The Network Restored
(omake)
Garbriel Novac read the words on the grave. The following words were carved into the tombstone. They had been done with care, and showed the reverence for the man. He had ensured that they honored the man so many years ago.
RIP
William Rodgers 1991-2036
Librarian
That was the writing on the Stone tombstone of Gabriel's oldest friend. Lover, once upon a time. Before the CMC found him. Before they burned down his house, with all his books, and him inside it. He sighed. Luckily the Network still endured. Rodgers was one of the founders of the Network. Novac was another. They had worked together to make sure that what had happened to the Library of Alexandria, the knowledge at Pompeii, the Burning of the Books by the Qin Dynasty, the destruction of priceless artifacts by religious extremists all throughout history. Gabriel was more of a computer specialist, back when such things were common. Now he knew the Dewey Decimal system, and after that became 'illegal' and 'immoral', became a man who did inventory for warehouses.
He nodded to his nephew. They took out shovels, and began to dig the grave. If nothing else, the Victorians believed in the sanctity of graves to some extent. At least here in the western parts of Pennsylvania. He remembered the broadcast, the killing of professors, intellectuals, and scientists. Only the 'classics' were allowed to be taught, and only in limited, pre-approved capacities.
Rodgers had been a librarian. A man who was in love with the written word. Too many loyal Victorians, or too many scared people living under the fear of the Victorians, knew who and what he was, and turned him in. That had gotten him killed. Not just for being a homosexual, which was less well known, and was hidden as much as possible, but that he was a librarian. That last word was dangerous. It meant that the man had died in the service of knowledge. In the eyes of the Victorians, he was a Cultural Marxist and intellectual, and was had to be killed for helping people learn.
Beneath his resting place, beneath his coffin, was the Network. Every single treasure they could find to rebuild the world in the decades before and after the Collapse. Gabriel was thankful that he knew how to forge paperwork better than William did. Looking like someone who did inventory before the Collapse was infinitely less dangerous than a database. . Becoming a full time forger wasn't what he wanted his life to be, but it was what it had become. It had kept him alive all these years
Both of them enjoyed reading novels, and had entertained the idea of Isaac Asimov's Foundation. A world full of nothing but librarians, scientists, mathematicians, and other educated people, working to preserve all that would be destroyed when civilization fell.
When they saw what was happening, William had convinced him to use his money to build it. And they had, finishing months before the Collapse really went into full swing. Underneath the Rodger's family plot a converted bomb shelter. Inside said converted bomb shelter was the Rice Avenue Community Public Library. Using money to renovate a bomb shelter had seemed like a odd Prepper hobby before the Collapse. Something that militias even encouraged at times, as long as you were the right sort. Making it suitable for long term storage of several works seemed like it was more important than a place to hold canned preserves and rations for fruit. Every book that they could get their hands on, that went against Retroculture, Victorian stated propaganda, religious texts, anything that could be conceived as part of the modernity or heretical, was put in there. The shelves and storage containers were full of books, literature, artwork, film slides, technical manuals, blueprints, college textbooks, magazines, how to books, instruction manuals, film reels, DVDs, were all boxed up. Unless a bomb directly impacted the shelter, it would be untouched. it was all there, it was all safe. Preserved, and waiting for a time when there was a civilization that could use them.
They had recruited others. Other people who were seeing the writing on the wall. Librarians, teachers, professors, journalists, scientists. All of them had something they wanted to preserve. All of them contributed with what they could to ensure that it wasn't destroyed. Whether it was with materials, know how, bureaucracy, or some other means to help keep their knowledge secret. And so many of them had died for it. Their family members, too. The Inquisitors found out about a few of them, and some didn't help up to interrogation, and named names. William never felt anger at them. Because that was who he was. He was a gentleman, a gentle-man, and he didn't have in him to hold anger towards those who were truly desperate.
Victoria had just seemed impossibly strong, and as if they were here to stay. Over time, all of them had been found, except for the original two founders, William and Gabriel. But, in the end, they had found William. And he had died saying nothing. Victoria had taken another man of knowledge to the fire, because he was both a homosexual, and a librarian, and their society had little want or need for either. To Gabriel, all his hopes and dreams died that day. He still preserved it all, if only to honor William. If only to keep some part of him alive.
But now, with Victoria's civil war after their loss to the Commonwealth, he knew he it was time. Time to transport it somewhere that it would do the most good. Before it was lost to time, before he either became senile, or dropped dead, and the location of the Network's treasure trove was utterly forgotten.
Gabriel had initially wanted to transport it to New York City. But that was too far, and would go through too many checkpoints, too many Victorian militia, too many Inquisitors. The Commonwealth was the answer. If he could give this to them, to their library system, it would ensure that William's work wasn't all for naught. That his life had meaning. That his death had meaning. That the cause he held so close to his heart, that knowledge was important, would be preserved. After their utter smashing of the Victorian military, Chicago was hosting a diplomatic conference. He had to get these items there. Once they were in President Goldblum's hands, he could die knowing that he was absolved. That it all meant something.
The road to Lake Erie was a long one. The roads were destroyed, and the carts used to transport everything required the resources of the last of the Network, and his family's cooperation. This was all they had. All of them transported items discreetly to Chicago. Smuggling them in personal luggage, or in their clothing. Small items, here and there. The first few times they had tried to smuggle things east, to New York City, it had resulted in so many deaths, and so much destruction of so many priceless works. This was why they headed west, to Chicago. With the relative peace, and free trade, they were able to make it Lake Erie, and pay with their entire savings for their passage.
Chicago was so different from Girard, Pennsylvania. They were alive, they were mostly happy, and they seemed full. It shamed him, seeing how they lived, compared to how he had. Compared to what he did to survive. They didn't look at each other with suspicion at all times. He had written a letter, ahead of his travels, urgently requesting a member of Johnson's administration to meet with him. To accept the gifts he wanted to offer them. He wanted them to see it, and accept it, to tell him that his life had meaning. That what he did was worth the sacrifice.
He was just so hungry. Their harvest was bad that year. They couldn't trade what they had, because it was all illegal works, and it needed to be preserved. That's why he had turned William in. If he hadn't, they both would have starved, and their work would have been forgotten. Better that their organization, the Network, survived, and have some chance of success. At least, that's what he said at the time. Now he just felt like a miserable, shameful coward and he needed to atone. If only he had known then, that his services as a forger would provide him with the means to feed himself, and more than enough to feed others. If only....
He would offer his services, both as a keeper of all the works that his love had preserved, and his offers as a person who could make false documents.
'Please, god, let this be my atonement.' he thought. 'This has to mean something.'
Only the Commonwealth could answer such a question. He hoped they said yes, if only to honor William.
