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Equilibrium Fan Fiction
by Coolhand
This
Lonely Tumult
(part 2)
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Part One | Part Two | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7
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Part
Two. The Absolution.
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The morning skies were clear, the sunlight clean and crisp in
the chill autumn air. Even the cold stone and metal sculptures of
Libria came alive under it’s light, glowing iridescent and strong. And
Libria slept through it, uncaring, dead to the dance of light and
matter that was taking place under it’s nose.
Save for one man, a lone figure who
stood at the edge of a grand courtyard, watching the cityscape with
awe. The light sparkled on the buttons of his coat, gleamed off his
black leather gloves, wrought glittering patterns in the clouds of his
breath that hung in the air, framing the figure in glowing mist.
The figure of a Grammaton Cleric
Ever since his return, Errol Partridge,
Grammaton Cleric First Class, had risen before dawn to watch the sun
come up, mesmerised by the artwork that nature had seen fit to provide
for him. In the few weeks since he'd come off Prozium, he had lived
more than in the past thirty years. At first every breath, every step,
every blink of the eye had layered so thick with sensations that
Partridge had felt submerged, lost in their depths. But now, he was
starting to gain a measure of control and familiarity with them. His
emotions no longer ruled him. Instead, they were his partner, his
companion on the journey. He took a breath, allowing the cold air to
slide like ice into his lungs.
He was alive.
But he wasn’t sure he deserved to be.
He could still hear Jurgen’s words in
his mind. Partridge, you are
potientialy the greatest asset the resistance ever known.
Partridge knew that, on a logical basis,
this had to be true. As the propaganda correctly claimed: The Cleric Is The Last Line of Defence.
And Partridge was the compromise, the
crack in what had been the impenetrable armour of the TetraGrammaton.
But for all this logical knowledge, Partridge had a new dimension to
his thoughts now. Emotion. He didn’t feel like the great asset of the
resistance. He felt like…
I’m a
killer. Nothing more. Every day I see them. The lives I have taken. The
faces I sent to burn in the furnaces of Libria, or blew apart with
Gun-Kata.
He remembered the first book he’d ever
read, the first work of fiction. A Christmas Carol. He’d read about the
redemption of Scrooge and wondered if he could ever have such a
redemption himself.
Even
Ebenezer Scrooge was not what I was. Didn’t commit the sins I did.
And that first book, that first glimpse
of what was really out there, was linked to another memory. The memory
of the women who’d shown him the difference between existence and life.
Whenever the guilt became too great, the sorrow too intense, he would
focus on her memory. On her crystal blue eyes, on the soul that burned
through them like a flame.
Mary.
More than anything, he wanted to see her
again, but he’d accepted that it would probably never happen whilst the
TetraGrammaton ruled Libria. Anyone he spoke to would be at risk. She
wouldn’t want to risk her life just to see a bloodstained Cleric again.
But her memory was still there for him, to soothe the pain, the searing
emotions that came as the price for the new-found life he led.
And even the
sorrow and guilt are things I would never change. They let me know I’m
alive. A Prozium-fed robot feels no pain. Only human being can ache
this way.
He was still waiting. Waiting for
contact from Jurgen, waiting to be asked to join the fight. The call
would come soon enough. Until then, Partridge would have to concentrate
on hiding what he was from those he worked with. And from one man in
particular...
Something skipped past his face and his
hand had closed around it before the thought had really registered in
his mind. He brought his hand back, looked at it. The feather rested
between his fingers, it’s fibres fluttering in the breeze. His eyes
traced the pale, translucent stem, the grey and white colouring. He ran
a gloved finger down it’s edge, then wondered what it would feel like
on his bare fingertips-
"What are you doing?"
Partridge turned to see his partner
stood a few feet away, eyes locked on him, his expression calm and
logical. John Preston had approached without sound or hint. A handsome
face sculpted into a severe expression, piercing eyes that seemed to
sheer clean through a man, dark hair swept back into an approved style,
Grammaton John Preston was the embodiment of the Order of the Cleric.
How long has
he been there?
"I said, what are you doing?" repeated
Preston..
"I found this in the courtyard." replied
Partridge. "I’m somewhat concerned that, though an organic object, it
may possesses EC-10 qualities. What do you think?"
He held the feather out to Preston,
raised an interested eyebrow. The other man reached out and took it,
held it up to eye level. Turned it over, tapped it.
Partridge knew what Preston was doing.
Clerics were trained in recognising object traits that could appeal to
Sense Offenders, trained to judge and evaluate colour and texture,
pattern and feel. Preston was utilising his training and his own
intuition to evaluate the object. In the background, the vast wall
screens flickered into life. Father’s head and shoulders appeared, his
visage stern but wise.
"Libria. Awaken." he intoned,
emotionless yet somehow compelling. "Awaken to triumph in the face of
another day…"
"Dangerous?" asked Partridge, shutting
out the voice he’d learned to hate.
"Unquestionably." replied his partner,
handing the feather back to him.
