The Keeper of Books

The portal system broke down at 37 Hours Oneirian Standard Time. The robotic repair team had gone down years ago. Only MXNL8, his assistant robot that he named Manolin stirred feebly at times. His battery was way below optimum, and the charging consoles didn’t work anymore.

  The old man logged into the catalogue- the one that he had painstakingly prepared over three decades, with only Manolin by his side. The catalogue listed 137996487500 books, searchable by planet, year, subject, author, title and genre. The screen flickered and went blank. The old man sighed. They were only machines, after all. There were supposed to be technical servicing teams and auditing teams and supply ships from the Galactic Capital every fifty years. There was supposed to be a team of sentient staff working under him once the catalogue once done. He was to have vacations while they took charge. That was eighty-four years ago. No one came. No one visited. No readers, no government officials.

Well, he should have known. They had wanted these old relics out of the way, without being responsible for destroying them- in case they were ever needed. He should have understood when they chose this planet at this obscure corner of the galaxy, far from any of the principal planets. But he was young then, and naïve, and proud to be responsible for something so momentous.

He looks up the manuals from the nearest shelves, but he has never really been a tech guy and the best manuals are all digital anyway. He has learned to tinker with machinery to keep his library learning, but repairing the portal system is beyond his skills. And without the portal systems, he cannot access his books.

He stares at his dead console. Eighty-four years he has looked after these books, done his rounds, done his reading. Now he has nothing to do. He shuffled into a shelf and examined a bottle of tablets. One tablet a day to keep hunger and thirst at bay, and he was down to his last bottle. A rough estimate tells him he had enough for about a year. And will they send him new provisions within that deadline? And what of his books? What if they need mending or airing?

He thinks for a minute, and then pockets the bottle. He shuffles to his sleeping quarters behind the main office, and from there picks a blanket, a bed-sheet and couple of fresh shirts, putting them in a backpack. And with his sustenance in his pocket and these preparations for his journey, the keeper of books at the library of universe sets out on his round.

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