(The sequel to "Dizzying Highs and Abysmal Lows" ) By Libby I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII   27  Sunday The acceptance of her new position as Administrator to the Vice-Council felt more like receiving a life sentence. Kyra had hardly slept. She sat at her new desk, with her new pencils and her new view of the hypocritical world she inhabited. And somewhere in the depths of this prison, a young woman was waiting to be taken to the Hall of Destruction. What purpose did that serve? A decree had been issued by Father and the Council that all offenders were to be executed without trial. Whether they were shot or incinerated was irrelevant. What had happened to due process? DuPont had presented her with a huge backlog of reports from various strands of the Tetragrammaton. Her mind bending remit was to scrutinise, prioritise and disseminate them. Kyra checked her watch. Almost 11:00am. The Vice-Council had intimated that he would be unavailable for the rest of the day and that she should address any queries to the Clerks. Snatching up a few files, she assumed an air of importance and simply marched out of the annex. Once again, Kyra took the back routes down to the Cells and then beyond to the Hall of Destruction, driven by a need which amplified, the closer she got to the Holding area, where condemned offenders changed into the crimson combustion garments, prior to sentencing. Mary's execution was set for 11:30am. Kyra had just enough time to see her. She rounded a corner almost at a run, then skidded to a reasonably dignified halt. Presenting her new credentials to the two Enforcement guards, Kyra actually noted a discernable change in their demeanour as they both straightened their shoulders and stepped back to let her pass. But it was too late. The Holding area was all but deserted, the silence punctuated only by the gentle tapping of a keypad. Defeated and helpless, Kyra quietly enquired about Mary O’Brien. The Process Officer checked the file. "I'm sorry, Administrator, there was an earlier slot due to the suicide of another prisoner...er...Matthew Harrison...so Mary O'Brien was taken down at 11:00am." "Do you know...if the Incineration has gone through?" Kyra could hardly bear to know. A few more taps of the keypad brought up the latest information. The officer swivelled the monitor. Flashing in red Next to Mary’s name were just two words: Incineration completed. "Thank you," she said, head bowed.   28  Instead of returning to her office, Kyra found herself heading, dazed and disconsolate, towards Evidentiary, seeking to find some comfort in Mary's possessions, as if that would somehow connect her to the life force so recently lost to the fire. She placed her ident in front of the Storage Officer. "Evidentiary box, X23T45...Mary O’Brien." The officer hesitated for a moment, then vanished into the vaults, returning with the same box Kyra had first seen with DuPont's Secretary. Kyra placed it on the small table provided, then gingerly lifted the lid and closed her eyes, prepared to be overwhelmed as the perfume flooded out. A moment later, she opened them again, mystified at the lack of fragrance. It was there, yes, but not in the concentration she had experienced earlier. Then, startled, she realised why. The red ribbon was missing. What the hell was going on? She batted the lid down with both hands, causing the Evidentiary Storage Officer to look up sharply. Confused, Kyra handed back the box and left without a word. She took the long route back. And walked very slowly.   29  Kyra trod softly over the annex floor determined to sneak relatively unnoticed into her office. Halfway across, she became aware that two of the pathologically lethargic Clerks were having, for them, an animated discussion. Armed with a question on some minor issue of protocol, Kyra approached then enquired if there was something of which she should be made aware. The older of the two appeared to consider her request at length. Kyra found it impossible to keep her impatience from affecting her body language. She tapped her foot. The Clerk looked at it, then at her. "There are procedures to be followed, appointments to be made," he intoned, gravely. "It is our duty to maintain order," chipped in the second Clerk, equally grave. "Yes, of course," responded Kyra as solicitously as possible. "So...?" she asked hopefully. The second Clerk took a breath. "Cleric Brandt brought in Cleric Preston with several guards and all of them marched into the Vice-Council's office and none of them had an appointment. Then Cleric Brandt was dragged out by the same guards, only they let him go and he left. Then Cleric Preston marched out with more guards and he left." The Clerk shook his head. "All these comings and goings; it's just not procedure." Kyra felt she needed to sit down and collect her thoughts from wherever the hell they'd scampered off to, in the utter bedlam that, at this particular juncture, was masquerading as her mind! Water from the nearby dispenser in hand, Kyra settled into her chair. She didn't have any recollection of falling asleep. Not so gentle prodding from one of the two Clerks she had conversed with earlier hauled her back from a dark place of confusion and distortion. "My apologies..." she began, but the Clerk waved them away. He seemed...reverent. "I thought you might be interested to hear of the great honour being afforded to the Cleric to whom you were previously assigned?" Kyra