“But this isn’t the worst place we could go.” Aornis grinned through the window. “We can go back to the Crimea and unlock memories that have been too terrifying even for you. The suppressed memories, the ones you block out to let you carry on the day.”

  “No, Aornis, not the charge—!”

  But there we were, in the last place I wanted to be, driving my APC into the massed field artillery of the Russian army that August afternoon in 1973. Of the eighty-four APCs and light tanks that advanced into the Russian guns, only two vehicles returned. Out of the 534 soldiers involved, 51 survived.

  It was the moment before the barrage began. My CO, Major Phelps, was riding on the outside as he liked to do, foolhardy idiot that he was, and to my left and right I could see the other armored vehicles throwing up large swathes of summer dust from the parched land. We could be seen for miles. The first salvo was so unexpected that I thought the munitions in a light tank had simply ignited by accident; the whine of a near miss made me realize that it hadn’t. I changed direction instantly and started to zigzag. I looked to Phelps for orders, but he was slumped in the hatch; he had lost the lower part of his arm and was unconscious. The barrage was so intense that it became a single rumbling growl, the pressure waves thumping the APC so hard that it was all I could do to keep my hands on the controls.

  I read the official report two years later. Forty-two guns had been trained on us from a thousand yards, and they had expended 387 rounds of high-explosive shells—about four to each vehicle. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel.

  Sergeant Tozer took command and ordered me to an APC that had lost its tracks and been thrown upside down. I parked behind the wrecked carrier as Tozer and the squad jumped out to retrieve the wounded.

  “But what were you really thinking about?” asked Aornis, who was beside me in the carrier, looking disdainfully at the dust and oil.

  “Escape,” I said. “I was terrified. We all were.”

  “Next!” yelled Tozer. “Stop talking to Aornis and take us to the next APC!”

  I pulled away as another explosion went off. I saw a turret whirling through the air, a pair of legs dangling from beneath it.

  I drove to the next APC, the shrapnel hitting our carrier almost continuously like hail on a tin roof. The survivors were firing impotently back with their rifles; it wasn’t looking good. The APC was filled with the wounded, and as I turned round, something hit the carrier a glancing blow. It was a dud; it had struck us obliquely and bounced off—I would see the yard-long gouge in the armor plate the following day. Within a hundred yards we were in relative safety as the dust and smoke screened our retreat; pretty soon we had passed the forward command post, where all the officers were shouting into their field telephones, and were on to the dressing areas beyond. Even though I knew this was a dream, the fear felt as real as it had on the day, and tears of frustration welled up inside me. I thought Aornis would carry on with this memory for the return run to the barrage, but there was clearly a technique behind her barbaric game. In a blink we were back on the roof at Thornfield Hall.

  Acheron was looking at me with a triumphant expression and carried on where he had left off:

  “It may come as some consolation that I planned to bestow upon you the honor of becoming Felix9—Who are you?”

  He was looking at Aornis.

  “Aornis,” she said shyly.

  Acheron gave a rare smile and lowered his gun.

  “Aornis?” he echoed. “Little Aornis?” She nodded and ran across to give him a hug.

  “My goodness!” he said, looking her over carefully. “How you have grown! Last time I saw you, you were this high and had barely even started torturing animals. Tell me, did you follow us into the family business or did you flunk out like that loser Styx?”

  “I’m a mnemonomorph!” she said proudly, eager for her sibling’s approval.

  “Of course! I should have guessed. We’re in that Next woman’s memories right now, aren’t we?”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  “Attagirl! Tell me, did she actually kill me? I’m only here as the memory of me in her mind, after all.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Aornis glumly. “She killed you well and good.”

  “By using treachery? Did I die a Hades?”

  “I’m afraid not—it was a noble victory.”

  “Bitch!”

  “Seconded. But I’ll have the revenge you deserve, dear brother, you can be sure of that.”

  A family reunion like this should have been heartwarming, but I can’t say I was moved. Still, at least it kept us away from the Crimea.

  “Mother’s very upset with you,” said Aornis, who had the Hades penchant for straight talking.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? You murdered Styx.”

  “Styx was a fool and he brought shame on the Hades family. If father was still alive, he would have done the job himself.”

  “Well, Mother was very upset about it and I think you should apologize.”

  “Okay, next time—wait a moment, I’m dead—I can’t apologize to anyone. You apologize for me.”

  “I’m a mnemonomorph, remember—and this is only me as a mindworm; a sort of satellite persona, if you like. Listen, if I knew where Thursday was, she’d be dead already. No, when I can report back to Aornis proper, this is what we’ll do—”

  “Psssst!” said a voice close to my ear. It was Granny Next.

  “Gran! Am I glad to see you!”

  “C’mon, while Aornis is distracted.”

  Gran took my hand and led me across the roof to the window, where we entered the building. But instead of being in the burning remains of Thornfield Hall, we were on the sidelines of a croquet match. Not any croquet match; it was a Croquet Federation Final—a SuperHoop. I used to play croquet quite seriously until SpecOps work absorbed all my free time. The two teams were in their body armor, leaning on their willow mallets and discussing strategy during a time-out.

