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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
dusk had come, bringing the cold and the darkness washing down onto the
rubble of the Nether. The two APC’s pulled up first, vast white ghosts
in the darkness, doors slamming open and hurling forth streams of
black-clad Sweepers. Behind them, the single white car slid to a halt.
The doors opened and the two Clerics rose from within in perfect
harmony, breath curling from their dark silhouettes and rising into the
night. In front of the convoy, was a simple, squat stone structure that
lead to the old subway systems and maintenance tunnels that wormed
about for hundreds of miles beneath the surface of the Nether. Within
this complex of tunnels, grating and stagnant water lay the EC-10 deal.
But the squad didn’t know
exactly where.
The informant had given them
the name of an old subway station, but this station was just the
nearest landmark to the deal’s location, not the location of the deal
itself. They would have to search the area for the exact location, and
that would give Partridge time. He, of course, knew exactly where the
deal was to take place. All he had to do was misdirect and stall the
team long enough…
All I have to do. What an
understatement.
The Sweeper teams spread out
to secure the immediate area. Partridge looked them over. The
Arch-Cleric had certainly sent the best. These were no rank and file
foot soldiers. They were Sweeper Elite. Trained hard and trained well.
Armed with Heckler&Kock G36K assault rifles, FN Herstial P90
sub-machineguns, SPAS-12 tactical shotguns, their movements were
precise and sure. Two types of Sweeper were present. The Heavy Assault
Sweepers, dressed in grey fatigues and black body armour, their faces
protected by transparent blast shields. Their job was to breech and
make entry under fire. And the Hunter/Killer sweeper, dressed in black
leather, black helmets and black visors. The Hunter/Killer followed the
Heavy Assault unit in, and were trained to operate search and
capture/destroy missions for Sense Offenders.
Two of the Hunter/Killer
Captains strode towards the Clerics. Their Visors whirred open in it‘s
two stage sequence, presenting first a T cross of the face, eyes and
nose, then everything from eyebrow to mouth. It struck Partridge that
even in the emotionless Libria, some things were still done purely for
effect.
Human nature dies hard…
"Area secure sir." said the
first Captain, addressing Preston. "All units ready to enter the
underground complex."
"Excellent." observed
Preston, turning to Partridge. "Cleric, would you take the lead?"
"Of course." replied
Partridge. "Captain Vickers. You and your men are with me. Captain
Anderson. Your squad will accompany Cleric Preston."
Salutes were given, orders
issued, and Partridge led his squad towards the squat building, mind
frantically creating and discarding a thousand plans to salvage the
situation. He desperately wanted to do this without killing. But he
knew that such an option was a luxury he didn’t have. Whatever else
happened, human lives would end tonight, far beneath a haunted
landscape already overflowing with the souls of the dead.
The darkness was
suffocating, invasive. The sunlight had never touched these tunnels,
fresh air was a luxury unknown to them. They led forever onwards, huge
circular arteries that slowly carried dark light to hell’s heart. Many
were wide, and had once known screaming trains hammering through their
cores. Now, the tracks were rusted, the walls damp with water trickling
from unknown sources. The only illumination was the harsh white of
flashlights mounted on the barrels of the Sweeper weapons, and the
eerie green light of the chemical glow-sticks that the teams dropped to
mark their way back and provide a constant light source in the areas
they were securing. The Sweepers moved with their weapons up to their
shoulders, legs producing a smooth, controlled fast-walk that allowed
them maximum weapon stability. The Clerics were trained from a separate
rulebook. Their weapons were not drawn, their pace a measured, relaxed
walk. If there was a threat, Partridge and Preston would know about it
long before the Sweepers did. Soon, the tunnel opened out into a large
chamber. The Sweepers fanned out and tossed out glow sticks. Partridge
and Preston slowed to a halt, just looking around the chamber. On
either side of it, two raised platforms ran it’s length, white tiling
now grimy and glistening with moisture and dirt. The remains of benches
could be seen on the platforms, along with other things that Partridge
didn’t recognise. A large metal chest as tall as him, smeared with dirt
and grime. He could just make out the red colouring under the stain of
decay, the white flowing letters spelling a faint word…
Code? Cope? Cake?
He dismissed it, having no
time to indulge his new curiosity about the Pre-Librian world. Besides
him, he saw Preston nod towards a wall.
"This is it."
There, half-destroyed by
years of dirt and neglect, a sign read:
Millhouse Station
The station that they were
looking for. Partridge had to move fast, whilst they still had distance
between the squad and the deal’s location. The squad and his comrades.
The squad and the future of Libria.
"There are two tunnels."
said Partridge, pointing at the doors on either side of the chamber.
Both lead to underground storage and maintenance locations. You take
the left. I’ll take the right. Clean and Sweep."
"Clean and Sweep." replied
Preston with a nod. "Captain Anderson. Send out your point men. We’re
moving."
Partridge gathered his own
men together and lead them towards the right hand side of the chamber,
the right hand door. He knew now what he was going to do. Knew that he
had no choice. He would warn the Resistance, help them to escape, hold
off Preston and his unit for as long as he could.
