Last Dragon 6: Fire World

by Chris d'Lacey

  “The firebirds?”

  Strømberg nodded. “The greatest mystery on Co:pern:ica just got a little more puzzling, don’t you think? Why did these creatures that we all take for granted come to David’s aid? Because I have no doubt that they did. Did he call them? Or were they watching him, perhaps?”

  “And how were they able to seal that rift?”

  “Indeed,” said Strømberg. “Now, as I said earlier, I need to send David away for a while. It will seem suspicious if I don’t. Often in these cases it helps to place the subject in a completely neutral environment.”

  “You’re preparing a construct for him?”

  “Not a construct — a reality,” Thorren Strømberg said. “I’m sending David to a librarium.”

  4.

  A librarium?”

  Eliza’s face was so filled with shock that Harlan swiftly imagineered a rose. He put the violet-colored flower straight into her hand and was relieved to see its auma:scents begin to calm her as they rose visibly toward her nose and mouth. Bizarre, he thought, as he stroked her arm, to have seen (and felt) such a variety of emotions in the space of one hour. He put out a thought for a taxicar and one was there before he’d framed his reply. “We have no choice,” he said. “If we resist Strømberg’s therapy, he will have to refer David directly to the Higher. We’re not going to lose our son, Eliza.”

  He drew her into the taxicar and spoke their destination: Pod 24, The Crescent Way. Bushley. The doors closed and the taxicar sped into the night.

  Eliza sat heavily back into her seat, putting out the thought for no incidental music, film, or color. For once, she just wanted to talk. “What good can it do to send him to a place stacked high with books? He’ll be so bored his fain will just … shrivel.”

  “I rather think that’s the point,” said Harlan. “Strømberg is pretty sure David’s an ec:centric. His fain is hyperactive, to the point where his constructs are turning against him. Hence the bad dreams. Strømberg believes that a spell in the librarium will calm him down. The curator is a very good man, he says.” He unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to her.

  “Mr. Henry?”

  “He and Strømberg are related — distantly. We’re to collect David tomorrow and take him to the librarium ourselves. Mr. Henry will be expecting us.”

  The taxicar swished along the Bushley clearway. Through its transparent shell, Eliza could see a narrow river, lit by a series of hanging lights. She loved the river and its arched bridge made of stone. Sometimes she thought she could imagineer feathered creatures swimming in pairs on the surface of the water, maybe even bathing in its swell. But they were always just shadows, tricks of the light. The only creatures on Co:pern:ica were firebirds and katts. Neither of them, she was sure, liked to get wet. She folded the paper and handed it back. “How long will he have to stay there?”

  “Until the curator is satisfied that David is resolved.”

  “Will we be able to visit him?”

  “No.”

  Eliza brought the rose up to her mouth. Its colors had seeped into the flesh of her wrist. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, a distinct redness was forming in their corners. “How can they change what we imagineered, Harlan? David is a construct of our commingled love. If they alter him, if they dampen him down, aren’t they denying us what we wanted? Aren’t they tampering with our combined fain, just as much as his?”

  Harlan switched seats so that he could face her directly. “I’m just as dismayed as you are,” he said. “But I believe that Counselor Strømberg is acting in our best interests. He and I have agreed” — and here he chose his words carefully, covering his thoughts about Project Forty-Two — “to liaise closely with Mr. Henry about David’s progress. Hopefully, he won’t be away from us for long. I’ll commingle with him tomorrow and make him understand that this really is just an adventure. Something we’ve all done once. And … I thought we might arrange a treat for his return.”

  Eliza looked up. She read in her husband’s face what was clear in his mind. “A child? You think it’s the right time for us to apply for another?”

  “Yes, I do,” Harlan said. “The girl we’ve always wanted. A sister for David.”

  “Penelope,” Eliza said, brightening up.

  Harlan Merriman took his wife’s hand in his. “Penny,” he said. “I like ‘Penny.’”

  5.

