Number 78, Archivist

Dial tone.

‘Operator.’

‘Hello darling, I’d like to make a long-distance call to area zero-six-seven-eight, please.’

‘Certainly. Can you confirm that two-hundred-and-eleven dollars is acceptable?’

‘Of course. Connect me to number zero-four-two-two, six-eight-two-eight.’

‘Connecting.’

A pause.

‘Sat Ath accounting, how may I help?’

‘Hello, I’m just calling to confirm my appraisal appointment later today? Six o’clock?’

‘Ah yes, Mr. Eschaton, I see your appointment… oh, but it says here you’ve scheduled at our New Zealand branch?’

‘That’s correct, yes; I’m over for some business, but fitting some holiday in too. Learn the culture, see the sights, that sort of thing, you know?’

‘Ah, quite. Well, you’re all booked in with Mr. Westwing, so your appraisal will be in good hands.’

‘Thank you. Could you give me directions to the branch?’

‘You’ll find it on floor five, just behind the library.’

‘Thank you very much.’

Click.



A man sat in his office, mostly reading a book. He was also answering several telephones, but that’s not important yet.

Dominating the walls of this room — it was a comfortable size for its inhabitant — were rows upon rows of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, completely filled from end to end with a myriad of thick, multi-named and multi-coloured books. Not a single inch of space could be found spare anywhere; in fact, a small pile of books that had nowhere else to go had begun to form beside the doorway behind the man.

The book laid out on the desk before the man was a newfound favourite for him. The Shadow of Babel; a rather enthralling recount of the aftermath of the Tower of Babel, written by one present at the event. Of course, this book wasn’t the original — it was far too young for that — but instead a translation into a language the man was familiar with. Regardless, the book didn’t belong to the man’s personal collection; he was borrowing it from the library outside, accessed by the doorway in the wall ahead of him.

(While this other library is of immense fame, particularly for its nature, immense size and limitless contents, it is rather irrelevant to the story at hand.)

The man was just reaching the end of a chapter when another man, dressed in a white suit and black tie, came in from the (larger) library.

‘Seventy-Eight,’ the suit-man said, ‘it’s-’

‘A moment please, Six. Do take a seat. Coffee?’

‘Yes please,’ Six said.

The two sat in silence for a minute. Seventy-Eight gave no further recognition of Six’s presence, nor made any motion other than to continue reading; the chapter’s end came and went, and still he kept reading further.

Seventy-Eight entered through the other door (not the one leading to the library) with two coffees in hand. The first he passed to Six; the second he handed to himself.

‘I apologise, Six,’ Seventy-Eight2 said. ‘The loan on this book expires soon, but I’m quite intrigued to see its outcome. Cappuccino, white, two, as you like it.’

‘No need to apologise,’ Six said, ‘I’d do the same if I could.’

With book in one hand and coffee in the other, Seventy-Eight1 stood and moved to a seat in the corner of the room, Seventy-Eight2 taking his place behind the desk.

‘So, an appraisal is it? This wouldn’t happen to be for Nine-Kaf-South again, would it?’

‘No, no, that’s moving ahead nicely. Eight finally got the cultists to yield, I imagine you’ll be getting a report soon.’

‘Aah,’ Seventy-Eight2 said, leaning forward in his seat, ‘then you’ve found a new one, haven’t you?’

Six nodded, to Seventy-Eight’s delight.

‘Ooh, how exciting. One moment please.’

Seventy-Eight3 entered through the door behind, carrying a form, quill and inkwell; Seventy-Eight4 emerged with a sandwich, politely placed it in front of Six, then exited out into the (larger) library. Seventy-Eight1 yawned. Seventy-Eight2 placed the form in front of him, dipped the quill in the inkwell, and prepared himself to write.

‘Continents: Australia, America — north and south — Antarctica — uninhabited — Africa, Asia, Europe,’ Six said.

‘Zealand?’ Seventy-Eight3 said.

‘Submerged, excluding an island chain. British Empire, disbanded late 1900s-’

‘Date system?’ Seventy-Eight1 called between yawns.

‘Julian derivative, Christian epoch. Could you answer from just the one body, please?’

‘My apologies,’ Seventy-Eight2 said, fervently writing the details — and more — down, pausing to dip the quill in ink. ‘My excitement gets the better of me. Global conflicts?’

‘Two official, several unofficial.’

‘Only two? That’s not bad. Technological age?’

‘Plastic.’

‘Interesting. Curtain?’

‘Hard; they call it the Veil.’

Seventy-Eight froze.

‘Do you have a map?’ Seventy-Eight asked in unison.

Six nooded, reaching into his suit and retrieving a neatly-folded paper. Seventy-Eight3 took the paper (beginning as a snatch, then barely remembering their manners) and spread it out on the desk as Seventy-Eight2 scanned its surface. Seventy-Eight5 entered, joining him with a magnifying glass.

