FIC: Alexandria
Dec. 2nd, 2006 10:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalNotes: Terinu, PG, sequel to "The Lucky Country" and "Returned to Life."
“Minister Swinson! I am not going to allow you and this... person to destroy my books!” Karribi Thompson, head of the National Archives, was an Aborigine woman a full twenty centimeters shorter than the man she faced, Bobby Swinson, the recently appointed Minister of Extraterrestrial Affairs. Which also made her about ten centimeters taller than the “person” beside Bobby, Samaneus Sharpears, the extraterrestrial that Swinson had to deal with most days.
Sharpears looked more like a fox than the dingo Swinson had pegged him for when he'd first caught sight of the alien. Neither comparison was one he used in front of him, given his importance in the hierarchy of Earth's recent conquerers. But at least Swinson could take some satisfaction in that the furry creature had to be sweating as badly as Bobby was, as they stood in the middle of the National Archives' main warehouse. Under normal circumstances it was cool and air conditioned, maintaining an even temperature and humidity for its priceless supply of book and other artifacts, some dating back to the colonial period. But with the recent power rationing set in place, as Australia's government petitioned the Varn to resupply them with Helium 3 for the country's fusion reactor network, such luxuries had been shut off.
“Mrs. Thompson, would you please try to be reasonable about this?” Swinson asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Reasonable? Reasonable?!” she hooted, waving at Sharpears. “I don't care who this creature works for, I am not going to let him haul away literally millions of books just so he can burn them!”
God save me from idealists, Swinson thought. Just his luck he'd run into one of those fanatic breed of librarians, the sort that probably had a blazer badge that read You'll take my library card away when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.
Sharpears raised his brows at her statement. “As I was attempting to explain to you earlier, madam, we have absolutely no intention of actually destroying information. The idea is to set these books and other records aside until they can go through a keyword examination. That way our benevolent masters will be assured that there is nothing within them that would encourage, erm, unhelpful lines of thought in the local population. As they are cleared they will be handed back to you and permitted to be circulated legally among your citizenry.”
Thompson didn't look inclined to back down. “How nice of you! And the ones that do encourage “unhelpful” lines of thought? I suppose you're going to just set those aside?”
“Actually yes. As your race matures, and comes to truly understand its place in the Varn Dominion, they will be returned to you.”
Thompson opened her mouth to let out another protest, but Swinson intervened. “It's for the best, Mrs. Thompson. And may I remind you of the recent emergency provisions that were voted in by parliament and signed by the Prime Minister, concerning cooperation with the Dominion, and the consequences of interfering with the Dominion's directives?”
“Nothing will be lost, Mrs Thompson,” Sharpears said. “My word of honor.”
“Your word,” she repeated, still looking doubtful.
Sharpears nodded respectfully. “Yes. Every book, every painting, every work of art has value. Even the most base entertainment,” he pulled a DVD box off a metal shelf at random, “at least has the ability to please someone. Like this for instance. What's this about? Colourful cover at least.”
Swinson saw what the movie was, and tried not to wince.
“That? Oh, that,” Thompson suddenly smiled, a sharp, evil little grin. “That's just a work of speculative fiction.”
“You're familiar with it?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, ignoring Swinson's pleading look. “It's about how a young boy leaves home and travels to the stars, discovering gifts he didn't know he had, and using them to help his friends fight an empire that occupies a thousand worlds.”
“Ah, complete nonsense then,” Sharpears said cheerfully. “Still, this is the sort of thing, when taken out of its proper context, that might arouse completely unhelpful feelings in certain misguided segments of the population.” He slipped it into a pouch hanging from his belt and gave the two humans a jaunty wave. “I'll just give it a look over, to start the evaluation process. Good day to you both.”
Thompson blinked as the Vulpine strode off. “What just happened, Minister?”
“I haven't the faintest idea, Mrs. Thompson,” Swinson told her truthfully. “But if I were you, I'd just let it keep happening, eh?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Five hundred years later.
She snuggled down in the seat of the theater, munching on a bag of peanuts while she watched the play unfold on the stage before her in one of the most prestigious live theaters on Vulpine Prime.
