The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“Oh, stop—you’re making me all misty. What’s your interest in St. Zvlkx? Hardly a search for bargain thirteenth-century bordellos, I’m thinking.”

He leaned forward. “You just got an apology. You should accept that with grace and ponder upon your good fortune. But I’ll let you in on a little secret, too: Protocol 451 is currently under review.”

“Is that some kind of threat?”

“It’s a polite warning. This chief-librarian job is a cushy number. I think you should stick to lending books. You can leave Detective Smalls to deal with Goliath.”

I took a deep breath. It was time to get proactive. “Let’s not bullshit one another,” I s

aid. “We know you’re interested not in Zvlkx codices but in the palimpsests they contain— so what’s so special about Venerable Keith’s work?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said with a smile, “and will strenuously deny any wrongdoing on my part or the corporation’s. I am here only to offer my best wishes to Wessex’s new chief librarian, explain that Smalls at SO-27 has jurisdiction over booky matters and to tell you that if there is any way in which we can assist you in the smooth running of the Wessex All-You-Can-Eat-at-Fatso’s Drink Not Included Library Service, you need only to call. That’s it. I think we’re pretty much done.”

“No, I think we’re pretty much just getting started. What’s Krantz doing in Swindon?”

“Krantz is a traitor who turned against a benevolent company that had helped and nurtured his career.”

“Krantz was a traitor,” I corrected him. “He died in Goliathopolis on Sunday.”

“You know more than I do,” replied Jack.

“But then Krantz’s Day Player checked in to the Finis yesterday morning. What would the Central Genetic Council say if they knew that Goliath had permitted Unlicensed Nonevolutionary life-forms on the mainland? Last I heard, it was a tenmillion-pound fine per chimera—plus a long and potentially damaging public inquiry.”

“That is a scurrilous and outrageous suggestion,” replied Jack evenly, “and is a gross slander upon a company whose only wish is to assist the fine citizens of this nation find fulfillment and prosperity. And besides, such a suggestion would require proof to sustain in court.”

“Lupton might be going around cleaning up after you,” I said, “but we found Krantz’s own Day Player dead in the Substation Hotel this morning. We took pictures of the corpse, did a mouth swab, then recorded Mr. Cornball leaving once he’d cleaned up the mess.”

Jack stared at me, and his eyebrow twitched.

“Now,” I said, “let’s start again. Why is Goliath interested in valueless palimpsests locked inside St. Zvlkx codices?”

“I am shocked and outraged,” he said in the tone of anyone but, “and deeply concerned that an ex-employee of Goliath should be conducting perverse and outrageous experiments here on the mainland. Day Players are rightly classed an abomination, and as soon as you furnish us with all your information, we will vigorously investigate this claim and punish those responsible.”

I rolled my eyes and smiled at him. “Are you really going to try to pretend you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?”

“That you’re not in this room at all. The real Jack Schitt’s body is comatose in a hotel room somewhere, while your personality gives animation to that host body you’ve temporarily entered. And don’t give me the ‘Krantz went Rogue’ bullshit. What are you people really up to?”

He smiled and pulled my pistol from his waistband and laid it on the table. He had taken it out of my holster two minutes and twenty-six seconds earlier, when he’d leaned forward to shake my hand. I’d seen him do it, but I wasn’t going to blow my cover. He was a Mark VII as well—or even a Mark VIII. “Guilty as charged,” he said with a laugh. “How did you figure out I was a Day Player?”

“Simple,” I replied. “You’ve sipped the coffee several times, but the quantity in the cup hasn’t gone down. You’ve no esophagus, so you can’t swallow. And your spectacles. They’re clear glass. The real Jack is farsighted.”

He picked the pistol off the table and released the safety. “I’m sorry, Thursday. It pains me to do this, especially as you showed me such compassion over my wife, but corporate matters always come before friendship.”

He pointed the gun at me.

“Here’s how it goes: ‘Police were today called to the offices of the newly appointed chief librarian, killed by a deranged Goliath representative who blamed her for his wife’s death. The Goliath rep then turned the gun on himself.’ What do you think?”

“I’d certainly agree with the ‘deranged’ bit.”

“Luckily, it’s not important what you think. I would have hoped for a less ignominious end for us both—no, wait, for you. I get to wake up in a hotel suite. Your end will be permanent.”

I pretended to give out a long, dispirited breath. He still hadn’t figured I was a Synthetic. As soon as he shot me, I’d wake up too—but probably somewhere less comfortable, and certainly without room service.

“Well”— I sighed—“this had to happen sooner or later. I’m amazed I survived so long, to be honest. What about Protocol 451?”

“I lied about that, too. It was rescinded a week ago.”