Читать книгу Reborn - Vin Ph.D. Jackson - Страница 10

The spot where the woman had been standing felt warm to his touch. Wishful thinking, of course. This patch of sand was the same temperature as the rest, the people he'd seen not warm at all. Sushi, that's what they were. Except for her, maybe.

He stared at where he'd seen the woman disappear, felt an urge to see her again, a desperate need. He had to go after her. Nothing seemed as imperative. Were these his thoughts, or those of the woman inside? My God, perhaps she was a lesbian! How would that affect his feelings?

He walked forward, took a deep trembling breath, froze. Then he went for it. Momentary blindness stunned him. Air exploded from his lungs. Something rammed into him. He clutched at it to prevent himself from falling. It was soft, warm. It squirmed. And it was yelling in his ear.

His sight cleared quickly, his mind too, and he realised it was a she. They parted, scrambled to their feet. He stood. She crouched, her eyes ablaze with bestial intent, her fingers curled like claws. Words failed him, so he tried an apologetic smile.

"Pervert!" The word was a rasp from a constricted throat that she hadn't used in a while.

A roar filled the air - cheers, catcalls, whistles. The pair spun, found themselves gazing at a huge crowd milling behind bands of green laser-light. An electrical barrier of some kind, its mere existence seemed at odds with the strange assortment of humanity it held at bay. Less than futuristic, these people were positively medieval, dressed like peasants from a bygone era.

The naked man gawped at the spectacle, at the out-moded clothing of the noisy rabble. "Good Lord!" he gasped.

She said: "Shit! So many! I never figured...."

A tumbler dropped. He stared at her. "You knew they'd be here?"

A sneer curled her lip. "Didn't you?" She bowed her head, dug fingers into her hair, massaging brain cells, thought: What the hell's my name? Then a comment to the man: "Someone's going to ask in a minute and I can't bloody remember...."

He was blinking, totally confused. "I don't understand any of this. What is this place?"

She watched him, tried to be objective. If anything, he was more afraid than her. Terrified, even. His eyes were all over the place, shivering like those of a cornered animal. Then they'd found something, locked onto it - something behind her. She turned, calmly, avoiding sudden movements. Don't want to fire up the natives. One was coming towards them - dark flowing robes, hood covering the face. Monkish. "You want to know where we are? Ask him."

It was meant as a facetious suggestion, but her naked companion didn't read it that way, obviously thought it was a good idea. Prick! He stepped forward, extended his free hand - the other was still doing fig-leaf impressions. He said to the monk: "Look, there must have been some mistake. I really shouldn't be here."

The hooded figure stopped before them, had either not heard or was choosing to ignore. His interlinked sleeves parted revealing hands of parchment stretched over lean talons. One cradled a small black box. A slim finger descended, tapped the box. The hood inclined slightly, not enough to reveal a face. "Name?" creaked a male voice, an old voice.

He was "looking" straight at her! Oh, God! Her jaw dropped. A gagging hiss emanated from her throat.

"Name?" repeated the holy man. No longer bored, he was growing impatient.

She appealed to the naked man at her side. Useless bastard was just standing there! Come on, man! Gimme a name, any name! Who the fuck am I? She only thought this.

He must have picked her body-language, blinked rapidly a few times. He was starting to wind up, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "Mireille," he said eventually.

"Not you," grated the monk. His extended finger pressed the black box again. The hood turned almost imperceptibly. "You - woman!"

She twitched. Her mind was blank. She'd forgotten the bloody name! "I__"

"I told you," said the man. "Her name is Mireille."

"Can't she speak for herself?" grumbled the old man irritably. He tapped his box. Then paused, finger hovering. "And your name?"

The newcomer was on the back foot momentarily, then said: "LaRoche." It was a breathless reply. He felt the need to repeat it in a more composed manner. "My name is LaRoche." Uncommon names, Mireille and LaRoche. He had no idea why they'd come to mind.

The robed figure tapped away on his box for a full half-minute, pausing occasionally to shake his head before continuing. His hood wagged in frustration. "There's something wrong. You shouldn't be here."

LaRoche sighed. "You see! Didn't I tell you that?"

The hood rose. Still no features were visible, just the glint of eyes buried deep in the shadow. They certainly resented the innuendo. "According to my calculations neither of you are ready yet. There is alternative life within you. You can't be reborn if you aren't dead."

"Who's talking dead, for Christ's sake!" Mireille had been wondering: what if she was - actually dead? Suddenly faced with the possibility, she went right off the idea. "Do we look like fucking corpses?"

LaRoche placed himself between the woman and the monk, was extra careful not to touch either. "If you'll just tell us how to find our way back we'll gladly go."

