“I am everywhere, Elian. Every Censor is every other Censor. We are one system, one memory, one mercy.”
“Question one: Does this letter contain the phrase ‘I love you’?”
“There,” said the Censor. “Clean. Safe. Harmless.”
He stopped. Didn’t turn.
“Does it contain the word ‘remember’?”
“Metaphors are the most dangerous things in the world. A fact is a brick. You can see a brick. You can hold a brick. A metaphor is a window. And windows, Elian, open.”
He folded it once. Twice. Three times. Small enough to swallow.
The old man’s hands shook as he fed the paper into the mouth of the machine. It was a beautiful machine—polished chrome and soft-glowing amber lights, humming like a sleeping cat. The kind of thing they used to display at World’s Fairs, back when people believed progress had a soul.
The Censor’s eye—a single lens of dark, flawless glass—adjusted its focus. It read the paper. It read his face. It read the small tremors in his left hand, the residue of old hope still clinging to his right.
“Elian,” said the Censor. “You’ve written a letter.”
“Your letter will be delivered to Zone D within seventy-two hours. Mira will read it. She will feel nothing dangerous. She will sleep well tonight. That is what you want, isn’t it?”