snapped to attention. "Grammaton Cleric John Preston?" "None other." The Clerk was actually...excited. "He has delivered the leaders of the Resistance to the Council...and..and is to meet..." The final word was hushed "...Father." Without waiting for a response, he hurried off. Kyra shook her head in disbelief. Preston? John? It seemed an eternity since she had felt revitalised by that intoxicating music. Was it only a few days ago? Events had simply overtaken her and she had finally lost the battle to keep up with them. Nothing made any sense any more. Since the night of Partridge's death, Kyra had accepted that she was also on borrowed time. Somehow, that no longer mattered. The one tiny, barely acknowledged kernel of hope would soon be crushed beneath the heel of a white Dress shoe. What was important now, was what she did with the time which remained. So she sat. And thought. Partridge had told her once, early on, that he found solace in poetry. He envied Kyra her perfect recall of facts and conversation and told her there was a particular poem his mother had read to him as a child, but he couldn't remember much of it. It was about heaven and dreams. The only fragments he had were: "..the dark cloths of night and light and the half-light...." and "Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams." He wished he could find the poem again. She wished she could have found it for him. What had Partridge had dreamed about, she wondered. In her head, Kyra could still hear him reading the final verse of Marvell’s poem, which had struck such a chord in her heart. "Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run." Time to make a stand...and maybe a difference.   30  The Vice-Council's absence from his office provided a much needed window for Kyra to make discreet enquiries concerning the fate of the Resistance leaders. Her newly promoted status proved to be a skeleton key, opening doors to many previously denied areas. In accordance with Father's decree, they were currently in the Holding area adjacent to the Hall of Destruction. It required direct intervention from a Council Member to halt an Incineration, but Kyra managed to convince them of the necessity of her presence, delaying it at least for a short while. The next step on the road to oblivion was to check her sidearm. John had always impressed upon her the necessity of maintaining a combat ready weapon. It only has to jam once and you’re dead. Simple. In moments she had stripped, inspected and reassembled the TVP92. No time to swing by the Armoury and pick up a spare clip. Too risky anyway. The single 15-round double-stacked mag and 9mm hollow points would have to do. Actually killing someone today was not an issue she wanted to debate right now. Outside, in the central administration area, the Clerks were beavering away at their mundane tasks, oblivious to the traitorous intentions of their new colleague. Kyra buttoned up her topcoat and secured the pistol in its snug holster. Finally, well aware of the dramatic overtones, she took out her Prozium delivery unit and placed it squarely in the centre of her desk. There was far less drama in her exit, barely noticed by the Clerks.   31  At the entrance to the Hall of Destruction, Kyra imagined she could feel heat emanating from the Furnaces. Visits here were strictly controlled. The majority of incinerations were witnessed on screen. She had no wish to arouse any suspicion, therefore her steps along the curved corridor which was the outer wall of the rotunda, were measured and steady. The guards on the raised platform inspected her badge and let her pass. Three armed with TR58s, two possibly with pistols. The monitor displayed the view along the cylindrical walkway to the furnace itself. It also curved to the left, blocking the view of the far end. This was complete madness, but she was committed now. There was one guard midway down the walkway, whom she had been unable to spot on the monitor and two more next to the furnace itself. Set back slightly was the Controller’s console. Six men in their dark red coveralls were huddled together, waiting to die. All these details were being calmly processed by the highly-trained analytical part of Kyra's mind. The rest of it was threatening to shut down in pure fright. "I believe you have been expecting me, Controller?" Kyra held her badge in front of the man’s face. "I have authority from Vice-Council DuPont to question these men." "Of course, Administrator," he handed her the signed execution orders. Kyra glanced down the list, stalling for time, her plan still shaky. One name screamed at her. "Which one of you is Jurgen?" she enquired with a even tone which belied her amazement. A tall, fair-haired man raised his hand. Kyra stepped towards him, turning her back on the Controller and the two guards and out of sight of the third. She all but whispered to the curious man. "Please don't get your hopes up, but I'm going to try and get you out of here." "I...I...don't understand. Who are you? Why would you do this?" "Too much story, too little time. I'm a friend of Errol Partridge and...Mary." Jurgen swallowed and closed his eyes briefly. Kyra continued, intensely conscious of the official scrutiny. "I...I...couldn't save Mary. I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do. But I want to try to help you, now." The analytical mind was getting there. "You're risking your own life. Why?" Jurgen gave her a confused