  “Okay,” said Aubrey Jambe, who was wearing the captain’s sweater, “Biffo is going to take the red ball from the forty-yard line over the rhododendron bushes, past the Italian sunken garden and into a close position to hoop five. Spike, you’ll take it from there and croquet their yellow—Stig will defend you. George, I want you to mark their number five. He’s a neanderthal, so you’re going to have to use any tricks you can. Smudger, you’re going to foul the duchess—when the vicar gives you the red card, I’m calling in Thursday. Yes?”

  They all looked at me. I was in body armor, too. I was a substitute. A croquet mallet was slung round my wrist with a lanyard and I was holding a helmet.

  “Thursday?” repeated Aubrey. “Are you okay? You look like you’re in a dreamworld!”

  “I’m fine,” I said slowly. “I’ll wait for your command.”

  “Good.”

  A horn went off, indicating the time-out was over. I looked up at the scoreboard. Swindon was losing, 12 hoops to 21.

  “Gran,” I said slowly, watching the team run out to continue play, “I don’t remember this.”

  “Of course not!” she said as though I were a fool. “This is one of mine. Aornis will never find us here.”

  “Wait a moment. How can I be dreaming with your memories?”

  “Tch tch,” she scolded, “so many questions! It will all be explained in due course. Now, do you want to go into some of that deep, dreamless sleep and get some rest?”

  “Please!”

  “Good. Aornis will not bother you again tonight—I shall watch over you.”

  Gran approached a burly croquet player who only had one ear. After saying a few words, she pointed at me. I looked around at the stadium. It was the Swindon croquet stadium, yet somehow different. Behind me at the dignitaries box I was surprised to see Yorrick Kaine speaking to one of his assistants. Next to him was President Formby, who gave me a smile and a wave. I turned away, my eyes looking into the crowd and falling upon the one person that I did want to see. It was Landen, and he was bouncing a young child on his lap.

  “Landen!” I shouted, but a cheer went up from the crowd and I was drowned out. But he did see me and smiled. He held the infant’s hand and made it wave, too. Gran tugged my shoulder pad to get my attention.

  “Gran,” I said, “it’s Lan—”

  And then the mallet struck my head. Blackness and oblivion. As usual, just when I got to the good bit.

  16.

  Captain Nemo

  Wemmick’s Stores: To enable Jurisfiction agents to travel easily and undetected within fiction, Wemmick’s Stores was built within the lobby of the Great Library. The stores have an almost unlimited inventory as Mr. Wemmick is permitted to create whatever he needs using a small Imagino TransferenceDevice licensed by Text Grand Central. To reduce pilfering by Jurisfiction staff, all items checked out must be checked in again, where they are promptly reduced to text.

  CAT FORMERLY KNOWN AS CHESHIRE,

  Guide to the Great Library

  I WOKE LATE THE following morning. My bed was next to the porthole so I rolled over, doubled up a pillow and gazed out at the sun sparkling upon the surface of the lake. I could hear the gentle slap of the water against the flying boat’s hull, and it gave me a sense of ease and inner peace that ten years of SpecOps’ finest stressperts couldn’t bully into you.

  I got up slowly and felt woozy all of a sudden. The room spun around and I felt hot. After a brief and unpleasant visit to the loo, I felt a bit better and went downstairs.

  I made myself some toast, as it helped the nausea, and caught sight of myself in the chrome toaster. I looked dreadful, and I was holding up the toaster and sticking my tongue out, trying to see what it looked like, when the Generics walked in.

  “What on earth are you doing?” asked Ibb.

  “Nothing,” I replied, hurriedly replacing the toaster. “Off to college?”

  They both nodded. I noticed that they’d not only made their own lunch but actually cleared away after themselves. A certain sensitivity to others is a good sign in a Generic. It shows personality.

  “Do you know where Gran is?” I asked.

  “She said she was off to the Medici court for a few days,” replied Obb. “She left you that note.”

  I found the note on the counter and picked it up, studying the one-word message with slight confusion.

  “We’ll be back at five,” announced Ibb. “Do you need anything?”

  “What, er—no,” I said, reading Gran’s note again. “See you then.”

  I made some more toast and continued with the multiple-choice test. After a half hour battling through such questions as Which book does Sam Weller the Bootboy reside in? and Who said, “When she appeared, it was as though spring had finally arrived after a miserable winter”? I stopped and looked at Gran’s note for the tenth time. It was confusing. Written in a small and shaky hand, the note consisted of a single word: REMEMBER!

  “Remember what?” I muttered to myself, and went for a walk.

  I strolled down the banks of the lake, taking a path through a grove of birches that grew by the water’s edge. I ducked under the low branches and followed my nose towards the odd assortment of vessels that were moored next to the old Sunderland. The first was a converted naval pinnace, her decks covered in plastic and in a constant state of conservation. Beyond this was a Humber lighter, abandoned and sunk at its moorings. As I walked on, a sudden screech of demonic laughter was followed by a peal of thunder and the smell of brimstone borne on a gust of icy wind. I blinked and coughed as thick green smoke momentarily enveloped me; when it had cleared, I was no longer alone. Three old hags with hooked chins and mottled complexions danced and cackled in front of me, rubbing their dirty hands and dancing in the most clumsy and uncoordinated fashion. It was the worst piece of overacting I had ever seen.