"Good." said Partridge, taking the
feather. "Then we are agreed. I‘ll take it to the EC-10 storage vault
at the Hall of Enforcement for Logging and Incineration."
And he crushed the feather in his palm,
forcing his hand to destroy what he’d found so beautiful. Preston fell
into step beside him, footsteps synchronising with his own. Preston was
his partner, his greatest threat, his paradox. He was trained to detect
Sense-Offenders, and now he was working next to one. Partridge was
working every second of every day to kill any telltale signs, mask any
reactions that would give him away. He couldn’t relax around his
partner for a second, or he would be detected in a heartbeat. Preston
was a threat. He was a Cleric, almost fanatic in his devotion to his
duties. He was a killer, cold and remorseless. But he was also someone
Partridge had worked with for years. As the older Cleric, Partridge had
mentored Preston in the first years after his Ordination, fought
alongside him during numerous combat engagements. Preston had become
part of his life. And Partridge still had those memories, even though
his emotions had been freed. So now, in spite of all logic, he saw
Preston as his brother.
Even if he was the now enemy, Preston
was still his brother.
The Hall of Enforcement bustled with
noise and activity, Enforcement personnel swarming around the pillars,
discussing caseloads in the corridors, working at their desks.
Partridge and Preston strode in, past the guard who gave them the
customary: "Good morning, Clerics."
"Good morning." they both replied. It
was already shaping up to be a busy day, and Partridge was
apprehensive. He didn’t want to be here. He’d been twisting and turning
for two weeks to avoid going into situations where he would have to
kill or arrest Sense Offenders, but he knew he was running out of time.
Soon, he would be put into a situation where there was no choice. Kill
or Die. Partridge made no outside signs as he grit his teeth and braced
his soul for another day. And, as always, he got through the day by
anticipating the night.
The moonlight drifted softly through the
holes in the roof, trailing it's fingers across the vast interior of an
old, ruined cathedral. The man made cavern was soaked in shadow,
drenched in the history of ages long past. At the rear of the chamber,
a set of stained glass windows split the moonlight into multi-coloured
ribbons on the floor below. Three candles glowed nearby, stood tall on
ancient metal stands. And in a chair, illuminated the mixture of candle
and moonlight, Partridge sat motionless, lost, absorbed in a world of
lyrical beauty and darkness. In his hands was a book of song lyrics,
the words remaining though the music was lost.
Step out of
the front door like a ghost
Into the fog
where no-one notices
The contrast
of white on white
And in
between the moon and you,
Angels get a
better view
Of the
crumbling difference between wrong and right
I walk
through the air between the rain
Through
myself and back again
Where? I
don’t know
Maria says
she’s dying.
Through the
door I hear her crying
Why? I don’t
know.
Round here,
we always stand up straight.
Partridge had been coming here every
night for a week. It was where his newfound hobby awaited, something he
had only known previously as an offence punishable by incineration.
Recreational Reading.
The books were provided for him by the
Resistance via a dead-drop system. A new book would appear under the
pew on the right. Partridge would read it and store it there until he
was finished, then he would place the book under the pew on the left.
This book would be collected by the resistance agent, and then a fresh
book was placed under the right hand pew, beginning the cycle anew.
Partridge did wonder at first why the Resistance was making such an
effort to supply him with EC-10 literature. But he’d brought it down to
the fact that they’d never before had a Grammaton Cleric join their
cause, and they wanted to make sure he always remembered what he was
fighting for, was never tempted to pick up his PIU and burn away any
fear or doubt or misery with the fire of Prozium. For if he did, the
Resistance would lose the great weapon they had been sent.
If I must be
a weapon, then let me at least fight against the darkness, not for it.
He turned the page…and heard the noise.
Footsteps. Three sets of them. He gently put the book to one side and
softly moved his hand to the SP-10 autopistol resting next to him on
the bench. His head turned, already putting together a Kata-Tree to get
him clear of the bench and into an advantageous offensive position.
Three figures came through the entranceway. Partridge forgot all about
the weapon, all about the book. The kata-tree dissolved into oblivion.
Mary.
She stood there, in the moon-lit scarred
ruins of the church, free and alive. And smiling. She wore a dark blue
trousers and a non-regulation jacket to keep out the cold, dark hair
shifting like leaves around her face. He stood, mind clamping down on
him and commanding him to walk, not run. He strode towards her,
smiling.
"Errol." she said, her eyes ice-blue
eyes warm and welcoming. She reached out and hugged him. He felt the
heat of her body, the warm pattern of her arms around his back. He
wanted to just close his eyes and absorb that moment, just keep her
there in his arms. But the moment was over and she was already pulling
back, the other two figures stepping up. Partridge didn’t know either.
One was a tall, broad man with dark hair and a thin, neat beard running
around his face. The other was shorter and older, greying hair that was
thawing away from the front and the top of his head. His eyes were sad
but resigned, as if sorrow was the only think keeping him alive.
"Cleric Partridge." said the tall man,
holding out his hand. "My name is Shamus."
