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by Libby
(This story
will be completed in a series of installments)
Chapter 4
'I simply…cannot…believe…that you…could
be…so utterly…fucking…stupid!'
Each pause was punctuated by
increasingly more vicious steel toe-capped kicks to the body and head
of the man now lying prone on the cold, unforgiving stone floor. His
attacker was either unaware, or simply unconcerned, that his victim had
long passed into unconsciousness and was beginning his final lonely
journey towards death.
From the other side of the basement
room, another man watched impassively. He appeared more interested in
cleaning his sidearm, but eventually seemed to tire of the kicking and
the cursing.
'Better make sure you get all the blood
off those boots. We wouldn't want to bring the Free Cleric down on us,
now would we?'
His mocking tone was not lost on the
other man, who gave one final shove to the body, which rolled over onto
its back, revealing the full extent of the unchecked violence. The
skull was shattered, the teeth no more than stumps in the bloodied
ruins of the face. One eye was almost completely avulsed, its fluid
mixing with the crimson flow.
'How can you be so fuckin' calm? What if
they identify him? Where does that leave us? For Chrissakes this…' He
kicked the cooling body again for emphasis. '…this piece of crap dumped
the body in the sewer and it clogged up the machines. He was supposed
to fuckin' burn it! Fuck only knows what he did with the others!'
'There is a very old saying. 'No use
crying over spilt milk.' Although you may fail to see the relevance, it
is, in fact, quite appropriate. The truth is, the job
was…mishandled…from the start. However, it is unlikely that a
connection will be made anytime soon and even then, it will not affect
our plans. Meanwhile, I can trust you will personally dispose of…this…'
He waved the now gleaming pistol in the general direction of the
corpse. 'In a more effective manner?'
The man massaged a livid red scar which
bisected the length of his right palm. He heard the menace in the
other's voice.
'Of course, Cleric,' he said, quietly.
Kyra had seen many unpleasant things
during her years in the Tetragrammaton. Her training in the
Administrative College, affiliated to the Monastery, had necessitated
rotations in most of the Departments. To be a Cleric Administrator, one
had to understand all the procedures. Of course, all this occurred
under the numbing effects of Prozium and therefore, her recall was not
coloured with emotional responses. And yet, even in the most extreme of
controlled Clinical Interrogations, she had never witnessed brutality
for its own sake.
Now she stood with Preston before a
metal gurney, trying to focus on the facts, to bring some reasoning to
the terrible things which had been done to the human being called
Nathan Castle.
Neither of them knew Castle personally,
but it was difficult to remain detached. He was a recent recruit from
Jurgen's people, appointed by the First Council Member himself, who had
identified the remains by a known birthmark on the right shoulder.
Jurgen had reacted with uncharacteristic distress when Preston
presented his hypothesis along with the gruesome photographs.
The Cleric stood motionless, his eyes
fixed on the bullet wound. They shifted to the bloodied stumps that
were once Nathan Castle's hands.
'At least we know he was dead before
they did…this.'
His voice was low and heavy.
'Actually…that's not entirely accurate,'
a new voice intoned.
Pathologist Christopher Marshall walked
around to the other side of the gurney. His translucent plastic apron
squeaked a little as he moved. Marshall took in the shocked expressions
of the Cleric and his Administrator…considered briefly that this was no
place for such a pretty woman…and then apologised for the pointed
remark.
'It's just that I, too, had hoped the
mutilation had all been post-mortem. You see, after death, there's very
little…if any…bleeding, since the heart is no longer pumping. This is
apparent around the ankles and neck, but not at the wrists.' Long bony
fingers traced an arc around the shredded joints. 'Injuries here,'
Marshall indicated solemnly, 'Show coagulated…clotted…blood in the
subcutaneous tissues and muscle fibres. These were made ante-mortem.'
Kyra swayed slightly. 'Oh, God…he…he was
alive when…?'
'…when his hands were cut off? Yes.'
Jurgen, Preston and Kyra sat around a
small table in Jurgen's apartment. It was sparsely furnished, but here
and there were books, small objects and a very strange painting by an
artist called Salvador Dali. It was entitled ''The Metamorphosis of
Narcissus''. Music played quietly in the background. Outside, a full
complement of Enforcement officers stood to attention – including
Preston and Kyra's personal guard. Kyra still found it somewhat amusing
that Preston had agreed to bodyguards. For her part, If John wasn't
with her, she felt that little bit safer with them around.
'I've spoken to Tatiana,' Jurgen was
saying, 'And she agrees that we should convene a meeting of Senior
Council Members to discuss the next step. I'm just not quite sure how
the rest of the Council is going to react.'
'So what, exactly, would you tell them?'
Kyra leaned towards him. 'That we think the material and equipment
being stolen from the factories and depots is being turned into an
addictive drug…again? Except this time on a huge scale? How would they
react to that? That a member the security forces has been coerced into
aiding abetting these people…and paid with his life? What are they
going to do…other than panic?'
Jurgen was silent. For years, he had
been so engrossed in trying to free Libria from the clutches of Father
and the Tetragrammaton, that reports from Nether-based groups on
various nefarious activities such as gambling, prostitution and
drug-dealing had simply gone over his head. A costly mistake.
Errol Partridge had expressed concern,
but Jurgen had just patted his friend's shoulder and reassured him that
once Libria was free, all that would cease. How naïve could a man be?
After things had calmed down a little, Jurgen had discovered the extent
of the operation masterminded by an officer in the Tetragrammaton
itself. He knew Kyra was angry that she had not had the time to stamp
it out totally before the Revolution happened, but even she couldn't
have envisaged its reassertion this quickly.
Kyra continued. 'And there are too many
cases landing our desks, where the perpetrators of so-called petty
crimes are actually high as zeppelins on ''White Magic''. They're not
just producing the stuff in bulk, either, they're refining it somehow.'
