This is the golden age of productivity. In a world where each man answers only to himself, there is no progress. But in this time, in this place, progress is a necessity. Samuel Danby beholds the scene before him, a scene that would have looked identical in a bygone age. The acreage spreads across the plain, with fields for wheat and for sugar cane, with grazing land for cows, for sheep and for pigs. And in the centre, a broad, thatched-roof old mansion sits stolidly, ivy creeping up its walls and sunlight drenching its ancient beams. The landscape has been frozen, and its beauty with it, while humankind leaps defiantly ahead in search of inexplicable greatness.
The wheat field is dotted with figures, men and women hard at work. All are dressed practically, in clothing that has been tested and developed to optimally suit agricultural workers. The government endorses it, and uncannily this is enough to make everyone wear it. Ordinarily half this number would be working a field, and of them half still would be taking a break; the few left would go slow and stop frequently to chat. But this is no ordinary time. This is a time when 'hard at work' refers to a mechanised society that is well-oiled, high-powered and subject to scrupulous maintenance. If a mechanism doesn't work properly, it must be removed. Everyone knows this.
Danby marches down the paddock, his sharp eyes taking note of all his workers. All his mechanisms. Monica, always eager to compliment him, says: "Mr. Danby, you're doing a wonderful job keeping this harvest going. We ain't had a crop this big in thirty years." She knows.
"Why, thankyou, dear girl. I do my best, but I hope you realise this is no work of mine. It would be wrong to take credit for a stroke of luck, would it not?" He knows.
"Your humility never ceases to astound me. But Mr. Danby, there's something on my mind I would really like answered. Why must we harvest this enormous quantity of wheat? I know you never like to tell me such things, but it puzzles me greatly. When the trucks come to collect it all, where does it go? I mean, can't other folks make their own wheat? Why do they need ours?"
"My dear child, I have told you before and I tell you now, it is… inadvisable… to ask such questions. All you need know is that we don't eat all that we reap, and that others don't reap as much as they eat. Think of a doctor, one who grows no food - " Suddenly, further down amongst the unsown crops, one of the farmhands lets out a shriek as loud as a thunderclap. He drops his shovel, throws down his crop, and runs vigorously towards the eastern fence. With his arms dancing wildly in the air and his screams piercing the rural calm, he vaults the low fence and is soon out of sight. Not one person turns to look. Not a single comment is made by anyone in that field. They all know. Life continues. "Yes - a doctor - a good example of one who grows no food and who can benefit from ours. And in return, we can benefit from his medicine and his skills. In good time, you will understand more."
*
ROGERS: The girl must be removed. I think she's a rebel, asking questions like that. Just give her a few more weeks, and she'll be creeping out in the dead of the night, looking for adventure, up to no good mischief.
BOBROV: I disagree. The girl has brains. She'll make a fine judge one day. Give her some more time, and with luck she'll have worked out the rules before she seriously breaks them.
O'REILLY: I agree with you, Anna, and would also like to quote the Judgebook, where 'investigative and analytical tendencies...' are listed under the positive criteria. There's no harm in her questions, for now, but we'll have to keep an eye on her.
ROGERS: I have my doubts, Pat, but since you both seem so hopeful of her potential, we'll give her some more time and re-judge her at a later date. Now, onto that lad Jenkins, the one who dashed out of his bounds and into external territory - we've already captured him - I assume he's to be removed?
BOBROV: Confirmed. Unfortunate, that we've had six such incidents in the region during the past week. But it's inevitable that some buckle under the spotlight.
O'REILLY: Confirmed. We can't tolerate weaklings. Remove him.
ROGERS: Good. Well, that's that out of the way. Now, onto Danby… no comments from either of you? (Pause) As I thought. He's well on the road to Judgehood, anyway. Nothing to worry about there.
O'REILLY: Break, or another case?
BOBROV: A few more cases, then we can call it a day.
O'REILLY: Right, then. Next case for executive review, coming up… now.
