Beyond the Repository
Impossible Library - Week 007.46
Content Warnings:
This story contains implied violence including murder, kidnapping and rape. There are themes of parental death, grief, and revenge. The story includes references to past machine wars, mutant creatures, and post-apocalyptic dangers. There is discussion of potential violence against a kidnapped young woman and descriptions of emotional trauma.
Themes: Post-Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Coming-of-Age, Quest/Adventure, Vengeance
Poe Fitzgerald stood in the courtyard of the Hamilton Information Repository, beads of sweat forming across his brow and upper lip. Arid mountains loomed to the east, casting long shadows beneath a clear blue sky. Despite the early hour, the temperature had risen well beyond the cooler temperatures Poe was used to.
His fingers trembled as he fastened the last of his belongings onto his horse. The animal, a large chestnut named Monarch, shifted restlessly and Poe calmed him with a hand on his snout and some gentle words. Monarch was aged, showing some gray on his muzzle and ears, dulling fur, but he was still powerful and healthy. If not for his age, the Repository never could have parted with him.
With a final tug of a leather strap, Poe felt confident everything was secured. His pack bulged with donations from the Librarians: Dried foods, a few extra sets of clothing, a water purifying canteen, and his Electric Lantern, now dangling from the bottom of his pack.
The last item was a parting gift from the Repository's Artificers: a technology of the old world and difficult to replace. The Artificers would labor for months to make a single one, all the parts hand forged from their dwindling stockpile of stainless steel or aluminum bars. The means of mass manufacturing such metals had long since vanished from this world, but the knowledge of their creation remained. Safely stored within the Repository, along with a million other secrets the world forgot. Hidden away within the darkened halls of the subterranean complex.
The librarians had also provided Poe with a satchel containing three reams of high-quality, manufactured, paper. "Paper is scarce out there beyond the major settlements," they had told him, their voices hushed with concern. "It'll serve you well as a bartering resource." Poe had accepted the gift, along with three blank journals in which he could record his travels and discoveries.
As he prepared to leave, Poe couldn't help but look to the oversized vehicle door separating him from the outside world. Beyond those walls lay a dangerous and violent land. A stark contrast to the safety and tranquility of the repository. Tales of mutant creatures, remnants of the machine wars, and of course, men like the ones who killed his parents.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to unclench his fists from Monarch’s reins. He put on a tight smile before turning to face the crowd of librarians. They had come to see him off, gathered in the passageway behind him, their faces etched with worry and sorrow. Librarian Enis was holding onto Librarian Campbell, both were crying. Senior Librarian Gibson gave his customary stoic nod, his dry, weathered hands folded inside his robes. The passageway was packed with familiar faces—Archivist Tzu, Artificer Card, even young Apprentice Kirkland—some silently pleading for him to stay, others offering silent support for his decision. These were the only people he had ever known—his mentors and friends. And while his parents were now gone, the Librarians were his family.
Elder Librarian Effinger Hemingway emerged from the passageway, moving through the crowd to stand before them. His pale, etched face settled on Poe, his eyes gray and rheumy. Seeing him brought back memories of that day, and Poe's gaze drifted from their sorrowful faces, to the dark stains that marred the concrete courtyard. A pair of rusty shadows rested there. Their edges ragged and flaked, the forms faded by attempts to clean the blood. But the scorching heat of the desert beyond these walls baked the color into the stone before the Opertatus members could act. He clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw going tight, and turned his head back to the gathered crowd.
With the sudden appearance of the Elder, Poe couldn't help but recall the somber voice of the devastating news. "Acolyte Fitzgerald Poe. I'm afraid I have terrible knowledge to deliver." Hemingway’s big bushy brows were pinched, and his face was etched with grief. "Thieves breached the Repository's walls and attacked your parents while in the courtyard. They have passed on I'm afraid..." His voice trailed off as the memory faded, the unspoken words left hanging in the dry dusty air.
The weight of their deaths had crushed him, driving the air from his lungs and sending him to his knees. The pain had been overwhelming, a searing agony that had left him feeling hollow and lost for days. But then something changed.
Laying in bed, lonely and feeling sorry for himself, his gaze fell on the stack of books on his nightstand. One of his favorite stories was staring back at him, The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexander Dumas. His eyes traced the leather spine over and over. Slowly, the grief began to fade, giving way to a new emotion. A burning need for action, a desperate desire to do something. Anything other than drifting within the dark halls of the Repository like a wraith.
He cherished the books, their knowledge and stories. But now, every book, every raspy turn of a page, even the dry, dusty scent, reminded him of what he lost. What once seemed like a vast trove of adventure and knowledge, now felt like a tomb. The tightness in his chest persisted, despite the assurances of fellow Librarians, did not ease with time. It grew worse. A constant pressure, building until he thought he would split wide open.
