Work in the morning
A quiet page between adventures.
Supplemental fiction · Journal interpretation. An imagined reflection anchored to the published novel. It is not a recovered quotation, a new novel chapter or an addition to the novel’s canonical events.
Placement: after Book 16, The Hong Kong Chronicle. Roxi, in Hong Kong. Supplemental fiction; spoilers through Book 16.
Read the journal · spoilers through Book 16
I have crossed out the opening of this page three times. It keeps sounding as though I stayed in Hong Kong to demonstrate something. I stayed because there was work I could help with and because I wanted to. That should fit in one sentence.
There. Done.
The rest is harder. I like a problem with an edge I can get my hands around. Move this, break that, get someone out of the way before the ceiling comes down. Paperwork gives you fewer useful indications of when to duck.
Today I caught myself putting a question to a piece of paper. I had read the line twice and still wanted it to tell me why the information was missing. It couldn't, of course. Someone would have to be asked, and they might not know, or might have a very good reason for taking their time with the answer.
I put a mark beside it instead of filling the gap myself.
That sounds obvious. It is considerably less obvious when you've spent an hour making the other columns agree and one empty space is spoiling the whole arrangement. I dislike how satisfying a tidy page can be. It makes guessing feel almost useful.
I thought about the people who had to persuade us to listen in the first place. How often had somebody looked down at a record while they were still speaking? I have done it. I will probably do it again. I would like to notice sooner next time.
The ship would have made a pleasant interruption. I could almost hear the doors, then Corran asking whether I had a minute. He has an expansive understanding of a minute. Raven would know exactly how much trouble he had omitted from the invitation.
I miss them. I miss being able to find them by walking into the next room. I even miss having an argument while the room itself is going somewhere impossible.
Then I look out at the street and want to be here tomorrow. Both things seem able to happen without either cancelling the other. That is a relief. I had worried, briefly, that staying would require me to become someone who no longer wanted to leave.
I am trying to be patient with unfinished work. We interrupted a danger; we didn't settle every question it left behind. Some of the next steps will belong to people who were here long before us. I need to hear what they want before deciding which part I can help with.
For now, there is a question marked on a page. I have put it where I will see it in the morning. Underneath, in rather less tidy writing, I have added: ask, then wait for the answer.
I suspect the waiting will be the difficult bit.