“Then offer your workers more incentive.”
“Ahh, Mother Commander, but will you provide enough incentive to us?”
She bristled. “How can you think solely of profits when the fate of the human race is at stake?”
“Profits determine all our fates.” The Administrator gestured casually, as if to encompass the huge assembly of the ships around him.
“We’ll pay what you demand, and the Guild Bank will offer us loans if necessary. We need those ships, Gorus.”
He smiled coolly. “Your credit is good, but we must address another problem. We do not have enough Guild Navigators to man so many new ships. All of the vessels we build for you will have to be equipped with Ixian mathematical compilers, rather than traditional Navigators. Is that acceptable?”
“Provided the ships function as we require, I have no objection. We don’t have time to develop and train another population of Navigators.”
Obviously pleased, Gorus rubbed his hands together. “Of late, Navigators have proven somewhat intractable, due to the shortage of spice—a shortage which your Sisterhood created, Mother Commander. It is because of you that we had to look for alternatives to Navigators.”
“I have no fondness for Navigators, or for your obscene profits. I don’t care how the Guild accomplishes it, but we need those ships.”
“Of course, Mother Commander, and we shall provide what you wish.”
“That is precisely the answer I need.”
What is the advantage of prescience if it serves only to reveal our own downfall?
—NAVIGATOR EDRIK,
message to the Oracle of Time
The Guild bureaucrats had the audacity to call Edrik’s Heighliner back to the shipyards on Junction. Staring ahead with his milky eyes, Administrator Gorus blithely announced that the Heighliner would be fitted with one of the new Ixian mathematical compilers. “Our spice supply line is undependable. We must be certain each vessel can operate safely if its Navigator fails.”
Over the past two years, more and more Guildships had been outfitted with the hated artificial controls. Mathematical compilers! No simple engine or tool could adequately complete the phenomenally complex projections that a Navigator performed. Edrik and his fellows had evolved through immersion in spice, their prescient vision strengthened through the power of melange. There could be no mechanical substitute.
Nevertheless, Edrik had no choice but to accept a team of qualified and arrogant Ixian workers who shuttled up from the Junction shipyards. The tight-lipped men boarded the Heighliner under the watchful eyes of the Guild, with their smug expressions, compiler machines, and dangerous curiosity.
In his tank, Edrik was concerned that they would snoop around under the pretext of completing their installation. The Navigator faction could not risk these men finding Waff’s laboratory, the genetically altered sandtrout, and the small mutated worms he was producing in his tanks. The Tleilaxu man claimed to be making excellent progress, and his work must remain a secret.
Therefore, when the Ixian installers were all safely aboard, Edrik simply folded space, informing no one in the shipyards where he was going. He carried his empty Heighliner far out into an isolated wasteland between solar systems, and there ejected the disbelieving Ixians, along with their accursed navigation machines, out into the cold vacuum.
Problem solved.
His acts would be discovered eventually, but that could not be avoided. Edrik was a Navigator. Mere human Administrators had no hold over him.
Edrik suspected that the devious Administrator and his faction saw the melange crisis as an opportunity to shift the Guild’s burden away from problematic Navigators; they did not really want a new source of spice. Gorus was now an absolute ally, if not a puppet, of the Ixians. Edrik had seen the economic projections and knew that the Administrators considered navigation machines to be more cost-effective than Navigators—and more easily controlled.
With the Ixians and their machines happily ejected, Edrik knew it was time to call another meeting with his fellow Navigators; they needed to receive fresh guidance from the Oracle of Time. Because Junction and several other Guild planets were already compromised by Gorus and his cronies, Edrik chose a place that no one but Navigators could find.
Once they had been shown how, they could fold their Guildships deep into another dimension, a nontraditional universe where the Oracle occasionally went on personal, incomprehensible explorations.
Ignited by the light of seven newborn stars, the cosmic gases swirling around his giant ship seemed inflamed. The nebula shone pink and green and blue, depending on which window of the spectrum Edrik chose to look through. The misty curtains put on a spectacular show, a great whirlpool of ionized gases—and a perfect place to hide.
When the ships gathered, the Navigators were in quite an uproar, and their numbers were less than Edrik had hoped. So far, four hundred Heighliners had been decommissioned, their parts salvaged to construct new no-ships that relied on artificial guidance systems. Seventeen Navigators had died horribly, their tanks emptied. Edrik learned that six of his fellows had likewise murdered the Ixian engineers rather than allow them to install mathematical compilers. Four Navigators had simply disconnected the machines, and the onboard Ixian teams failed to realize that their vaunted systems were no longer functional.
“We require melange,” he transmitted. “By the grace of spice, we see through folded space.”
“But the Sisterhood has denied it to us,” one of the other Navigators said.
“They have spice. They spend spice. But they do not give it to us.”
“The witches give it to the Guild for ships . . . but the Administrators have cut us off. We are betrayed by our own.”
“They control the spice.”
“But they do not control us,” Edrik insisted. “If we find our own source of spice, we will not need the Administrators. This is for the survival of Navigators, not simply for commerce. We have struggled with this problem for years. The Tleilaxu ghola has finally come up with a solution.”
