Equilibrium Fan Fiction by Judas Austin Taking Sides 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 Things are really getting serious now. With all this snow, it's almost impossible to find food, although water shouldn't be too much of a problem. I'm ravenous, and most of the others aren't much better. So far, everyone's still here, but I wouldn't blame any of them if they wanted to take off on their own, to try and find food elsewhere. I wish I hadn't given Jay permission to eat all the spiders now...not that she needs such a nicety, of course. Oh god, I can't believe I just wrote that! Query: am I hungry enough to want to catch, cook and eat arachnids? Answer: not a chance in hell. Though I suspect it won't be too long before I am; I caught that rookie Cleric-what's his name...Taselli?-eyeing Jay's latest haul in a way that can best be described as wistful. Even the dogs are feeling the strain; Animal was chewing one of my shoes earlier. I probably wouldn't have minded so much if I hadn't been wearing it at the time. Actually, come to think of it, that's not the first time he's done that...I'm starting to wonder if shoes form a staple part of Animal's diet. Note to self: next time Jurgen talks about my 'helping' him with something, run like hell. --John Preston, Grammaton Cleric First Class The sound of raised voices jerked Preston back to the present and he looked around. They'd moved a little further north and had found four or five buildings that were, for the Nethers, in exceptionally good repair. The room he and Partridge had claimed for their own had actual glass in the windows, for example. If one ignored the arguments over food and space that could be heard reverberating through the entire building on an almost constant basis, it was almost like being back in one of the Monastery dormitories. Klondike, who had somehow made it abundantly clear that he wasn't going to let Preston out of his sight until the Cleric brought Halls back, glanced up as Preston got to his feet, then yawned hugely and padded after him. "You don't have to come," Preston told him acidly. Klondike gave him a look that Preston could interpret all too well as I know I don't have to, then led the way down the stairs. The Cleric rolled his eyes. Great. Inventory: a partner back from the dead, three other Clerics who were damn near useless for varying reasons, three people from another civilisation-if you could call Xylyx civilised-fifty pissed off civilians and one smart-ass dog. And this was what he had to work with? "Ah, there you are." Preston skidded to a stop. "Richardson, I really don't have time to talk about some ancient artifact right now." "Well, I just wanted to-" "What's going on outside?" "Outside?" Bemused, Richardson turned to peer out of a window. "Well, the sky's still a little bit cloudy, but it has stopped snowi-" "Oh, get out of my way!" Exasperated beyond measure, Preston shoved past the other Cleric and pounded down the stairs, arriving at the bottom at the same time as Rossiter. "What's going on?" Preston said again. "Trouble, Cleric." Preston paused to take a few deep breaths, wishing he had infinitely more time and patience to deal with the likes of Cleric Rossiter, or failing that, a flamethrower. "I can hear that," he said, separating each word distinctly. "Is there any chance you could be a little more specific?" "Uh...no, Cleric. I'm not too sure myself." "Where's Partridge?" "Outside. He sent me to come and get you." There was a bitter tone in Rossiter's voice that said he resented being used as an errand boy, but he wasn't stupid enough to say anything out loud. Preston's anxiety climbed a notch. If Partridge hadn't come himself, then whatever was happening was serious. "Alright. Thanks." He broke into a run, knocking one carelessly positioned civilian to the ground without really noticing, his mind flying. What was going on? He got his answer a little sooner than he'd have liked, turning into a street and almost cannoning right into his partner, who appeared to be held at bay in a street full of thoroughly pissed-off looking civilians. "What the fuck took you?" Partridge said edgily. "Never mind that; what the hell's happening?" Preston had to almost shout to be heard over the clamour. "They-some of them want to-" Partridge's reply was drowned out by the yells of the crowd. More irritated than anything, Preston snapped out a gun and fired a shot into the sky, causing a few screams followed by an edgy silence. "I wish you wouldn't do that," Partridge muttered out the corner of his mouth. "Right." Preston looked around, not really listening to his partner. "What's going on?" "Some of these people want to move," Partridge said bluntly, if not particularly helpfully. Preston stared at him. "If they want to move, let them! They're more than welcome to leave any time they want. Of course, if they get picked up by the Tetra Grammaton, they can't blame me for it. That's just tough shit. There's no need to start a riot over it." "Yeah, well, it's alright for you!" someone said clearly from somewhere towards the back of the group. "All you Clerics ever do is pick the best rooms and laze around in them." Preston, who had been turning away, whirled back, an expression like dark ice on his face. "Who said