Work. Rest. Repeat. A Post Apocalyptic Detective Novel Page 10

“That’s what she told you? Well, perhaps that’s what she was told and perhaps that’s what she believed. It’s not true.”

  “It’s not? What happens to them? Do they die?”

  “No. It’s nothing like that. One of the pilots brought me back a message. There was this man, convicted years ago. It doesn’t matter what for. He had a son, still here in the Tower. Each time the pilot came in, this felon would beg for this letter to be brought back and given to his son. Eventually the pilot agreed but instead of delivering it, he brought it to me.”

  “And what does the letter say? Can I see it?”

  “I mulched it. It was too dangerous to be left lying around, even here. But I can tell you what it said. There are three ships being constructed at the launch site.”

  “I know that—” Ely began.

  “Listen,” Arthur interrupted, “Three ships. One for each City. The City of Britain will only get one. And that one ship will only make one trip. One thousand people from each City will leave Earth, Ely. Three thousand people in total, and that’s all.”

  Ely had a thousand questions but all he could manage asking was, “Why?”

  “That was the plan all along,” Arthur said. “There weren’t the resources to build ships that could travel back and forth between the planets like they told us. Not enough fuel, not enough parts, not enough raw materials and not enough time to turn them into ships. Three thousand people, that’s all. And only one thousand from our City. Half of those places have already been allocated to the engineers, and scientists, and politicians. There’s going to be a lottery for four hundred seats reserved for the guards, convicts, and volunteers working at the site. That lottery was the only way of keeping everyone working. That man, the convict who sent the letter, he actually instructed his son to commit some crime so he’d be sent to work on the launch site, because there are better odds of winning the lottery there than here. And that only leaves one hundred places for all the workers in all of the Towers in the City.”

  “That’s…”

  “That is our harsh reality. Politicians get a seat. Old people don’t. I won’t be going. If Stirling loses that election, then nor will she. Nor will you. As a Constable, you’re not going to be eligible for the lottery. As a civic servant, it’s down to the Chancellor to decide if you get a place, but I want you on that ship, and I think there might be a way. But to do it, you’re going to need to solve this murder.”

  “Just one ship…” Ely murmured.

  “Right. Just one. And just one chance for you to live. You remember what I said about when these Towers were built? The truth can’t be hidden forever. People will find out, they’ll riot. They will tear this place apart, and it won’t matter. You can’t alter the facts. They’ll seal off the Towers. Seal off the whole City if needs be, and fill that ship with convicts. Then you won’t stand a chance. So like I said, you need to catch a killer. You need to do it publicly. Make everyone see that you’re protecting them, that you’re keeping them safe. You remember how Cornwall got elected? How he wasn’t on the ballot, but people just wrote his name on it. They did it because he was popular. In a place where nothing ever happens, he was famous. You remember? That’s how he got elected, and you’ve got to do the same. You’ll be elected by popular acclaim. You’ll beat Henley to become Cornwall’s successor as Councillor of Tower-One. And then you’ll have a seat on the ship. And if you don’t get enough votes, then maybe, since you’ll have secured Cornwall’s place as Chancellor, he’ll give you a seat because he thinks he needs you.”

  “You want me to get elected?”

  “Oh, it’s not hard. Cornwall proved that. You just need to be popular. You just need everyone to know your name. And they will, if they think you’ve caught the killer.”

  “But how am I going to do that. I mean, if you’re right, then regardless of who actually committed the murders, the person behind it all was the Chancellor. I can’t go and arrest her.”

  “Of course not, you’ve got no proof. To permanently seal off Tower-One and stop Cornwall from standing in the election, Stirling will need the approval of the entire council. They won’t give it to her if the criminal has been caught and brought to justice. Any criminal. You’ve got forty-seven suspects. One of them is Stirling’s agent. Possibly there’s more than one person involved. So pick one, or two, or however many you like. Charge them, and carry out the sentence.”

  “But what about justice, you always said—”

  “There’s a bigger justice at stake here, Ely. It’s about who leads the human race from this day forwards. Do you want it to be a coldblooded murderer like Stirling? No, Ely, this isn’t just your only chance, it’s the only chance for our species.”

  “But what if I pick the wrong person.”

  “You said it yourself, they’re all guilty. And they’re all going to die. It’s inevitable. Please Ely, if you won’t do it for me, then do it for the good of humanity. Do it for the future.”

  A few minutes later, after he’d bid goodbye to the older man, Ely stood outside the entrance to the Twilight Room, thinking. He understood what Arthur had been saying, but it wasn’t as easy as simply picking a suspect. What about truth? What about justice? They were important, even now. They had to be. They were what he’d based his life around.

  Up until a few minutes ago, his future had been certain. He had known that one day he would get to Mars. He knew there was something ahead, something that made the daily sacrifices worthwhile. He felt a sudden waive of bitterness that it had been taken away from him.