smile. "Because...because the Cleric who brought you in...John Preston...he's...I..." Kyra stopped and inhaled quickly. "Never mind, it doesn't matter...you need..." "But it does matter!" interrupted Jurgen, urgently. He leaned forward. Kyra listened in total astonishment as Jurgen outlined the incredible truth. That John was off the dose was earth-shattering enough in its implications, but that he had gone over to the Resistance and was ready to overthrow the Tetragrammaton itself was both astounding and terrifying. Yet as Jurgen revealed more, a wave of trepidation rolled over Kyra and she gasped. "No..you're wrong. His partner's still alive...he.." Images of a smiling Brandt and a duplicitous Vice-Council vied with the memory of an Evidentiary box with its missing item. She held Jurgen's eyes with her own. "John...did he take it...the ribbon?" "Yes." "Then it's finished. Game over. It was all a deceit, a trap. Planned from God knows when." The significance of the slim, engraved case in DuPont's office finally dawned on her. It had belonged to Partridge. Her shoulders slumped. A final thought stung her. Mary. How could she ever hope to compete with such sensuality? Any reply Jurgen may have tried to make was cut short by a sustained rumble from above and the ground shaking beneath their feet. Preston. Kyra and Jurgen exchanged hopeful glances. The lights flickered crazily and the guards looked at Kyra for direction. Instinct and training took over, instantly. She called to the officer part-way down the tunnel to help secure the entrance. He complied at once, racing back along the walkway. One down, three to go, including the Controller. Kyra stepped away from the prisoners towards the guards, who appeared confused by events. Nothing new there, then. Her expression was grave as she spoke to the guard nearest to her. "Officer, would you kindly give me your rifle for a moment?" "Er...of course, Administrator," replied the guard, even more confused. Nevertheless, he handed over his weapon. "Is there a problem?" "Not anymore," Kyra responded, dryly. In an almost leisurely fashion, she gripped the rifle by the barrel, then promptly arced it round, delivering a resounding blow to the side of the guard's head. With no loss of momentum, she tossed the weapon to Jurgen and whipped out her own pistol, pointing it squarely between the second guard’s eyes. His rifle twitched. "Don't even think about it," Kyra advised, solemnly. Behind her she heard Jurgen gasp. She suppressed a grin. I could get used to this Resistance stuff, she thought, adrenaline kicking in. Another ground shake. Kyra stood firm. The other Resistance members either surrounded the Controller or took charge of the guards. Kyra went to the control panel. With a deft movement, she caused five metal studs to protrude from the base of her sidearm and with infinite pleasure brought them crashing down onto the controls. Jurgen signalled to his men, who promptly rendered the guard and Controller unconscious. Kyra was already holding open the door to the exit. The seven of them slipped through the door, securing it from the inside. She preceded them, expecting to encounter further guards in the Holding area. Mercifully, it was clear. Elsewhere the sound of automatic fire was increasing. What had Preston done? Rapidly, she gave them detailed instructions of how to reach an external door and, after brief consideration, handed over her pistol. It wouldn't be much use where she was going. She was grateful that Jurgen understood, since she was all out of grand speeches. To her surprise, her reached forward and hugged her. Then they were gone. Kyra felt her eyes stinging.   32  In a strange way, Kyra was now incredibly grateful that she had been a child of the Tetragrammaton. Years spent wandering around the halls and corridors, building a mental map of the Palace, gave her a much-needed advantage. Using little-known passageways and staircases and avoiding elevators and other such possible death-traps, she managed to reach the upper floors of the rotunda without incident. There was a dedicated elevator somewhere, which was the only method of entry to the great Dome where Father resided. She was baffled by the absence of gunfire. A movement behind one of the pillars caught her attention. Kyra immediately flattened herself against another. A vaguely familiar voice called out. "I...I'm not armed. I’m no threat, I promise you." "Proctor Van Leder?" Kyra walked around to where the little man was hiding. He looked shell-shocked. Although she felt some sympathy for him, there just wasn't time for platitudes. She gripped his lapels and demanded to be shown the elevator. "You don't want to go up there, Administrator Flynn, you really don't." Administrator Flynn assured him that she really did. He pointed nervously towards a wall, where Kyra could just make out a fairly well camouflaged door, with a button to one side. "If you see the Senior Proctor," Van Leder said in a tremulous voice. "Ask him what we're to do...please?" Kyra nodded. Pathetic little man. Not so officious now. She punched the button. It was a short journey, just a few seconds, but Kyra emerged into a different world. Off the huge atrium was a high hallway, the vast T-shaped entrance door jammed in the fully open position. At the end was a smaller hallway and another automatic door, also open. The ceilings were lower here and the lighting low. She passed through into a grey room