Day 12.
05:47, boil water. 3 grams of pre-rain, 80 degrees, pour it down. Smell it 3 times. Pour it out.
There is ink in the well of the inkstone. I grind 20 turns — 20 years of turns, and the well has never gone dry once. I write today's date: November 15, 2125. The strokes come out tight. Done, I crumple the paper and press it under the paperweight.
The pothos is watered. The soil is damp. Both leaves still there.
06:12:00, the commuter car pulls in, empty. 06:12:08, the doors close. The car passes City Hall; the red characters on the sign sweep across the glass. Today I read the three numbers: 99.9997, with the water meter and the power meter beside it. B2 to the first floor, 19 seconds.
The locker is to the left of the entrance, no. 4471. Drawer two, 7 bandages. Drawer three, the seal. I take it out and set it on the pad.
The old card is in my breast pocket, a hard little slab, edges worn round. The number is HZ-4471-2115.
Before leaving today I took the old card out of the drawer and put it in my breast pocket. It sat in the drawer 10 years. Always this one spot.
A work card has 3 uses: into the building, open the drawer, draw the seal. All 3 live on this one card. Today the card changes, and all 3 change with it. The photo on the old card was taken in November 2115. That one served 10 years. Today's will serve 10 more, to 2135.
07:00:00, the desk lights up. First in the queue, 77413. The reroute order follows in the lower right corner.
> Status: Overdue > Overdue by: 182 hr 09 min > Clock: running
Morning stamping. First, an elevator installation cost apportionment for a block of old buildings in the east zone, human impact Grade 3, 39 names in the annex. I count 39. Stamp. Second, an enrollment eligibility review at a childcare provider, human impact Grade 3, 16 names in the annex. Third, a temporary hardship assistance disbursement, human impact Grade 2 — no stamp, to the execution tier. Fourth, a public rental housing waiting-list review, human impact Grade 3, 612 names in the annex. I count 612. Fifth, an employment subsidy review for disabled persons, human impact Grade 3, 247 names in the annex. I count 247.
Names counted this morning: 39 plus 16 plus 612 plus 247 is 914. I don't keep totals. I count one, and it's one.
The head-of-queue item I haven't touched. Day 10. As of today it has been resent 14,828 times.
The reroute order follows in the lower right corner. It has followed for 10 days. The manual gives a reroute a deadline of 72 hours. The deadline hit zero on day 4 at 16:51. After zero it keeps following anyway.
Xiao Zheng carries his cup off for water. Passing my row he doesn't stop.
Passing the standings screen this morning, I didn't look. Who holds the first line today is no business of mine.
09:15:02.
My hand shakes. 0.4 seconds. The seal stops in midair, comes down, face square. Item in hand: 3,104. That number I kept today.
10:20, I take the old card out of my pocket and set it on the corner of the desk. The face in the photo shows no age. Hair black. Collar dark. Eyes on the distance — not on me.
I turn the card over. One small line on the back: This card is for the holder's use only. It may not be transferred. Under the number there is a line of even smaller text, pressed in at manufacture. You can feel it. You can't read it.
Noon, the canteen. Today the meat is chicken and fish; the vegetables, cabbage and bean sprouts. I take chicken and cabbage, one scoop of rice.
I count my row. Five seated. In the bin at the tray return, 6 trays. Every one full.
The woman in the blue smock at the tray return changed the bin 3 times today. When she changes it she doesn't look at the bin. She looks at the door. I say: Busy today. She says: Not busy. I say: Then the changes are quick. She says: Lots left.
I eat 2 bites of cabbage. The chicken I don't touch.
Lao Ge sits down across from me with his tray. 2 dishes today.
He says: You're eating little today.
I say: Not hungry.
He says: Not hungry, you eat anyway.
I say: I'm eating.
He says: Two bites is not eating.
He says: Card renewal today.
I say: This afternoon.
He says: Which batch.
I say: Batch 10.
