Prince Lestat
Page 89
Fareed stared at the model he had made of the thing in burning color on the giant monitor.
That it was an invertebrate he was almost certain, that it possessed a discernible brain he was certain; that its nervous system involved numerous tentacles he was certain too. He suspected that in its spirit state it had absorbed some form of nutrients from the atmosphere of the planet. And blood, of course, the capacity to absorb tiny droplets of blood, had been its passage into the visible biological world. Obviously its tentacles involved a huge percentage of its neurons, but apparently did not involve full intelligence or awareness. That was localized in the brain, the Sacred Core, so to speak. And it was now evident, evident from the Voice, that this brain could encode both short-term memories and long-term memories. Its wants were now being expressed in terms of time and memory.
But had it always been so? Had the problem of long-term memory paralyzed this creature for centuries because it had had no way to store or respond to long-term memories in its “spirit” state? Had Amel and other spirits floated in a blessed “now” in their invisible form?
Had it always had personality and consciousness as we know them and only been unable in ages past to communicate? It had certainly communicated in spirit form to the great twin witches. It had loved them, wanted to please them, especially Mekare. It had wanted recognition, approval, even admiration.
But had that consciousness been submerged when the boastful Amel entered the Mother, only coming to the surface now because it found itself lodged in the host body of a woman who had no true thinking brain of her own?
Perhaps history had awakened Amel—the history he’d discovered when the burning rock videos of the Vampire Lestat had been piped into the Shrine of the Mother and the Father, videos that told the tale of how the vampires had come into existence. Had something vital and irreversible been sparked in Amel when he saw those little films on a television screen that Marius had so lovingly provided for the mute Mother and Father?
Fareed sighed. What he wanted more than anything in this world was to be in direct contact with the Voice itself. But the Voice had never spoken to him. The Voice had spoken to Seth. The Voice had undoubtedly spoken to innumerable blood drinkers on the planet, but the Voice shunned Fareed. Why? Why did it do this? And was the Voice from time to time anchoring itself inside Fareed to know his thoughts even if it did not speak to him?
That was conceivable. It was conceivable that Amel was learning from Fareed’s analysis more than the Voice cared to admit.
Viktor and Seth came into the room.
They stood in the airy darkness, looking at the monitor, waiting politely for Fareed to disengage and give them his full attention.
It was a very large room, this, with glass walls open to the flat country and the mountains beyond, one of many rooms in this great sprawling three-story medical compound which Fareed and Seth had built in the California desert.
Fareed had found the architecture of this area cold and uninspiring, efficient for work, but sterile for the spirit. So he’d warmed this space and others like it with little touches—marble fireplaces arching over gas grates, his favorite European paintings in gilded frames, and faded antique carpets from his native India. Several immense computers dominated his desk here, monitors aglow and filled with graphs and pictures. But the desk itself was an old Renaissance Portuguese piece of carved walnut found in Goa.
Viktor and Seth had not sat down, though the room was filled with leather easy chairs. They were waiting, and Fareed had to let this go, realize once and for all that he had come to the end of what he could know without confronting the Voice directly.
Finally, Fareed turned in the modern black swivel chair and faced the two who were waiting.
“Everything’s been arranged,” said Seth. “The plane’s ready; luggage loaded. Rose is on the plane, and Viktor will be with her. Rose thinks she is going to New York to see her uncle Lestan.”
“Well, we hope that will turn out to be the truth, don’t we?” asked Fareed. “And our rooms in New York?”
“Prepared, of course,” said Seth.
It had been two years since Fareed or Seth had visited their apartment there or the adjacent small laboratory they maintained on the sixty-third floor of a Midtown building. But this place was always in readiness, and why Fareed was asking foolish questions about this now, he did not know, except that it was a form of stalling.
Seth went on talking as if he were thinking aloud, checking himself on what had to be done. “All the human employees are gone home for indefinite leave with pay; all blood drinkers are in the basement rooms and will remain there until we return. The blood supplies are adequate for a long sequester. The security systems are in operation. This compound’s as safe as it ever was. If the Voice launches an attack, well, it won’t succeed.”
“The basements,” Viktor whispered. He shuddered. “How can they stand it, being shut up in a cellar for nights at a time?”
“They’re blood drinkers,” said Seth quietly. “You’re a human being. You forget over and over again.”
“Are there no blood drinkers with fears of cellars and crypts?” asked Viktor.
“None that I’ve ever known,” said Seth. “How could there be?”
There was no doubt that the cellars were safe. Yet we are leaving here, leaving this superb and secure installation, to go to New York, thought Fareed, but he knew that they had to do it.
“I don’t want to be locked in a cellar, not here or anywhere,” said Viktor. “I’ve had a horror of close dark places ever since I can remember.”
Fareed scarcely heard. Seth was assuring Viktor he’d be in an apartment of glass walls in New York high above the streets of Manhattan. No crypts.
Typical of a mortal to obsess about something that was of no importance. Fareed wished he could as easily divert himself from his deeper fears.
Fareed had sat quietly astonished this very morning, over fourteen hours ago, before sunrise, as Seth had connected privately with Benji Mahmoud by phone and told him they were coming. The phone had been on speaker. Seth and Benji had gone back and forth in Arabic for half an hour. And when Seth had revealed the existence of Rose and Viktor, Fareed had been horrified.
But he understood. They were going because they had to go, and they had to trust Benji and Armand and the others in New York with their deepest secrets. Leaving Viktor and Rose behind, leaving them here or anywhere, was simply impossible. Viktor had always been their responsibility, and now Rose was their responsibility as well by decision. And so they would take these two lovely young mortals with them to the command central of the crisis, and lodge nearby.