that?" he demanded, his tone verging on the dangerous. There was a silence, then a scuffle towards the back. Finally, the crowd parted to let the offender through...or at least, shove him forward. Preston stared down at him. He'd never seen a weasel, or he might have compared the man's features and general demeanour to that particular animal. He looked very vaguely familiar, but Preston-who had never been one for putting names to faces-couldn't think from where. "You?" "Yeah," the man said boldly. "You want to make something of it?" Preston didn't bother dignifying such a ridiculous statement with an answer. Instead he waited, partly to try and hold onto his temper, but mostly because the suspense was usually punishment enough. "Why?" he said finally. There was a surprised silence. "What?" "Why do you think that?" Preston elaborated. The offender glanced at Partridge, looking for support and finding none. The Cleric's face might have been granite for all the sympathy it revealed. "Let's get this one thing straight right now," Preston said, his voice deadly quiet. "If you-or any of your friends for that matter-believe that you could do a better job of housing, feeding and guarding fifty people, you go right ahead." "Yeah." Emboldened by the crowd at his back, the man took a couple of steps towards Preston. "Me'n'these others, we think you've lost your touch, Cleric. We think we could survive a lot better without you interfering in everything." "Really?" Preston said softly, his tone never wavering in the slightest. It was almost as if he were back on the dose. "If that's what you want, then go. Get out of here and take your friends with you." Before the startled man had time to react, the Cleric gripped his shirt and yanked him forwards. "But I'll tell you this much. You better go a long, long way away, and fast. Because if I catch up with you, you'll wish you'd been taken into Old Libria. Do I make myself clear?" "Crystal." The man jerked back, tearing the shirt out of Preston's grasp, leaving the Cleric with nothing but a fistful of fabric. He glanced around at the others. "C'mon. Let's get out of here." "Aren't you forgetting something?" Preston said. The man turned around to eye Preston in a way that was nothing short of a direct challenge. "Like what, Cleric?" "Hand over your rations." The man jerked as if he'd been shot. "What?" "You heard me. If you're leaving, fine, that's your right. You can take with you whoever you wish and any personal belongings, but I'm damned if you'll take the food from our mouths as well. You want to go, you go with the clothes you stand up in and nothing more. Hand them over." "I already ate them. You can't get them out of my stomach, Cleric." "Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that," Partridge murmured, just loud enough for the heckler to hear. There was an outbreak of nervous muttering. If Partridge was angry enough to be making threats, then this was a cock-up of galactic proportions. "You want to go?" Preston said. "By all means, go ahead. You won't be able to take any of us with you, of course, since we're needed to protect anyone left behind, but no matter." "You think you can scare me into staying? Think I'm afraid of the Tetra Grammaton?" "I think I can say with absolute certainty that your courage will undoubtedly impress the Tetra Grammaton as much as it impresses me," Preston answered calmly. The heckler looked long and hard at Preston, but saw nothing except honesty in the Cleric's eyes and preened slightly. Partridge rolled his eyes. When would these people learn the difference between truth and accuracy?? "Is there any reason you're still here?" Preston said, very politely. "After all, if it's so unsafe, I would have thought you'd have left by now." The stranger's right hand curled into a fist, his eyes boring into Preston, hate in every line of his body. "You know something, Cleric? You're so full of the big fucking I-Am, and all this shit about you knowing what's best...you're no better than the Tetra Grammaton. I'd rather take my chances out there than spend another hour with the likes of you." "You've made your point," Preston said calmly. Insults didn't bother him; people had insulted him in the past with more originality and considerably more enthusiasm than this guy was showing, and Preston either ignored them or memorised the best ones for future use. "If you're going, I advise you to do so, before it gets any colder." "Oh, I'm going." The stranger smiled suddenly, a cold expression. "I'm going so far you won't see me for dust, Cleric." Preston remained unmoved. "I hope so, for your sake." The man shook his head, the smile still on his face. For the first time, Preston found himself wondering about the guy's comparative sanity, which was why the flash of steel towards his face wasn't a complete surprise. There was a sensation of very blurred movement and a loud growl as Klondike shot past Preston, leaping to fasten onto the man's arm with deadly accuracy. Unsurprisingly, the stranger lost a lot of his interest in attacking Preston, the knife in his hand clattering onto the ground. Ninety pounds of solid, pissed off dog hanging onto one's wrist tended to do that to everyone except those possessed of inhuman powers of concentration. "I wouldn't