  “Thrice the blinded dog shall bark,” said the first witch, producing a cauldron from the air and placing it on the path in front of me.

  “Thrice and once the hedgepig ironed,” said the second, who conjured up a fire by throwing some leaves beneath the cauldron.

  “Passerby cries, ‘ ’Tis time, ’tis time!’ ” screeched the third, tossing something into the cauldron that started to bubble ominously.

  “I really don’t have time for this,” I said crossly. “Why don’t you go and bother someone else?”

  “Fillet of a pickled hake,” continued the second witch, “in the cauldron broil and bake; lie of Stig and bark of dog, woolly hat and bowl of fog, Fadda loch and song by Bing, wizard’s leg and Spitfire’s wing. For a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth boil and bubble!”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but I really am very busy—and none of your prophecies have come true—apart from the citizen of Swindon bit and anyone with a telephone directory could find that out—and listen, you knew I was an apprentice so I had to be taking my finals sooner or later!”

  They stopped cackling and looked at one another. The first witch drew a large pocket watch from the folds of her tatty cloak and looked at it carefully.

  “Give it ye time, imperfect waiter!” she cried. “All hail MsNext! Beware, beware the thrice-read rule!”

  “All hail MsNext! Exempted from I before E except after C rule Reigate is!” cackled the second.

  “All hail MsNext!” added the third, who clearly didn’t want to be left out. “Meet a king but not be one, read a King but not visit one—”

  “Shoo!” shouted a loud voice behind me. The three witches stopped and stared at the new visitor crossly. He was an old man whose weathered face looked as though it had been gnarled by years of adventuring across the globe. He wore a blue blazer over a polo-neck Aran sweater, and on his head a captain’s cap sat above his lined features, a few wisps of gray hair showing from underneath the sweatband. His eyes sparkled with life and a grimace cracked his craggy features as he walked along the path towards us. It could only be Captain Nemo.

  “Away with you, crones!” he cried. “Peddle your wares elsewhere!”

  He would probably have beaten them with the stout branch he was brandishing had the witches not taken fright and vanished in a thunderclap of sound, cauldron and all.

  “Hah!” said Nemo, throwing the branch towards where they had been. “Next time I will make mincemeat of you, foul dissemblers of nature with your ‘hail this’ and your ‘hail that’!”

  He looked at me accusingly. “Did you give them any money?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Truthfully now! Did you give them anything at all?”

  “No.”

  “Good, never give them any money. It only encourages them. They’ll coax you in with their fancy prophecies—suggest you’ll have a new car, and as soon as you start thinking you might need one—bang!—they’re offering you loans and insurance and other unwanted financial services. Poor old Macbeth took it a bit too seriously—all they were trying to do was sell him a mortgage and insurance on a bigger castle—when the Birnam wood and ‘no woman born’ stuff all came true, the witches were as surprised as anyone. So never fall for their little scams—it’ll drain your wallet before you know it. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Thursday Next. I’m standing in for—”

  “Ah!” he muttered thoughtfully. “The Outlander. Tell me, how do escalators work? Do they have one long staircase that is wound up on a huge drum and then rewound every night, or are they a continuous belt that just goes round and round?”

  “An—um—continuous belt.”

  “Really?” he replied reflectively. “I’ve always wondered that. Welcome to Caversham Heights. I am Captain Nemo. I have some coffee on the stove—I wonder whether you would do me the honor of your company?”

  I thanked him and we continued to walk along the lake’s edge.

  “A beautiful morning, would you not agree?” he asked, sweeping a hand towards the lake and the puffy clouds.

  “It usually is.”

  “For a terrestrial view it is almost passable,” added Nemo quickly. “It is nothing but a passing fancy to the beauty of the deep, but in retirement, we all have to make sacrifices.”

  “I have read your book many times,” I said as courteously as I could, “and have found much pleasure in its narrative.”

  “Jules Verne was not simply my author but also a good friend,” said Nemo sadly. “I was sorrowful on his passing, an emotion I do not share with many others of my kind.”

  We had arrived at Nemo’s home. No longer the sleek and dangerous craft from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, the riveted iron submarine was a shabby wreck streaked with rust, a thick green line of algae growing on the glass of the two large viewing windows. She belonged to a redolent age of high technological expectation. She was the Nautilus.

  We made our way up the gangplank and Nemo helped me aboard.

  “Thank you,” I said, walking down the outer casing to the small conning tower, where he had set up a chair and a table upon which stood a glass hookah. He pulled up another folding chair and bid me sit down.

  “You are here, like me,” he asked, “resting—between engagements?”

  “Maternity leave—of a sort.”

  “Of these matters I know nothing,” he said gravely, pouring out a cup of coffee; the porcelain was White Star Line.

  I took a sip and accepted the proffered biscuit. The coffee was excellent.

  “Good, is it not?” he asked, a smile upon his lips.

  “Indeed! Better than I have ever tasted. What is it?”