The Woman Who Died a Lot

  While this had been going on, I’d been looking occasionally at Jack Schitt. Something about him seemed different, and since I knew that if he were a Synthetic, he’d have lightning reactions, I slipped off my shoe and lobbed it at him.

  “Ow!” he said as the boot hit him a glancing blow on the forehead.

  “Thursday, what on earth are you doing?” demanded Braxton.

  “I thought I saw a mouse,” I said somewhat stupidly, and apologized to Jack, who seemed himself after all. He glared at me, and I shrugged. After my shoe had been returned, the meeting continued.

  “Perhaps,” said Conrad Spoons, “we could ask the city council whether any extra cash will be given to the Wessex Library Service in order to fund the additional collections of books made available to us from the closure of the Lobsterhood?”

  “Well,” said Bunty, “this is an excellent opportunity for us to go through what we think is correct for the fiscal year 2004–2005 and at the same time peg the funding for the next ten years.”

  “Yes?” I said, for Duffy had walked in again and moved to whisper in my ear.

  “Your son is on the phone.”

  “What? Tell him I’ll call him back.”

  “He says it’s most urgent.”

  “Sorry,” I said, getting to my feet again, “another emergency. Family or something.”

  Duffy told me the phone was in my office, so I went through to take it. It meant I could stretch my legs, too.

  “This had better be good,” I said into the phone. “I’m right in the middle of a budget meeting.”

  “Sorry, Mum, but it’s about something the Manchild said. I didn’t give it much thought at the time, and it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Nothing he said made sense. Which part? About the beginning of the existence or who first thought about the elephant?”

  “Neither. He told me not to worry about prison and the other fourteen will thank me—‘or won’t, as it turns out.’ Do you see?”

  “No.”

  “They won’t thank me because their murders won’t happen and no one will ever know they were going to happen. I’m going to change all their futures. Don’t you see? Gavin’s the killer but has no idea he will be. I murder him, and everyone gets to live normal lives.”

  “Hmm,” I said, “it’s kind of a stretch—and besides, you can’t kill him for something he won’t even think about doing for another thirty-six years, no matter how unpleasant he is.”

  “There’s something in what you say.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “The Manchild told you that ‘the other fourteen will thank you’?”

  “Yes?”

  “But it’s not fourteen, is it? With Gavin dead and you not thanking yourself, only thirteen could thank you. The Manchild sent the letters, so he must have known how many there were, and that means—”

  “There were sixteen letters sent, not fifteen,” said Friday.

  “Right,” I replied. “There’s someone else Destiny Aware in Swindon, and whoever its has decided not to come forward. Don’t kill anyone or anything until you find out who it is.”

  “Hang on,” he said, “I’m just writing myself a note. Don’t . . . kill . . . anyone. Got it.”

  He told me he was going to see the Manchild again, and I told him to be very careful, adding that if he insisted on going to the timepark, he should take one of Landen’s homemade cheddars and get the Manchild to age it for a year.

  I returned to the boardroom and sat down.

  “My apologies,” I said, “teenage sons and their problems. Tsk! What are we to do? Why are you all staring at me?”

  “You better tell her,” said Phoebe to Conrad Spoons.

  “Why me?” said Conrad.

  “Because you’re our accountant?” I said.

  He stood up, took a deep breath, and began. “The city council has reallocated to SO-27 more than Miss Smalls asked for,” said Conrad. “Funding has been reduced across the board and includes—but is not limited to—a cut on new books, staffing, maintenance, research and staff perks.”

  “We could always lose the Michelin-starred chef, I suppose,” I said. “What are the numbers?”

  “Hang on,” said Spoons, going through his hastily written calculations. “Okay, here it is: This year’s Wessex Library budget was for 156 million pounds, all of which goes to SO-27. The Wessex Library operating budget for next year will be . . . 321 pounds and .67 p.”

  I stared at him for a moment. “That must be a mistake.”

