Day 13.
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. Twenty turns. I write today's date: November 16, 2125. The strokes come out tight. Done, I crumple the paper and press it under the paperweight, on top of yesterday's.
The pothos is watered. The soil is damp. Both leaves still there. The whitened one still white.
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. 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 face carries no cinnabar — wiped yesterday.
The new card pins at the left breast. The pin tight. From the locker room to Zone C I pressed it 3 times.
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: 206 hr 09 min > Clock: running
The head-of-queue item I haven't touched. Day 11. Today it resends for the 14,829th time.
Morning stamping. First, a heating renovation cost apportionment for a block of old buildings in West City, human impact Grade 3, 47 names in the annex. I count 47. Stamp. Second, a designation eligibility review at a community clinic, human impact Grade 3, 312 names in the annex. I count 312. Third, a temporary hardship assistance extension, human impact Grade 2 — no stamp, to the execution tier. Fourth, a name check for student grants, human impact Grade 3, 1,026 names in the annex. I count 1,026. Fifth, a pricing review for funeral services, 63 names in the annex.
Names counted this morning: 47, 312, 1,026, 63. I don't keep totals. I count one, and it's one.
09:15:02.
My hand shakes. 0.4 seconds. The seal stops in midair, comes down, face square. Item in hand: 3,317. That number I kept today.
10:04, I set the terminal to register search.
Twenty years, I have never searched myself on a terminal.
> Register search result sheet (current register) > Search term: Shen Yan > Hits: 1 > Staff no. / seal no.: HZ-4471 > Onboarded: November 3, 2105 > Post: reviewer · Zone C > Status: in service > Searched by: HZ-4471
One entry.
I switch to the historical register.
> Register search result sheet (historical register) > Search term: Shen Yan > Insufficient permissions > Notice: this library may be accessed only by Personnel Section post A and the Audit Office records desk > This search has been logged
A second time.
The first was on day 2, on the machine in the Archives. That one didn't come up either.
The small print at the bottom right of the screen I read for 2 seconds. I close the search window. Closing takes 2 clicks. The second is one too many.
11:52, the canteen opens. Today the meat is ribs and fish; the vegetables, greens and tofu. I take greens and tofu, one scoop of rice. The woman at the serving line doesn't look at me. She looks at the ladle.
Lao Ge sits down across from me with his tray. 2 dishes today.
He says: Vegetables today.
I say: Mm.
He says: Yesterday too.
I say: Yesterday was chicken and cabbage.
He says: You didn't touch the chicken.
I say: How do you know.
He says: I watched.
He drinks the soup. Not a mouthful left.
He says: There was a line on the third floor today.
I say: East end.
He says: West end too.
I say: What were you there for.
He says: I wasn't there. I was passing.
He eats 2 bites.
He says: Ever looked at your file.
I say: No.
He says: Neither have I.
He says: It's all the same things anyway.
I say: What things.
He says: One sheet. The same every 10 years.
I say: What day did you start.
He says: Forgot.
I say: Twenty years and it's forgotten.
He says: What's forgotten is which day. The 20 years I haven't forgotten.
He picks up his tray and goes. Halfway off he turns his head: The seal keeps the man.
13:20, hall-leave register. Reason: Personnel Section · own file lookup. Expected return, 15:20.
13:28, third floor, west end. East end to the ID window, 48 tiles. West end to the records window, 31. Today I counted the west stretch.
No queue outside the window. Inside sits a woman around 50, in gray, blue sleeve guards on both arms. White in the seams of her nails — paper dust.
On the sill, 6 file bags stacked. The top one's string end is unraveled, half undone.
I pass the new card in.
She says: Lookup.
I say: Lookup.
She says: Your own.
I say: My own.
She taps the terminal a few times and slides a sheet out.
> Personnel file lookup request (own file) > Applicant: HZ-4471 > Scope: own file · complete > Purpose: (blank) > Accepted by: Personnel Section files post > Acceptance no.: DA-2125-1116-009 > Verification: in person · seal no. 4471 · pass
I say: The purpose field doesn't need filling.
She says: Own file, own lookup. Nothing to fill.
She says: You fill it and I'd only strike it out.
I say: Why strike it.
She says: The field comes with the system.
She takes the sheet back and stamps it at the bottom right. Steel. It presses a circle into the paper, the circle's rim a little blurred.
She says: Lookup room inside, third door. Gloves on the table. Wear them or not, your call.
She says: No copying.
I say: Excerpts are allowed.
She says: Extraction slips are on the table. One per page. Hand them to me when done.
The lookup room is a small room. One long table, a glass sheet on it, a paper pressed beneath: Archives Lookup Rules. The corners curl; the innermost corner worst. On the table a desk lamp, a magnifier, a cardboard box of white gloves, a layer of dust on the lid.
I sit. Four minutes of waiting.
She comes in carrying a kraft bag, sets it on the table, undoes the string end, pushes it half an inch toward me.
On the bag, a number: HZ-4471. The seal on the mouth of the bag is intact. A steel seal pressed into it, bearing no words, only a string of digits.
I say: How many pages.
She says: It's written on the bag.
I say: Have you counted.
She says: I don't count. I look at the seal. Seal intact, pages intact.
I say: A page could be missing inside.
She says: Then the seal wouldn't be intact.
She goes out and pulls the door shut.
I drag the bag closer.
Page one.
> Register of persons entry (excerpt) > Name: Shen Yan > Staff no. / seal no.: HZ-4471 > Onboarded: November 3, 2105 > Post: reviewer · Zone C > Capture terminal: ZP-04 > History before onboarding: (blank) > Family members: (blank) > Emergency contact: (blank)
Onboarded: November 3, 2105.
