by C. A. Pack
Jackson spent the next hour perfecting the details for that night’s presentation. Johanna would probably walk in, right in the middle of it. He froze. If the Terrorians were planning anything, all those poor little librarians would get caught in the crossfire. Talk about rotten timing. In his estimation, the library board had picked the worst possible night for a demonstration. Maybe if I call the president of the board of directors, I can appeal to the man’s better sense. Jackson dialed the number and waited for the president’s secretary to put him on the line.
“Is everything ready for tonight?” No Hello, Jackson, how are you? No small talk of any kind—just a command disguised as a question.
“Sir, I’m thinking tonight is not the best night for the presentation.”
“Tonight is the perfect night for it. And it’s the only night for it. Tell me, Jackson, do you like working at the library?” The teen shivered when he heard the thinly veiled threat with an icy-cold delivery.
“I only mentioned it because Johanna is returning tonight, and as curator, she’ll be very disappointed she wasn’t part of the event.”
“That’s what she gets for leaving town without notice.” Click.
Jackson did not have time to react to the click, because someone started banging on the door. He checked the security camera and sighed. Logan. “Illumination.” The door slid open.
“I had a devil of a time finding this place,” Logan said. “I was sure I knew how to get here, but the streets all seemed to lead me in a different direction.”
“Yeah, that happens,” Jackson answered.
“So, why do you want a gun?”
“There may be some trouble here tonight. The library board wants me to give a demonstration, but some ... uh ... unsavory characters may show up.”
“‘Unsavory characters’? At this library? I think you’re reading too many of these books and not spending enough time in the real world.”
“You can’t repeat that to anyone, you know. My job is on the line.”
Logan knew how much Jackson’s family depended on his paycheck—not that he made a lot of money, but every little bit helped. “Marcus Hurble.”
“What about him?”
“I heard he has a couple of guns he wants to sell. That was last week. I didn’t pay much attention, because I’m not interested in buying one. But he may still have one to sell. Do you want me to find out?”
“You can’t tell anybody.”
“Right. How much do you want to spend?”
Jackson counted the money in his wallet. It contained every cent he owned. He wanted to buy a car, and hoped by the time he turned eighteen he might be able to scrape together enough money to get a used one. He hated parting with his hard-earned cash, but if trouble broke out tonight and he wasn’t prepared, he might not even be around for his eighteenth birthday. He counted out five hundred dollars. “Do you think this is enough?”
“How do I know?”
“Just make sure the gun works.”
“I’m not shooting it.”
“Well ... don’t buy something you haven’t heard of, you know?”
“So you want an UZI ...”
Jackson didn’t answer.
“Fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Ammo,” the curator-in-training blurted out.
“You know if you load it, you can hurt someone.”
“That’s the idea.”
*
Johanna heard Nero 51’s footsteps fade as he headed toward the antechamber. She waited a few minutes, to allow him to become totally engrossed in whatever he was doing, before dashing up the spiral stairs and grabbing the cleaning supplies. She then scurried up the ladder to retrieve the protein bar she had hidden the day before.
“Looking for something?”
The sound of Nero 51’s voice gave her chills. “Yes. I forgot my protein bar up here yesterday, and since you wouldn’t let me to finish my lunch today, I need it to relieve my hunger.”
He stared at her hands. “I don’t see any such thing.”
She reached behind the obelisks and pulled out the bar. “This.”
“You are here to work, not to eat.” He grabbed the protein bar and put it in his pocket. “I believe you were working downstairs.”
“Yes.”
“Take the ladder with you.”
He obviously did not want her working on the second floor. Maybe this is where he’s hiding the fakes.
*
Jackson paced in wide circles around the circulation desk. It seemed like hours since Logan had left. The curator-in-training’s stomach growled, but he didn’t want to leave the library to get lunch, in case his friend returned while he was out. Instead of a car, I should get a cell phone. Then I could text him.
“Argh.” He hit himself in the head for being so stupid. He picked up the phone on the circulation desk and dialed Logan’s cell number. “Where are you?”
“Piccolo Italia. A guy’s gotta have lunch.”
“Good. Bring me a meatball hero. I’m starving. Did you have any luck with ... you know?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay. Hurry.”
The ticking of the grandfather clock drove Jackson crazy. It was still early, but he felt like every minute stretched into an hour. He had practically worn a groove in the floor by the time he heard Logan banging on the door. His friend carried two bags, a white one from the pizzeria and a brown one, which must have held the gun.
Logan handed him the white bag. “Eat while I tell you about my little jaunt into the world of handguns.”
Jackson ripped the wrapper off his sandwich. “Spill.”
“Marcus Hurble has been arrested.”
“While you were there?”
“No. Last night. The cops say he robbed a church poor box. Mrs. Krebs, that little old lady who lives across the street from the rectory, told police she heard a gunshot and thought someone killed Reverend Blake. She claims she saw Hurble leaving the church. Reverend Blake is fine, but Hurble had a gun on him when the cops picked him up, so they charged him.”
“I thought you said you got me a gun?”