  Spoons looked at the figures again. “Sorry,” he said, “you’re right. It’s 322 pounds and 67 p.”

  It wasn’t quite the level of mistake I was hoping for. At this rate I’d have to ask a hundred million times to make a difference, and I didn’t think that was going to happen. I looked around the table. Jack Schitt had a supercilious half grin on his face, and Braxton and Phoebe were looking elsewhere. Colonel Wexler was unconcerned, since her budget had not been affected in any way. Mrs. Fairweather was the only one returning my stare.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You can’t stop all funding. That’s just . . . well, insane.”

  “Not insane,” said Mrs. Fairweather, “stupid. There’s a big difference, and the Swindon City Council is taking the stupidity deficit issue very seriously—we have to meet our stupidity targets just like any other, and cutting all funding to the Wessex Library Service is an act of such astonishing idiocy that we need commit no additional dumb acts for at least five years. You should be honored that your department is discharging the surplus for the rest of us. It’s going to be hard, and we’re all in this together.”

  “Commander,” I said, addressing Braxton, “you told me when I took this job that I had an operating budget of one hundred and fifty million pounds. Okay, I understand that SO-27 will have to take some of that as we relinquish security duties, but—”

  “I didn’t lie,” said Braxton. “You do have that for this year— it’s next year we’re seeing reductions.”

  I suddenly had a nasty thought. “When does the new financial year begin?”

  “Midnight on Sunday,” replied Spoons. “Four days away.”

  “That figures,” I said, glancing at Jack Schitt. “And how long will 322 pounds and 67 p keep us going?”

  “I thought you might ask,” said Conrad, checking his notepad. “If we assume a hundred-million-pound budget without Colonel Wexler and the SLS, 322 pounds equates to about one minute and forty-two seconds. If we cut everything to the bone and buy only seven books next year, we might stretch that same 322 pounds to last eight minutes and nine seconds.”

  “What about if we lose the Michelin-starred chef?”

  He checked his notes. “Eight minutes and twelve seconds.”

  “So let me get this straight,” I said. “Come Monday morning there won’t be any libraries open in Wessex at all?”

  “Not a single one,” said Mrs. Fairweather, “but don’t take it personally. To make this even more idiotic, you’ll receive a final salary pension after less than a week’s work, and a hefty bonus for surpassing your own stupidity target.”

  There was silence in the room. I asked if there was anything I could do about this and was told there wasn’t. It was a done deal, probably agreed well before any of us had entered the room, and with Goliath’s connivance.

  “Okay,” I said slowly, “any other business?”

  Astonishingly, there wasn’t.

  “Then I call this meeting adjourned.”

  Everyone got up and left. Phoebe and Braxton apologized to me and said that they didn’t like it either, but it was out of their hands. Conrad Spoons shrugged at me across the table and said he was off to the job center and would be back in an hour if there was nothing suitable available.

  “I’ll be here Monday,” said Duffy, “and every day you need me until I collapse from starvation.”

  “Me, too,” added Geraldine, “although I’ll probably last longer than Mr. Duffy, as I??
?m carrying a little extra weight at the moment.”

  I gathered them closer so the others couldn’t hear.

  “I appreciate the loyalty, guys. Does the library have anything to sell? Spare books or Finisterre’s tiltrotor or a private airship or something?”

  “The books are owned by the nation,” said Duffy, “but we’ll have a look at everything else. What are you thinking of? A garage sale?”

  “Pretty much. For breathing space. See what you can find.”

  They told me they would and filed out, leaving only myself and Jack Schitt in the room.

  “Well,” I said, “did that meet all your expectations?”

  “Surpassed them, old girl,” he said. “I wonder what the press will make of your generous pension and bonus.”

  “This is all your doing, isn’t it?”

  “Of course! Do you think for one moment I would pass up on an opportunity to cause trouble for you?”

  “Protocol 451 really has been canceled, hasn’t it?”

