This Machine Kills

by Steve Liszka

  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:

  SECFORCE: PROTECTING YOUR FREEDOM 24/7

  It was said that these checkpoints were set up to make sure nobody was in the City that shouldn’t have been there. Taylor knew this was bullshit. An old friend who worked the perimeter fence told him you could count on one hand the amount of people who successfully made it into the City every year. It made him wonder if ClearSkies really needed the wall at all.

  If there was the one issue that had split people’s opinions in the City more than any other since Triage had exploded into their lives, then it had to be the wall. Even the most liberal of citizens had been happy to have the perimeter fence put up to protect them from their ex-neighbours, but a fifty-foot wall had proved to be a whole different ballpark. The thought of being confined behind two metres of blast-proof concrete seemed to have a deep psychological effect on people and was the one project ClearSkies could not get the public to go along with. It took a sustained bombing campaign by unknown terrorists and a death toll that rose into the hundreds before they eventually bowed to Milton’s will and agreed for the wall to go up.

  When it finally came to his turn, the trooper who approached him recognised Taylor. He held his hand out to receive his ID card,

  “You should have given me a nod,” he said quietly, “you could have gone straight through.”

  Taylor answered with an unenthusiastic smile. He didn’t have a lot of time for the City boys. They liked to walk round in their shiny uniforms thinking they knew it all, when in reality the most action they were likely to deal with was a drunken businessman celebrating one of his deals a little too loudly.

  ‘Come and spend some time with me,’ he felt like saying, ‘I’ll show you what a day’s work feels like.’

  It had always amazed him that with all the CCTV cameras, the security presence and the unmanned drones that patrolled the skies, they still even bothered with the checkpoints. The biggest irony of all was that as he saw it, none of it was necessary. When Triage had taken place, the people at the bott
om would have cut each other’s throats to make sure they got into the City. After doing whatever it took to claw their way in, nobody was foolish enough to risk what they had by breaking the law. The fear of going to the production centres, or even worse, being sent back to the Old-Town, meant the City was virtually crime free. The trooper scanned Taylor’s retinas and fingerprints before letting him on his way. He checked his watch; he’d be on time if he hurried.

  He made it to Milton’s apartment block with minutes to spare. Gasping for breath, he looked up at the building’s curved design, light beaming off its chrome supports. The office blocks in the square may have been fancy but they were nothing compared to this place. Its sides sloped dramatically inwards at the middle so the supports nearly touched each other, then arced out again to mirror the bottom half. There was a huge empty space you could look straight through in the middle section of the building, acting as a break between the lower floors and the upper levels where Milton and his lieutenants resided. The penthouse of course, belonged solely to the boss. The only thing linking the two halves was the elevator that went straight up the centre of the building. The structure reminded Taylor of a buxom woman’s figure. The locals had been less crude and nicknamed it ‘The Hourglass’.

  Walking towards the entrance Taylor realised his T-shirt was covered in sweat and that he stunk; a dizzying combination of whisky and stale grease. He was sure Mrs Milton would not be impressed and neither was the receptionist on the front desk that Taylor hadn’t seen before. She eyed him like something her cat had deposited on the new carpet.

  After convincing the woman he was who he claimed to be, Taylor eventually got out of the lift at the penthouse level only to be met by Mrs Milton’s personal security team. Even though they knew him, they were stony faced as he approached, then proceeded to search him for a second time, (the team on the ground floor had already frisked him). When they had finished their manhandling, the guards let him past and into the apartment whilst they languished in the corridor. Mrs Milton wouldn’t allow any of them inside her home under any circumstances.

  Taylor stared out of the window at the City below. Whether it could technically be called a window or not he didn’t know, as the massive glass panels stretched all the way from floor to ceiling. Milton had had the hourglass built in the dead centre of the City’s circular foundations meaning that depending on what side of the building you looked from, it was possible to see everything within its boundaries.

  From his vantage point, he looked at how the wall had changed the entire aspect of Hope City. It also gave him an idea about the real reason for its construction. Before, Milton would have been able to view the Old-Town in all its stinking glory from his bird’s eye view of the City, but the wall had altered that view forever. It had aesthetically cleansed the environment; no longer would he have to see the results of his bold experiment.

  The only things that could now be seen beyond the wall’s horizon were the far off hills and much closer to home, the chimney stacks poking out from the production centres. It was only in the one space where the wall was yet to be erected that Taylor could still see his old homeland. This space was now smaller than ever, maybe only a few hundred feet or so. It wouldn’t be long before the two ends of the wall united, vanishing the Old-Town for good.

  He checked his watch; it was almost a quarter past one. Mrs Milton always made a big deal about Taylor being punctual for their lessons and yet she never failed to keep him waiting when he arrived. He went over to the leather couch and rested his legs, causing the throbbing in his feet to instantly subside. As he sunk into the seat he eyed the room, never failing to be impressed by its sheer size.

