Empire V (28 page)

‘Yes,' said Baal Petrovich. ‘Or rather, a representation of what it would have looked like two hundred years ago. At that time the ceremony was attended by certain risks to health. But nowadays it is a completely safe procedure.'

‘But how were they able to swallow the
bablos
? I mean the people in the picture. They had gags in their mouths.'

‘They're not gags,' replied Baal Petrovich, going over to the control desk. ‘They are special appliances in which are incorporated a capsule of
bablos
made from the bladder of a fish. They also protect the tongue and the lips from trauma. The technology we use now is quite different.'

He pressed a knob on the control desk and the breastplates rose with a humming noise above the chairs.

‘You may sit down now.'

I sat in the end chair. Hera settled herself two chairs away from me.

‘Let's go,' I said. ‘We're ready.'

Baal Petrovich shot me a disapproving look.

‘I cannot approve such a frivolous attitude. How do you know whether or not you are ready, when you do not even know what is about to take place?

I shrugged.

‘Why don't you explain, then?'

‘Listen to me very carefully,' said Baal Petrovich. ‘Since I know what sort of rubbish your heads are filled with, I wish you to be clear that the experience you are about to undergo will be surprising and not at all what you imagine. For you to have a correct understanding of what will take place it is essential from the start to grasp one fact that you may find damaging to your self-esteem. It is not we who suck
bablos
. It is the Tongue.'

‘Are we not one entity?' asked Hera.

‘Up to a certain point. And this is that point.'

‘But we will feel something, won't we?'

‘Oh yes, indeed,' replied Baal Petrovich. ‘In no small measure. But it will be nothing like what the Tongue experiences.'

‘What does the Tongue experience?' I asked.

‘I do not know,' replied Baal Petrovich. ‘No one knows.'

I had not anticipated this answer.

‘How is that possible?' I asked in dismay.

Baal Petrovich burst out laughing.

‘You were asking me about a picture in Enlil's study,' he said. ‘But do you remember the picture that hangs in your own study? Napoleon on horseback?'

‘To be honest,' I replied, ‘I long ago became heartily sick of being compared to a horse.'

‘This is the last time, I swear. Does the horse know what Napoleon is thinking? What is your opinion?'

‘I think not.'

‘And I agree. But when Napoleon canters round the field of battle before his army, he and his horse appear as a single organism. In a sense that is what they are … And when Napoleon pats his faithful steed on the neck …'

‘Why bother to go on?' I said. ‘There's no point trying to explain anything to a horse, is there? Napoleon certainly wouldn't have done so.'

‘Rama, I understand your feelings,' replied Baal Petrovich. ‘But life is much simpler than is commonly believed. There are two paths. If a person is fortunate, incredibly fortunate – as you and Hera have been – he or she can become the horse that carries Napoleon. But by the same token, without that stroke of luck the person will remain a mere beast of burden.'

‘Could we have done with horse-breeding?' asked Hera. ‘Let's get on with the matter in hand.'

‘With pleasure,' replied Baal Petrovich. ‘So, the Red Ceremony is in two parts. First the Tongue sucks in
bablos
. This is the greatest mystery in the vampire's world. But as I have already said, this procedure does not take place with us personally, and we know little of its essential nature. During this time what you experience will be extremely varied and fairly unpleasant, and can even be painful. You must endure. Do you understand?'

I nodded.

‘After that the pain passes and the second part of the experience begins,' continued Baal Petrovich. ‘Physiologically, what happens is this: having absorbed enough
bablos
, the Tongue injects directly into the brain a charge from an extremely powerful neurotransmitter we call dopamen, which compensates for the negative experiences arising from the first part of the procedure.'

‘Why is this compensation needed?' I asked. ‘After all, the pain has already gone.'

‘Quite so,' said Ball Petrovich. ‘But disagreeable memories persist. The neurotransmitter secreted by the Tongue, however, is powerful enough to alter the content of the memory. To be precise, not the memory itself, but the emotional balance connected with it. As a result the final impression the vampire retains of the Red Ceremony is in the highest degree positive, so much so that many vampires become psychologically dependent on
bablos
, a condition we call Thirst. This is, of course, a paradoxical reaction since the intake of
bablos
is in itself a fairly painful procedure.'