  The next day, November 4, 031, Harlan and Eliza took a taxicar back to the therapy center to pick up David. The three were then whisked away on a journey that was going to change all their lives. The only address Harlan gave was “the Bushley librarium.” He knew of no other and the taxicar did not require further clarification.

  Eliza remained silent throughout the journey, leaving Harlan to entertain David. The boy was on his feet for most of the way, imagineering an escort for them. He described to his father what he could see through the shell of the taxicar: a small fleet of golden-colored rocket vehicles guiding them to their glorious destination. Harlan joined in the game, extending his fain to construct pilots for the vehicles. Square-chinned men in astro:nautic uniforms who saluted David as they flew past, all of them wearing The Crescent Way badges.

  Pity, then, Eliza thought, that their journey’s end did not live up to its stately approach. When she stepped out of the taxicar, she shuddered. They were in a wilderness. A calm and pleasant wilderness of green fields speckled with white, violet, and yellow daisies that swung back and forth on the gentlest of breezes (all maintained, she imagined, on low-level diligence from the Higher). No pods or other buildings on any horizon. Just fields and sky and flowers and clouds.

  And the librarium.

  It rose out of the flowers like a great gray monolith. A single tall building with an uncountable number of floors. The upper floors were lost in wisps of cloud and the whole structure seemed to be bending backward as though it had reached a critical mass and was ready to topple over at any moment. Fine red sand (or something like it) was raining down from the joints in the brickwork and being taken away in skirts on the breeze. At ground level there was just one door. It was made of wood (unusually) and was twice Harlan’s height. It was already halfway open, despite the fact that a small sign badly attached to the door frame invited visitors to r ng the be l. Harlan moved forward to do just that and stepped on something that had spilled out of the doorway. It was a large-format book. He reached down and picked it up. It must have been thirty spins since he’d seen one. He smoothed a film of the red sand off the glossy cover and handed it to Eliza.

  “The Art of Baking Cakes,” she read.

  Harlan shrugged. “Welcome to the librarium.”

  Eliza opened the pages and looked at several of the ancient digi:grafs. “Why do we keep this stuff? I could easily imagineer anything in this. I don’t understand what use this is to anyone.”

  “Historical value,” Harlan said. He took the book from her and flipped through its pages. He showed a digi:graf of a chocolate gateau to David. The boy’s eyes lit up and he quickly imagineered a miniature version. He gave it to his mother.

  Eliza smiled and de:constructed it. “Bad for your purity of vision,” she said.

  “I think books are rather quaint,” said Harlan. “And they’re real, of course, not constructs.” He closed the book and laid it back in the doorway. “Our ancestors would have relied on these things.”

  Eliza shook her head and looked up at the building. “Is this real, do you think?”

  Harlan touched the brickwork, feeling its roughness, though that in itself was no proof of authenticity; anyone on Co:pern:ica could imagineer a brick. “Yes,” he said. “I’d be surprised if anyone had enough in their fain to put up something as large as this and still be able to maintain it.”

  Eliza sighed and put her hands on David’s shoulders, pulling him back toward her a little. “Why would Strømberg send him to a relic like this?”

  “Well, let’s begin the process of finding out.” This time
, Harlan did press the bell. The sign above it tilted and clattered to the ground.

  Surprisingly, the bell did work. But rather than making one distinct sound that would normally have soaked through the heart of the building, rooms began to light up at random, each one making a variant of a ring or a clang or a trill or a whistle (even a buzz, Harlan thought). For the first time, he realized there were no coverings of any kind on the windows. No ultra:plex panes to keep in warmth, just a few wooden shutters half-open here and there.

  “This could take forever,” Eliza tutted as the noises went on and on and on. She crossed her arms and frowned.

  All of a sudden, David pointed to a window about eight levels up. An emerald green firebird had just appeared on the sill. It made the strange rrrhing noise the creatures often did, popped its eyes slightly, and went back into the room. The librarium “bell” stopped.