*
Progress was once superficial, but in this age it is profound. Society has broken free of the cyclic nature of reality, because previously peace was always followed by war, and wealth was always followed by poverty. Now all that is gone; in its place stands order and rigidity. There is no need to build new buildings, no reason to buy new cars. More important is the pursuit of greater self-enlightenment, the improvement of production and efficiency. The refinement of the integral components of the mechanism, and the preservation of all else. That is why, like the farm, this small township looks identical to what it was many, many years ago. But looks can be deceiving.
There are no longer any grandparents to sit children on their knees. There is not one person over fifty in the entire town. What's more, there are a great many more children than there are adults, and among the children it is the youngest that are most populous. The government has allocated tremendous funds towards medical science, and as a result the mortality rate has dropped considerably. 'Death by natural causes' is a rare phenomenon indeed. But death, it seems, is not. If any have the courage to notice, all children born with physical disabilities tend to 'disappear'. When they grow older and become vociferous, those who ask the wrong questions, those who attempt to escape their territory, or those who displease the judges in some other way, they too are culled.
Heidi Collins runs the general store. She has lain with four men in her life, and from them she has produced seven children. Three of them - Jack, twelve; Becca, nine; and Wayne, two - have not 'disappeared'. She lives in a house two streets from the store, with several others who are also allocated to it. Her children happen to be allocated in different houses. This is the life she must lead. Since childhood, she has seen countless acquaintances complain to the townsfolk, and never be seen again. She has more than half a brain. She knows.
She stands passively behind the counter, an ancient barcode wand in her hand. Ten children are in a line, waiting to be served. They are not the rowdy, undisciplined scum that once festered the Earth, squabbling endlessly over sweets and exotic insults. They are doing what would once have been considered impossible: without any orders or threats, they have formed a line straight as an arrow, neat as a row of toy soldiers, silent as the dead. Even they know.
"And what can I get you today, young Jen?" Heidi beams cheerfully as Jen places a bag of rice on the counter.
"Just this, Mrs. Collins." Jen, a scrawny but cute ten-year-old, has already learnt not to show remorse when buying groceries for her house. The stores still keep a sizable shelf of chocolates, lollipops and the like, but no child ever buys them. Life is a performance, and in this show everyone must follow the script. To eat unhealthy foods, which are not on the script, automatically warrants instant removal.
Beep. "There you go, sweetheart. The credit's been deducted from your house account. Who's next in line?" Where there should be an echolalia of 'me, me, me', there is silence.
David Foster walks up briskly, with a pained smile on his face, and empties a parcel of fruit onto the counter. There are seven containers of blueberries. "David, what on Earth do you want all those blueberries for?" Heidi chuckles as she asks.
"I'm gonna hide 'em in my pocket, Miss. And then when that awful teacher of mine, Mr. Wentworth, when he comes into class tomorrow morning, me and Matt are gonna peg 'em at him!" David laughs hysterically, imagining his teacher covered in blue specks, so angry that his face will turn red as a beetroot. He has played some mild tricks in his time, and they have been disregarded because they show ingenuity skills. But this is completely intolerable; Heidi knows it to be warranting removal.
"David, that's a horrible thing to do, you know that? I can't believe you'd think I could sell you food, if that's what you plan to do with it! Food is made to be eaten. Farmers work hard to make what we eat, and what's more, not everyone gets it. I want you to go outside and think about what you said, right now. And don't you dare come back until you're sorry!" David's fate is already sealed, but as if his plight isn't dire enough, he bursts into uncontrollable tears as he staggers out the door. In children above a certain age, crying is a sign of weakness not to be tolerated.
David is never seen again.
*
BOBROV: That child must be removed immediately!
O'REILLY: Don't worry. He's already been taken care of. The Brigade automatically removed him, as soon as he stepped out of sight of civilians. The magistrates wouldn't have even checked that, too outrageous.
BOBROV: We weren't asked to review the boy, we were asked to review the shopkeeper. We must ascertain whether or not her actions were consistent with the guidelines. What do you think, Paul?
ROGERS: I'm happy to dismiss this incident, at least as far as it concerns her. I mean, look, she acted kindly and compassionately towards the other children, and she does have an excellent track record. The toughest part of dealing with removable children is the balancing act: being angry towards the removable one, while not leaking information to the others. I think she did quite a good job, considering her position.
