by Steve Liszka
“And how do think I can help you?” Richardson answered, smiling.
“I want to take my chances back in the City,” Taylor said, “at least there I can prove I’m innocent.”
Richardson gave him a solemn nod before responding,
“I see. So what you’re saying is you’d like to surrender yourself to my custody and hopefully we can sort this mess out. Am I correct?”
“No,” Taylor said calmly, “you’re very fucking incorrect. What I want is for you to get Freddie Milton down here so I can explain what’s happened, to him.”
Richardson smiled politely, “I’m sorry but Mr Milton is a very busy man, it would be impossible to get him here just like that. If you give yourself up to me, I promise no harm will come to you.”
“Too busy,” Taylor shouted, making Richardson take an involuntary step away from him, “he thinks I killed his wife, don’t tell me he’ll be too fucking busy to see me. Now either get him down here or I’ll decorate your walls with this prick’s brain.”
Richardson adjusted his tie, “I’m sorry Mr Taylor but that’s not going to happen. Either give yourself up now or I’m going to close the doors and you can fend for yourself.”
Taylor dug his shotgun further under Doyle’s chin, forcing his head to tilt even further towards the sky, “And what about him, are you happy to have his death on your conscience?”
Richardson shrugged, “It would be a shame if you killed him, it really would… but I guess we’ll just have to put it down as collateral damage.”
He made a grand gesture of checking the time on his expensive-looking watch, “Please make up your mind, I’ve got lots to do today.”
When he could see that Taylor wasn’t going to play ball, Richardson gave a final, less graceful smile, then turned his back on him with the intention of retiring to the centre. Before he had taken a step, Taylor pushed Doyle away and in the same movement, before the snipers could get a shot off, he grabbed Richardson by the back of the collar and pulled him into the exact position Doyle had been in a second before.
“Now then,” Taylor whispered into his ear, as he dug the shotgun under his chin, “lets try that again shall we? And if I were you I’d choose your words very carefully.”
Chapter 25
Christopher ran the truncheon along the rows of vertical steel bars as he slowly walked down the corridor. The repetitive drilling sound the weapon made was only temporarily silenced when he reached the open doors of each of the cells. The evicted residents now stood outside their homes, shooting each other nervous glances.
Instead of the pandemonium he was expecting on the cell doors opening, Taylor had instead watched as people slowly emerged from behind the bars in bemused silence. Some, perhaps thinking it was some sort of trap, didn’t come out at all but instead sat huddled on their beds with a protective arm over their partners and children. It was more like a wake than a party.
When he got to the end of the corridor, Christopher stood within inches of the guard who had stayed rooted to his position since the small group of ragged soldiers had charged in minutes before. He stared up into the face of the man who towered over him by a good six inches like a drill instructor weighing up his latest recruits.
“What have we got here?” he coolly asked the bigger man.
The apprehensive guard chose to stay quiet.
“You think you’re pretty smart don’t you, treating these people like shit?” he looked back to the worried men and women who stood outside their cells, still not knowing what to do with themselves.
“Well maybe it’s time someone shit on you.”
Again Christopher turned to his captive audience. A couple of the braver ones did as he hoped and shouted their support for his threats of violence.
“There you go,” he said at the sound of their cheers, “looks like they want to see justice done too.”
He drew the truncheon back above his head, then after just enough of a pause to get more of the producers baying for blood, brought it down in the direction of the guard’s head. Before it could make contact with his skull, the truncheon stopped in mid air as if someone had frozen him to the spot. Christopher turned to see Taylor tightly gripping the shaft of the weapon.
“That’s not what we’re here for,” he said, grimacing from the pain in his battered ribs.
Sensing his fun was over, Christopher half-heartedly tugged at the weapon in the pretence of putting up a struggle.
“It’s time to go,” Taylor said through gritted teeth, “Jacob will be waiting.”
Richardson’s actions after becoming Taylor’s hostage proved the man was no fool. No sooner had he become a prisoner, than he ordered his men to put down their guns and do whatever the new arrivals wanted. Jacob and the others quickly scrambled out of their hiding place and within seconds were being escorted by Richardson and his wary men into the centre. It was the most successful reverse jail-break Taylor could remember.
After sending Doyle to the infirmary to get treated for his injuries, the small team was reduced even further in size, when they were split into two groups. Whilst Jacob led his men into the purpose built manufacturing sector, Taylor and his posse headed to the original part of the prison, used to house its many residents. There was a good reason for the tactics that had been adopted, as the daily life of the centre’s inhabitants had also been split neatly into two. They spent twelve hours a day working on the production lines and the other twelve resting in their cells, or dorms as they were now called.
To ensure maximum productivity and make best use of the limited space, there were two separate shifts in all of the centres. Whilst one group worked, the other slept. When the people who had just finished their twelve hours of labour finished their stint, they would go back to the dorms and jump into the still-warm bed that the resting occupant had vacated minutes earlier. The sharing of space in this way meant the centres only had to provide half the number of beds and more importantly, they were productive twenty-four hours a day.
