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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
third training hall of the Grammaton Monastery was a huge rectangular
space, lined with stone arches, balconies running on the walls above
looking down onto a shining black floor. It was a tribute to monolithic
grandeur, constructed by the architects of Libria, deemed a fitting
environment for Father’s right hand, the Grammaton Cleric, to be
sculpted and trained.
And it rang to the sounds of
battle.
Eight figures in bulky
armour padding swarmed around a ninth, who wore a simple grey tunic.
All nine carried Bokken, wooden swords that substituted for the live
steel blade of the Katana, the ceremonial sword of the Cleric. The
first eight held their Bokken with the blade overhand, curving up from
their palm in single or double-handed grips, their faces obscured by
steel-mesh masks. The Ninth held his blade underhand, the wooden shaft
thrusting down towards the floor. His other hand was locked in the
"pistol" form. First two fingers extended. Last two pulled back. His
legs apart in a wide stance, his face calm. Cold stone.
Cleric John Preston might as
well have been a statue, such was his flawless composure.
"Hai!"
An attacker drove in with an
overhead strike that never landed, his blade swept away by Preston’s
own, a parry that turned into a counter attack, slamming the man
backwards with the its force. Another man let loose a sweeping
torso-strike, slashing at Preston’s chest. Preston melted out of the
way, letting the wood go past with a whop of disturbed air,
then spun and backhanded his blade into the side of the man’s head with
a crash. He dropped, stunned by the impact, but Preston paid him no
further heed. He was already moving to meet the new threats. The hall
clattered to the sounds of impacts on wood, padding and the floor as
Preston danced and spun, his Bokken a perfect extension of his body, a
wind that swept away his opponents like leaves.
Partridge never ceased to be
impressed by his partner’s skill. He stood on the balcony, looking down
as the highest ranking Cleric of the TetraGrammaton knocked other
senior clerics to the floor as if they were brittle wooden posts.
Preston was the only Cleric in the history of the Order who’d been
granted permission to develop their own sword style, and it was this
style that Preston was refining in the hall below.
Partridge wasn’t the only
one who was watching. He looked up, and over to the balcony opposite,
on the other side of the hall. There, motionless as rock, stood a
figure in a black hooded robe, his face half hidden by the cowl. A
Grammaton Monk. Few in number, yet awesome in combat knowledge and
skill, the Monks were the originators and the overseers of the Order of
the Cleric, the architects of the Gun-Katas and of much of the
philosophy of Libria. After the war, it had been the Grammaton Monks
who had assisted Father in the construction of the Librian society.
They were the elite, the chosen few.
Preston had two other
observers besides the Monk.
They stood a few metres to
the left of Partridge, both clad in the grey uniform of the Grammaton
Cleric, Second Class. The first was a man with watchful eyes and a
tendency, unusual for a Cleric, to give a wide smile when things struck
him as unusual or interesting. This trait had no doubt been
investigated and had been found to be a vestigial response to
intellectual stimuli rather than an actual expression of emotion, or
Brandt would have been nothing more than ash in the smokestacks of the
Halls of Destruction. Next to Brandt, observing the fight with clinical
interest, was his partner. A woman. Cleric Tate. Tate was one of the
few female Clerics active in Libria, her career an experiment on the
part of the Order. Before World War 3, the Cleric had been an all male
Order, but twenty years ago the Monks had decided to recruit the first
female Clerics, and so had indoctrinated a number of female infants
into the training program. Now, those Clerics were coming to the end of
their Acolyte period and were starting to filter down in the active
ranks. Tate had been one of the first women to be Ordained a full
Cleric. So far, her record had been exemplary. She and Brandt were fast
making a name for themselves as an up and coming Team. Tate’s ash
blonde hair was cut to her shoulders and practical, her face one of
elegant beauty. But her eyes were cold tombs of Prozium. It was odd.
Since leaving the dose behind, Partridge had become aware of how truly
beautiful many women could be. But the women in Libria were merely fine
statues, physically appealing but cold and lifeless. The Prozium took
away their core, leaving only a smooth stone shell…
Partridge turned his
attention back to the sparring below, but his thoughts kept straying.
He was just biding time here.
The meeting was tonight.
Tonight, the Resistance
would meet with this dealer, and he would see the face of the person
who knew the secret he kept.
It had taken a week to
arrange, checking that both the dealer and Partridge were both
available for the time and date required. During that time, his only
contact with the resistance had been via coded written messages at the
Cathedral dead-drop. Each night he had gone there, hoping that someone-
Why deny it? Be honest with
yourself.
