“Still in disbelief?” Jorgen mocked.

“I mean - come on, you can’t seriously expect me to believe that books are more valuable than alcohol, gambling, drugs, and all the other vices.”

“Actually, literature and fiction are very sought-after commodities. Not too many people have access to unregulated literature or fiction. In fact, mere possession of some of these books could get us all hanged.”

“They are just fiction. Most of it is just lies. Not to mention, they are not worth getting killed over, or even for spending time in prison.”

“For you, maybe. But the people of Surren, and by extension the whole country of Nihata, are deprived of the works that you and I often take for granted. All that is present here is propagandist literature, lots of it, and ancient folklore that has been reinterpreted for modern tastes. Imagine not having read Mark Twain, Hemingway, T. S. Elliot.”

“I haven’t read them.” Viren had heard of their names but had only seen adaptations of their work, or their quotes displayed at the start of some films.

“Well,” Jorgen said dismissively as he returned the book he had been holding, back to its shelf. “At least you have the option to read them. I think it’s fair to give everyone that choice. Nihata is not exactly a bastion of free thought or expression. Whatever is authorised by the government is what is allowed to be consumed.”

“So it’s a dictatorship we are fighting against?”

“No… It’s a democratic government.” Jorgen said, smirking knowingly at how awkward his statement sounded. “The point is: they have been deprived of art and literature that has progressed our societies for years. Leaving society without the lies of a generation, is what makes them believe there is none!”

“SHHH!” One of the roaming security guards passed us by, clearly catching Jorgen’s elevated tone.

“Your words?” Viren felt that Jorgen’s last statement was a famous quote.

“No, Sinha told me that. You’ll meet him eventually. Maybe.”

In 2049, it was not difficult to acquire information. All the literature of the world was available in digital format. Everything had been adapted, translated, reimagined and simplified by corporations and individuals. Most of it was free, especially due to the intense competition from AI creators, ever since the advent of Frederick. Written scripts were not of much value; what was more valuable was what those scripts could be adapted into. Unless a movie, TV series or some other experience was created, the written works were not discovered, and were eventually lost in the sea of content.

“Aren’t there far more legal ways of going about things?” Viren commented, inspecting the shelf of books, not recognising even one of the names; as they were all obscure ‘Anachronic Writers’. “You said that we are in a democracy, right? Can’t we just set up a company that imports foreign works? The government cannot ban everything without a good reason.”

“I didn’t say these books were banned,” said Jorgen, “I said they were unregulated. We are not breaking the law by having access to them, we are breaking the law by exposing ideas to people that may lead to unwelcome choices and unpredictable actions. And if there is one thing an authoritarian body hates, it’s unpredictability.”

Viren was now curious. “You are… awfully concerned about this. I don’t think I care that much about what happens to a bunch of these people. I can’t really bring myself to care about what happens to these denizens. They are just pixels and code after all.”

“Have you been watching Shadow Republic videos?” Jorgen snapped.

Yes. Viren had got the lines he had just spoken from a video explaining how the Shadow Republic differentiated humans from machines. One was ‘flesh and blood’ and the other was ‘pixels and code’. Viren agreed with the sentiment, even if he wasn’t aligned with the rest of the dogma of the Shadow Republic.

“There is nothing wrong with that, is there? Surely you are not against free choice of information.”

Jorgen’s anger dissipated. He smirked again. “Of course not. You have every right to seek out the truth. Just do me a favour and never stop seeking.”

With that, Jorgen moved to the other side of the library, possibly so that Viren’s crutch wouldn’t cause too much of a distraction to the occupants as they walked across.

The library walls were adorned with paintings from the Renaissance era, hung equidistant from each other. Such artwork, again as Viren had seen, was commonly used to decorate lavish settings to give an ambience of prestige that only a select few could truly appreciate. Unlike 2049, this was a period when the craft of painting was in fact an occupation that was mastered by a select few, although sought to be mastered by many.

One of the paintings caught Viren’s eye. It was an elaborate piece with several characters and angels – too many to count – that didn’t focus on the subtle details of the point at which one figure ended and another began. The scene itself was very chaotic, and close inspection was required to make out what the painting was about.

“The Fall of the Rebel Angels,” Viren read out. “Pieter Bruegel.” No date given. Viren recognised neither this painting nor the painter. Seeing countless ‘masterpieces’ created by machines with a set algorithm, Viren thought of this as another piece made by some obscure AI. Viren mused that the artwork reminded him of painters back in the real world, like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo.

When Viren turned his attention back to Jorgen, he saw that the man stood still and was closely observing Viren.

“Something wrong?” Jorgen asked.

“Not at all.”

“Well, come on then, we are getting late.”

“Late for what?”

“Patience. You’ll see.”

Viren left the painting with its imagery imprinted in his mind. This painting was no different from the others that adorned the walls.

But surely, that painting was not from Earth. It couldn’t be! That would imply there was a painter named Pieter Bruegel also in The Anachron as well. Alternatively, someone had actually brought the genuine human art and passed it off as AI art. Of all the possible transgressions one could commit in The Anachron, Viren felt that this one was the most egregious.

Viren caught up with Jorgen. By now, his arm had begun to ache in earnest with the effort he had made. And his plastered leg was feeling even worse.

“Jorgen.” Viren asked to take his mind off the painting and his pain. “You didn’t tell me why you cared for this world so much. Aren’t you here working on your administrator role as a ‘medic’?” Many medical professionals used The Anachron to work on their skill sets; once again, without consequences of error or failure.

“No. I came into The Anachron after retirement. Unfortunately, I made my career choice during the worst possible time in our history.”

“That would be?”

“Operation Red Desert. Haven’t you heard of it?”

“No...”

“My god, you really are a sheltered brat, aren’t you.”

You have no idea.

“By the way you haven’t put any unnecessary pressure on your leg, have you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“By the way, how long will I have to walk for?”

“A couple of hours.” Jorgen said bluntly.

Viren stopped dead. “A couple of hours? Don’t I have some sort of a wheelchair or something?”

“Come now. A young energetic boss like you resorting to using a wheelchair? What will your men think of you?”

I don’t care what they think of me. I am their boss!

However, Viren did acknowledge the obvious respect the guards in the building had for him. The guards did not shush Viren even though his voice once in a while would go above the acceptable decibel range, inviting glares from the clientele, before they looked away realising that the perpetrator was the very person allowing them the right to be here.

Whenever Viren approached a guard, he would open the door and stand at attention. Even Jorgen would step aside to let Viren through, as that must have been the proper order during Erasmus’ walks. Although there was no standard uniform, with every guard dressed as he pleased, the guns they possessed looked very real and were of the same make.

Jorgen knowing that this was not the real Erasmus was one thing, but the rest of the gang knowing that would probably lead to a difficult situation.

They reached a door. As the guard opened it, a black car could be seen waiting outside, a car with a long hood and a silver roof. Such a car would be worth a small fortune in Viren’s era; and even then would only be used for display. On seeing the two the driver, dressed in a formal chauffeur’s uniform, got out of the vehicle and rushed to open the passenger side door.

“That’s not necessary.” Jorgen waved the chauffeur away.

“What! What do you mean it’s not necessary? My arm is killing me!”

“We are taking the back-alleys to our destination. That way you won’t attract too much attention.”

“I hope there is a very good reason why you are putting me through this.”

“Don’t worry, there is.”