The Woman Who Died a Lot

“But you’re right,” I added, “I did forget. And I passed the tattooist’s three times today.”

We sat there for a while in silence, mildly annoyed.

“You’re back,” said the Wingco, who had popped his head around the door. “I made some progress into my Dark Reading Matter project. Do you want to hear about it?”

“Are you distracting Tuesday from calculating the Unentanglement Constant? I’ve got a brother in line to be barbecued, which I’m really not happy about.”

The Wingco had to admit that he might have—but that Tuesday often said that going away from a problem often made her fresher on her return, so it wasn’t as much of a distraction as we thought.

“Go on, then,” I said, getting to my feet and walking with him down the hall to Tuesday’s laboratory. “Did the dodo idea work?”

“Quite well, actually—and don’t worry, we didn’t use Pickwick. We obtained a V3.2 called Beaky that was at a knockdown price at Pete and Dave’s Dodo Emporium. The V10s are just in, so they’re getting a few preowned in for part exchange.”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of preowned classic dodos being used for experimentation.”

“There are risks in everything,” said the Wingco with a shrug, “and the Dark Reading Matter is important.”

We walked into Tuesday’s laboratory to find her dozing in her armchair. She’d been working hard, and it was late. We were going to sneak back out, but she jumped awake.

“Mum,” she said, “it worked!”

I sat down in front of the screen as the Wingco told me what they’d done.

“One of my Imaginary Childhood Friends was about to leave for the DRM, as his host and creator was in the Daniel Street Home for the Almost Gone. The ICF was called Joey, and I convinced him to take Daphne with him when he went across.”

“Okay, let me get this straight in my mind. Imaginary Childhood Friends go to the DRM because they’re like living fiction?”

“Pretty much,” said the Wingco, “but we think that everything that has been unrecorded within a deceased person’s mind also transfers to the Dark Reading Matter. I think that’s why the Dark Reading Matter is so big. It’s not just books that have been destroyed but is loaded with memories. In fact, with seventy or so billion people having already died, the fabric of the DRM might be composed almost entirely of Lost Moments.”

“Lost Moments? How many?”

“Lots—and I think they’re packed quite tight.”

“Okay,” I said, somewhat dubiously, “so where do we go from here?”

“Right,” said Tuesday who was getting more excited, “we took the Encephalovision to the Home of the Almost Gone and made sure it was tuned in to Daphne the dodo’s cerebral buffer. At half past nine, we got what we were after. The Imaginary Childhood Friend’s host died, and Joey moved across, taking Daphne the dodo with him.”

“In the same way that I could once jump into the BookWorld with someone holding on to me?”

“Pretty much.”

“And?” I asked.

“We waited for a minute, but . . . nothing. The Encephalovision simply showed static. But then Daphne suffered an overload of sensory input, and her buffer started to fill. We started receiving a picture a minute after that. These are the first images ever of the Dark Reading Matter!”

Tuesday flipped a switch, and the playback began. At first it was it difficult to make out anything at all, but soon shapes started to form on the screen. Strange creatures that looked a lot like pepperpots, with bumps all over their lower bodies, domed heads and a sink-plunger sticking out in front.

“What are they?” I asked.

“We think they’re Daleks,” said Tuesday. “An early type.”

“You’re saying the Dark Reading Matter is populated by Daleks?”

“No—we believe this might be a lost Doctor Who episode, from one of the master tapes wiped in the seventies.”

“Wiped because they didn’t have room to store it?”

“Probably because it wasn’t very good,” said the Wingco. “It’s possible the Dark Reading Matter might contain all forms of lost or discarded storytelling endeavor.”

“Or Daphne has a Dalek fixation. You know how obsessive dodos can be.”

“All too well,” said Tuesday, looking across at Pickwick, who was on the floor attempting to sort dust motes into their various colors. “But it wasn’t only Daleks. Watch the rest.”

So I did, and in those seven minutes of buffered dodo thoughts, we observed what appeared to be several half-completed buildings and then a woman hunting tortoises, apparently alone on an island. But just as it was getting interesting, the vision feed cut off and the images were gone.

“That’s it,” said the Wingco. “We won’t get any more.”

“It’s not conclusive,” I said, “but the reference to the tortoise hunting sounds like Melville’s ‘Norfolk Isle and the Chola Widow’.”

“That’s not lost,” observed the Wingco.