"Growth demands a temporary surrender of security. It may mean a giving up of familiar but limiting patterns, safe but unrewarding work, values no longer believed in, relationships that have lost their meaning. As Dostoevsky put it, 'Taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most.' The real fear should be of the opposite course."
--Gail Sheehy, author
"It's going to be hard for Simon," Libra said. "Having to explain your absence from duty."
"But I'm not absent," Spartan said. "I'm still pursuing enquiries."
"Yeah," Libra replied. "Only you're skipping your ongoing surveillance duty, and you're striking out on your own here, without sanction."
"Without official backup, either, if truth be told," Spartan added. "If I'm caught doing this, I can't call for backup or they'll start asking what I'm doing hanging around with a civilian miles away from my assigned station." He stretched his arms. "That fuckin' white van is cramped, hot and smelly. I swear the last surveillance team before us had curries."
Spartan looked at the city around him. From their current high vantage point atop the Maths Tower of the University, huge stretches of Manchester could be seen in all directions. Below them, oblivious students strolled about on the street below.
"Well?" Spartan said. "Aren't you going to ask?"
"I didn't know I had to ask," Libra said.
Spartan smiled. "I asked Blaster to search for the current activities of the men I managed to identify. He's keeping the other two close to his chest, but I suspect the third guy has already split from these two yahoos already, and effectively the two we're after are on their own." He tapped the side of his nose. "I know where they live."
"Could the third guy's absence explain why the other two came out of the closet, so to speak, yesterday?" Libra asked. "Do you think they've been lying low on the ringleader's instructions, and it's only been his charisma that's kept a lid on them from doing what they're doing now?"
"You mean the big guy's been the lid on the pot all this time?" Spartan asked. "Seems like it."
"Is he still in town?" Libra asked.
"Oh, be sure of it," Spartan replied. "I've got this feeling in my bones. He's let these bastards off their leash for a purpose, and he's still hanging around, waiting for them to being Armageddon to town."
There was a rumble overhead. Both men looked up at the grey, lowering clouds.
"From your mouth to the Heralds' ears," Libra said.
"Not the best place to be right now," Spartan ventured. "On the roof of a tall building in the middle of a thunderstorm."
Libra nodded. "You're right. Let's go." He made his way for the door. Spartan restrained him with a hand on his shoulder.
"There's a reason I called you up here," he told Libra. He dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out an object which he presented to Libra, holding it by the barrel. "You may need this."
Libra looked at the nine millimetre automatic pistol in Spartan's hand, the stock presented for him to take. His face was a mask of impassivity, betraying no emotion.
"It'd be so easy ..." Libra said.
"It's for your protection," Spartan said. "It came with a haul of weapons we intercepted in Belfast." He looked Libra in the eye. "There's two more like them waiting for you in the car. Libra, they are mint condition, straight from the factory. Absolutely virgin. Never been fired, so there are no ballistic records."
Libra caught himself reaching for the gun.
"If I didn't know you better," Spartan said, "I'd swear you were dithering."
Still Libra wouldn't go for the gun. "You're right," Libra said. "You don't know me better. There's a lot of history between me and guns. I -"
"If it'll help," Spartan interrupted, "it isn't loaded. I've got a couple of clips and some loose rounds in the other pocket, but the one currently in this pistol's empty."
Libra fought with his conscience one last time; then with a sigh, partly of resignation, partly of relief, he reached for the weapon, took firm hold of the stock.
Libra held the gun so that he could read the markings on the side. "Made last year," he said, running his fingers over smooth, matt black metal. It felt cold and heavy in his hands, a dormant holy symbol of destruction and death that only awaited a finger's pull to awaken it.
A long - forgotten feeling crept up Libra's spine, reminding him of why he'd put down the gun, so long ago. "Hello, old friend," he said, mostly to himself, as he looked at the gun. Then he opened her up to inspect the chamber in case there was a round inside. Empty.
"What? The pistol?" Spartan asked.
"No," Libra replied. "The fear." He looked up, as he absently removed the magazine from the base of the stock. Stowing the gun in his pocket, he reached his hand out to Spartan, who came up with a handful of rounds from his pocket, as promised. Libra thumbed the rounds into the magazine and looked up at the grey clouds. Another, louder rumble came from above.
Libra looked down at Spartan, saw blank incomprehension.
"I first felt it during training," he said. "The first time I picked up a gun for live target practice. It was a Smith & Wesson revolver, chambered for six rimfire rounds. The sixth chamber was empty; we'd been issued with five rounds apiece. Paper targets, easy shooting.