‘What exactly is a neurotransmitter?' I asked.

‘In our case it is an agent which generates in the brain a sequence of electrochemical processes, experienced subjectively as happiness. In a normal person dopamine is responsible for similar processes. Its chemical name is 3.4 dihydroxiphenylethylamine. Dopamen is a closely related substance, as you will see if you look at the formula – on the right side of the molecule is the same nitric dioxide, but different figures for carbon and hydrogen. From a strictly chemical perspective the name is incorrect; it was invented in the sixties as a joke: “dope amen”, which became “dopamen”. At that time vampires were making an intensive study of their brains. This work was later curtailed, but the name stuck.'

‘Why was the work curtailed?'

‘The Mighty Bat became concerned that vampires might learn how to synthesise
bablos
themselves, and this could upset the time-hallowed order. If you're interested we can go more deeply into the subject. Would you like me to write down the formula for dopamen?'

I shook my head.

‘Dopamen is also very similar to dopamine in the mechanism of its effect,' continued Baal Petrovich, ‘but it is significantly stronger, approximately in proportion as crack is to cocaine. The Tongue injects it directly into the brain and it instantly generates its own reward circuits, which differ from the standard neuronal pathways of human happiness. It is therefore scientifically accurate to state that for a few minutes after receiving
bablos
the vampire experiences superhuman happiness.'

‘Superhuman happiness,' I repeated dreamily to myself.

‘However, this is not what you might imagine it to be,' said Baal Petrovich. ‘The best thing is not to have any expectations. That way you will not be disappointed. Well, that is enough by way of explanation, I think. We may now begin.'

Hera and I exchanged glances.

‘Raise your legs and spread your arms out wide,' commanded Baal Petrovich.

Cautiously I adopted the required position, resting my legs on a supporting ledge that slid out from beneath the chair. The chair itself was extremely comfortable; the body was hardly aware of it at any point.

Baal Petrovich touched a knob and the breastplate descended, gently pressing on my chest. He strapped my arms and legs to the chair with shackles made of what looked like thick plastic, and then repeated the procedure for Hera.

‘Now lift your chin …'

As soon as I obeyed he placed in position on the back of my head something like a motorcycle crash helmet. Now the only part of my body I could move was my fingers.

‘During the ceremony your body may appear to be travelling through space. This is an illusion. In reality you will stay exactly where you are at all times. Remember this, and do not be afraid.'

‘Why do I have to be I strapped down like this?' I asked.

‘Because,' answered Baal Petrovich, ‘the illusion is extremely powerful and the body engages in uncontrollable movements to compensate for the imaginary motion in space. This can result in severe trauma. In the past there were numerous instances of this … Well, all is ready now. Do either of you have any more questions?'

‘No,' I replied.

‘Please be aware that once the procedure has started there is no way back. Your only option is to endure until the end. Therefore, do not attempt to remove your shackles or get up from your chairs. You will not be able to. Is that clear?'

‘Quite clear,' answered Hera.

Baal Petrovich once again looked carefully over both of us and appeared satisfied with what he saw.

‘Well, then, shall we go?'

‘Into darkness, back and down,' I replied.

‘Good luck.'

Baal Petrovich moved behind the chair, out of my line of sight. I heard a quiet humming noise. From the right-hand side of the helmet extruded a small, transparent tube, which came to rest exactly above my mouth. Simultaneously two soft rubber plugs exerted pressure on my cheeks, one on either side. My mouth opened and at the moment a single bright crimson drop escaped from the end of the tube and fell into my mouth.

It fell directly on to my tongue, and in a reflex motion I pressed it up against my soft palate. The liquid was thick and viscous, tangy and sweet to the taste, as though someone had combined syrup with cider vinegar. I had the impression that it was instantly absorbed, as though a tiny mouth had opened just there and sucked it in.

