“Hey, Arlo, what’s for lunch today?” Michael asks. Although I am eager to find a good spot in Central Library Square, rudeness never pays.

“My sister sent me a shipment of tomatoes from her garden, so, I’ve been eating all things tomato for the last four days. On today’s menu,” I hold up my lunch box with a dramatic flourish, “is a tomato and mozzarella sandwich and cold tomato soup.”

Michael grins and nods. “Sounds good. Hey, when you get back, can you give me a hand with cataloging some of the new arrivals? Consuela called in sick today, but I’d like to get the new books on the shelves as soon as possible.”

“I would be only too happy to assist. I’ll see you when I’m done.”

“Thanks.”

As I step outside of the Central Library Administrative building, I take a deep breath. The air is crisp and refreshing after an entire morning in the climate controlled atmosphere of the stacks. The sun is high in a flawless blue sky. May in Rome is my favorite time of the year. My gogs tell me the temperature is a pleasant 18 degrees and the humidity non-existent. It will be a pleasure to eat a leisurely lunch, read my book and people-watch.

I glance around the Square, looking for an open seat. I spot one that will afford me a view of both the Obelisk of Caligula and the St. Peter’s Memorial and make my way to it. The mid-day crowds are out in full force. A gaggle of researchers, students, the idle curious and tourists here to see what was once the seat of power for the Catholic Church, back before the Awakening. A group of tourists passes by, making a bee-line for the ruins of St. Peter’s Basilica. They must be tourists; they all have imagers and day-glow orange top hats, so they can keep track of each other.

Do they fully appreciate what they are seeing? Do they understand the centuries of history that it represents? Do they know how it represented the hopes and beliefs of generations of believers? Do they grasp how it was once seen as a conduit to a god and that it was destroyed in the name of another god? Do they understand why it has been persevered in its current state, a pile of shattered marble and travertine almost three-hundred years ago by a bomb during the Crash War?

Probably not. For the sightseers, it is just another destination to visit in Rome, another tourist attraction like the Colosseum and the Pantheon. Another box to check off.

Well, that is to be expected. Not everyone has to dive-deep into the ocean of history. Most people do not and civilization persists. Mankind can live with a shallow ignorance, particularly now that the QUEEN manages those things that have historically vexed us and led to so much death and destruction. With the end of nationalism and religion, the obliteration of the cultural distinctions of race and ethnicity and the ceding of control of politics and economics to the QUEEN, most of us can afford to live in the here and now.

Not me. No, never me. One foot in the present, one foot in the past, that is the archivist’s lot in life.

I open my lunch box, pull out and unwrap the sandwich and take bite. The flood of tomato juice and the heft of fresh mozzarella brings a reflexive smile to my face. Man my not live by bread alone, but add the fruits of field and pasture to it and the proposition becomes more plausible. I crack open my book. The moment is perfect.

Robbers of the world, having by their universal plunder exhausted the land, they rifle the deep. If the enemy be rich, they are rapacious; if he be poor, they lust for dominion; neither the east nor the west has been able to satisfy them. Alone among men they covet with equal eagerness poverty and riches. To robbery, slaughter, plunder, they give the lying name of empire; they make a desert and call it peace.

“Mr. Johns?”

I look up from the book. The beaming face of Julia is looking down at me. I suppress a smile and instead project mock-annoyance; I have a curmudgeonly reputation to maintain among the youngsters. “This had better be good. I am deeply into Tacitus.”

She doesn’t fall for it. She knows me too well, having been a patron of the Central Library for most of her school years.

“Agricola, right? Haven’t you read that like, a thousand times?”

“Only eleven in toto. The first time, I was younger than you.”

Julia playfully grimaces. “QUEEN’s mercy, how old are you?”

Forty-one, as of this year; but to a twelve-year-old, I must seem to be as old as Methuselah. “I am as old as time. I remember when dinosaurs walked the Earth." Julia giggles, bringing a smile to my face. "Now, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, I have some static at school. We’re doing a report on the Crash War, but there’s so much stuff available, I don't know where to start.”

“Is this for history, cultural systemic analysis or socio-economic philosophy class?"

“History. Professor Arbatov has a thing for wars. Last week, he had us do a Virt-Play about the Precursor Wars.”

Well, at least her professor believes in building a foundation for the Crash War. It is perfectly sensible to show how the conflicts of the preceding decades led up to the near destruction of human civilization.

“Which one did you have to do?”

“Third Iranian Incursion. Lots of drone on drone stuff. Not very interesting.”

“Not very interesting!” Okay, let’s not slip into full lecture mode. Julia does not want to hear a five-hour diatribe on the importance of the development of neural networks during the various drone wars and how the reliance on fragmented networks laid the basis for the Crash War. The wars in Iran, India and Eastern Asia were instrumental in accelerating the reliance on poorly controlled information networks, while also demonstrating some inherent weakness. These weakness were exploited in the Crash War.

She cocks her head to one side, waiting for me to continue. I realize, I’m lecturing to myself. I let out a resigned sigh. “Well, maybe I can tell you some day about how important developments in the Precursor Wars are to today’s world. However, as to your question, I think you’ll find everything you need in Hackette’s Concise History. It is located in the Sistine Chapel stacks. Here, let me stream the location to your gogs.”

She flips her fashionable streamlined white and black data goggles from the top of her head to her eyes. She nods as the data scrolls across her field of vision

“Thanks, Mr. Johns.”

“You’re welcome Julia. When you are done, I expect to see the product of your labors.”

“Sure thing,” she yells as she runs across Central Library square, the pre-War St. Peter’s Square. I watch her as she disappears into the swirling mob. Although she hides it under a facade of fashionable disinterest, Julia has a gift for historical research and analysis. I have a suspicion that Julia will find that her life purpose sends her down a path similar to mine. Although some might disparage it, the study of history is critical; it demonstrates how the rule of the QUEEN is superior to any of the systems of governance or economic organization attempted in the past.

An incoming message alert blinks on my gogs’ display, breaking my reverie.

“Alpha Priority for Arlo Johns. I have reassigned your life purpose. Your new life purpose: Rogue Assistant. Function: Help Rogue Rayn Achari destroy the QUEEN. Your coordinates and reporting location are attached. End Message.”

I close the book. I feel my gorge rising into my throat. Nausea, panic….but most of all, the sudden annihilation of my moorings. No one is ever re-assigned. From your sixteenth birthday to your death, you are one thing. That is how the QUEEN’s system has lasted for three centuries.

I find the sudden destruction of that certainty to be more disturbing than what I’ve been reassigned to. Whatever a “Rogue Assistant” is, it must serve the QUEEN’s purpose. The question to answer is, “Why have I been reassigned to it?”

As my mind races, the advancing nausea leaves me, replaced by a rush of adrenaline, like a burst of bright electric light that sweeps away my discomfort. The feeling of sudden excitement comes to me when I realize I am no longer just studying history.

I am making history.