You do your own time

There we were, a regular murderers’ row of librarians. Little Jo. Eustace. And me. Turning around in the nave of our library to greet the sound of footsteps, pistols leveled in case whoever was coming in didn’t respect sanctuary. Little Jo had a stack of books under one arm. Eustace was holding the screwdriver she’d been using to tune the aneroid barometer. Eustace had painted height lines on the big double doorframe, as only half a joke. When the wanderer paused, outlined within, the eiroscope and I both registered that they were exactly five feet, ten inches. With their Cool Hand Luke hat on. They paused, boots scattering sand on the threshold. A narrow straight-hipped silhouette against the white noon light falling from the white, white sky. The doors had been open to catch a breath of wind, but there wasn’t any. So when the stranger swayed, it wasn’t from the gale. “Sanctuary,” they croaked, and remeasured their length onto the rug between the smoothed trunks that held the loft up. The Stetson went rolling. Little Jo dropped her stack of books and her pistol and dashed forward. I jumped at the noise but holstered my own shooter in case I came to need it. We each grabbed an armpit and dragged the outlaw’s feet inside the threshold, grunting, lickety-split. I slipped their floppy pack off, empty metal water bottles clanking as I set it aside. Eustace helped us roll them, and I laid the soft of my wrist on their head. Hot as Hades, but still tacky. Moist enough that my skin gave a reluctant pop when I lifted my arm. Not past saving. “Let’s get them someplace cool,” I said. “Little Jo, go empty out the ice machine.”

我们当时正聚在一起，简直是一群杀人犯组成的图书管理员阵容。小乔、尤斯塔斯，还有我。我们转身面向图书馆中殿，迎接那阵脚步声，手里举着手枪，以防来者不尊重这片避难所。小乔的一只胳膊下夹着一摞书。尤斯塔斯手里拿着她刚才用来调试空盒气压计的螺丝刀。尤斯塔斯在大双开门框上画了身高刻度，这半开玩笑的举动显得有些荒诞。当那个流浪者停在门口，身影显现时，我和“艾罗镜”（eiroscope）同时测出对方正好五英尺十英寸高。戴着一顶《铁窗喋血》（Cool Hand Luke）风格的帽子。他们停下脚步，靴子在门槛上扬起沙尘。在从惨白天空倾泻而下的正午白光中，那是一个窄腰直臀的剪影。大门敞开着，本想捕捉一丝微风，但空气纹丝不动。所以当陌生人摇晃时，那绝非风吹所致。“避难所，”他们嘶哑地喊道，随后瘫倒在支撑阁楼的平滑树干之间的地毯上。那顶斯泰森毡帽滚落开来。小乔扔下书和手枪冲了上去。我被这动静吓了一跳，但还是把自己的枪收回了枪套，以备不时之需。我们一人架住一个腋下，哼哧着飞快地把这个亡命之徒拖进了门槛内。我滑下他们松垮的背包，空金属水瓶发出叮当声，我把它放在了一边。尤斯塔斯帮我们把他们翻过身，我把手腕内侧贴在他们的额头上。烫得像地狱一样，但皮肤还有弹性。湿润的程度让我在抬起手臂时，皮肤发出了一声不情愿的“啪”声。还没到没救的地步。“带他们去个凉快的地方，”我说，“小乔，去把制冰机清空。”

