Cyryl has been working in the bureaucracy for about a quarter of a year. He doesn’t need the calculator anymore, and he’s no longer making any mathematical mistakes that Tymon needs to fix, though Tymon still checks his work anyway. Millions of tons worth of concrete powder has been sent to the Protectorate’s new territories, all thanks to his paperwork.
“I wanna shoot someone,” Cyryl says wistfully as he leans back in his chair and studies the dotted pattern on the ceiling tiles.
A pile of incoming paperwork has been building up on his desk for the past few hours, but he can’t summon the motivation to knock it out.
He raises his hand towards one of the lights, then outstretches two fingers, like the barrel of a gun.
“Bang,” he mimics the recoil with an exaggerated flick of the wrist. “Oh, sorry there, savage. I didn’t mean to blow your head off, but the light of progress has arrived, and you can’t eat people anymore.”
This morning, Cyryl heard a news report about some nomadic tribes in an administrative region on one of the newly conquered planets. Rather than burn or bury their dead, it was customary for them to chop up their tribesmen and cook them in a stew. The reason is because they live in a vast desert, and since resources are so scarce, they can’t waste calories.
But regardless of reason, cannibalism is completely banned by the Peldak Constitution.
Sadly, Cyryl couldn’t sit around to listen to the entire news report. If he did, he’d have learned that the Protectorate found a diplomatic solution to this moral dilemma. They simply sent food to the tribes of the region, and the tribes stopped this practice. It’s not like they wanted to eat people, they just had to due to the circumstances of their environment.
“Hehheh, what’s that, cannibal? You want to eat my flesh too? Well, blam,” he flicks his wrist back, “you’re not gonna be eating anything anymore, now will you?”
A hatred of cannibalism is deeply engrained in the peldak psyche, and this kind of fantasy is normal.
“Then I’d kick in the door to some hut, wham!” He kicks his leg through the air. “Oh no! There’s a cannibal at the dinner table, and -also he’s got a knife- and he’s ready to carve up some innocent baby! And the baby is crying his eyes out, ‘help me, Cyryl, you’re the only peldak in the village, and you’re the only one who can save me!’ So, then blamo,” he flicks his wrist, “shoot the knife out of the cannibal’s hand, then I rush in to start swinging. Whap, pow,” he’s slowly swinging his fists, “grab the baby, then fight off all those cannibals as I run out of the village. They’d probably slash me a few times, trying to get past my arms to cut the little guy, but no way. I’d throw myself in the direction of the knives. Sure, it’d hurt, but anything to save an innocent life. Then I’d run through the surrounding jungle, the cannibals chasing me the whole time, and oh no! It’s a trap! There’re all these cannibals lying in-“
Tymon grips the sides of the doorway and leans in, “Cyryl! Shut up!”
“Wha?!” Cyryl jumps from his seat and turns. “Wh-what?”
“You’ve been talking to yourself for like ten minutes. It’s annoying. Stop.”
“Was I… that loud?”
“Yeah,” Tymon says with a few rapid, irritated nods. “Everyone could hear you.”
Klem calls out from his cubicle on the other side of the room, “I thought it was pretty funny.”
Urban yawns, “I’ve been having the same fantasy, I was just quieter about it.”
“Oh, uh, sorry!” Cyryl says loud enough for everyone to hear.
Tymon glances to the stack of papers, “if you’re bored, just do your work, or go to the gym. Or take a walk. You’re really not being asked a lot here, the least you could do is not bother me while I’m working.” He leaves the cubicle, but Cyryl follows him out.
“About that! I was thinking of grabbing a telenel and setting it up in here. I think that might help with boredom.”
“Absolutely not,” Tymon says as he grabs his paperwork and returns to one of his cubicles.
“Why not?” Cyryl raises his voice for everyone, “what do you guys think?” From the rest of the room, the dozen convicts that make up the work force of this department all make various positive responses. Some are enthusiastic, seeing this as a way to rid themselves of boredom, and others only grunt, finding it hard to drum up the energy for even that. “See? Everyone wants it. C’mon, a nice speaker, right over there, playing music, or news reports. It’ll be great.”
“No.” Tymon sits at one of his desks and starts pouring over the train manifest, taking out the relevant data.
“Why not?”
“I’ve been working here for 400 years. When one-way telephones were first invented, I went out of my way to put one in this office, and it was awful. Everyone hated it.”
Cynthia, near the back, perks her ears, “which version was it?”
“Huh?” Tymon calls out.
“Which telenel was it?” She continues. “They were pretty awful at first, too much static, basically unusable for peldak ears. Back when I was a kid, my now-husband and I were part of a little study to help improve the sound quality. It took years, but now they sound crystal clear.”
