Filaria - Brent Hayward [51]
Tran so Phengh was carried into the room that the dark god had been instructed to enter. Here were several seats and broad desks, and on each desk sat a small, black device slightly larger than Tran so’s fist. Some of these devices were silent, others emitted a low hum. In the corner of the room, something unseen, perhaps a lesser god, clattered and scampered about like a frightened rodent.
The god placed Tran so Phengh down on his feet. “Would you be so kind as to sit in one of these chairs? We’re going to administer to you the first of a series of tests.”
Tran so did as he was told. The seat was hard and uncomfortable. He realized, at this point, absurdly, that he wanted to sleep. Surely it was approaching nightfall. Did they ever turn the lights out here? He wondered if Minnie sue had gotten out of bed today, or if she had eaten anything.
The device before him had burnished corners and tiny holes for jacks. One face had an outline of a hand etched on it, fingers splayed. Thin cables ran out of this side. Squinting, Tran so saw tiny words engraved above the image, and formulas, and arcane symbols. His vision, though improving, was not yet acute enough to distinguish meaning from these.
The dark god walked back to the door, shut it, and returned to Tran so’s side. “My brethren are getting agitated,” it explained. “Not all of us have patience. I have selected you as one of my charges. I believe in you. You might consider yourself fortunate. Others have been hurt. Still more incarcerated, without any hope of trial. Place your hand on the sensor, please.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
Tran so Phengh’s skin tingled when he touched the device; the dark god took hold of two loose cable ends and fumbled with them inside the collar of its shirt. Regarding Tran so for a moment, it reached out a huge hand to press one thumb against Tran so’s left eye. Tran so did not turn away, though for a second he thought that the god might plunge its digit deep into his brain, as if into a ripe fruit.
“You have a guest, sir, in your head. A filarial worm. It resides under the conjunctiva, in the anterior chamber of your eye. Do you wish me to remove it?”
“If you could. I would be grateful.”
Immediately the dark god said, “The worm will no longer be bothering you. Your retinas are clear. Please remain looking at me as I ask you the questions.” Adjusting the cables inside its shirt, it began: “Name?”
As Tran so was about to respond, an idea occurred to him: the curved wall he had seen on the way here — the one with the archways — was the exterior of the tube. Access to up and down. To other levels. Access to what he was looking for. He knew this suddenly, with certainty, though how he might use this knowledge was not so certain —
His hand was heating up. He said, “My name is Tran so Phengh.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-two.”
Inside the tube lived the god of all gods. So they said. What Ensign Conway had called the network. This network, god of all gods, could answer his questions about Minnie sue, about his poor boy.
“Status?”
“Married.”
“No. I mean status. Staff or guest.”
“I don’t understand.”
“How did you arrive here?”
“You brought me.”
The pursuit to uncover truths about life had not been thwarted by this capture and interrogation, as he had first thought: all that took place to arrive at this juncture in life had been part of the process, an integral step on his path to truth.
“Let me rephrase the question. How did you get into this establishment? Did you pay, as a guest? Or were you hired to work here? Or, perhaps, did you come in illegally?”
“I don’t understand. I was born here. In Hoffmann City. My mother was a fellatrix and my father was a fisherman. I was raised