Yesterday, the pressure had become unbearable. An overwhelming need seized him. Oblivious to his destination, Poe ran. Through the dark and endless stacks of towering shelves. Past the Artificer workshops. Up the stairs, across the checkered floor of the cafeteria, out to the access hall. His feet pounded, driving him up, up, up—to the surface. Bursting into the courtyard where his parents had died, he collapsed. Staring at the ground on hands and knees, the cracked and sun-scorched concrete stinging his palms, he heaved and vomited. Then heaved again, and again, until empty.
He remained there, gasping for breath and staring into the puddle of his stomach. He started to become aware of the increasing warmth from the sun across his back, seeping through the thick cloth of his robes. Feeling the brush of wind in his hair, his breath evened, then slowed. Pushing back to rest on his knees Poe became aware of a change. The weight in his chest had eased some. Through the acrid stink of bile and raw sinuses, he breathed the first breath of fresh air that he could ever remember.
The thieves had stolen more than the lives of his mother and father that day. They had taken his sense of home, ripping through the illusion of safety. Exposed the Repository to the wild chaos beyond their sanctuary. In their escape, they stole one of the Repository's most valuable assets, a Rand 3200 printing machine. An irreplaceable relic of the old world. Capable of transforming almost any raw materials—wood, bark, leaves, charcoal, even flowers and insects for color—into a fully printed book. Its digital memory held nearly 300,000 works, ready to print at the press of a few buttons.
During the attack, there was one more victim. Acolyte Walker Shelly, had just begun her training in the Rand Printer’s care and operation, learning from his parents who had wheeled the machine out into the light for easier cleaning, and for a clearer view of the internal workings. Missing and assumed taken, Shelly now faced a disturbing fate in the hands of the raiders.
Poe's mind raced with grim scenarios. The books he spent his life preserving showed the terrible limits of human cruelty and depravity. The thoughts of Shelly suffering—the vivid images his mind conjured—made his heart pound and blood boil. So much unexpected rage and anger flared up, driving him from the dark safety of the Repository walls and out into the dangerous and violent light of the world that remains.
Less than a day later, he stood back in the courtyard, his few belongings tucked away, his anticipation making him want to puke. Not ten steps from where he threw up yesterday, he noted with wry amusement. Before his mind could race down that path once more, his thoughts were interrupted by footsteps behind him.
Elder Librarian Hemingway approached Poe, his vibrant yellow robes swishing softly with each step. He placed a pale, paper-leached hand on the young man's shoulder, the skin dry and cracked, the grip surprisingly firm. "Fitzgerald, my boy,” he rasped, “I feel your pain, but going out there won't bring them back."
Poe's jaw clenched as he fought back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. He knew the Elder Librarian meant well, but the words stung nonetheless. "I can't just go back to work…" Poe said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Everything here reminds me of them. All I can think about is, What if they come back? Or what if they find some other family out there to destroy? And then there's Acolyte Shelly. What about her family?."
It was an excuse and Poe knew it. The truth was, he barely knew Librarian Shelly. There were only seven hundred inhabitants of the Repository, but they lived mostly solitary lives. Shuffling in the darkness, drifting from one book shelf to the next, with only their electric lamps to guide the way. Caring for the books. Maintaining the dry environment. Making sure the books and the knowledge they safeguarded survived for when the world was ready for them once more.
Hemingway sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of Poe's grief. "I understand your pain, young Fitzgerald. Truly, I do. But the Repository needs you. We need your knowledge, your skills. The girl... her fate is regrettable, but she's not your responsibility."
Poe closed his eyes. The temptation to stay, to retreat into the safety and comfort of the only home he'd ever known, pulling at his heart. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he couldn't do it. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't at least try to save the girl. Maybe recover the Rand printing machine. He opened his eyes, his gaze locking with Hemingway's. "I'm sorry, Elder, But I have to do this. I have to try. I could never live with myself if I just stayed here and hid."
Elder Hemingway studied Poe's face for a long moment, searching for any sign of hesitation or doubt. Finding none, he nodded slowly, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're nothing like your father, you know. And while I loved your father, I mean that as a deep compliment. We strive to encourage free thinking. We are after all Librarians and educators. Even if, at least for now, we are only educating ourselves. But we need people to think for themselves. I don't know if your father would have had the will to walk out that gate. And while I do not have high hopes of ever seeing you again, I am grateful to have known you. Grateful for your free thinking. Your tenacity to see a difficult task done. Walk in the light of knowledge my dear boy. We will all be grateful to see you back here one day."
