at Stefan, and held out his hand.
There had been a boy named Stefan near the port of Stahm once. He was unremarkable, with an unremarkable life. His father was a fisherman, and so Stefan’s lot was with the sea. He would fish, and haul fish, and gut fish. He did not wish for a soul. Such things happened to other people, and Stefan was only Stefan.
One day a storm sweeping in from the Cauldron Sea menaced the fishing fleet back toward the harbor, as often happened, but on that day the wind leapt into the sail before his father could make fast the boom. The sun-weathered wood swept across the deck and cracked his father in the head. He went overboard, and Stefan never saw him again.
The wind raged, the waves heaved. The boat was not meant for any weather to speak of, and before the storm had reached its peak Stefan knew he would die. He was swept from the deck by a surge of cold brine, tossed into the sea with a half-lungful of air and rope-burn from his futile attempt to cling to the rigging.
He could swim, but it did him little good when he could not tell which way was up. Human limbs were not meant to contest such a sea, and he knew immediately that he was inadequate to the task.
The realization had scarcely entered his mind before a soul rendered it incorrect. New life surged through his limbs, the burning in his lungs and muscles ceased. Stefan had a soul, and it rendered him tireless, indefatigable. Not able to swim in the chaos of the storm, but able to endure - for he was a durens, and that is what such souls confer.
It was night by the time he stepped shivering and ragged to the shore. The docks were full of somber men cleaning wreckage, and nobody noticed him limping through the alleys toward home.
His mother was inconsolable over the loss of her husband. Nevertheless, she stumbled out sleepless and disheveled to take Stefan to the soul registrar the next day, that their good fortune might not be squandered. Stefan was tested and logged as the law required, thereafter gently advised that his soul was good for only manual labor or the army - the sole material difference being that the latter paid better.
Faced with the loss of their sole source of income, he chose the military. His career was uneventful and short; a burst of shrapnel tore through the side of his face and sent him to a long-term recovery ward outside of Leik. A doctor there spoke of a new deployment opportunity, one that came with a real anatomens that could fix his face-
Michael winced. He had been following the paths of Stefan’s life, and here was where they stopped making sense. Stefan loved the sea, Stefan was afraid of the shore. Stefan was stubborn, Stefan did everything the guards asked without question. Two contradictory people inhabited his life, and one had been given primacy through the weight of Spark’s soul.
He could see it, now that he had the proper perspective. Spark’s soul constrained the way forward so that one could not help but follow the path he laid out. There was no question of deviation, no working past his power. Whichever direction they walked, it was forward as Spark has defined it.
So Michael went backward, to look at the man who had arrived broken and desperate to this island a year ago. The tapestry of his life had been truncated, replaced with simpler cloth that stretched forward to the present. Slowly, Michael found the threads of Stefan as he had been and extended them forward.
It was not perfect. Much had been lost in his year of confinement and control. Like Michael himself, Stefan could not return to the person he had been before Spark’s meddling. The scale of the change that had been wrought upon him was humbling, terrifying - Michael felt as if he were censoring a painting made by a master, even if the content and purpose of that art were too horrible to leave uncovered. Spark’s power shone from every brush-stroke of Stefan’s mind.
In the end all Michael was able to do was what he had done for himself - to return the reins of Stefan’s mind and give him mastery of his own path. To fix the damage Spark had done was beyond him, perhaps beyond Spark himself. More and more, Michael was certain that Spark’s power was inherently evil in how it trampled through minds and disrupted the agency of the self. What had been done to Stefan and Beni was certainly so.
He opened his eyes and stepped back. Stefan did not move. His breathing was ragged, and tears traced their way down his cheeks in their slow march. A pang of doubt intruded into Michael’s contemplation. Reaching out to Stefan had been an impulsive act, born of the exultation he felt in gaining some form of mastery over his own soul. It was undoubtedly right, but as he watched Stefan struggle to regain his equilibrium Michael wondered whether it might not have been more prudent to wait. If Luc and Claude emerged, and the anatomens questioned Stefan’s state…
You are reading story Peculiar Soul at novel35.com
Michael laid a hand on Stefan’s shoulder and mulled over his words for a moment. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “Any better?”
Stefan gave a short, jerking nod and sank to the ground, his hand coming up to grip Michael’s with painful force. He drew a shuddering breath before opening his eyes and looking up. He did not say anything, but Michael saw a depth to his eyes that had not been there before. This was a man in possession of his own will once more. This was Stefan.