and found a few people who looked as if they may recently have upset a Cleric and not had the chance to live to regret it. She allowed a smile. The Gun Katas. Come on, Kyra. Have faith. Near to a shattered viewscreen was a polygraph. She gasped at the printout, then started to laugh. My God, John, you were seriously pissed! She noted the point of flatline with a degree of awe. Her faith grew. After counting around fifteen bodies in the curved, peach-marbled hallway Kyra gave up and picked her way through the rest of the black-visored debris to a set of double doors, which would have been described as imposing, had they not been riddled with bullet holes. The doors opened only so far, so she stepped through, over even more recently deceased guards, whose supine forms were causing the obstruction. What she expected to find she wasn't really sure, but the Fatherless reality didn't shock her as much as she thought it should. It was the sheer hypocrisy that etched itself into her mind, not the opulence of the huge glass light or the rich curtains, nor the painted canvasses on the walls or even the little birds flitting and twittering in their cages. Kyra stood at the edge of a circle of yet more lifeless bodies. She assumed they must have been 'Father's' personal Praetorian Guard. Obviously they hadn't paid enough attention in katana practice. Neither, it appeared, had Cleric Brandt. She studiously avoided looking at Brandt's face, given that his head and body were elsewhere. Finally made First Class then. Briefly. Her gaze finally rested on the body of the Vice-Council. Briefly. Another thought. She knew where Preston had gone. Striding through the Polygraph room, she was startled by a worried Technician. He smiled faintly. Kyra smiled back. Kindred spirits? He shouldn’t be too concerned, Kyra thought, at least he's still breathing. "I saw you come in so I hid. I heard you laugh. He took them all out in seconds, but he left me. He knew. The Gun Kata. It was incredible. He was incredible! Anyway, I thought you might like this. I'd probably cut my foot off with it." The Technician handed Kyra a white-sheathed Katana, Preston's Dress sword. She took it with gratitude, admiring the ornate pearl-white handle. They exchanged smiles again, then Kyra bolted. By the time she worked her way back to the late Vice-Council's floor she was running. She hurtled through the rear entrance of the annex, almost tripping over the water dispenser. The atrium was deserted, yet something caused her to freeze. From every direction she could hear staccato blasts of gunfire, but there was another underlying rhythmical sound... Kyra unsheathed the katana and placed the scabbard quietly on a table. She grasped the handle in the underhand style Preston had taught her and moved forward stealthily. Muffled explosions proclaimed the destruction of the Prozium factories and Clinics. They also thankfully provided cover for her entrance into DuPont’s office. Her heart pounded in relief. The Cleric was standing in the frame of the great T-shaped window, his back to her, watching the future he had created. On the stately desk were a pair of discarded pistols. Kyra opened her mouth to call his name, but the capricious rays of the evening sun drew her eyes to the red ribbon in his right hand and she remained silent and still.   It was doubtless this immobility which saved Kyra's life. The unidentified sound became the fully recognisable thudding of regulation Enforcement boots, as six of the Elite guard thundered into the room, visors down, rifles raised. For Kyra, now flattened against the shadowed wall behind the smooth pillars, holding the Katana tightly against her chest, the next few moments passed in virtual slow motion. The time between the guards entering the room and Preston's reaction was fractional. The Cleric spun to the left then side-flipped off the steps to land elegantly on the floor diagonal to the desk. As the guards opened fire, he launched himself into a forward roll over the desk, grabbing the pistols and coming up momentarily into a crouched position, before pushing upwards into a mid-air somersault which dropped him neatly into the centre of the bewildered guards, who so far, had been firing at thin air. The rest was classic Preston, as he demonstrated exactly why he was the Tetragrammaton's most lethal weapon. Kyra watched awestruck at the explosion of the signature muzzle flashes. As the guns finally fell silent, the Cleric stood in the circle of death, still deep in the intense concentration demanded by the Gun Katas. So it was Kyra who caught the flicker of movement in the corner of her eye. It soon became apparent she wasn't the only who had been watching Preston, as a figure materialised from the shadows near the viewscreens. Lisle. With a pistol. He evidently didn't have clear shot and so was moving cautiously out into the room. Kyra had no idea if Lisle had seen her, but she didn't care. At her shriek of warning, Preston instantly ducked and rolled once more as the first shot rang out. As he darted for the relative safety of the pillars, Preston flung the pistols in Lisle's direction, throwing the man off balance for a second. With horror, Kyra realised that the Cleric must be out of ammunition. She raced down the room, veering around the globe, towards the window, just as Lisle took aim again. This time, Preston feinted, then pivoted, the shot passing harmlessly through the space where his