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."
7
This was wrong, thought Vallande. I am wrong. The rules concerning transients were clearly defined - immediate return. Only the dead of the other world could enter Lonfay. The living had no place here. As soon as he'd recognised these two initiates for what they were, he should have summoned the duty executioner, ordered them terminated on the spot.
But he hadn't. Admittedly, transients weren't an everyday occurrence. Vallande himself had only come across seven in all his years as a recorder, so no-one would expect his response to be immediate. But to take five minutes to institute a course of action....? He couldn't justify such a delay by pleading a simple lapse in concentration.
He had wanted them to live. Otherwise he wouldn't have offered them advice. Advice! Such a consideration was unheard of. The Recorder General would never understand. Worse: he wouldn't even try.
So why now? Were these two any different to the seven he'd already returned? He could think of nothing specific. Just a feeling really. There was an aura about the woman which engendered hope, revived youthful impetuosity. And time, he felt, was no longer on his side. If it ever had been. To pass up yet another opportunity, to continue ignoring intuition in favour of waiting for a perfect solution which might never present itself, that was cowardice.
After all, hadn't he been preparing for this very occurrence these twelve months past? Of course he had. He'd doctored his log to sideline the mere hint of a transient so that the information wouldn't be transmitted immediately back to Central. Then, at least, the choice was his - to re-input as fresh data, or cut and paste into his own personal epsilon memory. Once there, no-one would know it had ever existed. Easy, provided he didn't delay too long.
Which he had already. So, why the doubt? He'd decided, hadn't he? His moment of glory had arrived and all he had to do was....
His eyes widened as he watched his hand descend on the log. The fingers trembled, hovered momentarily, then dived. Tap, tap, tap. The read-out flickered, returned to normal.
He swallowed, closed his eyes, praying. There was no reassurance forthcoming, no voice in his head to tell him he'd done the right thing. Or whether it had worked. So he hopped back onto the Network and called up the status of the two new arrivals to find out.
Just numbers - an arrangement of zeros and ones interspersed with the odd space, dot, or dash. Nothing to the uneducated; a readable language to Vallande and his fellow recorders. Interpreted simply:
reborn 729581....female....22yrs....mireille
reborn 725588....male....27yrs....laroche
Reborns! Both of them. Who would know anything different?
The old man took a deep breath, felt a young man within dancing a silly jig around his fluttering stomach. Then he exhaled and the rattle in his chest brought him back to reality. The die was cast. There was no alternative now but to see it through to the end.
8
Mireille watched the monk diddy-datting on his black box. A strange thought popped into her head - was Vallande's hand-held IBM compatible? What did it mean? Where had it come from? She had no idea and dismissed the nonsense to concentrate on her immediate surroundings. The filthy, chanting mob; the lingering sunset - or was it a sunrise? - that stained everything red. Nothing blue, no yellow, nor even white. So much sameness. Apart from the green-tinged brilliance of the neuro-fence which was artificial anyway. "At least it's complementary...."
There it was again - a peculiar voice she was not only hearing, but could actually feel! And inside her, from within her head! It definitely wasn't her: she didn't think that way. It was too male; too bloody serious. The voice went on the defensive and Mireille found herself trying to stay neutral while Richard replayed a similar argument he'd/they'd had with Janet. Bullshit! This was nothing to do with her: Richard was the one with the wife and the problem. Not that either of them were real - Richard was just a dream she'd had in the Void. "You're the one who's not real!" whined the voice in her head. "I've got enough worries; I don't need you complicating them. Go away."
She could have retaliated, but what was the point? She'd only be getting uptight with herself. Whatever had caused the spack-attack, it would probably fade out soon enough. And just in