This Machine Kills (8 page)

   It wasn’t unusual for fighters to take names that made them sound like super-villains or wrestling stars. Some of the troopers in the security forces had even started doing it too. Taylor remembered the time when Lennox had come to work insisting the others were to address him as Fight Machine from that day on. The ridiculous new moniker didn’t last, not after Spike spent the rest of the day calling him Fart Machine.

   Taylor had seen Warchild fighting before and in his opinion he was by far the best of these warriors. He was a big guy, but unlike most of the other heavyweights he was quick and limber, moving more like a middleweight. If he was pumped full of the steroids the guards handed out to the fighters, it certainly didn’t show. His opponent was smaller but younger than Warchild, with his whole upper body, shaven head included, covered in scrawling prison tattoos.

  When the fight started The Beast came out trying to knock Warchild’s head off but he easily dodged the younger man’s wild hay-makers. Taylor thought he saw the bigger man smile as he leant back to avoid a right hook that only connected with air. After allowing the challenger a few more clumsy attacks, Warchild finally countered with one of his own, landing a perfect five-punch combination. The last two were unnecessary as his opponent looked to be out on his feet before they had even landed. The fight had lasted less than two minutes. With the other prisoners chanting Warchild’s name, Taylor was surprised to see the victor walk back towards the guards and not stomp all over his unconscious victim as would have certainly happened if their roles had been reversed. 

   When the phone rang in the morning Taylor was still lying on the couch with the bottle of whisky held tightly in his grasp. A small stain lay on his carpet where the remains of the bottle’s contents had spilt out. Usually when he woke up with a hangover he would force himself through a gruelling circuit of press-ups, sit-ups and pulls-ups, followed by a short but intense run through his neighbourhood. On this occasion he could barely get dressed.

Chapter 7

   By the time Taylor reached the glass fronted headquarters of SecForce, his head was feeling marginally clearer. Waiting outside Captain Mason’s office, he made sure to sit underneath the air-conditioning unit, gasping as the cold air made contact with the sweat on his back.

   On the wall next to his office, there was a copy of the famous picture of Mason that had dominated the newsbites a few years before. It showed a large group of angry demonstrators pushing towards him. One was holding a tatty banner aloft which read ‘Free market = Slave Labour’, whilst his companions armed themselves with metal pipes or planks of wood.

   Mason could be seen standing firm in front of them; his left arm outstretched with his palm up, halting the crowd’s progress. His right arm was drawn back behind him, waiting to unleash the club he was brandishing on the next person who pushed too far. At his feet, lay
the unconscious or possibly dead form of a man he had already dealt the club to. Blood streamed from a deep gash on the fallen man’s head, pooling around Mason’s feet.

   The picture had been taken not long after Triage was put into place, the hostiles being a small factory worker’s union. They were demonstrating after they had all been sacked when their place of work was converted into one of the first production centres. From that time on, the owners would be using immigrants and prisoners to make the goods the factory produced, and much to their approval, payment to their new employees would no longer be a necessity.

   Whilst he waited, Taylor watched as a long parade of men in white overalls walked down the corridor clutching large, heavy-looking boxes. They were heading towards the stairs that led to the top floor of the building. As he idly thought about what they may have been doing, Mason’s pretty young secretary announced that her boss was ready to see him.

   Mason always made him wait a suitably long time before their meetings commenced. Taylor was sure it was just to hammer home the point that he was the more important of the two. The man was something of a rarity; a senior officer who had come up through the ranks, rather than most of the new blood who had moved in from corporate management positions. Despite being one of the men so to speak, he was still an arrogant bastard who couldn’t resist a photo opportunity. Taylor liked Mason though, and compared to most of the other offices who knew nothing about security matters but spoke instead about profit and risk, and insisted on using terms like ‘corporate sustainability’ when discussing operations, he was by far the best of them.

   Entering the room, Taylor was greeted by Mason’s massive bald head, which sat on equally broad shoulders. His bushy moustache may have looked camp on another man but in Mason’s case it was an essential piece of furniture to fill some of the excess room on his face.

   Taylor’s hand was swallowed up by Mason’s iron grip as they shook. He tried his best not to grimace as the older man squeezed his paw.

   “How are you keeping kiddo?”

   “Pretty good, Cap.”

   Being an avid fight fan, Mason loved Taylor. When he first got back from Canada, Mason had pulled out all the stops to make sure Taylor would be working for him, or at least that’s what he told him whenever he got the chance.

   “I hear you’re fighting tonight.”

   Tayor nodded, “You coming?”

   “I’d love to boy, but I’m snowed under here.”

   Taylor shrugged.

   “And after what went on yesterday,” Mason said accusingly, “I’ve got even more to worry about.”

   His face grew serious as he combed his fingers through his moustache, 

   “I’m sorry about what happened to Rogers, he was a good soldier.”

   “We’re not soldiers anymore, we’re security personnel remember?”

   Mason tutted, “Different name, same shit.”

   Taylor leant forward in his chair, “So Cap, you going to give me another man?”

   Mason laughed and opened up his hands to show he was not concealing one up his sleeves, “Where from?”

   “What about one of the new recruits?”

   “You’ve already had your recruit. You’ll get another when the next lot finish their training.”

   “And when’s that going to be?” Taylor asked, sounding a little more aggressive than he’d intended.

   Mason raised his eyebrow, “Come now Taylor, you got by for six months without Goldman, you’re just going to have to do the same again. It shouldn’t be more than three or four months maximum.”

