From: Clive@cj4386.demon.co.uk (Clive May) Subject: Re: A story we can all create.. Date: Mon, 10 Dec 01 20:26:54 GMT Encased in a block of clear crystal, the naked body of a woman lay upon a wheeled trolley in the centre of a circular room. Her flesh glowed a putrescent purple under the dim blue radiance shed by a single light globe set in the centre of the domed ceiling. The chilled air was hazed with a thin mist. Beyond the feet, there was a door and all around the wall were square panels, four tiers of them. One stood open to reveal a dark niche. The door opened with a metallic rasp; and two figures, anonymous in grey sterile suits, entered. The square face plates of the head covers shone blankly in the gloom, revealing nothing of the faces behind. Closing the door, the pair came to stand, one to either side of the trolley. They remained silent a long moment, gazing down at the corpse, each busy with their own radically different thoughts. Then the one on the right spoke in a male voice, muffled by the mask. "I still don't like it, Shanka." "The Overseers have agreed," said the other. The voice was female. Even the muffling mask failed to take the edge off its carbon steel quality. "Only because we're backed hard up against the wall. And only if I give my assent." The blank faceplates confronted each other over the corpse for a long moment, then the woman asked: "You will give that assent? Won't you? Raile?" Raile hesitated a long moment, before nodding reluctantly. "Yes," he said; "I have no choice but to sanction the project. Though I still don't like it. All this, this..." he waved a grey clad arm at the room in general, the gesture eloquently expressing his distaste. "I can't see what's wrong with the old methods," he went on, "define the enemy, go in hard, eliminate the problem. Above all, keep it simple. All this?..." "And just look at the mess that kind of thinking's got us into," Shanka interrupted him. "No. Raile, I know I'm right. It's time to try a more subtle approach to solving this particular problem. We must have an agent we can trust on the spot. It's vital that we control the developing situation on Avis City. If we lose control, and it's no longer a thorn in his side, the Renegade will be free to press on with his invasion of the Vale." "Do you suppose he knows the risk he is running?" Raile asked. "I don't think he cares anymore," said Shanka. "But whether he's aware of the nature of the power he might awake there will be a moot point, if he actually rouses it with his blundering around. Which is why we must secure Avis City and keep his beast men allies tied down in the High Desert at least until the Golden Apes of the Southern Highlands arrive to reinforce the garrisons at the World's Edge. How far have they got? Any news on their ETA?" "Two? Three days? to arrive in any useful strength." Raile hazarded. "But I don't see what a few tens of thousands of the brutes can do? They'll never be able to hold the line for long." "Just so long as they arrive before the Servii fall upon the fortifications. We need only to check them for a short while, until the Overseers find a lasting solution to the problem. That cobbled together lash up the Regulators have got in place won't hold forever, even if the Renegade doesn't go poking around in the Vale." "That's the trouble," said Raile, re-mounting his favourite hobby horse. "We've been scrambling around from crisis to crisis cobbling together one make do amend solution after another for too long. What we should be doing is setting the agenda, forcing events and controlling the action like we did in the old days, instead of continually chasing our tails in this endless succession of holding actions. Back in the old days...." Shanka had stopped listening to him, she'd heard it all before, too many times. Instead, she let her eyes linger lovingly on the woman's body, drinking in the sight. When this woman was alive, Shanka would have blithely sold her soul a thousand times over for the privilege of a momentary glimpse of the sight she was now enjoying. The keenly remembered despair of a longing, forever unfulfilled, swelled within as powerful emotions, long centuries buried, were stirred by the sight. The despair in her heart was a cold stone. The bitter flavour of unrequited love was once more upon her tongue. The anguish of a love declared, and scorned, surged up within her. She'd never have believed that it would still have claws enough to score her heart so deeply after this many centuries. "Shanka! Are you listening to me?" Shanka started out of her reverie. "What!. Oh, yes" she responded. With an affected casualness that was painful to see, she drew away the hand which had been caressing the surface of the crystal. "You haven't heard a word I've been saying, have you?" "Sorry." "I take it we can trust that the