Chapters (48)
- First Among Sequels
- Thursday Next Book 5
- Jasper Fforde
- ALSO BY JASPER FFORDE
- FirstAmongSequels
- Jasper Fforde
- Contents
- Author’s Note
- FirstAmongSequels
- Breakfast
- Mum and Polly and Mycroft
- Acme Carpets
- Jurisfiction
- Training Day
- The Great Library andCouncil of Genres
- A Probe Inside Pinocchio
- Julian Sparkle
- Core Containment
- The Well of Lost Plots
- The Refit
- Kids
- The ChronoGuard
- Home Again
- Cheese
- Breakfast Again
- Aornis Hades
- The Goliath Corporation
- The Austen Rover
- Holmes
- Next
- The Piano Problem
- Policy Directives
- The Paragon
- Thursday Next
- Bound to the Outland
- The Discreet Charmof the Outland
- Time Out of Joint
- Now Is the Winter
- Spending the Surplus
- The Austen Rover Roving
- Somewhere Else Entirely
- Rescue/Capture
- The Bees, the Bees
- Senator Jobsworth
- The Great Samuel Pepys Fiasco
- The End of Time
- A Woman NamedThursday Next
- My Thanks to:
“She’s done seven years of a thirty-year looping for unlawful memory distortion,” he murmured. “We had to hold her trial in the thirty-seventh century, where it actually is a crime. The dubious legality of being tried outside one’s own time zone would have been cause for an appeal, but she never lodged one.”
“Perhaps she forgot.”
“It’s possible. Shall we go?”
We stepped outside the SpecOps Building, turned left and walked the short distance to the Brunel Shopping Centre.
“Have you seen anything of my father?” I asked. I hadn’t seen him for over a year, not since the last potential life-extinguishing Armageddon anyway.
“I see him flash past from time to time,” replied Friday, “but he’s a bit of an enigma. Sometimes we’re told to hunt him down, and the next moment we’re working under him. Sometimes he’s even leading the hunt for himself. Listen, I’m ChronoGuard and even I can’t figure it out. Ah! We’re here.”
I looked up and frowned. We didn’t seem to be “here” anywhere in particular—we were outside T.J. Maxx, the discount clothes store.
Aornis Hades
They called it being “in the loop,” but the official name was Closed Loop Temporal Field Containment. It was used only for criminals where there was little hope of rehabilitation, or even contrition. It was run by the ChronoGuard and was frighteningly simple. They popped the convict in an eight-minute repetitive time loop for five, ten, twenty years. The prisoner’s body aged but never needed sustenance. It was cruel and unnatural—yet cheap and required no bars, guards or food.
W e walked into the Swindon T. J. Maxx, threaded our way through the busy morning bargain hunters and found the manager, a well-dressed woman with an agreeable manner who had been in my class at school but whose name I had forgotten—we always gave polite nods to each other, but nothing more than that. Friday showed her his ID. She smiled and led us to a keypad mounted on the wall. The manager punched in a long series of numbers, and then Friday punched an even longer series of numbers. There was a shift in the light to a greeny blue, the manager and all the customers stopped dead in their tracks as time ground to a halt, and a faint buzz replaced the happy murmur of shoppers.