Correspondence from the Floating Prefecture

Fiction

Dear Julian, Life in the Prefecture is a study in choreographed inertia. I spent Tuesday recording the arrival of three Belgian attaches and a count from Savoy. The protocol is exacting; the purpose is nonexistent. We move in circles. In the salons, the scent of lilies is oppressive. It is a fragrance designed to mask the environment. The Passenger-Citizens spend their hours discussing the nuances of the 1912 Accord, as if the ink on that parchment provides buoyancy. They are ornaments in a floating museum. My quarters are located four decks below. The scent here is brine and oxidizing iron. The walls in the clerk's quarters have begun to weep; a slow, orange sludge trickles down the rivets in Section D. When I presented the corrosion reports to the Chief Administrator, he informed me the samples were statistically insignificant. He did not look at the rust on my cuffs. We are a sovereign city-state drifting in a state of permanent diplomatic crisis. The administration claims we are a model of international cooperation. From my perspective, we are a gilded cage slowly returning to the sea. Give my regards to Mother. Do not tell her about the rivets. Your brother, Arthur