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Summary: Fifteen million was such a pretty number. Adrian.
Fifteen Million and One
He knew, of course, that the death count was not precisely fifteen million. For one thing, it was already within a few thousand of that mark, and rescue crews had only been at it a day. The final count could very well be over a million higher by the time all was said and done, all the bodies found, all the search options exhausted. All the widows and orphans done with their inevitable string of suicides.
For another thing, fifteen million was such a pretty number. Really, it was no less likely that the death count would hit it on the head than that it would hit, say, 16,256,643 or 17,856,541-- but with millions of such messy numbers floating around as possibilities, one of them would inevitably win out. 15,000,000-- such a bright cluster of commas and zeros. Clean and simple, like nothing else to do with this. The ultimate utilitarianism. Rounding did not matter. In the end, for the world, none of these people mattered on their own.
So it's silly, in a way, that he's still using the number like it's fact. Eventually, he promises himself, when the final count is in, he will commit it to memory. He will commit to memory the total body count, and the body count for each individual city, and the body count by sex and race and age.
For now, though, fifteen million.
And the thoughts that occur to him as he stares at his reflection in a blank, broken screen are of the same fanciful, frivolous ilk. His face is all lines and circles; his hair needs combing; his lip needs icing. Tears drip down his cheeks-- tears that he is not so much crying as simply excreting. Crying would imply emotion, but it seems he feels nothing at the moment. The only sensation is the liquid itself, swelling in his eyes, drying on his skin.
But there is an emotion there, somewhere-- an emotion which is undermining logic, which is giving in to pitiful, self-indulgent musing. Somewhere deep inside of him something is capable of weeping, something is capable of believing in death tolls that hit precisely fifteen million humans murdered. He acknowledges it only because of the stupid, useless thought that it pushes without warning into his forebrain.
He looks at his reflection in the mirror.
Without meaning to, he thinks: fifteen million and one.