After a long journey through the different subsectors between the main portal and mine, I finally made it to my new home: 43,090,874-9. The journey had taken what felt like hours I had passed countless identical paths, each branching off into their own labyrinths of knowledge, before finally arriving at my designated post.
The subsector spread out before me like a vast ocean of bookshelves, stretching as far as my eyes could see—an overwhelming sight that made me feel impossibly small. Unlike the grand entryway with its impressive architecture and sweeping vistas, this remote corner of the library had a more utilitarian feel. The shelves here stood like silent sentinels, their white surfaces unmarked by time or touch.
At the center of the small subsector stood a structure that immediately caught my attention—a simple box-like building situated in an open space, as if the endless shelves had respectfully stepped back to make room for it. Paper-thin black walls standing seven feet high formed a perfect square, with an open entryway leading inside. There was no roof, allowing the library's ambient light to pour in.
I approached cautiously, my footsteps echoing in the silence. Peering inside, I discovered that the space contained everything I would need to sustain myself for the foreseeable future—which, given the nature of being a librarian, would be an eternity.
All the furniture inside was white and small, minimalist to the point of austerity. A narrow bed with a thin mattress occupied one corner. A simple desk and chair stood against the opposite wall. Next to them, a washbasin with a mirror hung above it. Everything was pristine, untouched, waiting.
"Wow, I'll really be living it up," I giggled to myself, the sound strange and hollow in the vast silence. My voice seemed to disappear into the infinite space above, swallowed by the library's immensity.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the desk, feeling its smooth, cool surface. "No matter," I whispered, more to convince myself than anything else. "Material objects mean nothing in comparison to the grand work of a librarian."
The Counsel had drilled this philosophy into us during training. Our purpose transcended physical comfort. We were guardians of knowledge, keepers of worlds and the stories they held, preservers of truths that would otherwise be lost to time. This spartan living arrangement was merely a practicality, not a punishment.
Situated on the right side of the wall sat a small counter with a box of rations on top and next to it a small watch. These were to be my companions in solitude—tools of survival and duty. I walked up slowly and first picked up the watch, strapping it to my wrist and turning on the holowatch that was issued to me.
The weight of it felt strange against my skin. Back in the citadel, time had been a communal experience, marked by bells and announcements. Here, time was mine alone to track.
I tapped on the small screen of the slim watch and a hologram of a slightly larger screen appeared above it, hovering in the air like a spectral window. On this screen was simply a map of my subsection with two icons on the top left: a search icon and an icon of three stacked books.
Curious, I tapped the book icon. It opened what seemed to be a never-ending screen, listing every book in my subsection—thousands upon thousands of titles scrolling past faster than I could read them. Names in many different languages, topics ranging from the mundane to the esoteric. The scope of my responsibility suddenly felt overwhelming.
The search bar allowed me to look up any of these books and set a waypoint of sorts on the map, directing me to their exact location. I experimented by typing "history" and watched as hundreds of points illuminated on the map like stars appearing in a night sky.
"Efficient," I murmured, already imagining the countless journeys I would make through these shelves. The Counsel had designed these systems with precision—despite the library's ancient nature, our tools were cutting edge.
Once done fidgeting with the watch, I turned it off. The hologram dissipated like morning mist, leaving only the small device on my wrist as evidence of the vast network at my fingertips.
Next to where I found the watch stood a box of rations. I peered inside, finding bags similar to the ones at the farms—small packages labeled "NUTRIENCE" in bold black letters. But I could tell immediately from picking one up that this wasn't the warm, sludgy stew I had grown accustomed to during training. These packages were hard, like dried bricks.
As hungry and excited as I was to see what was inside, it wasn't yet dinner time according to my watch, which displayed "15:47" in glowing blue numerals. Discipline was a librarian's virtue. I set the package back in the box and decided to start on my first library patrol instead.
Standing in the doorway of my new home, I looked out at the endless rows of bookshelves stretching in every direction. Each one held countless volumes, countless stories and secrets waiting to be tended. Somewhere among them might be books no one had touched in millennia, knowledge forgotten by all except the library itself.
I took a deep breath, straightened my black uniform, and stepped out into my subsector. The sound of my footsteps faded quickly among the shelves, absorbed by the watchful silence of the books.
This was my domain now. My responsibility. My eternity.