Quartet for the End of Time #4
Jules hadn’t planned much for the queen, but Larry was right.
She was boring and sad. A bad character, one he had never put much time into developing.
Of course, she was natural born so Jules didn’t have her memories, and he never bothered to imagine them.
Her life was dull, holed up in the castle.
Easy enough to just write her out. Start over.
“I’ll figure out a way. What if she becomes corrupted by her advisors?”
No response. The video call was over. Had been over. What day was it? No matter, back to work.
People in streets. People running. In fear? No, in play. An arrow through the heart of a comrade. Horses stampeding. Two people using one another for warmth on a cold night. A father telling his son about magic, what it was like. The son pretending to be a wizard.
But it wasn’t good enough. Jules could see everything and imagine nothing.
He needed help. Not another writer’s assistant, not a producer.
They were hacks, what did they know? He needed someone who really understood the Malicarn, inside and out.
Someone who could create it from whole cloth, if need be.
Only one person was like that. Jean-Danton Souard.
He was dead, but that didn’t matter. Jules could re-create him.
There was enough material in the world. Put it all into the machine.
Biographies, letters, documentaries, old videos of talks he gave or appearances on Dick Cavett.
Add them in. A half-finished memoir, still in his handwriting, never finished, never typed, found in the archives.
Personal correspondence, memories of his family, friends, editors, lawyers, fans.
Add them too. What did he know? Here’s an interview where he talked about his childhood love of English mystery novels.
So those go in. The first Malicarn film producer, reminiscing about the one time they met.
Movies Souard watched, photos of Paris before the war.
A newsreel about a German POW camp. The New York publishing scene in the 1960s.
A photo of his home office, all his books and records visible on a shelf.
Inventory those, put them all in, too. Tolkien and Dunsany and Verne and Shelley and Milton.
Edith Piaf and Cole Porter and Duke Ellington and Olivier Messiaen.
Lots of Messiaen. The same piece, different recordings, bought and rebought, on his shelf half a dozen times at least. Why?
Put it all in. What was his home in Boston like?
What was his wife like? His son. It all goes in.
You add enough detail, you might have something approaching a real person. If Jules could put Souard into his own head, he could be Souard. He could write a real masterpiece.
“I got a visit from the NSA, Jules. The fucking NSA. If they come back and take our hard drives, they’re going to see the same thing I saw.
” It was Larry again. How tedious. Larry from Los Angeles.
Jules was compiling the Souard profile, finalizing it for implementation.
He didn’t have time for this. “I have hours of footage that you sent of the plane crashing, the pilot getting kidnapped. The Chinese are already pretty mad, imagine if they find out we’ve been purposely misleading them? ”
“I do not know,” Jules said, trying to sound genuine and empathetic.
“I have not seen him on my screens.” It wasn’t a lie.
He hadn’t seen the pilot in weeks. He had seen Kreek talking to his reenactor friends, multiple trips to a farm, visiting a small granary tower that didn’t have any cameras.
He knew all about the Malicarn underground and Kreek’s patronage of their cause.
He knew about the young Portuguese anarchists who were slipping into the realm and causing mischief.
He knew Kreek was connecting all of these elements, and Jules was letting him.
It seemed like a good idea. Something interesting might come of it, storywise.
“I need you to be sharp,” Larry said. “You’re our eyes and ears over there.”
No, thought Jules. I am your conductor.
Render the profile. Let it compile. A little more time, that is all.
Kreek makes his move. Protests across the realm.
Chaos and bloodshed. Perhaps Kreek timed it wrong, thought Jules.
But no time to manage that now. Soon Souard will know what to do, how to shape this arc.
How to mold these characters. Let the protestors run wild. No one can stop them. Compile. Wait.
“It was a pretty good trip. Nice change of scenery at least.” The nervous voice was back. Glenn. No, Gregorian.
“What, what?” Jules asked. He could see Gregorian now, standing at the edge of the table, looking at the wall of screens.
“The Miami trip,” Gregorian said. “Remember?”
“No.” Jules remembered nothing. “How’s Miami?”
“Different from when my grandmother used to live there.”
“Nice to visit with her, eh?”
“What? No, Jules, she’s been dead for years. Her condo’s probably underwater by now, anyway.”
“Why cry about it, then? Ha!” Jules tried to laugh. Couldn’t do it.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine.” He reached for the neuroscanner. The memories were in there. Souard. He had to get to Souard.