“A new source of spice? Has it been proven?”
“Is anything fully proven? If this goes well, we can destroy the corrupt old Spacing Guild and supercede them.”
“We must speak to the Oracle.”
Edrik waved his tiny, misshapen hands. “The Oracle already knows our problem.”
“The Oracle has not deigned to help us,” said another.
“The Oracle has her own reasons.”
Drifting in his tank, Edrik acknowledged their conundrum. “I have spoken to her myself, but perhaps all of us together can urge her to respond. Let us summon the Oracle.”
Using their spice-enhanced minds, the numerous Navigators shot a message arrow through the folds of space. Edrik knew they had no way to coerce the Oracle of Time—or the Oracle Infinity, as she was sometimes called—to respond, but he sensed her presence, and her deep uneasiness.
With a silent flash, a trapdoor opened in the vacuum, and the ancient container arrived. It was not quite a ship, for the Oracle could travel anywhere she wished, mentally folding space without the help of Holtzman engines.
Even in that small and nonthreatening enclosure, Edrik knew full well the power and immensity of that highly advanced mind. As a human, Norma Cenva had first discovered the connection between spice and prescience. She had developed the technology of folding space, had created the incomprehensible equations that Tio Holtzman had taken as his own.
Though the Oracle used no known transmitting device, her words were loud and implacable in their minds. “Your concerns are parochial. I must find the wayward no-ship. I must determine where Duncan Idaho has taken it, before the Enemy intercepts it.”
The Oracle often chose her own esoteric goals without explaining them. One of the Navigators asked, “Why is the no-ship so important, Oracle?”
“Because the Enemy wishes to have it. Our great foe is Omnius—except that he is as changed from his former compute
r evermind as I am evolved from the human I once was. The machines have completed their high-order projections. The evermind knows he must have the Kwisatz Haderach, just as I know the Enemy must not have him.” The Oracle let the silence hang in space like a hole, before she added a stinging rebuke. “Your appetite for spice is not the priority. I must find the ship.”
Abruptly discontinuing the debate, she winked out again and vanished into her own place in an alternate universe.
Edrik and the gathered Navigators were shocked by her response. Navigators were dying, spice was dwindling away to nothing, Administrators were trying to overthrow the Guild—and the Oracle simply wanted to find a lost ship?
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AFTER
ESCAPE FROM CHAPTERHOUSE
These new Face Dancers cannot be detected by DNA analysis or any other form of cellular scrutiny. As far as we know, only a Tleilaxu Master can tell the difference.
—Bene Gesserit report on human mutation
Though the Ixian specialists had studied the Obliterators for half a year, they still hadn’t given the Sisterhood an answer. Murbella brooded in her offices on Chapterhouse, waiting. The news seemed to worsen with each passing day.
She received regular updates on the depredations of the thinking-machine fleet. The powerful Enemy ships moved inexorably through the fringe systems like a crashing tidal wave, drowning world after world. Another ten planets evacuated or contaminated by plagues, another ten lost, and more refugees flooded into the Old Empire.
A network of Sisters met with any refugee ships that came from the battleground systems. Taking statements from groups of survivors, they compiled an exhaustive three-dimensional map of the movements of the machine fleet. The pattern seeped like a bloodstain through the galaxy.
In a single desperate stand, nineteen Sisterhood no-ships expended their last three Obliterators to destroy a whole battle group of oncoming machine ships and temporarily prevent the annihilation of one human-inhabited system. In the end, though, even that devastation amounted to only a brief delay; the machine fleet came back with greater strength and crushed the world after all, killing every inhabitant. With the last Obliterators gone, the New Sisterhood was woefully underdefended.
Unless the Ixians could help. What was taking them so long?
Finally, a lone Ixian engineer came to Chapterhouse to deliver his news. When he said he would speak to no one but the Mother Commander herself, escorts brought him to the main Keep. Waiting on her imposing throne in front of the dust-streaked, segmented window, Murbella could respect the man for bypassing bureaucracy and getting to the core of the matter.
The engineer’s face was bland and unmemorable, his brown hair closely cropped, his demeanor unassuming. He had a peculiar, unpleasant odor about him, perhaps from chemical residue or the machinery of Ix’s underground fabrication plants. He bowed perfunctorily and stepped in front of her. “Our best engineers and scientists have deconstructed and analyzed the sample Obliterators you provided.”
Murbella leaned forward, giving him her full attention. “And you can reproduce them?”
“Better than that, Mother Commander.” His confident smile held no warmth at all, was simply an imitation of a facial expression. “Our fabricators understand the underlying concept of the weapon, and are able to concentrate its destructive power. Previously, it required several Honored Matre battleships deploying multiple Obliterators to kill a planet. With our enhanced weapon a single ship can launch enough firepower to do what was done to Rakis.” He gave a perfunctory shrug. “Imagine what such an energy release would do to Enemy battleships.”
Murbella tried to conceal her delight. “We need as many as you can produce. Instruct your factories to begin work on these weapons immediately.” She kept her voice hard, letting her impatience seep through. “But why did you need to see me in person, when you could easily have sent a message with this information?” Her lips quirked. “Do you require a pat on the back? Shall I give you my applause? There, you have it.”