That it was an invertebrate he was almost certain, that it possessed a discernible brain he was certain; that its nervous system involved numerous tentacles he was certain too. He suspected that in its spirit state it had absorbed some form of nutrients from the atmosphere of the planet. And blood, of course, the capacity to absorb tiny droplets of blood, had been its passage into the visible biological world. Obviously its tentacles involved a huge percentage of its neurons, but apparently did not involve full intelligence or awareness. That was localized in the brain, the Sacred Core, so to speak. And it was now evident, evident from the Voice, that this brain could encode both short-term memories and long-term memories. Its wants were now being expressed in terms of time and memory.
But had it always been so? Had the problem of long-term memory paralyzed this creature for centuries because it had had no way to store or respond to long-term memories in its “spirit” state? Had Amel and other spirits floated in a blessed “now” in their invisible form?
Had it always had personality and consciousness as we know them and only been unable in ages past to communicate? It had certainly communicated in spirit form to the great twin witches. It had loved them, wanted to please them, especially Mekare. It had wanted recognition, approval, even admiration.
But had that consciousness been submerged when the boastful Amel entered the Mother, only coming to the surface now because it found itself lodged in the host body of a woman who had no true thinking brain of her own?
Perhaps history had awakened Amel—the history he’d discovered when the burning rock videos of the Vampire Lestat had been piped into the Shrine of the Mother and the Father, videos that told the tale of how the vampires had come into existence. Had something vital and irreversible been sparked in Amel when he saw those little films on a television screen that Marius had so lovingly provided for the mute Mother and Father?
Fareed sighed. What he wanted more than anything in this world was to be in direct contact with the Voice itself. But the Voice had never spoken to him. The Voice had spoken to Seth. The Voice had undoubtedly spoken to innumerable blood drinkers on the planet, but the Voice shunned Fareed. Why? Why did it do this? And was the Voice from time to time anchoring itself inside Fareed to know his thoughts even if it did not speak to him?
That was conceivable. It was conceivable that Amel was learning from Fareed’s analysis more than the Voice cared to admit.
Viktor and Seth came into the room.
They stood in the airy darkness, looking at the monitor, waiting politely for Fareed to disengage and give them his full attention.
It was a very large room, this, with glass walls open to the flat country and the mountains beyond, one of many rooms in this great sprawling three-story medical compound which Fareed and Seth had built in the California desert.
Fareed had found the architecture of this area cold and uninspiring, efficient for work, but sterile for the spirit. So he’d warmed this space and others like it with little touches—marble fireplaces arching over gas grates, his favorite European paintings in gilded frames, and faded antique carpets from his native India. Several immense computers dominated his desk here, monitors aglow and filled with graphs and pictures. But the desk itself was an old Renaissance Portuguese piece of carved walnut found in Goa.
Viktor and Seth had not sat down, though the room was filled with leather easy chairs. They were waiting, and Fareed had to let this go, realize once and for all that he had come to the end of what he could know without confronting the Voice directly.
Finally, Fareed turned in the modern black swivel chair and faced the two who were waiting.
“Everything’s been arranged,” said Seth. “The plane’s ready; luggage loaded. Rose is on the plane, and Viktor will be with her. Rose thinks she is going to New York to see her uncle Lestan.”
“Well, we hope that will turn out to be the truth, don’t we?” asked Fareed. “And our rooms in New York?”
“Prepared, of course,” said Seth.
It had been two years since Fareed or Seth had visited their apartment there or the adjacent small laboratory they maintained on the sixty-third floor of a Midtown building. But this place was always in readiness, and why Fareed was asking foolish questions about this now, he did not know, except that it was a form of stalling.
Seth went on talking as if he were thinking aloud, checking himself on what had to be done. “All the human employees are gone home for indefinite leave with pay; all blood drinkers are in the basement rooms and will remain there until we return. The blood supplies are adequate for a long sequester. The security systems are in operation. This compound’s as safe as it ever was. If the Voice launches an attack, well, it won’t succeed.”
“The basements,” Viktor whispered. He shuddered. “How can they stand it, being shut up in a cellar for nights at a time?”
“They’re blood drinkers,” said Seth quietly. “You’re a human being. You forget over and over again.”
“Are there no blood drinkers with fears of cellars and crypts?” asked Viktor.
“None that I’ve ever known,” said Seth. “How could there be?”
There was no doubt that the cellars were safe. Yet we are leaving here, leaving this superb and secure installation, to go to New York, thought Fareed, but he knew that they had to do it.
“I don’t want to be locked in a cellar, not here or anywhere,” said Viktor. “I’ve had a horror of close dark places ever since I can remember.”
Fareed scarcely heard. Seth was assuring Viktor he’d be in an apartment of glass walls in New York high above the streets of Manhattan. No crypts.
Typical of a mortal to obsess about something that was of no importance. Fareed wished he could as easily divert himself from his deeper fears.
Fareed had sat quietly astonished this very morning, over fourteen hours ago, before sunrise, as Seth had connected privately with Benji Mahmoud by phone and told him they were coming. The phone had been on speaker. Seth and Benji had gone back and forth in Arabic for half an hour. And when Seth had revealed the existence of Rose and Viktor, Fareed had been horrified.
But he understood. They were going because they had to go, and they had to trust Benji and Armand and the others in New York with their deepest secrets. Leaving Viktor and Rose behind, leaving them here or anywhere, was simply impossible. Viktor had always been their responsibility, and now Rose was their responsibility as well by decision. And so they would take these two lovely young mortals with them to the command central of the crisis, and lodge nearby.