Eustace and I toted our fugitive down to the cellar, using the rug as a stretcher. It was Diné, vermilion with black and gray, and I was glad they hadn’t thrown up on it. Though that wool had seen worse. Mehitabel, the black cat, watched us from atop the timber lintel of the cellar access. Her tail tip flicked incuriously. She was on pack rat watch. Aloof from human antics. The cellar was narrow, low, and stocked with Eustace’s blue corn lager in bottles, prickly pear jam, potatoes, and the few hard-rind squash still left over. The mud walls were whitewashed, and while it wasn’t quite cool, it was better than the outside. We stripped off the stranger’s clothes, trying to slit along the seams so we could repair them later. City stuff, mass-produced and machine-woven. Little Jo brought the ice and went back upstairs to watch alongside the eiroscope in case pursuit was close behind. The stranger’s eyes flew open, and they screamed when I packed wet cold pillowcases against their pink bits. Eustace had to hold their battling hands away from their genitals until they settled. Those were good signs. Brown eyes blinked between heavy creases. “What the hell—” “I’m Ponyboy,” I told them. “She. PhD. I’m one of the librarians here. This is Eustace. She, MLS.” They struggled to sit upright. “Shhh.” Eustace pushed them down and laid an ice-soaked cloth across their eyes. “You’re heat-sick.” “Sanctuary,” they whispered. “Did I say?” “You did. This is the Bōchord. You made it. Must have been a long walk.” We continued packing ice around them—into their armpits now. They yelped and moaned but gave up fighting. “What’s your name?” “Guh—” Too long a pause to be believable. “Gibson. She.” “Welcome to Judgement, Gibson,” I said. “Sorry about the cold, but it’s got to stay there for a little.” “My pack,” she said, shrilling. “My pack. I need it.” “It’s safe,” Eustace told her. “You just relax and we’ll get it for you.”

尤斯塔斯和我用那块地毯当担架，把我们的逃亡者抬到了地窖。那是块纳瓦霍（Diné）风格的地毯，朱红色配着黑灰色，我庆幸他们没吐在上面。尽管那羊毛毯见过更糟的场面。黑猫梅希塔贝尔（Mehitabel）从地窖入口的木门楣上注视着我们。她的尾尖漫不经心地甩动着。她在守着那些林鼠，对人类的闹剧表现得十分冷漠。地窖又窄又矮，堆满了尤斯塔斯酿的蓝玉米拉格啤酒、仙人掌果酱、土豆，还有剩下的一点硬皮南瓜。泥墙刷了白灰，虽然算不上凉爽，但总比外面好。我们脱掉了陌生人的衣服，尽量沿着接缝剪开，以便日后修补。那是些城市货，量产的机织品。小乔送来了冰块，又回到楼上，和“艾罗镜”一起守着，以防追兵紧随其后。陌生人猛地睁开眼，当我把湿冷的枕套塞进他们的私密部位时，他们尖叫起来。尤斯塔斯不得不按住他们挣扎的手，直到他们平静下来。这些都是好迹象。棕色的眼睛在厚重的眼褶间眨动。“这到底是怎么回事——”“我是小马哥（Ponyboy），”我告诉他们，“女性，博士。我是这里的图书管理员之一。这是尤斯塔斯，女性，图书情报学硕士。”他们挣扎着想坐起来。“嘘。”尤斯塔斯把他们按了回去，并在他们眼睛上盖了一块浸过冰水的布。“你中暑了。”“避难所，”他们低语道，“我说了吗？”“你说了。这里是‘书之圣殿’（Bōchord）。你成功了。一定走了很远的路吧。”我们继续在他们周围堆放冰块——现在塞进了腋下。他们惊叫呻吟，但放弃了反抗。“你叫什么名字？”“格……”停顿太久，显得不太可信。“吉布森。女性。”“欢迎来到‘审判镇’（Judgement），吉布森，”我说，“抱歉让你受冻，但你得在那儿待一会儿。”“我的背包，”她尖叫道，“我的背包。我需要它。”“它很安全，”尤斯塔斯告诉她，“你放松点，我们会帮你拿来的。”

