One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [87]
It felt like covering for a character in a book without being told what the book was about, who was in it or even what your character had been doing up until then. I’d done it twice in the BookWorld, so I had some experience in these matters. But at least I was beginning to understand what was going on.
“The plans are in a safe place,” I replied, assuming they were, “but if you think you can simply ask questions and I’ll simply answer them, you’ve got another think coming.”
“Oh, this is just the preamble,” said Flanker in an unpleasant tone, “so I can tell the board that I did ask you and you refused. We can cut the information out of you, but it’s a very messy business. Now, where are the plans?”
“And I said somewhere safe.”
Flanker was quiet for a moment. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you have caused Goliath?”
“I’m hoping it’s a lot.”
“You’d be right. Just getting you off the streets is a small triumph, but we have other plans. The Goliath Advanced Weapons Division has been wanting to get hold of you for a long time.”
“I won’t help you make any weapons, Flanker.”
“It’s simpler than that, Thursday. Since you have been so devastatingly destructive to us over the years, we have decided that you would make the ideal weapon. We can create excellent visual copies, but none of them have the unique skills that make you the dangerous person you are. Now that we have you and that precious brain of yours, with a couple of modifications in your moral compass our Thursday Mark V will be the ultimate killing machine. Of course, the host rarely survives the procedure, but we can replace you with another copy. I’m sure Landen won’t notice. In fact, with a couple of modifications we can improve you for him—make the new Thursday more . . . compliant to his wishes.”
“What makes you think that I’m not already? If he were only a quarter of the man he is, he’d still be ten times more of a man than you.”
Flanker ignored me, and the bullet train moved off. We were soon zipping through the countryside, humming along thirty feet above the induction rail. When another bullet train passed in the opposite direction, we gently moved to the left of the induction wave, and the opposite train shot past us in a blur.
I stared at Flanker, who was sitting there grinning at me. If he could have started to laugh maniacally, he would have. But the thing was, this didn’t sound like the Flanker in my books. Pain in the ass he might have been, but Goliath lackey he most certainly wasn’t. His life was SpecOps, and although a strict rules man, that’s all he was. I had an idea.
“When did they replace you, Flanker?”
“What do you mean?”
“This isn’t you. Shit you might have been, evil-toady Goliathlackey shit you most definitely weren’t. Ever had a look at your own eyelid? Just to make sure?”
He laughed uneasily but then excused himself to the bathroom. When he came back, he looked somewhat pale and sat down in silence.
“When was I replaced?” he asked one of the heavies.
I’d not really given them much thought, but now that I looked at them, they also seemed to be vaguely familiar, as though they’d been described to me long ago. There were plenty of Goliath personalities in my book, but the litigious multinational had always insisted that no actual names could be used, nor realistic descriptions—they went further by denying that anything in the Thursday Next books ever took place, something that Thursday told me was anything but the truth.
“This morning,” said one of the heavies in a matter-of-fact tone, “and you’re due for retirement this evening. You’re what we call a day player.”
Flanker put on a good face of being unperturbed and picked up the phone that connected him to the central command for the bullet train. Before he could speak, the other heavy leaned forward and placed his finger on the “disconnect” button.
“Even if I am only a day player,” said Flanker, “I still outrank you.”
“You’re not the ranking officer here,” said the other heavy. “You’re just the friendly face of Goliath