by Molly Flatt
Alex shook her head. ‘Shut up,’ she said.
‘Even if you don’t care about us,’ MacBrian pressed on, her voice husky with urgency, ‘you must care about your family. Your friends. Whatever happened with your Story has triggered a total shutdown in I-537. Not a single other Story has surfaced within that Stack for the past six months. As long as your Story is still docked in that wall, they’re simply refusing to come up. That’s a million people who have had no chance to be Read, any one of whom might be your mother, your father, your fiancé.’
Alex shook her head. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘Dorothy—’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘The problem is bigger than you can imagine. The Library runs deep, deep beneath the earth. Every Stack is connected, in every Chapter across the world. With I-537 out of action, the entire Library has started to slow. All over the globe, people are stagnating, entrenching, falling back on old Storylines rather than having the courage to change and grow.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Alex opened her eyes and gave a high, quavering laugh. ‘You’re saying that I’m . . . what – just sort of really slowly fucking up the entire human race?’
‘Then there’s you,’ MacBrian added quietly. ‘You saw the state of your Story in there. And we saw how you reacted when you tried to recall the night Egan died. Who knows what damage is going on behind that clouded skin? For all we know, whatever has happened inside your Story is slowly destroying you, too.’
At that point, because she could think of nothing better to do, Alex sat down. The mud seeped up around her, soft and cool. MacBrian had fallen silent, although she could hear Iain muttering gruffly somewhere. The rain pattered onto her hood and dripped off the brim, gradually filling the cradle of her lap. Her trainers were sodden, her socks soggy. Her feet were very cold. She tried to think of her father. She tried to think of her mother; of Harry, of Mae, of Bo. She tried to think of Finn MacEgan, and the anguished look on his face when he had asked her why she killed his dad. She tried, briefly, to think of everyone in the whole bloody world.
But right at that moment all she could think of was strong, powerful, extraordinary new Alex and her harmless little episodes.
11
‘Professor MacGill?’
Behind Iain’s shoulder, a plump young man was bouncing up and down, waving. He caught Alex’s eye and gave her a beaming smile. Hustled back through the rotunda, she’d kept her head down at first. Then she hadn’t been able to resist glancing up and had seen them ogling her from their desks, peering down from ladders, craning around cabinets like birders in a hide. Some of them looked unmistakably hostile, but others, particularly the younger ones, were whispering and gesticulating excitedly.
‘Some of us were wondering, Professor,’ the plump young man called, ‘whether we might be permitted a few minutes with Dorothy Moore?’
Iain took a step forward.
The plump young man danced back. ‘As President of the European branch of the Story-surging Society,’ he shouted, darting sideways, ‘I think it’s only fair that some of our members get a chance to—’
But Iain was on him, twisting the collar of his tunic, strangling the rest of his sentence. Taran rushed over, exclaiming. After a moment’s hesitation, Iain loosened his grip. Grasping Iain’s wrist with both hands, the young man wriggled round to glare at MacBrian.
‘Story-surging is a legitimate theory,’ he gasped. ‘It’s the only theory that fits. You can’t silence us just because you disagree with us. Is that what happened to Dughlas, Director? Did that poor boy say something that you and your personal guard dog here disagreed with? Did he worship your predecessor a little too strongly? This isn’t a dictatorsh—’
Iain twisted again.
‘That’s enough,’ MacBrian snapped, the red spots burning on her cheeks. She gestured sharply at Iain. ‘Enough. All of you. Get back to work. Taran, I’d thank you to control your department. We don’t have time for histrionics.’ She hustled Alex through the fossil-encrusted door and past her secretary, to whom she barked a terse command. Inside her study, she went over and stood with her hands on the big table for several seconds, with her back to Alex. Then she turned and pulled out one of the wicker chairs. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Sit down.’
Cautiously Alex sat, shedding flakes of drying mud. The rain was loud on the dome overhead. She had no idea what time it was. She had reached a stage of shock and exhaustion that was almost pleasant in its numbness.
