Small-Minded Giants

by Oisin McGann

  ‘Somebody did this to us, miss,’ Cleo rasped from smoke-choked lungs. ‘I want to find out who it was. And why they did it.’

  Ana’s first urge was to try and placate the girl, take her back to her family and perhaps even get a doctor to sedate her so that she could sleep off the shock that was taking over her system. The fire had been an accident, that was all – there would be a proper investigation, but it was sure to turn up nothing suspicious. Like so many of the other accidents that had been plaguing the city. Ana chewed her lip; she could see something in Cleo’s expression – a reflection of her own anger and frustration. She was thoroughly sick of the way their world seemed to be self-destructing, and she needed to do something about it.

  ‘If somebody is responsible for this,’ she told her student, ‘we need to find out who benefited. Somebody, somewhere, is going to make money out of this. Let’s find out who.’

  Solomon sat in the passenger seat of a soon-to-be-stolen car, staring across the dimly lit street at the adscreen that dominated the wall of the elegantly tiered building opposite. The advert for cream cleanser had disappeared, to be replaced by the now-familiar blocky black type on its white background. Looming over them from the big screen, it read:

  DO YOU KNOW ANYONE WHO HAS ‘DISAPPEARED’? WHAT QUESTIONS WERE THEY ASKING BEFORE IT HAPPENED? DO YOU CARE ENOUGH TO REMEMBER?

  Welcome to my life, Sol thought, snorting.

  ‘What is all this?’ He gestured at the screen in mild bemusement.

  ‘Dunno,’ Maslow grunted thoughtfully. ‘Some upstart clench-holes, trying to buck the system; hopin’ to get people riled up. I don’t know. They haven’t a hope – people are sheep; they don’t give a damn as long as their bellies are full and they’ve got screens to watch, stuff to smoke and drink. If these grits keep running viruses like that, though, it won’t be long before they’re found. They better hope the police get them before my lot does.’

  It was six o’clock in the morning, and they were in a shopping promenade bordering Meridian Gardens, the most affluent residential area in the city. Armand Ragnarsson’s address was not listed on the web, but somehow Maslow was able to get access to the unlisted database. He had also found out that Ragnarsson lived alone, protected by at least two bodyguards at all times. Now, sitting in the driver’s seat of the car, Maslow watched a little screen on a device the size of a wallet scroll down through a long series of numbers, until it stopped at one. The car started and he deactivated the device and pocketed it, pulling the car away from the kerb and steering it towards the road that led down to Ragnarsson’s plush home.

  ‘I still think this is a bad idea,’ he said to Sol. ‘We’re exposing ourselves when we don’t need to.’

  ‘I need to,’ Sol replied quietly. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  He spoke to Maslow as little as possible now, uncomfortable with what the man was, but willing to use him for as long as he could. When he was growing up, Sol had always loved action films that featured elite special forces and expert assassins who, obviously, fought heroically for a noble cause. He understood how Maslow could have been drawn into it. But Sol realized now that you only became an expert through practice and training, and the kinds of organizations that required people to be killed on a regular basis were unlikely to be very noble.

  Particularly in a city that had no foreign enemies.

  Soldiers followed orders, they didn’t get to pick their causes. Maslow and the other Clockworkers became elite killers by letting themselves be used, and after a while it probably didn’t even matter to them what they were killing for. That was murder, plain and simple, and it seemed that Maslow was a natural. Solomon wondered how much of that he’d been born with, and how much was the result of hanging around with people who thought murder was just part of the job.

  It was part of the reason why Solomon still found it hard to trust him. That, and the certainty he felt that Maslow had still not told him the whole truth about Tommy Hyung and his involvement with the daylighters. Sol found it hard to believe that Harley and the others could have planned to kill his father. They were a tough bunch, but he just couldn’t see them as killers. Not like Maslow and his old crowd.