head had been milliseconds before. Lisle then began to fire seemingly at random, but Kyra realised that he was trying to use the Cleric's art against him, by avoidance of the 'statistically predictable elements'. Or maybe he was just hoping to get lucky. Before any conscious thoughts had time to form, Kyra dashed forward, her underhand grip on the Katana sure and strong. Lisle had never completed his training and it finally showed, as his indecision at her approach caused his aim to waver, giving Kyra the opportunity she needed. The blade of the Katana flashed briefly in the blood-red rays of the dying sun as Kyra slashed upwards towards Lisle's raised arm. Lisle snarled and leapt back, as the steel sliced through his sleeve, just nicking the flesh and throwing him off-balance. Boot-heels scuffed the polished floor as he tried to right himself and level the gun to fire at this new threat. Kyra ducked and twisted the blade, intending to strike lower, but at the last moment she spun around, realising that there was another, far more adept swordsman nearby. Kyra called out, but Preston was way ahead of her. Left arm outstretched, he actually grinned at Kyra, as she threw the katana towards him. Unexpected shock registered on Lisle's face as Preston rocketed out from behind the black marble column, grabbed the sword in mid-run and twisted into a right–handed flip over the polished desk. Landing right-footed, his left arm controlled a single powerful side-slash across Lisle’s throat and the man pitched backwards, virtually decapitated. The gun went off harmlessly. Mostly. Preston dropped the sword and moved swiftly over to the steps where Kyra sat, holding her left arm. Lisle's reflex shot had grazed her biceps. It didn't hurt particularly and there didn't seem to be too much blood. She removed her coat and Preston helped her bandage it with part of her sleeve. Kyra raised her eyebrows at the cut on his lip, and the gash on his neck which had turned the white collar bright red. "You’re hurt," she said in surprise. "So are you." He gently secured the dressing. "Hmm. Fine pair we are, then." They sat there for a time, each reflecting on their separate journeys to this temporary haven. From their different standpoints, they were able to create some continuity in the events of the last few days. Other parts, mainly concerning DuPont/Father were just too complicated for their tired minds to process. Brandt's role in the proceedings and his unique demise provided some much needed light relief from darker considerations, as they indulged in a little gallows humour about 'losing face'. A familiar beeping interrupted the gentle ebb and flow of this new experience. As one they cancelled the alarm, flicked open the catch and hurled the offending watches against the wall, the shattered remains a potent symbol of their rejection of all they once held sacred. They shared a moment of silence. Eventually, Preston indicated the rapidly stiffening corpse in the corner. "Who the hell was that?" Kyra sighed. "If I said he was DuPont's tame psychopath, would that do for now?" "Unquestionably." The explosions and gunfire had not abated significantly, so neither was in a hurry to leave. The enormity of the task ahead was daunting and Preston wondered who would shoulder the responsibility. Kyra looked pointedly at him. Preston laughed, enjoying the sensation. "I'm just a policeman. It's all I know. Jurgen would have been the one. A pity." "Ah!" mouthed Kyra. Preston was suitably incredulous when she described her rescue of Jurgen and the others. "Mind you," she conceded. "I have no idea if he'll get out of the Palace alive." "A bit like us, then," quipped Preston. Kyra rolled her eyes. Finally, they talked about Partridge, but somehow, by mutual understanding, not about Mary. As evening welcomed the approaching night, only sporadic gunfire could be heard in the square below. Both agreed it was time for a cautious exit. Kyra lightly touched Preston’s arm. He smiled. Then much to her surprise and pleasure, she felt a gentle pressure as he covered her fingers briefly with his hand. "By the way, Cleric," she remarked, eyes dancing. "Nice uniform. Pity you got it messed up." "Hmm. I'll just have to be more vigilant in the future." They both laughed, a little self-consciously. Whatever brave new world they were about to enter was now free to discover its deeper humanity. The question of where that would lead them would be answered in the weeks and months to come. For now, they were simply free. Preston helped Kyra to her feet. Mindful of her injury, he placed her topcoat over her shoulders with great care, then went to retrieve his own pistols and Lisle's sidearm from under DuPont’s desk. Kyra paused for a moment, then crossed to where she could see the red ribbon, lying seemingly abandoned on the floor. Hesitantly, she picked it up, just as aware of its significance as she was of the still powerful fragrance. She glanced towards the Cleric, who was now holding the katana, considering whether to take that, too. Kyra put the ribbon in her pocket. When the time came for John to lay his ghosts to rest, she would return it to him and be there for him. "Ready?" Preston asked, raising one eyebrow. "Absolutely!" Together, they walked across the floor. "I hope you like dogs, Kyra," John said, pulling open the door. Kyra looked into his warm brown eyes. And smiled.   Comment on the Message Board more Equilibrium Fan Fiction