It was nice to find out, Rachael reflected, that someone still remembered Star Wars.
“Minister Swinson! I am not going to allow you and this... person to destroy my books!” Karribi Thompson, head of the National Archives, was an Aborigine woman a full twenty centimeters shorter than the man she faced, Bobby Swinson, the recently appointed Minister of Extraterrestrial Affairs. Which also made her about ten centimeters taller than the “person” beside Bobby, Samaneus Sharpears, the extraterrestrial that Swinson had to deal with most days.
Sharpears looked more like a fox than the dingo Swinson had pegged him for when he'd first caught sight of the alien. Neither comparison was one he used in front of him, given his importance in the hierarchy of Earth's recent conquerers. But at least Swinson could take some satisfaction in that the furry creature had to be sweating as badly as Bobby was, as they stood in the middle of the National Archives' main warehouse. Under normal circumstances it was cool and air conditioned, maintaining an even temperature and humidity for its priceless supply of book and other artifacts, some dating back to the colonial period. But with the recent power rationing set in place, as Australia's government petitioned the Varn to resupply them with Helium 3 for the country's fusion reactor network, such luxuries had been shut off.
“Mrs. Thompson, would you please try to be reasonable about this?” Swinson asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Reasonable? Reasonable?!” she hooted, waving at Sharpears. “I don't care who this creature works for, I am not going to let him haul away literally millions of books just so he can burn them!”
God save me from idealists, Swinson thought. Just his luck he'd run into one of those fanatic breed of librarians, the sort that probably had a blazer badge that read You'll take my library card away when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.
Sharpears raised his brows at her statement. “As I was attempting to explain to you earlier, madam, we have absolutely no intention of actually destroying information. The idea is to set these books and other records aside until they can go through a keyword examination. That way our benevolent masters will be assured that there is nothing within them that would encourage, erm, unhelpful lines of thought in the local population. As they are cleared they will be handed back to you and permitted to be circulated legally among your citizenry.”
Thompson didn't look inclined to back down. “How nice of you! And the ones that do encourage “unhelpful” lines of thought? I suppose you're going to just set those aside?”
“Actually yes. As your race matures, and comes to truly understand its place in the Varn Dominion, they will be returned to you.”
Thompson opened her mouth to let out another protest, but Swinson intervened. “It's for the best, Mrs. Thompson. And may I remind you of the recent emergency provisions that were voted in by parliament and signed by the Prime Minister, concerning cooperation with the Dominion, and the consequences of interfering with the Dominion's directives?”
“Nothing will be lost, Mrs Thompson,” Sharpears said. “My word of honor.”
“Your word,” she repeated, still looking doubtful.
Sharpears nodded respectfully. “Yes. Every book, every painting, every work of art has value. Even the most base entertainment,” he pulled a DVD box off a metal shelf at random, “at least has the ability to please someone. Like this for instance. What's this about? Colourful cover at least.”
Swinson saw what the movie was, and tried not to wince.
“That? Oh, that,” Thompson suddenly smiled, a sharp, evil little grin. “That's just a work of speculative fiction.”
“You're familiar with it?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, ignoring Swinson's pleading look. “It's about how a young boy leaves home and travels to the stars, discovering gifts he didn't know he had, and using them to help his friends fight an empire that occupies a thousand worlds.”
“Ah, complete nonsense then,” Sharpears said cheerfully. “Still, this is the sort of thing, when taken out of its proper context, that might arouse completely unhelpful feelings in certain misguided segments of the population.” He slipped it into a pouch hanging from his belt and gave the two humans a jaunty wave. “I'll just give it a look over, to start the evaluation process. Good day to you both.”
Thompson blinked as the Vulpine strode off. “What just happened, Minister?”
“I haven't the faintest idea, Mrs. Thompson,” Swinson told her truthfully. “But if I were you, I'd just let it keep happening, eh?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Five hundred years later.
She snuggled down in the seat of the theater, munching on a bag of peanuts while she watched the play unfold on the stage before her in one of the most prestigious live theaters on Vulpine Prime.
It was nice to find out, Rachael reflected, that someone still remembered Star Wars.
