First Among Sequels

  “Well, whoop-de-do,” she said quietly, looking at us both. “If this is how the day starts, it can only get better.”

  Thursday5 and I stared at the newcomer with a curious kind of fascination. Unlike Thursday5, who always dressed in fair-trade cotton and woolens, this Thursday preferred aggressive black leather. Leather trousers, jacket and a greatcoat that swept to the floor. So much, in fact, that she squeaked when she walked. Her hair was the same length as ours but was pulled back into a ponytail more sharply, and her eyes were hidden by small dark glasses. Attached to her belt were two automatic pistols with the butts facing in so she could cross-draw—heaven knows why. Aside from this and despite being featured in books that were set between 1985 and 1988, she looked exactly as I did—even to the flecks of gray hair that I still pretended I didn’t care about.

  But she wasn’t me. She was less like me, in fact, than the talking-to-flowers version, if such a thing was possible. I’d read the books and although she attempted to do things for the right reason, her methods could best be described as dubious and her motivations suspect. Thursday5 was mostly thought with very little action; Thursday1–4 was mostly action with very little thought. The series had sacrificed characterization for plot, and humor for action and pace. All atmosphere had evaporated, and the books were a parade of violent set pieces interspersed with romantic interludes, and when I say “romantic,” I’m stretching the term. Most famous was her torrid affair with Edward Rochester and the stand-up catfight with Jane Eyre. I had thought it couldn’t get any worse until Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be a ninja assassin and Bertha Rochester was abducted by aliens. And all that was just in the first book. It got more far-fetched after that. By book four it felt as though the first draft had been torn apart by wolves and then stuck back together at random before publication.

  I took a deep breath, inwardly cursed Commander Bradshaw and said, “Thursday…meet Thursday.”

  “Hello!” said Thursday5 brightly, offering a hand in reconciliation. “So pleased to meet you, and happy birthday—for yesterday.”

  Thursday looked at Thursday’s outstretched hand and raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ve had the misfortune to read The Great Samuel Pepys Fiasco,” she said in an unfriendly tone. “If you took the ‘Samuel Pepys’ out of the title, it would be a lot more honest. A bigger crock of shit I’ve yet to find. I kept on waiting for the shoot-outs to begin, and there weren’t any—just a load of hugging, vitamins and people saying they love one another.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with hugging,” retorted Thursday5 defensively. “Perhaps if you were to try…?”

  She put out her arms but was met with the curt response, “Lay your muesli-smelling paws on me and I’ll break your nose.”

  “Well!” said Thursday5 in an indignant huff. “I’m almost sorry I wished you a happy birthday—and I’m very glad I didn’t bake you a cake.”

  “I’m devastated.”

  “Listen,” I said before this descended into blows, “I’m not going to ask you to get along, I’m telling you to get along. Okay?”

  Thursday1–4 gave a lackadaisical shrug.

  “Right,” I began, addressing Thursday1–4. “There are three simple rules if you want to train with me. Rule One: You do exactly as I tell you. Rule Two: You speak when you’re spoken to. Rule Three: I shall call you ‘Thursday1–4’ or ‘Thur1–4’ or Onesday or…anything I want, really. You will call me ‘ma’am.’ If I summon you, you come running. Rule Four: You give me any crap and you’re history.”

  “I thought you said there were only three rules.”

  “I make it up as I go along. Do you have any problem with that?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Good. Let’s start at the beginning. How much classroom theory have you done?”

  “Six weeks. Took my finals last Tuesday and came in third.”

  “That’s not bad.”

  “How many in the class?” asked Thursday5, who was still smarting over the possibility that her hands smelled of muesli, let alone the threat of a broken nose.

  Thursday1–4 glared at her and mumbled, “Three, and two percent above the minimum pass mark, before you ask. But I scored ninety-nine percent on the range. Pistols, rifle, machine gun, grenade launcher—you name it.”

  This was the main reason I didn’t like the Thursday Next series—far, far too many guns and a body count that would be the envy of the cinematic Rambo. Thursday1–4 unholstered an aggressive-looking automatic and showed it to us both.