‘What did he mean: what happened to Dughlas?’ she asked. ‘Wasn’t he the one who fabricated Egan MacCalum’s Reading records? Did you punish him, then?’
‘No,’ MacBrian said. ‘I did not. And I’d thank you to keep the information about the Reading records to yourself. No-one knows about Dughlas’s involvement in Egan’s death, outside of the Council and Egan’s immediate family. The time straight after the – accident – was a period of deep instability, and Egan had already been cast in the role of tragic hero. The Council made it clear to me that smearing Egan’s name would only make things worse. In any case, Dughlas was just a boy. Is. A poor deluded boy. But unfortunately, last week Dughlas disappeared.’ She sat down, pulled her notebook towards her and began flipping through the pages. ‘We have no idea what’s happened to him, although my detractors will find any excuse to place outrageous accusations at my feet. Personally, I fear the worst. Dughlas obviously blamed himself for what happened. And I very much hope he hasn’t done something rash. But, frankly, his disappearance is a complication we could do without.’
Alex took a moment to digest this, and failed. ‘And what did he mean, about Story . . . Story . . .’
‘Story-surging,’ Taran said, shutting the door behind him. He came to sit on the other side of Alex, looking more rumpled than ever. ‘I apologize, Sorcha. Ailbeart didn’t mean any harm. None of them do. They’re excited, that’s all. And he’s right, of course. It’s increasingly clear that Story-surging is the only viable explanation for all this, however unorthodox it may be.’
The numbness was fading. A nest of snakes stirred in Alex’s belly. ‘What,’ she asked, ‘is Story-surging?’
Taran looked at MacBrian. MacBrian sighed, then nodded. Taran shuffled his chair closer to Alex. ‘The concept of Story-surging has been mocked by traditionalists for centuries,’ he said, ‘as have many of our most creative ideas. Ideas such as Memory-sharing, Story-hopping, even Editing.’ He paused, eyes shining, as if expecting Alex to dredge, from her choking miasma of incredulity, some new and special kind of amazement. ‘These ideas have mostly survived in the form of fiction, because it is appallingly hard to secure funding from the Council for proper research.’
‘Because, Taran,’ MacBrian said wearily, ‘there has never been any actual evidence to suggest that those ideas are anything other than a fantasy.’ She hesitated. ‘Until . . .’
Taran smiled broadly. ‘Exactly, Sorcha. Until now.’ He drew a circle on the table and stabbed at the middle of it with one bony forefinger. ‘The more open-minded among us, Alex, have always believed that the Library is slowly evolving. That, at a certain point in the future, Stories are bound to start displaying different behaviours, that they might even develop new powers. And that’s exactly what I think is happening with your Story. I believe that your Story is the very first to surge.’
‘Surge?’
‘Until now, Stories have only been able to use the energy of the Library as fuel, to create Memories and Storylines. But according to the theory of Story-surging, Stories will at some point also learn to push that energy outwards, beyond their own skins and into the physical world. And that’s exactly what your Story appears to have done. It blasted Egan with Library energy. It surged.’ His finger shot out of the circle and across the table towards Alex, making her jump. ‘We’ve been in close contact with our international counterparts on the other islands, and we haven’t found evidence that any other Stories have surged. Yet. But if Story-sur
ging did become widespread, the Library could become the greatest generator on earth. Perhaps even the universe. The development of Story-surging would effectively allow us to harvest some of our vast collective mental energy. To use it as a tool. Even a weapon, you might say, although’ – he gave a conspiratorial smile – ‘the hope has always been that it could be harnessed positively. And not just to keep light bulbs shining, or cars on the road. You yourself have felt how potent this stuff is, from the tiny amount of radiation that leaks into the Stacks. You recall that sense of endless possibility? That calm? Imagine the potential uses. If Stories start to surge Library energy out into the world, and we can find a way to collect and administer it, Library energy could be used in all sorts of ways. To create a fruitful atmosphere for political negotiations. To treat mental illnesses. Perhaps even as a widespread pharmacological supplement, to increase the empathy and creativity of our entire species. Moreover, certain scholars recently suggested that Story-surging might evolve in parallel to digital technology. That it represents the response of human consciousness to artificial intelligence. And the timing of your . . . display appears to prove them right.’
