Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (11 page)

A split second later moist air was streaming into his lungs.

Treet had been so busy fighting it that when the involuntary impulse to draw air took over, he did not even notice. The quick inrush of air shocked and confused him—maybe it was water. Maybe this was what it was like to drown.

But, no. He drew oxygen deep into his lungs and expelled it experimentally. The air seemed thicker, heavier than ordinary air, and damp—as if he were breathing through a wet sponge—but not at all like water. No, he was not drowning—at least he didn't think so. Somehow, he was breathing, and for that he was thankful.

He took a few slow, calming breaths. Obviously, the mask was some sort of oxygen-permeable membrane that allowed an air breather to breathe underwater. It held, still tightly plastered to his face, but from what he could feel of the plug in his mouth, the wax substance had changed consistency: it was soft and glutinous, molding to his features like dough.

Slowly Treet relaxed, his speeding heartbeat calmed, muscles unknotted and slackened. Whatever else happened to him in the tank, at least he wouldn't drown. That was a small comfort.

He drew oxygen through the membrane and tried to think about how he would survive the ordeal before him. His own mind was his greatest enemy in this struggle. Without the stimulation of data from his sense organs, his brain would begin to manufacture its own data in the form of hallucinations. He would begin to hear sounds and see images; he'd feel and smell things that were not there.

And as much as he would tell himself the hallucinations weren't real, there would come a time when he wouldn't be able to tell illusions from reality. Then the terror would start. He would experience the horror of his own nightmares, and he would not be able to stop them. His brain, like a runaway computer caught in an endless program loop, would run on and on and on. Cut off from his physical sensations, his brain would, like a prisoner too long deprived of sunlight and food, begin devouring itself in the darkness.

In the end he'd be nothing but a mindless shell of a man, demented, blithering. Unless ... unless Hladik had other ideas. He had not considered that before, but considered it now. Of course, they had a purpose for him. He would be no use to them insane; therefore, his conditioning would likely stop short of that.

The question was, could he hold out?

Grimly, as Treet assessed his predicament, the thought came to him that, one way or another, he would find out.

Pizzle watched the rain
sweep in undulating curtains across the flat, beaten-iron face of Prindahl. The fresh sea scent filled his nostrils, and he sighed contentedly, thinking about Starla and their long, dreamy evening. Never had he met a more engaging woman: warm, responsive, caring, a joy to behold and to be with.

The wind off the lake stirred the curtains of his room, and he turned away from the vista of rain-swept water to go in search of Jaire. He found her, auburn hair upswept and tied in a gold ribbon, lighting candles in the smaller dining room; the long table was already set.

“Can I help?” he asked.

“Thank you, Asquith. Yes, if you like. Over there you'll find goblets. Fill them from the pitcher, please.”

He went to a tray on the sideboard and took up the crystal pitcher, carefully pouring the contents into the goblets on the round tray and wondering how to pose the question he was itching to ask.

“Did you enjoy the concert last night?” Jaire asked, favoring him with a bright smile.

Pizzle, trying not to reveal too much about his current emotional state, steadied his hand and replied in a matter-of-fact tone, “It was all right. Nice.”

Jaire blew out the long wick with which she was lighting the tapers. “I'm glad you liked it. Did you find Starla an amiable companion?”

At the mention of her name, Pizzle gulped; a muscle in his eyelid twitched. He cleared his throat. “Oh, fine, I guess.”

“She was
nice,
too?”

“Yeah, she's a nice lady, I—” He forgot what he was going to say next.

Jaire stood looking at him. If he hadn't been so flustered, he would have notice the amused expression on her face and the knowing sparkle in her gold-flecked eyes. “I'll be sure to tell her that,” replied Jaire, laughing.

Pizzle colored; his ears became crimson flags. “Does it—ah, show so much as all that?” he asked.

Jaire came to him and took his hand. She led him into the next room and to a cushioned chair where they sat down together. “You were out all night—it was nearly dawn when you came back.”

“You waited up for me?”

“No, I was at the hospital, remember? I returned home only moments before you. I heard you come in.”

“Uhh, hmmm. I see.” Pizzle's features scrunched into a frown. “Did I violate some kind of a social taboo?”

