Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller (11 page)

A bird in the hand will shit on your palm.

Twisted Sayings

P. Leech
 

Mckeever looked into the eyes of the thrush and angled his head as if searching for a secret message or sign of life. He tilted the birds small head and it flopped back limply.

Tutting, he threw the dead bird into a dark musty corner of the practice area, where it came to rest near the door, against ornate scrolled skirting that had peeled and warped from damp and neglect. One of its wings was outstretched as if waving a doleful last goodbye.

It reminded him of Newton.

Croel was laughing and counting his credits.

‘Right through the heart. Good shooting,’ said Mckeever.

‘I could hit a gnat’s appendage on the dangle with this thing.’ Pleased with himself, he tapped a dirty finger on the smooth wooden stock of his crossbow. Mckeever had often noticed Croel get a strange look on his face whenever he was working with or talking about his crossbow. It had taken him a few moments to register what emotions were in play, so alien were they to him and this particular part of the world. Mckeever supposed it was not love or admiration, but as close to those two emotions as could be mustered by a heartless sadist.

‘A gnat's danglies? Now that might be a bet worth taking,’ said Mckeever. He looked around the floor at the rotting bodies of the small vermin and birds that had had the gall or misfortune to venture near the building in the past. Visitors, winged, furred or otherwise, came to these environs less and less these days. Maybe word of beak and whisker had spread widely of the two men’s cruelty or maybe the animals could smell or feel death emanating from the building's innards and so afforded it as wide a berth as possible, lest they join the rotting carcasses of their brethren on the spongy, mildew patterned floor.

‘The food chain has not been forged fairly, has it?’ asked Mckeever.

‘Seems fair enough to me. We’re at the top.’

Mckeever shrugged.

‘Birds are pea-brained dinosaurs who were put on this earth to supply me with target practice and you with something else to carp on about.’ Croel folded in the armatures of his crossbow and carefully slipped it into its leather case, which he slung at his hip casually, like it was not the most important thing in the world to him.

‘They represent us before evolution kicked in; I feel an affinity with them.'

‘Evolution? We are genetic mutations Mckeever, you know that.’

‘But generations....’

‘Generations? The Weismann barrier was breached. We are the result of DNA therapy and a fuck up with what was supposed to be the cure for avian flu. Our ancestors emerged accidentally from lab soup.’

‘All of nature is not an accident.’

‘Yes, Mckeever, it is.’

Mckeever frowned.

‘Look, if you want to whistle whilst crapping on people from a great height then feel free to my friend, it’s a hobby, but do not expect me to go all bleary eyed about evolution every time a bird is stupid enough to wander into my field of vision.’

‘Next time, shoot gnats.’

‘I’ll shoot what I want.’

‘Good luck catching them. How
is
the shoulder?’

Croel narrowed his eyes to slits, his pointed chin and long, drawn features gave him the appearance of a funeral director. A pallor which suggested he did not care much for the open air. His dark sunken eyes merely added to the illusion that this man spent more time with the dead than the living. He glowered darkly at Mckeever, darted a thin tongue across his sharp yellow teeth and hissed, ‘Was that meant to be a threat, Cyclops?’

Mckeever drew himself up to his full height, pushed his hefty shoulders back and breathed in to puff out the concrete slabs of his chest. His face was rotund, planet like and though it had the same sickly ashen hue of Croel’s it was without the honed, rat-like appearance. His eye looked like a granite marble deeply recessed under the tombstone mantle of his forehead. His frown revealed weather worn cracks and fissures a trawler man would have been proud of.
 

‘It was not a threat. If I had wanted to threaten you, I would have warned you about danger of me dropping my digested breakfast on you from a great height,’ he paused, ‘whilst whistling.’

They stared at each other for a few seconds that stretched out into millennia, the library was entirely quiet and the dark of the room seemed to grow and spread like a stain. Mckeever’s foot twitched with nervous energy and Croel hissed a stale breath to expel some inner demon of his own.

Then the moment was gone.

Croel turned to leave without worrying about putting Mckeever at his back, and Mckeever followed without once thinking of the advantage this gave him.

As he entered the stairwell, Croel spoke over his shoulder, ‘It’s time we went to the Deadlands cells, we have our instructions to release them and put the other miscreants out of their misery. Assess the damage. Get Newton’s wings to Coyle too.’

‘But not in that order.’

‘They don’t care about the order, just about the timing.'

Mckeever nodded.

'A drink before we go? We’ll say a toast to sitting
 
and easy credits.’

Mckeever followed him down the stairs. He had got the bird reference and wondered if Croel had meant to use it.

Had he seen the smug glee smeared across his partner’s wrinkled face, he would have had no doubt at all.

Croel stepped on the thrush as he left. He sniggered as it popped like a small paper bag.

