Factory 4, a squat, drab building
needled with dull, leaden chimneys, could be found hulking in a corner
of Sector 15. It differed from its dreary counterparts in other areas
of the City only in its proximity to the largest of the Industrial
Sectors, IS3, former nerve centre of Prozium production and research.
A Sweeper truck and two motorbikes
preceded the white car and four more bikes brought up the rear. The
convoy swept round to the Loading Bay, finally rolling to a stop by
huge metal doors. Preston stepped out of the car, pausing briefly to
apply his customary surveillance methods to the surrounding
area…counting and fixing potential targets in clear line of sight;
calculating firing angles and pinpointing possible ambush positions.
Only when he was satisfied did he acknowledge the Officer-in-Charge.
Despite a message from Council Member
Fraser informing him of the visit, OIC Ernest Patterson appeared
flustered and uncomfortable in the presence of Free Libria's most
famous and certainly still most lethal Cleric. His agitated manner
contrasted sharply with Preston's composed and confident stance. As the
Cleric moved towards him, Patterson found himself alternating between
the adrenaline fuelled desire to flee and the totally unreasonable need
to inject many ampoules of Prozium to deaden his screaming senses.
He was even more disoriented when the
first person to speak to him was the severe young woman accompanying
the Cleric.
'OIC Patterson? Kyra Flynn, Council
Administrator. As you are probably aware, this is Cleric John Preston,
Head of Free Librian Security.'
Patterson wiped his sweat-laden palms
down a belted brown jacket, then nervously extended the right one. He
was absurdly relieved when neither the Cleric, nor his Administrator
made the slightest attempt to grasp it and he quickly withdrew it.
'Er…welcome, welcome…I…um…well…How may I
help you?' he finished limply.
Kyra stepped forward.
'At the behest of Senior Council Member
Volkov, we are investigating the theft of equipment from this facility.
Whilst we have, of course, read the brief written report, there may be
some minor details you omitted, perhaps because you deemed them
insignificant?'
'Or perhaps simply…forgot?' Preston
fixed the smaller man with an unblinking stare.
The Cleric's implicit criticism was not
lost on Patterson and he paled slightly. His report had been a little
hurried, even sketchy in places, but it was accurate and he'd never for
one moment thought it would be of any interest to a Cleric, let alone
Grammaton John Preston. He swallowed nervously. Stories of the
Tetragrammaton and their unique methods of interrogation had filtered
through to even the most dutiful of Prozium dulled citizens.
Unconsciously, he wiped beads of perspiration from his fleshy upper
lip.
'I suppose if I knew what…I mean…if
there's something specific you need…if you could just…I…' No matter how
hard he tried Patterson simply could not form a coherent sentence. He
felt desperate. Then, to his intense surprise and shock, the Cleric
actually smiled.
'Officer Patterson, we merely wish to
ensure that every angle is covered. You will have reported the bare
facts, all that was required of you. We are looking for patterns of
behaviour which may indicate a more serious problem. Your help would be
appreciated.'
Patterson may have looked astounded, but
Kyra almost choked. Not only had Preston offered a technically
unnecessary explanation for their interest but…''Your help would be
appreciated.''! The man never ceased to amaze her. Jurgen had
tried, on numerous occasions, to discuss ways of easing the transition;
of projecting a more benign image of the Free Cleric to gain Public
trust and acceptance. However, Preston had dismissed outright what he
called 'pandering' and insisted that any uneasiness the public felt in
the presence of one of the Free Cleric, was an acceptable negative, if
it meant maintaining security or achieving a faster solution to a
problem.
Now here he was, attempting to put
another human being at ease. He was fairly successful, too, because
Patterson took a deep breath, straightened the rather ill-fitting
jacket and smiled back.
'Of course, Cleric. Whatever I can do to
help. To be honest, everything seemed completely in order. I verified
the ID of the Security Officer who arrived to escort the
low-loaders…nothing appeared amiss.'
'Very well. Your report states this…but
fails to mention the name of the Officer.'
'Oh…er…Castle, I think. Yes. Security
Officer Nathan Castle.'
'He was alone?'
'Oh, no…he had a uniformed Enforcement
officer with him. Didn't get his name though.'
Preston looked around the area. His eyes
came to rest on the stark black box above the Loading bay.
'That still working?'
Patterson looked up.
'Yes indeed. We'd decided to leave just
the external camera switched on until all the equipment and material
had been dispatched.'
'Good. Perhaps we could review the
surveillance disk?'
'Of course, Cleric. They're all upstairs
in the Surveillance Room.'
Patterson led the way through a narrow
metal door and up a flight of steps to a small, grey-meshed, square
landing. The OIC fumbled in his pocket for his pass card and opened a
heavy door. The windowless room smelled of warm viewscreens and body
odour. Kyra wrinkled her nose. Patterson indicated the machine and
screen covering the loading bay doors from where there was a clear view
of the white car and accompanying security team. Preston walked across
the room and trailed his still gloved fingers over the controls.
'Where's the disk from the morning the
equipment was released?' Kyra asked Patterson.
'Oh…in this room, here.'
The OIC used his card to open another
door to his right. Inside were several dull grey cabinets. This time,
Patterson used a key and opened the one nearest the door.
'We keep the disks for six months, then
reformat them to use again…unless there's anything of interest and
they…well, they used to be sent to…you know.'
'Tetragrammaton Headquarters.' Preston
smiled ruefully.
'Exactly…' Patterson partially slid out
a rack marked ''Loading Bay: external''. He looked at the
Cleric. 'We'd started a newly reformatted batch this month. All the
clean disks are locked in another cabinet and got out when they're
needed.'