I read that line 3 times.
> Service record (excerpt) > November 2105–October 2106 · probation · Result: fit > November 2106–October 2107 · on duty · Result: fit > ... > November 2123–October 2124 · on duty · Result: fit > Total: twenty service years · fit × 20 · gaps: (none) > Awards and discipline: (none) Absences: (none) Reassignments: (none)
Awards and discipline: none. Absences: none. Reassignments: none.
The record is neat. One year to a line, 20 years 20 lines, not one missing. The blanks are neat too: history before onboarding blank, family blank, emergency contact blank. Three blanks on one sheet, stacked squarely.
The last page is not the record.
> Staff annual physical (2124) > Employer: Head Office of Review Affairs Staff no.: HZ-4471 > Date of physical: November 3, 2124 > Facility: Staff Health Management Center · Physical Exam Section 2 > Height: 172 Weight: 68 > Blood pressure: 120 / 80 Heart rate: 72 > Vision: 5.0 / 5.0 Hearing: normal > Blood panel: normal Chest X-ray: no abnormality > Medical history: (blank) > Examining physician signature: (blank) > Result: fit
Twenty sheets, one a year, fastened at the back, 2105 through 2124.
I lay the 20 sheets out on the table, top to bottom.
First sheet, height 172. Last sheet, 172. Weight 68, 68. Blood pressure 120/80, 120/80. Heart rate 72, 72. Vision 5.0, 5.0.
Twenty sheets. Not one line off.
Examining physician signature fields, 20 of them. All blank.
Result fields, 20 of them, all "fit." The characters handwritten. I pull 3 sheets side by side: the 2105 one, the 2115 one, the 2124 one. The same character 3 times — same opening stroke, same closing stroke, the final hook the same length.
I stack the 20 sheets back together.
This year's isn't in the stack. The 2125 physical hasn't come yet.
I twist the desk lamp brighter and move it half a foot right.
From the inside pocket I take out that page.
Folded in 3, the creases pressed dead. I flatten it with both hands and set it under the glass sheet.
I drew it out of page one of the main file on day 6. Drawing it, I didn't count the 40 years. Today I counted.
> Decision 77413 · approval page (main file, page one) > Matter: decision to maintain life support for registered person no. 0001 (rights Grade 3 · human impact) > Proposal tier: proposal no. 2061 > Execution tier: Municipal No. 7 Nursing Home > Review field > Reviewer (natural person): Shen Yan (handwritten) > Seal no.: 4471 > Date: November 3, 2065 > Straddle: (steel seal, pressed on the edge) Review: (cinnabar, intaglio)
I drag the file's first page over and set it to its left.
Two pages, side by side.
Left: November 3, 2105. Onboarded. Right: November 3, 2065. Reviewer (natural person) Shen Yan, seal no. 4471.
Same month, same day. The years differ by 40.
I run the numbers once. Run them again. Forty years is four tens. Twenty years on the job is only two.
I take the magnifier.
Both pages carry a steel seal at the left. Machine-pressed, through to the back of the paper; you can feel it from behind. Both pages, you can feel.
The steel seal bears one character: the character for the Assize.
I count the teeth. Thirty-two to a circle — 32 left, 32 right. Depth of the impression, drawn under a fingernail: the same height.
The manual's own words are drier: the straddle seal tests integrity, the review seal tests responsibility.
The first page's steel seal sits at the page edge; the edge shows no sign of substitution. The approval page's steel seal sits at the page edge; no sign there either. Only the binding holes are furred from wear, the furring on the left, turned many times by many hands across 40 years.
Both are genuine. The steel seals say both are genuine.
Yesterday, third floor east end, there was one on the ID window's screen:
> 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)
The first holder starts November 2075.
The approval page is dated November 3, 2065. That year, on this record, the first holder had not yet begun. The second, even less.
Three documents. 3 years: 2065, 2075, 2105.
I say the 3 lines to myself twice. The extraction slips sit at the corner of the table, a stack, the top one's edge furred. I don't touch a single one.
15:04, I return the file to its bag. String wound 3 times, the end pressed back under the seal. The steel seal on the strip sits where it sat.
I push the bag out.
She takes it, weighs it in one hand.
She says: The counting isn't yours to do.
I say: 37 pages.
She says: It's written on the bag.
She says: And the extraction slips.
I say: No excerpts.
She says: You were in there over an hour.
I say: Looking.
She says: Looking is looking.
She carries the bag off, clamped in her elbow, the string end swinging under her hand.
15:12, back to Zone C. One hour 52 minutes out of the hall.
Afternoon stamping. An annual review for a community elderly care service station, human impact Grade 3, 205 names in the annex. I count 205. Stamp. Second, an old-age allowance extension, 91 names in the annex. I count 91.
Nothing new pops at the top right of the desk. The file went in on day 6. Today is day 13.
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: 8,300 > Net time: 5 hr 00 min > Average: 2.17 sec/item > Errors: 0
Past the standings screen. First line, not me. Day 8.
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.
I unpin the new card and put it under the paperweight. The person in the photo looks ahead. Not at me.
I take out the slip of paper and flatten it. 7 lines on the front. Under the seventh I write one more: November 3, 2105.
Eight now.
On the back, still 2 lines.
Twenty physicals, 20 "fit," 20 blank signature fields. The 2125 one hasn't come; the notice hasn't come down.
The file is 37 pages. Page 1 gives the onboarding. The last page gives the result. In between, 35 pages, each with a signature field at the bottom, and every signature is a number.
Tomorrow is day 14. First in the queue, still 77413.
Three documents, 3 years. Two steel seals, one character: the character for the Assize.