But first, the Sweeper unit
with him had to die.
He led them down. Down steps, down tunnels, down
more steps. They followed him with totally obedience, confident in the
intuitive abilities of the Grammaton Cleric, confident that he was
working for their benefit. He didn’t look at them, didn’t remind
himself that within each shell of armour and steel and plastic lay a
human being, a beating heart, rushing blood. The potential to live,
once the Prozium had been drained out.
This had to be done. There
was no other way.
This far down, radio coms
were cut off by the sheer amount of earth and steel surrounding them.
The Sweepers would be unable to call for help, unable to call Preston.
They would die in this dark labyrinth with no witnesses, and no backup.
He lead them into a large, dark room with water pooling in the middle,
trickling in from ceiling to splash down in a rapidly growing pool. The
walls were covered in the same grimy tiles as the station, the floor
littered with rubbish, old cloth. In the corner, huddled and lonely,
lay a human skeleton, dull ragged clothes still hanging to it’s body,
arms still folded across it’s chest as if it were desperately trying to
comfort itself.
What a terrible place to
die. thought Partridge, and
then felt a stab of guilt and sorrow. Because this was the room he’d
been intending to kill the Sweepers in. Was still intending to kill
them in.
He turned and did a count.
Twenty. All here. He caught sight of Captain Vickers, his young eyes
looking at him with total confidence.
I’m so very sorry.
His mind had begun to craft
the Kata-Tree, his body was seconds away from moving…
When he stopped. The scent
was faint, but it was enough for his heightened Grammaton senses to
detect. He frowned, then felt a rush of horror.
Mary’s scent. Her perfume.
Here.
She’s at the deal. No,
please no!
He turned, sniffing the air.
Then saw it, faint in one corner. A small piece of paper, new a neatly
folded, invisible amid the mess to anyone except those who possessed
the Sensory Utilisation Awareness training of the Grammaton Cleric.
"What is it, Sir?" asked
Vickers.
Partridge didn’t reply. He
walked over to the paper, shielded it from the Sweepers view with his
body, picked it up. It had been sprayed with her perfume. He opened it
up. The lettering was black ink, neat but flowing.
We know that the location
was blown. We’re prepared. Leave your squad here, carry on down two
flights of steps.
And then, is if to prove the
letter was genuine:
Remember the cat?
M
When the relief hit, it was
like ice water over a burn. Though the letter said little, it told him
enough. It told him that they knew about the incoming teams. It told
him that there was more hope for escape than he had thought before now.
And it told him that these Sweepers might not have to die here, in the
darkness and rot. He folded the letter, put it into his pocket and
turned to face the Sweepers. He wasn’t overly worried that they’d ask
about the letter. They were used to the sight of Cleric’s gliding
slowly about rooms and buildings, searching for clues, turning objects
over in their hands, intuitively feeling for leads that would take them
to hidden EC-10 stores, or Sense-Offenders. The Sweepers had deployed
several glow-sticks in the room, throwing green light across the old
tiles and the shimmering water.
"Captain Vickers. You and
your men are to stay in this area. Set up a perimeter, and do not move
until I return."
"Yes Sir." replied Vickers.
He asked for no explanation. Sweeper Elite’s didn’t get to their
position without utter and complete faith in Father and the Cleric.
Partridge nodded in approval, turned his back-
"Sir."
"Yes Captain." he didn’t
turn back to face them.
"May I say what an honour it
is to be serving with you, sir."
Partridge stayed stone-still
for a second, then simply nodded and strode out of the room into
darkness.
The stairs were filthily, strewn with debris.
Partridge walked down them with a single glow-stick in his hand,
picking out the steps and rail in the green gloom. He descended two
flights, just as ordered. And, at the bottom, he found Shamus with a
shotgun in his hands and a smile on his face. Keeping silent, Shamus
gestured for Partridge to follow and led the bemused Cleric down a
tunnel and into the room in which the deal was to take place.
Partridge raised an eyebrow,
and gave Shamus a curious look. The room held nine people.
But they were all dead. Long
dead, pale and still, the tattoos on their foreheads labelling them as
cadavers for use in Libria’s medical training facilities. And for use
in the Monastery. Part of an Acolyte’s training was in anatomy. When
you knew how the body was put together, you were much more efficient at
taking it apart...
The room was also full of
paintings. But not as Partridge new them. Simple, unfinished wooden
frames, the paintings themselves just splashes and smears of colour and
texture. They were actually still quite intriguing, but certainly not
intentional EC-10. Dotted around the room, Partridge saw small black
boxes that looked like…
Incendiary bombs
Shamus gave him a grin, and
walked to the centre of a room. Produced a small remote and thumbed the
button. A small square of stone slid away from the floor, leaving a
hole just large enough for a man to get through. He gestured at
Partridge.
Drop down.
Giving Shamus a sceptical
eye, Partridge walked to the hole, looked through to judge distance,
then simply stepped forward and dropped through feet first, catching
Shamus’ shocked expression as he disappeared from view. He landed
softly, knees bending into controlled touchdown, eyes already taking in
the surroundings.