do that again," Preston said, while wondering if he could possibly teach Animal the same technique. "He's not too keen on people who attack his friends. Trust me on that one." He snapped his fingers and Klondike opened his jaws, releasing the man and dropping neatly onto four paws again. "Now. Either leave or find something useful to do, but get out of my sight." He glanced around. "And if any of you feel the same way, now's the time." There was a silence. Nobody seemed inclined to accept Preston's offer except for three civilians, two men, one woman, who turned and stalked away, closely followed by the man who'd started the problems in the beginning. The Cleric wasn't sorry to see any of them go; they were troublemakers of the first water. "That was a little extreme, don't you think?" Partridge said quietly. Preston glanced at him. "Perhaps. But since the alternatives involved either physically restraining him or putting a bullet through his face, I believe he came out on top of the deal." He turned to go and almost walked straight into Klondike, who was stood bolt upright, one paw raised, ears pricked. "What are you doing?" Preston demanded. He was surprised at how he'd slipped into the habit of talking to the dog like a person, but...well...Klondike was exceptional. The animal kept standing there, just staring. Preston had only once seen a dog pay such rapt attention to something and that was Animal at breakfast time. Klondike whined a couple of times, softly. There was a note of excitement there that even Preston had no difficulty picking up on. "What is it?" he said again. There was a tense pause, then Klondike abruptly shot forward at full pelt, barrelling through those stupid enough to get in the way. He spun around a corner, paws scrabbling for a hold on the ice, and bolted down an alley. Preston and Partridge exchanged looks. "What's with him?" Partridge said eventually. "No idea," Preston admitted. "He might've smelled something," Richardson said. He was chewing something industriously. "Al's right, you know. This fungus really is quite edible. Bit of salt might improve it, but still-" "What do you mean, smelled something?" Preston cut across brusquely. "Hm?" Richardson swallowed his mouthful and reached out for another. Preston gripped his wrist, preventing his motion. "What do you mean, smelled something?" he repeated. "Well, their sense of smell is approximately ten thousand times sharper than ours," Richardson said, as if the answer should be obvious. "Tests indicate that these animals can detect one part of urine in sixty million parts of water." There was a thoughtful pause. "Who devises these tests?" Rossiter said, voicing the unspoken question echoing in everyone's mind. "Er..." Richardson frowned thoughtfully. "Do you know, I've no idea. I never really thought about that before." He glanced up. "Where are you going?" he said suddenly. Preston, who was halfway down a side street, looked back. "I want to see if that guy was telling that truth about that building. If he was, we may have a new home. If he wasn't, well, we're no worse off than we were before." "What are you planning to do?" Jay wanted to know, breaking into a jog to catch up with Preston and Partridge. "Keep moving around until the TG stop chasing you?" "If it's necessary," Preston said, a little stiffly. "Uh huh. Let me tell you, Cleric, the life of a nomad is pretty neat when you're on your own, but when you got a group of people tagging along after you, it gets real old real fast." "Don't you have somewhere to go?" Preston said pointedly. "Sure. Wherever you're off to, which looks like that building up there since it's the only one visible with graffiti on it." "Where?" Preston said, shading his eyes against the setting sun. "Up there." The building Jay indicated was small, but seemingly intact, a real rarity in this sector of the Nethers. The Clerics followed her pointing finger. "What graffiti?" Partridge said, after a pause. The building's walls were completely unblemished, free from everything except snow. Jay rolled her eyes, then stepped up to the closest wall, reached out and brushed the snow off, revealing a series of vertical lines that had been hacked into the bricks, with one or two horizontal lines joining them together in certain places. "That?" Preston said. "I saw that several times, when I was with the Tetra Grammaton. No Resistance fighter ever told us what it meant." He corrected himself hurriedly. "I mean, nobody ever told them what it meant." "That's 'cause no Resistance fighter bloody knows, Cleric," Jay said bluntly. "Whoever wrote this weren't from Libria; it was one of our lot. Well, my lot. Sort of. Ex-lot." "What does it say?" Partridge said, squinting at the harsh, angular symbols. "'No entry, all offenders will be killed on sight'," Jay translated. "Charming!" "Oh, it's not serious," Jay said dismissively. There was a thoughtful silence. "I've seen street graffiti before," Preston said. "Ban the dose. Death to the Clerics. That kind of thing. That was serious." Jay waved a careless hand. "Yeah, but this is more like...I dunno. Like young kids put signs on their bedroom doors; Enter At Your Own Risk, Keep Out, stuff like that. It's nothing more than bravado." "You're sure?" "Absolutely," Jay