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 Okay. I confess. I'm officially confused now. Whose bloody side is Halls on!? Not that I'm complaining, mind you. He just about saved my ass back there, not to mention that of everyone in New Libria. Of course, he was the one who put it in jeopardy in the first place, so I think that pretty much evens the score. But what the hell was all that about?? First I'm told in no uncertain terms that Halls is on our side. Then he agrees to accompany me to Old Libria (which pretty much came out of the blue for me, I have to admit. I thought I'd have to work on him for a lot longer than that to get him to go along with me.) Then he's tested for Prozium and it turns out he's been dosing. Then he tells me it's 'not what it looks like' (hah! It never is, is it?). Then he risks his life to help me get out, despite being on Prozium and not feeling anything, yet refuses point blank during all the above to tell me why. I get the distinct impression that just about everyone in New Libria except me can answer that question as well, which is pissing me off no end. As soon as I get back, I plan to quiz Jurgen until I'm up to speed on Cleric Halls. First he's innocent, then he's not, then he is and everyone but me knows about it! What we have here is a failure to communicate. -John Preston, Grammaton Cleric First Class Preston shook his head, fighting to clear it. The only explanation that presented itself to him at that moment was that Halls was clinically insane, yet there was something about that which didn't quite fit. Halls hadn't acted like a madman. He'd acted like someone who was enjoying full control over physical and mental actions. He'd acted like someone on Prozium as well, but that didn't fit either, since someone on Prozium would never have helped Preston to escape at the risk of their own life. He glanced around slightly apprehensively. The Nethers wasn't usually a good place to be alone, Grammaton Cleric or no. Preston had learned early on that 'enemy of the Tetra Grammaton' didn't always translate into 'friend of the Resistance'. Either way he was mostly likely screwed. Start thinking like that and you'll end up wasting your ammunition on shadows. There's nothing out there that you can't handle. Hell, this is the Nethers! There's nothing out there, period. Something cold, wet and thoroughly unpleasant inserted itself in Preston's hand just then, and he let out a yell that reverberated off the buildings on either side. Klondike sat down on his haunches. He was used to this kind of reaction, although this human was noisier than most about it. Like most dogs, he'd discovered very early on the usefulness of a cold wet nose in getting a human's attention. Sticking it in ears worked best, but with humans walking around on their hind legs so much, a dog had to make do with what he had. And right now, what he had was a human who might be able to tell him where Halls had gone. "What do you want?" Preston demanded, one of his guns pointing at the animal, for all the good it'd do empty. Klondike sneezed. This would never do. How did this human expect to survive if he kept pointing guns at everything that moved? Almost too fast for Preston to follow, the dog sprang and seized his wrist in its jaws. It didn't hurt exactly, but there was the barest suggestion that, if Klondike wanted, the pressure could be increased more or less indefinitely. As Preston automatically released the gun, Klondike snatched it out of the air before it had hit the ground and backed out of arm's reach before dropping it on the floor. There. That was better. Now maybe they could sort this out like civilised creatures. For a minute, Preston just stared, completely and utterly gobsmacked. He'd...well, as far as Animal went, he'd treated him as a kind of bundle of emotions with a fur coat. The idea that these creatures possessed genuine intelligence had quite simply never entered his head, although for all that, Animal seemed to have picked up a good few words. "You..." he began. Klondike tipped his head on one side quizzically. Cautiously, Preston stepped towards him, then bent down, retrieved his firearm, turned and sprinted a good few hundred yards away before the dog had time to stop him, then spun around, ready to fight, only to see that Klondike hadn't moved. "You bastard," Preston said, without much rancour, then turned and walked on up the road. There was a rapid patter of paws and Klondike caught up to him. Preston spun around. "No. You stay here." Klondike sat, fixing Preston with a liquid brown gaze. It might actually have worked too, if Preston hadn't been subjected to similar gazes from Animal on a more or less constant basis. "I said no!" the Cleric told him sharply, then resumed his trek. Four paces later, Klondike bounded past him. Preston glowered at the dog. "What