  For a moment, all the visitors could hear was the swish of the breeze and the gentle rustle of sand falling among the flowers. Then a head appeared through the window where the firebird had been. A young girl. No older than David. Her hair was the color of night. And though a lot of it was falling in straggles around her face, half-hiding most of the defining bone structure, it was impossible not to see the wild beauty in her shining eyes.

  “Yes?” she said curtly.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Henry,” said Harlan.

  “He’s sleeping,” said the girl.

  “Through that racket?” Eliza muttered.

  The wild eyes immediately picked her out. “Who are you?”

  Eliza tapped her foot. “I don’t think I like your impertinence,” she said, extending her fain to touch the girl’s auma and register her official displeasure.

  The girl smirked and put a curl of her hair into her mouth. “None of that fain stuff’s welcome here. And Mr. Henry doesn’t like people who try it. Who’s he?” She tilted her chin at David.

  “He’s our son,” said Harlan. “He has an appointment. Now go and fetch Mr. Henry or I’ll come in there and find him myself.”

  At this, the girl hooted with laughter. “Yeah? And how many spins of Co:pern:ica have you got?”

  “That’s it, we’re leaving,” Eliza said. “Harlan, get a car.” She tapped David’s shoulder.

  But David stayed exactly where he was, staring up at the girl and smiling. And before his mother could speak again, the boy did something quite amazing. He imagineered a bubble on the palm of his hand and blew it gently into the air. Up it floated, to the eighth level, where it stopped and hovered right in front of the girl.

  “What’s this?” she said, thrown for the first time.

  From the ground, David showed her what she should do with it: Prod (gently), with the tip of a finger.

  The girl studied the floating sphere, fascinated by the way its flimsy outer surface seemed to change color if she tilted her head. She frowned at David, then prodded the thing. It immediately burst. The girl gasped and put out a hand to catch what she thought was a glimmer of light. She gasped again when she saw what she’d really caught. “Water,” she said. “You made a raindrop float.”

  “Harlan?” Eliza said, glancing sideways at her husband. “What just happened? How did he do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Harlan whispered, though there was no denying what he had seen. His son had changed the property of a droplet of water and made it lighter than air. Somehow, he’d challenged the force of G:ravity.

  A clatter of feet on stairs made the professor look toward the door. The girl heaved it open, cursing as she spilled a whole stack of books into the foyer behind her. She stepped outside wearing a jet-black dress that splayed out in large puffy pleats around her knees and a pair of black-and-white ankle boots, one of which was unlaced. She went right up to David and looked him in the eye. The children were, as it happened, precisely the same height. “Speak,” she said.

  Eliza tutted at the girl’s arrogance. “He doesn’t like to,” she said. “He prefers to commingle.”

  “Not allowed here,” the girl said to David, shaking her head and making her feral hair cascade across her shoulders. “Mr. Henry likes words. Tell me your name.”

  “David,” he said.

  Both parents raised an eyebrow.

  The girl smiled. She looked at her wetted hand and used it to shake David’s. “I’m Rosa,” she said. “This is my librarium, and you can come in.”

  6.

  Your librarium?” Harlan said.

  Rosa bobbed her head. “OK,” she drawled, “spare me the pedantry.” (Which made Harlan laugh and Eliza frown.) “It might as well be mine.” She crouched down and picked a daisy. “I’ve been here for eight or nine spins at least.”

  “Nine spins?” said Eliza, sounding alarmed. (A “spin” was a term used to describe the flat rotation of Co:pern:ica around its fire star. Sometimes people called it a “year.”)

  Harlan touched her arm. “Why were you brought here, Rosa?”

  “My family didn’t want me,” she said with a shrug. She threw the flower aside and took David’s hand. “Come on, I’ve got lots to show you.” They were almost through the librarium door when Eliza called out, “David?”

  He turned and let go of Rosa’s hand. Although displays of affection were uncommon on Co:pern:ica, he nevertheless came back and put his arms around his mother.

  “You won’t forget us?” she said, unsure of how to hold him.

