Weapons

    Whoever I once was, I have decided I was entirely too good at puzzles. I don’t remember any of the times I’ve gone through revision, but I’ve learned more about it than is safe. The reason, I think, are my own recent unscheduled visits. The ones I asked for.

    No one asks for revision. Everyone goes through it on a rolling three-month schedule, which should be enough unless something major happens. Well, something major happened to me. I still can’t fathom how one phrase ended up so deeply ingrained inside me, but there’s a catch to this revision process.

    They can’t take away phrases and sentences. They only take away words. Or more accurately, they bury them. I can’t remember much of the letter I wrote, but that last phrase is all too clear. They took out words, “governed,” “subversive,” but the others are too ubiquitous. And when I remember one, I remember all of it. This much is clear from the fact that I can write the words above.

    That’s what frightens me about the Elites’ crusade—that the world can’t be purified as long as impure ideas survive. From my own experience I know ideas don’t need words to survive, they only need them to be communicated. To be remembered.

    That means the only way this can all work is if the words can be edited out enough so the ideas are never communicated. It’s not the remembering that’s the danger. It’s the communication. Just as in the histories I’ve documented. If I have a disease (and I do), I may die, but if I die without communicating it the disease dies with me.

    It’s the ray of hope I cling to. I can still be an Author of Truth with this burning phrase locked away inside. One day it may kill me, but on that day I kill it too.

    I’ve revised my opinion of Alexia. She worries me. Those smiles are genuine, but the mind behind them is still…

    She’s different. A break in the pattern, ever so slight. It’s nothing I can put my finger on—especially since I don’t know her personally—but I know enough to trust my instincts. I cannot afford another slip.

    I stay away from her. But part of me—the part that cannot let go of the phrase—wants to meet her. That is even more reason not to. I will be stronger than my weakness.

    I spend at least fifteen minutes a day now reading through my dictionary. I’ve found that it helps. Foam: the aggregation of bubbles which is formed on the surface of liquids. v. to gather foam. Foe: an enemy. Fog: A dense watery vapor. Foil: a leaf or thin plate of metal. Fold: the doubling of any flexible substance, as cloth; one part turned or bent on another. Follow: To go or come after or behind; to move behind in the same direction. And so on.

    The spaces interest me. I never paid them much attention before, but now…There’s a deliberate quality to them. Each takes the place of a word, or sometimes just one of its definitions. The spaces represent progress in culling useless…froth from the language. I wince as I realize what I just did. Froth has an abstract definition, one not on the page. It’s gone for a reason, but evidently it still exists in my mind. I put it firmly out of my head, concentrating once more on the page.

    I marvel at the number of blank spaces, the number of words people invented and used solely to pursue the craft of creative writing. All of that time and effort wasted in the pursuit of ignorance. Many of the words held the same meaning as other words. Another trick…no, perhaps that is unfair. Writing was not invented as a weapon, it existed only for itself. And yet for the Wordsmiths this would be a weapon, using words that meant the same to make the same things—perhaps even Truth—appear different.

    The empty spaces on the page are a mark of the victory of precision. Having more words does not make one more precise. In my own experience it introduces…precision’s opposite.

    My dictionary is slightly different from the norm. Ordinarily I would never mark a book, but I have made an exception. “Extent,” “authority,” “govern,” and “writing” I have crossed out, the way I crossed my old name out so long ago. The worst word, “subversive,” has no place in the lexicon of the Library; it’s already a blank space, but I found where the word would sit and crossed the blank out for good measure. I can take some small pleasure in knowing I can face what I was, pen in hand, and cross it out. It hurts, but the pain is strength.

    As the day’s work ends, I send my completed documentation to Cadmus for revision, turn off my screen, place the dictionary back on the shelf, turn off the lamp, and make my way to the crack of light that represents the door. I count small victories in my head and decide it has been a good day. Hopefully tomorrow will be the same although (and this worries me) Cadmus’s writing, what I reviewed this morning, seemed different as well. Perhaps I am simply focusing too closely on the details. It’s common for a few words to slip into an Author’s lexicon each cycle. A few more is likely a fluke. I make a practice of identifying my own and making a list of such imprecise words to be avoided. The revision process is a good thing—the Editors could go through our work, but in this way we Authors can work together to keep our writing pure. Limiting the number of collaborators to two likewise limits the spread of these unnecessary words.

    I shake my head, putting the past back on its shelf, and grasp the doorknob in the dark. Almost everyone will have passed by while I stood lost in thought. Sure enough, there is only one person left in the hallway. She looks up and closes her mouth, and that quick smile comes to her lips.

    “Hello,” she begins. “I don’t think I’ve met you yet.” She pauses expectantly.

    “I’m Milo,” I answer cautiously. “And you’re Alexia, are you not?”

    That smile flashes across her face again. “Lexa. I wondered if anyone would still be around.”

