The Lawyer’s voice faltered a moment.
“Where is Speth Jime?” His words were suddenly clipped and unlitigious. It chilled me to hear him speak my name.
No one answered.
“And whereas you have committed numerous additional transgressions, infractions and criminal violations yet to be enumerated and described, I assign you to the custody and supervision of the prevailing Legal authority available—me.”
I recognized the voice with creeping dread. It was Silas Rog. While I did not know his face, I knew that voice. There was something distinctly cold and hateful in it.
A loathing twisted inside me. I couldn’t let him distract me. He was somewhere down below, which meant he wasn’t here. He was asking about me, which meant he did not know where I was.
I’d wasted enough time already. I pulled a book out from a shelf close by, my hands clumsy and tremulous. Public Adjudication of Law by Paul W. Bloom, ? 1997.
I flipped through the pages. The paper was thin and the type was dense, impossible for me to comprehend. Was every book here like this one? There wasn’t time for me to sit down and wade through the impenetrable jargon of the Law. I abandoned that one, shoving it back onto its shelf. I moved instinctively toward the room’s center. If an important book was going to be anywhere, I reasoned—I hoped—it would be there.
“The parties hereforth present shall be remanded to floor seventeen for assessment of actionable infractions,” I heard Rog say.
I pulled another book from the shelf, titled Perpetual Mouse, Alecia Grey, ? 2028. The inside cover said Disney? made certain, in perpetuity, that nothing created after 1928 could ever come out of Copyright in order to preserve the rights of a cartoon mouse.
The center of the room was dominated by an enormous, densely printed, polished pillar, like obsidian. Two sliding doors were cut into it, gilded in laser-cut gold and platinum. At first I thought this was it; the book must be locked inside. Then I noticed a simple, triangle-shaped button inset in a panel.
I pressed it out of desperation more than reason. As I did it, I realized it was almost certainly an elevator. I kept hoping it was something else—a safe or a room with the book inside.
It was a childish wish. A simple ping chimed, and the motor behind the doors engaged.
On the Pad, I heard movement. Kel’s eyes were open again, looking down at the tiles of a hallway floor as she was dragged across them. I wanted her to look at Rog. I wanted to see his face.
Hatred boiled inside me, clouding my thoughts. All around me, aisles radiated out from the center, toward tall tinted windows. I saw nothing but a few moonlit clouds, darkened by the colored glass.
“Hereby and forthwith, I demand you provide the whereabouts of Speth Jime to the greatest degree of precision allowable by Law,” Rog’s voice intoned. I glanced at the Pad and saw only part of him as Kel’s eyes ticked nervously around.
“Long gone,” Kel said. Her voice was slightly muffled.
I swallowed hard. She was covering for me. I owed it to her and the others to make this mean something, but how? I began looking at the books again. The task seemed impossible.
“The specificity of your answer is insufficient. Evasive speech used for the purposes of obstructification will be answered with maximum penalty,” Rog said.
“Where is she?” another voice asked, as if merely curious.
“Beyond the outer spiral,” Kel said.
The doors behind me split open. I jumped. It was an empty elevator car. Foolish, I told myself.
“She might be in Canada by now,” Kel added.
I looked down at the Pad. Kel was looking at Leeland Butchers. I’d seen his face before. Unlike Silas Rog, whose face was perpetually blurred in the media, Butchers allowed his red, pockmarked face to be shown everywhere. We all would have preferred he kept it hidden.
“Canada.” Butchers chewed on the word. “Unlikely.”
“You’ll never find her!” Henri blurted out.
“Also unlikely,” Butchers said. I stole another glance at the feed from the Pad. I wanted to see Rog. His head was down; he was preoccupied, typing something into his Cuff. I held back the urge to get on the elevator and bring the fight to him. The book was more important. I grabbed a promising title.
Trademark Expansion and Copyright Integration, ? 2019.
I wanted to linger with the feel of the paper between my fingers. It was strangely thin and fragile. Were all books like this? I willed myself to understand the words before me. The book was filled with mind-numbingly dull pages of Legalese, explaining Laws that once were, Laws that had changed and twisted and Laws that could be corrupted. It reminded me of the endlessly verbose Terms of Service I had skimmed and mindlessly agreed to all these years. I nearly tossed it aside until I saw the words: Freedom of Speech.
In the feed, a door opened. Kel and Henri were pushed in front of what appeared to be an inclined tanning bed, except the bottom part was missing, as if it would only tan your face. It looked snug and soft, with a smooth, enveloping curve for a person’s body. Rog moved in front of it, his back to the camera in Kel’s eyes. He seemed to pet it.
“Innovation is rare these days,” Rog said. “A casualty of the necessary, voracious defense of Intellectual Property. It is difficult to hold a Patent without getting overly enthused about suing and defending oneself from suit.” He seemed very pleased with the whole game. He patted the bed-like device, proud. Then he turned and showed his face. I brought the Pad closer to my eyes, even though I had more pressing things to attend to.
But it was blocked. Just like on the wall-screen, his face was nothing but a mottle of pink, gray and black squares as he spoke. Kel’s corneal implants were blurring him out.
“I hereby notify you that certain proprietary information may be herewith divulged, which you are obligated, immediately and forthwith, to keep strictly confidential, without exception, under all circumstances and for all time under the full penalty of the Law.” He waved his hand around like he was casting a spell.
“Every single day, millions of people go undetected creating unauthorized copies of music, films, pictures, ideas and words, robbing the American? businessman of his right to profit from his Intellectual Property and costing the American? economy trillions of dollars. The Cuff does an admirable, but incomplete, job of detecting and monitoring usage, but we know we can do better. Attorney Butchers?”
“Look here,” Butchers said, in a low thrum of a voice.