Patterson extracted a disk from the rack
and walked back into the stuffy room. He placed the disk in another
machine and pressed a small grey button. The screen lit up with a
verification of date and time and began to replay from 21:00 the
evening before the theft. Patterson suddenly noticed Administrator
Flynn's slender fingers drumming softly on her arm and depressed
fast-forward. Images flew by at a rapid rate. Patterson slowed them
down nearer to the time frame they wanted to watch.
11:23…the Loading bay doors opened and
the two low-loaders rolled out, heavily laden with equipment. Men could
be seen checking the tires and securing the dark grey canvass stretched
across each load. At no point were the vehicles left unattended.
11:42…a black Enforcement car pulled up.
Emblazoned in white on the visible door was the new FLS logo. Two men
exited the car, one wearing a black FLS uniform, the other in standard
Enforcement issue.
Preston and Kyra glanced at each other,
the same thought occurring to both of them. The second man was wearing
a cap and the brim was pulled down low enough to obscure his features.
At no point did he look at the camera.
Then Patterson could be seen hurrying
towards them. There was some brief conversation during which the
Security Officer handed over his ID and relevant paperwork, which…to
his credit…appeared to be scrutinised thoroughly by the OIC.
After a short delay, two men dressed in
grey coveralls sauntered across to the OIC. There was more
conversation. The men shook their heads a few times then finally nodded
and headed off to get into their respective trucks. The Security
Officer spoke briefly again to the OIC, then he and the other man got
into their car.
12:04…the black car pulled away slowly,
followed by the two low-loaders.
'That's it,' said Patterson, stopping
the image as the vehicles went off-camera.
'What was all the discussion about…with
the drivers?' queried Kyra.
'Ah, well…it was that the drivers
weren't sure about the route…apparently it had changed from the last
time…but that was in the papers I checked. Why?'
'Anything deviating from the norm is of
interest OIC Patterson,' she replied. 'Think. Is there anything else?'
Anything at all?'
Patterson began to look uncomfortable
again. His small, nervous eyes followed Kyra as she walked towards the
screen and began to replay the last few minutes.
'Well…' he began, then stopped. Kyra's
patience began tearing its hair out at the roots. Preston had joined
her by the screen and was toggling the view, zooming in on the
assembled group.
He gave Patterson a look which turned
the man's blood to ice-water.
'Maybe it's nothing,' Patterson mumbled.
'But your Security Officer…Castle…he seemed…well…nervous.'
'In what way?' prompted Preston,
continuing to toggle the views.
'He kept looking at the other man…almost
as if he was the one in charge. He…'
'There…' interrupted Kyra, reaching
across to freeze the image. 'Look at him…Patterson's right…he's nervous
about something…'
'That's not nerves,' stated Preston,
with the recognition borne of long experience. 'It's fear.'
Back in the loading area, Preston and
Kyra made one last sweep of the bay, questioned a few of the remaining
staff, who had nothing further to add, then prepared to leave.
Patterson looked visibly relieved at their imminent departure.
Just as Kyra started the engine, Preston
hit the one-shot on the passenger window.
'OIC Patterson. What exactly were the
trucks carrying?'
'Oh…of course…you won't have seen the
manifest…the first one had a few tons of refining equipment for
dismantling and the second was loaded with 50 barrels of base
chemical.'
The only reminders of the airship's
other, more insidious purpose, were the cameras strapped to the front
and rear sides, the hated four-sided symbol hastily painted over.
Whether they were operational or not was impossible to determine, so
the man hiding in the shadow darkness waited until the flying eyes had
disappeared behind the taller of the neighbouring buildings before he
ventured into the one of the loading bays. Unlike the zeppelin, the
Storage Depot's security cameras were non-operational, since he had
watched the last of the trucks leave a few weeks ago.
In one gloved hand, he carried a large
tyre iron and with actions which suggested that he was well-versed in
ways of entering secured places, the padlocked door next to the bay
soon creaked open.
Once inside, where the fear of detection
was replaced by the anticipation of a profitable haul, the man removed
a torch from the inside pocket of his jacket and played the beam over
shelves and cupboards. His expectations of finding abandoned items in
the loading area were soon dashed. Either other like-minded
individuals, high on the concept of free enterprise, had got there
before him, or the good stuff was elsewhere in the deserted facility.
He would have to risk going further in. Although many of the Prozium
factories and distribution centres had already been decommissioned, the
scale of the task meant that many more were still ripe for a little
scavenging.
Several glass panelled doors led off
from the main floor. All were locked, but none posed a serious problem
to a determined man with the right tool and the time to use it. The
wide corridors were preternaturally quiet, the only sounds those of
ever-hungry rodents on their nightly patrol. One particularly thin,
brown specimen shrieked in offended surprise at the intrusion and
scampered behind an empty filing cabinet. The man chuckled. He shone
the torch in the direction the creature had taken, attempting to flush
it out. Rats didn't worry him. His pre-Revolution, hand to mouth
existence in the Nether meant they were often on the menu.
Just a few seconds later, this minor
distraction from his task was suddenly of no further consequence. He
didn't hear the shot, but remained conscious of the world just long
enough to identify the bright crimson stain spreading across the front
of his jacket, before everything he was or might have been was simply
engulfed in the impenetrable blackness of eternity.
Even the rats realised the prudence of
maintaining an even lower profile than usual, as a second shot sent
their previously concealed brother on the same journey to oblivion. A
highly-polished black shoe connected viciously with its pathetic little
corpse and tumbled it across the floor. The owner of the shoe and the
gun then stood with practised stillness noting every detail in the
chilly corridor. His pulse and breathing were regular. Killing the man
was of no more concern than killing the rat.
