Читать книгу Janus Trap - James Axler - Страница 14

The side lighting of the room was dimmed, and Kane lay snoozing on the sagging couch in his two-room apartment. A plate rested on the low table before him, a half-eaten meal left to stew in its own juices. Beside it, catching the lights from the nearby residential towers through the window, brown drapes pulled back, a half-drained glass of milk, the bone-white liquid clinging to its interior sides as it was slowly dragged back down the glass by gravity.

Kane lay in a peaceful, dreamless sleep, head back, mouth open, and a quiet snoring came with his deep breaths. For the first time in a very, very long time, Kane was at peace.

“THE QUICK BROWN FOX never jumps over the lazy dog.”

Brigid Baptiste smiled as her fingers raced across the computer’s keys and these words formed on the display before her. The phrase contained every letter of the alphabet, an old typist’s mnemonic to ensure that all the keys could be reached and were operational.

“The quick brown fox never jumps over the lazy dog.”

Never.

The computer and keyboard sat on a little desk that was hidden in a converted wardrobe within Brigid’s tiny apartment. Strictly speaking, she should not own a computer. Despite her high ranking as a Cobaltville archivist, Brigid was not legally allowed ownership of a personal computer of any form—the designated work databases should be enough for her, where her data queries could be monitored and questioned at any time.

Her computer at the Historical Division was newer than this one, using voice-recognition commands in place of this clumsy, old-fashioned keyboard with its “quick brown fox.” The keyboard felt old and slow by comparison, unable to keep up with the speed of Brigid’s thoughts. Still, it did the job.

She had found the computer, a cast-off DDC model, in the trash close to her one-person apartment. It had seemed to be serendipity, a stroke of luck, but she suspected it had been planted for her to find by her friends in the Preservationists, an underground movement dedicated to retaining the complete records of the world as it was before 2001. Brigid’s job, as an archivist, was to smooth the rougher edges of history to ensure that it was palatable with the enlightened baronial world view. Which was to say, hide the truth.

They could ask Brigid to smooth and hide all they liked, but her eidetic memory ensured that a perfect, untouched copy of it remained in her mind’s eye. She spent long evenings at the DDC’s keyboard, re-creating this information into computer files once more before leaving it at a specified drop-off point for the Preservationists to collect.

Sometimes she wondered if the Preservationists really existed. Sometimes she woke in a cold sweat, convinced that she had been snared in a web of deceit and the Preservationists were a simple fallacy that the emotionless Magistrates had created to prove her guilt.