(The sequel to "Dizzying
Highs and Abysmal Lows" )
20
Friday.
In
the sombre
depths of the Palace of Justice, Vasily sat in Interrogation Cell 15.
Waiting. He was dressed in a grey coverall and picked nervously at a
stray thread on the cuff. He knew that his time in the world was
limited, yet he was not afraid of death itself, just the manner in
which he would meet it. Incineration. The very word chilled him, even
if its reality would not.
He
had spent all
his adulthood dealing in one product or another: guns, drugs, people,
it made no difference to him. It was just a way of life in his part of
the Nethers. But the Tetragrammaton didn’t understand it. They feared
it. And what they feared, they destroyed. And now they were going to
destroy him. But not before they broke him. He shivered.
The
door opened.
Vasily looked up despondently, expecting Lisle to start his mind games
again. Instead, he found himself riveted by a pair of ice-blue eyes.
They were set in a pale, oval face, framed by short sun-blonde hair.
The contrast with her severe, black uniform was striking. The woman sat
opposite him, placing a notepad on the table with deliberate care.
"I
will be
brief," she stated. Her voice was brittle, her expression unreadable.
Vasily felt unbalanced. There was something unfathomable about her, a
remoteness that spoke of the abyss. She would not play games with him.
She would ask her questions and then she would burn him. He felt his
bowels turn to water.
She
spoke again.
"You
will tell me
about Watchdog. I do not want to hear that you are ignorant of his
identity. That much we have ascertained. I want to know about
him."
She
waited.
Vasily sighed. What more could they do to him? He met the glacial stare
with resignation.
"OK.
I never met
him. No-one did, except a guy called Cyrus, once, back at the start.
But he’s dead now." He was aware he was babbling, but the floodgate was
open and he knew these might be the last words he would ever utter. He
continued, "It was always by telephone...prearranged, like...." He
faltered. Was she even listening?
"You
last spoke
to him on Monday." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yes.
We...er...he was...he was furious that the other barrels were being
shipped out, but he couldn't change the orders."
"I
see. What can
you tell me about his voice, his mannerisms?"
"Er...he
has a
sort of nasal whine...you know....like he has a cold or something. Oh,
yes ...and he clears his throat a lot." Why did he want to please this
Ice Maiden?
"When
you
converse, do you hear anything in the background?"
Vasily
thought
hard. He'd never taken any notice. Then, he had it. He looked up in
surprise.
"Yes,
come to
think of it. There's always engines, trucks, you know...like...like
he's outside on the road somewhere." He smiled. Why? He had no idea.
She
rose from the
chair in a fluid motion, picking up the notepad. She turned and walked
to the door, where she halted, her back to him.
"Your
actions
have determined your fate. You will be taken to the Hall of Destruction
for sentence and summary combustion."
The
door closed
behind her. Vasily felt his heart pounding in his chest. Then the door
opened again and two Enforcement officers entered. As they escorted him
out, all he could think of, was that she didn't write anything down.
21
On
her way down
the hall, Kyra Flynn passed the officers designated to take Vasily to
his execution. They acknowledged her with a click of their boots and a
brief nod. Vasily's comments were interesting. It was definitely the
little things that counted.
The
light was on
in Interrogation Cell 8 and Kyra glanced through the window as she
walked past. And stopped dead. The dark-haired woman inside was sitting
with her head bowed, hands resting on the table. Kyra scanned the Ident
board beside the door. It read: O'Brien, Mary.
Still
too fragile
to leave her mental inner sanctum, Kyra simply continued along the hall
and made her way back to her temporary office on Floor 6. There, she
sorted through the files of people she had already interviewed, placing
them in a different order. Handwritten notes covered the desk,
cross-referencing information from each suspect. Despite their
desensitised state, it was interesting how co-operative they were when
the interview was conducted in an Interrogation Cell. Self-preservation
was such a primitive response, no level of Prozium could deaden it
entirely. Given the dose levels they sustained, she now understood why
the Sweepers were occasionally so soporific.
