Be thankful.
“You have to be readied,” said one of the Comrades, looking upon her with disgust. From behind the Comrades a nervous hygienist stepped into the cell. A Guardian ferried in a small stool and stood with his hand on his Assister while the hygienist clipped Sarah’s hair shorter than the regulatory style.
“Will I be allowed to take a shower afterwards?” she asked as the hygienist scurried from the room. No answer came. She spent another ten minutes alone before the bottom of the door was peeled back. A black gloved hand pushed in a bowl of cool water and a small silver tin. Sarah picked up the tin, twisted off the lid. Medicated soap. A towel followed, pushed in by the same gloved hand. She took the arrival of the items as a good sign, because at least in some way her request had been approved. Not entirely as she would have liked, but she figured that was the best she could expect when charged with collusion. And fornication.
At some point during the next hour she was provided with fresh clothes and a new pair of shoes to wear for the Judgement Ceremony. It wasn’t the uniform. Instead it was a flimsy white boiler suit, so fine in material that she was afraid she might tear it. It had no form and hung flaccidly from her slender frame. She was given an adult-sized pad like a baby’s nappy. She secured it in place. She zipped up the front fastening of the suit and waited on the edge of the bed, which had been programmed to remain in place.
Four Guardians arrived to collect her and they marched her through the corridors of Epsilon Tower. She felt the eyes of the female-starved Guardians glaring at her. One of them reached out to grab her, making contact with the curve of her padded backside. The attending Guardian reached out and struck him with his Assister without once breaking their pace. Sarah’s heart drummed in her chest as she passed pockets of Guardians, the sounds of excitement and discontent boiling up from them. Sarah tried to keep her head down, ignore their shrill cries that sounded like some kind of prowling wolf pack.
The rooms were roughly divided by glass walkways and desks. There were piles of notes and paperwork. On some Guardians slouched, slept their way through her march of shame. Others called out insults like Drifter Whore or Barren Bitch. The ones who just stared seemed worse - just their eyes, assessing her, feeling her, creeping over her like the legs of a spider as she moved through the crowds. There was a common pulse that beat through the crowd, and at first she thought it was just her imagination. But the further they moved through the building, the more she became convinced it was real. Through the torrent of other insults she could hear one word over and over again coming from their salivating mouths. Denounce. Denounce. Denounce. They were chanting it.
They left the crowd behind and passed into a dark basement filled with stale air, broken by a weak light from flickering lamps. Sarah’s anxiety got the better of her as they passed a sign that read ‘West Brompton’. Over the top of the sign somebody had scrawled graffiti which read kill the drifter whore in dripping red paint with a large D next to it. She managed a couple of paces backwards before the black gloves of the Guardians secured their grip of her arms. They manhandled her towards the station, ignoring her screams and resistance. Just outside the carriage of the underground train one of the Guardians wrapped his fingers around her face, pinching her cheeks, forcing her to look at him.
“If you cause trouble, bitch, you will regret it. Wherever they put you. I’ll find you. When I find you, I’ll make you pay.” A tear escaped from her eye, but she nodded and quietened down. The other three Guardians seemed softer, and didn’t seem to appreciate the approach of the fourth. But they tolerated it. Fear was part of their permissible weaponry.
They bundled her into the carriage of the old train and cuffed her to the silver post. There were two other detainees already inside, dressed exactly like her, already tethered to other silver posts. One was a woman, her hair clipped close to her head so that it was nearly shaved, and the other was a man. His skin was grey and eyes so pink they looked like they were bleeding. He was mumbling something over and over. .
“Is he okay?” Sarah asked of the other woman about the man. She noticed that the woman was trying to calm him down, speaking gently to take away his pain without a thought for her own.
“What do you think?” the woman snapped back at Sarah. It was true, her question was stupid. Just like a lot of things she had done and said lately. “They never pick the women, no matter what they’ve done. Not if there is a man there. He knows it will be him.” The woman reached a foot in his direction to try to stroke him like the comforting hand of a mother on a child. The Guardian closest to her struck his boot into the side of her leg, causing her to cower away. He pulled his Assister from the loop on his belt.
“Not the face,” one of the other Guardians shouted just before she felt the tip of the Assister strike her in base of her back. The woman burst forward, her arms splayed out but held at the wrist by her shackles, her face contorted from the blow. The man that she had been trying to comfort hadn’t seen any of this, even though his eyes were wide open. But what he did see was a second man being marched forwards by six Guardians.
The second man was dazed and incoherent, his eyes blinking as his head rolled left and right. The Guardians pushed him down and shackled him to a fourth silver post. He tried to lie on the floor but one of the Guardians gripped his white boiler suit, hauling him back to his knees. Sarah recognised the prisoner immediately.
“Simon?”
“No talking,” one of the Guardians barked. The doors closed and the train began its journey. It was slow at first as the carriages rocked over the old tracks but the speed soon built up, taking them towards their destination.
