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Hall of Enforcement:
6 years earlier.
Father's morning broadcast, urging Librians to be vigilant in their
workplace, droned in the background as Partridge read the schedule for
the day. If they completed the morning's work in good time, they'd be
expected to attend the Graduation of this year's crop of new Clerics.
He pulled up the list, scanning it with a modicum of interest. One name
caused him to pause and frown slightly…Kevin Halls…now there was a
young man to watch. If the Tetragrammaton ever discovered his little
'secret'…well…
Still deep in thought, Partridge glanced up from his desk, with its
neat array of stationery, as Cleric John Preston approached in his
usual controlled manner. It took several seconds for Partridge to
assimilate what he was seeing. The grey coat of the Sub-ordinate Cleric
had been superseded by the midnight black of a Cleric First
Class. Partridge thought he could detect a hint of pride in his
partner's expression…and why not? At 25, Preston was now the youngest
member of the Order to be accorded this rank. He'd beaten DuPont by a
full year.
'Congratulations, Cleric,' Partridge offered, rising from his chair.
'Thank you, Cleric,' Preston responded. 'I was notified last night. I
will do my utmost to honour the uniform, Father and Libria.'
'Indeed,' replied Partridge. 'Of that I have no doubt.'
That morning's A & R proved just how much Preston deserved to wear
the black coat.
Following intelligence that a group of offenders were moving EC-10
rated materials out of the City, the two First Class Clerics left the
Hall of Enforcement, striding briskly towards their waiting car.
Partridge noted with some private amusement that whilst it might prove
an near impossible task to acquire a replacement stapler, needing forms
filled out in triplicate, the allocation of a driver had occurred with
almost miraculous ease!
If Preston noticed the response to his newly-elevated status, he made
no comment.
The white car followed in the wake of a Sweeper truck, two standard
police cars and a quartet of motorcycles. Partridge observed that
substantial resistance was expected. Preston nodded, readjusting his
sleeves for the third time.
'You'll get used to them,' Partridge assured him. 'It's really no
different in the field than in the practice hall.'
He remembered employing the sleeve holsters for the first time in a
heavy shoot-out in Sector 15, a few weeks after making First Class.
They were much heavier and bulkier than the flexible duralloy mechanism
they all wore now. The spring release was tricky, unlike the latest
single use, replaceable polycarbonate clip. The pistols themselves were
also much heavier then, with non-retractable grips.
The introduction of lightweight materials and hollow, spring-loaded
grips, together with a new reload design, revolutionised the practice
of the Gun Katas, taking them to ever higher levels of precision.
The car swept through the bleak ruins. Even on such a bright morning,
the stark greyness of the Nethers was oppressive. Partridge felt
smothered by the unrelenting air of desolation and burdened by the
knowledge that he might actually have to kill someone this time.
Sustained fire greeted them at the entrance to the seemingly obligatory
dilapidated warehouse. Exasperated, Partridge resolved to speak to
Jurgen about finding hideouts that weren't death-traps in waiting!
By the time the Clerics had reached the far end of the building, the
Sweepers had put down the initial group of armed offenders and driven
the rest into a warren of corridors, which must have originally served
as offices.
Preston kicked a rifle from the out-stretched hand of one man, noting
it was an old, fixed-stock TR47. Behind him, Partridge briefly closed
his eyes…the hand been connected to its owner's wrist by a just few
shreds of flesh and muscle. Preston's action had disconnected it
completely.
The Sweeper captain emerged from a gloomy corridor, indicating the
whereabouts of their quarry. Both Clerics drew their sidearms almost
simultaneously, allowing their breathing to slow in the unique
preparation necessary for the Gun Katas. Although the noise of
automatic fire was deafening, their concentration was intense.
Inevitably, the last moments of the remaining sense offenders were
shocking, brutal and bloody; at least this was Partridge's
interpretation. Preston, with the latest dose of Prozium flowing
through his veins, had no feelings about it, whatsoever.
The clean-up was, in Tetragrammaton terms, initially fairly
straightforward. Preston shot dead, with pinpoint accuracy and without
breaking his stride, any offender deemed to be raising a firearm.
Eventually, the gunfire abated.
It was the lack of any EC-10 items which aroused Preston's suspicions.
Partridge's main concern was that he had been unaware of such an
availability of weapons. Jurgen had recently become worried about
groups of armed offenders, not affiliated to the Underground, who
appeared to have other, more sinister agendas.
He was considering this when the explosion ripped through the building.
Those Sweepers not injured dragged those who were toward an exit -
mostly gaping holes in the warehouse walls - and called for further
back-up. Unhurt, Preston and Partridge adopted their well-practiced,
dual-Kata stance; back to back, circling slowly, pistols ready. Preston
had a fair amount of ammunition left…he would, of course, know exactly
how much. Partridge, not having fired a shot, had two full mags.
Whoever these people were…they were after the Clerics. Not the smartest
of decisions, Partridge concluded.
When the attackers burst in, firing wildly, both Clerics responded
instinctively, bringing down specific targets according to the Kata
pattern they had chosen, whilst avoiding being targeted themselves.
It was the collapse of a metal roof support which separated the two
men. Partridge hurled himself sideways to avoid being crushed. Preston
sprinted forward, still firing, towards the men with guns, who were
temporarily thrown off guard by the screeching impact of the support on
the concrete below.
His ammunition gave out half-way through the sprint.
With a movement that was positively balletic, Preston threw the pistols
backwards, and himself into a forward dive, tucking his head under at
the last moment, allowing the momentum to convert the dive into a roll.
Rising to his feet, only metres away from the offenders who were once
again firing, Preston deftly racked the sleeve pistols, arcing them
round at arms length in a sustained fire pattern. His wrists crossed
and uncrossed projecting a silver line of bullets at head and neck
height.
Then it was all over.
In the eerie silence which followed, Preston briefly surveyed his
handiwork, then turned abruptly and walked away from the carnage.
Partridge glanced across at the bodies. In all his years in the
Tetragrammaton, he had never witnessed a display of quite that
magnitude. The degree of accuracy had resulted in the virtual
decapitation of several of the offenders; shards of bone, arterial
blood and brain matter were splattered in a near perfect semi-circle.
It was horrific, but also mesmerising.
Partridge watched his partner retrieve his pistols. Preston was hardly
out of breath. He was certainly going to be a force to be reckoned with
in the years to come.
And so it ends. I can hear the slamming of the car door,
the footsteps…two pairs. I can just make out Preston at the entrance.
But who's that in the shadows? My God! Brandt! One of DuPont's
protégés, I'm sure. Preston will have to be careful…Brandt will be
snapping at his heels.
Cleric Errol Partridge drew his pistol and placed it by his right
thigh. He picked up the cherished book once more and began to turn the
pages slowly and deliberately.
I feel so cold, now…but not for long. I can only pray my
death will have some meaning for him; if not now, then sometime in the
future. Preston's a decent man; he just doesn't know it.
Strange…Kyra asked if it was all worth it…feeling…was it worth the cost…
I'm about to find out.
Tread softly, Preston.
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