Free Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome by Stephen Lawhead Page B

ordered to refill the grave, he planted a seed or a clump of grass so that his work would have symbolic value, rather than, as intended, remain just another meaningless exercise meant to unhinge him.
    Treet steeled himself with these thoughts and planned strategies to meet whatever barrages they threw at him. His overall plan was to make an outward show of resistance early on in the game and then give the appearance of having succumbed to the reorientation so that when he was released he would still have his head in one piece. He didn't know if he could pull it off, but it was his only chance—as long as they didn't use drugs. Against drugs—like the amnesiant they'd used on him the first time—there was little he could do.
    He sat in his cell for hours—perhaps much longer, he couldn't tell—waiting for something to happen. When something finally did happen, it surprised him with its mildness: lights hidden in the rock ceiling came on, shining dimly, and with them a sound like that of an ocean washing over a pebbled shore. Nothing more.
    Not too bad, thought Treet. I can handle this. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.
    Some time later he was awakened by a pinging sound, like a small hammer tapping a scrap of steel plate at regular intervals. This pinging sound had been added to the ocean sound, and he noticed, too, that the lights were brighter. Clearly, they meant to hammer at him with sound and light for a while—in the manner of cooking a live frog: toss the frog into a pot of cold water and then gradually bring up the heat until the pot boils; the frog will never know what's happening until it's too late to hop away.
    “This frog is wise to their tricks,” Treet told himself, and unzipped the front of his singleton and began worrying an inner pocket, which he eventually succeeded in tearing off. He took the pocket and tore it in half, rolled up the halves, and stuck one in each ear. His improvised earplugs worked quite well and he curled up and went to sleep once more. Better to sleep now while he could, and conserve his strength. There was no telling what might come later.
    When Treet awoke, the sound had stopped and the lights were dim again. On the floor of the cell before the unidor lay a tray with a bowl and a jar. The bowl contained boiled beans—tough little legumes that tasted like leatherbound cardboard pellets; the jar contained water, tepid but fresh. He drank the water and tossed down a handful of beans before remembering that the food and water could well be drugged. He sniffed the bowl and tasted another bean, but could detect nothing out of the ordinary. He replaced the bowl. Hungry though he was, he did not want to risk drugging himself so early in the game.
    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