Jaire blinked back at him. “A what?”

“You know, etiquette. Good manners, ethics, propriety—that sort of thing.”

“Not that I am aware of. Did you?”

He almost leapt from his seat. “I—we, that is, didn't do anything improper, if that's what you mean.”

“It
was
very late.”

Pizzle nodded morosely. “Look, Jaire, I'm new here. I don't know what's proper and what isn't for courting a Fieri.” He realized what he had just said and blanched.

“Courting?” Jaire tilted her head and peered at him, humor twitching at the corners of her lips. “That is a word I have never heard.”

“It means ... well, when two people, a man and a woman, like each other, see ... well, they court. I mean the man courts the woman—he sees her.”

“Sees her?”

“You know, they spend time together ...”

“Ah, yes. I see what you mean.”

“Well, what do you call it?”

“We call it pairing.”

“Oh.”

Pizzle looked so confused that Jaire laughed and put a hand on his arm. “Is that what you were doing?”

“I don't know. It wasn't like that—I mean, I didn't plan to stay out all night. It just happened.”

“You do find Starla attractive?” It was more a statement of obvious fact than a question.

He nodded. “More attractive than anyone I've ever met. I only—” He stopped, swallowing hard, and went on. “I only hope she likes me, too.”

“Maybe you can ask her tonight.”

“Ask her?” Pizzle glanced up sharply, his expression equal parts hope and terror. “Tonight?”

“Talus and Dania are away this evening, and Preben is dining with friends. I thought you might enjoy meeting some others. I've asked some of my friends to join us, Starla among them.”

Now Pizzle did jump up. “I've got to get ready. What time is she coming?”

“They will begin arriving within the hour. You have time to—”

“Barely.” He cut her off as he dashed away. She watched him fly back to his room on the upper story of the great house, smiled, and went back to her preparations.

The
Dhogs had gathered to celebrate the passing of Supreme Director Sirin Rohee. From throughout the Old Section they had come, each of the sixteen families represented in force. Giloon Bogney sat on a three-legged stool with his bhuj in his hand, the very picture of the revered tribal chief accepting the homage of his people. In fact, the gifts were donations of food and beverage that each family brought with them to provision the celebration.

Giloon smiled and nodded, rising now and then to embrace an especially worthy family head, exchanging jokes about the Supreme Director's demise while the mound of foodstuffs and libation grew. From the look of the pile, there would be a fine feast tonight, and enough brew to produce a pleasant brain-numbing buzz for one and all.

Some of the Dhogs brought with them livestock—bakis (a variety of plump scavenger fowl) and prudos (the porcine equivalent of an ambulatory fertilizer factory). Dhog livestock had been bred for the ability to turn almost any organic substance into nourishment. The beasts, like their human masters, could survive on dry husks and chaff, and thrive on a meal of rinds and scraps. Both the bakis and the more substantial prudos would be butchered and roasted on spits around the bonfire to be lit at dusk.

As soon as they had heard that Rohee was dead, the Dhogs had begun collecting combustibles and had a large heap of flammable material amassed in the center of the dilapidated New America Square in the heart of the derelict section of Dome.

The Old Section had been, a little over three thousand years before, the site of the original Cynetics colony ship's landing. It was over New America Square that the first temporary dome had been erected on sterilized ground, and there the first Earthmen touched alien soil. But that was long, long ago—so long ago the current inhabitants could not even imagine that their crumbling ruin of a home had not always existed.

The Old Section had had a succession of names: Empyrion Base, Colony Administration, Plague Central, Fieri Ghetto, Dome Project Headquarters. As each name implied, the uses for the sprawling section, with its structures in ranks radiating from the central square, had been varied. Now it might have been called, simply, Sanctuary, for that was its current function—providing a home for Dome's nonbeings, the unfortunates who had, through one transgression or another, forfeited both Hage and stent, whose poak had been erased and their names expunged from the Hage priests' official rolls.

A Hageman who suddenly found himself without Hage or poak had only two choices: suicide or the Old Section. Most chose to join the Dhogs, accepting an existence—it could scarcely be called a life—of continual want amidst almost unimaginable squalor. To be a Dhog, the lowest of the low, was to be a nonentity, neither alive nor dead, but somewhere between the two, waiting for either to happen.

