Copenhagen's light rain possessed a persistent nature, a tender heaviness that invited quietude. Within the freetown of Christiania, where vivid murals merged with the sky a humble bookstore called Analog Mind nestled between a recycled-clothing collective and a shadowy tea room. Its proprietor, formerly known as Benjamin Baldric observed the raindrops forming on the glass. At present he was simply "Ben." His history was a sealed chapter, stored in a Europol file he wished was collecting dust.
His store was a repository of another sort. A bastion of paper, adhesive and ink standing firm, against a realm dominated by digital flows. He specialized in philosophical treatises neglected scientific periodicals and poetry that no algorithm could ever suggest. It served as a sanctuary for the inquisitive.
Recently his sanctuary seemed like a hospital.
A young woman arrived three days ago a candidate from Uppsala. She had been intensely looking for a detailed monograph on the phenomenology of boredom. Her eyes shone brightly nearly frantic, with eagerness. She came back today to pick up a parcel Ben had obtained.
She was now positioned at the counter holding the book. She flipped through its pages. Her face was serene. Empty.
"This is… what I wished for " she stated in a flat tone. "Thank you."
"Your thesis " Ben inquired, drumming a pencil on his ledger. "You claimed that deep boredom leads to reflection. Have you identified your starting point?"
She blinked deliberately. "The thesis… feels pointless. The chase… it demands much energy. The university recently started a wellness collaboration. With Somnum. They provide relaxation sessions before work. To reduce nervousness, about performance." She gave a hollow smile. "I believe I'll try that initially."
She completed the payment. Went away accidentally leaving the book on the counter. She had overlooked it.
Ben lifted it his fingertips gliding along the spine. She was the one this month. Clients, who had once been lively, with irritating lovely curiosity came back dull and drained. Their intellectual sharpness wasn't merely softened; it had been precisely excised. A distinct pinpointed memory loss. They hadn't forgotten facts. They had lost the desire to know.
His encrypted phone, hidden beneath the floorboards, behind a row of Kierkegaard books had vibrated once the week. He'd dispatched two messages to a discredited analyst. A kind of obligation he believed, from an existence. He wasn't anticipating a response. He merely wanted to cast a stone into a lake to convince himself that waves could still form.
The shop bell rang. A man came in flicking water off an overcoat. He walked with an elegance eyes sweeping the shelves not with a scholar's eagerness but with a profiler's detached evaluation.
Devon Duncan.
Ben sensed a knot constricting in his stomach. It had been five years since he last saw Devon not since Geneva. The man appeared aged, gaunt. Not due, to the passage of years. Because of wear.
"Benjamin Baldric I suppose," Devon stated, his tone monotone. No introduction.
"Ben. Simply Ben. The coffee is, at the back. It tastes awful."
Inside a cramped office steam drifted up from a pair of chipped mugs. Devon didn't sip his drink. He set a photo on the desk: the open notebook, from Kale Kane's apartment. "You directed me to a library. I discovered a history. Now I'm here. Clarify 'patent dispute.'"
Ben took a sip of his coffee. "Kane's creation. His 'Lethargic Calculus.' It wasn't merely philosophical. It was like a plan. A mathematical framework describing a state of mind. Complete passive absorption. No mental resistance. Flavio Fergal's team recognized its market value. They attempted to purchase it. Kane declined. He labeled it a 'toxin for the spirit.'" Ben locked eyes with Devon. "So they experimented with their variant, on him. A field test. Demonstrated that their version was better. More effective.
Devon clenched his jaw. "They reduced a man to a vegetable, over property?"
"No " Ben clarified, his tone subdued. "They demonstrated their product is effective. He's not unconscious. He is… completely at rest. No anxiety anymore no effort needed. No distressing thoughts. That's their claim right?" He motioned vaguely toward the store front. "I observe it here. Not, through comas. Through… reductions. They aren't destroying curiosity. They provide a treatment to eliminate its 'elements. A surgeon driven by curiosity.. Individuals are queuing, willing to pay for the procedure."
Devon took this in gazing out the window streaked with rain. The quiet lingered, interrupted by the soft tapping of rain. "You left " he said at last. "After Geneva. Why this? Why choose a bookstore?"
Ben reclined, his chair groaning. "In Geneva we battled a cult aiming to make everyone sleep. Now there's a company marketing the pillow to all. It's tougher to combat. You can't fire at a shareholder contract." He halted. "I monitor the records. I observe those who examine them. It's my warning sign. And my warning signs are… stopping their song."
"Javier Jeffrey " Devon stated. "Oxford. They have reached out to him."
Ben felt a chill go through him. "That means he's listed.. To be recruited… or to be subdued indefinitely. His mind contains keys. Flavio would want to have those keys, in his possession."
"I must reach him before anyone "
"You will " Ben replied. He. Went to a small locked cabinet. He took out a unmarked book with a worn leather cover. ". Take this. A present. For Javier.. For you."
Devon grabbed it. Unfolded it. Sheets filled with hand-sketched geometric shapes entwining spirals and non-Euclidean angles that strained his eyes. Side notes, in a handwriting.
"This is Kane's workbook " Ben stated. "A replica. From, before Somnum before Flavio transitioned to corporate. This is the heresy.' The calculation of surrender. Javier will grasp it. You… you must experience it. Not just comprehend. Experience it. That framework doesn't merely portray Sloth. It calls to it."
Devon shut the book feeling its weight suddenly significant, in his grip. The buzz of his exhaustion appeared to echo through its pages. "Why assist?"
Ben glanced at his store, where neglected books rested on shelves. "Because someone must stay irritatingly agonizingly inquisitive. Even about why we ought not to care. Particularly about that." He cast Devon a tired gaze. "Now leave.. Don't return. This place is, for readers, not warriors. Our communication ends here."
As Devon left, disappearing into Christiania's grey drizzle, Ben walked to his shop window. He watched until the analyst's form blurred into the mist. Then, he turned the open sign to closed. He had his own preparations to make. The canaries were falling silent. Soon, the darkness in the mine would be absolute. And he, Benjamin Baldric, retired archivist of analog thought, would have to decide if he remembered how to shout.