part of the word 'no' was unclear?" Klondike whined softly and pawed at the air, then tipped his head on one side. Preston gave up. "Alright. Fine. You can come along." He grimaced as Klondike trotted past him with an air that said Of course I can! The dog's attitude was a little too similar to that of his master for Preston's liking. "Just don't get any ideas about running this operation!" Preston added sharply. Klondike didn't even bother to turn around to acknowledge his comment, having found a scent on the other side of the road that was far more interesting than the Cleric. "How'd you find me, anyway?" Preston demanded, more for the sake of hearing a voice, any voice, even his own, in that place. Klondike ignored him, to no real surprise on Preston's part (he had no idea what he would have done if the dog had answered him). "Wish I had one of those damn bikes," he muttered. He'd left the Tetra Grammaton on the opposite side to that which he'd entered on, effectively cutting himself off from the bikes he and Halls had brought in, and he didn't dare return for them either; at least, not until he was sure it was safe enough. And by the time that happens, Preston thought sourly, I could have walked from one end of Libria to the other six times.   Well, New Libria and the Nethers weren't getting any closer. He may as well start now as ten minutes later. Preston set off, keeping close to the buildings, hugging the walls. To his surprise, Klondike seemed to understand the situation and followed suit, slinking in and out of the shadows. The Cleric glanced at his chronometer. Seven thirty two am. Pretty soon those shadows would be gone. Then what? He shook his head irritably. It was no real concern of his. Klondike must have gone out with Halls on numerous excursions like this. The animal probably knew what he was doing. Well, that makes one of you, at least, a nasty little voice inside Preston whispered. The Cleric grimaced and quickened his pace. Forty miles. Sixty, by the time he'd taken a wide detour around Equilibrium. Damn. Even he'd be hard pushed to do that much in a single day. He'd covered about four of those sixty when Klondike suddenly stopped dead, ears fully pricked. "What is it?" Preston demanded. Klondike barked a couple of times. "You hear something?" Nobody had really got to grips with the exact hearing range of these animals yet, but Preston thought that with ears the size of Klondike's, it was a reasonable assumption that the dog could hear a lot better than the Cleric could. Preston kept moving. If Klondike had heard people-unlikely, even for the dog's ability-and if those people were Resistance fighters, or not with the Tetra Grammaton, then he hoped he could get away without any trouble. If it was vehicles of some sort, Preston wanted to get somewhere he could, if not hide, then at least defend. He'd only made it a hundred yards further when he heard the sound that had first alarmed the dog. Bikes. Not only that, but a hell of a lot of them. Resistance? Preston wondered, then mentally kicked himself for thinking such a stupid thing. Some Resistance fighters were trained in the use of bikes and other vehicles, most of these people being ex-sweepers. Driving lessons had proven to be a dismal failure; most never got the hang of using the accelerator in moderation and they'd been strictly prohibited, at least within ten miles of Preston's home. The last attempt had written off one of the few cars New Libria had managed to acquire, ploughed through a small shed containing firearms and blown up not only the shed but several of the surrounding buildings as well, killing three people and severely injuring at least twenty others, to say nothing of the EC-10 material that had been stashed in two of those buildings. With driving skills like that, Jurgen had commented somewhat acerbically, who the hell needed the Tetra Grammaton? Preston blinked. The whole memory had flashed through his head in less than a second. The roar grew louder, and Preston grimaced, rubbing his head. He'd been going almost flat out since he left Equilibrium, and his head was now pounding violently. He ran a bare hand across his forehead and to his surprise found it was dry. Well, there was no hope that either he or Klondike could outrun these people. Preston nodded slightly. If they were from New Libria, they'd recognize him and (hopefully) give him a lift back. If they weren't...well, even sweepers would probably hesitate to open fire on a strange Cleric. He hoped. The bikes shot around the corner. The lead sweeper caught sight of Preston and slammed on his brakes so suddenly that he very nearly went flying over the handlebars. The Cleric didn't move. There was no point. If he stood firm, they might think he was unauthorized to be there, but if he ran, they'd know he was. The leader waved the rest of