Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

🆕 New Here? ✏ Writing Help? 📢 News 💬 Discord

I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.

The book is 177013

I've never even read it and I know to avoid it.

Shash, Prime Curator of the Seventh Secret Library stared at the twine wrapped, and thick paper sealed package. He had been told to destroy this book, not to touch the book itself, and not to speak of it. It was deemed too harmful.

Still, Shash hesitated. Had he not read the one Hundred Poems of the Unmade Mind, without losing himself? Had he not withstood the Ten Testaments of Hatred? Had he not distinguished himself by drawing new insights from Talash's hundred volumes of the Drowning Void of Wisdom? How could a book be named 'too harmful' in such company?

He could not simply destroy it. Not without looking. But he still had his own responsibilities that he could not neglect. He stepped outside his office and called his First Assistant. A short old woman with leathery skin snapped as straight as she could manage to his call, though her body was weary, her eyes were keen and her will strong.

"Yasha, I must put upon you an obligation." Shash spoke formally. A stern bow was her response. "I must look upon an object I have been bound to destroy. You are to contain me to my office, and see to it the book is destroyed should I find my will undone by its pages. I will not compel you to destroy the book, as I do this to see if it can be preserved. But if you deem that I have been too undone by the book, but become unable to finish the task, I bind you to carry on when my strength fails."

She was troubled by the prospect. He could tell she wanted to object, weather it was to destroy the book outright, or to preserve it no matter the case he could not read from her face. But she agreed, and stood ready outside his office.

Carefully, with door sealed, and none to see, Shash untied the twine. Then carefully he unwrapped the thick brown paper that wrapped the tome inside.

The title startled him, it was not as he has feared, a salvaged copy of the fabled Book of Undoing that caused an entire civilization to fall. Rather, it was a crisp recent copy of a math textbook.

Brow furrowed, Shash picked up the book, and let it fall open in his hand. It looked ordinary. He slid his thumb down the edge of the page ready to turn it and...

"Gah! Sonova..." he muttered in pain, licking the paper cut on his thumb. "Harmful indeed..."

He opened his door. "Yasha, could you get me a bandaid from the first aid kit? Blasted thing cut me."

Then as she went to carry out his wishes, he wrapped the book back up in the thick paper, tied the twine around it once more to be extra safe. And dropped it in the incinerator chute.

It would stand to reason that even a secret society would have secrets. Its very nature relies on the ability to hide events and fact from the public eye, and yet its members all assume that they are kept fully informed of the daily goings on.

The keys on the mechanical keyboard clacked with satisfyingly deep depressions, springing back up ready for their next engagement. Though it was a mid-80s model the plastic hadn’t even tarnished yellow over 36 years of constant use. My monitor however was not a satisfying vintage. Bars flickered across the CRT screen as the old girl purred in the stale air of the silo. Tracing my cotton-gloved hand down the first page, I muttered the book’s ISB code under my breath and the keys tacked away.

Slotting the covers into opposing metal slits I placed the probing arm on the last page. Stabilising the book with my left hand, my right fondled round the side of the contraption eventually finding purchase on the ribbed wheel. Spinning gently the book was pulled taut and the slits bit down with their padded molars, trapping the novel in place.

Once prepped I stepped back to the keyboard, donning my ear defenders I hit the enter key and braced myself. With a wheeze, mechanical joints dropped into place, a soft whirring hinted at the inner workings of the device. The thin metal rod that rested in the index rose and separated into two separate twig-like pieces, deftly waving over the index page like a conductor preparing the orchestra for an explosive introduction.

I shielded my eyes just in time as the pages began curling in a grand wave, flashes illuminated the page for the overhead camera in such quick succession it appeared as a singular blindingly white flash of magnesium.

Heaving, the scanner sank back from its excitable shaking and released its hold on the book. Pulling it off the plate I wrote out its unique tag, date of archive, and stacked it neatly on the trolley alongside the already completed 29 books. After checking the first few scanned pages to ensure the alignment wasn’t skewed, I logged off the terminal and wheeled my trolley out into the concourse.

“Done already?” A meek whisper snuck up behind me as one of the trolley-boys slipped a hand over mine, attempting to weakly wrestle control of the wheeled plinth. I stood my ground, tightening my grip and increasing my pace.