A noise from the house sent a spike of panic through Michael’s chest, and he gripped Stefan’s shoulder tightly. “Don’t say anything,” he muttered, taking a step back from the other man. “Not in front of the others.”
He looked up to see Luc and Claude emerge from within, a thin volume in Luc’s hands. Claude paused to smile once more at Michael before closing the door, and Michael let out his breath; the anatomens had not noticed anything amiss.
“All set,” Luc said cheerfully, brandishing the book so that Michael could see. “A treatise on the structure of skin and muscle. I had never really given it much thought, but apparently if you look under a microscope-” He broke off, noting the odd atmosphere between the others. “What’s wrong?”
Michael shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Like I said before, it’s been a long day. I may go back to the barracks for some rest.”
“Didn’t the doctor tell you?” Luc said. “You’ve been assigned better rooms at the main hall, as have the rest of us. No room for these two back at the barracks, yes? I can show you, if you’d like.”
“Ah, perhaps later,” Michael demurred. He did not want to go back into that hall unless he had no other choice. “I’ve just realized I’m also quite hungry.”
Luc gave him an odd look. “You sure you’re feeling all right?” he asked. “I suppose it is close to mealtime.” He shrugged and turned down the road toward the mess hall, opening the book to leaf through the initial pages and making an appreciative noise at one of the illustrations.
Michael followed, keeping an eye on Stefan. He shuffled along in Luc’s footsteps much as he always had - but there was an energy to his motions that had been absent before, the ineffable look of a man who was directing his motion rather than simply allowing his legs to carry him forward. Michael adjusted his stride so that he was walking close beside the other man.
“We have to hide what I can do,” Michael whispered. “If they find out, Spark will reassert himself and keep me under observation.” His thoughts went to an unpleasant place. “Or worse,” he added with a wince. “Best to keep quiet for now.”
“You have to help Beni,” Stefan replied hoarsely, his voice mercifully quiet. “Please, if you can do what you did for me-”
Michael made a hushing motion, nodding. “I’ll try,” he said. “We have to be careful, the more I do the more likely it is that someone will notice and report to Spark. Maybe this evening-”
“What are you two gossiping about?” Luc asked, turning and raising his eyebrow.
Once again, Michael felt an absurd feeling of gratitude towards his father; it was thanks to him that Michael’s reflexive reaction to shock was to do nothing whatsoever. He smiled at Luc and tried to pretend like his heart wasn’t pounding. “Just idle talk,” he replied.
“Oh?” Luc said, frowning. He stopped and turned to face them fully. “Interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever met a white-shirt that was interested in conversation, at least not anything past their work.”
It occurred to Michael that they were on a deserted street, walking through a stretch of the ramshackle town that saw little traffic. He stepped closer to Luc. “Why do you think that is?” he asked.
Luc blinked. “I’ve - never given it that much thought,” he said. “But they’re injured, yes? From the front? Isn’t it normal for soldiers to be taciturn?”
There was a curiosity in his voice, an earnest inquiry that froze the next words Michael meant to say. He had considered a few options for breaking free from Luc’s unwanted supervision; he had not considered that Luc might be a victim of Spark’s as well. His dismissive attitude toward the white-shirts made sense if he was callous or cynical, but also if his thoughts had been made to linger elsewhere by Spark’s will.
It was a risk, but if he could release Luc from Spark’s control…
“Luc,” Michael said slowly. “Can I see that book for a moment?”
The other man’s frown returned. “I suppose,” he said, extending it. “Be careful, Claude protects his books like the children he never had. If it’s damaged I’ll never get another one, yes?”
Michael nodded absently and reached his hand out to grab the book - letting his fingers brush Luc’s own hand as he did.
A crying child trying to staunch the flow of blood from a head wound, holding a grease-stained rag to his scalp. Hunger, sickness. The ever-present threat of violence from anyone taller than him. Luc lived as a mouse, scurrying in the corners and taking scraps where they were offered or neglected.
And then one day a man had come and taken him to paradise. He had talked of things that Luc could not understand, treated him with a warmth and enthusiasm that made him suspicious - but also gave him ample food such as he had never eaten before. Not just gruel, but real meat, dishes cooked with salt and spices, little sweet cookies smeared with marmalade. Leisure, learning - freedom. It was beyond Luc’s dreams, beyond anything he believed would ever be possible for his life.