  “Most definitely. Call this partial payback for the trouble you’ve caused us over the years. I hate to kick an old dog when it’s down, but we knew you’d have blunted teeth one day. I’m just glad I lived long enough to see it.”

  “I’m glad to see you’ve lost none of your charm, Jack. But these teeth aren’t as blunt as you think.”

  “Look at you,” he sneered, “a shambling wreck, sent out to grass as a librarian. Believe me, my girl, you are well and truly blunted.”

  I stared at him, my anger rising. Not because of his taunts but because he was probably right.

  “Now,” he continued, “I want you to take me downstairs to see your friend Finisterre. I need to look at some St. Zvlkx books, and as chief librarian you have access to the vaults.”

  I felt my heart sink. “You’re another Day Player, aren’t you?”

  “I could have ducked the shoe,” he said with a smile, “but I purposefully chose not to in the quarter of a second it took to leave your hand and arrive at my head. I love being a better me. So strong, so smart, so perfect. Do you know the cube root of seventeen?”

  “It must have slipped my mind.”

  “I do. It’s 2.57128159. Do you want the next seventy-two decimal places?”

  But I had more important things on my mind.

  “Why did you have Judith Trask killed?” I asked. “She was innocent of everything.”

  “To show your youthful protégée that lying to a Top One Hundred is not to be tolerated and that actions have consequences. Phoebe Smalls has trouble stamped all over her. Now, take me downstairs to the vaults.”

  “I’ll not help you, Jack.”

  “I think you will. If you don’t, I will pick you up and throw you through that window.”

  He indicated the glass panel that led to a five-story drop onto the main lending floor.

  “You’d land somewhere between the books of Helen Fielding and that author with the beard whose name I can never remember.”

  “I have problems with his name, too. Think you can get out of the building without being seen?”

  “Already taken care of, girl. Look there.”

  He pointed at a figure dressed in identical clothes walking toward the exit. The figure stopped for a moment and looked up. It was Jack Schitt—or a copy, at any rate.

  “The real you?”

  “No, I’m in a coma at present. That was just a standard Mark Vb ‘Alibi’ Model. By the time anyone got up here following your fatal fall, I would have zipped myself up in a body bag and hidden in the roof space just behind the water tank. I’d probably not be discovered for years. The point is that with the ‘through the window’ plan, you’d be dead and I’d be in the clear to try another method to get to the vaults. From my position it’s win half-win, and from yours it’s lose-lose. So think again.”

  I did. In fact, I desperately tried to think up a plan of action. I would probably be able to get to my pistol, since he was on the other side of the room, but then I realized with a falling heart that he probably already had it. He guessed my thoughts and showed me the revolver he had lifted from me earlier.

  “I took it from you when you entered. And don’t even think about going for the Beretta on your ankle. I can have you through the window before you get even halfway there.”

  He was doubtless right, and the situation was looking increasingly desperate. But just at that moment, I suddenly felt different. My leg was no longer hurting me—in fact, I felt no pain at all, and a warm feeling of euphoria suddenly swept over me. I felt better, stronger and fitter, and I even had some of those feelings for Landen, too. I must have been replaced during one of the two visits out of the boardroom—probably when on the phone to Friday. Knowing that changed the game plan. I would be as fast as Jack and get off at least three shots before he’d even touched me—and all the shots would make the same entry hole, even if he was moving. I was that good.

  I made a swift lunge for the Beretta in my ankle holster.

  It didn’t quite work out the way I’d planned. The limited mobility in my back and leg stopped my hand four inches from the pistol, and I misjudged the position of the table on the way down and hit my forehead. Now momentarily off balance, I grabbed the chair behind me, which had casters and slid away from me, causing me to completely lose my balance and collapse in an undignified heap on the floor.

  “Shit,” I said, glancing at the mindworm tattoo on the back of my hand for confirmation. “I’m still me.”

