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Palace of Justice:
afternoon of the Sector 7 A & R
'Do come in, Cleric.'
Partridge was aware that Vice-Council DuPont was regarding him with a
measure of irritation. Guards moved purposefully from the shadows,
rifles ready. The Cleric stood motionless in the spilled light of the
huge globe which dominated the Vice-Council's office. He had been
summoned immediately on his and Preston's return from the raid which
had culminated in the ignominious burning of the 'Mona Lisa'.
The precious copy of W B Yeats' poems nestled securely in his pocket,
but he wondered if the ever-efficient Preston had already sent in his
report, detailing Partridge's personal appropriation of the book. In
fact…was that why he was here? Or had his more recent nocturnal outings
finally aroused suspicion? Whatever the reason, Partridge was now
convinced his continued existence could be measured in days, if not
hours.
Then a nervous thought skittered through his mind. It wasn't the just
the book. He replayed the conversation he and Preston had in the car…
'Everytime we come from
the Nethers to the City, it reminds me why we do what we do.'
'It does?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'It does.'
His blood ran cold. If he had not been so overly concerned about the
book, he would not have dropped his guard, allowed his cynicism to leak
into the reply. One as skilled in the Intuitive Arts as Preston
couldn't have failed to miss it….
The Vice-Council steepled his fingers, a gesture Partridge remembered
only too well. Finally, DuPont spoke.
'We go back a long way, you and I, Cleric. A remarkable and successful
partnership. Two men following the same path, obeying the same
voice…Father's voice.'
DuPont narrowed his eyes and his right hand moved downward to
caress the smooth black granite of his desk.
'But…' He paused and waited until Partridge's eyes, now riveted on the
hand still stroking the desktop, slid upwards again. 'Somewhere along
that path an alternate route presented itself…a route too full of
promise to ignore…'
Partridge listened in horror as a dreadful truth shrieked and yammered
inside his head.
DuPont was talking about himself.
The Cleric almost choked as a comment he had made to Kyra Flynn.. only
a few weeks ago… scuttled from the back of his mind to lodge in his
throat.
"What makes you think
that those who control the system necessarily live by its rules? And
would they themselves not tolerate and even exploit the seemingly
aberrant behaviour of others if it served their purpose?"
At the time, he had been referring to Father, but the reality was
inescapable. Partridge reasoned that if DuPont had known about him all
along, then he, too, had to be serving a purpose, or he would have
been…what did Kyra call it…'furnace fuel'…years ago.
He was a Trojan Horse in a black coat. 'Timeo Danaos et dona
ferentes'…I fear the Greeks, even when bringing gifts. Yet…continuing
the analogy…why pull the horse away from the gates before it's even
been dragged inside?
To the Vice-Council, the Resistance was obviously proving to be just
that…no longer just an annoyance, but an organised, increasingly
effective threat. DuPont intended to use him one final time…to get to
them sooner rather than later. He expected Partridge to run…
A faint smile curved DuPont's lips. The word 'checkmate' flashed
white-hot in Partridge's mind.
He was supposed to lead DuPont to the Resistance…
Another flash…anxious faces around a plan-strewn table…
He was supposed to kill Father…
Neither of these things would now be accomplished. He had become a
liability to both sides. The Cleric's only hope was that DuPont had
read him wrongly; that the Vice-Council was banking on his trying to
warn Jurgen and the others.
The Cleric and the Vice-Council held eye-contact for what seemed an
eternity. Then DuPont spoke again, his voice silken, drenched in
purpose.
'In deference to our partnership…and in recognition of your past,
highly lethal record in …dealing…with sense offenders, I think it only
fitting that you determine your own fate, Cleric. Wouldn't you agree?'
Partridge merely nodded, the echoing ghost of DuPont's smile playing on
his lips. It was only when he reached the outer doors, leading onto the
grey streets, that he realised he hadn't spoken a word.
So here I am, slowly
freezing solid, awaiting my friend and executioner. DuPont must have
been bloody furious when he found out I'd come here. I'm fairly sure he
wouldn't have told Preston outright…seems to enjoy his little
mind-games. There again, had it been any other book, I might possibly
have logged it in Evidentiary, kept up the pretence. As it is, the
first thing Preston would have done is checked…never known him put a
foot wrong…
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