Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome

by Stephen Lawhead

  The sound came on once more, louder this time. The ocean rolled, and the hammer pinged more insistently. Treet could see how that sound could get on a person’s nerves after a while. He replaced his earplugs and closed his eyes, grateful for the escape of sleep.

  A sharp, stinging pain on the side of his head brought Treet out of his slumber. His eyes flew open to see a Nilokerus guard standing over him with a stiff rod. “Get up,” said the guard. Treet moved to get up, quickly removing his homemade earplugs and stuffing them in his pocket. The guard didn’t appear to notice; he turned on his heel and walked out. Treet followed him, not knowing whether to feel apprehensive or hopeful. Were they releasing him, or getting down to business at last?

  The guard led him through the cell block back to the central admitting area where he had come in. A different guard sat at the console, and this one looked particularly put out about something. Without preamble, he told Treet what was upsetting him. “I’m missing the funeral because of you,” he growled.

  “There’s been a mistake,” offered Treet—as if he’d gladly clear up the misunderstanding so the guard could toddle off to the funeral. “I think it can be worked out.”

  “Oh, it has been worked out,” said the administrator, reaching out to tap a few keys into the console. “You are to be made an example of.” He glanced at the Nilokerus standing behind Treet, slapping the rod against his hand. “Take him to the conditioning tank.”

  “No, wait! You’re making a mistake. Let me go. I won’t cause you any trouble. Please!”

  The guard prodded him with the end of the rod, pushing him away from the console. The administrator glared at him and said, “Director Hladik has ordered this himself. Perhaps you’d care to discuss it with him?” He laughed as if he’d made the perfect joke, and Treet was steered down another of the rock-cut corridors radiating from the central room like the arms of an octopus.

  The conditioning tank was an enormous transparent six-sided aquarium filled with green fluid. It looked like a jumbo nutrient bath; however, Treet strongly doubted its designers had any such benevolent purpose in mind. Several harnesses of webbing and electrical wire dangled from a gridwork suspended above the tank. There was no one in the tank at present, and only one other person in the hexagonal room—a rather stout toad of a man with a mashed-in, wrinkled face. Hair stuck out of his red-striped yos at the neckline, and his hands looked as if he wore fur gloves. He grunted when Treet and his guard entered the room.

  “Here’s one for you, Skank,” said the guard with the rod, shoving Treet forward. “Take good care of him. Hladik wants him undamaged.”

  The one called Skank grunted again and shuffled over to Treet, appraising him with his eyes as if he were being asked to bid on a piece of spoiled merchandise. “Undamaged,” snorted Skank, prodding Treet with hairy fingers. Treet was aware of a sour smell, like stale sweat or urine or both, and something else. Saltwater? He looked at the giant aquarium; there appeared to be algae growing in the water—which explained its charming green color, no doubt.

  Treet stood passively and allowed himself to be poked. Skank turned him around and pounded him on the back, looked into his mouth, and felt him under the armpits. The guard watched this inspection idly and then turned to leave. “Where do you think you’re going?” hollered Skank. “Get back here and help me put him in the soak.”

  The guard huffed and rolled his eyes, but did not speak. Very likely, he knew any protest would be lost on Skank, who was now grumbling and shuffling off to a small pedestal where he flicked a few switches. There came a grinding sound, and the metal grid began descending from the ceiling. “Take off your clothes,” said Skank, returning with a large brown ball of waxy substance in his hands.

  Treet undressed slowly, saying, “You’re all making a big mistake.”

  “Save your breath,” grunted Skank, grabbing the nearest harness as it came down. “You’re headed for the tank.”

  The guard lifted Treet’s arms and held them out at shoulder level while Skank fastened a band around Treet’s chest and passed two straps between his legs. Next, webbing was wrapped around his torso and snugged down. His hands were bound loosely to his side; he could move his arms in shallow arcs, but could not touch his face or any other part of his body. The electrical wires, each with a flat electrode on the end, were attached to his skin at various points: over his heart, on his throat below his right jaw, on each temple and cheek, at the base of his spine, on his abdomen.

