"It's not magic," Thomas said. "No Obscurists involved. It's pure machinery. Anyone can build it. Anyone can operate it. All you need is the machine, ink, and paper to print as many copies as you like, of anything you please."
"But . . . this is only a page," Beck said. "You said I could have books. A book made of the same words, over and over? What use is it?"
"This is all movable. Each letter is a separate piece. They can be removed and replaced, like a child's spelling blocks. You can write out anything you like, in any language known . . . we used English and Greek, but you could as easily use French and German, or Arabic and Chinese. You can mirror the text of any book and produce a thousand copies, one page at a time. All you have to do in the end is bind those pages together."
Beck slowly turned the page around again, and his lips moved silently as he read what they'd printed once more. When he looked up this time, his eyes were shining. At first, Jess thought it was with lust for power, and then . . . and then he realized he was seeing tears, as they broke free and spilled down the man's stubbled cheeks.
Beck said, "My God . . . my God," and fell into wrenching sobs. He sank down on his knees, still clutching the page in trembling hands, while his soldiers looked on. Some of them clearly understood what had brought him low; as Jess looked around, he saw the comprehension on their faces. Some looked elated. Some, like Beck, seemed overwhelmed.
Only Indira seemed unmoved. She watched them with cold focus.
Beck managed to regain control of his emotions and roughly swiped a handkerchief across his face and eyes. He cleared his throat with a sound like gravel turning over in a bucket. "I am sorry. I just realized . . . that the words on this page exist by themselves. They can't be erased from existence. They are both original and copy." His eyes had taken on a faraway look. He was seeing the future, Jess thought. "The Library does not control this page. It can't even see this page." He looked around at the others he'd brought with him. "Do you understand what this means? What we have?"
///
"What you have is dangerous," Thomas said. "I give you fair warning: the Library will do anything to see this machine destroyed, any trace of it wiped away. When I sketched plans for it in my journal, I was taken. My machine was destroyed. I was put in prison. I would have died there without-" Thomas's steady, calm voice hitched just a little, and Jess felt him flinch. "Without the devotion of my friends. You must not let them know what you have."
Thomas was blunt but honest; Jess wouldn't have warned Beck about consequences. He didn't think the man deserved the courtesy.
Beck hardly paid attention at all. His whole attention was on the inked letters in front of him. "Brilliant," he said, and it was clear he hadn't heard a word Thomas had said. "This is brilliant. We will print our messages on this machine! We will post hundreds of them in every city, every town in the world where the Library lays its hand! We will shove them down the throats of every High Garda bastard we kill. We will shape the world at last in our image, not the Archivist's. It will be our calling card, these very words, printed on this wonder." Jess felt his stomach lurch at that, picturing Glain lying dead, a grinning Burner stuffing her mouth with paper he and Thomas had printed. He imagined Santi defiled like that, and Wolfe lying broken beside him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Beck rushed right over him. "How quickly can you print more?"
Thomas's face had gone entirely blank, but Jess had never seen his clear blue eyes so dark. "We can begin now. Would you like to operate the machine yourself?"
Beck looked stunned, as if someone had offered him the chance to sit in the Archivist Magister's throne. "Yes, yes, I would!" Beck said, and rushed to stand uncertainly next to the cobbled-together press. "What do I do? Show me, boy! Quickly!"
Without comment, Jess brushed ink over the metal lettering and placed another blank sheet of paper over them. He stepped back. Beck stared expectantly, as if he was waiting for some magical process to begin.
"Pull the lever," Thomas said. Beck looked down, took hold, and pulled. He jumped and gasped when the weights snapped down, pressing the paper, and Thomas showed him how to crank the lever back until it caught on the ratchet. Then Jess demonstrated how to carefully peel away the still-wet paper.
"It has to dry," he said. "Touch it when it's wet and it'll smear."