  If Arthur was correct, and Ely saw no reason to believe he wasn’t, then Stirling was the one behind it all. He couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t even order a transport to take him over to Tower-Thirteen so he could arrest her. But if he didn’t stop her, and if she somehow won the election, then the future of humanity would be in the hands of a scheming murderer. No, he couldn’t allow that. Arthur was right, or half right. Ely could do something, he could bring justice to the people who had aided her. They would be the ones he would execute.

  The question that remained, and the one he’d hoped Arthur might be able to answer, was how did he work out who was guilty? He couldn’t imagine all forty-seven had been involved. He considered interviewing Glastonbury again. The man had broken easily enough, and Ely was sure he could get a name from him, but that name would just lead to another and another. There wasn’t time to go through all the suspects. Then the obvious course of action came to him.

  “Control?”

  “Yes, Ely.”

  “Can you go back over the water usage for these forty-seven suspects, go back right to the beginning and find out which one of them knew first?”

  “Of course. That’s simple enough, but it’s going to take some time.”

  “How long?”

  “An hour. Maybe Two.”

  “Fine.” He would still be able to interview someone before the shift changed, and they went to sleep. He could wake them, of course, but if Arthur was right, then Ely needed to make each arrest as public as possible.

  He reached the elevator, but hesitated before stepping inside. To the left lay the museum. Few people ever went in there. Ely certainly didn’t. Something Arthur had said came back to him. Where had the weapon been hidden before it was used? If Stirling was involved then, originally, it had probably come from Tower-Thirteen. Even so, it would still have had to have been stored somewhere. The museum would be an ideal hiding place. And then Ely remembered something else Arthur had said, that there was no reason for the weapon to have been destroyed. But the only reason not to dispose of it would be if more murders were planned. He had to find that weapon. Ely went into the museum.

  Fifteen years ago, before the increased energy demand had necessitated the expansion of the Recreation Room, each artefact and exhibit, had had its own space. Now they were all haphazardly crammed together in a room barely big enough. Statues, relics, paintings, icons, some ancient, others merely old, were stacked indiscrimin
ately with no explanation given as to what they had once been, nor why it was important that they were preserved.

  Like the Twilight Room next door, anyone could visit the museum as long as they made an appointment in advance. Ely brought up the records. The last request had been five months ago, made by Simon Greene, son of the murder victims. He checked and found that was the only time the boy had visited the museum. Neither his sister nor his parents had ever visited. He stared at the name for a moment. It had to mean something, though he couldn’t think what. He dismissed the record from his display and returned to his search for the weapon’s hiding place.

  Museum was the wrong word. It was a storeroom, and one that, the more he looked, seemed to be absent of any metal. He recalled something he had read in one of the newsfeeds, something about some ancient crown being melted down to be turned into circuitry for the ships. He’d not read any further than that, his interest in history extended only to those brief few decades where mankind had produced movies.

  He picked a path between the objects, knocking against some and scratching others as he ventured further into the gloom. There were no walkways, just a gap between the objects, left there when the room had been filled. As it was so rarely visited, only a quarter of the room’s lighting panels were on. Most of those were blocked by the statues and ornaments that had been piled up to the low ceiling. He turned the helmet’s emergency light on. It helped, a little.

  He peered over and under and behind the carvings and paintings. He picked up and discarded jars and vases, one after another. He clambered over a large stone block, inscribed with incomprehensible markings, and then he stopped. There were thousands of places within the museum in which the weapon could be hidden, but wherever it was, the killer needed to have quick access to it. That meant it had to be close to the door. He turned around and began to head back. But then he noticed the statue.

  It depicted a woman, staring upwards, her hands held out in supplication. Hanging from one of her hands was a ribbon. All the other artefacts nearby had been moved, clearing a space around it. Squeezing past a marble plinth, Ely moved closer. It wasn’t one of the older statues in the room, but still showed at least a few centuries of wear. The ribbon, on the other hand, was far newer, woven together out of red and blue fibres.

  It hadn’t been printed, Ely realised, it had been made. It was of a crude construction, but weaving it would still have taken someone’s precious time. He took another step closer. He reached his hand out towards the ribbon.

  There was a sudden loud bang. A painting behind him ripped. Turning, he looked for the source of the noise. Something deep in his memory stirred. He knew what the sound was, or he once had. He thought the noise had come from near the door. He took a step towards it. He could see nothing in the gloom.

  There was another bang. Something whistled through the air, inches from his head.

  A bullet. A gun. Someone was shooting at him. He dived for cover behind the marble plinth.

  There was another shot, accompanied by the sound of splintering stone. Someone was trying to kill him. It was the murderer. It had to be.

  Galvanised by fear, he brought up the image recorded by his camera after that first shot. It was too dark to see anything. He tapped out a command, trying to sharpen the image. Yes, there was someone just to the right of the doorway, but there wasn’t enough light to see their features. He’d worry about that later. There was only one thing he could do, he had to get to the door, and stop the killer from getting out of the room. He looked around, trying to find a place where he could climb over the exhibits.

  There wasn’t one that wouldn’t leave him exposed. He needed a distraction. He looked back at the statue. He’d topple it over, and hope that gave him the few seconds he needed. He crouched, turned, and dived towards it.

  There was another bang. A splintering of ceramic. A heavy weight fell on the back of his head.

