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Evidentiary: 4 years
earlier...
The dark haired
woman carried the stack of Evidentiary boxes carefully through the
storeroom. The gap between the rows was narrow and she was struggling
to keep them balanced. She had almost reached the correct shelves at
the far end, when the topmost box began to slide...
'Damn!' she
hissed, as the first box hit the floor, closely followed by the rest as
she attempted to compensate. Her throat went dry as she realised she
had spoken aloud. In fear, she cupped her hands over her mouth, as if
to prevent further exclamations. Her eyes darted wildly around the
room, coming to rest upon a dark shape framed in the doorway...
'You really should
be more careful, Viviana.'
Partridge moved
swiftly over to where Viviana Preston was standing, surrounded by the
toppled Evidentiary boxes. A few moments work and the boxes were neatly
filed away. Viviana swallowed hard. She spoke softly.
'Thank you, Errol.
I know that was stupid of me. I've only been back at work a few months
and it just seems to get harder.' She shook her head.
Partridge
understood. Viviana's daughter, Lisa, had just turned three and now
attended State Day Care. Viviana had returned to her position as
Evidentiary Officer, fully aware that she was courting disaster by
ceasing her interval. Pregnancy and birth were difficult times for
Librian women, requiring many visits to Equilibrium to stabilise their
dose. Yet the maternal instinct was strong...Partridge remembered his
own mother and the look she sometimes got when she thought no-one could
see, almost misty-eyed with pride and love for her three children. He
smiled thinly at Viviana.
'No-one said it'd
be easy, especially for someone in your position, but you just have to
be more vigilant. In time, It'll become second nature...I promise.'
'I hope so,'
Viviana replied quietly. 'It's just...well...John, really.'
At the mention of
his partner's name, the Cleric swallowed hard. He knew how much Viviana
loved her husband, but she was treading an incredibly dangerous path.
Grammaton John Preston was rapidly becoming the most respected of all
the senior Clerics, surpassing even Partridge himself, in his younger,
zealot days, in terms of arrest and kill rate...not that Partridge had
killed anyone for years if he could avoid it. He was content to step
aside and allow Preston to demonstrate his mastery of the Gun Katas...
Partridge nodded
sympathetically and promised to look in on Viviana the following week.
But by then, she
was dead.
She had been seen,
crying over a moving passage in an EC-10 designated book and duly
reported. The first Viviana knew of this, was when an Enforcement team
kicked open the door of the Unit she shared with Cleric Preston and
their children. Her trial and sentencing were straightforward...as was
her execution. Partridge shivered slightly.
I
know Kyra Flynn will never completely forgive herself for reporting
Viviana's sense crime, but I never had the courage to tell her that it
was I who gave Viviana the copy of 'Black Beauty'...
Still, Partridge
mused, Administrator Kyra Flynn was one of the new breed of female
Administrators making their mark in the Tetragrammaton and not a person
to be taken lightly, on or off the dose. Her affection for Preston was
still clouding her judgement, but he held on to the fervent hope that
she would be of valuable service to the Resistance…
An idle thought
strayed into the Cleric's mind.
I
wonder who they'll assign as Preston's new partner? There's any number
of Sub-ordinate Clerics who would be well-satisfied with the placement.
Interesting how Prozium has so little effect on the truly ambitious...
He stamped his
feet in an effort to keep them from losing feeling altogether – and
then laughed hollowly at the absurdity. The bittersweet memory of
another chilly Librian evening cut the laughter short...
Sector
8: a few years earlier...
'Well, don't just
stand there freezing to death...get yourself inside!'
Mary O'Brien
smiled in what Partridge considered an almost coquettish manner, as she
pushed strands of soft brown hair away from her face. Although years of
training had given him a certain grace of movement, he often still felt
strangely awkward in her presence. She stood on tiptoe, kissing him so
thoroughly, the Cleric was briefly robbed of any coherent thought; then
she swirled away, all velvet skirts and heady perfume, down the hallway
towards the assembly area.