-that Mary would be there,
to deliver a message, to check on his status, or just to talk. But
every night, there was just the written message, and sometimes a fresh
book. Whilst the reading always brought him both pleasure and
relaxation, he could feel his thoughts drifting back to her. To what he
knew he would never have. She would be his comrade in the war, she
would be his co-conspirator and maybe even his friend. But he knew deep
down that she would always see him as the Cleric who turned, see the
river of blood that bathed his past. The cold, unfeeling death and
torment that had visited upon so many.
How could she love a man
like that?
Preston, who had yet to be
hit, ducked under a swiping blade, came back around, slashed his Bokken
twice across the torso of the man responsible, tracing an X into his
chest. Then he sidestepped, whipped the blade up and crashed it’s
length up under the man’s chin, snapping the head back, putting him on
the floor. A live blade would have sheared up through the skull and…
That’s new thought Partridge.
"Impressive." said Tate to
Brandt.
"Flawed." replied Brandt,
looking unimpressed. "I believe I could have blocked that strike with a
simple Form 6 counter."
You have a lot to learn. thought Partridge to himself.
The combat below was over.
The senior Clerics picked themselves off the floor and gave a short,
formal bow to Preston, he returned each bow with the same stone faced
expression. He looked up, saw Partridge there and gave him a nod of
acknowledgment. Partridge returned the nod and turned away from the
balcony. He’d meet Preston in the Hall of Enforcement, and was already
preparing himself to the task of monitoring his every word and gesture,
for straining out any trace of emotion that might slip through.
Two sets of footsteps moved
in sync down the corridors deep within the Monastery. Partridge and
Preston strode past a row of Sweepers standing sentinel, past a
crouching statue holding a globe of the world on it’s back. They
reached a large set of double doors, waited whilst the sweepers pulled
them open, then strode into the office of the Head of Enforcement,
Arch-Cleric Hawks.
Hawks was responsible for
overseeing the field operations of the Grammaton Cleric. In the chain
of Command, Heller reported directly to Vice-Council DuPont, and
occupied his office with a regal air of authority. He was in his
fifties, a man still fit and in shape, subject to the same basic
physical training routine as every other Cleric (though his training
contents had been somewhat modified as per standard practise to suit
his age). As the Arch-Cleric, he no longer wore the high collar suit
and coat of the lower ranks. Instead, an open-neck black suit and tie,
similar to that worn by the council, adorned his body. Hawks sat behind
a black-glass table, a large window in the shape of a Tetra-T behind
him.
"Cleric Partridge, Cleric
Preston." he said. "Good. Come in."
Partridge had his nerves
under iron control. He and Preston had been summoned at very short
notice, without warning and on the highest priority. Such actions were
reserved only for the gravest of tasks, the most serious of situations…
I’m clear. I’ve been
careful. They can’t know. And if they do…
Partridge had been checking
the positions of all the Sweepers on the way in, but it really wouldn’t
matter. The Arch-Cleric was in the room. And so was John Preston.
Partridge was fairly sure he couldn’t match the former, and knew of no-one
who could match the latter.
If his cover had blown, then
he was dead a man.
"You requested our presence,
Arch-Cleric?" asked Partridge.
Hawks nodded.
"Yes, I did. You are the
most consistently successful team we have in the field at this time.
Your accomplishments in Enforcement have been instrumental in assuring
the continuity of this great society."
"Thank you, Arch Cleric."
said Preston.
"And that is why I have
asked you here. Because a situation has presented itself. A situation
which we can only entrust to our best. I have my orders from
Vice-Council DuPont himself. He has tasked you both specifically, by
name, with the successful completion of this mission.
"We are honoured by the
Vice-Council’s confidence in us." Partridge lied. "May I enquire as to
the nature of the mission?"
Hawks nodded, and sat back.
"A year ago, our Special
Projects Division unearthed pre-war documentation that concerned them
deeply. It was an inventory, a simple listing that detailed the art
collection of a Pre-War billionaire named Jean François De Morangias.
The inventory and accompanying documents indicated that De Morangias
had sealed his vast collection in a steel vault when hostilities broke
out, hoping that they would survive the looming war. He himself did not
survive, but it appears that his collection did, safe in the vault we
speak of. The inventory gives enough information to ascertain the rough
location of the vault to within three miles of a certain landmark in
the Nether. SPD were tasked to find the vault and destroy it. A month
ago, they found it."
He paused, and leaned back.
"It was empty. Someone had
got there first and taken this poison from it’s bottle. However, we
have received intelligence from a captured Sense-Offender."
He paused and placed both
his hands on the table in front of him.
"There is an EC-10 deal
happening tonight." He continued. "Not only did the informant disclose
the exact location of the deal, but he mentioned some of the items that
the resistance was hoping to acquire."
Hawks held up a piece of
paper.
"These items tally with the
items on the De Morangies inventory."