his unit forward. Eight bikes, in total. Oh hell. The sweepers pulled up alongside, surrounding Preston, who hesitated. He didn't want to start shooting, not if there was a chance he could talk his way out of this. "Yes?" he said. "Identification!" the captain demanded. Preston pulled out his ID and flashed it too quickly for the sweepers to really see, taking care to keep the name covered with a strategically placed thumb. "My name is..." He faltered for the barest second. "Cleric Kevin Halls," he said, hoping against hope that none of these sweepers had ever actually met Halls. "I've been sent to destroy the enemy." "Whose?" asked a lieutenant, who seemed to be possessed of more intelligence than his superior. "Mine," Preston said, the barest hint of menace edging his tones. The others exchanged glances. "What's that animal doing here?" one of the sweepers demanded suddenly. "Special division," Preston answered flatly. "This 'animal' is in fact a lethal killing machine, capable of blending into and infiltrating the ranks of the Resistance. It's the latest device in cutting-edge technology." The latest device in cutting-edge technology chose this moment to sniff busily around one of the sweepers' bikes, then, apparently satisfied, proceeded to lift its leg against it. There was a long, horrible silence. "Very convincing, Cleric," the sweeper concerned said eventually. "Yes," Preston said impassively. "It is. Our technology's getting better every day. It's Vice-Council's reasoning that the Resistance won't be able to tell this apart from the real thing." "I think that is the real thing, Cleric," the sweeper answered. "You're mistaken," Preston said with as much conviction as he could summon into his voice. There was another silence. It was plain that the sweepers didn't believe what Preston was saying. Fair enough. Preston didn't believe what Preston was saying. "Identification!" "You've already seen it." "Identification!" Preston sighed, the impatient sigh of a man surrounded by incompetence. "Fine." He took out his ID again and flashed it at the sweeper, only to find his hand suddenly gripped at the wrist. There was a pause. "Take your hand off me," Preston said in a deadly tone. "Hand over your ID!" "You can see it just fine from there." "Comply!" Preston snapped his spare arm into his captor's face, breaking the man's nose. "I am a Grammaton Cleric, First Class, captain. Either you show me the respect due to my rank, or I will personally bring you up on a charge of insubordination!" "All individuals are required to comply with requests for identification, Cleric or not. Hand it over." "You've seen it," Preston repeated, snapping it back into his pocket, then reaching down, hooking one hand under the sweeper's elbow and hauling him easily to his feet. The man touched a tentative hand to his broken nose, then attempted to straighten it. Cartilage crunched, resulting in even the other sweepers looking mildly disgusted. "Now stand aside," Preston said. The captain shook his head slowly, then glanced at the rest of his unit. "Don't," Preston said in a low voice, sensing the man's intention. "Please." It was the second word. It was the 'please' that did it, Preston remembered thinking later on. Clerics-at least, proper, dosing Clerics of the Tetra Grammaton-never, ever said 'please'. "Shoot him!" They just never learn, Preston thought, almost sadly. It wasn't even the sweepers' fault; they hadn't been sent to intercept him, they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Preston snapped his pistols out. The right one was still empty, but the sweepers didn't have to know that. He felt the familiar sinking into Gun-Kata, that strange sensation that was almost like trying to exhale air that wasn't in your body. His head really was throbbing now... Bullets took down two of the sweepers. They weren't Preston's. "What the...?" Preston dimly heard the captain say. Someone or something appeared to have altered his voice. To Preston's ears, it sounded a little like a gong would sound if it could speak. The animal. Have to save the animal, Preston thought, disorientated, then along with that thought came the knowledge that Animal was safe, that Animal had been saved before. And that he, Preston, was seriously in need of medical assistance. "Lieutenant! Drop your weapon! Comply! Comply!" Preston dropped to his knees, hard. The action wasn't completely voluntary. He could vaguely hear the sound of gunfire and confused shouting, mixed with some kind of animal snarls that were emanating from Klondike's direction. His right gun slid out of fingers that suddenly seemed to lack the power to grip it. With his last reserves of strength, Preston raised the other one and squeezed the trigger, not bothering to aim, just jerking his hand slightly. Three more of the sweepers went down. Then his left gun