“It’s only 30 books.”

His voice was grating, it peaked and emphasised seemingly random syllables with the jumpy enthusiasm of a hungry deer. “Yes but to check and scan each one, it only took you a morning.”

“Yes, I’ll return them myself thank you.” I concluded the conversation, pushing the trolley forwards with a jolt to throw the limp hand away.

Slinking back into the cul-de-sac of desks, the new blood sniffed out a new scanner’s trolley to hijack. I didn’t particularly dislike him, but his unease was infectious and lengthier conversations would bear no fruit.

Retrieving the clipboard and biro from the brass hook on my desk, I ticked off the books one by one as I wandered down the expansive corridors. With two years postgraduate experience in library science I knew my way around the metal shelves. However, two years was minimal in the face of the depth of knowledge the facility held. Centuries of combined practice at decrypting, archiving, and translating were recruited to immortalise as much paper as we could get our hands on. Of course, this meant that the newest among us either pushed trollies or archived vapid autobiographies and how to guides.

The idiot’s guide to Windows 7 mocked me with a vague sense of entitlement as I climbed the cold metal ladder to return it to its resting place. I checked off the storage on my clipboard and climbed back down into the narrow but empty passage. Accurate note keeping was drilled into us at every turn. With the ban on outside communication, our systems were archaic but effective if used with appropriate care and attention.

One Week Wedding Planner and Cooking In the Outback held supposedly as key knowledge as fragments of handwritten notes from alchemists and philosophers of ancient history, and we had to handle their pages with a similar level of care. Gliding back into their carved niches, their boxes were ticked as I painstakingly whittled down my time before lunch. Luckily, working North through the library would put me closer to Uncle Ivan to share our break together.

Finishing up my task I rolled the completed returns card into the faded-red plastic canister and dropped it into the open mouth of the vacuum tube. With a satisfying swallow the pill disappeared into the bowels of the operation for digesting.

Fogged glass obscured Ivan in the sealed room, carrying a respirator and working through a comically large pair of gloves, the brittle pages were treated like radioactive material in the steady hands of an expert scientist. Each page had to be turned by hand, so it wasn’t unlikely he had been working on this tome for days. Noting my presence he covered the pages with a thin white blanket and doffed his protective equipment. Exiting from his station the seals on the door hissed like opening a can of soda, the offensively sterile air sucking the scent out of our surroundings.

Clapping me on the shoulder the lanky documentarian posed his daily question, “Where’re we eating?”

“Bird’s nest?” I proposed.

With an authoritative nod he lead the way up winding staircases and through too many security points to count before reaching the small bustle of tables and sparsely stocked vending machines. Aptly named; the eating spot overlooked the entrance of the silo from a high vantage point, it was a perfect place to watch the numerous deliveries and gawk at the security detail even one briefcase could have in tow.

“Major,” I put my hand to my hairline in a salute.

Ivan covered his mouth and turned to face the railing as the Major’s face soured. Below a sculpted ginger beard his lips pursed, supported by deep wrinkles forming on his stout neck.

“I couldn’t help it.” Sniggered Ivan through snorting chuckles. “Didn’t you wash your hands before eating?”

He was pointing the the ink-stained swollen hands that delicately cradled an egg and cheese sandwich, any small part that wasn’t rubbed black was a raw scarlet.

“Declassifying.” Explained the Major. “Birds aren’t falling out of the rafters, so you must have been on -“

“The Torah.” Ivan replied, as if this was a perfectly normal day at work.

Questions vied for supremacy as they divulged even the smallest morsel of detail about their work, but I held my tongue and let the pair eat in peace. As we ate, a small number of deliveries came and went. First to approach the desk were two men in tweed blazers and faded brown chinos who wouldn’t be out of place in an archaeology department mixer.

“Look at the way they walk.” The Major guided my vision with a wide palm on my upper back. “See the way they hardly swing their right arms?”

I nodded, watching as their gait became more obviously stilted.

“They’re carrying. Likely small caliber, can hardly see a crease in their belt-line.”

Producing a folder from his jacket, the man on the left signed and stamped the receipt of delivery and was on his way. It would appear they weren’t lecturers, but why did they seem so on edge?

