Читать книгу Reborn - Vin Ph.D. Jackson - Страница 4

It existed, it encompassed, and would ever be an impersonal, heartless land. Unforgiving, intolerant of failure, indifferent to success. Life existed here simply to struggle... dwindle...... perish.

An invisible sun shone through a low canopy of swirling, hazy cloud, bathing everything in pink light to create a surreal landscape of terracotta plains and rolling vermilion hills. In a shallow depression, the sightless eyes of a decomposing human corpse looked on, crisp blackened lips curling back from a manic grin.

Across the open areas, scattered flocks of diseased sheep grazed on sparse clumps of grass the colour and texture of rusted wire. While in and around thinning forests of stunted crimson trees other creatures scrimped a meagre existence. These were the Domains.

Worse still were the Deadlands where even the will to live had long been overshadowed by the simpler requirement of cheating death. Parched and desolate by day, blasted by ferocious dust-storms at night, survival here was basic, the reward hardly worth the effort. Those who bothered to earn it paid only rare homage to decency and honour. They left such luxuries to the fools and dreamers of Vasteplage.

Like any other city, the rambling metropolis promised much. For some it may have even exceeded expectations. For most, however, it was merely a civilised alternative to total deprivation. When life hurt and death waited on every corner, over-indulgence was the inalienable right of the condemned. And it was fun while it lasted.

Fun? This was a word Vallande had little use for recently. Extending a hand beyond the bell-sleeve of his dark monastic robes, he looked on it in dismay. A year ago it was soft and unblemished, but already it was showing signs of premature ageing. How long before this corrosive atmosphere dried him up completely? Although he was starting to blame them, it was unlikely the Elders could have known. He would be the first, they'd said, and hopefully the last. Assuming, of course, he achieved the mission they had entrusted to him.

He'd been so sure he could succeed. Especially when one of them had fanned an arm across a valley of golden corn ripening beneath a blue sky and had asked the question: isn't all of this worth saving? Of course it was, and the thought of losing it had lit a fire in his belly. Nova must go on forever!

Then he had turned to face the reason for this meeting - a distant, unnatural swelling, a blister on the landscape extending to the horizon and beyond. No-one recalled seeing it arrive. One day it was just there, small at first. Like most, he had watched it grow with simple curiosity which graduated to concern as it continued to swell until it was the size of a small village. Someone had compared its growth with a decrease in childbirth - a ludicrous theory, but one that gained popularity as the bubble got bigger while the birth-rate continued to drop.

It was simply a matter of time before logic was dismissed in favour of the unthinkable - this parasite was somehow robbing them of the ability to bear children. And as they were all reincarnations of those who had passed over from the other world, this thing must have somehow interrupted the natural process. Allowed to grow unchecked, it would not only usurp the land on which they stood, but would also starve it of children. Nova would eventually be no more!

These were the cold facts, incitements the Elders whispered to a young Vallande becoming more angry and brash by the second. Until, finally, he could stand it no longer and had pledged his life to destroy the parasite. The Elders had all applauded, then confided that he would have to do just that - for the beast had to be conquered from within, and the only way he could enter was to die! So he had, and a year later, he was dying still - slowly. But not in the place he imagined. Lonfay was a land, a world; not a creature. How had he ended up here? Why?

These thoughts accompanied him along the crowded streets of the city until he was into the open plaza before the Arena. There was no noise here, no people which was hardly surprising - the awesome monolith on the far side commanded respect. Flawlessly smooth, the gargantuan pillar rose up to disappear in the permanent layer of pink cloud. Was it connected to the parasite in some way; perhaps literally, even? He had to believe something in this bizarre place was. Otherwise, he had died for nothing!

With a weary blink of resignation he crossed the plaza and entered, pausing momentarily in the race to let his eyes adjust to the faint, lilac hue of the Arena. Then he was moving again, mechanically, trying not to think too seriously. Finally, he halted.

His body continued to tremble while gazing up at the gigantic archway before him. After the makeshift hovels of town it was an architectural masterpiece, yet Vallande despised it. Even more so the Field of Honour which lay beyond - a contradiction if ever there was one. There was no glory in butchery, especially not as an officially authorised spectator sport. Though the Gate was closed now, it was small compensation. It would open next week at the commencement of the Conflict - a monthly serve of barbarity, standing room only. Those who fell in battle would be free of it, and occasionally Vallande envied them. At least for them, release from torment would be sure if not always swift, their purpose fulfilled; his might never be at the rate he was going.

Pushing defeatism aside, he withdrew a small black box from a pocket and tapped out a binary code on the sensor pads. Then he waited. A static hiss filled the air. Ozone drifted, peppering his nostrils and he tried to ignore it, concentrating instead on The Gate. It shimmered with myriad atomised particles which sped inward to congregate at a central point. A definite shape began to form around the nucleus.

