Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome by Stephen Lawhead Page A

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 leader 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