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I don t agree. You hate me. Always have. From the moment I was first
published. We could have been friends, but you never evenvisited. Not once in
four entire books. Not a postcard, a footnote, nothing. I m closer to you than
family, Thursday, and you treated me like crap.
And then I understood.
You put the piano intoEmma to stitch me up, didn t you?
After what you ve done to me, you deserve far worse. You had it in for me
the moment I arrived at Jurisfiction. You all did.
I shook my head sadly. She was consumed by hate. But instead of trying to
deal with it, she just projected it onto everyone around her. I sighed.
You did this for revenge over some perceived slight?
That wasn t revenge, said Thursday1 4 in a quiet voice. You ll know
revenge when you see it.
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 youbegged 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?
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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 evenanswer 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.
Ididn t go straight to either Jurisfiction or the Council of Genres but
instead went for a quiet walk in Wainwright sPictorial 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 reallywere
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.
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If you eventhink 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
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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
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