conditioning will hold?" asked Raile. "Stannard agrees with me - she'll be locked down tight." Raile inclined his head. "That's not what he told me. When I tried to pin him down on the matter, he admitted that working with people this long dead can produce a certain level of unpredictability." "But within acceptable tolerances." Shanka assured. "Stannard got even more evasive when I tried to get him to quote numbers on that. Especially," Raile's voice took on a loaded tone, "especially as Stannard is convinced that there's been tampering with the emotional sub-stratums underlying the personality matrix." "That's impossible," Shanka said flatly. Raile inclined his head in acknowledgment of her superior knowledge. "Stannard thinks so too. Even so, I thought it best to check out the master download." He pulled a Minicomp from a pocket, and held it up with a flourish. With an exaggerated motion, Raile fingered a touch panel. The tiny screen flickered with a greenish light. No one moved, nor spoke, for nearly half a minute. It was left to Shanka to break the tableau, annoyed at Raile's childishly unsubtle attempt to shake her composure. "And?" His play trumped, Raile dropped his pose. He slid the minicomp out of sight, and admitted: "....And, I don't have the training or experience to make a judgement about personalities dumped to permanent store - as well you know. Only Stannard and yourself are qualified in such arcana." The faceplate concealed the sneer of contempt on Shanka's thin lipped mouth at the ease with which Raile's clumsy probings could be deflected. Raile was not finished yet. He said: "You know he wanted to use a much more recent candidate? He was furious when you went over his head to the Overseers. He wanted to wash his hands of the whole matter - except that that's not an option when your in this deep with the Regulators." "So?" Shanka shrugged. "So, he made it known to Them that he thought your motives for picking this particular one were questionable." Shanka straightened and glared defiantly into the blank faceplate. "He can't prove anything," she said sharply. "He doesn't have to, Shanka. Just the suggestion that your jealousy, and the rancid little mind games you indulged in because you couldn't have your own way, were the cause of the Regulators worst disaster, would get you fried. Not only did we lose the services of our two best operatives," he broke off to wave a gloved hand at the corpse, "this one dead, and the other gone, after slaughtering half the team, but he went renegade as well, and turned his very considerable talents against us. And now he's on the point of fouling up the Vale operation." "Then we'd all better hope that I've not lost my knack for difficult resurrections, because she is the only one who has any chance at all of nailing Cain's arse to the wall for good and all." Raile considered the blank faceplate for a long moment, visualising the severe features behind it, then he turned and strode to the door , the sterile suit whispering. He pulled open the door, and turned to loose off a parting shot. "You'd better be right about that, Shanka. Because if this avis operation goes bad, your best course of action will be to take that nasty little blaster you keep strapped in the small of your back, put the barrel in your mouth, and fry your perverted little brain." He went out closing the door behind him. Left alone in the chilly gloom of the vault, Shanka dismissed Raile from her mind. He didn't have the technical knowledge to be able to carry credible tales to the Overseers. Even if he did, well, she was the best damned Total Organism Resurrectionist the Regulators had ever laid their grubby paws upon. They could not afford to dispense with her services. Shanka turned her attention back to the woman in the crystal. The blue lighting had turned the flame red hair to a ghastly mauve. She laid a gloved hand gently on the surface, leaning down to inspect the almost invisible scars marring the skin, where the hail of bullets had ripped the woman from life. She had schemed, and plotted, for a very long time to gain access to this particular bio-mass packet, DNA profile and total psyche transfer down load. This was going to be her masterpiece as a Total Organism Resurrectionist. No one, not even the subject herself, would be able to distinguish any differences from the original. It would be a faithful resurrection - with a couple of small changes that were dear to Shanka's heart. Stannard had been right in his suspicions. There had been a few very discreet changes in the sub-stratums which would express themselves in a very specific and definite way in the personality. Stannard was also correct in worrying about the stability - two diametrically opposed, sexual impulse progressions could very easily lock into a irreconcilable feed back loop with very nasty