  Jack had watched the pathetic spectacle and simply walked up, took the Beretta from my ankle and then dragged me to my feet by the scruff of the neck and pressed my face hard against the glass.

  “Are you an idiot or something?” he demanded angrily, his sickly-sweet breath hot on my face. “Why are you taking such foolhardy risks in the face of such overwhelming odds?”

  I didn’t know either, until everything started to change colors and I heard birds singing.

  “Oops,” I said, “my PA gave me an illegal patch from some guy loitering near the bins.”

  “You are a sad, pathetic little creature,” said Jack, “and I pity you. Now: We’re going to the vaults. If you don’t come, I’ll make sure that it’s not just you who suffers but your family, too—even the imaginary ones.”

  “Hang on,” I said, trying to reach my smiley patch to pull it off but failing, since they’re buggers to get off when you’ve just stuck one on. “Would you mind?”

  He ripped it off, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing did, in fact.

  “My hands have gone numb,” I said with a giggle, and my tongue feels too big.”

  “Come on,” he said as he handed me my stick and pushed me to the door. “And make it convincing if anyone talks to us.”

  We met Duffy in the corridor outside, although I had to assume it was Duffy, as his head looked more like a jack-o’-lantern.

  “I’ve got a list of things we could possibly sell,” he said, “and your husband is on the line to remind you not to miss Tuesday’s keynote address at MadCon2004 at two.”

  “I’ll call him back,” I said. “Mr. Schitt is being shown the antiquarian section.”

  I was going to add some semiambiguous statement that would alert Duffy to what was going on so he would in turn alert Colonel Wexler, but it was difficult to concentrate with a Haysi Fantayzee track going around in my head at full volume, and in a moment Duffy was gone.

  “Which way?” said Jack.

  “That way,” I said, pointing down the corridor. “First left after the lizards.”

  31.

  Thursday: Finisterre

  The Brotherhood of Perpetual Defenestration was a small order of pious monks who threw themselves out of the abbey window twice a day, following prayers. The reason for this curious custom is not recorded, but the order supplied stuntmen to the theater and film industries for over seven decades. A popular tourist attraction for over three centuries, the brotherhood might be with us still but for a poorly conceive
d move to the eighth story of a town building, and the order was extinguished in under an hour.

  Fairfax Rearwind, Vanished Religious Orders of the British Archipelago

  We took the elevator to the subbasement and stepped out into the same small security cubicle I had visited two days ago with Finisterre. A different guard was staring at us from behind the glass, and he smiled when he saw me.

  “Good morning, Chief Librarian.”

  “Shiny, shiny,” I muttered, “bad times behind me.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Jack tightened his grip on my arm, which, while not actually painful, made me at least realize he was serious, and it sobered me up. The patch was gone, but its effects would be with me for a while.

  “Nothing.”

  I licked my finger and placed it in the DNA tester. The green light flashed, and the door swung open.

  “So easy, isn’t it?” said Jack as we walked down the corridor. “I always say it’s not what you know but whom you know . . . you can bully.”

  We continued along the corridor, past the glazed display cases I had seen earlier and into the main conservation room. Finisterre was there, but no one else. I could sense Jack’s suspicions.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “It’s lunch,” I said, then giggled out loud.

  “Are you okay?” asked James.

  “Yes,” I replied as soberly as I could. “I’ve got something odd in my bloodstream that generates inappropriate responses. This is Jack Schitt, the Goliath rep. He wants to vandalize our St. Zvlkx codices.”

  James looked at Jack, who stared back impassively. Finisterre wouldn’t be armed, but Day Player Jack would know that already from the way James’s clothes hung on his body.

  “He was the guy at the Lobsterhood on Tuesday?” asked Finisterre, still staring at Jack but addressing me.

  “In a manner of speaking. He’s ruthless,” I added, “and has no fear of death or pain. I recommend you do as he asks.”

  “These are my children,” replied Finisterre, indicating the shelves of old books, “and I would die to protect them.”