  The design of the apartment was minimal to the point of being cold. There was very little furniture present and even fewer ornaments or other items to demonstrate their wealth. There were no antiques or keepsake from foreign climates, no pictures on the walls or family portraits to admire. It looked like a holiday home that had been kept clean and tidy for the owners that hadn’t bothered to visit. Taylor looked at the heavy book that sat on the oak coffee table in front of him. Even though he had no idea what it meant, he was impressed by its title, ‘The Beginning of the End of History’.

  When he picked the book up it fell open to a page that must have been studied many times previously. He began to read from the top of the page:

  but this, as we now know, was inevitable.

  Milton’s genius lay, not in his actions, but in his appreciation of the situation the world now found itself in. He was the first to realise that the war had dealt the final blow to globalisation. Rather than look longingly to the east, he decided the economic future for the country lay on its own soil. Unfortunately, the very barriers that forced corporations to migrate to the developing world in the first instance were still alive and well in Britain. Unfeasibly high wages coupled with prohibitive red tape and crippling legislation meant that only a drastic restructuring of the model would allow success and prosperity. This was achieved at a stroke with Milton’s ingenious plan; Triage.

  Despite claims to the contrary, the vast majority of people were more than happy for this

  He was interrupted by the sound of Mrs Milton gracefully descending the stairs. She had been so quiet she was almost at the bottom before he finally heard her. He smiled at her warmly but her glance remained steely. Some people would have considered her pretty, though not in the traditional manner. She was tall with angular, almost harsh features that only helped add to the foreboding look she was now casting at Taylor.

  “Hello Nathan.”

  She was the only person he knew who called him by his first name.

  “Hello Mrs Milton.”

  “You’re late,” she said.

  Taylor nodded, “You’ll have to blame your husband for that.”

  Without meaning it to, a slight smile escaped her lips making her whole countenance changed. If her features made her look severe when she wanted, so too could they illuminate her unusual beauty when she smiled.

  She looked Taylor up and down, unimpressed by his shabby appearance,

  “You’re not dressed for our class.”

  Taylor returned the glance, “Neither are you.”

  He was referring to the flowing, white silk night-gown she was wearing.

  She looked down at herself then back at him.

  “In that case, I think we’d better cancel. My husband will not be pleased.”

  Without saying anything else, she turned and walked back up the stairs. By the time she was half-way up, her gown had dropped to the floor letting Taylor see her naked body. She cast a glance over her shoulder towards him.

  “Come upstairs,” she said “I’m running a bath.”

  Chapter 9

  When Freddie Milton decided to settle in Britain and run Hope City, most people thought he was insane. It was the largest of the new cities in the country, and for most men, running such a gig would have been the job of their dreams. But for someone of Milton’s stature; a man revered by his peers as a living god, it was seen as some sort of curious hobby or self-deprecating joke.

  Milton was rich beyond his wildest dreams. When Triage had proved such a success, his stocks had rocketed. His employers were so relieved at the wonders he had produced, they threw more money and shares at him than any man could possibly know what to do with. Instead of taking his rightful place on ClearSkies board of directors, Milton decided to forego such power and stay in his adopted home, Hope City.

  There were all sorts of theories at the time about why he chose to live a relatively quiet life in Britain when the world was his for the taking. Some people assumed he must have been an eccentric and that this was just a display of his unusual personality. Anyone who knew him, understood just how wrong this assumption was. Milton had no real quirks in his DNA to speak of. He could at best be considered a polite but pragmatic bore. It had nothing to do with him wanting to keep his feet on the ground and in touch with the ‘real’ people ei
ther, although this is what he liked others to believe.

  The reason Freddie Milton stayed in Hope City was because of his wife. It was her home and she wasn’t prepared to leave it under any circumstances. They had met in Milton’s first term at university, when he had come to Britain as a Masters student, hoping to improve on his already formidable education with a year at one of the world’s most prestigious economics schools. Like many other men before him, after his first encounter with Charlotte, he had been left smitten. The only condition she put on the acceptance of his marriage proposal was that they forego America and set up permanent residence in Hope City. It was an easy decision for Milton to make.

  Taylor could feel the knots in his back loosen as Charlotte expertly worked her thumbs into his aching muscles. He used his hands to splash the warm bath water over his face, washing off the freshly accumulated beads of sweat.

  She removed her hands and playfully slapped the centre of his back.

  “There you go, that’s more than you deserve?”

  “Don’t stop know,” Taylor pleaded, “it feels so good.”

  Charlotte stood up and reached for her towel,

  “Come on you big baby, you’re going to have to leave soon or you’ll get me into trouble.”

  Taylor spun himself around so that his face was level with her pelvis.

  “I think you’re right. Is that a chopper I can hear?” he said, before nuzzling his nose into her groin.

  She rolled her eyes at the remark.

  He had been referring to Freddie Milton’s private helicopter that he used to taxi him around the City. On the roof of the building was a landing pad where the machine rested when it wasn’t transporting him from one of his companies to the next.