  Everything went white, then dark.

  Chapter 6 - The Infirmary

  Twelve hours before the election

  “Can you hear me?”

  Ely tried to say ‘yes’, but the words got caught somewhere at the back of his throat.

  “Constable? Can you hear me? Can you speak?”

  Of course, he tried to say. The words didn’t come out. Everything went quiet.

  “Is this Tower-Thirteen?” Ely asked. He knew it was him asking. He recognised the voice.

  “No son. You’re still with us.”

  He knew that voice, too. It was the Councillor’s. No. Not the Councillor. It was Arthur. And there was something important. Something Arthur had said.

  Before Ely could remember what, he passed out again.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  Ely opened his eyes. He saw Nurse Gower.

  “The infirmary. Level Seventy-Seven,” he croaked.

  “Here, have some water, son,” Arthur bent forwards, and held a cup to Ely’s lips.

  He took a sip. The water tasted like ambrosia.

  “Constable, do you know what happened?” the nurse asked.

  “I was… I was shot?” Ely replied, uncertainly.

  “Hardly,” Arthur laughed. “If you had, you’d have been shipped off to Tower-Thirteen. Can’t do bullet wounds and surgery here. No, you were shot at, certainly, but it was a miss. The bullet hit a statue behind you. It turned out to be hollow. Mostly hollow. It was blown apart. It fell on you. Gave you a concussion.”

  “How long was I out?”

  “Four hours,” Arthur said.

  Ely nodded. “Who shot at me?” he asked.

  “I was going to ask you that,” Arthur replied.

  “And you can,” Nurse Gower said, “but not until I’ve assessed whether he’s fit to leave here or whether he needs to go to Tower-Thirteen for more tests.”

  “He’s fine,” Arthur said jovially. “As fit as ever. He was just taking advantage of the chance to get some sleep. That’s how you can tell he’s a real Copper.”

  The nurse opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. She shrugged and walked off to the small office.

  “Now, son, what did you see?” Arthur asked, kindly.

  “All I saw was shadows,” Ely said. “What about the cameras, didn’t they catch someone?”

  “And that,” Arthur said as he tapped a command into his wristboard, “is a very good question. Can you see this?”

  Ely had to twist on the bed to see the screen on the small room’s wall.

  “Here, let me help you. There. You see it. That’s you leaving the Twilight Room, right?”

  Ely watched himself walk towards the elevator.

  “You pause there for a moment, then you decide to go into the museum. Why’d you do that, by the way? I thought you were going to arrest your suspects.”

  “I was looking for where they hid the weapon.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “I didn’t really get a chance to look,” Ely said.

  “Oh. Never mind. So, here, that’s you going inside, and then… here.” He froze the image. “See that shadow, that’s your assailant.”

  “That’s all we’ve got?”

  “Wait, it gets better. You know how there are no cameras in the Twilight Room? Well, up until four years ago that entire floor was given over to the retirees. You know what that means?”

  “There are no cameras on Level Seventy-Six?”

  “So there’s none inside the museum. Just a few around the elevator. All we’ve got to go on is the camera on your visor.” He tapped the screen. “And these are the best images we’ve got.”

  Ely peered at the picture. The figure was indistinct. “I can’t even tell if that’s a man or a woman,” he said.

  “Me neither. And I wouldn’t bother trying to guess. Now, this is where it gets interesting. Here, this is the when you were lying on the floor, unconscious. Watch.” The image was of a dim section of floor, ceiling, plinths, statues, and the distant doorway, illuminated as much by t
he light on his helmet as by the panels in the ceiling. “You see there? I think that’s why you’re still alive.”

  “What do you mean?” Ely asked.

  “That’s someone’s shadow,” Arthur said. “It has to be the killer’s, but they couldn’t get close enough to you to get a good shot, not without the camera on your helmet recording what they look like.”

  “What about the cameras by the elevator?”

  “No, there’s nothing on those. And before you ask, the elevator wasn’t used. It looks like the Controller was right. The killer does know where the cameras are, and knows either how to avoid being recorded by them or how to wipe them afterwards. She’s going to check whether the images have been tampered with, but I don’t think we’ll find anything there, not in time.”

  “And I don’t suppose that anyone’s wristboard was monitored being in that corridor?” Ely asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, what about the bullet?” Hazy memories of one of the old movies came back to him. “Was there a casing left behind?”

  “If there was a casing, I expect that was cleaned up by the drones.”

  “Then I’m no closer to finding out who the killer is.”

  “I’d say being shot at shows you’ve got their attention,” Arthur said, with a cheerfulness Ely thought was out of place. “If worst comes to worst, we’ll just have to wait until they try again. Oh, don’t look like that, I was joking.”

  Ely nodded, and glanced around the infirmary. His helmet was sitting on a table on the far side of the room. Even from that distance he could see that it had a new dent.

  “I’ll put in the requisition,” he murmured.

  “It won’t be approved,” Arthur said, speaking softly.

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve got a message on there. From Cornwall.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “It’s not good news. The Councillor has put in a request for extra personnel.”