    Lexa. The name alone is cause for concern. Direct proof that she’s not the fresh, pure Author I thought at first. What is wrong with Alexia?

    She must catch something in my expression, so she goes on. “I mean, everyone heads straight to the cafeteria at the end of the workday. I don’t see why they’re in such a hurry. We’ll all be fed the same.”

    “Why wait here, though?” I venture.

    “Why not? It keeps things interesting. It isn’t as if we’re breaking any rules.”

    This is true. But still…

    “I like to take the time to think,” Alexia adds. “Even if it’s just looking at the walls. Have you ever really looked at them?”

    “I have.” I hope to cut the conversation off there; something is bothering me, though I can’t be sure what yet.

    She seems taken aback for a moment; perhaps directness is the way to handle this. “Really?” Her expression is different. She looks at me sharply now. “I knew there was something different about you—wait, you don’t have an implant.”

    Time for more directness. “No, I don’t. They didn’t use them when I came here.” I feel the need to say more, not leave the open sentence inviting questions. Be direct. “I believe in this cause, documenting and preserving Truth. The Editors gave me back my sight. They saved me from my own lies. As they’re saving you.” I am not the best at reading expressions, but something flickers across her face at my statement. “I’m thankful to them.”

    That gets a response. Surprise, definitely, but there’s something mixed in. Disappointment? I’m not sure. She pauses, looks away, then back at me. “You are different. Did you know everyone I’ve spoken to has said the same thing? ‘The purpose of an Author of Truth is to convey the Truth.’ You’ve made something else of it.”

    “I…” Suddenly my mind is reeling. None of what she’s said is false, exactly, but the way she says it…

    “It sounds familiar, though…” she goes on thoughtfully. Familiar, how? She speaks again, and again her tone has the sound of a memorized line. “Given my sight back anew, freed from the prison in which I encased myself and thought it armor…” She pauses, searching my eyes, and I cannot deny the familiarity. “You did write that open letter. It was you.”

    At the same time, certainty finds me as well. “And you…” She’s a Wordsmith. Somehow despite the Re-vision, still. I pull my door back open behind me, step into my office. “I don’t know how you brought that in here, but I want none of it. Wordsmith.” My voice is shaking. I turn my computer back on, slide into my seat. “I have to report you.”

    She follows me in, leans the door shut. There is a cornered look on her face. “You’re going to write them a letter?” She sprints forward, a sudden movement, pulls the cord from the wall, and the screen dies again. “I can’t allow that.” The most dangerous woman in the building looks at me, and the balance of power shifts. “Why? You understand things that none of the other Authors do. Why can’t you understand this? Why do you blind yourself?”

    “I don’t,” I manage. “You said it yourself. Sight given back anew.”

    “The prison in which I encased myself and called it armor,” she quotes back at me. Everything I say, this woman twists. I look around. I could use pen and paper, but somehow I don’t think she would just stand by and let me. I can report in person. Finding an Editor will take a little longer, but it will work. I stand up and move to the door. Alexia stands still. I put my hand on the knob and hear her voice again.

    “To the extent”—I know what’s coming. No! I cover my ears, but she continues more loudly. “that authority depends on the ignorance of the governed, good writing will always be…” she pauses and grits her teeth. “Subversive. You wrote that,” she continues, watching me shake, clench my fists, brace myself. “You’re as much a Wordsmith…” she flinches, then turns a grimace into a smile. “You’re as much of one as I am. You want truth? Don’t try telling me that isn’t who you are.”

    “I…” There is no response I can make. Her words are weapons, and if I respond, I fear I may end up agreeing with her. “Please…don’t say anything else.”

    Alexia examines the haunted look on my face. “I’m not the enemy,” she goes on more softly. “I came here because you wrote that letter. Knowing the Library could still have people like you, people who could be saved, gave me the strength to keep myself.”

    “Saved?” I manage. “You don’t save people from Truth. You want to change them with your words.”

    “No,” she answers. “I want freedom.” She flinches again as the implant jolts her. “For all of us. I just want people to choose what they want. The Editors are the ones who try to change everyone.”

    I put my hand on the doorknob, a vortex of conflicting feelings inside. “I won’t report you,” I say, and I mean it. “But you should know…your implant tracks each time you say something outside the lexicon. Too many of them and you’ll be taken in for emergency maintenance. You’ve probably reached that point already.” She looks horrified. “There’s nothing I can do about that. Nothing…nothing I should do.”

    I feel oddly calm as I step into the hallway. Alexia challenged everything I believe in, everything I stand for. Part of me already wants to stand by her. I should be going out of my mind, but for the moment, the only thing is to wait. Wait, and keep to the Truth, and face things as they come. I’m surrounded by uncertainty, but as long as I don’t make a move I am safe.

    The Editors come for Alexia during dinner. She throws me a glance, and I see fear mixed with determination on her face. She mouths something to me before they notice. It might have been I’m sorry.

    Part of me feels sorry too.