Jump City: Apprentice

by MK Alexander

  “Backwards,” I repeated the word. “You mean faster time?”

  “Exactly that. I can go down to any level, spend the day cataloging, come back up, and hardly a blink of an eye has passed.”

  I tried to imagine what she meant. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Extremely dangerous. Look at Bartholomew over there. He went down to the depths for a few days and he’s been completely worthless ever since.”

  “You mean to say time flows faster?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I’m not sure it is… yet here we are.”

  “How much faster?”

  “It all rather depends where you are. The further down the ramp you go, the faster time flows.”

  “In the stacks, you mean?”

  “It’s all perfectly safe so long as you stay above the Gutenberg Line,” Madeline reassured. “Hours can pass down there and only a few seconds will go by for us.”

  I tried to understand what this meant. “What about upstairs— here in the salon?”

  “You must realize that the flow of time is not completely consistent, of course. It’s a bit like the weather…” the brigadier said.

  That was hardly an answer. “What about compared to outside the library? You’re saying time is different there?”

  “Of course.”

  “How different?”

  “Best estimate is about ten to one.”

  “Which means?”

  “For every hour inside the salon, six minutes pass outside.”

  “So time is slower outside.”

  “You might put it that way.”

  “What about all the books? I asked. “Wouldn’t they decay more quickly?

  “Yes, well, I suppose they would if they were in the present… which is why we have very strict rules about not bringing them upstairs.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I suppose the books exist in a kind of stasis. When you travel down to a particular room, it’s akin to traveling to that year. If you were to bring a book up to the salon, it would likely crumble to dust. We’ve lost many a good volume that way.”

  “Doesn’t sound very safe.”

  “For the books, no. You’re safe enough though, so long as you don’t stop in the hallway. And once you’re inside an alcove, it’s exactly like stepping into that year in time. The books are perfectly preserved, and so are you.”

  “So… you would age rapidly if you go down into the stacks?” I asked, not quite understanding it all.

  “Heavens no. You won’t grow old down there, you’ll just die in a hurry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you go down far enough, you’d suffer dehydration, then starvation and death, all in a matter of moments.”

  “That would be quite far down, dearest, and only if you were to stop in the corridor. Let’s not frighten the lad.”

  “Anyone who has gone down has yet to come up with a satisfactory description of the experience… Though perhaps Tractus put it best: time becomes very slippery.”

  “How fast is it going at the very bottom?” I asked, fearing the answer.

  “At the very depths of the place, I suppose it flows at a near infinite pace.”

  ***

  A deep chime sounded from the very bowels of the library, and I was startled by it. I turned to the brigadier who may have been dozing again.

  “The doorbell,” he explained.

  Fynn finally appeared, though how much time had passed was hard to say, enough though for me to become annoyed. He strode through the grand arched entrance with a sallow-faced Sonny Ming following close behind. The latter wheeled in three wooden crates on a hand truck and stacked them near a side table at the opposite end of the room. There was no sign of Fynn’s steamer trunk or my newly-acquired duffle bag.

  “Ah, Tractus, we’ve been waiting,” the brigadier said cheerfully.

  “A long time,” I added.

  Madeline and Brigadier Thomas rose immediately and gave him a very gracious welcome. There were lots of hugs and polite kisses.

  “Do you have our Georges?” Madeline asked.

  “The Georges, yes, and something even better: Twenty Dollar Double Eagles… I would hang onto them for a few years, they’ll be worth much more.”

  “We rather need the cash now.”

  “Of course, as you say, but these are quite rare… you could sell them to a collector… Have Sonny take a look through them. He likes that sort of thing, doesn’t he?”

  “Can’t be bothered really. I’ll just have them melted down in the kitchen.”

  Ming came forward with one of the crates and gently pried it open with a crowbar. It was filled to the top with gold sovereigns.

  “What about the dry cells?” the brigadier asked.

  “Of course, and fresh torches…” Fynn assured.

  I looked into the other box as Ming opened it: full of batteries and flashlights.

  “You’re a godsend, Tractus.”

  “I take it you kept my good friend well amused?” Fynn asked at large. “A new traveler, you might say.”

  “A new traveler? There is no such thing, my dear Tractus,” the brigadier protested.

  “Let’s say he’s come upon a new found awareness.”

  “Oh, indeed, I like the way you put that.”

  Cook appeared with more drinks and another plate of appetizers, this time chilled shrimp surrounded a bowl of cocktail sauce. Madame Madeline sauntered over and sprawled herself on the same sofa between Fynn and I. Leaning against him she put her feet across my legs. She smiled seductively at us both.

  “Madeline, I will remind you, I am a happily married man.”

  “You haven’t even met this so-called wife of yours,” Madeline replied with a coy smile.

  “Just the same, I do remember her well, and we are very much in love.”

  “You are impossible to converse with, Fynn. Such a stickler for details.” Madeline seemed exasperated. She shifted her position and decided to lean against me instead. “What about this darling boy? He’s certainly not married.”

  “So,” Fynn began, “Tell me about your visitors of late.”