“I did, but not from Hurble. I got it from Larry at Once A-Pawn A Time.”
“That guy’s a nut job. You didn’t tell him it was for me, did you?”
“I told him I needed it for target practice. He took down all my info ... or I guess I should say, my older brother’s. If you ever shoot someone with this gun, he’ll be the one they send up the river, and my life won’t be worth a damn.”
“So show me.”
“Oh. And by the way, you owe me twenty bucks.”
“It cost that much?”
“No,” Logan answered, sliding a black case out of the bag and unlatching it. Inside, a 9mm Glock and an empty magazine sat embedded in the box’s foam lining. “The gun was four hundred ninety-nine dollars. The ammo is what put you over the top.”
Jackson inspected the Glock. “Did he show you how to use it?”
“It’s a pawn shop, not a firing range. So no, he didn’t show me how to use it.”
“Did he at least show you how to load it?”
“No, because he didn’t have any nine-millimeter rounds in stock. I had to go to Buy-Mart for that.”
Jackson tensed. “Anybody could have seen you getting bullets at Buy-Mart. That’s where my mother shops.”
“It’s Wednesday afternoon. Your mom is working. Everybody’s mom is working. So you can stop working ... up a sweat. Can I use the computer?”
“Why?”
“So we can find out how to load a gun you shouldn’t own with bullets you shouldn’t have.”
“Go ahead.”
Twenty minutes later, the gun was loaded and the safety was securely in place.
*
The College of Overseers sat in an ancient chamber, considering their options.
≎The girl has confirmed the existence of weapons.
⌘Yes.
<
br /> ∎Do we have evidence of the sale of antiquities?
♆No counterfeits have been reported.
∑Our hands are tied.
⧳The Terrorians will strike.
⌘We cannot prevent them from taking action.
⚛We do have options.
§Yes.
≎We must turn on the resonator.
★A visit to each of the realms is essential.
◍We will begin immediately, with the exception of Terroria. Plato Indelicat will travel there at the appointed time and escort the girl back to her own world.
Ω.I do not see Pru Tellerence. Who will visit Dramatica?
⌘I will go to Dramatica. Stay illuminated, my brethren.
*
It was time for Johanna’s seven-hour rest period. Upon its completion, she would be escorted home. Why can’t they just let me go home now? She thought it, but she didn’t really mean it. She needed the time to look for counterfeits.
She listened carefully for the telltale signs of Nero 51’s departure. She could barely hear the squeak of the front door from her room, but when the giant humidifier stopped churning, she knew for sure he had gone. She asked for sustenance, and quickly ate the potato-and-bean soup provided. The tankard contained lemon-flavored water, which she was glad of, because beer would have slowed her down. She noticed a light go on in the building across the courtyard. That must be Building 7. She would have to keep checking to make sure the light did not go out while she investigated the residence floor.
*
Two hours later, Johanna yawned. She had examined thousands of obelisks, and still hadn’t found anything. Suddenly, she heard the humidifier fans sputter to life. She glanced across the vast opening in the center of the library and out the window. The light in Building 7 still burned. She dropped to the floor just as the front door opened, and dozens of Terrorians entered the library and headed toward her quarters.
Johanna did not hesitate. She stuffed the rag and paste in the back of the shelf and wriggled across the floor on her stomach. She heard feet slapping against steps as the Terrorians climbed the curator’s staircase. Johanna rolled across the floor as fast as she could, straight into the old, stone stairwell adjacent to the front entrance.
She heard someone say, “Bli z’ Bril.” They were apparently more interested in Nero 51’s residence than her quarters.
She crept down the stairs, but remained hidden in the stairwell. If she crouched in the dimly lit corner, she could watch the main part of the library, unobserved. Before long, she saw a parade of Terrorians carry weapons out the main entrance. They walked in unified precision, as if one brain commanded everyone’s movement. Only one Terrorian at the end of the line marched a hair out of step. He won’t last long, she thought. They’ll probably execute him for missing a beat. By the time the last of them exited, those who had been at the front of the procession returned to transport even more weapons. She knew the retrieval of arms had ended when the humidifier again went silent.
Johanna wanted to contact Mal, but first, she needed to clean up loose ends. She climbed the stairs, and tried to remember which shelf she had hidden the rag and paste on. She grabbed them in haste, clumsily knocking over an obelisk. If anyone had been in the library, they would have heard her gasp. She could not afford to break another crystal and incite the wrath of Nero 51. She looked at it lying on its side, unbroken. Curious.
She picked it up. It felt as heavy as the others, but not in the same way. She picked up a second obelisk and immediately knew it was real. The crystal was uniformly heavy. But all the weight of the unbroken figurine was in the base. I’m such a fool. She had probably picked up dozens of fakes, but disregarded them because they had felt as heavy as crystal. She took the counterfeit back to her room and got out Mal’s diary.
“Mal, I found a fake obelisk. It looks like crystal, but I knocked it over by accident and it didn’t break. What should I do?”
His answer did not arrive for more than an hour.
Nothing. You are only there to serve your sentence.
