01. DUTY
White had never suited Wayne; it softened the sharp angles of his face and made him look almost human.
Bastard, thought Partridge, buckling his seatbelt. It was more of a habit than a precaution, what with the driver in a Prozium-induced stupor or whatever drug cocktail they pumped into the nameless types. Granted, the streets in these parts were never as quiet as those in the city, with rebels lurking in every corner (or so said the pamphlets in the Palace of Justice) so it was just as well the state vehicle moved at its sluggish pace.
Rain tapped the cool windows like children's fingers but Wayne seemed not to see it, absently wiping a stain just under the collar of his black uniform. His gloves, supple black leather, came away with something wet and dark that made Partridge's stomach lurch for the fifth time in the man's presence that day.
His meagre breakfast would look all too colourful on the white seats.
He took a steady breath and looked out the window, at the husks of buildings that lined the asphalt they'd lain over the people that couldn't outrun the tanks. Thirty years and he could still feel the flamethrower cooling in his hands after the first Scouring. He'd been one of the early recruits, orphaned by the war and hardened by the streets, hanging off Father's words like a man starved. His first dose was a prototype they'd tell him later, and had him retching like a sick dog while he shivered in an army-standard cot for a week. In a particularly painful spasm, he'd called out for a mother he barely remembered and someone had slapped him, hard enough to jar his teeth, and forced something bitter down his throat. When he'd come to, it was as if he'd been reborn in ice. When he'd snapped a rebel boy's neck, he'd dropped the dead child like a broken toy.
"Something wrong, Cleric?" Wayne's words were free of any real curiosity or concern, but the sharpness of his eyes was as unsettling as the way he had soundlessly drawn out a handkerchief and was wiping his gloved hands.
In a way, it was Wayne's brand of camaraderie, teasing him with questions they both knew he didn't care to know the answers to. If he said it was nothing, then he'd be questioned about the tenseness of his jaw and the subtle weight of his left pocket.
"Stomach pains," he said with a slight shrug of his shoulders, "I will be seeing a medic when we arrive."
Wayne looked at him for a moment before turning his attention to his window, muttering something nondescript about frequent check-ups. The handkerchief had disappeared as had the rain, bright sunlight pushing its way over jagged rooftops. A band of light fell over the younger man's face and, to his horror, Partridge felt a different lurch in his stomach.
Nearly three weeks, Errol. You should know better.
And he did but the hands under his gloves itched for skin, be it that of a woman whose name he'd never learn or that of a man young enough to be his son. Either option could mean execution or worse: processing. He'd seen the files, heard the confessions between the screams and the sobbing, felt the hot blood in his hands.
Strangely enough, he found himself wondering if Preston's bullet to his jugular would be worth biting the man's lips and tasting the blood, the surprise. Would those unsmiling lips part in their surprise like the petals of some exotic, poisonous flower or – a delicious, horrible thrill went through him – would they press back in the same desperation?
Wayne shifted slightly beside him. "Why didn't you just leave it for the evidentiary team to collect and log?"
Partridge frowned in what he hoped was a good imitation of confusion, ignoring the way his heart thumped almost painfully when Wayne titled his head , exposing the juncture between his neck and his jaw. The other man's eyes flickered downwards pointedly.
The bloody book. Of course.
It must have slipped out when they'd taken a sharp turn and Wayne had just been waiting for the right moment to bring it up. Partridge willed his hands to not tremble as he pulled out the thin book in one swift movement, opening it and quickly turning the pages as if looking at something vaguely uninteresting. He was hyperaware of Wayne's eyes flickering between his face and the half-burnt cover. "They miss things sometimes. I thought I'd take it down myself." He shut it and tucked it away, half-smiling. "Get it done properly." He looked back to the window.
The weight of Wayne's stare lifted after a few moments, and something took hold of Partridge, hooks dragging at his throat, forcing out the words.
"How long Preston? Till all this is gone? Till we burn every last bit of it?" He cursed the bitterness in his voice.
"Resources are tight. We'll get it all eventually." Wayne smiled, if one could call the slight pull of his lips that.
He hasn't heard me at all, the fool. Maybe it's for the best.
