Trying to use the only sensory feedback he had left to him, he realized that the vehicle had an oddly familiar smell. He recognized the distinctive odor of bandro, a stimulant drink imported from Tsieh-pun. Most of the Hegemonic Police force stationed here were from Tsieh-pun. Police. Could it be Police involvement? That would explain the equipment, the vehicle, the ruthless efficiency of the way they had made him their prisoner, even the effortless way they had walked in on him through the invisible walls of his security system….
But what in the name of all his ancestors would make the Police do this to him—? Maybe it was terrorists; maybe they were going to— Oh gods, this is insane, why is this happening to me now—? No. Stop it. No. The stunshock was making it hard to breathe, doubled up in the cramped space. He recited an adhani silently, calming himself, and lay still, because he had no choice. He waited.
They were coming down again. The flight hadn’t been a long one. He must still be within range of Foursgate, at least. He tried to feel encouraged by that fact, and failed. The craft settled almost imperceptibly onto some flat surface, and he was hauled out of the vehicle like the dead weight he was. He was carried into another building, downward … down a long, echoing hall, into a lift which dropped them farther down. Had they landed on a rooftop pad? Or were they going underground? He had no clue.
At last the sickening motion stopped; he was dropped, dead weight again, onto a hard surface. He felt his leaden hands and feet jerked wide and pinioned, felt a sting against his neck as someone gave him the antidote for the muscle paralysis. He took in a deep, ragged breath of relief as control came back to him, felt his muscles spasm as he tried to move his limbs. And then the invisible hands did something by his jaw, dissolving the security field—letting him see and hear at last.
He raised his head, all he could do freely; let it fall back again. He made a sound that wasn’t really a laugh. I’m having a nightmare. This isn’t happening…. What he had seen was too absurd. He was not really lying here like this, inside a cone of stark white light, surrounded by a dozen figures in black star-flecked robes, their identities hidden behind hologramic masks: featureless forms crowned by the image of a Black Gate’s flaming corona, its heart of darkness sucking his vision relentlessly down toward madness. It’s a dream, a flashback, stress, nightmare … wake up, wake up, damn you—!
He did not wake up. His eyes still showed him the same figures, barely visible at the edges of the cone of light which shone relentlessly on his own helpless, half-clad body. He watched silently as one of the figures came toward him, stood over him, gazing down at him with infinity’s face. He had to look away; he turned his face aside and shut his eyes. Sweat trickled down his cheek into his ear; the itch it caused was maddening, agonizing. His hand fisted with exasperation inside its restraint.
The robed figure reached out, touched his straining hand almost comfortingly. The blunt, gloved fingers closed over his own, formed a hidden pattern as distinctive as it was unobtrusive. He stiffened as he recognized it; returned it with sudden hope.
But then the face of flaming nothingness turned back to his own, and suddenly there was a light pencil in the stranger’s hand. The blade of coherent light pricked his throat, touching the trefoil tattoo there; hot enough to make him jump, but not set to burn. An electronically distorted voice asked him, “Are you a sibyl?” The voice gave him no clue to the speaker; he could not even tell if it was a man or a woman.
“Yes,” he whispered, with his eyes still averted from the face of Chaos. “Yes, I am—my blood carries the virus.” Hoping that the implied threat might prevent his suddenly seeing too much of his own blood.
The voice laughed unpleasantly. “Considerate of you to warn us. But this cauterizes nicely.” The faceless figure twitched the light pencil, making the spot of pain dance on Gundhalinu’s neck. “What do you know about Survey?”
“Input—” he murmured, taking the question as one asked of him in his official capacity; taking the easy way out.
“Stop,” the voice ordered, jerking him back into realtime just as his mind began the long fall into the sibyl net. “Answer me yourself. Are you a member of Survey?”
“Yes,” he repeated, reorienting with difficulty. His hand tightened over the memory of the other’s touch. But you know that. Why am I here? Can you help me—? Not asking any of the questions forming in his mind, because he was afraid of what would happen if there were no answers. The silence when no one was speaking was almost complete; the sound of his own breathing hurt his ears.
“What do you know about Survey?” the voice repeated.
He shook his head, more surprised than frightened now by the unexpected turn of the questioning. Of all the possibilities his frantic brain had offered for this ordeal, his membership in Survey had not been one of them. He stared at the ceiling—if there really was one, in the darkness behind the blinding glare. “It’s a private social and philanthropic organization. Almost everyone I knew—every Technician—on Kharemough seemed to be a member. There are chapters on all the worlds of the Hegemony.” Many members of the Hegemonic Police belonged to it; he had attended meetings on three different worlds. “Look, this is absurd—” He raised his head, with difficulty, to confront the face of nightmare. “What in the name of any god you like do you want from me—?”
“Just answer the question.” The voice thrummed gratingly with its owner’s impatience. The light pencil traced a stinging track down his naked chest and half-exposed stomach to the vicinity of his private parts. His eyes began to water as he felt the heat concentrate there.
He took a deep breath, letting his head fall back again. “What do you want to know—?” His own voice sounded thin and peevish. “You can find out anything 1 could tell you down at the local meeting hall!”
“Do many sibyls belong to Survey?” the voice asked, ignoring his response.
He thought about it. “Yes. Quite a few.” He had never realized until now what a high percentage of them there were. “But it isn’t a requirement.”
“Do all sibyls belong to it?”
He shook his head, remembering Tiamat. “No.”
“Why not?”
He opened his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t even know why so many of them do belong—” he said, exasperated.
“How old is the organization?”
“I don’t know. Very old, I think. I believe it originated on Kharemough.”
The masked questioner chuckled. “Like everything else of any value?” Gundhalinu grimaced. “How many levels of organization are there?”
“What—? Three, I think. Three!”
“And what level are you?”
“Three. I am—was—am a Technician of second rank “
“There are no higher levels, no inner circle—?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“You’ve never even heard rumors that such things may exist?”
“Well … yes, but that’s all they are. People like to see conspiracies everywhere. Some people like to fantasize about secrets. I’ve seen no evidence—”
“There are no secret rituals involved? No rites of passage which you are forbidden to reveal?”
“Well, yes, but they’re meaningless.”
“You’ve never revealed them to anyone, though?”
“No.”
“Describe them to me.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head, and felt the discomfort increase as his inquisitor pushed aside his robe, baring his flesh.
“Describe them.”