Squatting down, I unpack all my utensils and begin graphing a line in blue—first, the convict population by month for the last fifty years.
Interestingly, the line stays almost flat. For a population graph, that's unnatural. And whenever someone dies or goes missing within a three-week window, a substitute appears.
Let's unpack deeper.
Compiling the data, I graph it on my A3 sheet.
Over the last fifty years there have been two population spikes—each nearly doubling the standard amount, before dropping back down within a seven year period.
The last time this occurred, was almost ten years ago.
Finding the appropriate logs, I review the inquiries from these outlier years.
One thousand and twenty-ninth, one thousand and thirtieth war on the northern demons declared.
Ok, more corpses to burn, more refugees seeking asylum. It all makes sense... Almost.
These numbers, that's a lot of northern refugees and residents to go missing and/or turn up dead in a short period of time. What could be the causes?
Dipping my quill in yellow ink I begin adding the new data point to the legend.
Convict population by recorded ethnicity.
…
...
70%
Seventy percent! And it's not even close.
That many refugees classified as convicts. No wonder the camps reek of alcohol—this place has no asylum rights, no citizenship, just bodies to burn and labour to harvest.
I laugh.
I don't mean to laugh, but what else can I do?
Even if I'd written this as a joke, it wouldn't be this blatant.
This all looks so fucking bad.
I sigh. Pinching my temple, I breathe for a second.
If I were to look at these numbers without context, it would be right to conclude targeted systematic ethno-crimes are being committed against these people.
Hell, even with the context this looks bad.
No, Daddy Sky Palace is a benevolent overlord—he would never disparage people by their given race.
Hehe, if only that were true.
Picking up the quill, I re-plot again, but this time, classifying by sex and ethnicity in the colours green and red respectively.
Finishing up, I slowly place the quill down against the stone floor, looking to see if the door's closed.
"BAAAA!"
How could it get so bad? 65 percent of convicts are women and children, you monsters.
This reeks, and it only gets worse from here.
Grabbing another piece of A3 paper, I start my new graph.
Reported convict birth rates over a 50 year period, measured in monthly entries.
Fuckers, thinking they can hide their atrocities by not separating the convicts and residents into their distinctive categories to falsify the data.
Useless.
Cross-referencing mothers by their given names, and comparing that to the convict census data reported here, I plot the information.
Have I made a mistake? No… no. It just doesn't tell me much. I'm missing something—the interval, the average time between arrivals and births.
Reaching out for my abacus, I calculate the average time after arrival for childbirth to occur in the convict population.
Carry the three subtract the four yes yes.
No. I've made a mistake, this number is too small, I will be more thorough next time.
Licking my finger, I fluff up the quill and dip it in more ink.
Times the four and divide that by the total.
Move, ball and count. The number is...
My mouth opens.
Closes.
No sound.
Then a squeak.
"Five…"
"Five months!!!"
What could this mean?
Most pregnant women here on average give birth within five months of arrival.
That's impossible. Pregnancy takes nine months.
I stare down at the report. Then up, into the rows of hollow shelves.
Why?
Just—why.
They are human beings too.
Now I need to know. What felony did they commit? This is important information to have here, if a murder is admitted it would be nice for us to know that.
Please, just be a bunch of bad people or something.
Just
Please.
Sitting on the floor, the ink pools around ready to drown me at any moment.
Mute pads over, walking over causing ripples in the nearby pond and pressing her cold nose against my palm.
Her purr is soft and so is her fur.
"I know. I know. We can't save them all."
Grabbing at her, I hold her in my grasp.
But we'll save all who we can.
We'll find Jimson's body, then... then we'll figure out the rest.
---
Standing back up after fifteen minutes, I scavenge through my pile of black folders, one after another, but reports concerning the convicts crimes are nowhere to be found.
When in doubt. Just ask Jan.
Dragging myself up to her office, a new face now sits in her spot.
"Where's Jan? And who... are you?"
"Sevinstine," she says, tapping a stack of papers without looking up either. "Jan had to help Nelson with something. He warned me about you though."