The people who shared the same space never even met each other, as the strict shift structure never allowed them any time together. The only time they would see their co-habitors was when the two shifts would cross each other in the corridor that linked the manufacturing sector to the accommodation block. As the residents were not allowed to keep photographs in their cells, it was doubtful they even knew the identity of their bedmates.
The accommodation block was set into three wings. The first was home to men, the second to women and the third to families or couples trying to reproduce. It was to the former, that Taylor and his men first ventured. Even though the guards had all laid down their weapons, Richardson sent his head warden (a fat greasy fuck named Spencer), to accompany Taylor. His job was to act as a hostage just in case the other guards fancied trying any heroics.
No sooner had Jacob left them for the manufacturing sector, than Christopher started goading the sweating mass. Taylor suddenly felt like he was back in charge of Rudy and Lennox again. As he warned Christopher to keep cool, he wondered why Jacob hadn’t taken his stooge with him. Perhaps he didn’t believe in him as much as he liked to make out.
The lights in the block were dimmed to such a level that it took a few minutes before his eyes could fully adjust. Even though the sun was at its brightest outside, all the windows had been blacked out so the only light available came from the subdued lamps that hung above them. Taylor had to warn Spencer, who no doubt knew the place like the back of his hand, to slow down as he struggled to keep up with him. On a couple of occasions he painfully bumped his shins against the fire extinguishers that hung on the walls. The reason for this enforced darkness was that the block was now home to the night watch, the unfortunate ones who did their twelve hours of graft in the early hours.
It had been quickly discovered that the sun that shone through the resident’s windows prevented the night watch from sleeping properly as they tried to rest. This meant that when they returned to work their pr
oductivity was compromised. To combat this, all natural light was banished from the centres so neither watch knew whether it was night or day. After a short period of adjustment their bodies fell into the ritual of sleeping soundly when they weren’t working, regardless of what hour it was. Productivity on the night shift quickly matched that of the day.
Unfortunately this meant that none of the residents ever got to see the sun, rain or any other meteorological phenomenon. Taylor couldn’t imagine this lack of natural light being beneficial to the residents’ health. Most of them resembled zombies; painfully thin with drawn, sunken eyes and almost translucent skin. He was yet to clap eyes on anyone who looked even close to fifty.
Their goal, when they entered each of the wings, was to head for the main control room where they could open all the doors to the dorms and free the residents. Perhaps more importantly for Taylor, they could also brighten the lights so he’d stop bumping into things. In the first two wings, the residents release had triggered the sort of reaction that had been expected. Unlike the men though, most of the females did not try to attack their captors once they were free. Apart from the occasional kick at the guard’s groins and a few volleys of phlegm directed at their faces, most of the women held themselves back with just the right amount of dignity.
It was in the family wing that the celebrations had been particularly muted. Taylor reasoned this was because these were the people who had the most to lose. In comparison to the others they looked relatively healthy, with more weight on their bones and ruddier in complexion. Unlike in the single sex wings, where the tiny dorms slept up to twenty residents, it was one couple per dorm in this wing. The inhabitants were only there in the first place because they’d behaved themselves. If the prison break went wrong, these were the people who would pay the highest price.
When the centres were first created, ClearSkies spent vast amounts of money developing breeding programmes that would provide them with the best workers for the centres. They tried to create designer babies, especially made to meet their needs. They wanted drones who could work for hours without their eyes straining and muscles getting tired. Psychological profiles were explored to identify why some people could embark on mindless tasks for hours and maintain their concentration, whilst others quickly lost interest. The more they tried to look for the perfect worker, the more the costs spiralled until the whole thing was threatening to become uneconomical; a taboo word in the ClearSkies dictionary.
Taylor had heard that it was Milton himself who helped nip that particular problem in the bud. Instead of looking to the future and advances in genetics, the company decided to take a leaf out of the books of the ancient civilisations to get the best out of their workforce.
Milton saw that past rulers didn’t get the best and strongest people to be their slaves, they recognised that as a waste of resources. Instead they realised that what they needed to build their cities and temples was a large enough workforce to not have to worry about such things. If it took the deaths of ten thousand hungry slaves to build the pyramids then so be it; they knew there were plenty more where they came from.
This was how the production centres changed their tactics. Instead of trying to create perfectly adapted tools for the job, they would just use what they already had until they were ready to drop with exhaustion. As far as developing the next generation of workers was concerned, they would simply let the residents of the centres become producers in more ways than just on the assembly lines.
The promise of reproduction became the warden’s main bargaining tool in order to get the best out of his ‘staff’. If they behaved themselves and worked hard, after a few years the workers would be matched with someone from the opposite sex and moved into a couple’s dorm where they could have their own families. The offspring of course, would be the property of ClearSkies and part of the company’s next line of ready-made workers.