said. "Nobody in their right mind bothers with warnings these days. Besides, this place is abandoned." "How do you know?" "Easy. We're still alive." "It looks pretty secure," Partridge said. He glanced at the door. "Someone's obviously gone to a lot of trouble to keep this in good repair." "Yes, that's true." Preston paused, then he and Partridge looked at each other. Grammaton Clerics never have and never will make good comedians, but a definite spark of humour flashed between them at that moment. "Do you want to...?" Partridge said politely. "No thanks," Preston answered, equally politely. "I did the last one. I think it's your turn." "Right." Partridge pulled out both guns, shot them into the lock and then sprinted for the door, leaping to hit it in a flying kick and crashing it off its hinges. There was a metallic sound best described as pampampampampampampam which went on for some time before it was followed by a slightly louder whang-THUD, and silence. "You alright?" Jay said, somewhat apprehensively. Partridge's voice drifted up to them from the darkness, sounding thoroughly pissed off. "Bloody, bloody stairs! There should have been a bloody sign up!" "He's fine," Preston said, in response to Jay's questioning look. "Are you sure, Cleric?" "Yes. Generally speaking, if he's healthy enough to swear then there's no lasting damage." Below them, Partridge raised one hand in an obscene gesture that neither Preston nor Jay could see, but which nonetheless made him feel a lot better. The building looked pretty good, all things considered, although that wasn't really saying much. The underground location meant that the rain was kept firmly outside, and if you didn't mind being in a dark, damp, freezing cold and cramped room, this was a pretty good place to stay. Not that it mattered much, he supposed. After all, what did they have to work with? A group of civilians on the verge of out-and-out mutiny-well, if they wanted to leave, it wouldn't exactly break Partridge's heart and he was pretty sure Preston felt the same way-along with a collection of ex-sweepers and three other Clerics, one of whom had single-handedly managed to redefine the word 'eccentric', one with an attitude problem and one who had done about as much real life Gun-Kata as Preston had opera singing. Partridge shook his head despairingly. Maybe they'd get lucky and the troublemakers would all wind up killing each other before long. Halls strode through the hallways of the Tetra Grammaton, Jurgen half a step behind him. This section of the building was almost completely empty; the Clerics and sweepers were either dead or had decided not to take any chances. "You can't be serious," Jurgen said. He was slightly out of breath by this stage; following his stay in the Palace of Justice, he wasn't in the best of health, and Halls had been setting a fairly brisk pace. Halls scanned the hallway ahead. "Jurgen, do you think I'm the kind of person to make jokes?" "I guess not." Jurgen shifted his shoulders irritably, trying to ease some of the pressure exerted on his wrists by the cuffs, which Halls was still refusing to take off. "But I still think you're insane," he added. "Yeah, I get that a lot," Halls said dismissively. "You can't just walk out the front door!" "Why not? I'm a senior Cleric, you're my prisoner. What's the problem?" "You mean asides from these damn things cutting off my circulation?" Jurgen said pointedly. Halls rolled his eyes. "Look. For the fifth time, I am not removing your handcuffs until we are safely out of here! What is so difficult to understand about that?" Jurgen subsided grudgingly. "Besides," Halls added, "the only thing you'd really have to worry about with severe lack of circulation would be losing your fingernails, and the technicians in the Palace of Justice have already seen to that. You might say they did you a favour." Jurgen glowered at him out of his one good eye. "You call this a favour?" "Objectively speaking. D'you think you could limp a little faster? I don't want to spend any more time here than I have to." "You-" As Jurgen did his best to comply, he leaned into Halls. "There are Clerics around, you know. Or had you forgotten that little fact? You managed to take out some, I'll admit, but we're not safe until we find them all." "No, actually, we're perfectly safe until we find them all," Halls pointed out. "Or until they find us." "I wish you hadn't said that, Halls." "Sorry." "No you're not," Jurgen answered, somewhat sourly. "So. Right now we're stuck in the centre of the Tetra Grammaton, surrounded on all sides by people who want to arrest, torture and kill us." "Yeah." Halls smirked. "Just like old times, huh?" Jurgen shot him a look of pure disbelief. "May I take this opportunity to inform you that if I sink, you sink with me?" he said frostily. "Interesting idea," Halls drawled. "Unfortunately for you, since Hagon and therefore the rest of the Tetra Grammaton by default now know for certain that I'm a sense offender, giving them my name isn't going to buy you anything except further interrogation." Jurgen grimaced. That was most likely true. "You shouldn't have said what you said to Hagon," he told the young man sharply. Halls pretended to consider. "Now, which part would that be, Jurgen? The part where I