'Not only that,' added Preston, 'But
they're much better armed since the Revolution…all that
ex-Tetragrammaton weaponry at their disposal.'
The First Council Member looked
despondent. 'Why would anyone want to replace one drug with another?
I…I don't understand.'
'Because it's about choice,' Kyra
replied softly, feeling her friend's pain. 'The stuff enhances all the
senses. Can you even imagine a population starved of emotion for so
long, being totally uninhibited, with uncontrolled access to that kind
of material?'
'They'd be like children, eating candy
for the first time…' Jurgen's voice tailed off, his mind churning with
a thousand thoughts. Libria was still so fragile, her people not yet
adjusted to free thinking; many of them frightened by their own human
nature, so long suppressed. Before the Revolution, 'Magic had been an
irritation to the Resistance and Tetragrammaton alike, an itch in a
difficult place to scratch. Now its resurgence in this more dangerous
form threatened to jeopardise the little progress they had made.
'What can we do?'
Preston folded his arms. When he spoke,
his voice was firm.
'Hold off for a week and I'll see what
we can accomplish. The fact the stuff is being refined and manufactured
again means there's another Chemist at work. If it's large scale
production, someone somewhere knows something. And we'll find out who,
where and what.'
Kyra nodded in sombre agreement. Jurgen
looked from one to the other and wondered privately, just how much
their hearts were still beating to the rhythm of the Tetragrammaton.
Preston convened an emergency meeting of
the Free Cleric at 09:00 the following morning. It took place in an
annexe adjacent to the Hall of Precision, where the Clerics still
trained. It was perhaps best that the general population was not
reminded too often of the power of the gunkatas.
The majority of the men present wore the
midnight black of a Cleric First Class, but there were a few
grey-coated Sub-Ordinates, whose promotions were imminent. They
remained at a respectful distance, taking the seats towards the rear of
the gathering.
Grammaton John Preston regarded the men
thoughtfully. Kyra had remarked that being in a room with the Free
Cleric was probably rather like being locked in a cage with a pack of
black panthers. Acutely aware of the levels of tension and testosterone
in the air, he not only agreed, but considered the panthers a less
intimidating option.
All the men here had demonstrated their
loyalty to the Free Librian cause and had been eager to join the Free
Cleric. Preston was reminded of a comment Andrew Brandt made after the
what he now thought of as the Beethoven raid…
''What will there be for men like us?''
Perhaps some of them truly believed.
Others were just protecting their investment. Keeping themselves in a
job. Even with his intuitive ability most remained inscrutable. That
was part of the training. Preston sighed. Too many variables.
The focus of the meeting split into two
distinct problems. The first and greatest was the continuing resistance
from the Cleric and others still loyal to Father and the
Tetragrammaton. In a total reversal of the situation before the
Revolution, they were the ones who had now gone deep underground…even
dispersing into the Nether.
Everyone in that room knew most of the
men who were now considered their enemy. They had lived and trained
with those same men and until a few months ago, had shared their ideals
and faith. No-one was entirely sure how many had perished in the
running battles in the weeks after the Revolution, or indeed how many
had reformed into the New Resistance.
It had to number in the hundreds,
including Enforcement officers, Sweepers, numerous Proctors and
Ancillary staff and others badgered or threatened into joining. Add to
that however many disgruntled citizens who could be 'persuaded' that
Father's way was still the only way and there were enough to cause
serous concern among the Council and the Free Cleric.
With so many dominant personalities in
the mix, the general opinion at the beginning was that they were
disorganised, lacking true direction. Vice-Council DuPont had been a
charismatic leader and the dosed ranks of the Cleric followed him
blindly. Now it appeared that someone had emerged to fill that role.
Who it was remained a mystery and was the subject of heated debate.
The Free Cleric were not even sure how
many of the New Resistance Cleric were still taking their interval.
Stocks had gone missing almost immediately and no-one could even hazard
a guess at the quantities involved.
It was these very uncertainties that
made their task so arduous.
Preston threw open the floor for any
suggestions containing and eventually eliminating the spread of 'White
Magic'. Whilst Jurgen and the Council worried about the destabilising
effects upon the population, The Free Cleric were faced with the very
real job of uncovering those behind its manufacture and distribution,
not to mention the fallout from its increasing usage in criminal
activity.
Cleric Josh Stannard, who had graduated
just a year after Preston, but took three years longer to make First
Class, was interested in the logistics of distribution of the drug. The
knowledge that an Officer of the Tetragrammaton had been instrumental
in its initial manufacture had come as quite a shock to most of the
Free Cleric.
Some had actually trained with Matthew
Harrison. Several had even been in the Hall of Precision on the day
Harrison and a fellow student had accidentally injured Greg Lisle.
Lisle had responded by crippling Harrison…condemning him to a life
outside the Cleric, where his bitterness festered and revenge consumed
his life. Now the dismantling of the Clinics and Factories was
providing endless resources to those unscrupulous enough to have
resurrected the filthy trade.
Stannard voiced what many were thinking
privately.
'There's no way these drug-pushers could
be this organised, this fast. Maybe Jurgen's right in a way. Maybe
we're dealing with a third faction, possibly some of our old colleagues
who see a political use for 'Magic'…
'At this point I'm willing to entertain
any and all theories,' replied Preston.
After hearing from all the Free Cleric,
Preston allocated teams to each investigation, leaving a few of the
Subs to take control of minor infringements. They were pleased to have
the responsibility. It would be a chance to show their worth to
Preston.
As for Stannard's supposition, there was
one among them who knew with absolute certainty, that when the truth
did emerge, it would be more terrifying than any of them could ever
have imagine.
Chapter 5 
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