outcomes; but she'd written the technical manuals on the procedure for avoiding that herself. In truth, she didn't give a shit about the Project to contain the Manifestation in the Vale. It would serve the Regulators right, anyway, for trying to gain control of it, if the Manifestation was awakened? and broke free. What she cared about lay locked inside the stasis crystal. Soon now her centuries long, forlorn dream, would become a real, living, breathing reality. Taking out her Minicomp, Shanka ran one last check on the changes she'd introduced, before summoning the porters to convey the crystal to the working area. While she waited, she eyed the rows of panels lining the walls, wondering who the other dead people were the Overseers had got stored down here for emergencies. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ----- Babydoll eased back from the doorway. The benighted plaza beyond was silent, and seemed empty. It wasn't, of course. There were a couple of Skyborn sentries somewhere nearby, according to Bella. If they got wind that there was a heavily armed force of Servii lurking in this derelict building, and raised the alarm, things would get very unpleasant. They were still in an uninhabited outer sector. The Skyborn could just stand off and smear the whole area with heavy blasters, and there'd not be a single thing that could be done about it. At least old Rahaaz was keeping his men in line, ruthlessly suppressing their natural inclinations to break out with all guns blazing, and settle a few scores that had been pending for far too long. Babydoll leaned against the wall and studied Rahaaz moving among his men. The Captain was wearing enough war gear to maim a cart horse, yet he moved soundlessly, cat-graceful. He was the "coming man", the heir apparent to the title of Chief of Chiefs and Captain General of the Servii Horde. The exalted position lay well within his capabilities, if only he'd learn to curb the impulse to march right up to Death, and spit in his face, at every opportunity. Death was a patient bastard, he could afford to be, seeing as how he was certain to get you in the end, but constantly trying his patience like that was practically begging for it. As far as Babydoll was concerned, it was Rahaaz's only failing as a war commander. Mind you, that was seeing it from a non-Serviian perspective. She had to admit that it went down a storm with his raiders. Ghorlok would be well advised to be far away on urgent business when Rahaaz made his bid for the top job. Because he was not even a Chief, it was beholden upon Rahaaz to make his bid over the dead body of his present Chief, Ghorlok, and.... A flicker of movement, more sensed than seen, sent Babydoll into a crouch, pistol drawn. A moment later she rose and re-holstered the weapon. Bella had returned, seeming almost to materialise out of the very shadows themselves. "Well?" Babydoll asked. Bella did not reply at once, but took a moment to catch up a corner of her cloak and wipe a slightly glistening darkness from around her mouth and chin. "The way is clear," she said in a flat voice. "And I brought you this." She held out one of the Skyborn energy weapons. Babydoll took it. "It's no good, Bella," she said. "We can't use them. They're keyed to a specific bio-pattern. They won't work for anyone else." She raised the weapon, aimed it at the opposite wall, and squeezed the button. The only response was a tiny red light which began blinking on the base of the handgrip. "See." Babydoll set the useless piece of metal on the floor, and stood back as Rahaaz led his men out the door into the plaza. Babydoll fell in behind them, leaving Bella standing alone, in the shadowed room. She looked a rather forlorn figure amid the decaying dereliction. She was troubled. Clearing the path had been easy. There were two of them, male and female. She'd taken the man first, because he had the weapon. The reaction of the female had caught Bella unawares. Obviously, they had been a couple, lovers it was the norm among the Skyborn, but the woman's outpouring of grief as she clutched at the bloody ruin Bella had made of her man, had scoured Bella's soul. She did not know then, and could not decide now, whether she'd ended the woman's pain out of compassion or out of self preservation. With an effort, Bella shook off the grim uncertainties. She slid into the shadows, seeming almost to fade into the darkness as she hurried to catch up to the others. The colour of death was a gloomy, pulsing orange. He had discovered this on forcing open an eye. Death smelt of fish, of the river and wood-smoke. It sounded like wind in reeds, the slap and gurgle of water and a young woman crooning a wordless song. Death was also very painful. He had always conceived of death as a blank nothingness, a lack of any sensation. He knew he must be