joined the other one and Preston crashed fully onto the concrete. The sedative at the Tetra Grammaton...it must have not fully worn off yet, he thought inside the boiling thundercloud that was now his head. His mystery ally took out the captain, somewhat enthusiastically in Preston's opinion. Even through the fog, he really didn't think it was necessary to empty half a clip into the man's skull along with the half dozen bullets he'd taken in the chest. Someone was grabbing him now, attempting to pull him to his feet. "Sir! Can you stand? We have to get out of here!" No shit, Preston thought, then almost immediately afterwards, What does he mean, 'we'?? He attempted to walk, but his legs seemed to have forgotten what they were supposed to do. The roaring in his ears was almost deafening now... The next thing Preston was fully aware of was lying bare-chested on a hard mattress with a drip in his left arm and wet cloths across his forehead, around his wrists and over the bridges of his feet, which were bare. The smell was enough to inform the Cleric that he was in hospital, although which one remained to be seen. He hesitated, then reached over with a hand to carefully extricate the needle from his flesh. "Sir?" The voice came from somewhere to his left. "Are you fully recovered?" "What th' hell happened t'me?" Preston said groggily. "You collapsed, sir," the medic on duty informed him, politely moving into Preston's line of vision. "A combination of exhaustion and some lingering residue of the sedative used. And...um..." He hesitated. "Speak." "You had a very mild case of heat stroke. I emphasise the word mild, sir; it really is nothing to worry about. That was the main factor in your collapse. We stabilized your temperature and so long as you take it easy for a few days, drink plenty of fluids and avoid excessive physical activity, you should be back to normal by the end of the week." Preston somehow managed to lift his head enough to look around. He was in the hospital in New Libria. The crazy yet wildly plausible idea occurred to him that it had all been nothing more than some strange dream. "How did I get here?" he said. "Lieutenant Caulson brought you in." Preston ran the name Caulson through his mind and drew a blank. "Who?" "The sweeper lieutenant who was with you, sir. He's been tested and found clear of Prozium." Another offender, Preston thought muzzily. New recruit. So excursion wasn't complete waste of time after all. Not frigging dream, either. Goddamn. "He seemed very concerned about you, sir," the medic continued. The Cleric snorted. Of course he would have been concerned. Preston might not have had any illusions of being popular-most people were too damn scared of him-but he was valuable, and he knew it. Unless he could talk, and talk fast, an unknown sweeper caught standing next to the recumbent body of John Preston by Resistance members would probably be dead before he could blink. "Excuse me if I'm being too...personal, sir," the medic went on, sounding like he was choosing his words with utmost care, "but is everything alright?" "What makes you ask that?" Preston asked after a few seconds' pause. "And who are you, anyway?" "Jimmy Allan, sir. And...well...it's just that you were talking in your sleep, sir." "Yes," Preston answered, trying not to look like this was news to him. "People do that sometimes." Funny though, he thought that dreaming supposedly went with such an activity, and Preston usually remembered most of his dreams... "Um...I say talking, sir...what I meant was, you were actually screaming, sir." "What?" Preston said, startled. "Yes sir. I have the recording on the security camera if you want to see it." "No. Thankyou. Just tell me what happened." "As you like, sir, of course. It was-" the medic checked his notes "-about four hours ago. You were brought in late last evening-" "What's the time now?" "Nine twenty am, sir. You've been here since ten pm yesterday. When this...um...event took places, to all intents and purposes, you were sleeping pretty deeply." "Exhaustion?" Preston queried. Hardly surprising if it was; he suspected he'd had about ten or fifteen hours sleep-tranquillisers notwithstanding-in the last week. "I believe so, sir, yes. I was on this shift in the medical wing. I'd been keeping a close eye on your vital stats, sir. I noticed that your REM indication was slightly above normal, but since this isn't usually something to worry about, I didn't. I did consider administering a shot of valriunmethylated hydroxide or possibly triliniumated acid combined with an equal and proportionate ratio of 2:1 distilled water and-" "Allan?" The medic broke off. "Yes sir?" "Can we pretend for one minute that I'm not a medic?" Preston said levelly. Allan coloured. "Sorry, sir. Like I said, your REM activity was above normal, but there were no obvious outward