Reborn. Vin Ph.D. Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ his arm tighter, trying to encourage him out of his depression. "In a minute all this will have gone. You'll find you've had a wet dream. Then you can sneak out of bed without waking the little missus, duck into the bathroom to wash your PJ's before she springs you. And I'll bet if you open the window and look out there'll be little piles of dog crap all over your nice front lawn. If that's what you need, it'll be there waiting for you. See if I'm right."

      He was desperate, wanting to believe. "You really think so?"

      She offered a reassuring smile. "Would I lie to you?"

      9

      Spectators had previously been pushing and shoving, jostling to keep pace with the reborns; at least, the new arrivals they thought were reborns. Now they held back, not daring to enter the clearing ahead. Vallande, however, continued on. Mireille and LaRoche hesitated at the edge of the crowd, unsure whether the intangible sanction applied to them as well as the draff.

      The recorder was up ahead, flapping a sleeve at them. The voice of the mob urged them on with gibes and obscenities. Mireille spun and they jumped back. A sea of medieval faces watched and laughed. She waited expectantly - maybe Sir Anthony Hopkins in tunic and hose, complete with hunchback would come blundering towards her pleading for water. Then someone would call: "Cut!"

      The thought was double-Dutch, but an associated feeling inside was clear enough - this wasn't real; in a moment sanity would return and all would be revealed. Both hopes were non-events. The faces were starting to jeer, seemingly disappointed that she hadn't offered some outrageous response to their baiting. So, she gave them the finger. They puzzled the gesture, obviously had no idea what it meant. "Dorks," she muttered, then continued to guide LaRoche clear of the stinking herd towards Vallande.

      They had entered a narrow strip of sand extending between two hills a kilometre apart. Ahead was an uneven carpet of low, rusty-coloured scrub. It was all the same, right to the horizon. Boring, Richard reminded her. She quite liked it - out of principle.

      There were others in the clearing, small groups of naked people each with its own recorder. "The ones from the Canal," whispered LaRoche, eyeing up the closest group without seeming to be perving.

      "Reborns," Vallande clarified, then added in a conspiratorial hiss: "Genuine reborns. They will know instinctively what to do." He studied his two charges in turn. Were it possible for a shadow to express dismay, the one beneath Vallande's hood did just that. "But you don't, do you?"

      LaRoche stared dumbly. Mireille said: "We learn fast. Just tell us."

      "I only wish there were time." The recorder stepped closer, lowered his voice. The scent of aromatic herbs drifted from the cowl as he spoke. "Past this point you are on your own. Be guided by instinct. Do what you must to survive. There are no laws in the Deadlands except those you choose to make."

      Mireille dug LaRoche gently in the ribs. "Sounds neat, huh?"

      "That's hardly the word I would use," said Vallande flatly. "This is no game, Mireille. Nor a dream, as you would have your companion believe." He dipped his hood at the man. "I'm afraid she was humouring you, LaRoche."

      The truth was the kind LaRoche didn't want to hear. He glared at Mireille as he pulled his arm from hers. "You promised me! Just a dream, you said!"

      Mireille shrugged. "Sue me." She spoke to Vallande: "What gives now?"

      The hood rose a little, paused while Vallande translated her alien phraseology. "I assume you mean what happens?" His body-language drew attention to the outlying scrub; and something more particular and a little closer. "You see those weapons?" There were a number of curved swords like wide-bladed scimitars sticking up out of the sand. "Sabrettes," explained the recorder.

      Mireille released LaRoche's arm, wandered over to take a look. "Be warned, Mireille," said Vallande hastily as he bustled after her. "To take up the sabrette is a sign that you accept the Commission."

      Too late. She had already stooped, had gripped a sword by its hilt and was plucking it from the sand. The draff roared. Mireille's eyes lit up. She turned to face the mob, brandished the sabrette aloft. The spectators went wild. "Hot shit! What did I do?"

      "You took up the sabrette, Mireille." Vallande still spoke quietly, but a hint of pride had crept into his tone. "You have accepted the Commission and should now pledge to respect The Order and preserve The Balance."

      Hell, maybe things weren't so bad. This bit seemed cool. The crowd revved her on and she loved it. "Yeah, right on. I do, I do." She held the sabrette higher, punched the air with her other fist. "Woo-hoo!" The draff responded with hysteria. "Hey, is this cruel, or what!" She rushed back to LaRoche's side. "Come on, man. Join the party. Everyone should be a hero sometime."

      Vallande stepped closer and waited. "It is your choice, LaRoche. Take up the sabrette or become one of the draff." The recorder waved a contemptuous arm at the crowd.

      The naked man's thoughts were a mess. He didn't know what to believe any more. "Is there no alternative, no way out of this God-forsaken place?"

      "Only in death. How soon you embrace it depends on you."

      LaRoche remained silent. Mireille caught his arm, dragged him towards the arrangement of swords. "Take a punt, man. What have you got to lose?"

      "I__I d-don't know." He bent limply, grasped a hilt and pulled out a sword. He'd taken very little notice of them before. Now, a particular feature caught his attention - a pair of wicked-looking spikes protruding from the reinforced back of the blade. He touched a finger to one. The point stabbed the skin. LaRoche snatched his hand away quickly and watched a globule of blood form.

      Vallande raised his voice so that he could be heard above the roars of the draff. "Do you, LaRoche, swear to respect The Order and preserve The Balance?"

      The finger was still bleeding. LaRoche continued to stare at it in horror. Mireille grasped his wrist, helped him raise the sword above his head. "He does," she said.

      Vallande listened to the draff. He couldn't remember them ever being this noisy. It was as if they shared his apprehension, his childish excitement at doing something totally unconventional, even dangerous. Had they known of his complicity, they might have cheered him. And wouldn't that have raised the Recorder General's hackles!

      Still, despite the fact that they were little more than cattle, the draff always appreciated something out of the ordinary. The woman was certainly that. Not since Isabella was reborn had there been the like. Such spirit, such charisma. It warmed his heart to know that attributes of this magnitude could surface again bringing hope to the forlorn of these dread times. Provided she could first survive the Deadlands. He didn't doubt she could. On her own, anyway. But dragging LaRoche with her....?

      Whatever transpired was meant to be, he decided. Mireille's life, LaRoche's. His. All three had been cast into the crucible. Now it was up to a power beyond human understanding to make what it would of them. He waved an arm at the scrubland. "Now you must salute the Tree."

      Mireille scanned the countryside. "Yeah, great. Which one?"

      They couldn't see the Tree! Was this a warning? Were they less than special? Less even than ordinary? Vallande dispelled the doubt, recovered quickly. He had already tested normality, trusted it to no avail. Time to put his faith in the abnormal.

      He cleared his throat, straightened "Face СКАЧАТЬ