Kant's Law

The rain was pouring down mercilessly. Visibility was shitty, Kant thought.

"Listen, Derrida! It's over! Put down the burner and give me back my book!"

"No, Kant! You know the rules, you know how to play this! It's all or nothing!"

They stood on the roof of the enormous city library building. Torrents of acid rain continued to pour from the black night sky. Police planes circling above them illuminated them with a deathly pale light, their engines stirring up a gusty wind. They could barely hear each other.

A shitty situation. Kant remained silent, concentrating on the convergence of the bow tie with the center of Derrida's forehead. He smiled, remembering again that they had lied in training. It wasn't true that in the heat of the moment, everything happens so quickly that you can't think, you can only react.

He managed to remember exactly how it all had begun.

In three minutes, the alarm would go off.

He hated it, an anniversary gift from his ex-wife. But he felt a sort of fondness for it. It motivated him to open his eyes earlier and turn it off before it screeched. Her voice, the repeated, "Get up, honey, it's time!"

So he woke up at the same time as usual. He sat up in bed and lit a cigarette. It was breakfast. He stared at his eerily shaking hand for a moment. The same one as always, the right one. He wanted to see if it wasn't shaking more today. More than usual.

A short shower. The warm water circulating through the pipes hadn't even reached the height of his seventeenth-floor apartment by the time he dried himself off. He thought about cold rain. He liked rain.

A quick shave. Not very thorough, but enough to keep anyone from complaining. He wiped away the remaining lather with a towel. Like in tough guy movies. This time it took a little longer than usual, because he had to shave off his visibly growing hair today.

A glass of vodka. Another one. Only at the third time did his hand stop shaking. Well, maybe a fourth, just to be sure.

White shirt, suspenders with a holster under his arm, black tie, black business suit. He reloaded his Beretta, reflexively aimed it at the mirror, checking the sight adjustment. He saw himself with the barrel on his nose. Then he put on dark glasses.

To work, taking the metro. He boarded at a sad, Art Nouveau station. Ornate grilles and elaborate, old-style pillars, overgrown with old-fashioned cobwebs, between them holograms of advertisements and propaganda messages. On the platform, strange people who had long since ceased to surprise him. The downside of liberalism. He stood next to a seated, elderly gentleman in a top hat. He peered over his shoulder, because the top hat was reading a video newspaper.

Arkham Heroes Street station, he got out. Rain caught him on the street. He wondered if it was normal or another sour one. Two intersections and he was already on the building's steps. He walked slowly down the corridor, passing the focused people waiting in line. Then he descended the stairs, all the way to the bottom. He passed the "Staff Only" sign, successfully passed through the door secured with an iris-identifying lock, then down the stairs again, and straight ahead, all the way to the Enforcement Department itself. He pressed the doorknob.

Again the channels of the inner, dark corridor, a few silent bows, three handshakes, the familiar room with sign number 42. Behind the desk was Derrida, his partner.

Instead of the usual "hello," he heard:

"You, I'm in love.

" Derrida was a few years younger, having joined the firm straight after law school and a short training course at the academy. One of the best graduates. Privately, a rather unpragmatic melancholic. Perhaps he even still believed in love. Sure.

"Did you go wild tonight? Maybe you're imagining it?

" "No, I've known her for a while. I want to be with her. I filed an application to start a family at the Civil Registry Office this morning." Derrida rubbed his temple.

"They won't give it to you. Do you know how many people are waiting for permission? Did you tell her what you do?

" "I said I work in a library.

" "Great. You think she won't find out? This will end badly.

" "Listen, Kant. I've had enough. I want a house with a garden and children. Spend my evenings in front of a hologram, with my wife by my side, in slippers. I want my name back."

He looked at Derrida with a condescending smile. Instead of their own names and surnames, they used codenames, the surnames of deceased philosophers. He himself couldn't remember his real name anymore. Honestly. Kant, that was all he could read on the ID card, and the entire identity he identified with.

"Forget it.

" "Then I'll leave.

You don't leave the company." Everyone knows it.

Agent Hegel burst into the room.

"Get ready, guys! You're going to the intervention. Your little bird has finally shown up.

The little bird's apartment has been bugged for a week. Surveillance 24/7, three shifts. The bastard disappeared about a month ago. With priceless merchandise.