The young man drew in a shallow, constricted breath and bowed his head: a lowly acolyte about to report to his superior. A chill rippled through him as he looked up at the image which was fast becoming the bane of his life - The Recorder General. A man, yet inhuman. A hologram. The product of an advanced technology which seemed totally misplaced in this land of organic decay; inconsistent with the anachronistic way of life the subjects of Lonfay were forced to lead. An illusion just like the Gate, although not as refined, not as perfect. As if its creator wished to demonstrate the power of the unreal over the rationality of the weak.

And they all complied. From the rabble of the draff to the fine Nobles of Vasteplage, none would dare to wonder why, or how; whether to rebel or not. Except maybe Vallande. One day he would find a way to free the people of Lonfay, perhaps return some to Nova where they truly belonged. If he could just find a way past this glitzy facade.

The suspended atoms stirred, shimmered more brightly. A voice echoed from within - metallic, arrogant. "You have come prepared, Novice?"

Panic! Vallande's lips were flapping, but there was no sound. Only the static hiss from the Recorder General.

And it was growing impatient. "Well?"

Swallow. Think. Try! "Er, yes, Your Eminence. I am ready."

"I seriously doubt that, Vallande, but it is time. You understand the price of failure?"

"I do, Your Eminence." The young recorder's mind skipped through the possibilities - a terrifying montage of violence, gore and depravity; the misery of others which might easily be his. He had to qualify. He had to!

"Then, you may begin."

He attempted to remain calm as he began reciting his oath, but composure was suddenly a lost virtue. He stammered. He faltered. Next, a mental block. It was bound to happen. His teachers said it would. When it does, just pause, they'd advised. Relax. It will pass. And amazingly it did.

He concluded. Waited.

"Hmm. Passable." A spangled hand stroked a cheek, thoughtfully. "Now The Order."

Vallande was dreading this part. "The Order shall be respected as it is stated: The Re...." Oh God! He'd almost committed the cardinal sin by beginning at the top. But a deep breath and a long pause set him back on course. "The woman of the draff; the man of the draff; the woman of the Deadlands...." His memory locked in and he continued to ascend the list until finally: ".....and The Recorder General in his magnificence."

A hollow, patronising chuckle. "You're a survivor, I'll give you that. Let's see how you fare with The Balance."

It ought to be easy - it was just part of the knowledge everyone received at the moment of death, continuing as instinct. Vallande, however, was cursed with knowing the truth and just hoped his conscience would take a back seat while he recited a few blatant lies by rote: "The Balance is that between our world and the one from which we are all reborn. For both to exist there must be joy, love and peace on the one side; misery, hatred and conflict on the other. Lonfay has been charged with the preservation and continuance of the latter. All are bound to uphold the traditions of fear, mayhem and inhumanity. Our duty is to suffer in this life. Our reward, which shall be in death alone, is to return to the comfort of the next. Failure will end all life, everything! We must not fail. We will not fail. The Balance will be preserved."

Not merely perspiring, he was drowning; legs like jelly, head swimming. Please God, just a little more strength.

"Well done, Vallande. And what part do you desire to adopt in this the most worthy of causes?"

"To tend and monitor The Balance. To ensure that absolute power is always sought, yet never attained. Save by one, Your Eminence. It is my earnest and humble wish to be invested as a fully accredited recorder."

A long, long pause. Then: "You are dismissed, Vallande."

"Your Eminence.....?" What had he done wrong? He'd followed instructions to the letter. It would be a formality, they'd said. Now this! "I don't understand. Why?"

The Recorder General's image trembled with impatience. "Because you have work to do, miserable wretch!"

"Work, Your Eminence?"

"Yes, work! You've been idle long enough. Now, go out there and repay the year your mentors have lavished on you. You say you wish to preserve The Balance. So, do it! .....Recorder."

Recorder! He'd said it. Vallande, the recorder. It sounded so.... dignified? So incredible. It was the most amazing, the best thing that had happened to him. What he'd been hoping and striving for. And now it was here, he was so overwhelmed that he was numb.

The euphoria lasted but a moment. Then the Recorder General's image was dissipating, and before he knew it, Vallande was padding his way out of the Arena, hating himself for his misplaced pride!

Once into the pink light of day he vowed never to be coerced again by the tyrant of Lonfay. He was not its lackey, but a champion of Nova, the true Afterworld. And one day, somehow, he would be its hero. In the meantime he would do and say what was required of him, would respect and serve this artificial dictator. Until he found the way to destroy the parasite it hid somewhere behind its illusions.

The mere thought of that pleasure would make the days and years bearable, would lend strength to failing courage. He might even be able to ignore the inner man which was starting to rue the day he had ever been reborn.