Alex stared at him. The snakes twitched.
‘In other words,’ MacBrian said, ‘your Story may have somehow learned to project its energy beyond the boundaries of the Library and into the outside world. You might be the first person ever born with a Story that can surge.’
Alex closed her eyes and pressed her fingers into her lids, lighting up a halogen map of veins. ‘Let me get this straight,’ she said. ‘First you tell me I’m a killer. Now you’re telling me that I’m some sort of psychological mutant?’
‘No, Alex, no,’ Taran insisted. ‘You’re not a mutant. Not at all. You’re a pioneer.’
Alex opened her eyes. The snakes began to thrash. ‘But what does that mean? What does this all mean? For me?’
‘If the Story-surging theory is correct,’ MacBrian said, glancing at Taran, ‘it is, in some ways, good news. It gives us an idea of how you might be able to dislodge your Story from the wall of the Stack. If you can do that, the other Stories should return, all those poor people will be Read and Iskeull’s climate will stabilize. What’s more, you might even learn to direct and harvest your Story’s energy in new and productive ways, as Taran suggests.’
‘Oh. Right. And how exactly am I supposed to do all that?’
‘Well. If – and only if – the theory is correct, we know what triggered your Story to surge. Your Story only unleashed its fatal blast of energy when Egan tried to Read one particular Memory – the Memory at the heart of your oldest and strongest Storyline. It follows that, to gain control over this new talent your Story has acquired, you have to get hold of that root memory. That’s where the trigger for this new surging power lies.’
Alex put her head in her hands. Tried to breathe deeply. Tried to think. ‘Get hold of – which means what, exactly?’
‘It means that you must identify the narrative that dominated your life, up until February. The one that changed so abruptly the night Egan died. And then you must understand the key event or experience that caused that narrative to form, and why.’
Alex looked up incredulously. ‘You mean . . . you’re saying that I have to save the world with a self-help exercise?’
‘Not at all.’ MacBrian was shaking her head. ‘It won’t be enough just to name that Storyline. You’ll have to feel your way into the very heart of it – not only with your brain, but with your Story. This is not something that can be done with a book or some deep breathing. It will require true self-knowledge. Deep emotional insight. Thankfully, we have something that should help.’ MacBrian withdrew a red index card from between the pages of her notebook and slid it across the desk. ‘This is your Reading record.’
Alex stared down at the indecipherable runes inked onto the feint-ruled card. She remembered mistaking it for a bookmark in their interview the day before. The interview that had happened a million, billion light years ago.
‘You’re lucky,’ MacBrian said. ‘Some Stories present themselves to be Read regularly, but many never surface at all. Your record tells us that you’ve had one previous Reading, back in 2005, from one Greum MacTormod. Unfortunately, the record gives us no details about which Storyline he tackled, because it was only partially Read.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘It means you’re a feinter.’
‘A what?’ Alex looked up from the runes.
‘Your Storyline broke apart before MacTormod could complete a full circuit and penetrate its root Memory. Ordinarily, that would mean that, despite being dissatisfied enough with your life to surface your Story for Reading, you lacked the conviction to follow through. However, if Taran’s Story-surging theory is correct, you may in fact have been trying to protect MacTormod. By feinting, you might have been trying to prevent him from reaching the deadly mutation at the heart of that troublesome Storyline.’ MacBrian sighed. ‘I spoke to MacTormod back in February, when we first retrieved the records for all possible Dorothy Moores. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t remember one specific feinting Storyline from ten years ago. But the record does still leave us with one crucial piece of information. The date.’ She leaned over and tapped a stubby finger on the card. ‘The question is, Miss Moore, what happened to make you reassess your life on Saturday the sixteenth of July 2005?’
‘Seriously?’ Alex said.
‘Seriously,’ MacBrian said.
