It was some time before the Revolution that the Mutations had first been known to exist. America reeled in the wake of the knowledge that there were creatures like these among them, people who were not people. At first, they were thought to be demons. Later, the idea that they might be witches or simply persons who had been possessed against their will entered the popular imagination, even as some more level-headed individuals theorized about their potential origins through the medium of science.
The pestilential urges of man to understand all things great and small, to define and catalogue the universe, often led to disaster. From Galileo to Pocahontas, human being suffered from the depravity of their supposed betters.
Time had not been kind to the particular issue of Mutations. Coming to a slow boil over the course of approximately eighty years, America had become a world leader when it came to acts of violence and a general divide among the people by race, class, creed and of course, Mutation status.
Jack Wolfskin held his angst in check as he walked the streets of the nation's capitol. He felt just a little bit underappreciated—no, he felt as though his job had become obsolete. Twenty-odd years ago, Abraham Lincoln had appointed him to be a liaison between Regular people and Mutations. They needed a representative, true, but why him? They had known one another in the wilds of Kentucky, so Lincoln had trusted him. Fine. But why was he to oversee the Mutations while a white man oversaw relations with the nation's Indians? When he had been asked to take the job, he had felt that it would be important. He still did. However, had he known the future...
Kentucky was still reeling from a religious revival which had seen its original leader struck dead by a Mutation. It was the first public appearance of The Worm, and The Worm was the very first creature who was clearly a Mutation to appear in that way. Many people believed it was a sign, but since their fledgling organization was without a leader now, it splintered. The only thing that remained was the enthusiasm. Jack Wolfskin was one of the first Indian children raised in the shadow of this God-fearing generation, and so along with the gods of his people, he'd learned to respect Christ.
He entered a nondescript building inside of which the Attorney General could be found, and he made his way toward the main office, still thinking.
In recent months, his job had actually expanded to encompass a new department, titled after the one which had sloppily interceded on the red man's behalf. It was called the “Department of Mutation Affairs”, and it was a joke. In the first place, the money he had been budgeted could hardly be called on to supply a reasonably-sized staff. Secondly, the current administration couldn't care less about his department, aside from their belief that it should be dismantled. It had taken years of amended propositions and repeated begging and borrowing to set it up at all. Now he had no more than five operatives, and a frequent need to justify the employment of same.
The administration as a whole didn't like Mutations. Or Indians. What's more, they were apathetic on matters which concerned Negroes, Chinamen and Mexicans. Since the outing of Lincoln, many things had changed. Voter sentiment had changed, thus had the administration.
He was admitted to the Attorney General's office without preamble, where he stood practically at attention as the two men exchanged stoic greetings. He didn't relax until Devens cracked a smile and gestured to the chair across from him.
“Please, old friend,” he said. “Have a seat. Your people like to stand on ceremony even more than we do.”
Jack did not respond, but he looked to his associate, gauging him, looking for what lay within the man's soul. Truth did not come easily to the white man, but it came eventually, if you knew how to find it.
A bottle of scotch was open upon the desk. Devens had been drinking often. Jack had made it a point to avoid liquor, for his people had proven especially prone to addiction; the white man, meanwhile, had proven especially prone to a lack of restraint.
“Yes, well,” Devens began nervously, “straight to the point. At least that's a, uh, a good quality.” He clearly was not afraid of physical danger, but he did not want to offend his guest. “The thing is, we've had an incident in Phoenix.”
After a pause, Jack prompted him. “Phoenix?”
Devens was covered in sweat. But why?
“Arizona,” Devens responded gruffly.
“I know this,” Jack glared at him, clearly wanting him to continue. Devens tugged on his collar.
“I should have come to you sooner, Jack, but I was certain that I had the situation in hand. The Mutations out there got it into their heads that they'd stage an exodus. At first it was peaceful, aside from one instance of an attack on the Marshal's Office. The marshal out there insisted to me time and again that things would turn ugly if I didn't send him some help.
“Well, friend, imagine it. Here in my office, isolated from the front, I have a thousand things to worry about. Now, I try to see to them all. I care for the men who work for me and for the fruits of their labors. But I don't have first-hand knowledge of what they see in the field. I can't use my intuition to see what they see. I ignored him and his pleas for help even after the Marshal's Office was blown up by a Mutation. Long after that, when things got downright chaotic. What could I do? It's still illegal to let him deputize our army, and how could I authorize martial law out there? Certainly this administration is more friendly to notions which are strict toward Mutations, but to sending the army to quell an exodus? Hell, they want to leave U.S. soil, that's fine by me.”
Jack waited.
“...well that brings us to you. I know you like to treat Mutation matters delicately...”
“It is my job. The Department of Mutation Affairs exists to facilitate talk and understanding between--”
“yes, yes, of course. Remind me to educate you in the art of subtlety and subtext sometime.”
A question was written all over Jack's face, but he did not ask it. Devens continued.