Tymon gives off an exasperated sigh, “I have no idea, it was decades ago. Maybe the sound was a bit off?”
“Well, there’s your problem!” Cyryl says, “I’ll pick us up a new one, we’ll hook it up, bing bang boom, we’ll have some nice music playing while we work.”
Tymon pauses, takes a deep breath in, then releases. He pushes his chair away from the desk, then brings two fingers to his mouth so he can whistle sharply. “Everyone! Meet me by the door.”
He marches past Cyryl to the back wall, and all the other workers slowly drag themselves out of their cubicles to meet him. They all look dead inside, resigned to their fate. Cyryl is still too new to have his spirit broken. Women like Cynthia can handle the paperwork slightly better than the men, though it’s basically a marginal difference in misery.
“Show of hands,” Tymon says, a head smaller than the next shortest person, “who wants the telenel?”
Cyryl raises his right hand all the way up, though he isn’t tall enough to touch the ceiling. The rest of them have varying levels of enthusiasm, with some only bending their elbow, barely getting their hands above their shoulders.
“Alright, all thirteen of you.” Everyone puts their hands down. “Now, raise your hands if you don’t want the telenel.”
Tymon raises his hand, as does another sleep-deprived worker who already voted. Cyryl quickly pulls his hand down.
“There you have it,” Cyryl says, “thirteen to one. That’s almost unanimous.”
“True, but you’re forgetting this part. By a show of hands, who’s assigned to two strategic resources?” Tymon is the only one with a hand raised. “I see. So, who’s assigned three strategic resources?” Tymon is still the only one with his arm up. Cyryl crosses his arm and scowls. “Who’s in charge of 17 strategic resources?” As expected, it’s just Tymon. He makes an exaggerated showing of looking around. “Just me,” he puts his arm down. “So not only am I the director of this department, but I also do more work than all of you combined. And, of course, when someone isn’t here, I end up doing their work too. Oh, and if you’d care to remember, I’m the only one here who isn’t a convicted criminal. Therefore… no. We’re not getting it.”
Tymon walks through the crowd, but Cyryl grabs his bicep and swings him back around until they’re facing each other.
“Is there something you need?” Tymon speaks through his teeth. He’s shaking a little, clearly expecting to be hit, but not backing down.
Cyryl flashes a smile, “so we’re going by a system of majority vote, but weighted by how much work we do?”
“…” Tymon rolls his eyes, “sure, whatever.”
“Ha! So, all we need to do to overrule you is pick up some extra work? Each of us being put in charge of another strategic resource will-“
“I’m out,” Cynthia backs up.
“Fuck that,” Urban heads off.
“Silence isn’t so bad,” Klem shakes his head.
“W-wait,” Cyryl looks around, “where are you guys going?”
“I’m just keeping my head down until my sentence is done.”
“No need to take on extra torture.”
Cyryl frowns, then looks back down at Tymon, whose face is twisted into the widest, smuggest smile Cyryl has ever seen. The man’s ears are wiggling in victory, and his chin is high.
“Is there anything else, or can I go back to work? I’ve a lot to do, as we’ve discussed.”
Cyryl clenches his jaw hard enough that his teeth could break, and flares his nostrils. “Give me five more.”
“Hm?” Tymon’s ears perk.
“Give me an additional five strategic resources. We have 13, you have 17. If I have six and the others have a combined 12, that will give us 18 to your 17, and then we can get that telenel.”
Tymon sighs, “you wouldn’t need six. There’s a limited number of resources, you’d be taking them away from me. Currently, you all have 13 in total, and I have 17. If you take one of mine, you’d have two, the others would have 12, that would give you 14 in total, and I’d have 16. If you take two, you’d have 15, and I’d have 15. Take three, giving you control of four resources in total, and you’d have 16, while I’d have only 14, giving you the voting majority.”
“Then give me three more.”
“Your math skills don’t inspire much confidence.”
Cyryl shoves him, causing Tymon to trip and hit his back against the wall of a cubicle. “Shut it and hand them over.”
“I’ll still have to check your math when the shift ends,” Tymon grumbles. “Fine. But as soon as you give up and hand them back to me, that telenel is being thrown down the staircase.”
Cyryl follows his senior around and three more cubicles are assigned to him. He’s now in charge of allocating concrete powder, cement, asphalt, and rebar.
“Not too late to back out,” Tymon says with a smile.
“Shut it,” Cyryl clenches his hands and cracks his knuckles. “I’m working.”
This turn of events creates the least amount of work Tymon has had to do in decades. It only comes at the cost of Cyryl quickly wanting to kill himself. But no matter how much Cyryl regrets his decision, it’s too late to admit he was wrong. He’d never grovel before Tymon after that display.