Mal could be so exasperating. Surely she could do something. She grabbed her backpack and looked for her cell phone. Her battery had lost a lot of its juice, but she only needed enough power to take a few pictures. She photographed the obelisk from several different angles, so she could describe it in her diary, which she knew Mal read regularly. She also took several pictures of the weapon she had ... uh ... confiscated. Stolen is such an ugly word.
She didn’t know what else she could do. She looked at her phone—6:00 a.m. In two more hours, it would be time to return home.
*
Jackson slipped the loaded gun in his waistband, just like he had seen on TV. I hope I don’t shoot off any body parts. That would be embarrassing. And painful. Everything was ready to go.
R-R-R-I-I-I-N-N-N-G-G-G! He answered the phone. “Library of Illumination.”
“Yeah. I’m from Delectable Comestibles. You placed an order?”
“Yes.”
“Could you open the front door? I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes and still haven’t figured out how to get in.”
“Illumination.” The wall slid open. “Right in here,” Jackson said, leading the man to a table he had dragged up from the basement. He had considered using the circulation desk for serving coffee, but the television took up a lot of space.
While the man set out the refreshments, Jackson switched on the TV to warm it up.
“That’s it. Sign here.” The caterer handed Jackson the invoice.
“Thanks.” Jackson took a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and tipped the guy. He was going broke as curator-in-training, and wished he had never pried open that stupid window.
*
The screeching sound of metal upon metal disrupted the silence in Libraries of Illumination on each of eleven worlds. Curators looked up to find their cupolas opening, and stared at the blinding light shooting up from their LOI medallions—straight through the sudden openings in their roofs. A moment later, the light went out as a member of the College of Overseers greeted each world’s steward. Most of the curators expressed outrage when they learned Terrorians had stockpiled weapons and the threat of war was imminent.
*
Hundreds of Terrorian soldiers amassed outside Building 7. They had been training all year for this moment, and were fired up. Nero 51 had promised them they would be handsomely rewarded for helping Terroria establish itself as the prime sovereign of the twelve literary worlds.
Inside Building 7, a quartermaster outfitted each Terrorian with a weapon and two crystals, one with their orders on it and another with a map of the library they were assigned to seize. The return of the Fantasian to her own world meant all the portals would be in a specific alignment, allowing the Terrorians to know which realm each portal would lead to.
In the courtyard, soldiers assembled into twelve flanks, with three leaders at the head of each. Nero 51 emerged from Building 7 and stood in the middle of a wide loggia facing them.
“Terrorians. For many millennia, our realm has waited patiently to reclaim its position as prime sovereign of the Libraries of Illumination. It is an honor we held for two millennia, only to have it snatched away by a united force of rabble-rousers who refused to recognize our indomitable spirit and natural ability to lead. Nine worlds against our one forced us to sacrifice our position of power, if not our dignity.
“It has long been my dream to restore our great world to its true destiny as leader of all Libraries of Illumination.” Nero 51 smiled in the strangled way in which Terrorians contorted their faces to impart any semblance of benign cordiality. “To succeed in our endeavor, we must do something that at first may seem reprehensible, but is ultimately necessary. Your primary objective is the destruction of every piece of documented literature in each of the libraries, as soon as you have secured the site. Once the other library systems have been wiped clean of all knowledge, their outlying books and papers will cease
to exist. Their records will be eradicated. They will be devoid of all facts, fiction, figures, histories, music, art, plans, manuals, maps—any and all information that has ever been recorded will cease to exist for them. The compendium of universal literature on Terroria will be the only surviving resource for all our worlds, and will provide us with the ultimate power to rule the others—consummate knowledge.
“Maul 232, take our ‘fundraisers’ to the cupola, immediately. May I remind you that this is supposed to be a social event, so mingle amiably. When the time comes, you will find weapons inside my residence.
“Advance teams, prepare to take your places. We are moments away from glory. Use your weapons’ force-field initiators to prevent our adversaries from detaining you. Humane conquest is the key to obtaining support. Those who yield to our ways will be conditioned to serve Terroria. However, there may be some who prefer to spill blood rather than accept the magnanimity of our governance.
“If you must, do not hesitate to use the Omicron Key.” He turned a key on the side of his weapon and took aim at Heil 66. A black-and-white beam shot out of the armament, disintegrating the Terrorian. “Heil 66 claimed dedication to our cause, yet delayed giving me crucial information about a spy planted by the overseers in our library until just moments ago. He disregarded the prime directive, and has paid the ultimate price.
“If you must, eradicate all who resist.”
LOI
CHAPTER 9
Overseers, except Pru Tellerence and Plato Indelicat, arrived at their designated realms carrying large, flat boxes containing translucent screens. The overseers did their best to calm the librarians by discussing their precautions against the possibilities of what might occur, but without overwhelming success.
“How could you allow this to happen?” most curators asked.
ℌWe did not allow this to transpire. We simply did not prevent it.
Their answer confused the curators. The overseers sought to distract them by asking their help to position the screens across from the portals. The shiny, paper-thin attachments easily adhered to the walls, and once in place, could not be detected.