“They have a senator?”
“Of course. Every genre has at least one, and depending on the popularity of subgenres, they might have several. Thriller which is subgenred into political, Spy and Adventure, has three. Comedy at the last count had six; Crime has twelve.”
“I see. So what’s Racy Novel’s problem?”
“It’s a border dispute. Although each book exists on its own and is adrift in the intragenre space known as the Nothing, the books belonging to the various genres clump together for mutual protection, free trade of ideas and easy movement of characters.”
“I get it. Books of a feather flock together, yes?”
“Pretty much. Sensibly, Thriller was placed next door to Crime, which itself is bordered by Human Drama-a fine demonstration of inspired genreography for the very best mutual improvement of both.”
“And Racy Novel?”
“Some idiot placed it somewhat recklessly between Ecclesiastical and Feminist, with the tiny principality of Erotica to the far north and a buffer zone with Comedy to the south comprising the subcrossover genre of Bedroom Farce/Bawdy Romp. Racy Novel gets along with Comedy and Erotica fine, but Ecclesiastical and Feminist really don’t think Racy Novel is worthy of a genre at all and often fire salvos of long-winded intellectual dissent across the border, which might do more damage if anyone in Racy Novel could understand them. For its part, Racy Novel sends panty-raiding parties into its neighbors, which wasn’t welcome in Feminist and even less in Ecclesiastical-or was it the other way around? Anyway, the whole deal might have escalated into an all-out genre war without the Council of Genres stepping in and brokering a peace deal. The CofG would guarantee Racy Novel’s independence as long as it agreed to certain…sanctions.”
“Which were?”
“An import ban on metaphor, characterization and competent description. Speedy Muffler is a bit of a megalomaniac, and both Feminist and Ecclesiastical thought containment was better than out-and-out conflict. The problem is, Racy Novel claims that this is worse than a slow attritional war, as these sanctions deny it the potential of literary advancement beyond the limited scope of its work.”
“I can’t say I’m very sympathetic to that cause.”
“It’s not important that you are-your role in Jurisfiction is only to defend the status-”
I stopped talking, as something seemed to be going on down in the debating chamber. In a well-orchestrated lapse of protocol, delegates were throwing their ballot papers around, and among the jeering and catcalls Muffler was struggling to make himself heard. I shook my head sadly.
“What is it?”
“Something that Racy Novel has been threatening for some time-they’ve claimed to have developed and tested a…dirty bomb.”
“A what?”
“It’s a tightly packed mass of inappropriate plot devices, explicit suggestions and sexual scenes of an expressly gratuitous nature. The ‘dirty’ elements of the bomb fly apart at a preset time and attach themselves to any unshielded prose. Given the target, it has the potential for untold damage. A well-placed dirty bomb could scatter poorly described fornication all across drab theological debate or drop a wholly unwarranted scene of a sexually exploitative nature right into the middle of Mrs. Dalloway.”
Even Thursday5 could see this was not a good thing. “Would he do that?”
“He just might. Senator Muffler is as mad as a barrel of skunks, and the inclusion of Racy Novel in the Council of Genres’ definition of the ‘Axis of Unreadable’ along with Misery Memoirs and Pseudointellectual Drivel didn’t help matters a bit. It’ll be all over the BookWorld by nightfall, mark my words-the papers love this kind of combative, saber-rattling crap.”
“Ms. Next!” came an annoying, high-pitched voice.
I turned to find a small weasel of a man with pinched features, dressed in robes and with a goodly retinue of self-important assistants stacked up behind him.
“Good morning, Senator,” I said, bowing as protocol demanded. “May I introduce my apprentice, Thursday5? Thursday5, this is Senator Jobsworth, director-general of the CofG and head of the Pan-Genre Treaty Organization.”
“Sklub,” gulped Thursday5, trying to curtsy, bob and bow all at the same time. The senator nodded in her direction, then dismissed everyone before beckoning me to join him at the large picture window.
“Ms. Next,” he said in a quiet voice, “how are things down at Jurisfiction?”
“Underfunded as usual,” I replied, well used to Jobsworth’s manipulative ways.
“It needn’t be so,” he replied. “If I can count on your support for policy direction in the near future, I am sure we can rectify the situation.”
“You are too kind,” I replied, “but I will judge my decisions on what is best for the BookWorld as a whole, rather than the department I work in.”
His eyes flashed angrily. Despite his being the head of the council, policy decisions still had to be made by consensus-and it annoyed the hell out of him.
“With Outlander ReadRates almost in free fall,” continued Jobsworth with a snarl, “I’d have thought you’d be willing to compromise on those precious scruples of yours.”
“I don’t compromise,” I told him resolutely, repeating, “I base my decisions on what is best for the BookWorld.”
“Well,” said Jobsworth with an insincere smile, “let’s hope you don’t regret any of your decisions. Good day.”
And he swept off with his entourage at his heels. His threats didn’t frighten me; he’d been making them-and I’d been ignoring them-for almost as long as we’d known each other.
“I didn’t realize you were so close to Senator Jobsworth,” said Thursday5 as soon as she had rejoined me.
“I have a seat at the upper-level policy-directive meetings as the official LBOCS. Since I’m an Outlander, I have powers of abstract and long-term thought that most fictioneers can only dream about. The thing is, I don’t generally toe the line, and Jobsworth doesn’t like that.”
“Can I ask a question?” asked Thursday5 as we took the elevator back down into the heart of the Great Library.
“Of course.”
“I’m a little confused over how the whole imaginotransference technology works. I mean, how do books here get to be read out there?”
I sighed. Cadets were supposed to come to me for assessment when they already knew the basics. This one was as green as Brighton Rock. The elevator stopped on the third floor, and I pulled open the gates. We stepped out into one of the Great Library’s endless corridors, and I waved a hand in the direction of the bookshelves.
“Okay: imaginotransference. Did any of your tutors tell you even vaguely how the reader-writer thing actually works?”
“I think I might have been having a colonic that morning.”
I moved closer to the shelves and beckoned her to follow. As I came to within a yard of the books, I could feel their influence warm me like a hot radiator. But it wasn’t heat I was feeling; it was the warmth of a good story, well told. A potpourri of jumbled narrative, hovering just above of the books like morning mist on a lake. I could actually feel the emotions, hear the whispered snatches of conversation and see the images that momentarily broke free of the gravity that bound them to the story.
“Can you feel that?” I whispered.
“Feel what?”
I sighed. Fictional people were less attuned to story; it was rare indeed that anyone in the BookWorld actually read a book-unless the narrative called for it.
“Place your hands gently against the spines.”
She did as I asked, and after a moment’s puzzlement she smiled.
“I can hear voices,” she whispered back, trying not to break the moment, “and a waterfall. And joy, betrayal, laughter-and a young man who has lost his hat.”