Another tunnel. But this one
was brightly lit by portable neon tubes on the walls, rough brickwork
walls slimly with mould and water. He turned to see Shamus lower his
bulk through the hole, hands gripping the ledges, grunting with effort.
"You need any help?" asked
Partridge with a raised eyebrow.
"Very funny." replied
Shamus, then he let go and his feet clapped down ungracefully to the
floor. He produced his remote and zapped the hole, letting it the wound
heal over with stone once more.
"Follow me."
The moved down the tunnel,
rounded a corner-
And were met by Mary. She
wore rough grey combat gear, a shoulder holster over the tough fabric,
and H&K UMP .45 sub-gun in her hands. Her face relaxed when she saw
him, relief thawing her features into a soft smile.
"You made it." she said. "We
were beginning to worry."
"You knew this deal was
blown?" asked Partridge.
Mary nodded.
"Oh yes. The informer was
given the information deliberately. We knew he was a plant and decided
to use him for our advantage. He fed him the location, then set up this
alternate venue afterwards."
Partridge nodded. It all
made sense.
"The bodies and corpses are
for show." said the Cleric. "You let the TetraGrammaton know the fake
location, fill it with bodies and the kind of material that is present
at EC-10 deals so that it looks good forensically, then torch the whole
lot and pretend you all died. The TetraGrammaton finds the ash and
charred bone and decides that you’re dead and the art is destroyed."
Mary nodded, crossed her
arms and raised her eyebrows, smirking.
"Very good. I can tell
you’ve been reading those Conan-Doyle books we sent you."
"I guess I’m here to tell
the right story." Partridge continued. "I confronted you all and,
rather than be captured, you triggered incendiary bombs. I saw you all
burn. As a Cleric, my testimony seals the matter closed. The Resistance
wins and Father believes he‘s won."
"Conan-Doyle my arse." said
Shamus. "You can tell he’s a Cleric."
"Just one last thing." said
Partridge. "Why the hell wasn’t I told?"
There was a halt in the
room, Partridge’s anger and…yes, hurt… at being left out of the
loop took everyone by surprise, even him.
"It was in case you were
taken." said Shamus eventually.
"I’m so sorry." said Mary,
her face understanding, her eyes never leaving his. "We couldn’t take
the risk. Errol, you have to understand, in may ways, you are our most
vulnerable member, surrounded every day by people trained and dedicated
to detecting emotion in others. If we told you the whole plan, and you
were then captured…"
She shook her head.
"It would have all been
over."
"You took a risk on how I’d
react." he continued. "I thought we were coming to kill you. How did
you know I’d make it down here, keep them at bay long enough to get
your message?"
Mary’s eyes never left his
as she replied with total conviction.
"Because I have faith in
you. Because you‘ve never let me down."
And then, as suddenly afraid
that her eyes had revealed too much, she broke the gauze and turned
away.
"We don’t have much time.
Everyone’s at the deal. We just need you."
Partridge nodded. The dealer
who would only deal if he was in the room. The dealer who wanted to see
his face.
He felt the reassuring
weight of the SP-10’s on his arms, their chambers holding 10mm slugs,
ready for use.
Don’t make me use these,
whoever you are.
Further down the tunnel, was
a doorway, beyond that doorway was a room. A room full of crates, some
of which were open to display their ancient, beautiful and illegal
treasures. Paintings, books, CD’s. Eight Resistance fighters stood in
the room, including Mary, Shamus and Kemp. On the far side of the room,
a hooded figure strode into view, out of the shadows. And next to Mary,
Cleric Errol Partridge felt adrenalin flush through his system. He knew
as soon as the figure moved. You could tell. Gun-Kata leaves a mark on
a person. All those years of training, conditioning, fighting. It’s
practitioners all moved a certain way. Cat-like. Fluid. Maybe the
untrained eye would never spot it, but to another practitioner…
It was unmistakeable.
And it was this Gun-Kata
grace that he saw in the cloaked, hooded figure before him.
But only one type of person
would know the Katas. Only one type of person would have the years and
time to dedicate to a Martial Art that involved evading not firsts or
blades but gunfire. Only one type of person would have access
to the Grammaton Monks who taught the system and held it‘s secrets.
A Cleric.
The holster triggered like a
gunshot, making everyone in the room jump except for the two people who
directly involved. The Targeter, and the Targeted.
"What are you doing?" cried
Kemp, as Partridge held his weapon steady on the dealer. The other
Resistance fighters all brought their weapons up, confused.
"That Dealer is a Cleric."
said Partridge, mind preparing him a Kata. Cleric versus Cleric
Gun-Kata. That had never been done before. It had been discussed in
theory, observed in simulation.
But never in practice.
"What?" Shamus swung his
shotgun into focus on the dealer.
"He’s right." said a smooth,
female voice. "But I’m a she. Not a he."
And the figure pulled back
it’s cloak to reveal sharp blond hair, an face of ice-cool beauty
devoid of any makeup.
Cleric Tate stood before
them, relaxed and controlled.
"And I’m just like you,
Partridge." she let her jade green eyes linger on him, sizing up his
possible reactions.
"Because just like you, I
feel."
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