dead, though he could not recall the exact moment of dying. Prak forced open an eye again. Yes, the pulsing orange gloom was still there. He watched it a moment, filling the universe around him, then something touched his right leg. Sudden pain flared; and he groaned. The crooning stopped abruptly. The pulsing orange light coalesced into the face of a young woman. His heart cried Soolisa; but it was not his princess. This woman had an oval, rather ugly face. Large eyes huddled under a ridge of thick eyebrows. The two pools of shadow were divided by a neat nose over a lop-sided mouth; the lips were full and dark. "Hush now my bonny boy," her gentle voice crooned. "I've to salve this leg a-for the river fly finds the wound. You'll be wanting to keep the leg? won't you? my bonny boy?' "Wha, what happened Where am....ARGH!" "Hush now, my Bonny Bird," soothed the woman. "Thou shalt shatter the dream of living with all that wailing....There, now. all done." Prak took a long breath, and lifted his head to peer around. He was lying on the floor, by a fire contained within a hearth of rough stones. Lively, yellow flames lit his immediate surroundings with a pulsing yellow glow. Overhead, under a rough thatch, he could make out beams draped with fishing nets, strings of vegetables, and other things he could not quite identify. Lifting his head further, he peered around the small roundhouse built of large, undressed stone. Beyond his feet, a low oval doorway looked out upon a rude village. Fires burned brightly, and around them, lit by the lambent glow, the ghosts of people moved. A low sound of rhythmic chanting, or singing, trembled in the air. To his right, knelt a compact young woman, naked save for a leather head-band. The fire light was painting shifting orange shadows over her dark skin. Tiny green jewels were winking and glittering in the strip of leather. The heads of three reeds had been stuck into the band, forming a head- dress. At her side were a scatter of large yellow flowers, oval leaves, and a green jewel on a thong. "Who are you?" "I am Reed Who Whispers With The South Wind..." She paused to favour him with a lop-sided smile, liquid laughter pulsing in her eyes. The orange light was wavering in their depths, lending her gaze a disturbingly distant quality. "...But you must call me Reed." "Where am I? What, what happened to me?' Reed raised a powerful, shapely arm and pointed a finger at the thatch. She said: "Out of the sky thou plungest, from the talons of Azia, God Bird of the Shining City." She drew her arm down emphatically. Splash into Old Man River; and all the fowls a flying in panic to the four winds; and the fish a scattering from the boats of the People." Prak frowned. "I fell off my bird?" "Oh, most certainly so, my Bonny Boy, most certainly. With a scream fit to wake Old Snout Face on is Throne....Splash right in the middle of Old Man River." Prak sank back to the reed mat. Confused memories were beginning to surface from the depths of his whirling mind. Mention of the Lord brought sudden anxiety, which cut like a knife through the fuzziness clouding his mind. "The helmet!" he cried, and reached a hand to his bare head. It was about then that he realised, that except for a poultice of leaves on his right thigh, he was stark naked. Prak started up; but the world swung out from under him; and he sank back to the mat. "Be at ease, my Bonny Boy," Reed soothed, trailing cool fingers over his brow. "This is OUR GROUND! Old Snout Face dares not tread here unbidden." She sat back, reached up hands, and drew off the head-dress. With reverence, she set it at her side, and took up one of the yellow, trumpet shaped flowers and twined the stem into her long hair, beside her left ear. Taking up another flower, she held it under Prak's nose. He inhaled the astringent perfume. A dreamy smile blossomed on his face. Vettis Flower, his dazed mind identified, one of the Dreaming Plants. Reed put it to her own nose, inhaled a long draft of the powerful scent, before reaching down to twine the stem into Prak's hair beside his right ear. She sat back to admire the effect. "There now," she sighed. "Thou art Crowned to be truly Our Champion....Ay, and crowned thou most rightly in the manner most ancient and proper to those who must pursue Purpose." Reed then took up an oval leaf. The surface shone darkly in the fire- light. Folding the leaf, she put it in her mouth and began chewing. The scent of Vettis thickened in the smoky air. Prak's smile deepened as the powerful narcotic on Reed's breath soaked into his soul. He relaxed, despite himself, watching the lop sided mouth chew solemnly on the wadded up leaf. After a few minutes, Reed stopped chewing, took up the green jewel on the thong, and, moving with a fluid grace Prak could hardly credit in a Groundhog, she moved astride his thighs. A