  Maslow was dressed in a dark red ISS uniform, one of a dozen costumes he had in a wardrobe in one of his hideaways. Sol wondered if they were dead men’s clothes. Probably not. The Clockworkers could no doubt get hold of whatever uniform or ID they needed. Maslow had given him a standard patrolman’s uniform that was too big for him, but the illusion would not have to last long – they just had to get into the house. Sol was sure that once Ragnarsson had a gun pointed in his face, he’d tell them everything they wanted to know.

  The car glided through the streets, and Sol let his gaze wander over the lavish architecture. With such an emphasis on function in everything that was built in Ash Harbour, attractive but useless design features were a declaration of wealth. The buildings here had decorative details: casts of animals on the tops of pillars, columns framing the front doors, smoked glass. And there were dozens of other quirks and devices he had to struggle to remember the names of: crazy paving through gravel yards, fountains, coats of arms embossed on walls, floral designs sand-blasted onto glass.

  So many things caught his eye. Lovingly crafted, they were made for one purpose and one purpose only: to please the eye. There was nothing like this where he lived. In an open square surrounded by shops that sold things which served no function, they passed a water feature, with four waterfalls flowing down shallow steps cut into a two-metre-high cube of marble. There were places in the city where you couldn’t get a decent supply of drinking water, and here it was used for decoration.

  Everything was clean and tidy, and it was the same with the people, sporting their expensive tans and immaculate, tailored clothes. They had a better diet too, and it showed. From the restaurants and cafés wafted the smells of fresh bread and pastry and something that might even be real meat. Probably grown in vats, but real all the same.

  But it was the gardens that really struck him. He had rolled down the window to catch the odours, and now, as they sped past spacious houses, he could see grass. Real grass. And flowers, a bewildering array of sweet scents. The kinds of things he had only ever seen in the public hydroponic gardens, with their security cameras and proximity alarms.

  Ragnarsson’s house was surrounded by a genuine stone wall, fronted by an antique cast-iron gate hung on massive pillars. The gate was operated from the house by remote control. Maslow rolled down the window and leaned out, pressing the buzzer. A voice answered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘ISS to see Mr Armand Ragnarsson,’ Maslow barked, holding a fake identification card in front of the scanner. Sol wondered how hard those were to make.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ the voice asked officiously, after the scanner had verified the false ID as genuine. A remote camera zoomed in on the car.

  ‘Open the gate!’ Maslow snapped back.

  There was a pause while the security guard pondered over whether he wanted to argue with the ISS. Then the gate started to swing open.

  Maslow winked at Sol.

  ‘If you’re going to bluff, you have to do it with attitude.’

  The driveway was real gravel, and the gardens were professionally designed, the manicured lawn bordered with curving beds of flowers and banks of rockery. Flowers, trees and space said more about Ragnarsson’s status than anything else. In Ash Harbour, wealth smelled of a garden in bloom. They drove up and stopped in front of the porch.

  ‘Stay out of my way until I’m done with the security,’ Maslow said, straightening his cap and the pair of dark sunglasses he was wearing – a popular look for menacing ISS officers.

  A stout, square-shouldered man in a tracksuit answered the door – off his guard as he took in Maslow’s uniform – and was hurled back down the hall when Maslow jammed an electrical stun-gun against his chest. The former Clockworker stepped inside, straddling the unconscious man an
d handcuffing his hands behind his back. A second bodyguard came striding briskly into the hall to investigate the noise and Maslow shot him with the stun-gun, the pins hitting his chest, the charge shooting out along the wires and sending his body into spasm. The man gasped and fell to the floor, twitching. His limp arms too were quickly cuffed.

  Sol stood waiting in the hall as the Clockworker disappeared deeper into the huge house. Hands in his pockets, he gazed around at the luxuriant décor. Real wood furniture and wallpaper made from some kind of organic fabric. The floor was wood too. The second guard had hit his head against it when he fell, and blood was dripping from a cut above his ear. Sol wondered if it would leave a permanent stain on the wood.

  He could see the attraction of this kind of work. Charging in to nail this hugely powerful businessman – this giant of industry. His influence and wealth couldn’t protect him now. All it had taken was two committed people who were willing to do what needed to be done.