  David gave her a puzzled look. “It’s an adventure, isn’t it?” He turned to his father.

  Harlan was looking at the discarded daisy, lying in the grass, its life juice steadily seeping away. If this place had been a construct, the Higher would have fixed the daisy by now. He glanced up at the silent building and nodded. “Yes, a proper adventure,” he muttered. And with that he waved good-bye to his son, drew Eliza into the taxicar, and took her away.

  “Hey. New boy.” Rosa was at one of the ground-floor windows. She had her elbows on the sill and her chin in her hands. “Cover your eyes and count to ten.”

  “Why?”

  “After ten, you can come in and find me. And remember, you’re not allowed to extend your fain. If you do, I’ll know and I’ll punish you.”

  “Erm, how?”

  The dark eyes rolled. “I won’t talk to you for three whole days.”

  And this is a bad thing? David thought, extending his fain so she might commingle if she wanted to.

  She stuck out her tongue. Yes, she replied.

  So you can commingle, then?

  “Yes, but it’s not allowed,” she said. “It hurts me anyway. And I won’t do it again or Mr. Henry will be mad. Eyes. Cover. The full ten, OK? Runcey will be watching. He’s my best friend. He’ll know if you cheat.” She pointed to the firebird in the next window along. He was sitting with his green wings folded back and a slightly faraway look on his face.

  David shrugged and covered his eyes.

  After a not-so-generous “ten,” he looked up and saw that Rosa and the firebird were both gone. Quickly, he ran inside the librarium, where he soon discovered that speed of movement was of little advantage and a positive hazard. Books of all sizes and colors, some glossy backed, some dull and plain, some open, some not, were stacked and strewn in piles of varying height (including singly) across the floor of the foyer and again up the dark, uneven-looking stairs. Picking his way through them, he turned to his right and headed for the room he thought Rosa had spoken from. She wasn’t there, but the scene was exactly the same as in the foyer, except the walls were also laden with books, so many that the shelves were bowing with their weight. As he stumbled across the room, almost losing his footing on something called Flamenco Guitar Made Easy, David found himself on the threshold of two more doorways, at right angles to each other. He took the one he thought would lead him deeper into the building, convinced that Rosa would be hiding in the heart of it. She wasn’t. In total, he visited eleven more rooms. And the only difference between any of them was that some had win
dows and some did not. And in one he found a chair that rocked, and in another an old-fashioned easel. In the twelfth room he thought to glance out of the window and realized, to his surprise, that the daisy horizon was shrinking. In other words he’d actually been going upward, though he’d had no sense whatsoever of climbing.

  “Fed up yet?”

  He whipped around. There she was. Leaning against a doorway, grinning.

  “I thought I’d be kind,” she said, looking at her fingernails. “It takes forever if you don’t know what you’re doing. The librarium is kind of … spatially arranged. I’ll teach you if you’re going to be here for a while. Did you find a bathroom?”

  David shook his head.

  “Clothing closet?” she asked a little hopefully, clearly not happy with the pants, shirt, and tie he was wearing.

  “Just books,” David said. “Hundreds of them.”

  “Two million, four hundred and eighty-two thousand, and sixty-three to be precise.” She grinned like a katt.

  David nodded. It was a tall, tall building. “What do you do here?”

  “Store books,” she said with a shrug. “It’s my job to put them in order. I’ll show you.” She stepped into the room, picked up a book from a heap on the floor, and examined its spine. “We do them by author. Duncan,” she read out. “This can go before” — she scanned the shelves — “Essinger.” She reached up on tiptoe and attempted to push the book into a space too small for it. So she created a space instead. “This Ringrose shouldn’t be here,” she said, and pulled the book before the Essinger out of its slot, replacing it with her Duncan. The Ringrose she simply dropped onto the floor. “I’ll do that one another time. I wonder if Mr. Henry is going to ask you to order them, too. You do know your alph, don’t you?” And circling David with her hands behind her back she chanted, “A B C D E F —”