I didn’t look. Instead, I focused more closely on the Freedom of Speech reference in the book. It alluded to an Amendment, though I didn’t know what had been amended. When did this Law exist? Where did it exist? The book read, plain as day, “Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech.” Was this what I was looking for?
“We’re calling it a Finishing Bed?,” Butchers went on. I tried to block him out and focus on the book. “It is going to put an end to Copyright infringement by extracting it at the very root.”
I didn’t know what a Congress was, but the words on the page filled me with hope and confusion. The book called the First Amendment a “guiding principle.” Tears came to my eyes. It said Freedom of Speech was so important to American? life that our nation would fail without it. How could this be? We didn’t have Freedom of Speech, yet America? thrived.
But that wasn’t true. Everyone I knew was only barely surviving.
“The Finishing Bed? looks for infringing patterns expressed directly within your brain’s electroneurology.”
Henri’s gasp caught my attention. “It reads minds?”
I followed Kel’s eyes, ticking over the Finishing Bed?. The way the top part clamped over a person’s face made me think of some kind of torture device.
“Nearly,” Butchers said. “It matches patterns, so if you remember a song or a picture or a movie, it will find the unauthorized work and bill you accordingly.”
“You’re going to charge people for thinking about movies?” Henri asked.
“Movies, songs, ideas, words,” Butchers said, clapping his meaty hands together. “It will be lucrative.”
Kel burst out laughing. “That isn’t possible,” she said.
“What makes you believe that?” Butchers asked.
“Innovation isn’t rare—it’s unattainable,” Kel said.
“Meaning?” Butchers asked.
“You assholes can’t create anything anymore,” Kel said. “And even if this works the way you say, you can’t control what people think.”
“We don’t intend to control what people think. Just to charge them for it.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What kind of world would this be? I had to stop them, but I sensed, somehow, that the book in my hands wasn’t enough. This wasn’t the book. It only proved things had once been different, but it wasn’t enough on its own. I dropped it in my bag in case it was useful and moved on.
I began to frantically search around for other, more promising titles. I found a sentence that read: “Copyright clearly does not protect ideas, only the tangible expression of them,” in a book called The First Amendment and Civic Duty by Martin Bj?rn, ? 2017.
“There is no precedent,” Kel said. “Everyone will fight you.”
“Everyone will lose,” Butchers said calmly. “And I have to point out that there is plenty of precedent. No Law has ever been ruled forbidding the monetization of thoughts. But there is plenty of legal precedent to show that any reproduction, regardless of its form, is subject to Intellectual Property Laws. Why should the brain be any different than a computer or a piece of paper?”
Butchers snapped his fingers. “Put him inside,” he said.
I swallowed hard. They dragged Henri toward the machine. Surely the Finishing Bed? couldn’t actually read Henri’s mind—could it? But what if it hurt him?
A ParaLegal scurried over with a screen. “Could you sign this waiver?”
I flipped through Limitations on the First Amendment by Janet J. Kingsley, ? 2031, and it looked like freedom of speech had become more restricted because companies banded together to claim it threatened their Brands, free trade and wealth. But so what? My search was hopeless.
I had to do something. I wanted to abandon the books and fly down to the seventeenth floor, but that would undo our entire purpose for being here. Too many books. Too little time. I shook myself; I had to find the book. It had to be here, and with it, I could destroy Silas Rog. I had to make people see, especially now. I moved to a different shelf and grabbed another book.
Rights Management Coding and Codes. It detailed methods and strategy for locking down software—something I knew absolutely nothing about. Beside it, another book had its cover embossed with a bold logo: PrintLocks?. I cracked it open.
In the feed, Butchers’s assistants lowered the shell over Henri’s head. He tried to look brave. I tore myself away from watching the feed to read.
This was not the book. It said nothing about speech or words. But the logo reminded me of WheatLock?, and the pages detailed the ways food inks needed to be combined and the ways printers functioned to combine them or lock the user out if payment wasn’t authenticated. There was even a key showing which had nutritional value, and which were poisonous.
It wasn’t the book, but it seemed like it could be useful.
From the Pad, Butchers’s voice went on: “The trespassers, hereinafter referred to as the Participants, will submit to neurologic survey and inspection for any and all violations of Intellectual Property, and shall be held civilly accountable for any and all verified infractions found therein, as well as attendant animus nocendi.”
I walked lightly around the thick pillar. On the far side, more wide aisles fanned out to the windows. It was growing lighter outside. There was no sign that any book was more important than another. I prepared to dig in and look through every one if I had to, but how much time did I have left?
Something clicked and whirred behind me. The answer was that my time was up. The elevator was moving, which meant someone was coming.
SILAS ROG: $49.99
I slipped down an aisle and crouched low. I was closer to the windows now and could see a flat expanse of dark, sparkling water to the east. The ocean. The size of it was mind-boggling, and I longed to take it in, but this was not the time.
The elevator doors slid open.
“I must register my disappointment.”
It was Rog. I could hear him sniff at the air. Was he alone? I listened closely. If he had people with him, I couldn’t hear them. But if they were as quiet as Kel and the team, they could have easily spread through the room to surround me, and I wouldn’t know until they were right on top of me.
I crept back toward the stairwell. Could I escape? Should I? I didn’t have what I’d come for, and my friends were locked up. No, I had to stay and fight it out, or go down trying.
“I am aware of what you are here for, Miss Jime.” Rog sighed. “But you should recognize that facts on paper are worth very little, despite the mystique.”
Facts on paper are worth very little? That was an interesting thing for a man standing in his own, massive library of paper books to say. Was he talking about the book? Was he admitting it was real?
“If you wish to hide like a rabbit, I can send for dogs to flush you out,” he said. He had moved closer; his footsteps were light. I steadied myself, profoundly aware of the sound of my own breathing. I listened intently. Was he really alone?