The car stopped abruptly at a stretch of concrete – they'd reached the city walls. Here, the sunlight seemed to disappear again. Officers in black coats and helmets shouldered their guns to glance at identity cards before gesturing to their counterparts at the gates. Black, steel doors bearing a familiar insignia hissed as they slid open, giving way to the white sedan.
Through the closed windows, Father's sonorous voice was little more than a murmur but Partridge was not surprised to see Wayne unconsciously mouthing the words.
Libria, I congratulate you. At last, peace reigns in the heart of man. At last, war is but a word whose meaning fades from our understanding. At last, we are whole. Librians, there is a disease in the heart of man. Its symptom if hate. Its symptom is anger. Its symptom is rage. Its symptom is war.
The screens above the plazas and offices changed from Father's face to a startlingly crisp mushroom cloud rising over the Old City, then soldiers running over exploding fields and corpses, their too-young faces grimed with soot and blood.
The disease...is human emotion. But Libria, I congratulate you. For there is a cure for this disease. At the cost of the dizzying highs of human emotion, we have suppressed its abysmal lows. And you as a society have embraced this cure: Prozium.
Now the image was that of the glass capsule with its yellow liquid and its promise of hope, of peace, of...nothingness. Partridge swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat.
Now we are at peace with ourselves, and humankind is one. War is gone. Hate, a memory.
Blood blossoming on the rebels' chests, their faces, soaking their hair as they lay motionless, painful breaths pushing through broken ribs, bones crunching under heavy black boots.
We are our own conscience now. And it is this conscience that guides us to rate EC-10 for emotional content all those things that might tempt us to feel again...and destroy them.
The Mona Lisa, exquisite in its age, in its fragility, burning, burning...
Librians, you have won. Against all odds and your own natures...you have survived.
Wayne's eyes met his, bright hazel on weary blue. In another lifetime, this would've been a passionate man, a brooding thinker, a zealous lover. And for a moment, Partridge saw that other man from behind the mask – Bruce – but the beeping of their watches jarred him back to reality and the black device in Wayne's gloved hand.
"Every time we come from the Nethers to the city, it reminds me why we do what we do."
"It does?"
Wayne looked at him sharply. "I beg your pardon."
Partridge didn't dare look him in the eye – he'd given away enough already – instead injecting the faux-serum into his bloodstream. He gave the appropriate nod and the accompanying lie. "It does."
Slipping into the room with Kara's warm hand on the crook of his arm, Kal thought he'd never seen half these people. It was as if everyone in the building had dropped whatever they were doing and squeezed into the conference room. The normally cool room felt stuffy and more than one elbow dug into his side. There weren't enough chairs around the table, large that it was, in the middle of the room so people had taken to crowding around it. No one dared float despite the weak jokes and half-hearted dares; no intern was looking to be fired over an embarrassing display – or falling on a council member.
Taking a closer look, Kal realized everyone was wearing their formal House shoulder cloaks over their robes. Like Kara, his was red with a thin golden trim, simple compared to the embroidered, heavy fashion of those of others nearby. Kryptonians usually reserved their finer cloaks for social functions and political events, not emergency council meetings.
Unless there is something to make a statement about.
"Ahem."
Murmured conversations fell silent as Jor-El took his place at the head of the table. He was broad-shouldered as Kal but his eyes were a silver gray, like his hair, and seemed to address every individual with a single sweep around the room. His shoulder cloak was the same red as that of his son and niece but of a richer fabric – almost like what humans call velvet – and embellished with the golden symbols that denoted his status as the head of his House.
"My apologies for disrupting your busy day, tantho1and tyntho2, but the council would like your assistance on a matter of great importance."
"Please, drygur molium3, we are most honoured to serve the council." This came from a man with a long white braid across one shoulder.
There was a general sound of agreement from the group.
"Very well," said Jor-El, "The humans have proposed another treaty." He held up a hand, silencing the scoffing and sighs. "This treaty comes from Libria which you all know is..." He trailed off, looking around meaningfully.
After a few moments of confused silence and Kara's insistent look, Kal nervously raised a hand.
"Yes?"
All eyes turned to him.