In my experience all protesters detest themselves. And showers
.

Press Interview

Lord E Guilford

‘I’m surprised you wanted to come along,’ I said. I stuffed the change the taxi driver had begrudgingly returned, into my trouser pocket.

‘I’m full of surprises,’ Pan said. Her eyebrows arched as she spoke, and despite her tired eyes, a little flash of light flickered behind them, still being playful.

‘You’re full of something,’ I said.

She spread the thin-lipped fake smile that girls are often so good at, right across her expressionless face, tipped her head to one side in faux deference and then headed towards the Angelbrawl Arena doors. I followed.

The Horizoneer protesters were amassed like a bunch of tired and surly kids just outside the doors. They were quiet today, though our arrival seemed to have motivated a few of the more energetic among them into elevating their placards and voices. The twenty to thirty members presented their ideology of a unified Nimbus state with little temerity or gusto. They sounded almost apologetic in tone, some even choosing to look at their shoes rather than their own displayed messages about unification and harmony. The Horizoneers used to be an organised voice of opposition, and though some swell of public opinion still backed their movement, they had not really made any significant waves since their failed attempt at launching an aircraft had ended in significant loss of life and loss of face. All they had done was to strengthen the aircraft and air travel restrictions they so vehemently opposed. Well, it used to be vehemently, at least.

Though
bringing the sky and ground together
was of noteworthy concern to these members, more immediate and pressing issues seemed to be their preoccupation: ‘When’s lunch?’, ‘Looks like it’s going to rain.’ And: ‘I’m only here because I thought it would get me laid.’

I gave them my best institutionalised Vanguard Slayer salute and walked over. My leg still ached but it felt good to be moving, especially after the cramped taxi journey here. Sleep could wait.

Their apathy annoyed me. ‘Do you really think you’re making a difference?’ I said, to the collective rather than anyone in particular.

‘Fascist scum,’ said one of the younger members. The ones who had been sitting now lurched to their feet, ironically like they had been called to a military attention, stirred by an opportunity to be contrary. One of them rubbed the palms of his hands into his own eyes so vigorously it seemed as if he was rising from a hundred year torpa.

‘Less of the “Fascist”,’ I said.

‘Excuse my earnest colleague,’ said a hawkish looking woman from the back of the group, ‘he is one of our more outspoken members.’

‘Well, his appraisal was pretty off,’ I said, ‘but at least he’s awake now.’

‘His assessment of you was not quite strong enough, if you ask me,’ whispered Pan.

‘I didn’t,’ I said.

‘We have no fight with soldiers or, erm,’ she looked Pan up and down in that way only women can, ‘ah, working girls. Our protest is with the bureaucrats and businessmen who perpetuate the division between Nimbus City and the Lowlands because it serves their pockets and own political gain.’

‘Ex-soldier,’ I said.

Pan folded her arms high across her chest.
    

The protester carried on, no doubt happy for the opportunity to continue with her speech.

‘Ex. Whatever. It is not your fault you chose to work for a secular organisation that decided to forget it’s ground bound brothers and sisters in favour of creating an elitist haven in the heavens. We should be allowed to live up there. Travel up there. Be nearer the stars.’

‘They seem just as far away, believe me,’ I said.

‘The Government keep us down here, in their shadow, whilst they sit pretty in the sun. Why not join us, help fight the inequities?’

‘There will always be haves and have nots. That’s just the way life is,’ I said, ‘live with it.’

‘Sounds like an anti-anti-protest song,’ said the
scum
boy.

‘If it’s not then it should be,’ said Pan.

‘We’re here today to gather support, To stop the profit made from these Angelbrawls streaming skyward.’

‘No, you are not. You are here today because you are clinging to the media circus hangover from the last couple of days, hoping for some kind of publicity, which, even second hand, is better than none at all.’ I was enjoying the banter and hoping the woman would bite. I felt like I was prodding a reclining corpse and waiting for signs of life.

‘Don’t you think the world would be a better place under Horizon? No restrictions? No division?’ She turned to face her small crowd of fellow believers.

‘Life is about highs and lows, ups and downs…’

‘Ins and outs,’ added Pan, smirking.

‘… one gives the other perspective, relief, motion. Only when we have all come together as one nation, one Nimbus, can Horizon…’

A loudspeaker spluttered into life and a static filled voice announced:

‘This is your final warning. Repeat, this is your final warning. Failure to remove yourselves and your property from the area will result in forcible ejection from the grounds. The Mudhead Police will be called, you will be liable for all damages and costs. This is your final warning.’

The protesters looked like small animals in large headlights.

One of them started to roll up their banner.

The woman turned to address him: ‘Come on, that’s their fifth
final
warning, if we all stay we can…’

‘Fuck that, I’m off home. It’s lunch time anyway.’

