“No questions, Chesh—I need a parachute and I need it now.”
As if in answer, there was a bright flare from the rear of the airship as a small charge exploded in one of the gas cells. Within a second this had ignited the cell next to it, and I could see the bright flare arc out into the dusk; the airship quivered gently and started to drop at the stern as it lost lift.
“I need that parachute!” I yelled into my phone as a third gas cell erupted, vaporizing the fabric covering and sending a shower of sparks out either side of the craft. The tail-down attitude increased as the fourth gas cell erupted, followed quickly by the fifth and sixth, and I grabbed a handrail to steady myself.
“Goddamn it!” I yelled to no one in particular. “How hard can it be to get a parachute around here?!” The airship trembled again as another explosion ripped through the envelope, and with an unpleasant feeling of lightness I felt the craft very slowly begin to fall. As I looked down to see where we were heading and how fast, twelve parachutes of varying styles, colors and vintage appeared in front of me. I grabbed the most modern-looking, stepped into the leg straps and quickly pulled it onto my back as the ship was again rocked by a series of explosions. I clicked the catch on the front of the webbing and without even pausing for breath, leaped over the rail and out into the cold evening air. There was a sudden sense of rapid acceleration, and I tumbled for a while, eventually coming to rest on my back, the air rushing past me, flapping my clothes and tugging at my hair. Far above me the airship was now a chrysanthemum of fire that looked destructively elegant, and from even this distance I could feel the heat on my face. As the airship grew smaller, I snapped out of my reverie and looked for a toggle or something to deploy the chute. I found it across my chest and pulled as hard as I could. Nothing happened for a moment, and I was just thinking that the chute had failed when there was a whap and a jerk as it opened. But before I had even begun to sigh with relief, there was a thump as I landed on the ground, bounced twice and ended up inside the lines and the canopy, which billowed around me. I scrambled clear, released the harness, pulled out my phone and pressed the speed dial for Bradshaw, running as fast as I could across the empty and undescribed land as the flaming hulk of the airship fell slowly and gracefully in the evening sky, the blackened skeleton of the stricken ship silhouetted dark against the orange fireball above it, an angry flaming mass that even now was beginning to spread to the fabric of the book, as the clouds and sky started to glow with the green iridescence of text before it spontaneously combusts.
“It’s Thursday,” I panted, running to get clear of the airship before it hit the ground, “and I think we’ve got a situation….”
My Thanks to:
My very dear Lipali Mari Roberts, for countless hours of research, assistance and for looking after her writer and partner in the throes of creation. I hope that in the fullness of time I might do the same for her.
Molly Stern and Carolyn Mays, the finest editors in the galaxy, to whom I am always grateful for support and guidance. And by extension, to the hordes of unsung heroes and heroines at Hodder and Penguin who diligently support and promote me and my work.
My grateful thanks goes to Kathy Reichs for allowing Dr. Temperance Brennan to make a guest appearance in this book.
Jordan Fforde, my own teenage son, who is a fine, upstanding young man and displays nothing like the worst excesses of Friday’s idleness, and who served only vaguely as any sort of reference material.
Bill Mudron and Dylan Meconis of Portland, Oregon, for their outstanding artwork completed in record time and with an understanding of the author’s brief that left me breathless. Further examples of their work and contact details for commissions can be found at www.thequirkybird.com (Dylan) and www.excelsiorstudios.net (Bill).
Professor John Sutherland for his Puzzles in Fiction series of books, which continue to fascinate and inspire.
The Paragon tearooms exist in the same or greater splendor in which they are referred to in the pages of this novel. They can be found on the main street of Katoomba, in the Blue Mountain region of New South Wales, Australia, and no visit to the area would be complete without your attendance. Who knows—you may even see a giant hedgehog and a tyrannical leader of the known universe sharing a booth and discussing Irritable Vowel Syndrome in hushed tones.
This novel was written in BOOK V8.3 and was sequenced using a Mark XXIV ImaginoTransferenceRecording Device. Harley Farley was the imaginator. Generics supplied and trained by St. Tabularasa’s. Holes were filled by apprentices at the HoleSmiths’ Guild, and echolocation and postcreative grammatization was undertaken by Outland contractors at Hodder and Penguin.
The “Galactic Cleansing” policy carried out by Emperor Zhark is a personal vision of the emperor’s, and its inclusion in this work does not constitute tacit approval by the author or the publisher for any such projects, howsoever conducted.
Thursday Next will return in:
The War of the Words
or
Last Among Prequels
or
Apocalypse Next
or
Dark Reading Matter
or
Paragraph Lost
or
Herrings Red
or
The Palimpsest of Dr. Caligari
or
The Legion of the Danvers
or
Some Other Title Entirely
1 “Goodness! Already?”
2 “This is really awkward. Jobsworth just called—he’s overjoyed that you’re taking Thursday and said that if we do a really good job, he would give Jurisfiction’s extra funding his special attention.”
3 “Bundles, old girl. Do this as a favor to old Bradders, eh? Just until the end of the day.”
1 ffffffgghuhfdffffffggggoooonpicUp…passs1cccccwwww.
2 kkkkkcar45kAR45%%%%%bloody hellfire!>>>>>>sodding jjjjjjjjjj Bureaucrats even out here+eeee.
3 jjjjjjjjahagssffffffssss-Is anyone out there? All I ddddddd can see is endless BLEEDING ocean-///////.
4 “Thursday! Great Scott, girl! Where are you?”
5 “Wouldn’t it be better to go via 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and hang a left at Robinson Crusoe?”
6 “Not good. Can you get up to the CofG straightaway?”
7 “Good luck, old girl. You’ll need it. Where are you now?”
8 “Not a thing. I’m under house arrest. You’re all alone on this one, Thursday. Best of British and all that.”
1 “Prego! Il Gatto del Cheshire.”
2 “Sorry—just practicing for my holidays in Brindisi this year. What can I do for you?”
3 “Sure. Say, did you order a Textual Sieve Lockdown on The Eyre Affair?”
4 “Well, you’ve got one. Mesh is set to ultrafine and timelocked—not even a period is going to get out of that book for at least twenty minutes.”
5 “No problems, Outlander amiga. Do you want me to keep you company?”
6 “Prego! Il Gatto del Cheshire.”
Jasper Fforde, First Among Sequels
(Series: Thursday Next # 5)
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