When I came back out the nave was still and heavy in the heat, as if nothing had happened. Little Jo had turned one of the bumpy-backed wooden chairs to face the door and was sitting on it, hands buried in tiered skirt ruffles between her knees. I looked left, two steps up into the sanctuary, but all was calm, the work I’d left—cataloguing—still heaped on the blond wood altar table. Behind it, bright primitive saints in shades of blue-green, scarlet, and yellow looked with shocked eyebrows down from the adobe wall. I moved up behind Little Jo, making sure she could hear me coming. My footsteps echoed from roof joists made from entire peeled and waxed trees. Scrolled headers painted the color of good turquoise held them over the bookcases lining each long wall. The Bōchord. Book Sanctuary. Nuestra Biblioteca del Perpetuo Socorro. Population until this morning: three. “Any sign of trouble?” Little Jo turned her unambiguous jaw away, tendons rising on a long neck, jailhouse ink black-blue on her red-black skin. A sweaty curl escaped down her nape. My fingers itched to tidy it. But it hurt too much to even think about taking a risk that profound. She stretched horny discalced feet before her. Cracking calluses wrapped the balls and heels. “Only what we brung in with us.” She was a double murderer, but I couldn’t tell her I knew how she felt, because I hadn’t heard about her history from her. And her guilt wasn’t mine to absolve. You do your own time. Not anybody else’s. “You check her bag for anything dangerous?” “She’s got an SSD.” Little Jo shrugged. “No threat if we don’t plug it into anything.” “The eiroscope got anything to say?” “I can speak for myself, Ponyboy,” said the eiroscope from the air all around. Actually it used the old wireless speakers tucked in the corners, but the effect was as of a choir of angels. Or an airport announcement you could actually understand. “I’ve been focused on the CubeSat launch.” I startled. “Shit. What time is it?” “Eleven forty-seven. The launch came off perfectly. Our last batch of sats are on their way.” Little Jo breathed deep and unfisted her hands from her skirts. There were so many hours of work in those satellites, and so much of the money we collectively squirreled away as researchers for hire had gone through cutouts and shell companies to pay for the launch. The parts—boards, housings, chips—were salvaged from the same derelict data c

当我回到外面时，中殿在热浪中沉寂而压抑，仿佛什么都没发生过。小乔把一把靠背凹凸不平的木椅转向门口，坐在上面，双手埋在膝盖间的层叠裙褶里。我向左看去，走上两级台阶进入圣殿，一切都很平静，我留下的工作——编目——依然堆在浅色木质祭坛桌上。在它后面，色彩鲜艳的原始圣徒像，带着蓝绿色、猩红色和黄色的色调，正用震惊的眉眼从土坯墙上俯视着。我走到小乔身后，确保她能听到我的脚步声。我的脚步声在由整棵剥皮打蜡的树干制成的屋顶托梁间回荡。涂成优质绿松石色的卷轴式门楣，支撑着沿长墙排列的书架。这里是“书之圣殿”。避难所。永援圣母图书馆。直到今天早上，人口：三。 “有麻烦的迹象吗？”小乔转过她那轮廓分明的下巴，长长的脖颈上青筋凸起，红黑色的皮肤上有着监狱风格的蓝黑色纹身。一缕汗湿的卷发垂在颈后。我的手指痒痒的，想帮她理好。但想到要冒那么大的风险，心里就一阵剧痛。她伸出长满老茧的赤脚。开裂的厚茧包裹着脚掌和脚后跟。“只有我们带进来的那些。”她是个双重杀人犯，但我不能告诉她我理解她的感受，因为我不是从她口中听到的往事。而且她的罪孽不是我能赦免的。你得自己服自己的刑。不是别人的。“你检查过她的包里有没有危险品吗？”“她有个固态硬盘。”小乔耸了耸肩，“只要我们不把它插到任何设备上，就没威胁。”“‘艾罗镜’有什么要说的吗？”“我可以自己说话，小马哥，”艾罗镜的声音从四面八方传来。实际上它用的是藏在角落里的旧无线扬声器，但效果听起来就像天使合唱团。或者是一条你能真正听懂的机场广播。“我一直在关注立方星的发射。”我吃了一惊。“该死。现在几点了？”“十一点四十七分。发射非常完美。我们最后一批卫星已经在路上了。”小乔深吸了一口气，松开了紧攥裙子的手。那些卫星凝聚了无数小时的心血，我们作为受雇研究员共同攒下的钱，大部分都通过空壳公司和中间人支付了发射费用。那些零件——电路板、外壳、芯片——都是从同一个废弃的数据中心回收的……