It was around the size of a shoebox, with curved corners, and painted matte black. Four unlabelled LEDs pulsed lazily at the bottom right corner. It was a source of free energy, and it was called General Magic. The Institute had placed an order for fifteen of these units, from a small concern based in Sweden. Their representative was hazy on the technology and how it worked, and was at pains to point out no patents had been filed or sought. It worked, he said, because it was General Magic.
Dr Terence and his team were keen to have a portable power supply for the collection of data in the field, and General Magic was easily transportable in a backpack, even for the more slight of the participants, such as Marina. Because it never ran out of power, and never needed recharging, it was also used in certain applications for backup electricity such as patient monitoring and life support.
The Institute’s technical department secretly took a General Magic unit apart during the assessment stage, but were dismayed to see all its circuitry encased in thick black epoxy. They remained skeptical, quoting the laws of thermodynamics to anyone who would listen, but the facts spoke for themselves. The fifteen units had been running for six months now, without charging or external forces being required.
One of the more vocal detractors of General Magic was the ever pragmatic Rokus. He refused to be alone in the room with a unit, and complained of high-pitched noises emanating from them that nobody else could hear. The hospital staff gradually tuned out his complaints once he started claiming General Magic boxes would move of their own accord, and would whisper in a foreign language when placed in the dark.
One frosty November morning, Institute staff arrived at work to find the words “GM POWERED BY RESCUE DOG SOULS” daubed on the front steps.