‘Yeah. We can live to fight another day,’ said somebody else from the back of the group.

‘Fight?’ said the young man, ‘fight? You wouldn’t know a fight if… if… if it came up to you and started a fight… with a punch, in your face.’

The woman put a placating hand on his shoulder and his head bowed in reluctant defeat.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we can come back tomorrow.’

I watched the small crowd leak away like an insipid dishwater puddle through sandstone loam, feeling a mixture of admiration, envy and disgust. Admiration because they were fighting for something they believed in, giving up their time and energy for their beliefs and for the greater good, altruism. I envied them because I missed that. I missed believing in something other than myself; that one voice can make a difference; that personal commitment and heroism can change things; that one soldier’s life matters. Really matters. I used to believe that we lived, or died, for reasons which were noble, for the good of others, for the growth of self.

But it achieves nothing.

Means nothing.

They were trying to take a running piss at the moon, to give their dull lives some kind of meaning that transcended their humdrum existences and, depressingly, they were failing even in that.

I felt disgust. A deep seated unease spread through my stomach and threatened to end in another violent retch.

‘Are they making you sick or is it just your own pessimism?’ asked Pan.

‘Ideology and Apathy do not mix. They are pathetic.’
  

‘Really?’ said Pan, and then she looked me up and down, like the woman had looked at her a few moments ago. Her coffee brown eyes called me a hypocrite.

I turned towards Lacroix who was exiting the large glass double doors to our left, glad of the distraction. I had not seen the Arena executive since the press conference he had begrudgingly run for me. In this case
executive
meant he was where the credit stopped. He was striding over to us, arms swinging and stiff. The expensive swish of his tailored outfit announced his importance and fastidious nature long before he had arrived. He looked surprised but I couldn’t tell anything else from his expression. Either he was surprised to see us because of the manner in which we had left a couple of nights earlier, or he was surprised we had already escaped, and he, along with the rest of the management team, had known all along what was going to happen. I decided to push him to see if I could learn any more. I was in the mood for an argument. Especially today.

           
‘What’s up, Lacroix? Did you have me showing up here at lunch in the Backstabber Sweepstakes?’ Have we just won you 200 credits and a bottle of house Champers?’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about. The last I saw of you was on the news when you were bundled out of this Arena by the very crew you were here to negate.’

‘How did I look?’

‘Unimpressive, Mr. Theron, and somewhat, ah, limp.’

‘Yeah, well, enough tranqs. in the tank and anyone would wilt.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ said Pan, my double entendre queen.

‘And you must be Miss…?’ He let the last word trail away implying it was a sentence that needed completing by someone else.

‘Yes, I must,’ said Pan being deliberately obtuse and loving it. She flicked her hair and folded her arms and I could not, despite my years of training and hours spent in close proximity with her, decipher if her indignation was real or not.

‘I apologise for our, erm, welcoming committee,’ said Lacroix pointing at the receding crowd of Horizoneers, ‘maybe we could ask for your counsel on matters relating to dispersal or disposal.’

I watched the protesters slowly leaving, to go and lick their wounds and eat their sandwiches.

‘Maybe not,’ I said.

Lacroix lead the way and we all entered through one of the tall glass doors. It swung inwards in a manner that contradicted its weight and allowed easy access to the main lobby. A semi-circular desk was directly opposite and it was swamped in the neon glow of price listings and upcoming fight night propaganda. The girl behind the desk looked like she was part of the fixtures, all shiny and smiling and false. There was a faint smell of disinfectant intermingled with old, hot frying oil and reheated fast food. The lobby was tiled and to our right the floor was in the process of receiving a high polish from two cleaning staff. Small souvenir stands offered up the usual overpriced and under-engineered trinkets. Most of them adorned by pictures of the Angelbrawlers, plastic replicas, pencils, pendants, postcards, caps, bags and posters; the usual plethora of logoed crap that would disintegrate as soon as they left the building.

You could access the stage by going left or right though we were not heading to the main Arena.

‘Sal, can you send three coffees through to the Board room,’ Lacroix said. It was not a question, it was a statement. Sal answered a flat ‘Sir,’ and then dialled a number looking suitably bored.

 
‘Sal,’ I said, ‘make one of those a whisky and send all of the drinks to the main Security Room, not the Board Room.’

She looked at Lacroix to check this was OK and was greeted with a subtle nod for confirmation.

Her smile did not falter once.

Neither did Lacroix’s, maybe it was painted on, or purchased from one of his cheap gift shops as an appendage to his crisp and flawless suit.

‘You won’t find what you are looking for,’ said Lacroix.

‘Maybe I already have,’ I said.

We walked the rest of the way without talking. The whir of the floor buffers echoed around the curved walls and the neon seemed somehow brighter reflected in the newly polished tiles.
 

Lacroix gave the floor more attention than usual.