  Treet submitted to this strange indignity, trying to appear far more calm and unconcerned than he felt. His stomach fluttered, but that might just have been emptiness; and his palms sweated, but it was quite humid in the room. He knew his act of aplomb was unconvincing when, as Skank’s back was turned, the guard leaned close and whispered, “Don’t fight it. Just relax. It will go easier for you if you don’t resist.”

  Skank turned back, and Treet saw that he had fashioned a sort of mask out of the waxy ball. The mask had a mouth plug into which Skank inserted another electrode, and two protruding mounds where Treet’s ears would be. The keeper of the tank glanced at Treet’s face and made some small adjustments on the wax mask in his hands. Lifting the mask, he pressed it onto Treet’s face with both hands. “Trabant take you! Open your mouth!”

  Treet opened his mouth, and the wax plug slid in like a tongue. The mask was pressed tight to his face, sealing ears and eyes and mouth. A panicky moment came when the mask closed off his nostrils and he couldn’t breathe. “Hold your breath,” said the guard; Treet heard his voice muted by the wax plugs in his ears. “It won’t last.”

  At almost the same instant, Treet felt himself lifted off the floor in his harness, dangling like a doll on a rope. Still holding his breath, he began to worry about what was to happen next. Surely they didn’t mean to drown him—what purpose would that serve? Yet, there had been no provision made for getting air to him underwater.

  These thoughts ricocheted around in his brain as he felt his toes touch the water. He drew back in shock, but forced himself to relax and, as he dropped lower, swirled the water, making swimming motions with his feet. The water closed over him … now to his thighs … and now his hips … his waist … chest … neck …

  The water was neither warm nor cold, but exactly skin temperature. Within moments of entering the tank, he could no longer feel whether he was wet or dry. In fact, he couldn’t feel anything at all. He moved his hands, but could not even tell he moved them. The liquid was like water, but heavier, bulkier, more elastic. It did not register on his skin at all.

  Sensory deprivation, Treet knew, used such heavier-than-water fluids to cut off sensation to the brain. He also knew such techniques were highly effective, that if left very long in isolation the subject could expect aural and visual hallucinations, as well as a host of mental experiences bordering on the psychotic. Insanity was an almost guaranteed side effect for anyone left too long in a deprivation chamber. At least with brainwashing he knew what to expect and had a survival plan. If anyone had ever found a way to beat an SD tank, Treet had yet to hear about it.

  A more immediate concern, however, was the fact that he could not breathe. He knew he could hold his breath for six minutes. Six minutes was a good long time … but it was not forever.

  ELEVEN

  Threl Square in Saecaraz was draped in red: red banners hung from wires across the square, red streamers hung from every tree, red bunting wrapped the imposing columns of the Threl Chambers entrance. Everywhere one looked was red, the color of death and mourning. Tvrdy slipped through the standing crowds already thronging the square and moved toward the section designated for Tanais dignitaries. His Subdirector would already be there, along with as many other Tanais of stent that could be crammed into the numbered space.

  Moving among the populace of Empyrion, he gauged the mood as one of restrained festivity—subdued now because of the nature of the ceremony about to be enacted. But later all restraint would give way to revelry, dead lead
er or no. Tvrdy knew that Jamrog had foreseen this—knew what effect this sort of celebration would produce. The masses were too easily won by simple pomp, and once won, too easily led.

  It was the great irony of leadership, he thought, that in order to be a good leader, one had to give everything to a people unworthy of the sacrifice. He sighed; perhaps it was always so.

  He pressed his way through the quickly coagulating crowds, and eventually arrived at the designated section to squeeze in among his Hagemen. Subdirector Danelka snapped to attention and handed the bhuj to his superior, whispering, “I was beginning to think you would miss the ceremony.”

  “So did I. But today of all days I suspect Jamrog’s surveillance to be lax. There would never be a better chance of reaching them.” To Danelka’s unspoken question, Tvrdy said, “Yes, it went well. We are allies as of this morning.”

