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

them on one hand: Paul Savage, James Ellerman, Michele Roche, Esteban Valdez and Carole Lam. And the WEF of course, but they didn’t really count.

She opened Paul’s folder with a scowl of contempt and scanned his lame excuse for a report. How dare he drop something like that on her desk? She wondered whom he’d asked to write the report. That was, after all, the way he worked. The man hadn’t done anything original that Jackie had ever seen. Paul had scratched a few indecipherable notes in the margins and underlined a few words, probably to pretend that he understood the content. Jackie pushed it to the corner of her desk in disgust. She could imagine the conversation she’d have to have now. You made some good points in that report Paul, but I think we should focus on this in the meeting - and hand him the list of items she wanted him to cover.

Sometimes she wished she could work with someone competent. But competence might threaten her position, and therefore her vision. And as things were she felt almighty. The power she wielded as CEO of UniForce was unparalleled. Sure, leaders from some of the other giga-coporations brandished more financial power, but Jackie’s fingers stretched in ways that were more important.

Gently she closed her eyes, conjuring an image of the world she intended to create. A world where people feel safe to leave their doors unlocked at night. She furrowed her brow. Where nobody would dream of raping a young girl. She’d buried the memory so deeply into the folds of her psyche that she no longer flinched at the word ‘rape’. There was a time when it would have sent her into a tailspin depression, but that was before she’d started taking Genyrex, the Xantex wonder drug.

Pity. Sometimes she wished the people around her understood her vision. Sometimes she wished they had the intellectual capacity to fathom that it was actually possible. The fact that she intended to make billions in the process was just an added bonus. And the fact that some people need squashing… She shrugged. Too bad. Some people deserve to have their lives ended under the heel of a shoe. My shoe.

Personal security - the way of the future. She’d been striving toward it for seven years. Personal security was the Holy Grail of the law enforcement industry, something truly worthy of her dedication. She knew she could rocket UniForce to number one on the Lawson scale if she could just crack the personal security market. Not just bodyguards, company security too. She’d even created a new position; the papers were in her third drawer. She didn’t have anyone in mind yet, but she’d recognise the right person when he or she came along. Guard co-ordinator, head of the final corporate branch. She had a vision where UniForce provided security personnel for all the giga-corporations, each with a personally tailored and neatly outsourced package - for a modest fee. Then, after conquering the corporate sector, it would only be a matter of time before she could weasel her way into the spineless government sector and promote UniForce as the law enforcement solution for the world.

She screwed her fingers into tight fists of rapture. Timing. Jackie knew it was the most important factor. Too soon and they’ll run… too late and I’ll miss the opportunity. And she knew exactly how to do it: feed them information about the crime riddling their innards and then propose a solution to flush the vermin from their pipes. She couldn’t help another smile, but it quickly reverted to a frown when she felt her skin tightening across her cheekbones.

Jackie focussed her attention on her computer screen where figures revealed the growth of each UniForce branch, subdivided into country and product statistics. One column was particularly interesting and she arched an eyebrow. Exclusive level bounty-hunting lists were selling particularly well. “Well done Michele.” She had to praise good work where praise was due. The bounty apprehension rate had increased two percent, but revenue from lists had jumped an astonishing sixteen percent. She’d more than outstripped the growth Jackie had expected and had single-handedly lifted the corporate average by three points. Jackie approved - she approved of Michele, and she approved of her decision to promote Michele. Her predecessor had finally retired. And about time too, the old fuck, Jackie thought. Within five months Michele had revolutionised the branch.

“Good for you,” Jackie said, lifted her chin to survey the room and reassure herself it was empty.

She licked her lips. Just thinking about Michele’s plump breasts and ample rump hardened her nipples and made her breathing go heavy. A few key-taps later and she’d locked her computer. She needed to go home, back to where she could get comfortable and allow Sasha to satisfy her swelling desires.

*

Wednesday, September 15, 2066

NSW Police Department, Parramatta Office

10:51 Sydney, Australia

Simon warred against the urge to thump his keyboard.

Every damn word! He clenched a fist in anger and stuffed it as far as he could into his mouth, biting his knuckles to stop from smashing the computer. His spacebar was playing up again. His typing style meant that he always pressed the key with his thumb on the far right side of the bar, but for a week it’d been loose and was wobbling on a broken spring. It just jiggled when he pressed it. To insert a space he had to press hard, really hard. He was getting into the habit of slapping it at the end of each word, but sometimes he forgot and it gave him the shits.

“Damn it Mike!” Simon thrust his wheelie chair back and stretched to his full height - six foot and two inches.

“What?” Mike demanded, the frosted glass door muting his voice.

“I’ve put in a request for a replacement keyboard every day for the past week!” Simon burst from his office and scowled at Michael Tolhurst, the officer in charge of supplies.

“Well there’s nothing I can do about it, you’ve gotta ring it through to the Hell Desk,” Mike grumbled in reply. He always turned sullen when someone yelled at him.