It was impossible to reach the Old Section from the Hages unless one knew the secret entrances and exits maintained by the Dhogs. Since no one did know—not even guides whose psi entities stubbornly refused to cooperate where the Old Section was concerned—new nonbeings were forced to wait until the Dhogs made one of their infrequent visits to the Hage refuse pits. The wretch who managed to convince the Dhogs to take him in was assigned to one of the sixteen families which were responsible for caring for their own members. The families worked to raise livestock and make any articles the family needed for survival.

Raw materials were scavenged from the Hage refuse pits—always a chancy enterprise since any Dhog caught in Hage was subject to the harshest abuse: torture always, and often death. So hated were they among the Hages that Dhogs risked life and limb simply by setting foot in Hage; hence they tended to move about only at night, and then only in twos and threes.

Though the refuse pits were their primary targets on their scavenging forays, anything not nailed down or too big to carry off was fair game for a Dhog: tools, vessels of various types, unattended cargo—these were the most highly sought rewards for a night's work. The Dhogs were careful never to take too much, or make their theft blatant, for they feared retaliation—against which they would be virtually defenseless. Even more, they feared making the Hages wary and overcautious, preferring a little carelessness on the part of their providers. If a tool that had been forgotten and left out disappeared, that was one thing. But if an entire tool bin were ransacked, that would force tighter security and stricter policing of all Hage goods, and that was one additional hardship the Dhogs definitely did not care to precipitate.

Therefore, their thefts were always judicious and cunning. Though it hurt terribly sometimes, they would leave a great haul untouched—a stack of ipumn bales left overnight on the wharf, or Hyrgo grain sacks waiting outside the granary—making off with just a single item so suspicion would not fall to them.

Giloon Bogney ruled his people with a genius composed equally of shrewdness and common sense, keeping order and dispensing rough justice, holding the reins of power with a firm, if filthy hand. Cleanliness was not a Dhog attribute. Water was to drink, not to wash in. The water teams had a hard enough time keeping up with their families' needs without worrying about providing wash water. People washed only when the opportunity presented itself, which was seldom.

When the last of the family heads had been formally greeted by their leader, Giloon signaled for the foodstuffs to be taken away and readied on tables provided for the purpose. Moments later, the squawks and squalls of the prudos and bakis rose above the festive commotion. A cry went up from the throng, numbering close to fifteen thousand by Giloon's estimation, for nearly every Dhog who could walk, hobble, or crawl had come: “The fire! The fire! Light the fire!”

Giloon cast an eye toward the dome far above; the last light of day glimmered weakly on the sectioned panes. He shrugged and called for the fire team to bring a brand. A runner was dispatched at once and returned moments later, threading his way through the crowds, firebrand lifted high.

The flaming torch was presented to Giloon, who, with exaggerated pomp and ceremony, took it and moved to the center of the square and the large mound of combustibles there. The Dhogs parted and formed an immense ring around the pile, their dark eyes and grimy faces keen in the torchlight.

Giloon raised the torch in his pudgy hand and said in a loud, ironic voice: “The Big Man be dead!”

“Better him than us!” shouted someone from the crowd, and everyone laughed.

“And it's being no too soon!” Giloon continued. “We knowing he liking the Afterworld—he sending so many of our people there always.”

“He maybe gets a Dhog welcome,” added the voice from the crowd.

“And maybe gets a Dhog oversoul to lead him,” shouted another wag. More laughter came as Giloon lowered the torch to the pile. The bundled rags used for kindling leapt to the flame, and the bonfire blazed. Freshly butchered carcasses were brought forth on spits by the dozen and set all around the perimeter of the blaze as closely as possible. Soon the aroma of roasting meat mingled with the varied scent of the burning rubbish.

Games and music began—both rude and uncouth to a more civilized observer, but spirited nonetheless. Tall, standing torches were lit throughout the square, and lines began forming at the beverage and food tables. Every face wore a carefree expression, for tonight of all nights there would be plenty to eat and drink for everyone, young and old alike.