called him a bastard? Or the part where I said he'd never find the rest of us in a million years?" "You know what I'm referring to," Jurgen said, somewhat sourly. "Do I?" Halls snickered quietly. "Alright, maybe I do. But he was asking for it." "Yes, but we're right back where we started except you can no longer show your face in the Tetra Grammaton since they now know for sure that you're with us!" "Frankly, Jurgen, if my saving Preston's ass, shooting the Vice-Council's bodyguards and blowing up half of Equilibrium didn't tip them off to that little fact, I shouldn't think a few words on my part would do the trick." Halls reached down as they passed the dead sweeper and picked up the man's rifle without breaking stride. "Would you rather I'd left Preston to die? I did consider it." "I know you did," Jurgen told him quietly. He'd been pretty surprised-no, astonished as hell, if he was honest about it-when Preston had told him what had happened. Halls hadn't lived as long as he had by being selfless. A single Cleric stepped out in front of them, both sidearms out and ready. "Stay where you are!" Halls stopped with a somewhat martyred expression. "What do you want?" he said testily. "Identification!" "I'm a Cleric, first class. That's all the identification you need." Halls let his gaze travel pointedly over the stranger's grey uniform, a colour that marked him as subordinate to Halls himself. "I have my orders, Cleric." Halls narrowed his eyes. "So do I. I have been ordered by the Vice-Council himself to take this man for further clinical interrogation. Either you stand aside and let us pass, or you can explain to him why you saw fit to countermand his instructions." Jurgen shifted nervously. He knew Halls would have no hesitation in dumping him at the Palace of Justice for an hour or two to bear out this story, and he had no desire to return to that particular hell anytime soon. Prior to his stay there, he'd had no idea how long an hour, or even five minutes, could seem. "Identification!" the Cleric repeated obstinately. Unexpectedly, Halls smiled. "Alright. Here." He held out his hand at about groin level. As the Cleric automatically glanced down, Halls spun around, his foot flashing through the air to connect squarely with the man's kneecap. There was a sound like someone stepping through the bark of a rotten log, and the Cleric dropped to the ground, face grey with pain. "Let's get out of here," Halls said. He was feeling unaccountably clear-headed, a feeling mixed with one of detachment. He stepped carefully around the almost unconscious Cleric, then paused, weighing the assault rifle in one hand thoughtfully. Then he spun around and cracked the other man across the head so hard with it that a loose piece broke off and pinwheeled to the other side of the room. The Cleric went abruptly limp, blood already leaking from a split skull. Jurgen eyed Halls somewhat apprehensively. The Cleric shrugged. "The Tetra Grammaton would have done much the same thing. My way's just a lot quicker. After all, he was only doing his job." Jurgen shook his head slowly. "I don't believe you." It wasn't always wise to say such a thing to Halls, but on this occasion, his sense of humanity took control of his vocal chords. He'd killed people himself in his time, but never in such a cold blooded manner. Halls shrugged. "Fine. Don't, then. It all works out the same in the end." He raised his eyebrows. "Still, we've been friends for eleven years, Jurgen. Do you believe I'm insane?" Jurgen met his gaze calmly. "No. I think you're perfectly sane. That's what unnerves me." "He was a Cleric, Jurgen, and a Cleric on Prozium who'd either torture, burn or shoot us." "With a broken leg?" Jurgen said pointedly. "I didn't know overriding your own pain and health needs to take down an unimportant offender was part of the syllabus in the Monastery." "Oh yeah, it's the whole of the third semester in year fifteen. I was pretty good at it, as it happens. And then again, you're hardly unimportant, are you?" "I don't know what you mean." "Oh fuck me, Jurgen; do you honestly believe that Hagon bought all that shit about you being an engineer?" "Why not? I was before I joined the Resistance," Jurgen reminded him. "Let me rephrase that, then. Do you believe that Hagon bought all that shit about you not being Jurgen?" Halls shook his head, grinning. "You know, I bow to your expertise when it comes to running New Libria and all that crap, but you have a lot to learn about people." He glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. "And with all due respect, you might want to start that learning now-ish. After all, you're not getting any younger." "Oh, thankyou very much," Jurgen said bitingly. He shook his head. "You're loving every damn minute of this, aren't you?" Halls tipped his head on one side as he pretended to consider. "Yeah," he said eventually. "You have decimated nearly everyone in this building!" "Funny that. I remember when Preston did something similar, you all called him a hero. What are you saying, that only DuPont and his lackeys deserved to die?" Halls snickered. "That's getting a little too close to a dictatorship, don't you think? That man and all his friends deserve to die, but you can leave the rest, they're okay? Is that what