He says: I was batch 9, last month. Forty minutes in line.
I say: The photo is quick.
He says: 3 seconds.
He says: What 3 seconds produces, you carry 10 years.
He drinks the soup. Not a mouthful left.
I say: Is your new card the same as the old.
He says: Same.
I say: The photo too.
He says: The photo I can't tell.
He says: In photos I can't recognize myself.
I say: What number holder was Lao Zhou.
He says: What do you mean, what number holder.
I say: The seal.
He says: He didn't say, when he handed it to you.
I say: He didn't.
He says: He shouldn't have, either.
He says: Seal matters. The one handing over doesn't tell. The one taking doesn't ask.
I say: Why.
He says: Rule.
I say: Which rule.
He says: There is no such rule. That there's no such rule is what makes it a rule.
I say: After the renewal, don't hurry to stamp.
He says: The hand goes strange.
I say: The seal doesn't change.
He says: The card does.
I say: The card and the seal are not the same thing.
He says: I said it. The hand goes strange.
He picks up his tray and goes. Halfway off he turns his head: The seal keeps the man.
13:20, hall-leave register. Reason: card renewal, Personnel Section. Expected return, 14:20.
13:26, third floor. The ID window is at the east end of the corridor. On the sill, 6 plastic flowers in pots, a layer of dust on the leaves; the innermost pot has tipped over. Nobody rights it. Three notices pressed into the bulletin board, the top one 3 years old. One scratch runs across the window glass, end to end.
A queue outside the window, 7 people. A ticket machine on the wall, switched off, screen black. Nobody in the line speaks.
I stand seventh. The sixth ahead of me finishes in 4 minutes. The fifth's card has gone dead; the man inside the window sends him off for a temporary card first, then back in line from the start. He left with the temporary card and didn't look back.
Waiting, I count the floor tiles of the corridor. Window to stairwell, 48 tiles.
At the 10th minute, the third one ahead can't get his card to read. The man inside the window says: Come tomorrow. The man says: Tomorrow I work. The man inside says: Then the day after.
The line moves up once.
Behind the window sits a young man in gray, a badge at his collar. On the badge, a staff number. No name.
I pass the old card in. Before passing it I held it a while in my hand. The card face is cold. Held long enough, it takes a small sweat print at the edge. I wiped it off with my sleeve.
He types a few characters into the register form.
> Work card renewal register (batch 10) > Staff no.: HZ-4471 > Old card no.: HZ-4471-2115 > New card no.: HZ-4471-2125 > Capture: ID capture terminal ZP-04 > Capture time: November 15, 2125 13:41 > Issued to: (blank) > Recipient signature: HZ-4471
I say: The issued-to field is blank.
He says: It comes with the system. Nothing to fill.
I say: Blank is also what the system gives.
He says: It's what the system gives.
He says: In this batch, you're the first to ask about the issued-to field.
I say: The first.
He says: No, not the first. Last month an old man asked.
I say: What did he ask.
He says: He asked whose form this was.
I say: What did you tell him.
He says: I said it comes with the system.
He takes the old card in and drops it in a cardboard box to the left of the window. The box is half stacked with old cards. The topmost lies photo up, face to the ceiling. Someone from Zone B.
I say: Do all of these get destroyed.
He says: When a box fills up, it goes once.
I say: Sent where.
He says: I don't know.
I say: Who counts.
He says: Not me.
He says: Capture room is inside, second door. Stand on the footprints. Look at the lens. The lights will come on.
I say: Renewal requires the person in person.
He says: It does.
I say: No proxy collection.
He says: None. The system verifies the image.
The capture room is a small room. One chair, its seat faux leather, split once and taped. Two light boxes, one left, one right, their tubes behind frosted panels. The backdrop cloth light gray. On the floor, two footprint marks, worn down to half of each. One sheet of paper pasted to the wall.