indications." "What exactly do you mean, 'outward indications'?" "Movement, sir. Most people when they dream move in some manner. The majority that wake themselves up screaming are usually tossing and turning, and mumbling about the goddamn bloody Clerics." The medic suddenly remembered who he was talking to and hastily went on. "No offence, sir, of course." "Just tell me what happened!" Preston said testily. "You sat up and...well, I know I said screamed sir, but you didn't really, you more sort of...shouted." "What did I 'sort of shout'?" The medic frowned slightly, as though he was trying to make sense of his answer before giving it. "You shouted 'Why the hell should a nineteen year old feel guilty?' sir." Preston stared at him. "I shouted what?" "Does it make any sense to you, sir?" "No." Preston was baffled. "None." "You didn't dream?" "Not to remember." Preston tried to sit up and found he could, just. It was like gravity had suddenly chosen that moment to double. "Sir, I don't think you should move just yet." "Bit late to tell me that now," Preston answered, although he felt no urge to push it any further. Sitting up had taken more out of him than he realised. He settled for pulling the damp cloths off himself. "Is he conscious yet?" Rossiter asked, coming in and either not seeing or blatantly ignoring Preston. "No, he just happens to be sitting up and talking in his sleep," Preston retorted, with as much sarcasm as he could muster. Rossiter glanced over and coloured. "Oh, right. Sorry, Cleric. Um." "I assume you have some kind of message for me?" Preston prompted, after about a minute had passed in awkward silence. Rossiter and Allan exchanged glances, then Rossiter glowered at the medic in a way that said Well, go on then, you tell him! "Jurgen said he wanted to see you as soon as you were coherent again, sir," Allan said, in the tones of one who devoutly hopes he hasn't just proclaimed his own epitaph. A somewhat strained expression appeared on Preston's face. That probably wasn't going to be a particularly good meeting. "Oh shit." "Yes, sir." Preston glanced at Rossiter. "Any idea where he is?" "In his apartment, I think, Cleric. He hasn't come out for two days now." Preston frowned. That wasn't like Jurgen. "What, is he sick? Injured?" "There's no record of him coming down here for attention, sir, so my colleagues and I believe him to be fully healthy." Allan hesitated. "There was...there was one other visitor, sir." "Who?" "A female calling herself Kia, sir. When she heard you'd been brought in here she came down to see you. Quite often, as it happened." "Kia?" Preston echoed. Suddenly he felt like a thousand fireworks had just exploded simultaneously in his brain. "Yes sir. I believe she's working in the main supplies depot. Do you want me to tell her you're awake?" Preston hesitated. "Yes," he said eventually. "Thanks. But tell her I'm going to be occupied for most of today." "What with, Cleric?" Rossiter said. "With whatever Jurgen wants to see me about, I'm sure." Carefully Preston swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Sir, I really don't think that you're strong enough to leave yet," the medic said, as respectfully as he could. "Thank you. I appreciate your honesty." Preston glanced around. "Now where's my coat?" Allan opened his mouth to argue, then caught sight of Rossiter's warning look and shut it again hastily. "Locker seventeen, sir. I put it there along with your sidearms." "Excellent." Preston somehow found the strength to push himself upright and half walked, half lurched over to the locker in question, then pulled it open. "Sir! I must advise against your current course of action!" Allan spoke in the somewhat shrill tones of one whose professional pride has somehow managed to temporarily overcome their terror. "Right," Preston said, not really listening. "You do that." He pulled his coat on, snapped his sidearms into place and crossed to the exit. He was quite pleased when he managed to get there without swaying. "Sir, please! Your meeting with Jurgen can wait until you've recovered your strength!" "Right," Preston said again. "Do you want to go up and tell him that? Or do you want me to, since I'm going that way anyway?" He opened the door and walked through without another word, slamming it again on Allan's protest. Outside, still half asleep, he caught his foot on a loose floor tile and stumbled, colliding with a dispenser. Despite the fact that there was nobody around to witness his humiliation, Preston still muttered, "I meant to do that." He shook his head, fighting to clear it. What he really, really wanted was an ice cold shower, and this was pissing him off no end since he knew full well that what he was likely to get would be earache from Jurgen and probably half rations for the next fortnight, if he was lucky. Maybe he should