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.
CHAPTER ONE
1
Attendance was fair for a Monday. The chic lady on stage oozed confidence, unlike the one hundred and thirty lesser mortals who absorbed her lecture in apprehensive silence. She was well aware most of the men would be eyeballing her, and some women. It went with the territory, was kind-of flattering that they'd given up their lunch of a chicken salad sandwich and a Coke in the Mall for the privilege.
And not all of them would be ogling her exclusively. Not when there was an inviting cleavage to glimpse in the chair on their left, and a spunk in a blue suit two rows down. Then there were the squirmers distracted by various discomforts and itches which had remained dormant until they sat down. One or two worried about incontinence, or flatulence and kept darting nervous glances at the exits.
In the main, though, she was guaranteed a reasonably captive audience. Most devoured the salient points of the lecture because they were either too greedy or too desperate not to - business people with a lease on the future; unemployables who had none. A few, unfortunately, were lost before they even walked through the door. They made up the numbers as they sat and tried to look clued in.
Richard Olsen was a special case: an intelligent man who might have understood had his mind not been elsewhere. He had a client to see at 1.45. Unless the lecture finished dead on time he wouldn't make it, not if he stayed. But if he left now he'd never know what she was talking about. And he'd paid $80 for an hour of salvation.
The sign outside said: SUCCESS - YOUR LAST CHANCE! His name had been omitted, but he'd felt that the message was for him personally. That was why he'd paid the money - for a tailor-made solution. Not this off-the-peg, pseudo-intellectual rubbish she was wholesaling to the masses. Despite this, he stayed.
Eventually, the speaker concluded her offering and made a reluctant theatrical exit. As she passed behind the curtain, sedate applause died an ignoble death to be replaced by the scraping of chairs and shuffling feet. She shucked her head at the noise and added a self-satisfied grin. "I actually think I got through to some today."
Her manager, a squat, oily man, was juggling figures in a note book. He shrugged. "At seven