The next deliveries were uneventful. Publishers delivering crates of new releases, a new delivery of air purifiers and tall slim gas cylinders, and a woman who left a flash drive on the counter and left without a word or pen stroke.

Disillusioned by the day’s haul, I began to turn back to my lunch. Shouting interrupted my disconnection from the scene as a copier slammed his fists on his desk and began bellowing. From the height it was hard to make out, so I gently leaned against the guardrail.

“- Swore an oath! We both did! Every page, documented for all time!” He roared, red in the face with particulates of spit emphasising his frustration. His adversary was a hunchbacked man with a patchy cream cardigan draped over his boney shoulders. Facing away from us it was impossible to hear his reply, frozen in space he didn’t move an inch but it was clear from the unwavering attention of the copier that he was giving a slow and methodical reply. Swiping the papers off his desk the man leapt to attention and ran North slipping deep into the maze of shelves, swiftly pursued by a number of bystanders in coordinated black formalwear.

“What was all that about?” I uttered to myself.

“Think nothing of it.” My lunch mates replied.

“Wait.. You know something!” I leaned in, fascinated by the prospect of drama in the library.

‘Keep yer voice down!” The Major hissed. “Of course we know. We’ve been here longer than you’ve had a nose to pick. Some books aren’t worth keeping, that’s all.”

“Well, one book.” Ivan absentmindedly corrected, earning himself a stare that could shatter glass from his neighbour.

“What’s in it?” I whispered.

“Who knows.” Ivan swept up the stray lettuce that had escaped his wrap into a small pile. “Could be too dangerous to store. The book itself could be harmful to handle. Might contain information on the founding of this socie-“

“Stop.” The Major commanded. Standing to attention he contributed one last piece of advice to the conversation, “it doesn’t matter what’s in the book. If we’ve been told it’s not for our eyes, we forget about it.”

Ivan pinched the pile of gathered greens and scattered them into his mouth, “ironic, coming from the guy declassifying government papers.”

Exhaling hard from his nose, the brawny figure turned and stomped off towards the stairs. Ivan and I sat in the silence, recovering from the ripples of his dramatic exit. Commotion carried on in the corridors below, the occasional muffled shout would perk up like a human-scale arcade game.

“He’s just pretending.” Ivan answered my unspoken question. “Everyone wants to know what’s in the book. But, he thinks it’s Pandoras Box.”

My first thought is a memetic threat of extreme proportions. Perhaps self perpetuating once it's unleashed again.

[removed]

If it's realities audit log I'd love to take a gander and fix some shit going forward.

I sneak along the corridor. No one is around. I slip into the room and open that mystery forbidden book.

I see a date, 1962. A scribbled authors name, Feynman perhaps. Technical drawings and calculations cover the paper. An object, perhaps the size of a large suitcase. Some common electronic components. A few mechanical parts. And in the middle, a pair of spheres labeled "Thorium". And an estimated blast of several mega-tonnes.

You realize what this is. A nuke. And one of such elegant simple design that any reasonably skilled and equipped person could make it. Gone is the need for centrifuges, to mine many tonnes of uranium to get enough U 235. Gone are the high precision timing sequences, even the need for chemical explosives. Half the parts here are from a repurposed alarm clock.

Slowly you close the book and walk away, understanding why some knowledge should be hidden.

For a really good take on this general idea, see Arthur C Clarke's story 'Quarantine':

http://www.mayofamily.com/RLM/txt_Clarke_Quarantine.html

It's the year 3044, and agents have finally tracked down the last copy of fifty shades of gray...

I awoke from the long sleep of a man too focused. The words had lost all meaning though I still read them. The candles in my room flickered with a soft breeze from my open window. A chill writhed through me, up my back and through my head. Closing the book, I now understood.

I was given a task. Actually, I was given THE task. All of mankind's wisdom, folly, dreams, and nightmares lived here. A library unrivaled even by the internet. And in all of that, I was to read the ONE book that nobody had read in centuries. The ONE book that inspired murder, death, and suffering.

It's pages corrupted the souls of those who read it. It was originally hand-written, and it's first pages had turned to dust long before any remaining memory; even in this place. It claimed a divine origin, though nobody seemed to understand the words it contained. Written in languages long-dead.