have taken Allan's advice and stayed in medical. No, that was no good. If he'd stayed in medical he would have still been there next month. Preston knew Allan, by reputation if nothing else. The medic's expertise in his particular field was matched only by his stubborn enthusiasm. Best to do it this way. The journey from the hospital to Jurgen's apartment would usually have only taken Preston twenty minutes. In his current condition (ie, almost too exhausted to put one foot in front of the other) he finally arrived outside some three quarters of an hour later. Preston paused for a minute or two, gathering his strength, then reached up and pressed the buzzer. The door opened before he'd had time to remove his finger. "Good, you're here." Jurgen looked haggard, like he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in over a week. "I'm glad you could make it." He grabbed Preston by the arm and hauled him inside, slamming the door behind him. Preston, somewhat taken aback by this-even Jurgen had never dared such a familiarity towards a Grammaton Cleric before-was too startled to do anything other than go along with it. "What...?" he began. Jurgen shook his head. He looked furious with himself. "This is all my fault! I should have told you about this before, but first of all there was the destruction of the Prozium factories and then the rehabilitation of all those others that came off the dose and now this whole Matthews thing...I just never got around to it. And now, because of that, we've lost Cleric Halls." "Lost?" Preston echoed. "Not lost as in dead, not yet, anyway. He never came back from Old Libria. My sources tell me he's now in the Tetra Grammaton, scheduled for interrogation at the Palace of Justice." Preston stared at Jurgen, feeling as though he'd just been kicked in the stomach. He knew damn well how the technicians there 'interrogated' people. Not even Halls deserved that. "Do you want a drink?" Jurgen said suddenly. "No thankyou." "I don't think you quite understand. You'll need it." Preston held his gaze for a long time, then shrugged. "Alright then. A drink of water would be good." "You sure? You don't want anything stronger?" Preston's eyebrows arched. "Really? Like what?" "Alcohol." "Clerics don't touch drugs," Preston reminded him, somewhat frostily. Jurgen shrugged. He hadn't honestly expected Preston to agree. Hell, he himself hated the stuff. The few New Librians who actually consumed it said that alcohol was an acquired taste. Jurgen had decided very early on not to make the effort. "Please yourself," he said. "I just...oh shit, I should have known this was going to happen!" "Jurgen?" Preston said, as calmly as he could. The other man glanced at him. "What the hell are you babbling about?" Preston asked, his voice not deviating one iota from its tone of sweet reasonableness. Jurgen gave him a rather twisted smile and handed him a glass of water. "Do you believe in ghosts, Preston?" Preston, who was now seriously starting to wonder if Jurgen had taken leave of his senses, choked on the mouthful he'd just taken. "What? No! They're nothing but an ancient superstition." "Superstition," Jurgen repeated, that warped grin still on his face. "Come with me. There's something I think you ought to see. Bring your drink as well." As Preston followed him over to the door leading into the living room, Jurgen paused. "Oh...one more thing. Would you mind leaving your sidearms in here?" Yes, I damn well would! Preston thought. A Cleric without his weapons was...well, not defenceless, obviously, but it meant that staying alive took just that little bit longer. Even from Jurgen, this was asking a bit much. "Please," Jurgen said, when it became obvious Preston wasn't going to capitulate. Very reluctantly, Preston ejected his sidearms and placed them on a counter. "If this is some kind of joke..." he began. "Not in the least," Jurgen said. "This way." He headed through into the living room and over to a small door that Preston had always assumed to be a cupboard of some sort, then flipped a section of the wall open and put his hand on the scanner inside. The door slid aside with a hydraulic purr, revealing a small room inside containing a cot, a few blankets, two or three books on a shelf and... "Hello Preston." Preston felt the glass he was holding slide out of fingers that had suddenly gone numb with shock to smash on the floor, sending shards and water everywhere. The room whirled around him, spinning faster and faster until he thought he might actually throw up. Then, for the first and last time in his life, Preston hit the ground in a dead faint. "Well," he dimly heard Errol Partridge remark from somewhere above him, just before the blackness swallowed him completely, "he's taken that a hell of a lot better than I thought he would." Chapter 10 >>>  more Equilibrium Fan Fiction