"The instructor gave us all what felt like an hour's worth of instruction on how you had to protect your gun, grow to love it, make it a part of you; how you had to caress and squeeze the trigger like a lover, instead of tugging at it, and all that.
"And then we each had to don our ear protectors and goggles, step forward and inspect the guns on the tables before us. The instructor thought it'd be cooler if instead of being assigned a gun, we chose one for ourselves and stick with it through training."
"That way, you'd be familiar with it," Spartan said.
"Afterwards, we moved on to the heavier weapons, the SA80 and all that. But that first time I picked up a handgun, I nearly shat myself," Libra replied.
"Why?"
"Because I knew that, say, you could use a knife to stab a guy in the gut and kill, or you could carve a chicken or maybe save a life with it. You could light a match and make a fire to keep you and your mates warm in the wilderness, or set light to a Molotov cocktail and burn down a house with it. But there's only one use for a handgun. To kill humans."
"And that's what you felt just now?" Spartan said.
Libra nodded. "If this thing is going to be used," he said, "someone on the other end is going to die."
"Well, put it in perspective," Spartan said. "Remember, you'll be pointing it at the crazy fuckers who killed Blaster's brother." He took out his own pistol, cocked it. "And I have no qualms about using this thing in the performance of my duty, if it comes to facing one of those maniacs down, I can tell you."
There came a knock on the driver's side door of the van. DS Croft stared out the side window. Two CID officers stared in.
"We're your relief," said one of them. "Where's DS Huntington?"
"He's ..." Simon said, trying to think of something.
"He's got a woman on the side," the second officer said, with a sly wink. "That's it, innit?"
Simon nodded quietly, unable to think of anything else. "If DI Warburton finds out ..."
The lads chuckled. "What d' you think we get up to all night during the blue shift? Sit in here and eat curries?"
Simon shrugged, thought of Helen Brennan back home and let his expression change, become sly, slightly shifty. "You should have seen her," he said, in a low whisper. "Blonde, with big ..." He held out his hands in front of him. "Sisters," he finished.
The policemen chuckled again, a knowing, leering laughter like Sid James from the old Carry On films. Simon opened the door, got out. One of the officers handed DS Croft the keys to the car. They then piled in past him to take over.
Simon sighed with relief as the van drove away, leaving him standing beside the car. Taking in his surroundings, Simon Croft saw nothing but green grass, heard nothing but the wind and the rumble of thunder from overhead. There was a railway track close by, atop a steep, grassy fenced off embankment. There wasn't a train due for an hour. No people. It was as silent as a grave.
A couple of swallows flew by, low to the ground, screeching. A magpie skimmed the road just ahead, a black and white shape emitting a weird, raucous cry. Simon lifted the collar of his jacket; it was going to rain. Opening the car door, he climbed into the driver's seat, swore and left the window open.
"Oh, bloody Hell," he said. "Curries again."
Spartan's mobile phone rang as Libra drove through the streets of Manchester. Spartan picked it up. "Detective Sergeant Huntington," he said.
"DS Croft," Simon replied. "Where are you?"
"Oxford Road," Spartan replied. "Heading north, into the centre of town."
"Did you get the information Blaster sent you?" Simon asked.
"I did," Spartan said. "Proceeding to act on information received."
"No, don't," Simon replied. "I've been giving this a lot of thought, and you really can't do this on your own."
"Why not?"
"Well, for one thing," Simon said, "you two'll blow your cover. Also, DI Warburton will just jump all over you if he finds out you're ... chosen."
"I know," Spartan replied. "It's a risk we're going to have to take. These shits're going down, and they're going down /today/."
"Yes, but not at the risk of your identities!" DS Croft said. "Is Libra with you?" he asked.
Spartan glanced across to Libra, who was driving. "He is," Spartan said.
"Well, ask him what the value is of having a good, solid cover in a position of authority," DS Croft said. "We need more imbued like you, like Helen, inside the Machine; in places where you can fight the good fight - not on the streets, but within the police."
Spartan was silent a moment, as he thought about his job, and what it meant to other imbued to come.
"He's right," Libra said.
"Your super sight also give you super hearing, too?" Spartan snapped to Libra. Libra smiled.
"I am where I am," Libra said, "because I am a damned good personnel manager. I know people; they've been my trade for donkeys' years. And the last I recall, imbued are people, each with their own skill sets, each being able to contribute something new to the hunt, beside our glowy tricks and the sight."
"Such as?"