In an
unguarded
moment, her mind drifted to Mary. The papers she held quivered slightly
and she placed them back on the table, resting her hand firmly on top
of them. It would probably have been a relief, to admit defeat and
embrace Father's insensate beliefs once more. Yet, liked a cage-bred
animal unexpectedly given its freedom, she had no desire to return to
captivity. Twenty-six years in the stone-cold reality of the
Tetragrammaton had fostered an unshakeable faith in her own innate
strength. The disciplines she had worked so hard to master were now her
salvation. The pain, hurt and anger were securely restrained. Her
mental sanctuary was not the dose-free nirvana of the sense offender.
It was the Tetragrammaton itself.
Had
there been
even the remotest chance that her intervention would save Mary from her
inevitable fate, Kyra knew instinctively that she would have taken it.
Somehow, Mary's relationship with Partridge must have led to her
exposure and arrest, but Kyra was baffled as to how. She recalled the
fire in Mary’s eyes. Although they'd only met briefly, Kyra had been
impressed by the woman's passion for life. The world would be
diminished by her loss.
The
pressing need
for a result hauled her mind back to the task in hand. Kyra allowed it
to range over all the assumptions, conjecture and considerations of the
last few days. She tapped her pencil on the pad before her, then wrote
neatly:
Watchdog
has
access to:
- Sweeper
patrol schedules
- Evidentiary
logs
- EC-10
materials
- Weapons
- Communications
- Prozium base
material
storage inventories
- Transport
She
had
interviewed all the relevant Department Heads and their immediate
subordinates. They were totally exonerated and none had noticed
anything out of the ordinary. Given the tunnel-vision effect of Prozium
on a mind not trained in suspicion, that was to be expected and yet
something should have rung an alarm bell. The Transport Head might yet
lose his position over the appropriated Sweeper tanker, but his records
were clear – no tanker was reported as missing.
She
checked her
watch. Avoiding being anywhere public at the interval siren was
becoming increasingly problematic, especially with all the spies and
informers the Palace seemed to breed. A glance at her laptop reminded
her that she hadn't disposed of the last few ampoules secreted beneath
the keypad. Kyra reached forward to check it was firmly fixed – and
Vasily's words echoed in her head...
"..he was furious that the other barrels
were being
shipped out, but he couldn't change the orders."
Why
couldn't
Watchdog keep the 30 barrels in the Depot? How had it bypassed him? Who
gave the order? And how did they know to do it? Intuition waved from
the sidelines. Kyra stood up sharply, almost up-ending her chair. File
in hand, she headed for the staircase.
22
"The
Vice-Council
will see you now, Administrator," the Secretary intoned gravely. "I
would ask that, in the future, you follow procedure and make an
appointment."
"I
apologise,
Secretary, but this is a matter of some urgency." Although not overly
tall, Kyra towered above the officious little man. She inclined her
head politely and followed him into the now familiar cavern of DuPont’s
office.
Light
from the
great T-shaped opening slitted down the marble steps and scuttled to
meet the shadows. The Vice-Council was seated in his customary position
behind the imposing desk. His eyebrows raised slightly as she
approached.
"So,
Administrator, I trust you have something of interest to impart?"
DuPont’s tone was glacial and Kyra swallowed hard.
"Actually,
Vice-Council, It's more of a question."
"Really?"
The
temperature dropped another few degrees.
"Yes,
Sir."
Icicles of fear formed around her heart, but this was a calculated
risk. She continued, "I need to discover who made the call to the
Depot, ordering the early morning shipment of the 30 barrels of base
chemicals. I am concerned that any enquiries I make may alert Watchdog
further. It appears that..."
"I
made that
call, personally, Administrator."
"Ah!
That makes
sense..." The rest of the sentence remained unspoken and DuPont stood
and walked around her.