  Maslow’s voice came from the end of the hall.

  ‘Sol!’ he shouted.

  Sol put on a pair of synth-fibre gloves and followed the sound. He was not prepared for the scene that awaited him.

  Ragnarsson, a handsome man in his late forties, was in the large, well-equipped kitchen, where he had obviously been having breakfast. There was the smell of meat again, and a bowl of fresh fruit sat on the table: apples and oranges, pears and grapes. Worth more than a week’s wages for most people. A woman in a traditional maid’s outfit lay unconscious and bound on the floor.

  Ragnarsson was in good shape, with a deep tan, corded muscle in his arms, a six-pack stomach and toned legs. Sol imagined that he would have been quite the sportsman in his youth. The expensive styling of his hair was still apparent despite the mess it was in now. Sol’s stomach turned as he realized what Maslow was doing at his request. The industrialist was sitting on top of the cooker as the Clockworker bound him in place with electrical cord. He perched there, trembling, wearing nothing but his underpants, the rest of his clothes lying in a heap on the floor. A blindfold covered his eyes and he was looking around with his chin raised, trying fruitlessly to see under its edge. Maslow took off his cap and sunglasses, leaving his ever-present gloves on, and stood in front of their captive.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Ragnarsson asked in a controlled voice. ‘Is it money? Just tell me what you want.’

  ‘We have some questions for you,’ Maslow told the industrialist. ‘Answer them and we’ll leave here without any more trouble. If you don’t answer our questions, or if we think you’re lying . . . I turn on this cooker. Do you understand?’

  The man nodded; sweat was breaking out on his forehead, but otherwise he was keeping his composure. Sol glanced uneasily at Maslow. He moved closer. This wasn’t what they had talked about. He had thought that they’d just question Ragnarsson at gunpoint, and get the answers that way. There had been no mention of cooking anybody. He fervently hoped that Maslow was just trying to scare the man, but by now he knew the Clockworker too well. Solomon had started this, he would just have to make sure Maslow didn’t finish it.

  ‘What do you know about the crane wreck last month?’ he asked in a gruff voice he hoped did not sound like his own.

  ‘The crane wreck?’ Ragnarsson frowned. ‘I . . . nothing. I don’t know anything about it – other than what was reported.’

  ‘You didn’t know Francis Walden?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ragnarsson said hesitantly. ‘He was a former employee of mine. He quit, transferred to Schaeffer.’

  ‘Did you have him killed?’ Sol asked.

  ‘What? Of course not!’ Ragnarsson responded indignantly.

  Without warning, Maslow hit him hard on the nose. Sol jumped, taken aback by the suddenness of the blow.

  ‘Did you have him killed?’ The Clockworker repeated the question.

  ‘Aaauggh . . .’ Ragnarsson groaned, his mouth open, blood pouring from one nostril.

  Solomon raised his fingers to the bridge of his nose, where he’d been hit so long ago.

  ‘Did you have him killed?’ Maslow raised his fist to punch the man again, but Sol caught his arm.

  ‘No!’ Ragnarsson yelled. ‘No, I did not have him killed! What is this? Are you playing games with me? Who are you? Who sent you?’

  ‘Who do you think we are?’ Sol asked.

  Ragnarsson scowled in his direction, but didn’t answer.

  ‘Who do you think we are?’ Sol asked again.

  The businessman raised his chin, his jaw set with determined defiance.

  ‘Who do I think you are? I think you’re Clockworkers who’ve just crossed the line, that’s what I think. You’ve gone too far – way too far. Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Who runs the Clockworkers?’ Sol moved closer to him. ‘Do they take their orders from you? Did you order the death of a man named Gregor Wheat?’

  Ragnarsson cast his head around, as if trying to see through the blindfold. His expression had changed from controlled fear to one of puzzlement.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

  Maslow reached between his knees and turned the dial that switched on one of the rings on the cooker. Beneath Ragnarsson’s bare thigh, the ring started to heat up.

  ‘Did you order the death of Gregor Wheat?’ Maslow repeated.