‘What?’ Six asked.

‘Indentation in west coast, Gulf of California…’ Seventy-Eight1 mumbled.

‘Absent archipelago, South Pacific Ocean…’ Seventy-Eight5 said.

‘Major history?’ Seventy-Eight2 asked.

‘Global wars 1914 to 1918 and 1939 to 1945; global government coalition, United Nations, 1945; first artificial satellite, 1957; major terrorism attack, 2001…’

‘No observed geographic changes on the American continent?’

‘Nothing significant.’

‘Dominant religion?’

‘Christianity, minority.’

For the few ensuing moments, Six sat and watched as Seventy-Eight2 filled the page with his near-illegible handwriting as Seventy-Eight5 carefully folded the map and took it with him through the door behind.

‘Six,’ Seventy-Eight2 said, signing the paper with a flourish of his wrist, ‘I remind you, as always, that this is an appraisal, not a forecast. My conclusion may be proven inaccurate by further information. Ok?’

Six nodded.

‘From what you’ve told me, I have reason to believe this may be an Alef.’

Six blinked in bewilderment as the weight of the words fell upon him. Metaphorically, of course, though there was certainly a degree of physical impact too.

‘… pardon?’

‘An Alef. I… would even dare to estimate it could be a Zero Alef.’

Six, being the gentleman he was, slowly put down both his coffee and half-eaten sandwich to ensure he didn’t cover Seventy-Eight2 in them any further.

‘Are you… no, of course you are. I thought the last of the Alefs was dealt with already?’

‘Apparently not.’ Seventy-Eight3 picked up the paper and handed it to Six. ‘Expect reasonably flexible morality, moderate to high differentiation, restricted conflict, high to extreme history scrubbing. One major organisation, maybe a hostile splinter, but plenty of rivals; the United Nations should be one. I will likely need extensive insertions to get an accurate forecast. We can discuss more along the way; I’m in the car.’

Six stood, nodded briefly in gratitude to Seventy-Eight2, then hurried to the door. Seventy-Eight1 held out a hand to stop him.

‘Sandwich?’ Seventy-Eight3 said, taking it over to him.

‘Thank you.’

Taking a bite from the sandwich, Six hurried out into the library, shutting the door (in a hurry, but with enough care to do so quietly) behind him. Seventy-Eight2 chuckled to himself; Seventy-Eight3 rubbed his hands together.

‘Ooh, this will be exciting,’ Seventy-Eight said in unison.

Seventy-Eight1 let out a yawn, stood up, and gave both the book and half-finished cup of coffee (mocha; white; zero; as he liked it) to Seventy-Eight3, who swapped places with Seventy-Eight2. Seventy-Eight1 and Seventy-Eight2 stepped through the doorway behind Seventy-Eight3, leaving him to his reading.

On the other side was a long hallway, with architecture and furnishings to match the theme of the first room. A pair of oak doors interrupted the walls every thirty metres; Seventy-Eight1 turned into the second on the left without a word, passed between row upon row of occupied bunk-beds as quietly as he could – so as to not wake himselves – to the first unoccupied one, and lay down to sleep.

Seventy-Eight2, on the other hand, was still wakeful enough to be useful. He took the fourteenth door on the right, stepping into a vast room filled with row upon row of cubicles, the dull roar of thousands upon thousands of quills scratching against paper. As he passed, Seventy-Eight6 wordlessly gave him an empty manila folder with ‘HYP. ZERO ALEF THIRTEEN’ written on the side; Seventy-Eight7 gave him the copy of the handwritten note Seventy-Eight had given Six.

While Seventy-Eight4 discussed the implications of the discovery with Six in the back of a limousine, Seventy-Eight8, Seventy-Eight9, Seventy-Eight10 and Seventy-Eight11 read through several different files correlating historic events to the worlds they made, all the while Seventy-Eight11 transcribed the conversation in his cubicle.

When Six suggested they contact the rest of the Five, Seventy-Eight12, Seventy-Eight13, and Seventy-Eight14 dialled the operator’s number to do so (but not Seventy-Eight15; he didn’t need to because Seventy-Eight16 was already speaking to Number Nine in a café in Morocco, and had been for the past hour).

Seventy-Eight scoured his archives for the documents on how the last twelve Zero-Alefs had been crushed. Seventy-Eight – as well as Seventy-Eight and Seventy-Eight, though they were in different sections – wandered the (larger) library, searching for information on the newly-discovered timeline’s history. Seventy-Eight sent letters. Seventy-Eight made notes. Seventy-Eight refused to pay five dollars for a bagel in Manhattan.

Seventy-Eight chuckled as a long-dead Mesopotamian fell from the abandoned Tower of Babel. He chuckled as the workings of a world devoted to keeping itself secret at all costs unfolded like a blooming flower in his mind.