Free This Machine Kills by Steve Liszka Page A

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?”
       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