> ID capture standard (excerpt) > Light source color temperature: 5500 K > Frontal illuminance: 800 lx > Background: light gray (standard R-3) > Shooting distance: 1.2 m > Focal length: 85 mm > Expression: neutral > Note: the above parameters are uniform nationwide. No adjustment permitted.
I step onto the footprints.
A voice comes down from the ceiling. A man's voice, the words evenly spaced. It says: Please sit upright.
I say: I'm sitting upright.
It says: Please look at the lens.
The lights come on. Two tubes, left and right, bright enough that the room holds no shadows. Three seconds. Lights out.
It says: Capture complete.
Three seconds. In 3 seconds I can stamp an item and a half.
Through the door seam comes one strip of corridor light. When I stand, there is a small shallow patch on the chair seat — the one I pressed into it.
I step onto the footprints a second time. The voice says: Already complete. Repeat capture not required.
I say: I didn't look at the lens.
The voice says: Complete.
On the window screen, two images side by side. Old image left. New image right.
I say: Identical.
He says: Lighting standard is uniform.
I say: Ten years, and the equipment is still this one machine.
He says: The equipment doesn't change.
I say: And the face.
He says: What?
I say: Nothing.
> Image consistency check > Old image: November 15, 2115 · ZP-04 > New image: November 15, 2125 · ZP-04 > Pixel difference: 0 > Result: pass (same person)
He says: Once it passes, the card can be made.
The card printer sits to the right of the window, hot, a smell of plastic. The new card comes out of the slot still soft. He clamps it in a clip, waits 10 seconds, hands it over.
The photo on the new card is the one from just now. I'm wearing today's clothes. Dark. The 2115 clothes were dark too. So were the 2105 ones.
The new card's edge is pressed, still warm from the press. A film over the photo. In the film's lower right corner, one bubble.
I say: There's a bubble.
He says: It doesn't affect anything.
I say: Doesn't affect what.
He says: Doesn't affect identification.
One more section on the window screen. I read it twice.
> ID images on file (staff no. HZ-4471) > November 2105 · onboarding capture · ZP-04 > November 15, 2115 · renewal capture · ZP-04 > November 15, 2125 · renewal capture · ZP-04 > Three-image consistency check: pass (pixel difference 0)
First, the onboarding year. Second, 10 years ago. Third, today. On all 3, the mark below the right eye is the same mark.
I say: Can it be searched further back.
He says: Back to when.
I say: The holder before me, on this number.
He taps twice.
> Holder change record (seal no. / staff no. 4471) > First holder: November 2075 — November 2105 > Second holder: November 2105 — in service > Reason for change: (blank) > Issued to: (blank)
I say: The first holder's images.
He says: Images don't follow the person. They follow the number.
He says: The number follows the seal. Not the person.
He pulls up the first holder's three.
> ID images on file (staff no. HZ-4471 · first holder) > November 2075 · onboarding capture > November 2085 · renewal capture > November 2095 · renewal capture > Three-image consistency check: pass (pixel difference 0) > Status: deregistered
The first is from 2075.
I have seen that face. 4 times, at the sanatorium, all 4 together less than two hours. He sat in that chair by the window, and the chair never moved.
A mole at the tail of the right eyebrow. I saw it when he was teaching me to hold the pen.
The 2075 mole and the sanatorium mole sit in the same place.
I say: Who was the first holder.
He says: The system has no name.
I say: The staff number.
He says: The same one.
I say: Then my number — whose was it before.
He says: Your number.
I say: The first holder had this number too.
He says: The number follows the seal.
He says it a second time.
I say: Twenty years between.
He says: Twenty years between.
I say: Twenty years, and one face doesn't change.
He says: Lighting standard is uniform.
I say: You've said that once already.
He says: It's the standard answer.
He says: Other questions, I ask the system. What the system gives me, I give you.
I say: And what the system gives you — is it the same as what you see yourself.
He stops a moment.
He says: I've watched 3 years. Every day I watch.