"You
are
wondering why I did not see fit to mention it?"
Kyra
knew better
than to reply to such a rhetorical question.
"There
are more
things in Heaven and Earth, Administrator, than are dreamt of in your
philosophy."
"Er..I
think I
understand, Vice-Council." Kyra stored the curious comment for future
consideration. She opened her file and extracted a single sheet. "The
faction leader, Vasily, stated that Watchdog, quote, ‘was furious’,
unquote that the barrels had been shipped and couldn't countermand the
order in time. There was no officially documented order for the
transfer – obviously because it came directly from you, Sir. If you
bypassed the normal channels...?"
DuPont
nodded and
Kyra felt the climate return to normal.
"...then
Watchdog
has access to more information than would be available to most in the
Tetragrammaton. I have here a list of people. I know this is what might
be termed a ‘long shot’, but would you be good enough to look through
them and tell me if any names are familiar?"
Kyra
held out the
paper for the Vice-Council. Instead of taking it, he stepped closer to
her and studied the names, his arm almost brushing hers. Reaching over,
he pointed to one name. His reply was taut.
"If
this is
indeed our informer, it will be...disappointing. I would suggest that
you are accompanied by Enforcement guards, Administrator."
23
On
her way out,
Kyra was deep in thought. The Vice-Council hadn't elaborated on his
comments, but she sensed there was an underlying reason. At least it
would be over soon. The patter of a keyboard drew her attention to a
small office. The Secretary. She sighed. DuPont had told her to an
appointment for tomorrow afternoon. She was beginning to loathe
bureaucracy.
The
Secretary was
just about to close what Kyra first perceived as a laptop, but as she
looked closer, realised was an Evidentiary box. The ident on the spine
read: X23T45. She caught a glimpse of a red ribbon nestling in the
corner, next to a tiny seashell. As the lid shut, a waft of familiar
perfume swirled around Kyra's nostrils.
Mary.
The
Secretary
began peering at the pages of a huge diary. Kyra barely remembered the
time he had allocated, as a flurry of confused thoughts scrambled for
order. She shoved them roughly to one side. One thing at a time.
To
add to her
consternation, walking back down the hallway she encountered Cleric
Brandt, once again on his way to The Vice-Council's office, looking, if
it were possible, even more insufferably pleased with himself.
24
Kyra
made her way
through the labyrinthine corridors which linked the various spokes of
the Tetragrammaton to the central rotunda of the Palace of Justice. It
was often preferable to use the main entrances and exits than to
navigate the lower halls, especially from the Hall of Enforcement, but
Kyra had no intention of announcing her arrival. She observed that
levels of security down here fell far short of mandatory requirements.
Cleric Preston had remarked on occasion that resources were stretched,
but even so, there were just two guards at the entrance to Logistics,
who barely glanced at her badge. They seemed more impressed by the
hulking forms of the two trench-coated Enforcement officers trailing
after her.
Kyra
was somewhat
perplexed that her investigations had not highlighted Logistics Officer
Matthew Harrison at an earlier stage. The interview with the Department
head had failed to disclose any irregularities, even though Logistics
was her initial starting point, dealing as it did with procurement,
distribution, maintenance, and replacement of materials. She returned
to it after Vasily's comments, simply because it was all that was left.
Harrison's personal file was thin, the usual detailed history absent.
More obfuscation. She opened the door to a small office.
Across
the bare
floor, Harrison was hunched over a terminal, tapping noisily at a
keypad. Above him were viewscreens presently showing truck movements,
storage facilities and weapons refurbishment. Kyra stepped forward.
"It's
polite to
knock," Harrison snapped, not even bothering to look up.
"I do
not need to
knock, Officer Harrison."
At
the sound of
her voice, Harrison turned his head. If the sight of a woman flanked by
Enforcement officers surprised him, he didn't show it.
"So,
what can I
do for you...er..."
Kyra
raised her
badge.
