SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

The whine was gone. The wind was back. Grace was still unconscious. But Asanti positively glowed with a smile that lit her entire face.

“What happened?”

“When I found you passed out, I killed the magnetic field, hoping that it might stop the tone, even if the wind came back.”

“Congratulations. You’re two for two.”

“That’s not the best part.”

A flying book knocked Liam in the back of his head and sent his chin driving down into his chest. “Are you sure about that? Because this is just brilliant.”

“Liam.” Asanti’s eyes danced with triumph. “Look around you. The wind isn’t just picking up books at random.”

Blinking past the new pain in the back of his head, Liam tried to concentrate on the spinning storm around him. Asanti picked up a book that had fallen to the floor and another from a shelf.

“This is a seventeenth century grimoire," she said, gesturing to the book she’d lifted from the floor. “Only copy known to exist. This”—she gestured to the one she’d taken from its place on the shelf—“is a first edition Francis Bacon. Rare, not unique.” Then she took both books and flung them into the air.

Liam started. While he had been passed out, Asanti had clearly gone insane. “Did you just—?”

“Watch.”

Both books tumbled, pages fluttering, until they finally landed, open, on their backs.

“What am I watching?”

“The pages!”

Liam blinked, still not seeing it. The Bacon lay there, unmoving. The pages of the grimoire continued to flip in the wind.

“These books are the same size, with similar binding and weight paper. The wind is everywhere. Why aren’t the pages of the Bacon still moving? ”

And now that she had said it, Liam saw it. “The wind only affects books that are unique to the Archives.”

Asanti nodded. “Yes. Now, if we can just figure out what that means —”

But Liam already knew. “What it means,” he said—speaking carefully, but with growing certainty—“is we’re being hacked.”

Finally, something he could work with.

At sunset on the third night of the Market, Sal arrived alone at Gutenberg Castle, where she was greeted by the disapproving frown of the Maitresse.

“Where is the priest?” she asked. “I hope he hasn’t decided to depart prematurely.”

Sal shook her head, fighting the feeling that she ought to bow or curtsy or something else that would probably just end up looking stupid. “He had an errand to run in town and was unavoidably detained. I’m expecting him soon.”

The Maitresse gave Sal a penetrating look that went a step beyond a standard “disapproving superior” glare and straight to “look right into your head" territory. Sal fought to keep her expression bland and concentrated on repeating an internal mantra of: I’m not lying to you. I’m not lying to you. I’m not…

Almost as though she really could read Sal’s thoughts, the Maitresse’s lips quirked upward.

“Very well, Bookburner. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Sal nodded to the Maitresse and proceeded to beat a retreat across the courtyard as quickly as she could without looking like she was fleeing for her life. She wasn’t sure she managed it. But she hadn’t lied. Menchú was running an errand in town. She was expecting him soon. She just had something to do before he got back.

The first night of the Market was for posturing. The second was for negotiations. The third was for deals. Over Sal’s head, but low enough that it couldn’t be seen outside the castle’s walls, a firework in the shape of a red dragon exploded silently. Sal didn’t give it a second glance. She had an appointment with the Index.

Opie grinned as she approached, noting that she was alone. “Baby Bookburner breaking the rules. Are you going to have to go to confession later?”

“Not a Catholic. Let’s get on with this.”

Opie opened the door and ushered her through with a mock bow. Sal stepped past him into the room full of fantastical computers, heartened to see that her suspicions were correct: bowing when you didn’t know what you were doing did look stupid. He seemed amused at her impatience as she waited for him to follow her inside.

“You’re awfully eager to give up a piece of your mind.”

Sal held his gaze, waiting for him to blink first. “I’ve seen some things since I took this job that I wouldn’t mind forgetting.”

Opie made a small, negating gesture. “The Index takes what the Index wants. We can’t control—”

“Cut the crap.”

Opie’s jaw snapped shut with an audible click.

“You were trying to stare through me from the first night of the Market. I think you found out that Mr. Norse had a grudge against the Society and offered to let him use the Index to find a weak spot in the Archives. Then, when everyone arrives at the Market and he attacks us—oh look—you just so happen to have the solution to our little problem, for the low-low price of a peek inside my head.”

Opie scoffed. “Which makes perfect sense, if everything we do somehow revolves around you.”

Sal shrugged. “Maybe you get the benefit of a happy coincidence, then. Bottom line, there’s something in my head that you want, and you’re not going to trust to random chance that this Index of yours is going to pull what you’re interested in.”

“And what would you know that would be that valuable to us?”

“I know what happened to my brother.”

In the silence that followed, Sal could hear the faint hum of computers, the ripple of the sea horses’ aquarium, and the rustle of night moths pollinating the flowers blooming on the moss computer’s keyboard.

“You have information I want; I have information you want. Let’s make a trade.”

Opie blinked. “How very…pragmatic.”

“I’m a practical person. Hell, we can dispense with this whole Index bullshit for all I care. You tell me, I tell you, we both go our separate ways.”

The obnoxious smile was back. “No deal. How would we know you weren’t lying?”

“How do I know your Index knows anything useful?”

“Given that I’m not the one with the friends under threat of death, I guess that’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

Sal made a show of scowling. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

“Temper temper, Baby Bookburner.”

“Friends dying. I didn’t sleep well last night. PMS. Take your pick. Plus, I think we both want this business concluded before Father Menchú gets back from his errand in Balzers.”

That, at least, got Opie moving. He walked over to a large black packing case, opened it, and removed a wooden box just large enough to hold a pair of shoes. He closed the case immediately after removing the box, and Sal caught a glimpse of flames, skittering legs, and a brief moaning sound. Oh yeah, this is a great idea.

The box remained connected to the packing case by glowing filaments wrapped in sinew-like tendrils that gave off a faint smell of burning meat. Remembering Scotland, Sal’s stomach gave a lurch, and she swallowed bile.

“That’s the Index?”

Opie nodded. “The box is the interface, the case is the processor, the server is…elsewhere.”

He clearly wanted her to ask where “elsewhere” might be, and so Sal declined to do so. It would only bring back the insufferable smirk. Also, she didn’t really care. Her job was finding the weird stuff. How it worked was Liam and Asanti’s department. Assuming they all lived that long.

“What do I do?”

Opie handed Sal a slip of paper and pointed to a small table in the corner where a stack of paper, quill, and inkwell sat waiting. “Write your question on the paper. Hold the paper in your fist, and put your hand in the box.” He paused, then added, smirk back in place, “Don’t be afraid. Fear is the mind-killer.”