“Give me your badge.”
She dug it from her pocket and then tossed it onto the floor rather than hand it over.
“I quit,” she spat. “I wouldn’t join Jurisfiction now if you begged me.”
It was all I could do not to laugh at her preposterous line of reasoning. She couldn’t help herself. She was written this way.
“Go on,” I said in an even tone, “go home.”
She seemed surprised that I was no longer angry.
“Aren’t you going to yell at me or hit me or try to kill me or something? Face it: This isn’t much of a resolution.”
“It’s all you’re going to get. You really don’t understand me at all, do you?”
She glared at me for a moment, then bookjumped out.
I stood in the corridor for a few minutes, wondering if there was anything else I might have done. Aside from not trusting her an inch, not really. I shrugged, tried and failed to get TransGenre Taxis to even answer the footnoterphone and then, checking the time so I wouldn’t be late for the policy-directive meeting, made my way slowly toward the elevators.
24. Policy Directives
The Council of Genres is the administrative body that looks after all aspects of BookWorld regulation, from making policy decisions in the main debating chamber to the day-to-day running of ordinary BookWorld affairs, from furnishing plot devices to controlling the word supply coming in from the Text Sea. They oversee the Book Inspectorate, which governs which books are to be published and which to be demolished, and also Text Grand Central and Jurisfiction-but only regarding policy. For the most part, they are evenhanded but need to be watched, and that’s where I come into the equation.
I didn’t go straight to either Jurisfiction or the Council of Genres but instead went for a quiet walk in Wainwright’s Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells. I often go there when in a thoughtful or pensive mood, and although the line drawings that I climbed were not as beautiful nor as colorful as the real thing, they were peaceful and friendly, imbued as they were with a love of the fells that is seldom equaled or surpassed. I sat on the warm sketched grass atop Haystacks, threw a pebble into the tarn and watched the drawn ripples radiate outward. I returned much refreshed an hour later.
I found Thursday5 still waiting for me in the seating area near the picture window with the view of the other towers. She stood up when I approached.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Why?” I responded. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“But it certainly wasn’t yours.”
“That’s the thing,” I replied. “It was. She’s a cadet. She has no responsibility. Her faults are mine.”
I stopped to think about what I’d just said. Thursday 1-4 was impetuous, passionate and capable of almost uncontrollable rage. Her faults really were mine.
I took a deep breath and looked at my watch. “Showtime,” I murmured despondently. “Time for the policy-directive meeting.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Thursday5, and then searched through her bag until she found a small yellow book and a pen.
“I hope that’s not what I think it is.”
“What do you think it is?”
“An autograph book.”
She said nothing and bit her lip.
“If you even think about asking Harry Potter for an autograph, your day ends right now.”
She sighed and dropped the book back into her bag.
The policy meeting was held in the main debating chamber. Jobs-worth’s chair was the large one behind the dais, with the seats on either side of him reserved for his closest aides and advisers. We arrived twenty minutes early and were the first ones there. I sat down in my usual seat to the left of where the genres would sit, and Thursday5 sat just behind me. The Read-O-Meter was still clicking resolutely downward, and I looked absently around the chamber, trying to gather my thoughts. Along the side walls were paintings of various dignitaries who had distinguished themselves in one way or another during the Council of Genres’ rule-my own painting was two from the end, sandwiched between Paddington Bear and Henry Pooter.
“So what’s on the agenda?” asked Thursday5.
I shrugged, having become somewhat ticked off with the whole process. I just wanted to go home-somewhere away from fiction and the parts of me I didn’t much care for.
“Who knows?” I said in a nonchalant fashion. “Falling Read-Rates, I imagine-fundamentally, it’s all there is.”
At that moment the main doors were pushed open and Jobs-worth appeared, followed by his usual retinue of hangers-on. He saw me immediately and chose a route that would take him past my desk.
“Good afternoon, Next,” he said. “I heard you were recently suspended?”
“It’s an occupational hazard when you’re working in the front line,” I replied pointedly-Jobsworth had always been administration. If he understood the remark, he made no sign of it. I added, “Are you well, sir?”
“Can’t complain. Which one’s that?” he asked, pointing to Thursday5 in much the same way as you’d direct someone to the toilet.
“Thursday5, sir.”
“You’re making a mistake to fire the other one,” said Jobs-worth, addressing me. “I’d ask for a second or third opinion about her if there was anyone left to ask. Nevertheless, the decision was yours, and I abide by it. The matter is closed.”
“I was down in the maintenance facility recently,” I told him, “and Isambard told me that the CofG had insisted on upgrading all the throughput conduits.”
“Really?” replied Jobsworth vaguely. “I do wish he’d keep himself to himself.”
He walked to the raised dais, sat in the central chair and busied himself with his notes. The room fell silent, aside from the occasional click of the Read-O-Meter as it heralded another drop in the Outland ReadRate.
The next delegate to arrive was Colonel Barksdale, head of the CofG Combined Forces. He sat down four desks away without looking at me. We had not seen eye to eye much in the past, as I disliked his constant warmongering. Next to arrive was Baxter, the senator’s chief adviser, who flicked a distasteful look in my direction. In fact, all eight members of the directive panel, except for the Equestrian senator Black Beauty, didn’t much like me. It wasn’t surprising. I wasn’t just the only Outlander member on the panel, I was the LBOCS and consequently wielded the weapon that committees always feared-the veto. I tried to discharge my duties as well as I could, despite the enmity it brought.
I could see Thursday5 move expectantly every time the door opened, but apart from the usual ten members of the committee and their staff, no one else turned up.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” said Jobsworth, standing up to address us. There weren’t many of us in the debating chamber, but it was usually this way-policy meetings were closed-door affairs.
“Sadly, I have to advise you that Mr. Harry Potter is unable to attend due to copyright restrictions, so we’re going to leave the ‘supplying characters from video games’ issue for another time.”
There was a grumbling from the senators, and I noticed one or two put their autograph books back into their bags.
“Apologies for absence,” continued Jobsworth. “Jacob Marley is too alive to attend, the Snork Maiden is at the hairdresser’s, and Senator Zigo is once more unavailable. So we’ll begin. Item One: the grammasite problem. Mr. Bamford?”
Senator Bamford was a small man with wispy blond hair and eyes that were so small they almost weren’t there. He wore a blue coverall very obviously under his senatorial robes and had been in charge of what we called “the grammasite problem” for almost four decades, seemingly to no avail. The predations of the little parasitical beasts upon the books on which they fed was damaging and a constant drain on resources. Despite culling in the past, their numbers were no smaller now than they’d ever been. Mass extermination was often suggested, something the Naturalist genre was violently against. Pests they might be, but the young were cute and cuddly and had big eyes, which was definitely an evolutionary edge to secure survival.