Inside the
cloistered room, members of the Resistance were huddled intensely over
maps and plans. Several curious heads turned in the Cleric's direction
as he made his entrance. Even after all these years, his austere black
uniform was still viewed with distaste, albeit hastily concealed.
Partridge had learned to ignore such responses and smiled affably.
'Impressive haul
Clancy got last week," he commented, nodding towards the stack of
paintings leaning against the far wall. 'I've heard a rumour that
there's a few works by Seurat and Pissaro on the move in the next few
days. I'll make some enquiries and see what I can turn up.'
His remarks were
greeted by raised eyebrows and smiles of approval.
'Have you heard
the latest recording of Fauré's 'Pavane?' Jurgen's voice was heavy with
self-control. 'It's quite remarkable.'
'No, not yet,'
Partridge responded pleasantly. 'Haven't had the chance. P'raps later,
when we've gone over the schedules?'
Jurgen nodded
brusquely, his blue eyes never wandering from the schematic on the
makeshift table. There was an prolonged silence, during which several
pairs of feet around the table shuffled uncomfortably. Partridge
flicked his eyes towards Mary, who was enthusiastically cataloguing
some of the more recent acquisitions and humming fragments of a song.
Occasionally, her elegant fingers strayed to the red ribbon pinned to
her dress. Partridge had 'acquired' it during an A & R just a few
weeks ago.
He supposed she
was happy. Did he make her happy? Sometimes, lying beside her, their
mutual passion spent, he would watch her sleeping, would
synchronise his breathing with hers. He loved her so utterly, so
completely, she had become part of his soul and the slightest thought
of losing her hurled his mind into a swirling abyss of panic.
The Cleric's gaze
returned to Jurgen, still perusing the latest plans for disruption to
the Prozium factories in Sector 6. Both men knew that Mary's choice to
leave one for the other was based upon her instinctive need to be loved
unconditionally. Although he accepted Jurgen's reasoning – that he must
forgo the 'luxury' of feeling so that everyone else might have it –
Partridge found it flawed. It was the ability to experience feelings
that gave him the strength to fight the remorseless onslaught of the
Tetragrammaton.
Each to his own,
Partridge mused. Even now, after all the years and all the battles,
both mental and physical, Jurgen was still the idealistic, determined
man whose eyes had once held such fire that they could melt the resolve
of a Grammaton Cleric …
Of course,
in her own inimitable fashion, Mary had told Jurgen of her decision
before making any advance towards Partridge. Perhaps she had
half-believed that Jurgen would put up some sort of fight to keep her
with him, but no…he had merely regarded her with his customary
composure and told her she should do what she thought best.
He
pretty much drove her into my arms. But does she love me? I really have
no idea. Will she weep for me? Some pathetic part of me hopes she will…
The intense pain
of anticipated loss knifed into his heart, tearing a gasp of anguish
from his throat. With considerable repugnance, the Cleric reached into
the darkest part of his mind which would forever belong to the
Tetragrammaton, drawing upon the mantras of the Gun Kata, suppressing
the emotion, steeling his resolve…
But it wasn't
somewhere he wanted to stay. Not for too long. Without Prozium, it was
a very black place indeed.
Eventually,
Partridge flipped through the book, his eyes searching for the one poem
he had carried with him since childhood. Until today, he had remembered
mere fragments, but now, seeing the words in their fullness, he could
again hear his mother's soft voice. He smiled fondly.
'Had I the
heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with
golden and silver light,
The blue and
the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and
light and the half-light,
I would spread
the cloths under your feet…'
Abruptly, the warm, fragile memory was shattered by the distant barking
of some stray dog and the neurotic, twittering response of disturbed
birds. The Cleric once again set the book on his knees, his head
raised, listening…
A faint rumble of
diesel engines.
How
long had he known? Perhaps for years…biding his time…waiting for the
right moment. Except it never came. He was actually disappointed,
wasn't he? Never did suffer fools gladly, even in training. Possibly
the most exacting partner I ever had…well…maybe not… Preston just has
the edge.
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