She doubted that there was anybody maintaining the underground system, and the state of the carriage would support her theory. The floor upon which Sarah was sitting was thick with a greasy layer of dirt, and she was sure that she could smell the old stench of dry, encrusted urine. The windows too were coated with a thick grey film, the only interruption the marks of undecipherable graffiti. The train whistled through station after station, the rhythmical pounding over the tracks almost a comfort as she recalled the memories of travelling on this very line years ago.
They soon arrived at a station signposted as ‘Monument’. One by one the captives were pulled to their feet, their shackles untied before being marched along cold, dark corridors. They climbed stairs, which seemed particularly difficult for both captive men who stumbled with every step. Sarah’s stomach grumbled as the Guardians barked orders. They were moving so quickly that Sarah could not keep up. She focused on the woman in front of her and wondered what she was here for. Was it fornication or collusion like her? Would they face the same charges? Sarah knew what the woman said earlier in the train was true, and that both men stood less chance of surviving than she did, but the idea offered little comfort.
She focused on something that she could control. Left. Right. Left. Right. She scanned around the underground tunnels looking for an escape, a dark corridor that she could maybe slip into without being seen. Even as she searched she knew the idea was futile, because there was no chance of her ever getting out of here alive if she tried to escape. Her only chance of survival was by facing the Judgement Ceremony and potential denunciation, and pray that it went the right way.
The worst thing was that she knew that it was her own fault that she was here. If she had never opened her mouth in revenge they would have never discovered her involvement. As she watched Simon stumble along in front of her she couldn’t help but feel that she was at least partially responsible for his being here, too. Perhaps if she had never said anything they would not have questioned him. Perhaps he would have had more time to come up with an explanation or excuse, distribute a portion of the blame to another involved party, like the psychologist or doctor. Instead he was here to face the charges because she had alerted Margareta to Zack’s escape. And to what end? Simon surely didn’t deserve to be here anymore than she.
But thank God he was here.
Thank God that she had said something when she did. She had heard the rumours about Simon and Daley Cartwell. To be honest, who hadn’t? She didn’t care what he did when the Renunciation Pledges were complete and the lights were down. But she was glad that somebody did. Because there was no way they would save him over her. No way.
“No way,” she muttered under her breath.
“Got something to say for yourself?” one of the Guardians asked as he bundled her into the next train. He pushed her to the dirty floor, blackening the knees of her boiler suit. When he noticed, he struck his fist into his other palm. “Shit. You’ll have to change that when you get there.”
“Okay,” she obliged. There was still a fear of the unknown. Still that knowledge of her imminent humiliation and subsequent odium by those in Omega Tower. But she would likely be able to stay. They wouldn’t denounce her like they would Simon. He was the sure bet. He was the one they would string up as an example. Thank God she had said something after all.
Chapter Fifty Six
Margareta stalked along the line of denunciation candidates like a schoolmistress observing unruly pupils. She tucked her hands behind her back and her stiletto spikes drilled the floor with every step. Simon and the other man had pretty much pulled themselves together, although both still seemed shakier than the women. Each candidate had been assigned two Guardians, who were positioned either side of them. They were there to act as a fire blanket in case any of them got a crazy idea of trying to avoid what was ahead of them. Simon had started wittering something in spite of the grip of the Guardians against his arms, and it got Margareta’s attention. She marched over to him and slapped him hard across the face.
“Stop blabbering on about your charges.” She was cold and emotionless, her only concern the success of the ceremony. The shredding of very real human emotions was of little consequence to her. As long as what was left at the end was put to good use, that was all that mattered. “Nobody is going to have any sympathy for you, Simon. In fact, so sure am I about the outcome of this Judgement Ceremony, I have already organised the speeches, praise our good President. I took the liberty of inserting your name.”
Sarah looked down to her feet. So it was true. Simon was the sure bet. Even Margareta thought so.
Without warning the door opened and President Grayson walked in. He slammed the door behind him, and the sound ricocheted its way through Margareta’s body straightening her up like a pole. She took small and urgent steps, assuming a position at his side. From the corner of her eye Sarah spotted Margareta’s sickly little smile. It was the smile of a little girl who knew that she could wrap her father around her little finger.
“Heads up straight, everybody.” Margareta was clapping her hands together in a chop – chop fashion. She teetered alongside the president as he walked back and forth assessing the denunciation candidates. Sarah felt a wave of relief that she had been given a new boiler suit in place of the one that had become dirty. Why that was important she didn’t know, considering that she was facing a ceremony that could result in her death.
“Yes, Margareta is quite correct. Heads up, everybody. Let me see your faces.” He turned to Margareta. “And Emily?”
“We thought it necessary to have her positioned on the stage from the beginning. Based on her behaviour over the last week,” she submitted, for the first time looking anything other than certain. “How shall I put it? We felt that bringing her here to be with you was somewhat a risk.”
“It is her role to be here, Margareta.” Margareta began nodding as if her own life depended on it.
“Of course, of course, Sir.” There it was again. That thing he liked. He felt himself relent. “But in the interest of future success we believe a degree of Relocation Therapy is necessary.” He felt Margareta reach out with her finger, stroke it along the side of his hand.