O'REILLY: I'm not so sure. You have to remember that kids only learn from watching other people's mistakes. So if they learnt anything from her, and her specifically - as opposed to the removable boy - she made a mistake of her own.
BOBROV: I'm looking through the Judgebook, and I can't find anything she did wrong. She didn't directly mention the crime committed; she didn't warn the other kids against committing it; she reserved her anger for the perpetrator… I know I usually agree with you, Pat, but on this one I feel compelled to go with Paul. The woman should not be removed at this time.
O'REILLY: Very well, then, it seems that Heidi Collins is not to be removed. Let's review one more, as we agreed, and then we can have some coffee and hot chocolate. Ah, the joys of Judgehood!
*
Row upon row of houses, standing silent as statues. Brothels and nightclubs, their neon lights still glowing seductively; beckoning, tempting the weak. Tall, tall towers devoid of business, in a world devoid of money and cleansed of vice. Multi-lane highways, empty of cars on a Monday morning, the traffic lights changing ridiculously, like wind-up toys wound up then discarded. Children everywhere, but no games. Dark alleys, but no vicious thugs. Newspapers, but no news. From a distance, this gleaming metropolis looks almost familiar, compared with the thriving commercial hub it once was. But nobody dare express their sense of loss - that this city has turned from a pulsating organism to a rotting shell - because everyone knows.
Lenny Lockersby is a teacher, who has had the good fortune of being allocated to the suburbs. He shares a house with thirteen strangers, but he appreciates the open spaces and the tree-lined avenues of his territory. He is one of the few people authorised to travel outside his territory, since he works at a school in the CD, the Central District. It once had another name, but in this era people do not conduct Business. In one respect Lenny is enviable: he has no discipline problem. If a child acts against the rules - ever - that child is not seen again. But this is no recompense for Lenny, who is forbidden to teach history, art, music, or literature to his students. Such areas are seen as 'against the spirit of learning' in the eyes of the government.
Lenny stands at the front of the classroom, writing notes on a century-old blackboard. The chalk squeaks protestingly, mocking the so-called 'progress' of the Judgehood system, a system the majority is forbidden to understand. He is writing rules: conjugation and preposition, adjective and noun, verb and adverb. His students copy obediently, with the discipline of those who have spent a lifetime performing.
"Excuse me, sir, but how do you tell the difference between a noun and a verb?" Sarah asks.
"Very simple, Sarah. As I've written, a noun is an object; it is something you can see with your own eyes. A verb, on the other hand, is an action; it is something you do, for example cooking, or sneezing, or conforming." Conforming? Lenny knows he's in trouble, as soon as he says it. His fate may not be sealed yet, but already he doubts he'll live to see another day. He knows, but unlike most in this era, he no longer cares.
"What's conforming, sir?" another student asks.
That's the trigger for Lenny; with that question having been asked, he begins an oratory he should have given long ago. "Conforming, my students, is what you have done every day of your lives thus far." A confused murmur rises up from the students; is Mr. Lockersby allowed to say this? "In blind obedience, you bend your will to suit the whims of our crazed oppressors. Just by speaking to you like this, I am breaking the law! Open your eyes, and for one moment think about it - just what kind of a world are we living in? Within the next few seconds, soldiers will break down the door and take me away, to stop me setting you free. Information is the key, and they never let you have it!
"Hear this, so you may know just what kind of world you're living in: there are cameras everywhere, watching our every move. You know. You all know this! Think about what it means: that somewhere, judges are considering every word you utter, and on the basis of their gut feelings are making a split-second decision whether you live or die! Don't put up with it any longer, because only the judges among you will survive, and most of you will never be judges, no matter how meek and obedient you are! No one will ever tell you this again, so don't any of you ever forget - "
But Lenny never finishes his oratory. He never speaks again, after the squad of Brigadiers breaks down his door, as he predicted, and hauls him away to be removed. The children see their teacher for the last time, and then he's gone. Their faces show no expression; they utter not a word about what was told to them; their pens are suspended above the pages of their books, waiting for the next line to be written on the board.
The effects of Lenny's oratory will never be discovered, because the children dare not ever reveal them. They all know. Their life is live on the air, twenty-four hours a day; it's an ironic tribute to an age of voyeuristic entertainment. The show must go on.