My head began to spin. The sensation increased in intensity for several seconds and culminated in total spatial disorientation. I was relieved that my body was firmly strapped in so that it could not fall. Then it seemed to me as though the chair itself was rising from the floor.

This was most strange. I continued to see everything around me – Hera, the fireplace, the walls, the sun in the ceiling, Baal Petrovich in his dark red gown. Yet at the same time I had an unmistakeable sensation of my body and the chair ascending, moreover at a velocity such that I experienced the G-force a cosmonaut does when his rocket lifts off.

The gravity became so extreme that I had difficulty in breathing. I was frightened of suffocating, and tried to communicate this to Baal Petrovich. But my mouth would not answer to my commands; all I could do was move my fingers.

Gradually it became easier to breathe. I felt the speed of my ascent decelerating, as though I was approaching an invisible summit. I realised that I was on the point of overshooting, and then …

I just had time to curl my fingers into fists before my body plunged into a dizzy, delirious but at the same time terrifying weightlessness. I felt something cold tickling in the pit of my stomach as my body hurtled downwards at an appalling speed – and all this while I was sitting still in a motionless chair.

‘Close your eyes,' said Baal Petrovich.

I glanced over at Hera. Her eyes were tight shut, so I followed suit in screwing mine fast shut as well, and that was even more terrifying because the sensation of flight was now all-consuming and utterly real, and I could no longer see the room around me, to reassure me second by second that what was happening was no more than a vestibular hallucination. I tried to open my eyes once more but could not. Evidently I had begun to whimper from terror; I heard a low laugh from Baal Petrovich.

Now a visual element was added to my hallucinations. The illusion of flying through the cloud-covered night sky was complete. All around was dark, but even so amid the darkness there were some clouds of a yet more impenetrable murk, like dense emboli of steam, and these I passed through with incredible speed. I seemed to be enveloped in a kind of crease in space which was absorbing air friction. From time to time I felt something inside my head tauten and the direction of my travel alter, which was a deeply unpleasant sensation.

Soon I began to distinguish something like luminous dotted lines among the clouds. At first they were so dim as to be hardly visible, but gradually they became clearer. I knew that these points of light had some kind of connection to people: either they were human souls, or thoughts, or dreams, or perhaps an element common to all these …

And then at last I knew what they were.

They were that part of human consciousness Enlil Maratovich had identified as Mind ‘B'. They appeared like spheres in which flickered a softly appealing, nacreous luminescence – the ‘Northern Lights', he had called it earlier. Linking the spheres was an invisible thread, looping them into long garlands. Countless numbers of these garlands spiralled upwards to culminate in a tiny speck of sheer black, which was where Ishtar had to be found. I could not see her, but her presence was as plainly perceptible as the sun above one's head on a hot day.

All of a sudden my body executed a sharp manoeuvre which was extremely painful and felt as though my bones had all been crunched sideways, upon which I found myself actually on one of the threads. Then I was moving along it, skewering the cerebral capsules one by one as I passed.

As far as I could see this had no effect on them. In fact it could not have – because they were not real. The Tongue's objective was not the capsules themselves but the bright-red drop of hope and meaning germinating within each one. One after the other the Tongue greedily drank down these drops, each time swelling with a dreadful kind of electric exultation, which increasingly filled me with terror.

I felt like a shade flying among thousands of dreams and feeding from them. The souls of all these people were as an open book to me: I could instantly understand everything about them. I was feeding on the reality of those waking dreams into which a man would lapse unconsciously many times a day, whenever his glance might fall upon a glossy page, a monitor screen, or a face in the crowd.

The crimson flower of hope could blossom in any soul, and the fact that this hope was wholly without meaning, like the farewell ‘cock-a-doodle-do' of a broiler chicken, made no difference at all. The flowers themselves were real, and the unseen reaper whom I bore on my foam-lathered back scythed them down with alacrity. A red spiral of energy throbbed in the people, a glowing discharge oscillating between what they imagined was real and what they thought were fantasies. Both poles were delusional, but the sparks flying between them were real enough. The Tongue gulped down these sparks, inflating and shaking my poor skull.