Free Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan

Penumbra sighs and passes it back to me. “Our books still do not require batteries. But I am no fool. It is a slender advantage. So I suppose it is a good thing we have”—and here he winks at me—“such a generous patron.”
    I stuff the Kindle back into my bag. I’m not consoled. “Honestly, Mr. Penumbra, if we just got some more popular books, people would love this place. It would be…” I trail off, then decide to speak the truth: “It would be more fun.”
    He rubs his chin, and his eyes have a far-off look. “Perhaps,” he says at last. “Perhaps it is time to muster some of the energy I had thirty-one years ago. I will think on it, my boy.”
    *   *   *
    I haven’t given up on getting one of those old logbooks to Google. Back at the apartment, in the shadow of Matropolis, sprawled out on the couch, sipping an Anchor Steam even though it’s seven in the morning, I tell my tale to Mat, who is poking tiny bullet holes in the skin of a fortresslike building with pale marbled skin. Immediately he formulates a plan. I was counting on this.
    “I can make a perfect replica,” he says. “Not a problem, Jannon. Just bring me reference images.”
    “But you can’t copy every page, can you?”
    “Just the outside. The covers, the spine.”
    “What happens when Penumbra opens the perfect replica?”
    “He won’t. You said this is, like, from the archives, right?”
    “Right—”
    “So it’s the surface that matters. People want things to be real. If you give them an excuse, they’ll believe you.” Coming from the special-effects wizard, this is not unconvincing.
    “Okay, so all you need is pictures?”
    “Good pictures.” Mat nods. “Lots of them. Every angle. Bright, even light. Do you know what I mean when I say bright, even light?”
    “No shadows?”
    “No shadows,” he agrees, “which is, of course, going to be impossible in that place. It’s basically a twenty-four-hour shadow store.”
    “Yep. Shadows and book smell, we’ve got it all.”
    “I could bring over some lights.”
    “I think that might give me away.”
    “Right. Maybe a few shadows will be okay.”
    So the scheme is set. “Speaking of dark deeds,” I say, “how’s it going with Ashley?”
    Mat sniffs. “I am wooing her in the traditional way,” he says. “Also, I am not allowed to talk about it in the apartment. But she’s having dinner with me on Friday.”
    “Impressive compartmentalization.”
    “Our roommate is nothing but compartments.”
    “Does she … I mean … what do you guys talk about?”
    “We talk about everything, Jannon. And do you realize”—he points down to the pale marbled fortress—“she found this box? She picked it out of the trash at her office.”
    Amazing. Rock-climbing, risotto-cooking PR professional Ashley Adams is contributing to the construction of Matropolis. Maybe she’s not such an android after all.
    “That’s progress,” I say, raising my beer bottle.
    Mat nods. “That’s progress.”

 
    THE PEACOCK FEATHER
    I ’M MAKING PROGRESS of my own: Kat invites me to a house party. Unfortunately, I can’t go. I can never go to any parties, because my shift at the store starts at precisely party o’clock. Disappointment twists in my heart; the ball is in her court, she’s bouncing me a nice easy pass, and my hands are tied.
    too bad , she types. We are chatting in Gmail.
    Yes, too bad. Although, wait: Kat, you believe that we humans will one day outgrow these bodies and exist in a sort of dimensionless digital sublime, right?
    right!!
    I’ll bet you wouldn’t actually put that to the test.
    what do you mean?
    This is what I mean: I’ll come to your party, but I’ll come via laptop —via video chat. You’ll have to be my chaperone: carry me around, introduce me to people. She’ll never go for this.
    omg brilliant! yes let’s do it! you have to dress up, though. and you have to drink.
    She goes for it. But: Wait, I’m going to be at work, I can’t