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I hugged him. At least there was one piece of good news today.
28.
The Discreet Charm
of the Outland
The real charm of the Outland was the richness of detail and the texture. In the BookWorld a pig is generally just pink and goes oink. Because of this, most fictional pigs are simply a uniform flesh color without any of the tough bristles and innumerable scabs and skin abrasions, shit and dirt that makes a pig a pig. And it’s not just pigs. A carrot is simply a rod of orange. Sometimes living in the BookWorld is like living in Legoland.
T he stupidity surplus had been beaten into second place by the news that the militant wing of the no-choice movement had been causing trouble in Manchester. Windows were broken, cars overturned, and there were at least a dozen arrests. With a nation driven by the concept of choice, a growing faction of citizens who thought life was simpler when options were limited had banded themselves together into what they called the “no-choicers” and demanded the choice to have no choice. Prime Minister Redmond van de Poste condemned the violence but explained that the choice of choice over “just better services” was something the previous administration had chosen and was thus itself a no-choice principle for the current administration. Alfredo Traficcone, MP, leader of the opposition Prevailing Wind Party, was quick to jump on the bandwagon, proclaiming that it was the inalienable right of all citizens to have the choice over whether they have choice or not. The no-choicers had suggested that there should be a referendum to settle the matter once and for all, something that the opposition “choice” faction had no option but to agree with. More sinisterly, the militant wing known only as NOPTION was keen to go further and demanded that there should be only one option on the ballot paper—the no-choice one.
It was eight-thirty, and the girls had already gone to school.
“Jenny didn’t eat her toast again,” I said, setting the plate with its uneaten contents next to the sink. “That girl hardly eats a thing.”
“Leave it outside Friday’s door,” said Landen. “He can have it for lunch when he gets up—if he gets up.”
The front doorbell had rung, and I checked on who it might be through the front-room windows before opening the door to reveal…Friday. The other Friday.
“Hello!” I said cheerily. “Would you like to come in?”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” he replied. “I just wondered whether you’d thought about my offer of replacement yesterday. Hi, Dad!”
Landen had joined us at the door. “Hello, son.”
“This,” I said by way of introduction, “is the Friday I was telling you about—the one we were supposed to have.”
“At your service,” said Friday politely. “And your answer? I’m sorry to push you on this, but time travel has still to be invented and we have to look very carefully at our options.”
Landen and I glanced at each other. We’d already made up our mind.
“The answer’s no, Sweetpea. We’re going to keep our Friday.”
Friday’s face fell, and he glared at us. “This is so typical of you. Here I am a respected member of the ChronoGuard, and you’re still treating me like I’m a kid!”
“Friday!”
“How stupid can you both be? The history of the world hangs in the balance, and all you can do is worry about your lazy shitbag of a son.”
“You talk like that to your mother and you can go to your room.”
“He is in his room, Land.”
“Right. Well…you know what I mean.”
Friday snorted, glared at us both, told me that I really shouldn’t call him “Sweetpea” anymore and walked off, slamming the garden gate behind him.
I turned to Landen. “Are we doing the right thing?”
“Friday told us to dissuade him from joining the ChronoGuard, and that’s what we’re doing.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to remember.
“He did? When?”
“At our wedding bash? When Lavoisier turned up looking for your father?”
“Shit,” I said, suddenly remembering. Lavoisier was my least favorite ChronoG