dreamy smile on her lop-sided mouth, she gazed deeply into his eyes. Prak felt something stir deep inside himself, something profound and awesome. Leaning down, Reed gently raised his head and looped the thong about his neck. Drawing back, she cupped his chin in her hands and set a deep lingering kiss upon his mouth. The sour taste of Vettis on her tongue puckered Prak's lips; and his dream of life deepened. Reed took his hand. Arising with a fluid grace, she drew him up. Without any sense of transition, prak found himself walking among the crowding trees of the jungle, Reed at his right, holding his hand. "Come, thou Our Chosen Champion!" she commanded. "Come thou, to the very heart of the Green Lady's Vale, and there must thou pledge thyself to the service of Purpose. She led him away through the humid gloom. Prak's fear of the enclosing trees gripped his heart; but Reed Who Whispers With The South Wind held firm to his hand, drawing him on. Though he still feared, he went willing to his destiny as all must who come at last to the service of Purpose. The singing of the night birds did much to ease his mind. Prak's people had a great affinity with birds. As they walked through the gloom serenaded by bird-song, Reed took up a low wordless crooning. The sound wove in and out of the trees, co-mingling with the bird song. On, through the gloom they strolled, until by the magic of the Vettis, Prak found himself treading upon the very air itself. Then, by inward paths they journeyed, hand in hand, Through states of being meaningless for man, to seek the source. On winged feet they fled along, through unknown lands of dust and stone, under gloomy midnight skies, where no stars rise, and dawn can never come. Thus, travelling far beyond imaginings, they came at last to the unremembered realm; where a cavern in a hillside contained the steps leading down into the heart of the matter. Down the steps they went, still hand in hand, their bare feet slapping on the stone. Down, and turning left, always left and down into a cavern unknown. It sat shining there, the Purpose. Yet it was not there exactly, for it was everywhere. It did not think, for it was thought. It was not sentient yet it was knowing. It could not love, for it was love. The couple stood in the presence, doing nothing, for there was nothing to do. The Purpose was its own purpose and simply to be in its presence was the fulfillment of the Purpose. It could not be described, for it could not exist. Yet the mind, ever striving to encompass experience and comprehend, though it be a vain striving after the impossible, persisted in its quest for definition. Thus it was that Prak remembered a kaleidoscope he had once as a child. It was like that - looking down the tube at the light, and hearing the rattle and crackle as the patterns formed and reformed, never the same, yet always of a kind. As they stood there, with a crackle and rattle, the formless concept without colour reformed and reinvented itself in brilliant rainbows of light. It could not be gauged how long the pair stood in the presence, for the Purpose transcended such a "mere" inconsequence as time. Though the Purpose might not have end, the audience did and Prak, again without remembrance of transition, found himself once again lying on his back on the reed mat beside the hearth in the rough built round house. Reed was still astride his thighs, studying his face with a savage intensity. "Reed?..." She leaned down and placed an imperious finger over his lips. "Hush thou, My Bonny Boy," she breathed. "Reed has no answers for thou. The Purpose is a secret - not because Reed will not tell, but because the Purpose cannot be told. What use then have thou and I for words?" Her finger was removed and her crooked lips came down on his mouth. At her brow the green gems gleamed, and above her head, the reed-heads glowed like flames. Later , much later, Prak was skirting the border-lands of sleep, when he thought he heard Reed's soft voice quoting verse. "Stand thou firm, Our Champion;ð stand thou firm, We say;ð For the Dark hath raised its banners high,ð To war upon the Day.ð So stand thy ground, Our Champion,ð Do not flee away;ð Lest the rising Tide of Dark,ð Sweep us all away.ð Put thy trust in Purpose;ð Set aside thy fear;ð And remember Reed Who Whispers -ð For she is ever standing near.ð So, put thy hand in mine,ð My Bonny, Bonny Boy,ð For together we must stand,ð To meet the murderous charge of Dark,ð Which threatens life and land." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ----- John's arms encircled her. Jo snuggled against his chest, feeling safe at last, until... "It is meet that thou hast surrendered thy soul to me, Josephine Grant; for now the grand crusade may begin." Sudden alarm at the archaic phrasing, set Jo's heart pounding. The arms about her were suddenly cold as death, and unyielding as stone. With a cry of fear, she pulled free. John Benton, her husband, stood before her with a hurt look on his face. "Jo?" he sighed in an ever so gentle chiding tone. "Jo? Don't you know me, Jo? It's John, your husband. Come to me Jo." He held out his arms, inviting her to re-enter their comforting embrace, to enjoy again the love that he held for her. Yes, she did love him. It was her Jonnie, her lovely Jonnie. He even had that cute, vulnerable look he'd worn, she recalled, from when he'd proposed. Recalled?...Did she truly remember that?...She shrugged. It didn't matter, for she had to go to him now, because of the love he bore her, and the love she held for him. Stretching out hands, she surrendered to their love with all her heart. Yet even in that moment of surrender Jo thought she caught the astringent scent of an unknown flower. She took a step towards his waiting arms... ...And found herself on a river bank. To her right was a deserted village of hovels, before her reared the green wall of a jungle edge, and at her back flowed a broad river. Reeds along its banks rustled. She spun at the sound and saw a naked female savage, regarding her. The woman was frowning. Her lop-sided mouth was moving with a rhythmic chewing motion. Jo took an involuntary step back. The woman stopped chewing, and observed, in a mildly bemused tone: "Well now? What does old Snout Face see in such a dainty little bird, I wonder? that he must needs exert his will to the uttermost, that he might keep thou hidden from our sight?" "Who, who are you?" Jo stammered out. She backed away another step, intimidated by the woman's natural state. The woman ignored the question. She moved slowly in a circle all around Jo, observing her from every angle.Her inspection complete, she folded arms under breasts, put her head on one side, and resumed frowning. She chewed furiously for a long moment, while Jo shrank under the frank scrutiny. At length, the woman stopped chewing, gave a little annoyed shake of her head, and said: "I catch not any flavour of the reason why he should extend himself so...And yet there must be something." Jo straightened up to her somewhat unimpressive height. She stuck out her chin defiantly. "You'd better get on with it," she said. "I don't care what it is this time, crocodiles? snakes? spiders? I won't give in - I won't!" The woman chuckled. "Ah! Now I see," she nodded. "Bravely spoken, my dainty bird, bravely spoken indeed. But it is not Reed Who Whispers, nor yet even Old Snout Face that thou must fear - but the very fear of fear itself. He will use it to break thy spirit..." She raised an ironic eyebrow. "...If he can?" "I won't give in!" Jo reiterated firmly. Reed nodded. "And neither must thou. lest the Darkness fall upon all that loves the light." She paused a moment to consider Jo with regret, before going on: "It is a dark day, indeed, when all that stands to hold off the onset of the Dark, is such a fragile little bird as thee." Jo began to relax. There was a subtle difference, a lack of menace in this new aspect of the nightmare - despite the woman's cryptic words. There was a sense of concern for her safety. Jo could not define exactly what she was feeling about this woman; but she knew that it was nothing bad. Of course, it might just be another level of deceit in the nightmare? How could she know? Of course, she could not, and would have to meet the dream on its own terms, keeping a wary eye out for loopholes, which might give her some advantage. And God knows! She needed something solid to cling onto, if she was not to go stark raving mad. "What do you want with me?" she asked, in a voice so calm, it surprised even Jo. "Why are you doing this to me?" "Not I, my dainty bird. This fugue is Old Snout Face's doing." "Snout Face?" "Ay, The usurper who hath stolen away the rights of the Green Lady to her Vale." "I don't understand," said Jo. The woman shook her head. "Of course not. All that thou must know, and know truly and deeply is that thou must resist him lest the Darkness fall. Give in to his phantoms of fear? and the world shall surely fall into everlasting dark." I have to trust someone, sometime, Jo told herself; and there was about this woman, an echo of that aura of "goodness" which pervaded the Doctor. She had to trust somebody; an din this shifting kaleidoscope of dream images the woman Reed seemed somehow more solid than all the rest. "Can you help me?" Reed looked regretful. "Alas, my dainty bird, this is Old Snout Face's Ground. I have no power here. If the Usurper sniffs me out?...then there'd be a payment due such as Reed shall not want to reckon. Look there!" Reed broke off suddenly, and pointed across the river. In the distance, a great grey wall of rock was rising, swelling, and evolving into a great thunderhead. The