"Blaster's shithot hacking skills and all those databases he has access to," Libra said. "Zeiss's eye for the camera. Vagabond's teaching skills. Triage's compassion ... and access to some impressive pharmaceuticals." Libra smiled. "Just the thing if you need to stop a hitchhiking ghost in its tracks without killing its human host." He looked at Spartan.
"You, on the other hand, have authority. You are rated for firearms. You can tell who's bent in the Force on sight, if they're blood puppets; and I'm sure your keen nose for evidence can quickly sniff out all their dirty little secrets, so you can do your thing to keep the heavies off our back. Maybe, with a little knowledge, you can even get someone in higher office to convince DI Warburton to drop his little investigation into the imbued."
"Leave that to me," said DS Croft, over the phone. "I know Johnny Warburton better than either of you two, and he owes me more than a few favours, believe me."
"So, what are you trying to say?"
"We're all different," Libra said. "All that fighting on the list proves it. We're all falling out with each other because of the differences in how we all go about hunting. We're forgetting something that's so vital to us all that we ignore it at our peril, and yet if we take advantage of it, we can all pull together, hunters and bystanders alike, and really give these monsters the bloody nose they deserve."
"And what's that?" Spartan asked.
"You are ... a policeman," Libra said. "So's DS Croft. So's Helen Brennan. I ... am a business manager. Zeiss ... is a student."
"And?"
"Zeiss likes to step back and assess the Big Picture all the time," Libra said. "It's his way. Say, though, he bumps into an imbued from the Liverpool Posse whose approach to the hunt consists of wading in and whacking rots with a glowing stick. Like Vestal. She's a Year Two student, reading for a degree in computers, like Zeiss." Libra shrugged. "They may not agree on the methods they use in the hunt ... but they can agree to an interest in the same thing."
"They're students," Spartan said.
"And that means that they have more in common than they at first thought," Libra replied.
Spartan paused. "And what, exactly, were you smoking when this came to you?"
"It just seemed to me that if Zeiss spotted a student in his college, freshly imbued, he could do more to earn that student's trust by being a student than an imbued," Libra said. "As a student, Zeiss would be confident he knows where the other guy's coming from, no matter what." He grinned. "Two different kinds of hunter, but they both already speak the same language."
The silence from the phone, and from the passenger, spoke volumes.
"That phone call's going to cost a fortune," Libra said. "Simon, where can we meet?"
"How about that place you and Spartan went to the other day?" DS Croft replied. "That place with the hippies and whatever."
"D'you know how to get to Tib Street?" Spartan asked.
"I know now," DS Croft replied.
"All right," Spartan said. "We'll be there for you." He hung up, looked at Libra. "We," he said, "have got to talk."
After meeting in the cafe at 14:17, the men proceeded to Simon's car where they'd left it in the nearest car park; where they continued the heated debate for some time, only finally agreeing to a course of action after bouts of arguing, sullen silence, opening the car door and pacing about a bit, leaning against the perimeter railing, more sullen silence and, finally, acquiescence and compromise.
By 16:02, the new plan was set in motion.
An anonymous phone call made from a public phone booth in the city centre, Manchester, tipped off the police to the whereabouts of the "urban terrorists" who'd caused the ruckus in South Manchester the night before. The anonymous tipster also warned them of the fact that these urban terrorists had access to Semtex explosives.
At 16:03, the Tactical Support Group was scrambling into the vans, and burning rubber out of the yard as all nearby mobile units were being called in to seal off a street in South Manchester, preparatory to the raid.
The tipster specified one thing. No hostages. There was no need for it to be a siege.
At 16:12, Detective Inspector Warburton received the telephone call while discussing the finer points of owning a Jaguar as compared to a BMW with his colleagues at the Nineteenth Hole. A few moments' silent listening, and he barked a single order down the line: "You are authorised for immediate go. I'll be there shortly."
At the same time, the units were quietly sliding into position, blocking off the ends of the street. This street consisted of two long rows of terraced houses, red brick facades and soulless windows facing directly onto the street. No gardens; only cramped, brick walled back yards and narrow little back streets with damp and mould and unidentifiable debris on the floor, and the delicate webbing of washing lines waving in the breeze.
Quietly, officers slipped around the backs, knocking on doors, advising the occupants to leave immediately and quietly round the back, for their own safety. As they approached the houses adjacent to the suspect premises, the officers ducked to avoid being seen, virtually crawling into the slimy green concrete back yards to warn their innocent neighbours as, in the house across the street, two men set up a discreet surveillance observation post looking into the suspects' premises.
At 16:30, the units were in place, awaiting DI Warburton.
Detective Sergeants Croft and Huntington sat in the obbo post opposite the extremists' premises, watching and waiting.