Alex looked at Taran, who nodded, flashing her a nervous smile.
Alex looked back down at the impenetrable marks on the card. She could barely remember what she had been doing last Monday, let alone one day in July ten years ago. And the harder she tried to remember, the sicker she started to feel.
She sat back. ‘No. I’m sorry. This is all too much. I can’t—’
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO FISH ONE ANCIENT FUCKING MEMORY OUT OF MY BRAIN WHEN EVERYTHING I THOUGHT I KNEW ABOUT THE WORLD HAS BEEN TURNED INSIDE OUT?
‘Take your time,’ MacBrian said. ‘Think again.’
Alex swallowed. She looked back at the runes.
‘Classic reasons for a Story to surface,’ MacBrian said, ‘include getting a job, failing to get a job, the beginning of a new relationship, the breakdown of a relationship, relocation—’
‘Wait.’ Alex suddenly stiffened, goose pimples shivering across her skin. ‘Shit,’ she breathed. ‘Shitshitshit! Dom. Dom’s thing in New York.’
‘Dom?’ MacBrian prompted, turning her notebook to a new page.
‘Dominic Bernam. My dad’s literary agent. My godfather.’ Alex frowned, trying to fan the flicker of recollection. ‘Shit. Yes. That was the day Mum threw a surprise lunch for my dad, because it was the anniversary of this list of hot young writers he’d been put on twenty years before. Dom took the opportunity to announce that he’d found me a job. Dad’s big novel was published the year after I was born, you see. Dom had seen me grow up. He was always trying to look out for me. His agency was starting a new office in New York, and he had somehow managed to arrange me a bottom-rung position – if I was willing to go.’
She stopped. The thought of Dom, of her father, of her mother – even of her mother’s noisy, nosy friends drinking Pimm’s on the patio – made her want to sob. And now the vertigo was starting to take hold, making MacBrian’s and Taran’s faces blur and slide, as the details of that long-past afternoon clarified.
‘So you decided to move to New York?’ MacBrian asked, writing hard.
‘Oh . . . no. No, I . . . I turned him down. I’d just accepted a job in an IT firm in the town where I grew up, the same place I’d always temped in the holidays, and I . . . Well, it’s difficult to imagine now, but back then, I didn’t like to stray far from home. It’s difficult . . . to remember’ – she took a deep breath – ‘exactly why I wouldn’t have jumped at . . .’
MacBrian was nodding, oblivious, head bent over the page. ‘It has all the hallmarks of a Reading trigger. An
d which Storyline, which narrative about yourself, would this job offer have threatened so very much?’
Alex swallowed. Here and now. Here and now. ‘Like I told you before, perhaps it was . . . perhaps a sense that I’m never good enough? Fear of change? A belief that anything new I tried would . . .’ But it was too much. The void cracked open, freezing nothingness whistled through her chest, and the world tilted and slid. She gripped onto the edge of the table, trying to anchor herself to the cool stone. ‘I can’t . . .’ she murmured, ‘I can’t . . . I get these – these episodes . . .’
‘Like the one you experienced yesterday, when you tried to recall the moment of Egan’s death?’ said MacBrian’s voice, from a long way away.
Red card. Round table. Wicker chair. Glass dome. Iskeull. The Library. My Story. Holy fucking fuck.
It took a long time to come back, this time. When she eventually opened her eyes, MacBrian was watching Taran sketch out some kind of messy diagram.
‘Alex,’ Taran said, looking up. ‘How do you feel? How does it feel when that happens?
‘Here.’ MacBrian reached for a decanter in the middle of the table, poured an inch of amber liquid into a tumbler and passed it across. Alex mutely accepted the glass. She sipped, then dissolved into a coughing fit as the burning taste of bacon and fag-ends slammed into the back of her throat. ‘I’m . . .’ she choked, trying to find the words to describe how utterly not alright, on all levels, she was.
Taran nodded. ‘It’s . . . fascinating, quite fascinating to observe. Can you tell us exactly when these episodes occur?’