This Machine Kills (9 page)

   Milton’s smile didn’t even waiver, “Not at all, in fact it’s a good sign. It means that the terrorists have finally realised that thanks to the wall, their days are numbered.”

   His face suddenly reddened as he anticipated Taylor’s thoughts.

   “Not that I’m suggesting that losing one of your men was a good thing, of course. And just so you know, Mrs Rogers will be receiving her husband’s full pension. My people are arranging it as we speak.”

    Taylor gave him a grateful smile, knowing that Rogers’ family had been lucky. It wasn’t always guaranteed the money would get paid out in cases where a death had been caused by an act of terrorism, even if the victim was an employee of SecForce.

   Sensing the end of the conversation Milton rose to his feet. In complete contradiction to Mason, he almost stroked, rather than shook Taylor’s hand.

  “Thanks for your time and sorry for bothering you on your day off.”

   Even when he was worried, the man still managed to be polite.

   He stood up and headed for the door, stopping in his tracks after a few steps,

   “Oh and Taylor.”

   “Yes sir?”

   “Don’t forget my wife’s lesson this afternoon.”

Chapter 8

    Looking around at the gorged faces of his fellow diners, Taylor started to think the people in the Old-Town were lucky. They may have been hungry, but at least the morbid obesity that clung to the diners surrounding him like a bloated shadow would never be a problem for them.

   He used the paper napkin to wipe the remnants of his lunch from his face. Opening it up, he inspected the patterns the grease and ketchup had made. He tried to see if he could make out any obvious images, the way psychiatrists did with the ink-blot tests they did on the mental-cases. Seeing only bloodstains, he squeezed the napkin into a tight ball and threw it onto his empty tray. He would have been content to sit there for the rest of the day, using the fast food to help soak up the booze in his system, but he needed to get a move on if he was going to make his appointment on time.

   As he got up to leave, Taylor picked the small white device he had been playing with from the table. He didn’t really have any use for a sonic sequentializer, but at least it was expensive and guaranteed to keep the spending police off his back for a little while. The girl in the shop had to stop herself from laughing when he’d shown such little knowledge regarding the object he was about to purchase. When she realised his limits, she spoke slowly and with a raised voice, the way people do when communicated with someone who speaks a different language or is hard of hearing. He pushed the object into his pocket, weighing up the likelihood of ever using it.

   Leaving the restaurant, Taylor emerged straight into the bustle of the City’s consumer zone. There may not have been any vehicles allowed in this part of the City but the noise from the bustling construction site ahead of him more than made up for it. Judging by the size of its footprint, it looked like another shopping mall was being rushed up. He glanced at the mall situated just behind it, wondering if this new monolith was really necessary.

   If the Old Town had changed so dramatically since Triage was put into place, it was nothing compared to what had happened to the City. Ever since the perimeter fence had been erected, the place had changed beyond all recognition. It had been quickly decided that as it then stood, the layout of the former city was a relic of the old system and no longer fit for purpose. Every building that once stood there had to be ripped down and replaced with newer, bigger and better models.

   When the conservationists complained, they were told that this destruction and rebuilding of the City were an essential part of Milton’s plan. In order to kick-start the economy, massive amounts of money would have to be invested in reconstruction and engineering. Without this injection of capital, things could quickly slip back to as they had been in the darkest hours of the depression. That all this money would be going to the company that Milton worked for was certainly not a cause of alarm, it was for the greater good after all. And so they stayed quiet when the old stone buildings were knocked down and replaced by steel framed constructions that quickly sprung up from the ashes.   

   It was also decided that these cities deserved new names so as not to be confused with the historical eyesores that has once stood in their places. At first they were going to be christened after some of ClearSkies’ many offshoot companies, but deciding this was too crass, they opted instead for more subtle choices. Some of the cities were named after the physical landscape they inhabited such as, River, Mountain and Lake, which Taylor didn’t mind. Others were given names that represented human aspirations such as Liberty, Justice and Truth, which he did.

   On the edge of the building site he watched as a small, chubby man in an ill-fitting shirt yelled at a much larger labourer, clad in an orange jump-suit. He furiously jabbed his finger at the man’s chest, warning that if he didn’t work harder he’d be sent back to the workhouse. The bigger man apologised profusely before being sent on his way. As he turned, the little man kicked him viciously in the ass.

   The foreman’s threat of the workhouse had been a reference to the production centres. The term he’d used had been outlawed in polite conversation many years before. ClearSkies’
pubic-relations team had through intense research, proved that the word carried too many negative connotations. It wasn’t that the Victorian workhouses were oppressive places where the half-starved creatures who inhabited them were abused by their masters in the name of profit, but more importantly, the name was seen as old fashion. This was a far more serious faux pas, viewed the same way as calling disabled people spastics.

   The labourers on the building sites were seen as having the best jobs of all the production centres inhabitants, or ‘producers’ as they were nicknamed. It meant they got to work outside, which even on a dark, freezing day or when it was a hundred degrees in the shade, still beat being in the centres. The fact that since the government had abolished all health and safety laws, deaths on these sites had soared, did little to stop the producers applying for outdoor work. The skilled workers on the building sites; the electricians, plumbers, plasterers and bricklayers were all inhabitants of the City, even if they were at the bottom of its social spectrum. Taylor thought this put them just above SecForce employees like himself.