"Where's Libra?" Croft asked.
"Waiting," Spartan said. "The place is crawling with cops right now, so he can't be seen. But the next part of the operation is his baby."
"And that is?"
"We only told DI Warburton half a truth, remember?" Spartan said.
"There aren't two of the wackos inside there, are there?" Croft said.
"Only Brown Jacket Guy," Spartan said. "God knows where the Spill Yer Pint man is."
Thomas Warner, Brown Jacket Guy, never knew what hit him.
In fact, it was the butt of a rifle, wielded by a TSG officer in full body armour, who'd sneaked into the house through the back door, whilst Thomas had been sitting quietly in the living room of the house, cleaning a gun. Parts of the field - stripped weapon lay on a sheet of newspaper in the middle of the floor. Two clips and ammunition lay on the paper beside the gun parts, the tools and the gun oil dispenser.
The credit for the collar went to Detective Inspector Warburton.
Spartan and Simon Croft stood in the quiet street, as the semi - conscious Thomas Warner was led out of the house in handcuffs to be bundled into the back of the police van, and forensics officers clad from top to toe in their disposable white overalls shuffled into the house like sterilised Teletubbies.
As barriers started to come down, and the murmuring crowds began to return to their homes, Spartan and DS Croft looked at one another, concerned.
"He's on his own," DS Croft said.
"He'll be all right," Spartan replied.
Halfway across town was a loading dock, adjoining the Manchester Ship Canal. The stacks of containers made this dock look like a high walled maze.
Sean Hoskins, the bald man with the piercings, the black jacket and the blue canvas trousers, strolled along the docks, clutching a piece of paper in one hand, a crowbar in the other. The paper had the reference to a specific container, one of many stacked on the side of the waters of the canal.
Rounding a corner, he turned right and entered the particular corridor he sought. The third alley to the left had the container he was after; a green container marked "TRANSSHIP Malaysia." Approaching the container, Sean Hoskins checked the padlock and chain. He fished in his pockets for the key, then unlocked the container. The steel chain rattled as it fell to the ground; the right hand container door swung open noisily.
The interior was dark, with a fetid smell of stale air. Dust clouds greeted Sean as he peered into the murk, waving his hands to clear away the dust.
Inside was the cargo he was after. Boxes, stacked high on one another, marked "Farming Equipment." Sean went over to one of the boxes, forced it open with the crowbar.
The guns were there, just like his contact said.
"Sean Hoskins," said a voice from behind him. Sean grabbed an assault rifle, hauled it out of its crate with a clod of straw, spun and aimed the weapon, pulled the trigger.
The entrance was empty. The weapon did not have a magazine loaded, and it clicked futilely. Sean snarled, reached into his pocket and drew out his nine mil handgun. Aiming it at the entrance, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his free hand.
"Come out, you bastard," said the voice, "or I'll make you pay."
"Show yerself, yer fuck!" screamed Sean, loosing off a few rounds. The bullets tore holes into the wall of the container opposite, and succeeded only in causing someone else an unexpected insurance nightmare in the morning.
"I can wait you out," said the voice.
"I've got more ammo in here than Soft Joe, so just try it!" Sean hollered.
In reply, the door began to swing shut.
Sean Hoskins yelled, fired his weapon at the heavy container door until the ammunition ran out. The door remained half closed. Sean rummaged in the crate, found a clip of 7.62 NATO rounds for the assault rifle he'd picked up, fitted it in place, chambered the first round. Sean bellowed with rage, surged forwards towards the door. Screaming his fury to the world, his face reddened and contorted with hatred beyond sane human standards, the extremist stepped out into the light, turning left, then right, spraying bullets down the alley. The roar of the assault rifle on full automatic echoed deafeningly in the alleys of the container maze, and spent rounds crashed into, and through, the heavy container walls.
Finally, Sean stood in the empty container alley, the assault rifle clicking empty, the extremist's face still red with blind rage.
"Here I am, shithead," said Libra, from behind him. Libra stepped out from around the intersection further along the alley, his own pistol already out and aiming at Sean.
Libra found himself staring at Sean's crucifix.
Sean smiled at Libra, and screamed a defiant curse. As the Wrath of God gathered around the holy symbol, and the air around them both began to burn, Libra suddenly found himself screaming one word: "OI!"
The column of blazing light spent itself, crossing the gap between Sean Hoskins and Libra. It never connected. A few feet from the point of origin, Something deflected Sean's aim. The blast went wide.
It went, instead, into the open container by Sean Hoskins' side. The container which housed all the weapons.