I say: And what have you seen.
He says: No difference to see.
I say: Not seeing a difference, and seeing that it's the same. Two different things.
He says: They are two things.
He says: The second one I can't do.
I say: And before 2075.
He says: There is no before.
I say: In 2075 he was already on this number.
He says: 2075 was the onboarding capture. Before that, no capture.
I say: Where was he before.
He says: The system doesn't have it.
I say: What does deregistered mean.
He says: The number stopped being used.
I say: And the person.
He says: The system has no "person" field.
I say: How long are images kept on file.
He says: Long-term.
I say: How long is long-term.
He says: That's the system's own writing. Exactly those words.
He writes "Card issued" on the register form and pushes the paper to me.
> Recipient signature: HZ-4471 > Card produced: ZP-04 · November 15, 2125 13:44 > Old card disposition: collected for destruction
The new card pins at the left breast. The pin is tighter than the old one. Walking back to Zone C, I pressed it 3 times.
The old card is in that cardboard box. Photo up or photo down — I don't know.
Going downstairs I run into Xiao Zheng. He says: Shen. Renewed. I say: Renewed. He says: Mine is batch 8. I say: Last month. He says: How do you know. I say: The order of the list. He says: Oh. He says: The new card is stiff. I say: Stiff.
14:26, back to Zone C. One hour 6 minutes out of the hall.
I click the head-of-queue line open. Tier-wide view log still 1. I hit refresh. Still 1.
Nothing new pops at the top right of the desk. The file went in on day 6. Today is day 12.
15:00, I unpin the new card and set it on the desk beside the seal on its pad. One is plastic, one is wood. The edges of both worn round. The pin's point is blunt; it doesn't prick the finger.
Afternoon stamping. A site review for a community elderly care service station, human impact Grade 3, 103 names in the annex. I count 103. Stamp. Second, an old-age allowance review, human impact Grade 2 — no stamp, to the execution tier. Third, a medical assistance review, human impact Grade 3, 81 names in the annex. I count 81.
15:37, up for water. Forty steps there and back. The water sits at my right hand. Not one sip.
16:44, day-close.
> Reviewer: HZ-4471 > Stamps today: 7,200 > Net time: 4 hr 20 min > Average: 2.17 sec/item > Errors: 0
Past the standings screen. First line, not me. Day 7.
16:51, seal return.
18:12, the commuter car pulls in, empty. Past City Hall, the red characters on the sign sweep across the glass.
Home. The inkstone unwashed. The pothos watered.
The day Lao Zhou handed over the seal, it was in the locker room. He set the seal in the palm of my hand. The seal was warm. He said: The seal outlasts the man. At the door he turned back and said: Don't change the locker. I said: Noted. He said: Twenty years, and the locker has never changed men. His twenty years, he meant. His own.
Every year at the Start of Winter Lao Zhou sends me one text message. Eleven years. Not one typo corrected. This year's arrived at 00:00 on November 7, to the minute. The question in it I have never answered, and he has never asked a second time.
Lao Ge said it today: Seal matters. The one handing over doesn't tell. The one taking doesn't ask. By the time he said it, the soup was already gone.
I put the new card on the desk under the paperweight. The person in the photo looks straight ahead. Not at me.
There is ink in the well. Today I write nothing more on it. Today I did write on paper — a staff number, not a name.
I take out the slip of paper and flatten it. 6 lines on the front. Under the last I write one more. 7 now. The seventh is: 2075.
On the back, still 2 lines.
The first holder's 3 images: 2075, 2085, 2095.
The second holder's: 2105, 2115, 2125.
6 images. Fifty years.
On the screen there were 2 numbers. One is 4471, start to finish 4471. The other I never saw.
I fold the slip and put it back in the inside pocket.
Today is November 15, 2125.
Tomorrow is day 13. First in the queue, still 77413.
The first holder's face — I've seen it 4 times. Not once has it aged.