   Taylor shook his head, “You know something Cap, if you weren’t such a frail old bastard I’d have to beat the shit out of you.”

   Mason gave a hearty laugh that made his chest shake,

   “Listen sonny, you may have been a hotshot once but you ain’t no match for this old dog. I’d have to be in a coma before you got one over on me, and even then I think I’d still take you.”

    Taylor joined his boss in a quiet chuckle.

   “So what’s going on outside,” he asked when the joke had worn off, “who are all those guy’s shifting boxes?”

   “That’s a good question,” Mason answered, not caring if he sounded patronising. He leant forward and lowered his voice,

   “And one with a very interesting answer at that.”

  Mocking his boss, Taylor enthusiastically leant forward so their faces were only inches apart, “I’m all ears, do tell.”

   Before Mason could divulge there was a knock on the door,

   “Guess that’s him. I’ll tell all later,” he whispered before giving his protégé a wink.

   The door opened and Freddie Milton walked in, meeting Mason in the middle of the room. I bet he doesn’t try to crush that fucker’s hand, Taylor thought. After a few hushed words, Mason left the room only for Milton to occupy his chair. Taylor went to stand but was quickly motioned to stay where he was.

   Freddie Milton was easily the most powerful man in Hope City and according to the experts, a modern day prodigy. He was the City’s CEO, not just overlooking what ClearSkies did but also all its umbrella organisations too. As this covered every function of life in the City from fuel and sewerage to security and schools, Milton pretty much ran the place. How he managed to oversee all these things was a mystery to Taylor, who couldn’t even look after himself and five other men. What made it even more amazing was that Milton was only thirty-seven years old.

   To look at him it was hard to believe the power the man wielded. He was well dressed and good looking in a preppy sort of way with thick brown hair that was just beginning to grey around the sides. His jaw line could have been used to advertise razor blades. Milton held himself well, like a man who knew his own importance and wasn’t afraid of others knowing it either, yet there was something about him that suggested that he wasn’t quite as confident as he liked to appear. Taylor had noticed that he struggled to hold a person’s stare for any length of time and occasionally, when making one of his speeches about how ClearSkies was improving life for everyone he would redden up, as if embarrassed by his own words.

   Maybe it was because after he conceived Triage, many people, particularly those in the Old-Town, had wanted Milton dead. For a while he was public enemy number one, even among some of his peers. He had survived an attempted poisoning and still walked with a slight limp as a result of the car bomb that had killed one of his bodyguards and almost cost him his life. These events however, had taken place in the early days, long before people realised if they played things right they could make a whole lot of money out of the new world they found themselves living in.

   Milton adjusted himself to the form of Mason’s chair before beginning.

   “So Mr Taylor, how are you. It’s been quite some time since we chatted.”

   He spoke confidently but refined in his American accent, like a politician or one of the morons who read the newsbites.

   “Please, call me Taylor. Only the tax man calls me Mr and it makes me nervous.”

   Milton’s beaming smile lit up his face, “Of course, and call me Freddie.”

   Taylor nodded, knowing he never would.

   Milton didn’t have his own office; he would never have had the time to be there. Instead he liked to get out in the field and borrow the space from one of his underlings when it was required, and everyone knew that was only when things were serious.

   He interlocked his fingers and placed his hands on Mason’s table, “So what can you tell me about what happened yesterday?”

“Not a lot really, we were on patrol, Rogers was taken out, we took them out.”

   Taylor was deliberately obscure in his response. He wanted to know what Milton was fishing for.

   “I read in your report that you interrogated the girl before…” he paused, “before she-”

   “Tried to blow us up,” Taylor interrupted. He could see Milton felt uncomfortable saying it.

  “Precisely. I also read that she mentioned something about the Shepherd to you.”

   As Taylor nodded, Milton’s outlook grew serious,

   “Now I want you to think carefully,” he spoke like he was engaging with a ten-year-old, “was there anything else she said that you may have forgotten to mention in your report? I appreciate this must be difficult for you at such a stressful time. I can only imagine what it must feel like to lose one of your men.”

    Taylor’s hunch had been right. Something was up.

   “Not really sir,” he answered, “the girl just said that he was coming and to be ready for him.”

   “He?”

   “Sorry,” Taylor replied, quickly realising his error, “I just assumed it must be a man.”

   Milton smiled, shaking the mistake off, “Was there anything else?”

   “She did say something, just before she released the grenade.”

    The suited man’s eyes narrowed, “Go on.”

   “She said ‘This machine kills innocence’.”

   “Oh yes,” Milton answered absently, “I read that in your report. Strange choice of words don’t you think?”

  Taylor got the distinct impression that this was not something that worried his boss.

   “Anything else?” he asked, not waiting for a response, “even something you may not necessarily think is important.”

   Taylor thought about it for a few moments and had begun to shake his head when something struck him.

   “Well there is one thing,” he said, “it’s not so much what she said, just an impression I got, that’s all.”

   “Anything will be helpful,” Milton’s voice was laced with understanding.

   “It was the way the girl looked at me. In all the time I’ve worked the Old-Town, I’ve never seen hatred like that in a person, especially one so young. The other thing is, whoever this Shepherd is, I think she had total belief in them.”

   Milton sighed and lent back in his chair. Even though he had promised himself not to, Taylor used the silence as a chance to voice his own concerns.

   “Can I ask you something sir?”

   His question was met with the warmest of smiles, “Of course.”

  “Is this something we should be worried about, me and my men that is?”