"Ah. You're the one who interviewed the people about the bodies, right?"
She looks up. "That would be me."
"Good. Give me access to the reported crimes of convicted convicts?"
Her smile is thin. "That report's sealed. Clearance level: higher administrative officers only."
"I am the vice-admin here." Raising my voice, I hold my hands to my hips.
"How comical." She responds dryly.
"Just, hand it over."
"I've heard about you," she says, finger pointing over at me. "It's just… seeing you in person, you don't seem like much."
Her eyes look upward meeting my gaze, as her neck remains perfectly angled and still.
The key slides across the counter.
"Grey folder. End of the rows, behind the locked cabinets."
Taking the key, I turn and making faces behind my back.
Think I don't understand the subtext, calling me unqualified. How shallow is your world-view? What have you done to change this utter shit.
After reentering the room, I finish muttering to myself and go to find this cabinet.
Bending over, I find it on the lowest level hidden behind a lock.
The metal creaks as I open it, and Inside, two grey folders await for me to read.
Laying out this new information, I begin to tally up the crimes of women.
- Moral correction.
- Anti-orthodoxy sentiment.
- Suspected Demon.
Some of these don't even try to hide the motives.
- Suspected infidelity.
- Adultery.
- Lewd conduct.
- Indecent exposure.
- Immorality.
- Unchaste behavior.
- Deviancy.
- Prostitution.
The list only goes on.
Why do you have to take advantage of the situation like this? Don't you people follow the bible of god, I guess you only treat the people you care for equally, the rest like yonk-shit.
Turning the page, I tally up the crimes of man.
- Anti-social behavior.
- Sodomy.
- Anti-orthodoxy sentiment.
- Suspected Demon.
- Public nuisance.
- Vagrancy.
- Prohibited potential.
- Loitering.
- Social Discomfort.
Loitering?
After rubbing my face for a little bit, my chin leans on my hand turning it numb.
Another folder, another list of bullshit crimes.
Reaching out I grab the next file, my hand dragging it back gets soaked in the pool of ink.
Disease reports?
Yawning, I flick through barely reading this new heading.
"Inquiry of response to mitigate and understand the disease of De'sin."
I lean forward, blinking.
"Observations of the infections symptoms are as follows:
"First stage: Mild fatigue or discomfort in upper right abdomen."
"Second stage: Fever, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, loss of appetite, weight loss, Fatigue."
"Third stage: Yellow skin, yellow eyes, inflated stomach, confusion."
"Fourth stage: Bruising, swelling of skin, soft and wet to the touch, flesh appears to slag inward. Purple silk-web patterns emerge beneath the skin and worst of all evaporation of fat and muscle."
"It takes seven years on average to reach the fourth stage for assigned convicts, with cases of unexpected death suddenly occurring too. With limited diagnosis available all that is currently known is that residents who stay in camp survive longer, manifesting stage four after a reported 15 year period of time.
Proposal:
Request heavenly sky palace for their research through the heavenly protection board, Allocate more funding into diagnosis equipment."
Thanks for this report... Nelson, well that's a surprise, at least someone cares.
That being said...
This data is like, totally unusable.
How do I know? You ask.
Yes that's right Mute, you remembered. This is a sign of alcohol abuse, and is probably not De'sin.
This report shows a lacking consideration for control in these conclusions. What is the disease vs what is just hepatitis or liver cirrhosis; you see it often in struggling communities, I suppose they don't have much of that here.
I'm no scientist, unfortunately I don't know enough to help people. But I suspect that whatever it is, this isn't it.
Why is everything I read in this room so despair-inducing?
Standing up, I drag myself out of the room.
Heading towards the exit, I eventually reach the outside door, only accompanied by the dreary resonance of the church bell's striking and the overcast clouds diluting the colourful floor with afternoon shade.
I rub my eyes, fully intending to turn this bronze handle.
But instead the door opens for me, wherein a small but welcome face lights up and stares at me.
Timothy?!