The Redemption Factory by Sam Millar

misery, “is that they are cordless.” Shank’s voice was full of pride. “They are not even on the market, yet. So secret, they don’t even exist. They have been loaned to us by the manufactures so that we may be able to test their effectiveness. Nice, eh?”
    Paul nodded. “Unbelievable, Mister Shank. No wires mean that the workers will have more manoeuvrability, won’t be getting tangled up.”
    “Correct, again, Mister Goodman. You catch on quickly. Very quickly, indeed.”
    “After a couple of clues!”
    “I like a man who can laugh at himself. A bit like myself.” Shank smiled. “I hear you’re a bit of a boxer, Mister Goodman. Any truth?” Shank continued smashing ruthlessly against the battered, threadbare punch bag, his gravity-defying punchesbuckling its stomach with ease. Without warning, Shank hit the punch bag with a devastating punch, sending it flying backwards in an out rush of air. Yet despite all the exertion, an absence of emotion was in his movement.
    Classical music played in the background. Paul didn’t know the title, but it was familiar. Familiar, like the echo of a song heard, hundreds of times in his life.
    “I haven’t sparred seriously in years, Mister Shank. I don’t have much time for it, anymore. What little time I have is taken up with –”
    Shank snorted. The sound reminded Paul of the pigs they had slaughtered, earlier that morning. “Don’t have time to keep your body in shape? Nonsense, Mister Goodman! The body is the vessel upon which we depend to take us to war,” smiled Shank, not a friendly grin, but one that seemed to challenge.
    The punch bag went spinning as Shank used an uppercut with his left hand. “The body must be maintained to the highest precision and oiled with blood, sweat but never tears. No, never tears, Mister Goodman. Tears are sacrilege and the currency of cowards.” He punched the hapless bag again, quickly steadying it before looking into Paul’s eyes. “Some people regard fists as the preferred communication of bullies and thugs. That is their prerogative. I regard myself as neither. I denied myself youth while preparing for adulthood, Mister Goodman, and it was a mistake – probably the biggest mistake I ever made. Now, I am on a mission to recoup some of that loss. Remove your shirt. Show me your skill.”
    “Here? But I’ve –”
    “Don’t be shy, Mister Goodman. Remove the shirt. Showsome flesh.”
    Reluctantly, Paul removed his shirt.
    “Not bad,” said Shank, admiring Paul’s physique. “You’ve a good built, Mister Goodman. With the right guidance, you can bring it to its potential.”
    Shank swung the punch bag, violently in the direction of Paul’s frame.
    Instinctively, Paul moved to the side, allowing the bag to brush him before landing a perfectly aimed right to its middle, spinning it back in the direction of Shank who was now grinning with eagerness at the oncoming leather intruder.
    Bam! Shank thundered the bag, watching its staggered return move back towards Paul.
    “C’mon, Mister Goodman! Hit the damn thing!” shouted Shank, grinning further. “There’s more power in my –”
    The bag hit Shank full in the face, knocking him off balance. Before he could regain his composure, Paul sent the bag hurling again in Shank’s direction, catching his upper torso with a beautiful wallop that sang joyfully throughout the room.
    Shank staggered, but not before the bag hit him again, full in the face, knocking him against the far wall. A lesser man would have crumbled to the ground, but Shank’s strength and pride kept him afloat. He was dazed and Paul wondered if he had hurt him.
    “Go in for the kill, Goodman!” shouted a voice from the doorway. “Don’t just stand there staring at your fists. Finish him. Give him a good beating.”
    Violet’s voice brought an unexpected stillness to the room. Paul did not know what to say – or do.
    “You should have listened to her, Mister Goodman,” said Shank, a grin