But Simon wasn’t yelling at anyone in particular, he just needed to yell. And Mike was the nearest target. “Oh, fuck it!”

His language caught him a warning glance from Steward across the room. The Superintendent wouldn’t tolerate foul mouthing in the office. It was his job to ensure the force retained what little was left of their dwindling public image, and he considered ripe language too uncouth if there was a possibility of civilians in the building. Simon understood why, though he hated the reason. They weren’t just working for public interest anymore; they were entrenched in a bloody battle for survival. And they were losing. They had private contractors to worry about now. And the enemy were slick. They offered candy to anyone who turned up for questioning and the public loved their extravagant advertising campaign. The Australian Government was just searching for excuses to axe the police force and outsource the entire mess.

Simon swallowed hard. He was uninitiated in the game of politics. In truth, it scared him senseless.

“All right.” He slunk back to his office and closed the door behind him.

He grunted in disgust and dialled the number, trying to relax before someone answered.

It was a long wait.

“Good morning, Help Desk. This is Peter, how can I help you?”

“My keyboard’s broken, I’d like it replaced.” Simon tried to keep his voice calm and good-natured. It was still deep and husky and sounded like a rumbling volcano, but that was as pleasant as he could make it.

“Okay, can you describe the problem to me?”

“I just did, I need a new keyboard.”

“Yes, but what’s the fault with your keyboard?”

“The spacebar’s broken.”

“So when you press the spacebar it doesn’t print a space on your screen?”

Simon nodded and the movement squirmed into the tone of his voice. “Yeah, pretty much. It looks like the spacebar’s come loose because I have to press it hard in the dead centre or nothing happens. It just wobbles. I’ve called about this every day for the past week, you know.”

“Oh, okay, do you have your reference number?”

“Huh?”

“When you first logged the call you would’ve been given a reference number. It’ll help me find your call in the system.”

Simon closed his eyes in frustration. “No, I don’t have a damned reference number, I wasn’t given one.”

A pause.

“Can you spell your name for me please?”

“Simon West. That’s w-e-s-t. As in, the opposite of east.”

Another pause.

“Okay, I’ve found your call… hmm… oh…” Simon heard him swallow. “It looks like this call was waiting on the serial number from your keyboard before we could place it through to Global Integrated Systems for a replacement.”

Simon was flabbergasted. It was a true testament to his incredible self-control that he didn’t leap down the phone and strangle everyone on the other end. “Okay, fine.” He rattled off the serial number from the bottom edge of his keyboard and scribbled down the reference number he received in return.

Steward Vincent chose that moment to crack Simon’s door and peer into his office. “You got a moment?”

Simon switched on his smile and perfectly aligned white teeth beamed from his dark complexion. “Yeah, sure.” He waited while Steward crossed the room and sat on a corner - the only corner - of Simon’s desk not covered with paper.

“Hey, if this is about the swearing just before you wouldn’t believe-”

“It’s not about that,” Steward said, cutting him off. He slapped a manila-bound file in front of his top detective.

“What’s this?” Simon opened it and immediately saw the designation-52 in the top corner, appropriately written in red. “Oh, no.”

“It’s your turn,” Steward said apologetically, which was unusual for the Superintendent.

“No, no!” Simon pushed the file away, trying to get it off his desk as if it were a snake. “Get someone else to do it, I’m too busy.”

“So are the others.”

“What about Anders? He didn’t look busy, or Kim?”

“No, it’s your turn. Nobody likes them. Today it’s yours.” With a note of finality, Steward stood and straitened his trousers and necktie. “Make it quick. Don’t let it get in the way of real work.”

“Great,” Simon mumbled when his Superintendent was gone. “Another bullshit case.” He didn’t really have any pressing work, but the thought of paper shuffling a designation-52 made the curly hairs on the back of his neck stand straight. 52 was the code the force used to identify an ‘explainable, unsolvable’. That usually meant UniForce was involved and there was a WEF sanction on the killing. Ergo, he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Okay, so… what’ve we got?” he said to nobody in particular. “Another dead dude. What a surprise.” The words were stale; he uttered them at the beginning of every case.

Adam Oaten. Simon ran his finger across the page, reading the description of the incident. It’s already old. The crime had happened on Monday. Must’ve bounced around before finally landing in Parramatta. Those cocksuckers in Strathfield wouldn’t have the balls… His animosity rose above typical precinct rivalry; he truly believed the officers in Strathfield were worse than useless. Simon had spent his orientation in Strathfield after leaving the academy, but he’d been so revolted by their standards and ethics that he’d requested a transfer six months later. He’d been working in Parramatta ever since.

He turned the page.

Someone had done the preliminary work. He wondered who, and why he or she hadn’t taken the case themselves. He read the dry description of the scene and his imagination coloured in the details. But the unemotional description of the cadaver made him squirm. He’d seen what nanotoxin