“Listen, now, I know that eventually the United States will have its sights set on wherever these people are going. I don't figure we'll want trouble when we show up. Ah, there you are.”
Jack turned stiffly in his seat. In the doorway, he saw the head of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, Rowland E. Trowbridge. Trowbridge's beard preceded him so much, even at age fifty-nine, that he was a perfect example of exactly the wrong white man to head up the Bureau. Still, he had Jack's people and Jack had the Mutations, for better or for worse.
“Come in, Rowland, don't keep us waiting. Jack's got himself a department to run.”
Jack restrained himself in the face of this clear patronizing. He felt as though his clothes might rip right off of him, but he knew how to calm himelf.
His was a department, and Rowland's just a bureau, merely because no department wanted to oversee the Mutations. Jack didn't fall under any particular umbrella. He was forced to operate without a clear definition of his duties or his jurisdiction, which made him all but useless.
Rowland dropped into the chair next to Jack with little grace, as though at an informal meeting among friends.
Am I among friends?
“Rowland here's had some problems too,” Devens explained. “I'm sure you got word of the attack on Fort McDowell?”
“I did,” Jack replied.
“Good. Yes.” Devens murmured. “Your people—eh, excuse me, I'm using a broad term when I refer to them as yours, for expediency.”
“Of course.”
“Eh—Indians made the attack. Cherokee and Yavapai. Turned into a bloody mess. Downright tragic for the boys in the field. Do you know what we had to do about it? I hope it doesn't offend your sensibilities, my friend. Every once in a while, Rowland here has to send a message. How do you do that, Rowland?”
This is where Rowland appeared to become queasy. “We have to frighten them, a—a little. Put the fear of Uncle Sam into them, as it were. So we send some army boys in to make a ruckus, you know, maybe even fire a few wild shots. If the Inj—the, uh, tribe in question, well, if they become belligerent, then we shoot a couple purely in defense, to show them we mean business.”
Jack was seething, but he remained still with his muscles tense.
“I think it's all horribly distasteful. But it prevents us going to war with any Indians, and it keeps them peaceful.”
It took Jack a long time to say anything. Without his calumet, he could not commune with his higher self and seek answers to that which bothered him. All he could do was make these men like squirrels in the middle of the road when a traveler is coming, ready to run at the first sign of danger. But Jack abhorred violence.
“Why have you told me about this?”
“It was to see whether or not you'd ask that,” Devens replied. “The fact that you don't know means that Mister Rowland here will have to educate you on how to send a message.”
“I am sorry,” Jack told them, standing, “But I can not do as you ask.”
With that, he left them not surprised, but still speechless.
The pestilential urges of man to understand all things great and small, to define and catalogue the universe, often led to disaster. From Galileo to Pocahontas, human being suffered from the depravity of their supposed betters.
Time had not been kind to the particular issue of Mutations. Coming to a slow boil over the course of approximately eighty years, America had become a world leader when it came to acts of violence and a general divide among the people by race, class, creed and of course, Mutation status.
Jack Wolfskin held his angst in check as he walked the streets of the nation's capitol. He felt just a little bit underappreciated—no, he felt as though his job had become obsolete. Twenty-odd years ago, Abraham Lincoln had appointed him to be a liaison between Regular people and Mutations. They needed a representative, true, but why him? They had known one another in the wilds of Kentucky, so Lincoln had trusted him. Fine. But why was he to oversee the Mutations while a white man oversaw relations with the nation's Indians? When he had been asked to take the job, he had felt that it would be important. He still did. However, had he known the future...
Kentucky was still reeling from a religious revival which had seen its original leader struck dead by a Mutation. It was the first public appearance of The Worm, and The Worm was the very first creature who was clearly a Mutation to appear in that way. Many people believed it was a sign, but since their fledgling organization was without a leader now, it splintered. The only thing that remained was the enthusiasm. Jack Wolfskin was one of the first Indian children raised in the shadow of this God-fearing generation, and so along with the gods of his people, he'd learned to respect Christ.
He entered a nondescript building inside of which the Attorney General could be found, and he made his way toward the main office, still thinking.
In recent months, his job had actually expanded to encompass a new department, titled after the one which had sloppily interceded on the red man's behalf. It was called the “Department of Mutation Affairs”, and it was a joke. In the first place, the money he had been budgeted could hardly be called on to supply a reasonably-sized staff. Secondly, the current administration couldn't care less about his department, aside from their belief that it should be dismantled. It had taken years of amended propositions and repeated begging and borrowing to set it up at all. Now he had no more than five operatives, and a frequent need to justify the employment of same.
The administration as a whole didn't like Mutations. Or Indians. What's more, they were apathetic on matters which concerned Negroes, Chinamen and Mexicans. Since the outing of Lincoln, many things had changed. Voter sentiment had changed, thus had the administration.
