Freedom Incorporated - Peter Tylee (best biographies to read TXT) 📗

There are certain corporations which market themselves so aggressively, which are so intent on stamping their image on everybody and every street, that they build up a reservoir of resentment among thinking people.

Jaggi Singh

Monday, September 13, 2066

Circular Quay

Again it was Monday. And deceptively it felt the same as any other Monday - the hunt was on.

But why? Dan Sutherland wondered restlessly.

Why am I doing this? Again? And he gave the answer he always gave: Because it makes sense. Hunting provided a refuge, somewhere safe for him to hide. It was just a pity he couldn’t also find asylum from the turmoil in his mind.

He paused to scan the surface of the harbour; water churned up by the departing ferries sent eddies dancing from the quay. The pregnant clouds lost their battle with gravity and a curtain of droplets pattered on the paving. Perfect. It matched his mood and elicited a grim twist to one corner of his mouth. The men and women around him scuttled for cover and before long only a dissident child remained with Dan under the growing pelt. She stood wide-eyed, holding out a small hand in a futile effort to clutch the droplets that were disintegrating upon impact. A moment later the child’s mother gripped her arm and tugged her under the overcrowded eaves - to safety.

So Dan stood alone, mesmerized by the spiralling pattern of chaos etched on the water where the acidic rain mixed with the salt of the harbour. With effort he cast his gaze over the jostling crowd, nurturing a seed of envy and loathing it at the same time. Broken men could never rejoin the synthetic world of the living. Or so he told himself.

He watched as they blundered into each other, rushing to return to their cube-farms - claustrophobic squares of office space crammed in the middle of a ninety-something story building. Most were frustrated by the crush that each were, in turn, helping to create. No doubt they’d share comments of ire with colleagues while sipping a latté and shuddering at the nightmarish weather brewing outside their glazed windows. Dan’s smile faded. He couldn’t bring himself to care about his clothes and the rain wasn’t heavy enough to threaten his lungs. He wore a tattered coat, well past its use-by date. Only his boots were of any value, and they were waterproof guaranteed. He figured now was as good a time as any to put that to the test.

The throng was receding and he recommenced worrying about his target. Dan knew he’d be easy to spot. Adam. He tested the man’s name in his mind. Adam Oaten. He was wearing a distinctive brown beret, beneath which a few wisps of greying hair protruded. There you are. Dan spotted him walking toward quay five and lengthened his stride to catch up.

Ferries were such an antiquated mode of transportation, so slow and inefficient. Dan wondered how they managed to stay in business; he didn’t know anyone who used them, except holidaymakers. He scanned the boards before stepping out of the rain and shaking the beaded water off his coat. Rivercats to Parramatta departed from quay five, all-stop services - express ferries didn’t operate outside peak-hour. He joined the queue at the ticket terminal and craned his neck to watch Adam select his destination, but the terminal was at an inconvenient angle and Adam’s hunched shoulders blocked his view. Dan frowned, wondering whether Adam was being deliberately cautious. He’d been careful, but there was no such thing as too careful, not when hunting. Soon it was his turn at the terminal and he purchased a ticket to the end of the line, eyebrows rising when the fare blinked on the display. So that’s how they turn a profit. He walked reluctantly through the gates and the sensor read his microchip, automatically deducting the exorbitant fare from his linked account.

He felt his left eyelid pulse and ran the back of his hand across his face, watching as Adam sagged into a seat at the end of the pier. Dan edged his way past the other passengers to lean against the railing. There he watched. And waited. He caught a dim flash of light from somewhere out at sea and braced for a thunderclap that never arrived.

He studied the mark. Time’s cruel touch had aged him since the photographs in his file and a quiver of curiosity played across Dan’s face. I wonder what he did. He recalled the words: moderate danger - approach with caution. But Dan couldn’t see anything dangerous about him.

With an effort he pushed his thoughts aside and focused on his task. Only the insane would apprehend him there. Too public. Dan preferred something quieter and was content to wait and see where Adam led him.

The ferry arrived. A bedraggled deckhand sluggishly tossed some rope to secure the rivercat to the pier and hauled on the line until the ferry jolted against the protective foam. The young man’s muscles bulged under his oilskin and he was panting from exertion by the time he’d swung a ramp to the pier. For their part, the passengers disembarked quickly. They trotted from the ferry holding up hats and half-opened umbrellas to stay dry.

With a resigned sigh, the deckhand swung the gate and, like cattle, herded the new ruck of passengers aboard. Dan deferred to the others, preferring to board last. He wanted to be sure that Adam would already be sitting so he could choose his seat accordingly. He always had a reason for his actions. His wife had called it exasperatingly pedantic, but Dan preferred the term efficient. This way he never wasted energy; everything he did worked toward a goal.

Oddly, a feeling of boyish excitement swelled from deep within when he boarded. The thought a ferry trip revived something he thought he’d lost forever. Enjoyment? He wasn’t sure, but then, he didn’t really want to know. It was irrelevant. It felt good, and good things should never be analysed. Analysis had the power to destroy.

The deckhand looked impatient, waiting for a secret signal from the Captain. When it arrived he closed the gate, kicked the gangway back to the pier and released the lines. With a whirr of the motors the ferry backed from the quay like a skittish cat, causing the brave passengers on deck to choke on diesel smog. It wasn’t until the Captain swung the helm and reversed his port engine that the ferry spun, proudly pointing toward the harbour and sparing the passengers from the noxious fumes. The Captain then pushed both throttles to the stops and the rivercat lurched forward, leaving turbulent water in its wake.

Dan fought the urge to go and stand on deck. The tantalising thought of a breeze ruffling his hair and the lure of salt spray on his lips were almost too much to bear. Despite the lashing rain that would sting his eyes, and despite the pain his flesh would suffer the next day, the thrill still beckoned him. But today he was busy. Today it’s business. So he contented himself with gazing at the other river-craft from his droplet-streaked window.

Lightning flashed just before they passed under the Harbour Bridge and it lit the water with a copper-green tinge. But this time there was also a thunderclap and Dan felt it reverberate in his knees. He pressed his cheek to the window and glimpsed the Bridge, barely for long enough to admire the miracle civil engineers had performed so long ago. But the rivercat raced ahead, spearing a path through the smaller craft that were brave enough - or foolish enough - to be on the harbour in the brewing storm.

*

The Raven fingered his scar, tenderly.

Black was his colour. Stealth was his virtue. And hunting was his game. Today was no different. But he