  “Glock nine-millimeter,” she said proudly. “Sixteen in the clip and one up the spout. Severe stopping power. I carry two to make quite sure.”

  “Only two?” I murmured sarcastically.

  “No, since you’re asking.” She lifted up the back of her leather greatcoat to show me a large, shiny revolver stuffed down the back of her trousers.

  “What do you carry?” she asked. “Beretta? Browning? Walther?”

  “None,” I said. “Charge into a room with a gun and someone ends up dead.”

  “Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?”

  “In your books, perhaps. If someone dies during an assignment, then the assignment was a failure. No exceptions.”

  “Diplomacy and using your head,” put in Thursday5 bravely, “are better than waving a gun around.”

  “And what would you know about it, your supreme bogusness?”

  “You don’t have to insult me all the time,” she replied, visibly upset. “And besides, I’m not sure ‘bogusness’ is a word.”

  “Well, listen here, veggieburger,” said the leather-clad Thursday in a sneering tone of voice, “I do have to insult you all the time. Firstly because it’s fun, and secondly because…No, I don’t need a second reason.”

  “Jeez,” I said, shaking my head sadly as all patience left me. “You’re still revolting, aren’t you?”

  “Revolting?” she retorted. “Perhaps. But since I’m mostly you, I guess you’re partly to blame, right?”

  “Get this straight in your head,” I said, moving closer. “The only thing you share with me is a name and a face. You can have a go at The Great Samuel Pepys Fiasco all you want, but at least it’s not a constant orgy of comic-book violence and abundant, meaningless sex.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—is that a criticism? Or just wishful thinking on your part? Because I was having a look at the figures the other day and I’m still selling strongly.” She turned to the Pepys Thursday. “How many books have you sold in the past five years?”

  It was a pointed yet strictly rhetorical remark. The Great Samuel Pepys Fiasco had been remaindered less than six months after publication.

  “You don’t hate me,” said Thursday1–4 to Thursday5. “You secretly want to be like me. If you want to hate anyone, hate her.” She directed this comment at me.

  “Why would I?” asked Thursday5, close to tears.

  With a creaking of leather, Thursday1–4 moved closer to her and said in a low voice, “Because she insisted that your book was full of touchy-feely family values—pet dodo, gardening, a husband, two lovely kids—”

  “Three.”

  “Whatever. They asked me to do book five, but I took one look at the script and told them to stick it.” She pointed a gloved finger at me. “Her personal vanity condemned you to the slow death of being unread, unreviewed, undiscussed and out of print. The real Thursday is as single-minded as I am—even to the ultimate vanity of rewriting herself into the guise of little Miss Granola Tree-Hugger here—with no other reason than to protect her own fragile vanity, Z-class celebrity status and inconsequential public opinion. She and I are more alike than she thinks.”

  She stopped talking with a triumphant smile on her face. The other Thursday looked at me with tears in her eyes, and I was feeling hotly indignant myself, mostly because what she was saying was true. The only reason I’d taken on Thursday5 at all was that I felt responsible. Not just because she was an insufferable drip, but becaus
e she was an unread one as well.

  “Oh, no!” said Thursday5, giving out a heavy sob. “Now all my chakras are completely unaligned—can I have the rest of the day off?”

  “Good idea,” said Thursday1–4 with an unpleasant chuckle. “Why not go and meditate? After all, it’s better than doing nothing the whole day.”

  Thursday gave another cry of indignation, I told her she could leave, and she did so with a faint pop.

  “Listen,” I said, also lowering my voice, “you can do your character-assassination crap all day if you want, but that’s not important. What is important is that the CofG in all its misguided wisdom seems to think you might be good enough for Jurisfiction. Five previous tutors don’t agree. I don’t agree. I think you’re a viper. But it’s not up to me. It’s up to you. For you to join Jurisfiction, you need to learn how to survive in the hostile and dynamic textual environment. You and I are going to spend the next few days together whether I like it or not, and since my conduct review of you is the only thing that counts toward your final acceptance at Jurisfiction, you need to try really hard not to piss me off.”