boiling mass of clouds darkened the sky, as it loomed over them, closing out the light. "See! He suspects my trespass - even though he cannot know. I must be gone from this place..." Read reached up to untwine a yellow flower from her hair. She advanced on Jo with purpose, holding the blossom out to her. "Here, my dainty bird," she urged. "A gift from the Green Lady. Though what service it might avail you, is beyond my knowing." The flower was thrust under Jo's nose; and she caught a strong whiff of the scent she had smelt earlier. She gripped the stem, and drew in a deep lung-full of the astringent perfume. Her head began to swim. "It is all Reed have to gift thee in thy coming tribulation, Reed said. "Stand thou firm and weather the on-coming storm and mayhap you'll come through with body and soul together - though perhaps not thy sanity." A screaming wind came then, wreaking havoc among the reeds along the river. The banshee wailing beat at the reed beds in a malicious fury, tearing and thrashing them into broken ruins. When it was done with the reeds, the furious gale fell upon the women, in a howling rage. Overhead the sky boiled . A lashing rain marched down upon them. Jo cowered against the fury of the storm. Reed, though, seemed roused by the savage assault. Taking a step back, she flung up her hands, as if in welcome. Reed Who Whispers With The South Wind, threw back her head, and with black mane streaming, she mocked the elemental fury with a merry laughter. A jagged bolt of blue lightening slashed down from the clouds, spearing the laughing woman. The world went a searing white, then a profound black; and Jo found herself once more in the nowhere, with the unseen things rustling and oozing all around her. Jo hunkered down in the dark, taking great comfort from the flower clutched in her fist, and the cloud of astringent perfume which blew about her face. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ----- Prak awoke, reached for Reed, and winced as his hand went into a patch of stingweed. Deep thunder growled in the distance, moving away. The last drops of a downpour spattered on his face. He opened his eyes, and sat up. In blank incomprehension, he stared around at the dilapidated hut. The roof had once been thatched; but now it was half fallen. The remains rotted, sagging from weathered beams. A scatter of stones at his side, marked where the hearth had stood. Beyond the walls of the ruin, dawn light was colouring the sky grey. Prak stared around uncomprehending. This place had not been lived in for years. Then how?...What?... Prak hugged himself, confused. His sodden clothing felt clammy in the dawn chill. An indifferent breeze ruffled his lank, black hair. Something rustled at his right ear. Sending up a hand, Prak's fingers encountered a withered flower, wound into his hair. Pulling it free, he frowned at the sere scrap, bemused. It was - had been - the Vettis flower he recalled Reed winding into his hair, before they had journeyed to Purpose. before.... A harsh guttural grunt made him start. The entrance was suddenly darkened by an ape face. Savage, brown eyes stared at him from a mask of golden fur. The creature opened its mouth, revealing an impressive set of fangs. It snarled, snaked in a long, muscular arm, and snatched him by the ankle. Prak cried out in alarm, kicking at the face with his other foot. The creature ignored both his cry, and the booted foot jammed in its face. The ape hauled him from the ruin, and dragged him unceremoniously across to a red robed, bald headed, priest, standing on the bank. About a dozen of the apes stood around. All were heavily armed. Swords, axes and knives were clutched in clawed paws. Knives were stuck in cross belts athwart their heavily muscled chests.They wore no clothing. Out on Old Man River, a long boat rode at anchor with a dozen more of the creatures. Prak was roughly hauled to his feet. "Eat?" the ape grunted. The priest, who had been staring keenly round at the long deserted ruins of the village with a fierce expression on his hawk-like face, glanced at Prak. He abstractedly signed his assent, turned back to his survey, then did a double take. The ape's knife was already raised, when the Priest suddenly shouted "Wait!" The ape did not look pleased. "Eat?" it snarled, with more force. It gave Prak a meaningful look. The Skyborn was dangling, stupefied, from a massive paw. "Later!" the Priest dismissed the request. He moved to Prak, took out a knife, and slashed open Prak's shirt. There on Prak's chest was a shadowy mark, like a jewel on a thong, dark on the pale skin. The priest traced the image with his knife-point, his face twisting into a grimace of fanatical disgust. "Marked for the Blasphemy," he screeched, spital flying, eyes bulging in the thin face. "They are here! Truly the Lord sees clear. The verminous