  “We’re practically booked solid… I suppose you and Patrick will have to share, if you are staying.” Madeline ran her finger across my shoulder. “Though my room is always open.” She winked at me. “Some of your friends are upstairs right now.”

  “Now?” Fynn asked and reached over for a shrimp.

  “Why even Bruno is here… he’s a good friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  “Bruno Giordano?” Fynn asked and a smile came to his face. “A most unexpected pleasure.”

  “Bruno has gone, I’m afraid,” the brigadier interrupted sheepishly. “Left a few days ago… some sort of cosmological conference… damn astronomers.”

  “Anyone else I might know?”

  “That Russian chap, obsessed with genetics, even though I’ve told him repeatedly that he’s fifty or a hundred years too early, and that he should come back.”

  “Genetics? Are you sure?”

  “Or eugenics, perhaps.”

  “I’m afraid he’s gone as well, Maddy.”

  “Who’s left then?”

  “The old man, from the great white north, what was his name? Gary something… And, Mr Mekanos... I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  “I don’t mean left, brother— I mean who remains?”

  “Oh, well, that dreadful man from Texas… and his obnoxious offspring.”

  “Of whom do you speak?”

  “The Texan of course.”

  “Oh him. Seems rather fixated by American history, if I recall… Usually sends one of his boys down into the stacks, never descends himself…” Madeline’s voice drifted off.

  “Yes,” the brigadier picked up, “the fellow with a rather limited comprehension of things.”

  “And his awful brood…” Madeline added.

  “Are the
y here as well?”

  “No, thankfully he’s come alone this time. I remember a—”

  “When did he begin visiting?” Fynn interrupted.

  “Oh, when indeed? Let me think, “Not for another thirty years, I’d say, at least from my perspective. Donated some journals to the library, autobiographical, I think… or was it a history of Texas?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “His name… Hmm, Drummond, maybe?”

  “Wait, Drummond as in doubles and doppelgängers… from Colorado?” I asked.

  “No, Texas, I’m sure.”

  “Not Douglas?”

  “No, no… Desmond or Dennis, perhaps. Friends with Kaiser, I think… We all went to a barbecue once, a hootenanny.”

  “Hang on, Kaiser Wayne?” I asked.

  “I can hardly tell the two apart,” Madeline replied. “But he is a good friend to the Inquisitor, it seems to me.”

  “And you are quite sure this Texan knows nothing of the temple?” Fynn asked.

  “Quite certain,” Madeline assured. “Only those who come for the treatment… and they only have a vague understanding of what happens.”

  “What about the Inquisitor— does he know of this Mr Drummond?” Fynn persisted.

  “Can’t say we’ve discussed him.”

  “But he still visits, eh?”

  “Yes, on occasion… He can hardly be refused entry. Here in February last, wasn’t it, brother?”

  “February?” the brigadier asked. “Must have been away at the time, probably on the front lines… Or was I a prisoner then?”

  “The front lines of what?” I asked.

  “My good man, one is a brigadier of something, it’s a title. In your parlance, a general. A fighting general, mind you, not one who sits behind a desk. One who is out there with his troops, fighting, killing, dying if necessary.”

  “He’s always going back to relive some glorious battle in infinite detail, it seems to me. I don’t suppose the outcome ever changes.”

  “That’s not true at all, Maddy. I am on occasion, on the losing side. I must be able to experience defeat once in a while, lest victory not taste as sweet.”

  “It’s a lot of nonsense, if you ask me.”

  “You can’t expect me to putter around the library all day… Nothing personal, my dear, it’s just that I prefer the company of men.”

  “As do I, brother.”

  “Has he said anything?” Fynn asked.

  “Who?”

  “The Inquisitor, the Quantifier, or whatever grand title he has these days.”

  “Said what he always says, It’s best not to get involved,” the brigadier commented. “Besides, he’s been hanging around in the Jura Mountains…”

  “Where is that?”

  “France or maybe Switzerland… always blathering on about some godforsaken particle.”

  “Not all of our friends are mutual,” Madeline said in a low tone, and to me it seemed. “Fynn might only know a dozen or so travelers, but I know many more; hundreds, I would venture to guess. My brother as well…”

  “Hundreds?’ I asked doubtfully.

  “Well, near enough to that number.”

  “Is Mortimer one of them?” I asked.

  “Yes. He’s quite friendly with the other travelers—”

  “And you’ve had dealings with this man?” Fynn interrupted.

  “Young Javelin, you mean? Oh Tractus, you suddenly sound so suspicious. I wouldn’t say dealings… no. He’s dropped in from time to time, delivered a few books, maybe we had a drink or two.”

  “And nothing else?”

  “What are you saying, Fynn? It’s really not your business anyway.”

  “When was he here last?”

  “Not so long ago…”

  “What books interested him?”

  “I can’t really say, that is, I can’t seem to recall… I don’t know why you think he’s so menacing. Seems quite nice to me.” Madeline paused to search her own memory. “Oh, I do recollect something. He went very deep into the stacks and was gone for a long while, that much I do remember. I hardly recognized him when he came back up.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “No… though he might have mentioned the Dux Viaticum.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The Traveler’s Guide,” Madeline translated. “Manuscripts which date to the early fifteen century. Written in Prague, I seem to think. Though, they’re certainly not here at our library. I’ve checked the catalog quite thoroughly.”

