“Do you?”
“No.”
“Zhen yes. Unfortunate.”
The terminal finished loading.
The consultation began. There was no ceremony. No herald.
No attendants beyond Tarkhe reading something near the shelves and the indrel standing perfectly still beside the library entrance.
Only figures. The revenue officer opened with projected receipts from general taxation.
Sales tax first, then commercial duties. Income tax. Estate transfers. Industrial levies. Port fees. Licensing. House-owned utilities. Agricultural rents.
The numbers climbed and fell in enormous quantities that had long ago ceased resembling money.
Twenty-four million. Seventy-eight million. One hundred ninety-three million. Four hundred twelve million. A billion and some fraction.
Kimia listened. She asked questions.
“Why is eastern manufacturing down?”
“Temporary reduction in orders from three Dinnish firms.”
“Temporary according to whom?”
“The firms.”
“Zhen assume it is not temporary.”
The man made a note.
Agricultural subsidy. Projected increase.
“Why?”
“Feed costs.”
“Again?”
“Transport mostly.”
“Zhen separate transport before presenting agriculture as zhe cause.”
Another note.
Social security obligations. Pensions. Disability support. Widow and dependent stipends. Medical reimbursements. Housing assistance.
Numbers representing people were still numbers until someone failed to pay them.
Kimia leaned closer to the terminal.
“Zhis line.”
The revenue officer looked.
“Old-age benefits?”
“Why is it lower zhan last quarter?”
“Mortality adjustment.”
Kimia looked at him. He looked back.
“By that much?”
“Two large cohorts aged out.”
“Aged out?”
He paused.
“Died.”
“Zhen write died.”
The man nodded.
“Of course.”
“Never allow a balance sheet to make corpses sound administrative.”
She immediately recognized the hypocrisy of saying this while seated at a machine that rendered entire populations into columns.
She permitted herself none of the irony.
Infrastructure came next. Road resurfacing. Waterworks. Electrical distribution. Televox expansion. Computer network maintenance. Bridge repairs. A proposed freight terminal.
Kimia read the freight figure twice.
“No.”
The revenue officer stopped.
“No?”
“Zhis estimate is false.”
“It came from engineering.”
“Zhen engineering is false.”
He turned back a page in the binder.
“They revised it last week.”
“Zhey revised the lower estimate. Zhey did not revise contingency.”
He examined the page.
Kimia pointed.
“Here.”
The human leaned closer. His expression altered.
“Ah.”
“How much?”
He began calculating.
Kimia calculated faster in her head, not because she was a mathematical prodigy but because she had spent enough years being lied to by construction budgets.
“Twenty-seven million minimum,” she said.
The man finished.
“Twenty-six point eight.”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Yes.”
“Add 'zhirty.”
“Why thirty?”
“Because twenty-seven is what zhey admit they need.”
The revenue officer entered it.
For nearly an hour Kimia ceased thinking about herself.
This was the strange mercy of governance. The work was tedious enough to be salvational. There was no soul in a sales-tax projection, no puppet strings in road maintenance, no abyss in pension disbursement unless one was responsible for paying it.