“Of course. Quite right as usual.” And then the smile was back. He stopped in front of Sarah. “My apologies to you, Miss Fletcher. Your involvement in this is unfortunate. However it was entirely necessary for the prosperity of the collective society. And, as I am sure Miss Margareta has informed you, for your own good. Your choices must not go unnoticed.”
Sarah nervously agreed. “Yes, Sir.”
“But after this is over we can put it behind us. I think you and I both know that it will not be you setting an example to the rest of our good population.” Simon was oblivious to the attention that was heaped upon him. Sarah heard one of the Guardians snigger. Margareta quickly shushed him. “No, no. Let the man enjoy it, Margareta. It’s not every day they get to have a Denunciation Ceremony. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
***
Just as Margareta had reassured President Grayson, Emily was already positioned on the stage. The only unusual thing about her positioning was the addition of two Guardians behind her, and Sarah doubted there was a member of the crowd who wouldn’t find that unusual. Sarah noticed that her hair had been cut into a shoulder-length bob with a straight blunt fringe. There was something unrealistic about the quality of the style, and perhaps had been done especially for the ceremony by an expert hygienist. Her hair was blonder than usual, sleeker. Sarah reached up to her own cropped head as she was marched through the crowd. The stubbly lengths pricked at her fingers as she felt the pangs of jealousy that Zack would always choose Emily over her.
The stage had been positioned centrally, the tell-tale sign that a Denunciation Ceremony was about to take place. Every Omega resident was present. The fingers of the Guardians dug into Sarah’s skinny arms as they pushed her up the stairs and onto the stage. The Conservators were sitting on a central circle of chairs facing the crowd. The stage was circular like a clock face and at the junction between each quarter there was an empty podium waiting for a denunciation candidate. Several television screens had been rigged up on the wall so that everybody would have a good view of the President’s face, and each was flanked by giant lights. Only now did Sarah notice that it was dark outside and that there were as many stars in the sky as there were twinkling lights on the floor of the stage.
President Grayson stepped up onto his podium somewhere near the centre of the stage and took a sip of the water that had been provided for him. The crowd was silent. President Grayson took one look at Emily in her wig and reminded himself that they were doing the right thing.
“Citizens of Omega Tower, it was only recently that we had the good fortune to witness the glory of an Adoration of Life Ceremony. We celebrated the union of two citizens, and the good fortunes of the Population Planning department. With new life our community grows and we are strengthened for the challenges that we will face in the future.”
He took another sip of his water. From Sarah’s position, which was roughly at 2 o’clock if you considered the president to be at twelve, she could not see him. She tried to glance upwards to catch his face on the screens, but they were all angled inappropriately for her position. She wasn’t here to watch. In the silence between his words you could have heard a pin drop to the floor. Even the two men who were on the other podiums were silent.
“But the challenge of our future is not the only difficulty which we face. Every day we face the challenge of our past. We live each day in the shadow of the war that we all survived. We face the loss of those we loved, of those we lost. As a society, and as your president, it is our duty to minimise these challenges. We remember and reflect with sadness upon the day we were forced to vote for Proposition Protect. But lest we forget, we should remember that day with pride. Pride that we were courageous enough to take action against people who would see our quality of life reduced. Pride that we as a people stood together in unison to state that which we believe. Pride that we survived those challenges forced upon us, and pride that we will survive the challenges ahead. My good citizens.”
“Our good President,” chanted the crowd.
The sound of somebody heckling near the back of the crowd resonated across the lobby of Omega Tower. The sound o
f his voice was quickly replaced by the sound of an Assister striking flesh and bone. Within a matter of seconds the skirmish was under control, facilitated by the ring of Guardians and Comrades who always worked together on the rare occasion of a Denunciation Ceremony. Margareta was standing in a control room behind a screen that the crowd could not see. On the monitors she scanned the rest of the crowd for other disturbances. Upon finding none she gave the order to continue. Somebody restarted the autocue.
“Sir, you are free to continue,” she said, her words transmitting to an earpiece in President Grayson’s ear.
“There is a common thread that runs through the great moments in our history. Unity. We are all united as one for the good of our population and its survival. This fact must be cherished. And therefore, those who dare to threaten that unity must face the consequences of their actions. My good citizens.”
“Our good President,” came the reply.
Margareta was standing in the control room with a smile on her face and hands clasped together, such was her enjoyment of hearing the speech that she wrote come to life. She even mouthed the words as he spoke them.
President Grayson held his arms wide open. “Please offer your children to our society.”
Movement rustled through the crowd as a wave would ripple across the ocean. Some children were crying as their parents ushered them forwards to the front of the stage. By the time the movement settled there were three concentric rings of children, some with red faces and puffed-up eyes. But every face was angled upwards towards President Grayson. Those children who could not see the president stared at the condemned. They stared at those who represented failure in the society, and watched as they were supposed to so that they might go on to create a better future.
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