The system worked amazingly well as it played to the human instinct perfectly. Once the women in the centres reached a certain age, most of their body-clocks would kick-in with a vengeance and the desire for children would overwhelm them. They were unconcerned with how suitable the men they had been coupled with were. All they wanted was to create a family; who the father was, became irrelevant. Likewise for the men, locked up away from female company, most of them were desperate for sex. Most of them weren’t particularly interested in the procreation aspect of it but if that’s what it meant to fulfil their body’s need, then so be it. At least they wouldn’t have to endure the children too long.
Once the mother had given every ounce of herself in ensuring the child survived their first few years, the offspring would be removed from its parents. The child was then sent to one of the centres that specialised in the types of skills that children were especially good at (they were particularly adept at sewing, which required nimble fingers and excellent vision). The parents were then sent back to their respective wings, where if they behaved themselves, they may get a chance at rearing more young. If the children only survived a few years in the centres then it was no problem for ClearSkies. They had thousands of volunteers crying out to provide them with more of the same.
With a small army now following behind, still not knowing what was in store for them, Spencer led Taylor out of the accommodation block and into the manufacturing sector. When the doors first opened he thought he had been blinded as the glare from the lamps pierced his eyes. Unlike the area they had just left, it was so bright in this new expanse of space that everything in it, the people included, looked like they had been bleached white.
When the pain in the back of his eyeballs eased, he was able to see that he was standing in a huge building that resembled one of hangars he had seen at SecForce’s airbases. Instead of planes, the building was filled with numerous assembly lines. Thousands of people, who half an hour before had been busy enhancing the products that flew down the conveyor belts, now stood back from the machines that had ground to a halt. They were waiting to see what would happen next.
Some of them were looking up at the figure of a man who stood alone on the mezzanine level. Leaning over the balcony, looking back at the blank faces that now stared at him was Jacob, or at least this was who Taylor thought it was. As his hood was kept firmly over his head, the figure’s face was well hidden from the curious observers below. When he saw Taylor enter the room the hooded figure beckoned him up.
From the upper floor, Taylor could see better what was going on in the area below him. Of the three assembly lines closest to him, one was home mainly to men and was filled with large pieces of moulded plastic. On the second belt, housed predominantly by women, thousands of electrical components sat idly by. Positioned at regular sites alongside the line were large bins where the faulty or irregular pieces were thrown. On the third station worked a mixture of men and women. There was no conveyor belt here. Instead they worked on tables soldering what Taylor thought was microchips onto the electrical components from the previous line. Despite all the clues, he had absolutely no idea what they were making.
Jacob stepped back from the balcony and looked to Taylor, “They’re getting restless, I think it’s time you told them why we’re here.”
“Me tell them?” Taylor shook his head, “I don’t think so. My job was to get you in, which I’ve done. You’re the brains of the outfit, you talk to them.”
“I told you before,” Jacob answered patiently, “they aren’t interested at what I’ve got to say. It’s you they want to hear it from. That was the reason we got you involved, or have you forgotten that?”
Taylor inhaled deeply, “What would I say?”
“Just be honest with them, that’s all they want.”
He looked down to the crowd then back to Jacob, “What if they don’t buy it?”
Jacob stepped forward and placed his hand on Taylor’s shoulder, “Remember what I said before we got here, I trust you. You didn’t let us down then and you won’t now.”
Next to them were
three steps that led to a small platform with a microphone in front of it. It looked like a church pulpit and must have been the place from where Richardson would offer words of encouragement to his workforce as they carried out their labour.
Jacob nodded to the raised area, “Go on, it’s your turn now.”
“Some of you may know me.”
Taylor stopped to clear his throat. At least this time he had managed to get a few words out. On his first attempt, he had opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. He tried to step away from the microphone but Jacob, who stood just behind him, gently pushed him forward. Luckily, this temporary loss of nerve looked to the crowd like he had merely forgotten to turn on the microphone and was making the necessary adjustments.
He stepped back up to the pulpit and looked down at the army of ghosts in orange jump-suits that silently stared back up at him. They looked like they were about to drop dead from exhaustion. He seriously doubted if these people, whose spirit had been crushed long ago, could help them at all.
“My name is Taylor,” he said, “and for as long as I can remember I’ve been a fighter, or at least that’s what I thought… Before the uprising I fought in the cage.”
There were a few murmurs of recognition from the crowd.
“After that, I joined SecForce…” he waited for the boos to stop before he continued, “I went to Canada and fought against the rebels there…Then I came back to this country and instead of foreigners, I ended up fighting against the people in the Old-Town. My own people.”
Even if he’d wanted to continue speaking, Taylor had to stop as the roars of disapproval drowned him out. It wasn’t just boos they were yelling either. The crowd were shouting the most explicit profanities they could conjure, at the man who stood above them.
When the cries died down he started again, “I’ve always been a fighter…”