An old tenement building, a long corridor leading to the stairwell. The police downstairs had blocked the street, cordoning everything off. They shone searchlights into the windows, breaking the darkness and rain.

Derrida and Kant ran up the stairs. At the scene, several officers evacuated neighboring apartments, and Agents Kołakowski and Rorty were talking to a police sergeant, agreeing on entry details.

A moment later, Derrida and Kant were climbing out the window of the apartment next door. Rorty and Kołakowski were standing on either side of the door. Rorty knocked.

"Mr. Malinowski, please open up! Enforcement Department! Your deadline for turning in..."

Before he could finish, the door was ripped apart by a burst from a handgun. The Teflon-coated bullets also pierced his bulletproof vest, and moments later, Agent Rorty lay in the hallway, coughing up blood. Kołakowski began firing blindly, and the police panicked.

Derrida and Kant were in the airplane. The windshield wipers were on full blast, and the rain was relentless. They were returning to the office. Kant led the way, Derrida wrote a standardized report:

"0604 hrs, 45 sec.

Agents Derrida and Kant take up positions on the ledge, directly below the suspect's windows. Agents Rorty and Kołakowski surround the entrance door.

0605 hrs, 37 sec.

Agents Rorty and Kołakowski attempt to establish verbal contact with the suspect. The attempt is unsuccessful. The suspect engages in barrage fire with a 9mm Ingram submachine gun, armor-piercing ammunition. He destroys the door, inflicting direct damage to Agent Rorty. Agent Kołakowski returned fire." The

on-board communicator buzzed. Kant answered.

"Intervention vehicle number 627. Over!"

A well-known girl from the control room appeared on the monitor.

"Everyone has heard about your operation. Congratulations from the bottom of my heart." The old man told me to invite you over right away and told me to make three coffees, so he'll probably pat you both.

"Thanks, tell Plato to open the champagne.

I also have some bad news. Derrida, this just came to you from the Civil Registry Office. Sorry, man. For now, guys. "

Derrida looked at the printout.

"We regret to inform you... due to the duties assigned to us, it's impossible for now... you've been put on the waiting list. Fuck.

" "I told you. No chance.

" "Screw you."

He returned to his report.

"06:06, 02 sec.

Agents Kant and Derrida break the windows in the apartment and open fire on the suspect.

06:08, 59 sec.

Agents Derrida, Kołakowski and Kant enter the apartment, secure the evidence and the recovered artifact.

The planned objective of the operation – achieved.

Own losses – Agent Rorty shot fatally in the lung, carotid artery and right arm. Two policemen slightly wounded.

Other losses – the suspect and four members of his immediate family: wife, son, two daughters.

Items seized: Ingram type submachine gun, caliber 9 mm. 276 rounds of armor-piercing ammunition, 389 rounds of standard ammunition. Illegal narcotics, of unknown origin: narcotics, stimulant patches, intravenous military painkillers. The novel "Foucault's Pendulum" by Umberto Eco, hardcover edition, condition intact."

Kant knew the contents of this report well. He would read it many times afterward. It was the last document he had left of his friend.

The rain was pouring down mercilessly. Kant wiped his face with the back of his soaked sleeve.

He remembered they were already in the building. They were going to deposit the recovered book, along with the items secured at the scene. Derrida suddenly stopped.

"Sorry, man. I won't let this go."

He punched Kant in the face, unexpectedly. Kant fell, rolling. The book fell from his hands. Derrida disappeared behind the elevator doors as the dazed Kant rose from the floor. He rode up.

They stood facing each other now. Kant gripped the handle of his Beretta, Derrida held the book securely in one hand, and the torch, which he must have retrieved from the emergency safety box in the elevator, in the other.

I repeat, give me the book, Derrida! Don't be an idiot!

I'll give it back if they guarantee me permission! That's the least they can fucking do for me, right? Tell them I'll burn this book when they beat me up!

Books published traditionally on paper, so-called old prints, are of immense value. They can only be lent under special conditions. They should not be destroyed, under any circumstances. That's the rule.

Kant was an employee of the National Public Library, Department of Enforcement. He had no choice. He fired.

Fortunately, the "Foucault Pendulum" landed on the roof, intact.