He was admitted to the Attorney General's office without preamble, where he stood practically at attention as the two men exchanged stoic greetings. He didn't relax until Devens cracked a smile and gestured to the chair across from him.
“Please, old friend,” he said. “Have a seat. Your people like to stand on ceremony even more than we do.”
Jack did not respond, but he looked to his associate, gauging him, looking for what lay within the man's soul. Truth did not come easily to the white man, but it came eventually, if you knew how to find it.
A bottle of scotch was open upon the desk. Devens had been drinking often. Jack had made it a point to avoid liquor, for his people had proven especially prone to addiction; the white man, meanwhile, had proven especially prone to a lack of restraint.
“Yes, well,” Devens began nervously, “straight to the point. At least that's a, uh, a good quality.” He clearly was not afraid of physical danger, but he did not want to offend his guest. “The thing is, we've had an incident in Phoenix.”
After a pause, Jack prompted him. “Phoenix?”
Devens was covered in sweat. But why?
“Arizona,” Devens responded gruffly.
“I know this,” Jack glared at him, clearly wanting him to continue. Devens tugged on his collar.
“I should have come to you sooner, Jack, but I was certain that I had the situation in hand. The Mutations out there got it into their heads that they'd stage an exodus. At first it was peaceful, aside from one instance of an attack on the Marshal's Office. The marshal out there insisted to me time and again that things would turn ugly if I didn't send him some help.
“Well, friend, imagine it. Here in my office, isolated from the front, I have a thousand things to worry about. Now, I try to see to them all. I care for the men who work for me and for the fruits of their labors. But I don't have first-hand knowledge of what they see in the field. I can't use my intuition to see what they see. I ignored him and his pleas for help even after the Marshal's Office was blown up by a Mutation. Long after that, when things got downright chaotic. What could I do? It's still illegal to let him deputize our army, and how could I authorize martial law out there? Certainly this administration is more friendly to notions which are strict toward Mutations, but to sending the army to quell an exodus? Hell, they want to leave U.S. soil, that's fine by me.”
Jack waited.
“...well that brings us to you. I know you like to treat Mutation matters delicately...”
“It is my job. The Department of Mutation Affairs exists to facilitate talk and understanding between--”
“yes, yes, of course. Remind me to educate you in the art of subtlety and subtext sometime.”
A question was written all over Jack's face, but he did not ask it. Devens continued.
“Listen, now, I know that eventually the United States will have its sights set on wherever these people are going. I don't figure we'll want trouble when we show up. Ah, there you are.”
Jack turned stiffly in his seat. In the doorway, he saw the head of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, Rowland E. Trowbridge. Trowbridge's beard preceded him so much, even at age fifty-nine, that he was a perfect example of exactly the wrong white man to head up the Bureau. Still, he had Jack's people and Jack had the Mutations, for better or for worse.
“Come in, Rowland, don't keep us waiting. Jack's got himself a department to run.”
Jack restrained himself in the face of this clear patronizing. He felt as though his clothes might rip right off of him, but he knew how to calm himelf.
His was a department, and Rowland's just a bureau, merely because no department wanted to oversee the Mutations. Jack didn't fall under any particular umbrella. He was forced to operate without a clear definition of his duties or his jurisdiction, which made him all but useless.
Rowland dropped into the chair next to Jack with little grace, as though at an informal meeting among friends.
Am I among friends?
“Rowland here's had some problems too,” Devens explained. “I'm sure you got word of the attack on Fort McDowell?”
“I did,” Jack replied.
“Good. Yes.” Devens murmured. “Your people—eh, excuse me, I'm using a broad term when I refer to them as yours, for expediency.”
“Of course.”
“Eh—Indians made the attack. Cherokee and Yavapai. Turned into a bloody mess. Downright tragic for the boys in the field. Do you know what we had to do about it? I hope it doesn't offend your sensibilities, my friend. Every once in a while, Rowland here has to send a message. How do you do that, Rowland?”
This is where Rowland appeared to become queasy. “We have to frighten them, a—a little. Put the fear of Uncle Sam into them, as it were. So we send some army boys in to make a ruckus, you know, maybe even fire a few wild shots. If the Inj—the, uh, tribe in question, well, if they become belligerent, then we shoot a couple purely in defense, to show them we mean business.”
Jack was seething, but he remained still with his muscles tense.
“I think it's all horribly distasteful. But it prevents us going to war with any Indians, and it keeps them peaceful.”
It took Jack a long time to say anything. Without his calumet, he could not commune with his higher self and seek answers to that which bothered him. All he could do was make these men like squirrels in the middle of the road when a traveler is coming, ready to run at the first sign of danger. But Jack abhorred violence.
“Why have you told me about this?”
“It was to see whether or not you'd ask that,” Devens replied. “The fact that you don't know means that Mister Rowland here will have to educate you on how to send a message.”
“I am sorry,” Jack told them, standing, “But I can not do as you ask.”
With that, he left them not surprised, but still speechless.