"So tell me, then, Mr Stewart," said Mr Singh, sitting in the comfy chair under the living room window of the Singh home in Oldham, "are you going home today?"
"I am," Libra replied, sitting across the living room, a cup of tea in his hand. "Later this afternoon, my friends are going to swing by here to pick me up and bring me home." He smiled. "The hotelier will miss me; I've paid my way this last week by going into the vacant rooms and making the beds for him, tidying up and making them ready for guests. I make beds to pass military inspections. He's never seen his rooms so tidy."
"You have good friends," Mr Singh said. "That Mr Martin was very kind, to offer to help my nephew rebuild the business. But his offer was unnecessary; we already have plenty of hands."
"His generosity," Libra said, "is an asset to my business."
"Have you made him a director of your firm yet?" Mr Singh asked. "He has a remarkable grasp of the drives that motivate people."
"I've considered it," Libra replied. "I'll see how he's coped with handling the business in my absence on Monday. But I've got enough faith in him that I know I'll be able to give him the added responsibility, should I need it."
"Sorry for changing the subject, but how did you avoid being blown away when the ammo dump went up?" DS Croft asked, from a comfy chair opposite Mr Singh.
"I was lucky," Libra replied. "The walls of the container took the brunt of the blast. I got the wind knocked out of me. But Sean Hoskins wasn't so lucky. He was virtually standing in front of the container when it went up; the blast found an outlet through the open door. He was in its direct path. He never stood a chance."
DS Croft winced.
"I'm going to refill the pot," Mr Singh said, getting up and leaving the room.
"How about the other one? The quiet guy?" asked Libra, after a moment.
"Thomas Warner?" DS Croft said. "We found enough evidence of weapons and ammo in the house to put him away for forty years, at least. If we find that last guy, we'll send him down as well."
"Yeah," Libra said. "But there are some things we need to step back from. Some people have to fight their own fight, to prove to themselves that they still have the stones for the job."
"You mean Blaster219," said a voice from the door. The men turned, saw Chandra Singh, the hunter Arjuna, standing in the doorway, dressed in an expensive business suit.
"That's who I mean," Libra replied. "Do you think you can help him set up his new cell?"
"Afterwards," Arjuna replied. "If he'll accept my help. And after he's run that last guy to ground." He turned to face the window a moment. "There are some quarries you have to hunt down alone, if only for your own self esteem. And to ensure justice for the victims."
The men sat around, thinking deep thoughts, thinking of Blaster219.
"Funny," Spartan said. "Never thought I'd say this, but there are days when I just love the sweet smell of testosterone."
The mood broke up into laughter. Even Chandra found a reason to chuckle.
Spartan picked up his cup of tea. "I'm gonna miss you guys, when I get back home."
"Me too," DS Croft added. "Helen will be waiting for me when I get home. I suddenly feel the need to see her face, you know?"
"Here's to you guys," Libra said. "And Blaster, too. This city'll be in good hands with him in charge."
"Hear hear," said the others.
"Spartan told me that you've somehow acquired a new trick," Arjuna said to Libra.
"All I did was yell Oi, and something stopped the blast," Libra replied. "I have no idea how ... and I can guarantee I am not going to be trying the trick again, any day soon."
"Especially since, in order to test it, you'd have to stand in the line of fire," DS Croft said.
"Is this how the extremists start down the slippery slope?" Libra asked Spartan, while looking at his hands. "Getting more and more abilities, getting stronger and stronger until suddenly, something snaps?"
Spartan shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "Do you feel like you're going crazy yet?"
Libra shook his head. "No more than before," he replied. "I had that nightmare again this morning, from the end of my career in the military, from the Gulf War. But it's the same nightmare I've carried with me since '91. I don't think I've changed any."
Spartan smiled. "Well, then, you're not going crazy - at least, not today."
"When does it start?" Libra asked. "The craziness?"
"Nobody knows," Arjuna replied. "It just does. One day, we're normal, and the next ... it just happens."
"Which means, despite our best efforts to stay on top of the hunt, this time next year, we may be the ones being hunted down by our own kind," Libra replied.
"Now you know why I gave you that gun," Spartan replied.
"Why?"
"If you've got nowhere else to go, and the Things are coming through the door, you'll need one bullet. Just the one. And if you're still sane enough to use it then, you'll never need to worry about going wacko."
He emptied his teacup, put it down. "Just make sure your loved ones understand ... the first bullets may have to be for them. Believe me, you'll be doing them a favour."
By: Fiat Knox
Copyright © Fiat Knox, 2001