Partridge shook the hand, and nodded a
greeting. He turned to look at the last man. He extended no hand, gave
no greeting. He simply said:
"Cleric." with faint nod of his head.
"And that’s Kemp." said Mary with a
raised eyebrow. "He improves the longer you know him."
If Kemp was insulted by the statement,
he gave no reaction. He simply stood there, waiting for a discussion
that was obviously about to begin.
"How’ve you been?" Mary continued. "Do
they suspect you?"
Partridge shook his head.
"No. I’ve been able to keep everything
hidden. I’m in the clear so far. How have you been?"
"Busy." she replied. "Very busy. We’ve
kept the knowledge of you very secret, only a handful of the resistance
know about your existence. But the ones that do all agree."
"On what?" asked Partridge.
"That the tide has turned." said Shamus
with conviction. "That if a Cleric can cease his dose and commit to the
overthrow of Father, then victory cannot be far off."
"I’m just one man." Partridge told him.
"I’m no army."
Mary took his arm, the intensity of her
burned through the cloth of his coat.
"Errol, sometimes, one man is all it
takes to change the future. We cannot discuss it here, but there are
things in progress, things that could win this war-"
"But we cannot talk about them now."
Kemp cut in with a forceful tone, then shifted his eyes from Mary to
Partridge, his expression was one of clear distrust.
"We are here because we require your
help." said Shamus "An offer has come to us from an EC-10 dealer based
in one of the minor nations outside Libria. He offers a substantial
amount of high-grade EC-10 in exchange for certain items we possess.
Faux-Prozium ampoules, some weaponry. Ordinarily, we would not trouble
you with this, but there was an interesting angle to the deal on the
table. Something that made this deal out of the ordinary."
"What?" asked Partridge, sensing the
tension that was building in the room.
"They want a Grammaton Cleric present."
said Shamus, shifting a little. "They say that they know we have a
Cleric working for us, and they want him to be at the deal or they
won‘t show."
It hung in the air for a second, that
moment of revelation. Partridge absorbed the information quickly
enough, but his face must have reflected his emotional response.
Surprise. Concern
"Ordinarily, we’d have called the whole
thing off." Mary cut in quickly. "Most of us are still in favour of
doing so, but-"
"But this isn’t any old EC-10 on the
table." Kemp said, the first real sentence he’d uttered. His eyes were
locked with Partridges, as if he were trying to win some contest.
Partridge simply stared back impassively, impervious to any man‘s
hatred. He‘d seen it all before. "They’re offering us art that has been
lost for decades. Some of the most famous works by the most talented
people. They have paintings by Da-Vinci and Van-Gough. Sculptures by
Rodan. Great works of literature by authors we have heard of but never
found. Banks, Tolkien, Pratchett. What they were offering is
irreplaceable, heritage that sculpted art and culture for generations.
If it is lost, our past is lost. A Cleric‘s not too high a price to pay
for that."
"That’s your opinion, and no-one else
shares it" snapped Shamus, throwing an angry gaze at Kemp. "Jurgen
thought it would be best to come to you."
"It’s your decision." said Mary,
studying him, obviously concerned. "If you deem it too great a risk,
we’ll call it off. You’re worth more to us than any EC-10 that ever
existed. But if you want to go ahead, we‘ll make the arrangements."
Partridge nodded, looking away,
thinking. It sounded like a set-up, but it was too obvious. The
TetraGrammaton was nothing if not subtle when in came to sting
operations. If they wanted to catch a rouge Cleric, there were better
ways to go about it than this.
But how did
this dealer find out about me?
"We didn’t tell them." said Mary, as if
reading his thoughts. "One of our people died rather than give your
name to a Sweeper Unit. We‘d never give you up, Errol. Never."
They
set me free. They showed me life. It’s time for me to start pulling my
weight in this fight.
"Make the arraignments." said Partridge,
turning back to face them. "I’ll be there."
Shamus nodded, approving. Kemp gave no
reaction, but Mary’s face fell.
"You don’t have to." she said quickly.
"There will be other ways for us to get these artworks, but you’re
irreplaceable-"
"I’m only irreplaceable if I contribute
in someway to this fight." said Partridge softly. "If I cower on the
sidelines, then all I am is a liability. A frightened man waiting to be
found and killed. Make the arraignments. I’ll be there."
"Thank you, Cleric." said Shamus, and
turned to leave. Kemp did the same. Mary looked at Partridge with the
eyes that haunted his dreams and said;
"Be careful. Please. We can’t loose you."
She clasped his hand in hers, the feel
of her smooth, dry skin lingering on his hands long after the hands
themselves had departed.
Partridge stood alone in the church,
with no sound except the beating of his heart. He tilted his head and
looked up at the stars.
I have
joined the fight. And with this battle, I can strike at my enemies
without taking a single life.
In this
task, whatever my fate, may I find my absolution.
That night, Partridge remained in the
cathedral until the stars and moon faded, and the sun came out. He had
a great many thoughts, and knew that he may not have long left to think
them. A man in the presence of death will savour every second of his
life.
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