"Libria is a city-state in the former Federal Republic of Germany in the European continent of the planet Earth. It was established after the Third World War in human history and is led by a figure called Father." He finished, nervously smoothing away an errant curl from his forehead.
"Thank you, Kal4," Jor-El smiled warmly at him before turning his attention back to the crowd, some of whom were processing the double meaning of his name. He tapped something on the table, conjuring a holo on a wall. "This is the message sent to us by the Librian leader, 'Father' as it were."
The holo was surprisingly good for a human projection, capturing each subtle shift of the man's face. From what Kal had seen in digitals, humans, despite being aliens, looked very much like Kryptonians. However, they aged faster and were less agile, and the sun of their planet sustained it, yes, but did not change their limited strength or give them the ability to fly.
This human in particular was of Asian descent – Kal recalled the term faintly – with a shaven head and a long white moustache. His dark eyes had the piercing look of an Earth bird of prey – a hawk, yes, that was it.
"Our translators have done their best to interpret the meaning of the message you are about to see." Jor-El pressed another button and the holo began to speak, Kryptonian lettering appearing simultaneously underneath.
Greetings, people of Krypton. I am the Father of Libria and wish you nothing but peace and prosperity. It has been bought to my attention that several others of our kind have tried to make contact with your people in hopes of an alliance but such labours bore no fruit. Humans have a history of destruction, manipulation and greed, and your hesitance is completely understandable. I assure you things are different in Libria. What makes it unique from other human societies is its solution for the problems that have plagued humanity since its inception: emotions.
Kal, to the bemusement of those standing next to him, was furiously taking notes by hand. When they glanced over, their bemusement turned to surprise and shock – he was writing in English.
Let me explain. In the first years of the 21st century, a third World War broke out. Those of us who survived knew mankind could not survive a fourth, that our own volatile natures could simply no longer be risked. That the true source of inhumanity to man was his ability...to feel. The greatest scientists of our society came together to create Prozium, a substance that suppresses the emotions of humans, thus putting an end to the cruelty and barbarianism man suffered at the hands of his own kind. In Libria, there is no war, no murder, only peace and progress.
"Ridiculous," muttered the man with the white braid.
A woman with short green nodded in agreement, snorting.
I know what you are thinking: what guarantee is there? How do you know we are not creating an elaborate hoax to gain an invaluable ally? This is precisely why I humbly extend an invitation to a candidate from your planet to ours, a cultural agent if you will, to observe life in Librian society and how we are taking the necessary steps to eliminate the problems once thought inherent in mankind. Your chosen candidate will be partnered with our finest Grammaton Cleric, an enforcer of Librian law, and thus see our world from the viewpoint of one who works daily to keep our society safe and prosperous. All accommodations and costs for your candidate will be provided. I sincerely hope that you consider our invitation, and in time, a possibility of an alliance between our peoples. A bright future is ours if we allow it. Let us walk away from the darkness, towards the light. Peace to you all.
The holo faded away. And everyone began to speak at once.
"This is your chance, Kal."
Kal looked to his cousin, brows raised. "What? Me? Kara, your confidence is aspiring but...I'm just a simple reporter, a paper-pusher two rooms from Archives. I'm a nobody. And besides, Father choosing me – wouldn't it seem biased?"
Kara frowned. "How many of these meetings have you attended, cousin? Such decisions are based on votes."
"More reason to forget it all together."
"But Kal, you're...obsessed with humans! It's all you ever talk about, all that's ever interested in you. You're the perfect candidate!"
He stared; it wasn't like his cousin to lose her composure so easily. She huffed, folding her arms, looking pointedly ahead.
"Good people, please." Jor-El's voice rose over the conversations which quickly died away. "Firstly, we have decided to accept this most gracious offer."
Cries of shock and outrage rang out through the room.
"What?"
"Are you insane?"
"These are humans, for Rao's sake. They are not to be trusted!"
Jor-El waited patiently for the noise to stop before continuing. "No one here is obliged to do anything but your confidence in our wisdom is kindly requested." He paused, looking around with a much cooler gaze than before. "We are well aware that this is a risk but such a request is most unusual – and admittedly, most interesting. Humans have never presented a risk to us and are, in all honesty, a much frailer people and it is our responsibility to extend friendship to those who have earned it. Who knows? Perhaps they will surprise us." He rose, clasping his hands in front of him. "Is there is anyone here who wishes to accept the invitation on our behalf?"
