Page 37 of Mean Machine

“Did you have an examination?”

“Nah. Guess I didn’t want confirmation that I have too low a sperm count to be a father.” But of course, being a father had nothing to do with the number or quality of wiggly little cells swimming for first prize in Darwin’s race.

“If it helps, you’re completely healthy. I had access to your medical file, and nothing there indicates you’re infertile.”

“Yeah, of course they’d check that.”

Nathaniel nodded. “For what it’s worth, the expansion of stewardship isn’t sustainable. They noticed they were making a profit on convicts, then they rolled it out to immigrants—and they’re discussing extending it towards everybody who used to get help to train up to reach a top level—students, Olympic athletes, footballers. We’ll end up in a place where everybody is under at least temporary stewardship whose family isn’t independently wealthy. Which may have been the point of the whole exercise from the beginning. The trouble is that the lower classes are growing more resentful of the cheap labour source, and politicians are aware that those under stewardship can’t vote because those who’re holding their contracts could make them vote a certain direction.”

“Let alone who we’d vote for.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “I’d imagine it wouldn’t be Proud Britannia or the Tories or the parties even further to the right.”

“So you’re against stewardship on principle?”

“I’m a realist, Brooklyn. I hope the system, as it currently stands, will be reformed. It was meant to be a way to contribute to society, but it needs to be done on much more equal terms. That people under stewardship have a hope to work their way out over a manageable and realistic timeframe—without risking their lives or health. A really radical idea would be to just let people pay off the money on their own terms instead of keeping them in a state that is slavery in all but name. If somebody has a chance to better their position, they’ll work harder, go the extra mile, stretch that little bit further. The way it is currently being implemented, people don’t feel in control of their lives—how much less hard do you work if you’re alienated from your own life?”

“You said you’re an expert on this. Anybody listening to your advice?”

“Yes. Ethics don’t count for anything with politicians or economists unless you have solid proof. It might be an uphill battle because stewardship appeals to the angry masses, and it’s profitable. But it’s a direct threat to our democracy. It’s the breach in the dyke that might lead to the collapse of our society as we know it.”

“Make sure they don’t assassinate you,” Brooklyn murmured.

“I’m not alone in this, Brooklyn.” Nathaniel pulled him in for a kiss. It was a “shut up and trust me” kiss, but Brooklyn didn’t object.

Hand in hand, they walked back to the house while Brooklyn mulled through what Nathaniel had said. Hard to disagree with any of it, except for reforming it. Brooklyn’s first instinct was to burn it all down, hold the powerful accountable, and givethema taste of prison.

Yeah, becausethatwas going to happen.

Close to the house, he spotted the nanny putting up a sun umbrella. He slowed until he was sure she had the unwieldy thing under control, then watched her set up a play area for the child, with bright plastic toys and a blanket.

When they came closer, she’d brought out the little girl in a light blue summer dress and a white straw hat, and had placed her on the blanket. But then the child spotted Nathaniel and was on her feet, likely before Nanny could interfere. Nathaniel stopped dead when the girl came running towards him—somewhat ungainly in the uneven sand—and broke the contact with Brooklyn to embrace her when she came flying at him.

Brooklyn couldn’t help but see Nathaniel’s face soften when he held the kid. Something pinched in his chest. Maybe it was about Nathaniel’s full focus resting on the child, maybe it was the extended cuddle and how naturally he picked her up, with her chubby childish arms around his neck but stealing cheeky little glances at Brooklyn from the protection behind Nathaniel’s head, or how Nathaniel smoothed her silky flyaway hair against the breeze from the sea and bent down to pick up the straw hat that had fallen into the sand. Brooklyn was faster—he picked up the hat before Nathaniel reached it and offered it to him.

Nathaniel winked at him, kissed the girl’s brow, and put the hat back on her head. “Seems somebody had a very short nap today,” he muttered gently. He turned to Brooklyn. “I’ll just touch base with the nanny—I’ll join you inside in a few minutes.”

ROSE ANDEm made terrific-looking bodyguards. Brooklyn wouldn’t have expected to need any additional protection—usually, a normal guard was enough to dissuade people who were feeling brave—but right now, he was the centre man, with Rose and Emilio flanking him and Eric leading the way.

Leaving the customs zone of Heathrow Airport, he was faced with a wall of people. Faces. Screaming. Waving. Frantic.

“Shit,” Nathaniel muttered under his breath and reached inside his suit to pull out a pair of dark sunglasses.

Lights flashed. Cameras, phones, even really big professional rigs. Press. Media. A TV camera. Eric sped up, not quite running but certainly rushing, and Brooklyn kept his head down, disbelieving that all these people were here for him.

“Who told them when we would arrive?” Nathaniel demanded. But nobody answered.

Airport security looked on with impassive faces that implied they’d only get involved in a dire emergency and otherwise resented the source of the hubbub.

Brooklyn and the others managed to reach the elevators and push back anybody who tried to join them. A big black van parked very close was sanctuary, and Brooklyn shook his head, dazed, when the doors slid closed.

“Fuck. What’s going on here?”

“You’re famous.” Rose grinned at him. “Very good for ticket sales.”

Eric accelerated so hard Brooklyn was pushed back into the seat. The man not only ran like an athlete, he drove like a Formula 1 driver too. And all that behind his friendly, relaxed attitude.

Brooklyn turned in his seat when they raced towards London. Several cars and motorbikes followed close behind. “I’m starting to feel like Lady Diana.”

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