"...Administrator
Flynn?"
"Let
us not play
games, Officer Harrison. You know exactly why I am here. Frankly, I
have had a most trying day and I am not disposed to engaging in polite
conversation. I am quite prepared to leave the finer details to the
Technicians at the Palace of Justice." Kyra quietly drew her pistol,
but kept the safety on.
Harrison
stood
up, with obvious difficulty. He moved awkwardly towards his desk and
Kyra noted that his left leg dragged. Although his right hand appeared
normal, the left was clawlike. Kyra could not recall ever seeing anyone
with a disability at the Tetragrammaton. Libria did not particularly
tolerate unproductive and dependent citizens. Behind her, she sensed
the guards' attention wander. Harrison coughed.
"The
Technicians?
Yeah, and what do you think they can do to me that's any worse than
being in this friggin' rat-hole?" His nasal voice dripped venom.
"To
be quite
honest, Officer Harrison," Kyra replied coldly, "I have absolutely no
interest in what the Technicians do. My primary objective was to find
you and shut down this...this little operation of yours. That is all."
"Really?"
Harrison shook his head and leaned against his desk. He coughed
harshly. "You don't want to know why?" He fixed her with a resentful
stare.
"No."
The
monosyllabic
answer seemed to infuriate him. Harrison slammed his left hand against
the desktop, then appeared to lose his balance. His damaged left leg
gave way and he began to lurch forward. Before Kyra realised what was
happening, he had seized her right arm and stripped the pistol from her
grip, spinning her around and into his grasp, pinning her arms behind
her back. She heard the safety snap off and two loud pops as Harrison
nailed the guards with perfect head shots. Then she felt the hot muzzle
of the pistol dig into the soft flesh under her chin. She closed her
eyes. Not again!
"That's
the
trouble with this society," rasped Harrison, his mouth pressed against
Kyra’s right ear. "No-one ever wants to know. The Tetragrammaton takes
and takes and you keep on giving 'til there's nothing left. Then they
throw you onto some friggin' scrap heap of a job and forget about you."
His breathing was ragged and Kyra could sense he was losing control. It
was painful to speak, but she attempted to reason with him.
"Officer
Harrison...if you feel... you have a legitimate grievance, then...I
assure you, I will do my best...to facilitate a hearing."
"A
legitimate
grievance! That's friggin' rich!" Harrison laughed nastily. "How about
heading for a promising career at the highest level in the
Tetragrammaton, only to have it smashed to pieces by some psychopath? I
could've been a Grammaton Cleric First Class. I could've been like John
Preston. Instead I get to spend the rest of my friggin' miserable life
as a friggin' truck jockey. I'd have been better off dead from a broken
neck like the other guy."
Kyra
had no idea
what he was ranting about, but she could hear boots thudding down the
hall. She knew with absolute certainty that Harrison would shoot her
the moment the guards kicked open the door and there would be no Cleric
to rescue her this time! She made a split second decision.
With
as much
strength as she could muster, Kyra wrenched her head to the left, away
from the muzzle, simultaneously stamping down hard on his right foot
and then kicking back even harder against the weak left leg. Harrison
shrieked, losing his grip on her arms. Kyra ducked and spun round to
the right, chopping at his wrist with her left hand, her right elbow
connecting solidly under the man's ribs, cracking at least one. The
pistol flew out of his hand. Kyra judged she had sufficient room and
executed a perfect Preston-taught duck and roll to retrieve the weapon.
By the time the guards made it through the door, Harrison was in a
crumpled heap by the desk, the pistol pointed at his head. Kyra
resisted the urge to ask the guards what had kept them. Instead, in a
low, measured voice, she murmured to the broken man.
"You
could never,
ever, be anything like Grammaton John Preston," She waited for him to
look up. "You just don't have the balls!" And, unseen by the guards,
she smiled in satisfaction as the shock registered on his face.
Day
VI - Saturday 
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