The Ixian engineer remained bland. “Before we begin, Mother Commander, there is the matter of payment. Chief Fabricator Sen has instructed me to inform you that Ix must be compensated if we are to pull our profitable manufacturing centers off-line in order to create these Obliterators for your war.”
“My war? All humans must share the burden of the cost.”
“Unfortunately, we disagree. The only payment we will accept is spice. And the only source of spice is your New Sisterhood.”
“We have other ways to pay you.” Murbella tried to conceal her alarm. She wasn’t sure their fledgling spice operations could supply the necessary amount. And why would Ix care about spice, in particular? Sisterhood accounts in Guild banks could be drained; CHOAM could be convinced to supply important commodities; and soostones were more valuable than ever, especially since the recent turmoil on Buzzell.
When she offered these alternatives, though, the Ixian fabricator shook his head. “I have no flexibility in these negotiations, Mother Commander. It must be melange. No other coin will do.”
She ground her teeth, but had no patience for further delay. “Spice it is, then. Get started.”
DEPARTING FROM CHAPTERHOUSE, Khrone the Face Dancer felt content. The New Sisterhood had bowed to his demands, as he had known they would. Back on Ix, he had the ear of the Chief Fabricator, and Face Dancer replacements already controlled all key Ixian manufacturing centers.
Khrone found it ironic to demand payment in spice, since Ix had devoted so much technological effort into installing navigation machines in Guildships. Thanks to the mathematical compilers, melange was basically obsolete when it came to folding space, and the Navigators were fading swiftly.
But by insisting on such a huge payment in spice alone, and then hoarding the commodity, Khrone would remove a large amount of it from the market, making it even rarer. That, in turn, would force more and more ships to convert to the Ixian navigation compilers, because the Guild could not support the melange needs of their Navigators. Before long, with no way of supporting their own Navigators, the whole Spacing Guild would fall under Khrone’s control. He had worked it all out in exquisite detail.
In the meantime, he and his disguised workers would make it look as if they were providing everything the Sisterhood demanded. Let them fight useless battles while the real war was already won, right under their noses! Mother Commander Murbella would be quite satisfied—up until the moment a curtain of darkness fell on humankind. Permanently.
Every man makes errors. When a security chief makes them, though, there are consequences. People die.
—THUFIR HAWAT,
the original
The Bashar and his protégé marched down the corridors toward the no-ship’s life-support center. “I am deeply ashamed, Thufir. It has been almost a year, and I am incapable of finding a blatant saboteur and murderer.”
The young Hawat looked up at him, clearly idolizing the military genius. “We have a limited pool of suspects, and a discrete area in which he—or she—could hide. We’ve done everything possible, Bashar.”
“And yet the saboteur is here, somewhere.” Teg did not slow his pace. “Therefore, we have not done everything possible, because we still haven’t found the person responsible. The fact that there have been no further murders does not mean we can let down our guard. I am convinced our saboteur is still among us.”
The Ithaca was constantly being searched and monitored. Additional surveillance imagers had been installed, but the culprit seemed to have an affinity for hiding. Teg suspected that the work of the saboteur went well beyond the murder of the gholas and the axlotl tanks. In recent months, many ship’s systems had inexplicably failed—too many to be caused by random events and natural breakdowns. “Our adversary is still at work.”
The Thufir ghola raised his smooth chin in a display of pride. He was strong and gangly with a heavy brow; he had let his hair grow shaggy. “Then you and I will find him.”
Te
g smiled at Thufir. “As soon as you regain his memories and experience as a warrior Mentat and Master of Assassins, you will be a formidable ally.”
“I’m formidable now.” Thufir had already proved his worth during the tense escape from the Handlers, risking his own life to help the Rabbi get away from Face Dancers in league with the Enemy. Teg believed the young ghola had the potential to do much more.
Varying his pattern, he insisted on an exhausting round of daily security inspections while he left Duncan Idaho on the navigation bridge, ever vigilant for the Enemy’s glowing net.
The Ithaca continued to wander in empty space. At first, their voyage had simply been to get away from the Enemy hunters. Duncan had been forced to remain hidden behind the ship’s veiling no-field, since the old man and woman seemed to want him in particular. Now, after more than two decades, the population aboard had increased, and children were growing up and being taught necessary skills without ever having set foot on a planetary surface.
Despite all the worlds settled during the Scattering, habitable systems seemed sparse indeed. For the first time, Teg wondered how many ships of refugees fleeing from the Famine Times had simply died without ever finding their destination. The Ithaca had no Guild Navigator; only pure chance brought them within range of planets. So far, they had encountered only two places that might have supported a new colony: one Honored Matre world that had been completely wiped out by Enemy plagues, and the planet of the insidious Handlers.
Nevertheless, with its recyclers, greenhouses, and algae tanks, the aging Ithaca should have been able to sustain the present number of passengers for centuries, if necessary. They—and their successors—could effectively stay onboard forever and never stop running. Is that our fate? Teg asked himself. But because of leakages, losses, and “accidents,” the passengers had cause for concern. Sooner or later, they would need to replenish their reserves.
Sandworms of Dune Page 6
