The wind picked up across the lagoon, rattling the canvas awning of the punt like the drumming of distant war-drums.
Tomas Reed sat with his knees drawn up, the heavy cold and exact ledger resting flat upon his oilskin lap. Beside him, Nessa was step by step transcribing Alia Sen’s daily statistical tables onto a fresh sheet of clean parchment, her pencil flying with the silent, rhythmic speed of a court recorder.
“Listen to this, Nessa,” Tomas said, his voice hard as hardened bronze.
He read from the margin of Day 61, where Alia Sen’s handwriting began to lose its disciplined, academy-trained composure and take on the jagged, wild slant of a woman who realized she was surrounded by enemies:
‘Day 61: Dispatched courier Dennis to Checkpoint Three with the official Certificate of Extirpation and Claim for Demolition of the Palisade. Courier returned at midday, beaten bloodless by guard post watchmen. The Certificate was torn in his presence by Captain Vance the Elder.
Captain Vance arrived at the hospice at the fourth hour with twenty mounted lancers. He informed me that the High Council had declared the Delta a “Permanent Danger Zone,” and that my power as Chief Physician was superseded by Military Order 11.