“Well, anyway, you don’t look well, Jules. When was the last time you were outside? In the fields, stretching your legs. Under the warm autumn sun.”
Wait, no. That is a memory. Old conversation with someone else. Move it, edit it out. Back to Gregorian.
Jules tapped his fingers on the neuroscanner. He smiled and looked at Gregorian. Gregorian was talking. About what? Was he walking toward Jules?
“This storyline can’t keep going. Jules, listen to me, there’s a—”
“Wait! Let me tell you about the guns! Listen to this!” Jules looked at Glenn, who stared back down at him with concern.
Somewhere he remembered running lines for a show in a dorm late at night and decided that this strange man was in fact his friend.
“I just got a message last week, you know I really should write them back, but listen! New props!”
He kept rambling. What did he say? Gregorian was speaking.
No, Jules was speaking. And then, then—they rope in the queen!
Make her betray someone. Maybe you? Haha.
Yes, then! Then you can expose her. Maybe, not sure.
Lots of details. But then we find a new king.
Someone tall, blond. Not crippled, obviously.
And we kill the old queen. Really sad. Lots of political intrigue.
Was this how the conversation actually went? Jules didn’t remember. He didn’t write it.
“They’re coming for the pilot,” Gregorian said. Yes, he actually said that. “Real soldiers. People with real weapons. They’ll be here tonight. You can’t keep doing this.”
A real army. Modern guns. Wasn’t planned that way, Jules didn’t expect it. But continuity is the hobgoblin of little minds. I am beyond such trivialities. When the story is real and good and strong, there are no flaws.
Gregorian stared at Jules and rubbed his face. Then he stood up and started pacing. Maybe this man was not his friend.
“What did you do in Miami?” Jules asked.
“We didn’t cast her, she was born.”
Gregorian stopped pacing and turned toward Jules. He was close to him now, close enough that Jules could smell him. He smelled like cow shit. Was that what the Malicarn smelled like? He needed more smell memories. Powerful thing, smell.
Rambling again, about spies and plots and story arcs. Gregorian was mad. “—and they’re going to come in here and rescue—” Why?
Gregorian gone. Got rid of him. A nuisance. Doesn’t matter. Files are rendered, compiled, downloaded. Ready to go. Someone else now, more annoying.
Lilly Kaminsky. He remembered her. Always wanted to fuck her. She was old now. Ugly. Didn’t want to fuck her anymore. Forget it, delete it.
“It’s nice to see you again,” he said. “After all this time.” The queen was with her. He’s losing the plot now. Things are getting out of control. Got to implement Souard. Get Souard into my mind.
“Where is it?” Lilly asked.
“Where is what?”
“Don’t be foolish, Jules. I am not here to play.”
“Of course you are here to play. Whatever else is there to do?”
“I’m going to take that now.” She pointed at the neuroscanner. She wanted Souard for herself, of course. But Souard belonged to Jules. Jules was Souard, was going to be. Any moment now.
“Yes, yes, it’s ready,” Jules said. “I have him all loaded now. Watch, watch, I’m going to see it now. I’m going to see!”
What did it feel like to be hit in the head?
Jules had many memories of it, but not his own.
Always a loud pop, a violent throw. Lilly must have punched him, or no, she hit him with something.
Would be good to have a real memory like that, could recalibrate the others then.
Jules missed a moment, something jumped, and Lilly and the queen were gone.
Lilly should have punched him with his fist, not hit him with a chair.
Jules would add it somewhere. Just layer it in over a boring conversation.
Make it better. First he must program in the disorientation, then the pain.
It’s a good note, have to include it. Have to upload it to the neuroscanner.
Jules reached for the table. Brian Doyle is giving a speech, a good one. Reached for the neuroscanner. Stood up and searched. The neuroscanner was gone.
But no. Souard was in there. Jules needed him. He needed to see him, to be him. To live him again. Make him smarter, make him better. Make the stories work. Where was the neuroscanner? Where was Lilly?
He scanned the camera feeds, but it was all chaos. Revolution. War.
He remembered the Necromancer’s backstory. His greatest betrayal, by a fellow pupil at the Morlon Kastaun. Who was it? Gregorian, of course. He had known Gregorian a long time. Gregorian who had loved Lilly. This was his doing. Gregorian had betrayed him again.