He was met with silence.
"I understand your hesitance, your worry, your mistrust. And I warn you that this will be no easy experience. Your communication with Krypton will be limited and mostly for reporting purposes. You will be partnered with a human officer but will be required to conceal most of your gifts."
A few gasps.
"At this stage, humans know little of us other than our further advanced technology and our limited wars. We think it best to keep the focus on their people and not ours, in the event that their claims are, as many of you say, false. So I urge those who are considering serving the council in this most invaluable manner to think wisely. It is a great honour and yet, a great risk."
Kal hesitated – a people without emotions – but the weight of Kara's stare and that of his childhood fantasies pushed him forward, at the forefront of the crowd. His skin prickled as everyone looked at him again, this time gaping instead of merely looking, but he adjusted his cloak and cleared his throat. "I would be honoured, drygur molium. Father."
As he watched Partridge disappear into the crowd of muted grays and pale blues, Bruce couldn't help but feel...well, nothing except the prickling sensation on his skin when something was amiss. His partner was a decent man and a seasoned veteran, one of the first Clerics but in his old age, he was becoming increasingly careless in both his work – and his facade. To the naked eye, he seemed as stable and calm as any Librian but to the trained gaze of a Grammaton Cleric, Partridge was as transparent as the holos they used at the monastery training programs.
And just as dangerous.
Taking a deep breath of filtered air, air cleaner than the almost-toxic fumes of the Nethers, Bruce entered the brisk flow of people going west. Their blank faces and the spaces between them satisfied him but he kept his eyes sharp and his mind clear. Not that the guards at each column by the Palace were inadequate, what with the young Clerics-in-training guiding their force and weapons with small fingers, but Bruce had years of training and honed instincts, things the children had yet to learn.
A man in a dark gray tunic stumbled, bumping into an Asian woman who fluidly turned and walked in the opposite direction. Bruce locked eyes with her as she passed and noting his uniform, she nodded tightly. Before he made another move, two guards had made in their way into the crowd and were dragging the man towards a dark-haired boy standing on a small platform at the foot of a column. He wore the crisp, black uniform of the monastery and his blue eyes were cool as he said something to the guards, and they took the screaming man away. The boy straightened, hands clasped behind his back, returning his attention to the pedestrians.
They're getting better, Bruce duly noted.
A shadow fell over the crowd as a blimp passed overhead, Father's face looking down on them, watchful eyes reminding them all of the small price for the grand buildings around them, the towers of glass and steel a testament to their victory. The blimp disappeared over the high walls of the Palace of Justice and the warmth of sunlight returned.
Bruce climbed the wide Palace steps, returning the nods of those who passed. The mechanical voices of computers echoed from hidden speakers:
The following items have been rated EC-10 – condemned – seven works of two-dimensional illustrated material, seven discs of musical content, 20 interactive strategy computer programs...
Marble clicked rhythmically under his boots as he approached the front desk. There was a new woman there, blank-faced as she ran the identity card under the scanner and returned it to him without touching his gloved fingers. He murmured a quick "thank you", and made his way to the elevators. One of the nine sets of doors slid open and there was a quick exchange of those leaving and entering. They stood in silence, eyes on the light that worked its way up the numbers, not touching. On the seventeenth floor, Bruce exited and made for his table but the beeping of his phone stopped him mid-stride. The slight change in frequency of the tone meant it was a call from the head office.
"Wayne," he answered.
"Cleric," the voice was decidedly male and unremarkable, "You have been summoned by Vice-Council Ducard of the Third Conciliary of the Tetragrammaton. Your presence is required immediately."
"Understood." He shut the phone and waited patiently for an elevator.
Glossary
(1) tantho: Plural of tanth, a term of respect for a man. Akin to "gentlemen".
(2) tyntho: Plural of tynth, the feminine of Tanth. Tynth means, roughly, Lady, or Madame.
(3) drygur molium: The leader of the Science Council.
(4) kal: Child; hence, Kal-El means Star Child
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