Page 54 of Carousel

And the word Negligence really does keep popping up. Cosmer and Riss will likely face execution if they fail to get us Integrated. Just as Riss had said.

I want to change my fate.

What if that ends up changing theirs?

I don’t know Riss. I don’t really know Cosmer, now.

But I wouldn’t want my actions to get them killed.

To distract myself from this growing and probably ridiculous anxiety, I study the lengthy prisoner of war section, handwritten presumably by Dezeeves himself.

An Integration plan may be different for each prisoner. No FI who has undergone the process shall discuss what transpired during their own.

Lower down, it really does state that once Fully Integrated, a former prisoner shall be considered no different from any other soldier of Hevalla.

I double-take. Because underneath the section is a signature and the name State Craftsman Vikemy Pire, followed by the Assembly’s stamp.

I close the book. I can’t read it any longer. The words are invading each other on the page.

But what else to do with my time?

Paper. I have paper, and a pen. And that is power.

I could write a letter to Old Mother and Eric. I doubt Riss will let me post it, but at least I’ll have it ready, when I can.

Old Mother, I write. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye to you. Please know that I wanted to and wasn’t permitted to. I miss you, so much. I dreamed of you last night. I wonder what cards you are drawing for me, in my absence. Please say it’s The Card of Hope.

Eric, I hope you’re doing everything I said. Keeping an eye on the rations. Planning every dinner to serve. I know we love Babba, but don’t feel guilty if you need to send her out on Seventh Day. She had her purpose⁠—

“What are you doing?”

I look up, my pen still blotting ink on the page. Riss.

“I’m writing a letter to my family,” I say, calmly.

“You can’t do that. The paper is only for⁠—”

“Taking down messages. I know that. But I’ve had absolutely nothing come through on my frequency. Other than a debate on sea biscuits versus saltines.” I push the lid back on my pen. “I’d be very happy to share that write-up with you if you’d like. It was fascinating.”

“Cut the attitude,” she snaps. “I was just starting to like you.”

I’m still holding my letter. “When can I post it?”

“When you’ve FI’d.”

“Riss,” I say, quietly – aware we’re drawing the attention of the analysts around us. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to them – my brother and my grandmother. I have no idea how they’re coping without me⁠—”

“That’s not my problem.”

But then she moves her head. Looks at me from a different angle.

“Let me take it,” she says, softer. “I’ll keep it safe, and I’ll give it back to you when you can actually post it.”

“That’s not doing me a favour. You were going to take it off me anyway!”

“Yes,” she says. “But now I’m doing it nicely. You’re welcome.”

When the standing clock in the room strikes eleven past the hour, five hours since the start of duties, some of the intelligence analysts start leaving the room. It all looks coordinated – they know exactly who to hand their headbands to.