you're saying, Jurgen?" "I sent Preston to kill Father. The fact that he and DuPont happened to be the same person isn't entirely relevant!" Jurgen paused as a thought struck him. It had been doing so for some time, but this was the first opportunity it had really had to make itself heard. "That reminds me...I wanted to ask you something." "Oh yes?" Halls caught sight of a pair of sweepers patrolling up ahead. He squeezed off a round, taking one of them in the back, and the other dived out of sight. Jurgen opened his mouth, then shut it again. "I'll tell you later." "Really?" Halls took careful aim and blasted the security cameras scanning the hallway. "Oh well, suit yourself." A door opened behind them and Halls whirled just before a blow like a thunderclap slammed into his thigh and his left leg buckled, spilling him to the ground. Instinct and self-preservation took over, and he attempted to jerk his gun up to bear on the man. "Don't waste your energy," the Cleric responsible said calmly. "Cleric or not, in your current position, the Gun-Kata will enable me to evade anything you might do." He brought his own firearm around to point at Halls' face. Sudden movement from his right caused him to turn rapidly, but it was too late. "Evade this, you bastard," Jurgen said, and fired. Despite the limited time, the Cleric still managed to begin the correct reaction to such a threat, which is why Jurgen's bullet ploughed through his right eye instead of going through the centre of his forehead. He was dead before he hit the ground. Jurgen shot the Cleric's body a brief look, then turned away with a grimace. He wasn't squeamish by nature, but something about looking into the dead man's ruined eye turned even his stomach. "Will you get this stiff off my legs?" Halls grated through clenched teeth. "You're welcome," Jurgen told him, with no real severity. Gingerly, he reached down and took hold of the Cleric's shoulder, attempting to roll the body off his friend. "You know, that was pretty impressive," Halls commented. "You sure you weren't at the Monastery before coming off the dose?" "No, but I had an older brother in the Academy." Halls' jaw fell open. "You had a what?" "You heard." Jurgen glanced around, looking for something that could serve as a crutch. He found it in the form of an AK-47 belonging to a sweeper that now lay some six feet away. "Here." Halls eyed it somewhat askance. "Is the safety on?" "What difference does it make? Come on." Jurgen reached down and attempted to haul the Cleric bodily to his feet, but gave it up after a few minutes. "Look, you know this place better than I do. Is there a medibay somewhere?" Halls started to argue, then seemed to change his mind. "Yeah. Down there and third on the left." "Right." Halls struggled to sit up. "Where the hell d'you think you're going?" he demanded, as Jurgen made to leave him. The older man shot him a look. "Down there and third on the left," he said, in a passable imitation of Halls' voice. The Cleric opened his mouth for a stinging retort, then closed it again. Stinging retorts had a way of bouncing right off people like Jurgen. Besides, the man was already halfway down the corridor and accelerating. Jurgen reached the door Halls had indicated and tried the handle, only to find it rattled uselessly in his hand. He paused, considering his options. Well, if Clerics and sweepers could do it... Jurgen took a quick step forward, then kicked the door as hard as he could. The satisfaction of seeing it burst open was marred only slightly by the flash of pain that shot up his leg, unused to such actions. The room inside was so small that at first Jurgen thought he'd broken into a storage cupboard, then he caught sight of the chemicals on the shelves. Most of the names on the labels were meaningless to him-medical science had never been his best subject-but two bottles stood out against the others, one marked ethadine and the other Talrium. Jurgen reached out and grabbed both of them, then studied the Talrium for a few minutes and reluctantly replaced it. It was the most powerful painkiller developed, but if they were going to have even half a chance of getting out of there, he needed Halls to be clear-headed, not doped to the gills. Glancing around, Jurgen emerged. The corridor was, surprisingly, empty except for Halls, who was still lying there, eyes now closed. "Here." Jurgen crossed over and deposited the bottle next to the Cleric, who forced his eyes open with what looked like real effort. "Ethadine?" Halls shook his head. "Christ, Jurgen, why don't you just pour hydrochloric acid over my leg and have done with it?" "Don't tempt me," Jurgen told him. "Ha fucking ha. Do you have any idea how much that stuff hurts?" Halls caught sight of the barely hidden gleam in Jurgen's eye and groaned aloud. "You do, don't you?" "Yes. Hold still." Jurgen fiddled with the cap on the bottle before swearing viciously. "Why the hell do they still put childproof caps on this stuff?! I mean, it's not like any kids around here would be interested in drinking it!" "Oh...here, let me." Halls took the bottle, cracked it open and handed it back. "Thanks." Jurgen started to tip it, then paused. "That reminds me; I was going to ask you-" "You really don't know how they got this organised?" Halls said, sounding amused. Jurgen narrowed his eyes. "Could you at least knock before barging into my mind? But no, I don't. Preston killed Father, or DuPont, I guess. The whole scheme was designed to plunge Libria into chaos, disrupting the supply of Prozium and-" "Yeah, yeah, I know. The wet dream of the Resistance." "Yes, but instead of that, everything's going on almost as it did before. It's...what now?" Halls was shaking his head. In spite of the pain, he was grinning slightly, an expression similar to a death's head rictus. "Like I said, Jurgen, you got a lot to learn about people." "What do you mean?" Jurgen said carefully, emptying most of the ethadine bottle over Halls' leg. "I mean-ah, shit, that hurts!