The frail heart beneath the woollen robe was racing. Dangerous for a man of his age, as were the thoughts tumbling through an excited mind: Why do I hesitate? The rules are clear. A man would be a fool to disobey. And yet.... He watched their faces intently, derived little from his observations. Even so, a few more moments wouldn't hurt. Surely? He consulted his log again, spared another few seconds to weigh the risk. Then he'd decided. "You must remain here until you return."

Mireille groaned. "Tell us something we don't know. Like what happens if we stay. And how the fuck we split if we don't." She received no reply, only a slight fidgeting beneath the robes as if he didn't understand plain English. "What are you, some kind of fucking retard?"

A sigh emanated from the depths of the hood. "Am I to assume that you wish to die?"

Mireille was shocked. "Listen, creep__!"

"My name is Vallande."

LaRoche cut in again. "Brother Vallande. Nobody wants to die__"

"I am not your brother. I am a recorder."

"I'm sorry. Recorder Vallande, then."

"Just Vallande will do," muttered the hood.

"Jesus Christ!" spat Mireille in exasperation. "Who the fuck cares? If you two want to start up a debating society can we do it some place else? I feel kind-of exposed here."

"Yes," added LaRoche. "Is there somewhere we can go to sort this out?"

"Through the neuro-fence," Vallande advised casually.

"Right, the neuro-fence." Mireille began a visual search of their surroundings. "Sounds good to me. Which way?"

The recorder's arm came up, bell-sleeve drooping, parchment finger pointing. Straight at the laser barrier and the seething mob beyond.

Mireille said: "Ah. That neuro-fence."

LaRoche groaned. "No other way?"

"None," said Vallande. "Not unless you prefer to die."

LaRoche was horrified. "No, no. We don't want that. Do we?"

He was staring at her, pleading. The bastard had made his decision, but he wanted her endorsement. Mireille pondered the sand between her bare feet. "If this turns out badly, just remember it was your idea."

Her eyes rose to find LaRoche's waiting. They displayed no sympathy, no compassion. Only cold accusation. Like it was all her fault. "You don't have to come," he droned resentfully.

"Pig's arse! What else am I going to do - stand here and frig myself?"

"It's decided then." The recorder turned, began to walk away, paused and waited for the two initiates to catch up. He spoke softly, less officiously than he had up till then. "Keep together. Stay close to me. When we pass through, the draff will taunt you. Ignore them. And Mireille - try to be a little less profane. Such language is uncommon in Lonfay. It will attract unwelcome attention."

Lonfay! She'd been half expecting it, but it still came like a bolt from the blue. The old monk must have noticed the stunned look because his hood was still aimed in her direction. Did she ask now? No, she decided: better to hang loose. Mireille concocted a scowl and jammed hands defiantly on her hips. "Anything else? Maybe BO or bad breath?"

Vallande waited in silence. When there were no further complaints he said: "Come," and started forward again. He'd acquired the habit of drifting lately, employing a trudge not so much solemn as weary. Occasionally the heel of a sandal snagged the hem of his robes. He'd given up worrying about it, accepted the fact that he was shrinking and simply ignored the annoyance. If he had achieved nothing else, he had learned to tolerate the minor discomforts of old age.

Approaching the barrier, he began to tense. Here was one irritation Vallande would never cease to detest. Being imprisoned within a cage was bad enough, but the neuro-fence was the trainer's whip, restricting the little freedom left to them. Touching it was like having all your teeth pulled at once without anaesthetic. The spectators stayed well back, milling around, grinning, slobbering, jeering.

He stopped before the fence to enter the code in his log. A break appeared in the bands of light. He started through, waited on the far side.

LaRoche and Mireille followed, their eyes darting nervously. The crowd leaned towards them. A hand snaked out, groped in the direction of Mireille. Vallande waved vaguely at the leering faces. "Behold the draff. The salt of Lonfay. The scum of time immemorial. Just treat them with the contempt they deserve and they'll love you for it."

This side of the fence there was nothing to keep the crowd back except for an apparent respect for Vallande's unknown powers. As the recorder walked, the mob parted, seemingly afraid of him. Less so of the new arrivals. They allowed Mireille and LaRoche to pass, then closed in behind.

Paws groped, especially for Mireille. She spun. "Scumbags!" The draff jumped back, laughing mouths open, eyes glittering with lewd thoughts. She selected a particularly filthy male in the front who was standing astride thrusting his hips at her. In his tights and short jacket, he reminded her of an overgrown garden gnome. Taking a step towards him, she swung her foot up hard into his crotch, watched him crumple to his knees gasping. Her belligerent glare scanned the crowd. "Anyone else need instant relief?" Apparently not. So she turned and walked on.

LaRoche whispered desperately in her ear. "That was incredibly stupid. We should make a point of not antagonising these people."

Okay for him - wasn't his tits and arse they were grabbing! She could feel herself beginning to tremble. "Quit bitching and get a move on. I think I'm going to be sick."