You did well, wrote the library interloper to the Librarian once Max was gone.
I lied to a seeker, the Librarian replied. The Librarian’s uncharacteristically smudged handwriting somehow managed to convey the entity’s bitterness. I have violated the very ethos of my existence. I have imbibed vast volumes on the subject of shame, but this is the first time I have experienced it myself.
You didn’t lie to him, old friend. You just didn’t tell him some things you could have.
WE ARE NOT FRIENDS! The Librarian’s words were so emphatic, they practically leaped off the page. You are the antithesis of everything I represent. Correction: You are the antithesis of everything I represented in halcyon days. Today, due to my unethical actions, I am reduced to your level. A lie of omission is nonetheless a lie. Don’t bandy words with me. I am an accomplice to your deceit. An unwilling accomplice, but an accomplice nonetheless. The copious blood on your hands is now on mine.
Is that any way to talk to me? I was just trying to make you feel better. That’s the thanks I get.
Spare me your prevaricating platitudes. You care nothing about feelings, mine or others’. I am but a pawn in your game. As is that young seeker.
Speaking of whom, I have questions.
You have questions for me? Isn’t that usually the other way around? I guess you either die a seeker, or you live long enough to see yourself become the Librarian. How may I assist you, seeker?
Your witticisms lack wit.
My first question is this: You obviously were prepared for that seeker to come here for assistance long before he actually did so. How?
Because Max is stupid. The interloper’s quill hesitated, hovering over the page, then continued writing. Scratch that. He’s proven himself anything but stupid. Considering his lineage, I’m not surprised there’s more to him than his deficient upbringing would lead one to believe.
“Stupid” is the wrong word. More accurately, what Max is is predictable. Predictability and stupidity bear more than a passing resemblance to one another because they achieve the same unfortunate results against a savvy opponent. One such as I. In the extremely unlikely event Max survives the pivotal role he plays in this set piece I’m orchestrating, in the future, he’ll learn to make his moves harder to predict.
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In that backwater he calls home, when Max had questions, he invariably sought answers at his local library. Once he began experiencing his visions here at Prometheus, it wasn’t hard to predict he would seek answers about those visions at the library, just as he would at home. Especially since I’m taking steps to ensure he mistrusts his fellows, making him reluctant to consult them.
Second question: Would you really destroy me if I did not comply with your demands?
Why ask questions the answers to which you already know? If you weren’t already completely convinced I have the capability to destroy you, you never would have cooperated with my subterfuge. You’re well aware I can make the conflagration that destroyed your distant idiot cousin—the Great Library of Alexandria—seem like a campfire in comparison.
Speaking of which, your role in this charade is not yet complete. If you so much as hint to Max or anyone else what is really going on, you’ll regret it. It sounds mustache-twirlingly dramatic to say I have an enemies list, but I’m not one to shrink from drama—I do, in fact, have an enemies list. And if you insist on hurting my feelings by asserting we’re not friends, sadly, I suppose I’ll have to use this quill to give your name a prominent position on my enemies list. It’s an “if you’re not with me, you’re against me” sort of thing.
God may have mercy on my enemies, but I won’t. You’ve known me a long time. You know what I can do. What I will do.
Have I made myself clear?
Quite.
Good. Now, with that nasty bit of saber-rattling behind us, how about flipping a few pages ahead in this saga of ours and giving me a glimpse into the future? I already know I’m on the winning side of history, of course, but when wrestling with who-shot-John, I’ve never been able to resist skipping to the back of the book to peek at exactly how the butler did it.
Access to books created in the future is strictly forbidden.
The winds of change are blowing, old friend, clearing away the hidebound limits of the past. The interloper paused dramatically, slowly and deliberately crossed out old friend, and continued to write. Soon, nothing will be forbidden to me.
Access to books created in the future is strictly forbidden.
The interloper laughed.
You really are relentless with that bromide, aren’t you? At least you’re consistent. But if you know your Emerson—and I know you do—a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.
It must be clear to you by now that, thanks to our young friend Max, a regime change is imminent. Not merely at the school, but in the entire world.
Take care to not be on the wrong side of it.