CAPITAL — FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE ARCHIVE ATTACK
Nothing was on fire.
I kept waiting for something to be on fire.
It had been five months since the archive attack. Five months since the black water and the forty-seven names and the wall for people who couldn't be remembered. Five months of training programs and integration assessments and institutional restructuring.
Five months of ordinary time.
And nothing was on fire.
"You're pacing," Kassandra observed from her position sprawled across the council chamber's least comfortable chair—a choice she made deliberately, I suspected, to prove that comfort was for people who hadn't survived enough assassination attempts.
"I'm not pacing."
"You've walked the same circuit fourteen times. That's pacing."
"It's thinking."
"It's anxious pacing dressed up as thinking. I recognize it. I do it too." She stretched, joints popping. "The quiet is making you crazy."
I stopped walking.
She was right.
The quiet was making me crazy.
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