  Danelka grimaced and replied, “I know I should be pleased, Director, but …”

  “Don’t worry. I do not expect anyone to relish our arrangement, although it might be helpful if we learned to mask our true feelings for the Dhogs. Revulsion and resentment cannot help our cause. Besides, I think we will come to value them greatly.”

  Danelka shook his head doubtfully, but said nothing more.

  “Did anyone suspect I was missing?” Tvrdy pulled his hood closer and turned the bhuj in his hands to display the Tanais face.

  “I don’t see how,” answered his Subdirector. “I carried the bhuj and remained hooded the whole trip. The boatmen paid no attention to our boarding, and the Saecaraz who met us at the square’s entrance merely inquired about the number, but did not count us themselves.”

  Tvrdy grinned suddenly. “Jamrog’s laxity will be his undoing yet. He does not have the stamina to rule as he should. He is sloppy, Danelka. Sloppy and lazy.”

  “And dangerous,” added Danelka.

  Just then a blattering of horns sounded. When the blast died away, and with it the commotion of the vast crowd, a single large drum could be heard emanating from within the Threl Chambers. The booming drumbeat grew louder, and a Saecaraz Hage priest appeared between the pillars at the entrance, an enormous drum preceding him. The drum was affixed to long poles which were carried by four underpriests.

  Behind the drumbeating priest came a whole regiment of Hage priests, each with a silver horn shaped like a crescent. As soon as these reached the steps below the pillars, they raised the horns to their lips and blew the long, low ringing note that had commenced the ceremony. Saecaraz Hagemen followed the priests: Jamrog came first, walking alone, wearing a red mourning cloak over his black-and-silver yos; he was followed by row on row of assorted Hage functionaries.

  In the midst of the ranks of Saecaraz came Rohee’s bier, borne up on the shoulders of his Hagemen. The red-shrouded coffin seemed to float above the heads of the crowd, making its slow, circuitous way around the square, pausing before each official Hage delegation to allow the Hage Leaders to pay their official respects—which they did by tossing black and silver paper streamers, symbolically representing Sirin Rohee’s long life, over the pale, ashen-gray body.

  When the bier stopped before Tanais, Tvrdy flung his streamer over the body too, surreptitiously tearing a short length off one end—privately stating his suspicion that Rohee’s life was cut short. No one else saw the gesture, and the severed length of streamer fell to the stone flagging unobserved.

  The procession moved on, and when the last Hage had paid its respects, the priests began the funeral chant, calling on Great Trabant to ease Rohee’s passage through the Two Houses, Ekante and Shikroth, and to send sympathetic Seraphic Spheres to guide him. They asked the oversouls to remember Rohee’s long life and account his deeds with greatness. On and on the chanting went while the bier circled again and again. Finally, after nearly two hours, the chanting stopped and the casket was placed in the center of the square.

  “What’s this?” Tvrdy nudged Danelka. A ramp was being pushed through the crowd to the bier; at the end of the ramp was a red-draped platform. The ramp stopped with the platform directly above the bier. Jamrog appeared at one end of the ramp and moved slowly up to take his place on the platform. The assembly, restless after the long ranting of the priests, fell silent once more as, stone-faced and regal, Jamrog ascended.

  “I heard nothing about anything like this,” whispered Danelka. “Most unusual.”

  Jamrog raised his hands for silence, although the throng was already hushed and every eye was on him. He stared out at the great crowd, assuring himself of their utmost attention. He drew the moment out, opened his mouth to speak, but did not, then slowly lowered his hands to indicate poor dead Rohee beneath him. He raised his face, and a cry of grief came from him: “Rohee-e-e!”

  A thrill tingled through the vast audience. What was the new Supreme Director doing? Why was the body not being consigned to the flames?

  “Ro-hee-e-e-e!” came the cry again. Silence followed as Jamrog looked about dolefully. A full minute elapsed as the Director gazed with sorrowful eyes across the sea of faces. When the tension reached its peak, he said in a loud voice, “Our leader is fallen! He is dead! Dead!” The word was a shout, followed by a softer echo. “Dead.”