"The dealer has access to
the vault contents." said Preston.
"Exactly." replied Hawks.
"You task is this. Take a Sweeper unit, hunt down this deal’s location
and capture or destroy the EC-10 and those who would poison the
citizens of Libria with it’s emotive content. The success of this
mission is vital, Clerics. This EC-10 is some of the most potent known
to our records. We cannot allow it to get into the hands of the
Resistance. The people of Libria would never forgive us for such an
unforgivable lapse. You are dismissed Clerics."
Preston snapped off a nod of
acknowledgment, turned and strode from the room. He was followed by
Partridge. Calm, composed, cool Partridge.
Partridge, who’s very soul
was turning to ash inside his ribs.
There was no time. No time
at all. No time to warn, no time to delay or subvert. They had walked
right down from the office of the Arch-Cleric to the Vehicle bay of the
Monastery where their car and two white APC’s full of Sweepers waited.
Orders were relayed, weapons checked and loaded, vehicles fuelled and
prepped. Partridge and Preston stood by their car, watching the
activity, both hands clasped calmly behind their backs. Partridge was
in a daze of confusion and fear. Not really for himself. He wasn’t
worth wasting his own pity on. But for the others. For those where
about to die. People who trusted him, believed that this Cleric would
bring them their key to victory. Instead, he would bring them only
death.
No. There has to be a way to
warn them. To stall this convoy. I won’t accept that it ends this way.
It would be difficult. Any
action was out of the question here, in Libria. He was vastly
outnumbered and outgunned in the Monastery. He would be cut down, and
the mission would still take place without him. But in the Nether…
That was another story.
Anything could happen in that vast, echoing skeleton that had once been
a nation.
Bide your time. For the sake
of all those who depend on you, bide your time.
"It’s time." said Preston
besides him. Partridge looked over at his partner. He saw no excitement
there, no apprehension or nerves. Just an unbreakable gauze of Prozium
and steel. Partridge nodded.
"Indeed."
He pulled open the door of
the car and slipped calmly into the back seat. Seconds later, his
partner sat back besides him. The Sweeper in the front gunned the
engine.
"We were fortunate." said
Preston. "Without that captured resistance criminal, this entire deal
might have gone through without us ever knowing. Think of what that
would have meant for Libria. EC-10 of that potency, in circulation
inside these walls."
Preston shook his head.
Partridge nodded and replied.
"The damage would have been
severe. It may have fuelled the sense-crime in this city even further.
Our resources would have been stretched over tighter. The threat to us,
to Father, would have grown greater by the day."
He thought about the
implications of what he’d just said, eyes gauzing out of the window,
hand to his chin, fingers stroking his lips, the salt of the black
leather on his tongue.
Severe damage. Increased
threat to Father. This deal must go through.
"It’s fortunate that our
Acolyte training program is producing an increasing number of Clerics."
said Preston. "Without it, our task would be far more difficult. The
Ordination ceremony takes place in three days. Ten more of the Cleric."
Through the window,
Partridge saw them walking, the legions of the dead, the same
expression on their faces. Dull but purposeful. Alive but cold.
Mockeries of their own souls. The people of Libria, enslaved and
unaware of their subjection. Of their loss.
This deal must go through.
"How is your son’s training
progressing?" he asked, not turning his head away from sterile view
outside.
"He’s excelling in all the
arts. Combat, Intuition, Doctrine and Political Science. He’s at the
top of every class. I was able to observe his Gun-Kata sequence and
reaction training yesterday. I was impressed. He may one day surpass
me."
For a second there John, you
almost sounded like a proud father. But we both know better.
Don’t we?
Partridge shifted his view
for a second to his partner. John Preston was checking the slide on one
of his SP-10 autopistols, the dull black magazine of 10mm hollow points
resting in his lap. His face was detached, his eyes showed nothing but
logic and information, a robot going through the motions of life.
Yes, We know better.
"I was worried that the
influence of his mother may have corrupted him somewhat." said Preston.
"But both he and Lisa seem unaffected by her crimes."
Partridge had met Viviana
numerous times before she’d been arrested and incinerated. He
remembered the first time he’d seen Preston after her arrest. For one
moment he’d seen possibly a glimmer of something…
But then it was gone. And
his next meeting with Preston had been at Viviana’s incineration. Where
John had met her love for him with a wall of ice, and her death with
nothing but cold, logical approval. But Partridge also knew that, for
want of a better phrase, John knew no better.
Partridge wondered if he’d
have to try and kill Preston to save those at the deal. And wondered
how far he’d get if he tried.
Kill your brother. Will you
do that? Can you?
I’ve done worse.
But only on Prozium. Now?
Don’t make me choose.
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