  “Ahh!” she murmured patronizingly. “She does speeches. Listen, sister, you may be a big cheese at Jurisfiction today, but if I were you, I’d show a keen sense of diplomacy. I’ll have the Bellman’s job one day—and I’ll be looking out only for my friends. Now, are you going to be a friend or not?”

  “Good Lord,” I said in a quiet voice, “the Cheshire Cat was right—you really are completely obnoxious. Is that your final word?”

  “It is.”

  “Then you can piss off back to your boxed set right now. Give me your badge.”

  She seemed perturbed for an instant. Her all-consuming arrogance had not even once entertained the notion she might actually be fired. But, true to form, instead of even attempting conciliation, she went into more threats:

  “The CofG cadet selection subcommittee won’t be happy.”

  “Screw them. Your badge?”

  She stared at me with a sense of rising confusion. “You’d fire…me?”

  “Just have. Give me your badge or I’ll place you under arrest.”

  She took the Jurisfiction Cadet’s shield from her pocket and slapped it into my open palm. Without that or a travel permit, she was technically a PageRunner and could be erased on sight.

  “Good day,” I said. “I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, because it hasn’t.”

  And I walked away, pulling out my mobilefootnoterphone as I did so.

  “Hello, Bradshaw? I’ve just fired Thursday1–4. I’m amazed anyone lasted more than ten minutes with her—I didn’t.” 1

  “Yes, already. Tell Jobsworth we did our best.” 2

  “Too bad. I’ll take the flak for it. This one’s a serious piece of—”

  “Wait, wait!” yelled Thursday, holding her head in a massive display of self-control. “That was my last chance, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  She massaged her temples. “I can do this. I’m sor—I’m sor—Soooor—”

  “You can say it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Try.”

  She screwed up her face and forced the word out. “I’m…soorry. I’ll be your apprentice. Jurisfiction has need of people like me, and I am willing to run the gauntlet of your overbearing mediocrity in order to achieve that.”

  I stared at her for a moment. “Vague apology accepted.”

  I moved away so Thursday1–4 couldn’t hear me and spoke into my mobilefootnoterphone again.

  “Bradshaw, how badly do we need to suck up to Jobsworth right now?” 3

  I told Bradshaw to rely on me. He thanked me profusely, wished me well and rang off. I snapped the phone shut and placed it back in my bag.

  “Right,” I said, tossing Thursday1–4’s badge back at her. “For your first assignment, you are to get Thursday5 back here, chakras realigned or not, and apologize to her.”

  Thursday1–4 stared at me for a moment, then dialed her own cell phone. I turned away and walked down the gravel drive, trying to relax. What a start.

  I sat on an ornamental lion at the foot of the entrance steps and watched from a distance as Thursday5 reappeared and, after the briefest of altercations, they shook hands. There was a pause and then a few raised voices until finally, incredibly, and with Thursday1–4 as stiff as a poker, she allowed herself to be hugged. I smiled to myself, got up and walked back to where the pair of them were standing, Thursday5 looking optimistically positive and Thursday1–4 brooding stonily.

  “Have you two sorted yourselves out?”

  They both nodded.

  “Good,” I said, consulting my watch. “We’ve got a few hours before we attend the Council of Genres’ policy-directive meeting, but before that—”

  “We are attending the CofG meeting?” asked Thursday5 with eyes like saucers.

  “Yes, but only in the sort of ‘we’ that means you stand at the back and say nothing.”

  “Wow! What will they be discussing?”

  “BookWorld policy. Such as whether we should be supplying characters to video games to give them added depth. It’s particularly relevant, as publishing these days doesn’t necessarily restrict books to being just books. It’s said that Harry Potter will make a rare appearance. Now, we’ve got to—”

  “Will we really meet Harry Potter?” she asked in a soft whisper, her eyes going all dewy at the mention of the young wizard. Thursday1–4 looked to heaven and stood, arms crossed, waiting for us to get on with the day’s work.

  “It depends,” I sighed. “If you pay attention or not. Now for this afternoon’s assignment: relieving the staff who are dealing with the BookWorld’s ongoing piano problem. And for that we need to go to Text Grand Central.”

  23.

