“Do you really think that the people who made this place care about protests or channels or laws? Come here and look, Zara. Look at what they do.”
The woman didn’t answer. She stared at Santi for a long moment, and Jess couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Not at all.
Then she said, “Nic, please. Don’t make me do this. We can make a story that you were forced into helping them. I don’t know, but we’ll make something work. You can’t throw away your career. Your life! I know this is—it looks bad. But it can be fixed. It will be fixed!”
“It won’t,” he told her. “I’m sorry. They’d never believe I didn’t know what I was doing. And I did know. I went into this knowing full well how it would go.” Santi’s voice was gentle but firm. “Zara, I’m not asking you to join me. I’m just asking you to come with me and look. If you don’t agree once you’ve seen what is in this room, then shoot.”
She blinked slowly, looking at him, then at the troops surely queued up behind her, just around the corner. “I’m going with him,” she said. “Give me one minute. If I don’t return, shoot to kill. Is that understood? They may be wearing Scholar’s robes, but they are traitors to the Library. No mercy.”
“Sir.” The echoing voices sounded dark and sure. Wolfe and Glain were already gone, as was Morgan. Dario and Khalila were helping Thomas through the opening and struggling with his weight. He dropped out of sight. Dario quickly gestured at Khalila to follow, and she let him take her hands and lower her down. With one last glance at Jess—Almost an apology, Jess thought—Dario jumped through and disappeared.
Santi walked his lieutenant down the hall toward Jess. “I don’t want to fight my own people,” he said. “No more than you want to fight me.”
“Why are you doing this? Just tell me that.”
“Just look.”
Santi walked her into the round room filled with machines—machines built to cut, to tear, to pull, to cause suffering and anguish. There was no other use for them. The stained walls and floor told the story without any words. The smell of pain and blood and despair was louder than screams.
Zara stopped in her tracks. She stared at the room, the gruesome equipment, the floor . . . and then back at Santi. She started to speak, then shook her head.
“Christopher was here,” Santi said. “He was here. Do you understand now? This is what they don’t tell us. This is who we serve. Who those people have made us.”
“No. It’s not—” She took in a trembling breath. “Someone has to keep order,” she said. “Our hands aren’t clean, either.”
“The High Garda fights wars; we don’t torture the innocent or the guilty. This is what they made us into. I’m asking you to say you arrived too late to stop us, Zara. That’s all I’m asking.”
The woman stood very still, looking at the room, hearing the silent screams trapped here, and Jess saw tears glitter in her eyes.
Then she lifted her gun and trained it directly on Captain Santi. From where Jess stood, he couldn’t tell if she had set it for lethal force or stun, but the look in her eyes said she meant to kill. “Surrender now, and maybe the Archivist will show you mercy.”
“Mercy?” Santi’s voice was as dark as the dried blood on the walls. “Look around. Does it appear to you the Library has an abundance of that? Shoot me. You’ll have to, to stop me.”
She would, Jess realized. She wasn’t like Santi. Like Jess.
She couldn’t admit her world was a lie and everything she’d done had been in the service of something dark.
Jess fired, but he was too late. She fired at exactly the same moment his bullet hit her armor.
Zara and Santi fell at the same time.
EPHEMERA
Text of a letter from Pharaoh Ptolemy II to the Archivist Callimachus, in the time of his reign, long may his name be known
From the scribe of Pharaoh Ptolemy II, to his most excellent servant Callimachus, Archivist of the Great Library, in the twelfth year of his glorious reign:
Great King Ptolemy, Light of Egypt, has wishes to endow you with his great wisdom on the subject of the loyalty of the Great Library, this sacred endeavor, to the throne of Egypt, as has been blessed by the gods from the first rays of dawn on the eternal Nile.
It is his wisdom that always must the Library exist to cast glory upon Egypt and the pharaoh, and any thought that the Library shall be a power unto itself is a dangerous and heretical whisper that must be crushed out.
Knowledge is not a pure goal. All that you gather together shall lift the pharaoh, sacred be his duty to the gods and the people of Egypt.
So speaks he, in his great and divine wisdom.
A notation to this document from Archivist Callimachus, sent to the Scholars of the Great Library