Michael traced the exultant paths of Luc’s adolescence with a sinking feeling. There was no trickery here. Spark had left his mind untouched, unconstrained - and had earned his love in the way that any man might do, by showing kindness and care when nobody else would. He could not free him from a compulsion that did not exist.
The moment ended as the transient contact was broken. Luc did not let go of the book, instead pulling it back to give Michael a glare. “What did you do?” he asked. “I know the feeling of a soul being used.”
“I was checking something,” Michael said. Luc’s glare sharpened, and Michael realized that he wasn’t going to get by with such a vague answer. This was not the way he had wanted to proceed, but- “I was trying to make sure you were here of your own volition.”
“My own - I told you why I was here,” Luc retorted. “You think I was lying?”
“You might not have been able to say. I thought that-” He broke off. “You do realize that most of the people on this island aren’t here by choice? Not the control group, but the white-shirts?”
“That’s absurd,” Luc said. “The doctor said they agreed to help him, every one of them.”
Stefan raised his head. “I agreed to let them fix my face,” he said quietly. “I agreed to redeploy away from the front.” His fists clenched, and Michael took a hasty step to stand between him and Luc. “I did not agree for some madman to rob me of my will, of my life! To work me like an ox, to use me in his, his-” He made a frustrated gesture, his composure vanishing.
Michael made a frantic hushing motion, but Stefan’s words had already failed him; the other man stood trembling with anger and grief under Luc’s glare.
“Then leave, if you don’t like it,” Luc said.
“Spark won’t allow it.” Michael took a step toward him. “How do you think I came here, Luc? Spark killed my friend and boarded my boat, made me forget about my life and freedom away from the island. He won’t let any of us leave.”
“Absurd,” Luc repeated. His eyes drifted towards Beni. “And what about him? I’ve seen his face, he’s been here for years. Is he suddenly discontent too, now that you’ve showed up?”
“He’s under a compulsion,” Michael said quietly. “We all were. Beni has been under it for longer than most.” He reached out and took one of Beni’s unresisting hands in his own.
“Watch,” he said. “I’ll-” Michael choked. Beni’s mind was desolate, a trackless wasteland. He had existed under the stifling control of Spark’s will for so long that there was little left underneath. Michael cast back further, further, trying to find any piece of the man who had been.
He saw Peter’s face, heard Sofia’s numb whisper on the docks. There’s no one inside. Then Isolde’s hand reached out-
Michael grit his teeth, rejecting the idea. It was not an option. Instead he pushed further into the depths of the ruined canvas that was Beni until he found one shining, solitary thread - a boy with an unlined face perched on a ship’s mast, laughing in the breeze as his vision soared among the birds, seeing the world as they did.
It wasn’t much, but - it was something of Beni’s. It was freedom, joy, the exultation in being alive that had been absent from his existence for too long. Carefully, the urged the tiny thread of Beni’s being to reassert itself against the wasteland. A small change. Sometimes that was all that was needed.
He stepped back and saw Beni’s face contort with emotion. Misery, sadness, rage - and then only the fury, white-hot and roiling. Anger filled his eyes as they snapped up to focus on Luc.
“Beni, wait,” Michael said, moving to interpose himself once more. “Take a moment-”
The other man hurled himself forward, bowling Michael aside to attack Luc. A wordless, animal howl ripped from his throat as the other man danced backward in surprise.
“What did you do?” Luc shouted. “He’s trying to kill me!”
“That’s not what I meant to happen!” Michael replied, scrambling to try and grab Beni. The other man twisted like an eel in his hands and charged toward Luc.
Luc ran, yelling for help, and Beni followed. Dread coalesced in Michael’s gut as he realized what he had done.
“What did you do to Beni?” Stefan asked. “It wasn’t the same thing you did to me.”
“It was,” Michael replied. “There was just - less to give back. Ultimately I think all that I did was to show him what had been stolen from him. I didn’t think about it. Once I removed Spark’s control, he didn’t have any left of his own.”
“He’s not wrong,” Stefan said quietly. “To be angry.”
Michael pursed his lips. “No, not wrong. But this does put us in some trouble. We’ve got to go.”
Stefan shot him an incredulous look. “Go where? The only boats are at the harbor, there’s guards there. They have guns. Not to mention the - Spark. We can’t stand against him. He’s one of the Eight.”
“Yes, well,” Michael said. “So am I.”