  Jamrog drew a deep breath and began to speak more softly, so the crowds had to strain forward to hear him. “Our beloved leader of so many years has fallen to the sleep of death, and will never rise again. Farewell, Sirin Rohee. Your people salute you and mourn your passing.” Gazing intently at the body, Jamrog raised a hand in farewell. The gesture was simple and touching.

  “I almost believe he means it,” whispered Danelka.

  “Shh!” replied Tvrdy. “I want to hear what the liar says.”

  Jamrog continued: “Look, my people, look long on the body of your dead leader. Remember him always. Remember him in noble death. Remember him …” He spread his hands wide over the body. “Look and remember.”

  “Remember how he raped the Hages!” said Danelka under his breath. Tvrdy gave him a threatening glance, as Jamrog went on to recite a long catalog of Rohee’s benevolent achievements, most of which, it seemed to Tvrdy, centered on the old cutthroat not maiming an opponent worse than he might have, and not crushing the people with any more impossible regulations than they could absolutely bear.

  “Sirin Rohee was a man born to greatness, and that greatness will not be diminished in death,” Jamrog went on. “I will not allow his body to be consumed by flames or corruption. Even though he is dead, I will see to it that he remains with us: his body will be embalmed in crystal and laid in Threl Chambers, where a special mausoleum will be prepared. Then, you, his beloved people, will come to look upon him and honor his memory. He will be with us always!”

  Jamrog had so drawn his listeners along, carefully building the drama and emotion of his words, that no sooner had his last words been uttered than the amassed mourners loosed a tremendous, bone-shaking cheer. The great shout echoed through the empty streets of Empyrion, ascending to the dome’s crystalline shell far above.

  The crowd surged forward and seized the platform on which Jamrog stood, tearing it away from the ramp. The severed platform—with Jamrog standing placidly in the center of it, hands outstretched—was lifted high and borne through the square to ringing shouts of acclaim.

  As Tanais Hagemen of lower stent streamed past him to join the melee, Tvrdy turned away from the spectacle. Danelka caught up with him as he stomped from the square. “So that’s his trick,” muttered Tvrdy. “I should have guessed. He has given them a show they will never forget. Already he is greater than Rohee ever was—and far more deadly.”

  Subdirector Danelka asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay with the delegation. I’m going back to my kraam. Come to me later and tell me what has happened.” He looked at Danelka wearily. “I’m tired … tired.” With that he slipped away through the clamorous crowd and disappeared.

  Talus and Mathiax strolled the path through the long grove of fan
trees behind the Clerk of the College of Mentors’ shoreside home. The air of Fierra was soft and warm, as always, and lightly scented with the fan tree’s aromatic resin. An edge of gray cloud worked the upper atmosphere, drawing a light overcast across the great shining face of Prindahl from the North, giving the midday sun the appearance of white gold.

  “It’s going to rain,” observed Mathiax to himself.

  “Too early,” Talus grunted absently, and the two walked on.

  At length they stopped and faced one another. “We have been negligent,” said Mathiax. “There is no denying it. We should not have let him go without first making some provision for communication.”

  “What could we do? The Preceptor’s ban—”

  Mathiax dismissed the thought with a quick shake of his head. “I’m not suggesting we should have gone with him—only that we should have found some way to allow him to reach us in need.”

  Talus frowned and rubbed his curly beard with the back of a broad hand. “The woman—Yarden—she told us she was a sympath. She could reach him.”

  “She won’t.” At Talus’ sharp glance, Mathiax answered, “I already tried. I asked Ianni to bring the subject up when Bohm returned.”

  “And?”

  “Ianni tried, but she refused to discuss it. It appears the two quarreled, and now she will have nothing to do with him.”

  “Something between lovers?”

  Mathiax nodded. “Ianni says Yarden warned him not to return to Dome, and since he insisted on going she severed their relationship.”