I had to learn an ancient tongue to read it. And even then, I only had a translation, so I'm not entirely sure it's truly the correct book. The Elder told me what to look for; key phrases to search. I was warned to avoid reading more than what was necessary. I wish I had listened.

At dawn I found the evidence. Three passages that were exactly in the right places. One was supposed to be a prayer for the dead. The second was about resurrecting the dead. The final was a warning. These passages intrigued me. I kept reading. Beginning to end. Stories of rebellion, the rise and fall of kingdoms, love profound, a human sacrifice, and a curse against a woman who mastered a beast.

These pages seemed different, somehow. I do not see the need for it's destruction. I somehow feel that I should protect it. That I should preserve it. Perhaps copy it in secret. Maybe even translate it into a modern language so others can study it. Perhaps some day we could unlock it's secrets.

I feel as if it could inspire greatness among men. As if it could save us from the damnation that stalked all mankind from birth. That we could rise anew from the ashes of the old, and rebuild what was lost! It must be made known to all. It's secrets must be shared.

I began to urgently pack a traveling bag. I packed light, so that I might move swiftly. I had a few coins. They should be enough for a time. What was that phrase? "The worker deserves his food." That was it. Wise words! I carefully concealed the book in a wrapping of parchments. I sealed it with a wax seal; using the signet from our order.

Opening the door, I started to make my way to the Great Hall....

​

"He is leaving, My Lord," the steward said to The Elder. "Should I summon the guards?"

"No, I'll handle it. Simply ensure the doors stay closed."

​

I approached the doors. The grand entrance to our Hall. Made of Oak. Solid construction. These would outlast even the strongest siege engines. They were also heavy. I could not move them. A hand suddenly pressed weight on my shoulder.

"Brother, where are you going at this hour?"

It's The Elder! A jolt of panic shot through me. However, there's no way he knew my intentions. I could actually be honest and keep my vow. I only had to omit a few things.

"Elder! You startled me," I replied, "I was wanting to travel to Bringham."

"At this hour? It is well past the sunset and the dawn is still many hours away. Surely you could have waited until dawn?"

I let out a deep sigh. Of course he's right. Yet, if I delay, there's a chance I might fail. Failure CANNOT be allowed to happen. I persisted, "in normal circumstances, I would. Yet I fear a great loss. I don't have time to explain, I must go!"

His hand held firm. I could not move. His eyes met mine. Steely, grey eyes. Eyes that seemed to look into my thoughts themselves. I could not fail. Even with all my fears, I MUST escape with the book. My heart raced, my breaths became shallow and fast. I felt sweat on my forehead, felt the slight warmth of the lantern in The Elder's free hand.

"Brother Thomas," he began, "it is important that I know the answer about that book we discovered. Did you find those three passages?" I dared not lie to him. I did not need to.

"Yes," I stammered, "they were there. I've started the process of handling the book now."

"Handling it? I told you to validate the book, and then report to me. You could have done that well before lunch. Yet you've been in your room since dawn."

He knew! He had to know! I stood silent, our eyes locked. I suddenly noticed a numbness in my shoulder. I couldn't move my arm.

"You're feeling it now, aren't you? You've read the pages. I'm sorry it had to be you, but you're the only one who understands Ancient English. This was too important to leave any doubt. I wish you could have resisted." His voice was empathetic. I felt his empathy where my chest felt both numb and pain.

"It will be over soon. You'll grow weaker and more weary. Your chest will tighten until you slip away. It's as painless as I can make it."

"Why? Why do we need to destroy it?"

"Because this book, this ancient, ancient book. Was the reason the old world was destroyed. It's text spurred wars and genocide and countless deaths. It's words can be twisted to justify atrocities not seen in centuries."

My hearing started to muffle. His words sounded more distant. I became aware that I was on the floor now. The cold stone I felt only on my lower legs, though I knew I should feel it through my thigh.

"There are many like this book. Claiming to be messages from the ancient gods. They must all be destroyed, less we resurrect the Old Ways. Accept peace. The emptiness you shall behold will not pain you."

The Elder then began reciting a passage from the book itself, "...though I walk in the valley of deep shadow, I fear no harm...." The darkness envelopes me.

You posted this as a reply to the automod sticky not to the prompt, I assume by accident.