Reborn. Vin Ph.D. Jackson

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      REBORN

      The classic quest for the ultimate prize

      by

      Vin Jackson

      Copyright 2000 DV & KR Hawkins

      All rights reserved.

      Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com

      Converted by http://www.ebookit.com

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0452-3

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

      Introduction

      Is there life after death? Richard and Karen are sure of it because they died once and, although the doctors brought them back, part of them is still trapped on the other side. But this Afterlife their alter-egos are experiencing isn’t what they were led to believe. It seems there is no peace after death, no Heaven, not any more. There is just a decaying land of medieval customs and barbarity, a living nightmare.

      Join two fresh reborns as they enter a world of depravity where the only rule that really matters is survival. Learn the true price of friendship and loyalty. Know what it is like when you are forced to kill; then share the despair of wanting to stop, but realising it has become an addiction.

      Embark on the classic quest for the ultimate prize. The price for failure - no life, no death, nothing! Not anywhere ever again!

      LONFAY

      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 СКАЧАТЬ