   He had to watch his step as he weaved through the shopping-bag laden crowds. Even though ClearSkies owned all the companies that filled the malls, the illusion had been created that each was in some way distinct and different from the other shops that surrounded them. Again, research had identified that more money could be charged for products if there was a feeling of exclusivity to them. The malls liked to carry the pretence that the shops were individually owned with each selling superior goods that singled them out from their so-called competitors. It was only when shopping for groceries and other essentials, that ClearSkies did not bother to hide the true nature of the business from their customers. Built on the outskirts of the City were a number of vast macromarkets, so big it required a half-day just to venture from one end to the other.

   One of the few places where private ownership of business did exist was on the ultra-exclusive boutique-lined boardwalk Taylor found himself now jogging through. These establishments were mostly owned by the bored wives of the friends Milton had located in the highest of places. It was an area where they sold diamonds, necklaces and other luxurious items to each other in their own version of one-upmanship. Taylor had to stop himself in his tracks as a woman with the face of a forty-year-old but the neck of an octogenarian charged out of one of these boutiques and directly into his path. It had taken all his skill just to stop himself from standing on the tiny dog the woman dragged behind her on a jewel-encrusted lead.

   He picked up his pace when he reached the square located almost in the heart of the City. In its centre were four massive screens directed at each point of the compass. It was showing a continually repeated newsbite that had captured the crowd’s imagination. The images on the screens alternated between a man in a white medical gown proudly pointing his laser pen at the damage inflicted on Rogers’ shattered skull, and footage of a cat that sounded like it was saying ‘mash potato’ when it meowed. Every so often it was punctuated by adverts displaying home security devices available to anyone who truly cared for their family’s safety. As the place suddenly began to fill with people, Taylor realised too late that he had turned up at the wrong time. He would never make it to the other side of the square before they filled it.

   It was dinner hour for the City’s office workers, and it was to the square they all congregated with their hermetically sealed sushi boxes and one-use vacuum flasks. They searched for space on one of the many aluminium benches or else ate standing up, staring at the screens with unending interest. As he pushed through the crowd, he noticed the enthusiasm with which they laughed at the cat’s little trick, and their revulsion at Rogers’ injuries, never wavered, regardless of how many times they witnessed them.

  The buildings surrounding the square that the workers had descended from were a site to behold. Each had a unique design making it look completely different to its neighbours, yet all managing somehow to complement the next. There were buildings with arches incorporated into the upper floors and ones that leaned so far to one side it was a miracle they were still standing. Some resembled pyramids or church spires whilst others were far wider at the top than they were at the bottom. One even spiralled around its own axis in such an extreme way it was amazing the steel hadn’t snapped. Of the fifty or so of these fine edifices that towered over the square, all had something about them that marked them out as special. The place was an architect’s wet dream. What made these achievements even more remarkable, was that they were barely a few miles from the festering cesspit known as the Old-Town.                                                       

   When he finally made it to the opposite side of the square, breaking free from the scrum of suits, Taylor was almost knocked off his feet by a skinny teenager with sweat pouring down his face. Like the labourers on the building site, he was also wearing a jump-suit, only this one was bright green.

  “Sorry mister,” the boy said breathlessly, “I didn’t see you there.”

  “That’s ‘cause you were running,” Taylor growled at him, “slow down, idiot.”

   Concern filled the boy’s face, “You’re not going to report me are you? I was on a deadline, my boss don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “What are you getting that’s so important?” Taylor asked, suddenly curious.

   “Just some ‘phet, ” the boy’s worried look changed to a sly smile, “he’s already been up for three days. The man’s going to fuck himself to death if he’s not careful.”

   “In that case you better get going,” Taylor nodded in the boy’s direction of travel, “we wouldn’t want him having an accident now would we?”

   Ignoring his advice the boy set off on a sprint, nearly colliding with a woman up ahead. He was obviously new to the job and judging by his inability to avoid people, Taylor thought it was doubtful it would be his for long. Kids like him were runners, hired to look after the day-to-day needs of some of the most respected people in the City; the Pushers.

   Although he didn’t really understand it, these were the people who made big bucks for ClearSkies by moving money or ‘pushing’ it from one place to another. It had something to do with investing or speculating or some shit like that. All Taylor knew is that the fuckers must have been clever as they did it all from the comfort of their own apartments. Again he didn’t really get it, but somehow many of the pushers had pretty much  merged with their computers, like they had almost become a single entity. When they weren’t making money they hooked in to programmes that allowed them to live a virtual existence where they could be whoever they wanted; special agents, sports stars, or as was probable with this kid’s master, sexual deviants.

   As many of the pushers never left their interfaces, the runners would do everything for them. They’d feed them, clothe them, even wipe them clean after virtual sex or taking a shit; basically anything a mother would do for her helpless newborn. The producers that were brought in to carry out most of the mind numbing, menial tasks in the City, could not be trusted to do this vital job, and being far too demeaning a role for any of the City’s inhabitants, it had been found necessary to cast the employment net a little wider. The solution was to give a lucky few individuals from the Old-Town special permits that allowed them in and out of the City. It was considered such a prestigious honour that the chosen ones were unlikely to risk losing their positions by stealing from their rich but physically useless employers.

   When he got off the square and onto the main drag that led to Milton’s apartment, Taylor witnessed a site that made him groan out loud. A temporary police checkpoint had been set up across the street, preventing anyone from passing without going through the scanner and showing their ID. He grudgingly joined the queue, knowing that without his uniform on, he would have to wait like everyone else. As he got in line he read the sign above the scanner written in bold capital letters: