Frank Tayell - Work. Rest. Repeat.

“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 indiscriminately 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.