  ‘No! Jesus, no! I’ve never heard of the guy.’ Ragnarsson’s composure slipped as he felt the heat under his leg. ‘Please, God. Turn it off. Please!’

  Maslow turned on another ring.

  ‘I don’t know who he is, I swear!’ Ragnarsson was panicking, his teeth gritted as his leg started to burn. ‘I’ll give you anything, just please turn it off !’

  ‘What about the fire in the apartment block?’ Maslow persisted. ‘Did you order that too? What other operations have you ordered? How many teams are there? Who else gives the orders? Is there anybody over you? This doesn’t end until you start giving us some answers!’

  Solomon watched in horror. Maslow was serious; he was going to burn the guy. His face was set in an implacable glare; he was not trying to help Sol now, he just wanted to break Ragnarsson. Something hissed, and their captive started screaming. Sol was frozen, his mind back in that small grey room with a man lifting the bag over his head to show him a pair of pliers.

  He darted forward, pushing Maslow out of the way, and switched off the rings of the cooker. His stomach was heaving, but he kept the vomit down. He grabbed Maslow’s arm and pulled him away. Maslow shook his head, staring at him in confusion. Sol bared his teeth and dragged the bigger man with him. When they got to the hallway, Sol turned on him with a tight, hysterical whisper.

  ‘Are you faggin’ insane?! We didn’t come here to torture him!’

  ‘Then why did we come here?’ Maslow asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

  Solomon stared at him helplessly, wishing he could explain: how seeing Ragnarsson tortured had sickened him, and he was afraid that if he saw enough torture, there might come a time when it didn’t sicken him; how it made them as bad as the killers who were after them; how it was unreliable, because anybody in pain would say anything to make the pain stop, anything at all. But he could see from Maslow’s face that none of this would make any difference to him. To him it was just a job to be done.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ Sol said at last. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  On the way to the library Cleo told Ana about Sol, swearing her to secrecy, but knowing that there was no way she could be sure the teacher wouldn’t go straight to the police. Ana told Cleo about her interrogation by Ponderosa, and assured her student that as far as she was concerned, the police could go to hell. The library was nearly empty; three other people sat in front of webscreens, a fourth sat at a table reading a real book. The room was poorly lit, its cream and mauve décor worn and ageing, the furniture badly in need of recycling. Like most public services in the city, its maintenance budget had been cut to the bone. Cleo and Ana walked past the climate-controlle
d bookcases to the rows of web tables and sat down at a screen.

  ‘Okay,’ Ana began. ‘If the fire wasn’t an accident, then the purpose was to either kill a lot of people, or destroy the building. Let’s assume for the moment that we’re not dealing with mass-murdering psychopaths. So why would someone want the building out of the way?’

  ‘To build something else on the site?’ Cleo suggested. ‘Solomon said he thinks it was the Clockworkers, and that they set up the crane accident too. And we think Ragnarsson ordered that.’

  ‘Right, well, Sol’s hunch notwithstanding, let’s see who owned the building to start with – see if they’ve applied for planning permission or rezoning.’

  The building was owned by Racine Developments. They sat, flicking through the city-planning website, searching to see if the company had made any suspicious applications.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Cleo murmured. ‘Why are so many of these files locked? This stuff is supposed to be public.’

  ‘Corporate privacy,’ Ana told her. ‘Corporations can keep their applications secret if they can prove it’s important for their business. Which they always can. We need to go through each company’s shareholder website. We can buy a single share in a company for next to nothing, then get access to their sites.’

  Cleo could feel herself getting bored already. This was too much like schoolwork; she wanted to do something active. Sol was out there somewhere, prowling the under-city, gun in hand, taking extreme measures. It sounded so much more dramatic – and she had to admit to herself that she found this new, dangerous side to him something of a turn-on. But he had a professional hit man to help him, whereas she had . . . a teacher. She reminded herself that she had spent too long talking the talk and not walking the walk. It was time to knuckle down and make herself useful. She pulled her chair over to the screen next to Ana’s and started searching for leads.

  Section 17/24: Anger