Ely looked from person to person to see if anyone would argue. No one said a word. Most looked resigned, some indifferent, others dismayed, their reactions determined by how many points they’d had at the start of the shift. He tapped out a command, logging the sentences, and then distributed them to each citizen.
“You have a right to appeal,” he said, formally. “Appeals must be lodged within the next twenty-four hours. Failure to appeal will be taken as an admission of guilt.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “This lounge is now closed until shift-change. It will require hours of labour to repair the damage you’ve caused.” It wouldn’t. The drones would have it cleaned and ready for the next shift in under thirty minutes. “It’s only fitting, therefore, that you go now and queue for your ‘home’, and,” he added as there was a whisper of grumbling from the back of the crowd, “I suggest you go now, before I change my mind about the charges.”
The grumbling grew louder as they headed out the doors. Ely ignored them.
As the last of the mob left the lounge, Tower-One’s two nurses, Bronwin Gower and Geoffrey Bradford entered, each pushing a stretcher before them. Like the other civic servants, their material-efficient jumpsuit was dyed blue, though of a lighter shade than the one Ely wore.
Nurse Bradford moved to the men on the floor, whilst Nurse Gower moved straight to Grimsby, whose moaning, Ely thought, was louder and more theatrical than before.
“It’s fractured, but not badly,” Nurse Gower said. “You’ll need a cast. Can you walk?”
“I don’t know,” Grimsby replied, his voice weak.
“I thought you said you were for Production First,” Ely snapped. “And now you want us to waste more hours pushing you up to the infirmary.”
“Alright, I can walk,” Grimsby said, getting to his feet with an exaggerated show of discomfort. Ely smiled at the nurse in a gesture of knowing solidarity.
“Good,” she said, ignoring the Constable. “Then make your own way over to the elevators. We’ll meet you there shortly.”
“How long will you need to treat him?” Ely asked, loudly.
The nurse made a point of taking her time in answering.
“Transferring the other two will take half an hour,” she said. “Call it two hours. Perhaps three.”
Ely nodded and checked the time. It was two hours until the end of shift. During shift-change, the elevators were reserved for the sole use of workers.
“I’ll be up half an hour after shift-change to sentence him,” he said.
Sentencing Grimsby could wait. Sentencing Mrs Carlisle could not.
“Mrs Geraldine Carlisle, for your active part in the hospitalisation of two workers and the loss of production that will cause, I sentence you to death.” The woman didn’t even flinch. She knew what was coming. “However, due to the current labour shortage of which you are now a cause, and if you waive the right to appeal, I am inclined to give you a choice. Death or 100,000 hours service on the penal gangs at the launch site. The choice is yours.”
“Some choice! 100,000 hours? How long is that? Thirty years?”
“It’s still a choice,” Ely said. “For the record, do you accept the sentence or do you wish to appeal?”
“Fine, fine. I’ll accept,” she said despondently. “What does it matter? I won’t be having any children, will I?”
“Not now, no.”
“But, perhaps we will,” she said, her defiance returning once more, “when we get to Mars.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “The punishment will be ratified when you reach Tower-Thirteen.”
He turned to Nurse Bradford who was bent over two unconscious men.
“How are they?” the Constable asked.
“There’s nothing we can do for them here,” the male nurse replied. “They need the hospital. Did you remember to call Tower-Thirteen for a transport?”
“I can’t,” Ely said slowly, through gritted teeth, “not until you confirm it’s necessary. That’s procedure.”
“Well, I’m confirming it now,” the nurse retorted.
“Control,” Ely said, turning his back on the nurses and injured felons, “I’m confirming we have two patients who need emergency transport to Tower-Thirteen. One felon is being transported with them, her sentence is to be ratified at the prison.”
“Of course,” Vauxhall said. “What about the man with the injured arm? He doesn’t look too serious.”
“You’re watching?” Ely glanced up at the nearest camera.
“Of course. It’s not like there’s anything else going on in the Tower right now.”
Conscious that everything was being recorded, and knowing that a Constable was far more easily replaced than a Controller, Ely kept his remarks strictly professional.
“That man, Grimsby, can be treated in the infirmary,” he said.
“Fine. Transport for three,” she said with a tone that Ely thought didn’t match the gravity of the situation. He didn’t comment. Nor did he say anything to the two nurses as they loaded the injured felons onto the stretchers and pushed them out through the doors with Mrs Carlisle following close behind.
Another thought struck him. The nurses might be able to treat Grimsby in the infirmary, but that didn’t mean the man would be able to continue working with his arm in a cast. He pulled up footage from the man’s last shift. Ely relaxed again as he watched Grimsby work.
A piece of circuitry came in across the conveyor and stopped. The man bent over it, a thin metal wand in his right hand. He touched it against a piece of wire. A light on the wand turned green, the conveyor belt moved, taking the now-approved component up to the sorting room on Level Seventy-Seven where it would await collection and transportation. Ely didn’t bother to check what the circuitry was being used for. It didn’t matter. Grimsby could perform his duties with one hand.
Ely looked around the now empty lounge. The place was a mess, but no more so than usual. He stepped outside and swiped his hand down the panel on the wall. The door closed. He tapped out a command, and a moment later he heard the sound of the drones coming out of their concealed crevices to clean and sanitise the room.
He tapped out a requisition for a new chair. He doubted it would be approved. Almost as an afterthought, he tapped out another message, placing a requisition for a new helmet. He doubted that would get approved either.
A green light blinked at the bottom of his vision. He had a call coming in. It was from Chancellor Stirling. He answered.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Why aren’t you on patrol, Constable?”
“There was a disturbance in the—”
“I know that. You think I wouldn’t know?” she interrupted. “You’ve sentenced the suspects. Whilst this might have been the most serious incident in some time, the crime is now over. I can see that. What I can’t see is why you are not on patrol.”
“I’d finished my shift, and was on Recreation when—”
Again, she didn’t let him finish. “The police need to be seen,” she said. “I’ve told you this. Or do you think I can be disregarded, eh? The election hasn’t occurred yet, Constable. I am still Chancellor. Useful workers, productive workers, vital citizens.” She put an emphasis on the words to make it clear she did not count Ely as one of them. “Need to know that the energy they expend to ensure your comfort is well spent. Justice needs to be seen to be done, so go and be seen, Constable.”
“Yes ma’a…” But she had already clicked off.
Ely briefly closed his eyes. In just over a day the election would begin. It didn’t matter what she said, Stirling was going to lose and Cornwall would replace her.
Four years ago Cornwall had been a worker in Tower-Four. There was an explosion in one of the Factories, and Cornwall had run into the fire to rescue the components from inside. That was a week before the election. During the aftermath, when various citizens approached him looking for a story to post to the newsfeeds, he gave his speech on Re-Organisation. He spoke of remembering the past but focusing on the future, on putting Production First as the only way to ensure humanity reached Mars. The sentiment, and his heroics, struck a chord with the electorate. Though he wasn’t an official candidate, when it came to vote, over 80,000 people, nearly eighty percent of the City’s voting age population, wrote his name onto their ballot.