  “I’ve seen these books.”

  “Have you, Patrick?” Madeline turned to me. “I’d love to add them to our collection.”

  “You were speaking of Mortimer,” Fynn interrupted again. “No undue interest in the temple?”

  “What temple?” I asked.

  “Perhaps you should explain this to your friend,” Madeline said. “He looks rather confused.”

  Fynn turned to me, but hesitated before speaking. “There is a place very near to the library known as the temple. I’ll show it to you in the morning.”

  “What does it do?”

  “In simple terms, it allows one to jump to the past with a fair amount of precision while constricting geographical movement.”

  “A time machine?”

  “Hardly. And, its workings are notoriously unreliable.”

  “I completely disagree, Tractus,” Madeline protested.

  “It rather dilutes one’s concurrency.”

  Fynn’s reply caused the brigadier to laugh aloud. “You might say it interrupts one’s concurrency.”

  “Well, in any event, the secret is safe, the blueprints and such are under lock and key. And no one has inquired, so far as I know.”

  “If Mortimer gets wind of this, it could be the end of all of us.”

  “Fynn, such a dire warning… I’m sure you’re exaggerating.” Madeline smiled and straightened herself. “The only other copy there is, I didn’t manage to fetch. It’s very far down… almost to the first rooms, Alexandria perhaps— a papyrus scroll. Not even Ming knows that particular Egyptian dialect.”

  “That level is quite problematic these days,” the brigadier commented.

  “How so?”

  “It takes a good hour just to get down that far… and one’s clock is well into the orange. You might never make it back upstairs.”

  ***

  “It’s quite a nuisance not having electricity. I hear that a good deal of the world has already been electrified.” Madeline turned to Fynn for a reply.

  “This is very true.”

  “Except perhaps in the remotest corners of the globe, eh?”

  “That’s a fair supposition.”

  “Don’t you suppose we could get electricity sometime soon?”

  “I can look into it,” Fynn offered.

  “Would you?” Madeline gave off her best smile.

  “Surely, the cottage has been electrified?” Fynn asked.

  “Yes… but that’s not the point… neither Bartholomew nor I spend much time there.” She smiled again. “And what about a lift? I do believe someone promised me an elevator as they call it.”

  “Hardly seems practical, my dear,” the brigadier said. “We had enough trouble installing modern plumbing.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right about that.”

  My mind was drifting, only half listening to the ongoing conversation. A huge wave of tiredness crashed over me. “I was wondering if I could get a cup of coffee?” I asked, finally getting a word in edgewise.

  “Coffee, you say? I’m afraid that’s the one thing Cook has never mastered,” Madeline said. “Perhaps we can find some by breakfast tomorrow.” She laughed to herself. “Did Fynn ever tell you his single greatest contribution to mankind?”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “You’re far too modest, Tractus.”

  I urged her on with a smile and a nod.

  “I don’t suppose you mean hunting housef
lies?” the brigadier asked.

  “No, not that, dear brother, I meant coffee of course. Tractus brought it to us all, here in the western world.”

  “How did that happen?” I asked.

  “He’ll have to tell you the story. I’m sure I’ll get all the details wrong.”

  Fynn didn’t seem ready to elaborate.

  “Coffee be damned, Tractus has the remarkable ability to catch flies in mid-air,” Brigadier Thomas cut in.

  “How?”

  Fynn smiled. “Well, I suppose I am able to guess where they’re about to go and just snap my hand closed.”

  “Any more books, Tractus?” Madeline asked, completely changing the subject.

  “Well yes, a very brief tome about young Charlemagne.”

  “Charlemagne, you say? What year would I file that under?”

  “Quite far down in the stacks, I should think. “Seven-Forty-Two.”

  “The eight century? That is rather deep. Who do you suppose could bring it down for us?”

  “I’m sure you would know best,” Fynn replied.

  “How many books is that now, eight or nine? I don’t know how you find the time to write so much,” Madeline paused to light a cigarette. “That last one was a real challenge to classify. Should it be under recipes, under Vikings, or the tenth century? Though, not a biography, strictly speaking.”

  “Thank you for including it in your catalog.”

  “Which reminds me, Ming has finished translating your quatrains. He says your French is rather good.”

  “That’s a compliment coming from Ming.”

  “Filed it away, fifteen fifty-five. Not sure I approve of the nome de guerre.” Madeline laughed. “Well, what to do with Charlemagne now? I wonder, perhaps Patrick might take it down for us?”

  “To the stacks?” I asked, ready to jump at the chance— well, at least part of me.

  “Yes, just leave it on the table in the Eighth Century alcove.”

  “Are you sure your ankle is up to it,” Fynn asked.

  “I think so. It feels pretty good.” I rose and put my weight on it.

  “Still, you might take the cane with you, just in case it starts to act up.”