  The Piano Problem

  The piano was thought to have been invented by Bartolomeo Cristofori in the early eighteenth century and was originally called the gravicembalo col piano e forte, which was fortunately reduced to pianoforte, then more simply to piano. Composed of 550 pounds of iron, wood, strings and felt, the eighty-eight-key instrument is capable of the subtlest of melodies, yet stored up in the tensioned strings is the destructive power of a subcompact moving at twenty miles per hour.

  I f Jurisfiction was the policing agency inside books and the Council of Genres was the political arm, Text Grand Central was the bureaucracy that bridged the two. Right up until the Ultra-word™ debacle, TGC had remained unimpeachably honest, but after that, the Council of Genres—on my advice—took the harsh but only possible course of action to ensure that Text Grand Central would be too inefficient and unimaginative to pose a threat. They appointed a committee to run it.

  As we walked onto one of the main Storycode Engine floors, I heard Thursday5 gasp. The proportions of the room were more in keeping with a factory that made Very Large Things, and the stone walls, vaulted ceiling and flickering gas lamps betrayed the room’s provenance as something borrowed from an unpublished Gothic Horror novel. Laid in serried ranks across the echoing vastness of the space were hundreds of Storycode Engines, each one the size of a bus and built of shiny brass, mahogany and cast iron. A convoluted mass of pipes, valves and gauges, they looked like a cross between an espresso machine, a ship’s engine and a euphonium on acid. They were so large there was a catwalk running around the upper section for easy maintenance, with a cast-iron spiral staircase at one end for access.

  “These are Imaginotransference Storycode Engines. The most important piece of technology we possess. Remember the pipe leading out of core containment in Pinocchio?”

  Thursday5 nodded.

  “The throughput is radiated across the intragenre Nothing and ends up here, where they are then transmitted into the reader’s imagination.”

  I knew why it worked but not how. Indeed, I was suspicious that perhaps there wasn’t an explanation at all—or indeed any need for one. It was something we called an “abstract narrative imperative”: Th
ey work solely because it’s expedient that they do. The BookWorld is like that. Full of wholly improbable plot devices that are there to help grease the storytelling cogs.

  I paused so they could both watch the proceedings for a moment. Thursday5 made no secret of her fascination, but Thursday1–4 stifled a faux yawn. Despite this, she still looked around. It was hard not to be impressed—the machines stretched off into the hazy distance almost as far as you could see. Technicians scurried like ants over the whirring machinery checking dials, oiling, venting off steam and filling out reports on clipboards. Others moved between machines with trolleys full of papers to be filed, and the air was full of the smell of hot oil and steam. Above our heads a series of clanking shafts and flapping leather belts brought power to the engines, and the combined clatter and hum in the vast chamber sounded like a cascading waterfall.

  “Five hundred machines on each floor!” I shouted above the tumult. “With each one capable of handling up to fifty thousand concurrent readings. The ones in the blue overalls are the storycode technicians, known affectionately as ‘word monkeys.’ They keep the engines running smoothly, clean out the dialogue injectors and make sure there isn’t a buildup of irony on the compressors. The man dressed in the white lab coat is the ‘text collector.’ There is a reader echo that pings back to the engine to throughput the next word, so we can use that to check if the book is running true to the author’s original wishes. Any variance is termed a ‘textual anomaly’ and is caught in the waste gate of the echo skimmers, which are those large copper things on the top.”

  “This is all really fascinating technological stuff,” observed Thursday1–4 drily, “but I’m waiting to see how it relates to pianos.”

  “It doesn’t, O sarcastic one. It’s called education.”

  “Pointless exposition, if you ask me.”

  “She’s not asking you,” retorted Thursday5.

  “Exactly,” I replied, “and some people enjoy the techie stuff. Follow me.”

  I opened an arched oak door that led off the engine floor and into the administrative section of Text Grand Central, a labyrinth of stone corridors lit by flaming torches affixed to the walls. It was insufferably gloomy but economical—part of the unfinished Gothic Horror novel from which all of TGC was fashioned. As soon as the door closed, the noise from the main engine floor ceased abruptly.