Poe felt a lump form in his throat at the mention of his father. He swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that once again threatened to fall. "Thank you, Elder. For everything you have taught me." He raised his voice so the gathered Librarians could hear him, “Thank you all. For your teaching. For the great service you continue to do for the world. I will do everything I can to return.”
Hemingway patted Poe's shoulder one last time before stepping back. "Go then, my boy. The machine is of little consequence. But find the girl. Find her, and save her if you can."
Poe turned back to Monarch to find the weathered and scarred face of Hunter Orwell King staring back at him. The enigmatic Peacekeeper had moved up behind him, silent as the grave. For a moment Poe feared he was there to take him back inside and prevent him from leaving. But seeing the satchel held in both hands he quickly dismissed the notion.
King Orwell's ash-gray robes were tattered and stained, a far cry from the pristine garments worn by the other librarians. Beneath the robes, Poe caught a glimpse of plated chest armor, the metal scratched and dented from countless battles. A machine gun hung from King Orwell's back, a pistol at his hip, and a large curved blade strapped to his thigh. With his wire-framed glasses and the specks of gray in his dark hair, King Orwell looked more like a warrior wandered in from the desert than any kind of Librarian.
“Librarian Fitzgerald Poe.” The scarred man said, his voice coming out like crushed gravel.
Poe had never been sure how to address the man standing before him. Hunter King had always been a terrifying figure growing up and they all gave him a wide passage when he swept through the halls smelling of sand and gunpowder. More than once leaving a trail of dripping blood in his wake on his way to the Medicus. As kids they made up stories about him, as if he were the boogie-man or some legendary knight. In all his years, he had never spoken to the man, much less suspected King even knew Poe's name.
“Hunter, er… Librarian King?” Poe ventured, unsure of the man’s official title.
Ignoring the implied question the Hunter said, “I have a final gift for your hunt. It’s—”
“Hunt?” Poe blurted, and would have said more but the normally silent Hunter interrupted him.
“You heard me!” Hunter King snapped, his quiet calm shifting to deadly serious in an instant. “Now be silent and listen. Make no mistake boy. You are on a hunt! Unless you plan to just go sightseeing, you better learn to hunt, track, trap…” He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing and growing harder than Poe thought possible, “And you better learn to kill. Otherwise, you're the one who will be hunted.”
With those final words Hunter King held out his satchel. Taking it Poe opened it to find a gun and a heavy, long curved blade. Tarnished and well worn, the pistol was an automatic and held fifteen rounds in the magazine. His father was an Artificer and his Mother a historian. Through their combined knowledge he had become well acquainted with the Repository weapons and their care.
Although they never had enough shells to test them in the Repository, Poe now found 23 shells in the package, and assumed by the weight there was a fully loaded magazine. Although the bullets were scuffed with small flecks of rusty tarnished spots, he had no doubt King had examined the round to ensure they would fire.
“As I understand it,” Hunter King began as Poe looked over the weapon. “You are familiar with the use and care of a pistol. This one is not the best I have ever seen, but it will shoot true. And if you maintain it, it should treat you well until you find something better. Ammo is scarce out there, so use your shells carefully and save your brass if you can. Larger settlements may have offers to trade in shells for full loads. Three to one, through.”
"Thank you Hunter King.” Poe said, tightening his grip on satchel weapons and ammo, before turning back to him, “And Acolyte Shell, I’ll do everything I can to bring her home."
King’s scared face almost twisted into something like a smile, “I know you will Poe. And if you do manage to survive…and make it back here,” He made a gesture with his head to indicate the crowd of Librarians at the tunnel. “You'll never see this place the same.”
Poe considered those words for a long moment before nodding.
“Right then. You got grim business to be about. Best get to it.” Hunter King gave him a curt nod, then walked away.
Poe gave one last look at the Librarians, his eyes lingering on Elder Hemingway, before he too gave the Elder a quick nod, then mounted Monarch.
Elder Librarian Hemingway watched the young man with a heavy heart. Saw the final exchange with Hunter Orwell King, but kept his expression stony. When the boy gave him his final nod of farewell, Hemingway stepped back and bowed his head, then raised one hand and whispered the Repository’s mantra "Walk in the light of knowledge.”
Hemingway smiled sadly, watching Poe climb onto the back of Monarch. He stared on, silence as the young man gave one final look back at the section of stained concrete. He saw the tears that had been threatening to form finally break free and streak the boy’s cheeks. The elder opened his mouth to make one final plea, but Poe gave a gentle kick to the horse, and it galloped out the gates. Beyond the walls of the Repository. Beyond his ability to help.
Out, into the wastes.
The last sight of the young Librarian was a glint of sunlight, caught by the polished metal of an electric lantern.
Love the idea of that book printer. Feels like Mr. Fusion from Back to the Future, just throwing in random stuff. The bugs for color is a great detail!