-I mean...nobody ever knew who Father was, did they?" "Preston said DuPont used a hologram." "Exactly. And if DuPont did, what's to stop anyone else?" When Jurgen continued to look slightly perplexed, Halls rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Oh god, Jurgen, think about it for a second, would you? The Clerics and citizens of Libria follow the orders of Father, right? DuPont said that the real Father died years ago-well, given when the history texts tell us he came into being, I'm not surprised-and that DuPont been elected to do his job, but nobody really stops to think about what that could actually mean." Halls shook his head. "It's not exactly rocket science, Jurgen. Whoever said there was only one Father?" "We can't keep all this out in the open," Partridge said, glancing around at the EC-10. Books-those that hadn't been burned to keep the people warm-had been stacked carefully on the ground as though it was a shelf. "The elements'll wreck them faster than an evidentiary team. And besides, if we need to get out quickly..." He let the sentence trail off. There was a long silence. "You didn't think the Tetra Grammaton would just roll over and vanish, did you?" Partridge said quietly. Preston didn't answer. He was suddenly more tired than he'd ever been in his life. "What's the point?" he said suddenly. "They've got Jurgen, and they've got Halls, which has plunged morale down to rock-bottom-although why anyone should miss Halls, I've no idea-we're scattered, we're hungry, two people are suffering from the beginnings of hypothermia with all the others probably not far behind-" Preston took a deep breath "-so what's the fucking point?" "Well...um...keeping morale up as much as possible for one thing," Taselli ventured. It was the first time he'd dared to speak to Preston directly and the look the older Cleric turned on him clearly made him wish he'd kept his mouth shut. "Your meaning?" Preston said, his tone verging on the deadly. Taselli hesitated, then took his life and courage in both hands and jumped. "Well, sir, I mean, if they're low on morale now, sir, they're not going to be happy if they think you're losing it. Sir," Taselli added, just in case Preston thought he wasn't being sufficiently respectful. "He's got a point, Preston," Partridge said, causing Taselli to visibly sag with relief. "You're not going to help anyone by bursting into tears." "Alright," Preston said abruptly. "What would you like me to do? Organise a sing-song?" He shook his head. "Look, I have been off the dose for two months. That's not even a tenth of the time of most people here, and yet I'm the one who's supposed to know all the answers?" He shook his head furiously, fighting to clear it. "I had someone come up to me just after I moved in. He'd been off the dose for eighteen months and he was suffering bouts of dizziness, and he wanted me to tell him whether it could be lasting withdrawal symptoms! How the fuck can I tell someone about 'lasting withdrawal symptoms'?! I'm still learning about 'em myself!" "Look, Preston," Partridge said patiently, "you and I both know that if civilians had brains, they'd be Clerics." This was the closest thing to a standing joke as it was possible to get in the Tetra Grammaton and Preston ignored it. "Look at them," he said, nodding to where two civilians were arguing over a piece of meat about the size of a credit. "Why the hell was the Tetra Grammaton so determined to preserve people like this after the Last War?! We should've just stuffed them in a sack and drowned the lot of 'em!" "Preston!" Partridge said, startled out of his normal composure. "What? It's true, and don't tell me you've never had similar thoughts!" "If they'd all been lucky enough to be chosen by the Tetra Grammaton to become Clerics, we probably wouldn't be in this shit to begin with," Partridge said deliberately. "Yes, and I'm supposed to keep them from killing each other," Preston said bitingly. "Sometimes I think life would be a lot simpler if I told them to get on with it." "Your life would have been a lot simpler if you'd never come off the dose in the first place," Partridge told him. "But you did, Preston, so deal with it!" Preston blinked, the unaccustomed sharpness of his partner's tone derailing his train of thought. Although Partridge had, in the beginning, been the more senior ranking of the two, he'd followed Preston's lead in most things, partly as a training exercise for the younger Cleric but mostly because Preston was the better Cleric of the two. It was extremely rare for