Blasphemers are here!" He stared around wildly at the ruined village. "I see them! I hear their mocking laughter! They are here!" Still in a state of agitation, his eyes flaming with fanatical zeal, he addressed the ape. "We must cleanse the land. Their foul taint must be extirpated. Fire! Bring fire! Fire! Fire will cleanse the land. Put the Blasphemers to the Lord's cleansing fire! The Lord shall not be mocked in his own domains!" In moments, the entire river bank was ablaze with the Lord's cleansing fire. The red robed Priest watched the conflagration sending up thick clouds of smoke from the damp vegetation into the scudding clouds. A mad ferocity was shining in his eyes. He was muttering and cackling to himself, seeming oblivious of the flames that were leaping nearer and nearer. At last, a thick billow of smoke encircled him. The Priest seemed to start back to the world, realising his danger. Gathering up the skirts of his robe, he retreated down the bank and boarded the boat. "Bring him!" he commanded the ape who still held Prak. Prak was flung carelessly in after him. He landed heavily among the feet of the troop of apes. The Priest barked an order. Paddles were wielded. the boat shot into clear water and was propelled swiftly up-stream towards the rotting city of the Lord of the Vale. A mile or so up-stream, the boat was paddled around a bend and ran through the midst of a flotilla of small craft. The boats were crossing from the south bank, loaded down with the Golden Apes. More of the beasts clustered along the south bank awaiting their turn. At the north western edge of the City, several ropes had been secured across the flow. Dozens of laden rafts were being hauled across by main force. The air was rank with the animal smell of the great apes. -------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - - - - - Getting out of the TARDIS took a great deal less effort than Cain supposed. He learned this at the cost of a bashed nose, as the trolley on which the TARDIS had been left shot backwards. Cain fell flat on his face on the floor. When he'd realised the porters had left it on the trolley, he'd simply put his hands against the wall, braced his feet against the inner doors, and heaved for all he was worth. The trolley, he'd discovered, , was one of those frictionless floaters with inertial dampers to make handling mass loads easier. The trolley, rebounding from the opposite wall, almost ran him over where he lay face down on the floor. With a rueful smile, he got up, checked his nose for damage, and peered around. There were two guards, the usual Skyborn male female combination. Probably a couple? Partners? Lovers? That also was the norm; but all that was academic because they were both dead. Cain went across and knelt beside the two bodies, sprawled in ugly attitudes of violent death, in pools of their own life blood. Throat cut, he noted, from behind, by a slightly taller, right handed assailant. Not long ago either. One of the blasters was missing too. Cain arrived at the conclusion that the attacker would not be far away. He reached for a weapon whilst glancing round the bare room. Over by the open door were two ragged figures, a woman with a sword and a man with a blaster. Cain was on the point of launching his attack when the barrel of a weapon was pressed to his neck. "Up!" commanded a melodious female voice which sent thrills of dread familiarity down his spine. His mind went rattling through memories, seeking for a match. He had a bad feeling about that voice, very bad indeed. Making no sudden moves, Cain rose and turned to face the woman. The business end of a skyborn blaster was aimed unwaveringly at the bridge of his nose, by a tall, red headed woman. The woman's face focused the vague memory started by the voice. "You're dead," he said with a slight note of accusation. "I know you're dead! I killed you myself!" A fleeting panic went through the grey green eyes. The barrel of the blaster wavered a moment, then resumed its aim, rock steady. Cain continued to ignore the blaster and looked the woman over appreciatively. She was an absolute stunner. Even the tattered rags looked fashionable on her. Cain grinned. "Gotta be Shanka's work?" he ventured, looking her over. "Jeel's Gonads! Haven't they burned that depraved lunatic yet? It'd be a real pleasure to take on that little job myself 'cept I'd not want to do Them any favours." "Can you think of one reason?" the woman asked conversationally, a faint smile playing around her full lips. "It doesn't even have to be a good one - why I shouldn't pull the trigger?" she paused a moment, as though awaiting a reply. When none was forthcoming the smile deepened, became feral. She nodded slowly. "Good! Now that's good - because I've been waiting sooooo long to do this." She squeezed down hard on the firing stud.