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 case he was a bit more than imagination, she thought: "Go get fucked, Richard!"
She must have been holding up the proceedings because she noticed the recorder shooting her what appeared to be an impatient backward glance. "What?" she demanded belligerently.
"I think he expects us to keep up," warned LaRoche.
Now, this pain-in-the-arse was real. He could almost have been Richard. She snarled at the naked man beside her as if he was in collusion with the old guy. "Why doesn't he try walking without shoes?" It was loud enough for the monk to hear which was exactly her intention.
LaRoche groaned. "Provoking this man isn't smart," he hissed. "I think he wants to help us."
"My feet hurt and I'm pissed off," she grumbled sulkily.
"Just suffer in silence for a while longer," LaRoche pleaded. "For both our sakes. Please."
Mireille snorted, tutted and stumbled on, her lips pinched tightly together. Then LaRoche was whispering to her again: "Where do you think we are? How did we get here? It's like a nightmare."
She couldn't help laughing. "What - you reckon you'll wake up in Beverly Hills with Julia Roberts' hand round your dick?" She straightened her face, added a slow, condescending blink. "Get real, man. Did you ever have a dream this coordinated?"
He fought silently with the logic of her argument for a few moments, finally shook his head. "I can't believe what seems to be happening."
She halted, stood on one leg and hooked up a foot to check her sole. It was filthy and bleeding. She showed it to him. "Believe it."
LaRoche didn't have to inspect his own feet to know they were a mess too. "If this isn't a dream, where are we?" He was desperate for a solution he could cradle and feel comfortable with.
"The man said Lonfay, wherever that is. At a guess: locality of Shit Creek, or somewhere like. And this is probably the best part."
Depression swept over LaRoche clouding his already grim expression. He had stopped, was gazing about, seemed to be toying with insanity as a convenient escape route. "But I don't understand. How did we get here?"
"How the fuck do I know." Mireille choked off her irritation, aware of its self-destructive potential. If she could only stay cool maybe she could cope with this weird gig. Unlike a certain pathetic excuse for a man who had all-but given up. Still, if nothing else he made her look good. Might pay to take him along for the ride....
She slid an arm through his, began guiding him. Obscenities poured from the crowd. She ignored them. "Listen, maybe you're right and I'm wrong. Yeah, sure I am." She hugged
