The taxi stalled again.

  Four hundred and sixty-five days left.

  That was when Officer Bear summoned me.

  My mind rose from its swamp in slow irritation. Who dares disturb the ecosystem that bubbles only once every three days? I was probably the quietest supervisee in the department’s history. I shaved, brushed my teeth, pulled on a beach shirt and jeans, and went to meet Senhor Mendes and his refrigerated stare.

  Public transport only. Approved routes only.

  The SaBra metro was one of the few corridors I was allowed to exist in-moderately noisy, moderately dirty, saturated with cameras and patrol robots. Sometimes I imagined the subway wasn’t a subway at all, just a prison hallway that happened to move.

  This time, the Bear didn’t make me wait.

  A “public institution of higher education”-his exact phrase-required temporary staff for its archive. As part of my corrective assignment, I would be transferred there for several months.

  An archive.

  I made a visible effort to show obedience and nothing else. No outrage. No anxiety. He watched, clearly hoping for one of those. When none came, he dismissed me to administration.

  Only afterward did it occur to me that perhaps I should have asked my lawyer how legal this “variation” in my punishment was.

  Then I remembered I had no money for lawyers.

  So I went.

  Still, the sluggishness of my mind and the delay in grasping the situation disturbed me. Somewhere in a hidden corner of my brain, an alarm flickered on: you need to restore your cognitive abilities.

  My journey through the bowels of the police administration was… enlightening. I had to speak with numerous people in person, answer template-like questions, and be photographed several times. It felt as though this environment had not been fully touched by the advances of computer technology. Antique scanners. Computers in metal casings. Paper labels on fireproof cabinets. Almost nothing wireless.

  The people working there were even more alike than the machines. Everything was permeated by a spirit of… bureaucratic uniformity? Bored faces. Inexpensive clothing cut from nearly identical patterns. Words seemingly reproduced a thousand times on some ancient Xerox machine and permanently inserted into their mouths and heads as part of their duties.

  I even found myself wondering whether they had voluntarily locked themselves into this gallery of dreary rooms and chosen to walk along a single drawn line. After all, their fate was not much better than mine-they, too, could not freely and effortlessly leave this system. The only difference was that in just over a year I would be free. They would not.

  What was high-quality, expensive, and modern was the weaponry. I’d never paid much attention to it, but the sleek outlines of the guards’ pistols and body armor stood out. Perhaps they were issued so that all these paper-pushers wouldn’t flee their clerical confinement.

  Metro again. The unblinking lenses of cameras and robots staring at me. In their light-speed brains, I’m sure a bright tag glows above me: *House Arrest*. Only the bracelet on my ankle protects me from an immediate taser strike.

  As the tunnel walls flashed past, my brain again tried to slip into hallucination. It began to seem as though I had never left my apartment at all, that everything was one enormous building: the entrance flowing directly into the subway, which carried me up stone steps into the Bear’s office; from there an old concrete staircase led into the labyrinth of administration; from there an escalator descended like medieval catacombs back into the metro.

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  What awaited me ahead? Another dusty ceiling and concrete walls painted with cheap paint? The sky and air felt impossibly distant. I hadn’t seen them in years… I am trapped in the guts of the megalopolis by my own stupidity, doomed to wander them forever, listening to dry, monotonous phrases and automated metro announcements…

  With a tremendous effort of will, I pulled myself together and did not miss my station. That would certainly have harmed my prospects.

  The university I was sent to did not betray my worst expectations. Apparently, this was where those honored by the state-or the authorities of SaBra-with publicly funded higher education studied. Like many institutions sustained by public money, it was gray, constructed of crushed stone mixed with ancient concrete, and repaired more than once.

  I had visited respectable universities-studied at a couple, in fact-and they were always centers of high thought, cutting-edge technology, and comfort, designed to nurture geniuses and cultivate the fruits of knowledge. The students here probably left with square-shaped brains and a blue stamp pressed onto their foreheads.

  And until I descended into the basement archive, I had never experienced claustrophobia.

  The sight of a vast room crammed with shelving units and lit by fluorescent lamps that were probably my grandmother’s age made my insides twist and grow cold.

  When reason finally overcame despair and revulsion, I noticed the girl addressing me.

  Deputy head of the archive. Short-barely reaching my shoulder. Dressed in a cheap blazer and skirt. Thick-lensed glasses; apparently even her position in such an institution did not allow for contact lenses. Dark hair, unevenly cut. A protruding chin. Her voice carried neither authority nor urgency-only the same dreary bureaucratic intonations.

  I introduced myself, handed over my documents, and was assigned to Sector Four of the archive. Five others like me worked there-sent by various police departments into this paper circle of hell.

  The schedule was simple: arrive at nine a.m., sort documents according to a two-page instruction sheet, leave at six p.m. Smoking prohibited. Meals twice a day at the university’s expense. Bathroom visits under the supervision of a duty officer.

  It was like a squirrel running in a wheel.

  Or the life of an ordinary person.

  At another time I would have lain awake at night devising ways to escape supervision and disappear-after first setting fire to this damned archive. But now my mind was tempering itself day by day.

  I will not give in.

  They may restrict my freedom, but they will not break my will. Neither Lady Fish-Eye nor Officer Bear will reach my soul. Performing routine tasks, I would occupy my mind with restoration. No one would know. And when I was released, I would already be smarter, more cunning, more prepared.

  When I had three hundred ninety-nine days left until freedom, I realized something had begun to change.

  The first sign was that I was transferred to Sector Eleven, the one closest to the entrance. I could not only see the door and the guard, but occasionally even feel a draft of fresh air sneaking in from outside.

  My duties changed. I was given new instructions and now carried folders between scanners, computer terminals, and shelving units. I was still forbidden from touching anything containing more electronics than a cigarette lighter, so I simply hauled weight and waited for the day to end.

  When three hundred ninety-three days remained, the second sign appeared.

  Returning from the shelves with another stack of folders, I saw Fish-Eye berating an employee working at a terminal. Her usual paper-rustling voice was gone. She waved her arms and shouted that it had been an urgent task and the employee had botched everything. Her blazer had flown open; thunder and lightning seemed to crackle in the air.

  Such passion.

  Under different circumstances, I might have considered getting to know her better for a couple of evenings.

  Suddenly she turned her head toward me. What was her name again? Eleonora? Georgia? Camilla?

  “You! If I remember correctly, your file states that you’re a specialist in information systems!”

  I carefully set the folders down on a counter. Interesting development.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. My file was not provided to me. I haven’t had the opportunity to review it.”

  “Our employee has broken the terminal he was working on! His task was very, very urgent! He must complete it within a very short time. This will affect the work of the entire archive… Fix this terminal!”

  Oh, wow. It smelled so obviously like a setup that I caught the scent even without preparation.

  Emma. Her name is Emma Zharneau.

  Keeping my expression neutral, I informed her that I could not assist in any way. She spent a good ten minutes pouring her viewpoint over me, but I remained immovable.

  After that, Emma rushed off, lamenting and wringing her hands, and I returned to hauling folders. I could only hope that higher powers would not punish her for such an obvious failure.

  That night I truly slept little-celebrating a small victory.

  The taxi finally squeezed through the jam.

  What a relief.

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