Partridge to raise his voice to anyone, let alone Preston. "Better," Partridge said, eyeing him narrowly, then got to his feet. "Come on. We need to get that EC-10 stashed away. That'll give us both something useful to do. Where's Richardson?" Preston groaned audibly. "Not him, Partridge. Please. My nerves can only take so much of that man." "Maybe, but he's the only one who knows exactly what was in that truck." Partridge glanced around. It was starting to get dark, and the other Cleric's grey uniform fitted into the background so neatly that unless he moved, it was almost impossible to spot him. "Thought you might be interested in this," a voice said from behind them, just before a bag of something slushy hit Preston on the back of the neck. "What's 'this'?" he said, a slight bite to his tone. "Some kind of plant. Jay says they're edible, and there's a bleedin' forest of 'em about half a mile away," Al said, moving into Preston's line of vision. Jay was with him, a gleam in her eyes that Preston had no difficulty interpreting. Well, they didn't waste any time, the Cleric thought sourly, then berated himself for it. "Where have you been?" he demanded. "Busy," Al said noncommittally. "Why?" "You seen Richardson?" Next to Al, Jay snorted. "No. And I don't want to, either." Preston grimaced. He could sympathise; Richardson had been bugging Jay to tell him all about Xylyx/Gehenna, the customs, the language, even the social structure. It had gone on until Jay had finally snapped and threatened to ram both the Cleric's sidearms where the sun never shone, and then pull the trigger. "What do you want him for?" Al wanted to know. "We need to get that EC-10 out of the damp," Partridge said, when it became clear Preston wasn't going to answer. "Richardson's the only one who knows exactly what there was, not to mention where the truck is." "Really? In that case, allow me, Cleric." Al took a deep breath. "RICHARDSON!" Preston thought he might actually have levitated at that minute. Taselli certainly did; the poor kid looked like someone had dropped an ice cube down his back. "Ex-drill sergeant, remember, Cleric?" Al said, smirking. "It's all in the lungs." Richardson came over, holding a newly acquired artifact in his hands like a baby and apparently unconcerned by the fact a mere sweeper had summoned him. "What's up?" "Nothing with me," Al said smoothly. "Preston said he wanted you for something." "Oh right." Richardson turned to Preston and his face inexplicably brightened. "I don't suppose you have any idea what-" "No," Preston and Partridge said simultaneously. "Or how-" "No," Preston said again. "Richardson, where's the rest of the EC-10?" The other Cleric narrowed his eyes slightly. "I think before I answer that question, Preston, I want to be one hundred percent sure about what you intend to do with it!" "I 'intend' to get it out of the damp," Preston said, his tone clipped and formal. "Unless you intend to resupply the Archives with mouldy books and damp, scratched records, I advise you to move." "Oh, I see. As far as I know, that's all that was taken out of the truck. You burned the rest," Richardson couldn't resist adding reproachfully. "I know." Preston shook his head. "Alright, fine. Stand aside." "Cleric, I really don't-" "Now," Preston grated. "All we want," put in Partridge, who was possessed of greater patience and a slightly more even temper than his partner, "is to move that-" he nodded towards the piles of EC-10 "-into that truck you brought." He paused. "Where is it, by the way?" Richardson blinked. "Well, I moved it out of the way. I didn't want the Tetra Grammaton to find it. I took the liberty of shovelling some of this snow on top of it; now it looks like nothing more than a snowdrift." The other two eyed him appraisingly. "You know, Richardson, you're not as dumb as you look," Preston said eventually, an approving look on his face. "Thankyou. I think." There was a surprising amount of EC-10 that had been smuggled out or 'borrowed' from the truck, and it was dark by the time the two Clerics had finished. Partridge paused for breath, glancing around while Preston attempted to stuff the final book into an already overflowing box. "Why the hell is it that you can never repack anything?" he demanded, of nobody in particular, finally managing to get the offending book in by the simple process of forcing it between two others and then leaning all his weight on it. "I mean, it must have all gone in the first time," he added. "No idea," Partridge admitted, peering into the gloom for anything they'd missed. "Right. I think that's the lot." "Great," Preston said, his tone so even that Partridge wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or not. "Now what do we do?" Behind them, there was the sudden snap of two safety catches being simultaneously released. "Well, that should do very nicely," Richardson said calmly. "The Resistance's main collection of EC-10 material, along with the head of New Libria and Grammaton Errol Partridge, back from the dead. I'm much obliged. You've saved me a long and arduous job." He paused. "I strongly advise you not to move," he added. "Clerics or not, at this range even one round will be sufficient to deal with both of you."   Chapter 19 >>> more Equilibrium Fan Fiction