The Woman Who Died a Lot

“Just kidding. I can hear perfectly.” She looked down at my walking stick. “I heard you took all this in pursuit of the law,” she said. “I only tackled the separatists because I knew you would. Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to be just like Thursday Next—only more so.”

She gave me the steely gaze of the supremely ambitious, and my hackles, which had already risen, rose further.

“Like me only more so? How’s that meant to work?”

“Go further, achieve more, fail less.”

“Oh, yes?” I replied. “And how’s that working out for you so far?”

“I’m already taller.”

“But not older.”

“I’m working on that daily. I think you should be flattered— someone who wants to be a better version of you. I think we should schedule a longer meeting,” she added, “to have a chat. Find out the areas in which there could be improvement.”

“That’s the point about failure,” I said. “It’s an intrinsic part of success. You win some, then you lose some. But with experience and luck, you learn to lose less as the years go on.”

Smalls nodded in agreement. “Like in sports,” she said. “It all boils down to lose/save ratios. I’ve been studying your stats, Thursday. You’ve got a career lives lost/saved ratio of thirty-two to one over one hundred and eighty-six encounters and a solve ratio of sixty-two percent. That places you at number twenty-eight in the global tables.”

“Is that a fact?” I said.

“Yes,” she replied eagerly. “It’s all very scientific.”

“There’s nothing scientific in tackling a crazed lunatic coming at you with an ax,” I said. “How did you do in the league table?”

“Okay so far. But if I’m to improve my ratio, I need to know where you failed and how I might do better. In that way I can make your mistakes the mistakes I would have made but now won’t. It’s for the good of the citizenry we protect, Miss Next. I’m not in this for the glory, as I’m sure neither were you.”

“Neither was I?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I wasn’t suggesting that your career was effectively over.”

But she just had. I sighed. I didn’t want to fight her. She was good, it was undeniable. Just a bit . . . well, intense—and obsessed with figures.

There was a pause.

“So,” I said, “would you like to be my second-in-command when Braxton offers me the SO-27 job?”

“Generous, if a little misguided,” she replied with a smile. “As far as I can see, I’m the only viable candidate.”

“Not quite correct,” I replied with a smile. “Braxton values experience above all.”

She looked at my stick and my leg, then back to me. “Yes, I’m fully confident that Commander Hicks will come to the correct decision. I’d still like us to be friends, Thursday. Together we have much to offer the service. Youth, vitality, vigor . . . and experience. See you around.”

And she left me there in an empty pause in which I was thinking up a pithy rejoinder. I did think of one, but her back had already turned and it was too late to be anything but a lame attempt to get the final word.

“Detective Smalls is the gold standard in law enforcement,” said the officer at the main desk as he watched her walk elegantly to the exit. “Can I help?”

I told him I was here for a psychiatric evaluation and showed him my ID. He recognized the name and raised an eyebrow.

“Welcome back, Detective Next. When I said Smalls was the gold standard, my comment may have been taken out of context. I really meant that she met the high standard set by your reputation.”

“You’re a terrible creep, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Is the shrink in his usual room?”

“They moved him to the first floor,” said the officer. “Room 101. Another high-ranker is with him at the moment. We had Officer Stoker in this morning—before dawn for some reason.”

This was better news. Spike was a good friend, and like me, had also lost his job during the SpecOps disbandment.

“He’s up for the SO-17 divisional chief’s job?”

“Apparently, although as he himself says, ‘Who else would be dumb-arsed enough to take it?’”

“There might be some truth in that,” I mused. Spike’s work with the semidead, ethereal horrors, demons, bogies and vampires wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. In fact, aside from Spike himself with my occasional assistance, it wasn’t anyone’s cup of tea. His old division of SO-17 was known colloquially as the “Suckers and Biters,” but they dealt with anything of a nominally undead or horrific nature. Despite the cuts, Officer Spike Stoker had managed to keep the phantasm-containment facilities and deep refrigeration units going in the subbasements, but only after he demonstrated precisely why there was a good reason. The councilor who was eager to make the cuts rashly took up Spike’s offer of a tour. She was struck dumb for six months. Only a fool looked into anything below the fifth subbasement.

“May I ask a question, Detective?” said the sergeant.

“Go on.”

“Why are they resurrecting SpecOps?”

“I have no idea. First floor, did you say?”