For years these “tanks” had produced gholas; now they simply secreted chemical precursors that were processed into melange. Their bodies had become nothing more than detestable factories. The women were maintained with a constant stream of fluids, nutrients, and catalysts.
“Is any goal worth such a price?” the Rabbi whispered, not sure if he was beseeching the Almighty in prayer or asking Rebecca directly. In either event, he received no answer.
With a shudder, he let his fingers touch Rebecca’s belly. The Bene Gesserit doctors had often scolded him, telling him not to touch “the tank.” But, though he despised what Rebecca had done to herself, he would never harm her. He was resigned to the fact that he could no longer save her, either.
The Rabbi had looked in on the ghola children. They seemed innocent enough, but he was not fooled. He knew why these genetically ancient babies had been born, and he wanted no part of such an insidious plan.
He heard someone arrive in the humming silence of the medical chamber and looked up to see a bearded man. Quiet, intelligent, and competent, Jacob had taken it upon himself to watch over the Rabbi, as Rebecca had once done.
“I knew I would find you here, Rabbi.” His expression was stern and scolding—one the old man himself might have used when he disapproved of someone else’s behavior. “We have been waiting for you. It is time.”
The Rabbi glanced at a chronometer and realized how late it was. According to their calculations and the habits they followed, this was sunset on Friday, time to begin the twenty-four hours of Shabbat. He would say the prayers in their makeshift synagogue; he would read Psalm 29 from the original text (not the horribly bastardized version in the Orange Catholic Bible), and then his small group would sing.
Preoccupied with his prayers and wrestling with his conscience, the old man had lost track of time. “Yes, Jacob. I am coming. I’m sorry.”
The other man took the Rabbi by the arm and helped him along, though he needed no assistance. Jacob leaned closer and reached out to brush unexpected tear streaks from the older man’s cheeks. “You are crying, Rabbi.”
The old man glanced back at what had once been a vibrant woman, Rebecca. He stopped for a long, uncertain moment, and then permitted his companion to lead him from the medical chamber.
Soostones: Highly valued jewels produced by the abraded carapace of a monoped sea creature, the cholister, found only on Buzzell. Soostones absorb rainbows of color, depending upon the touch of flesh or how light falls on them. Because of their high value and portability, the small and perfectly round stones—like melange—are used as hard currency, especially in times of economic turmoil and social upheaval.
—Terminology of the Imperium (Revised)
W
ith the smell of salt air around her—so different from the Chapterhouse desert!—Mother Commander Murbella surveyed the continuing operations on Buzzell. In the past year, Reverend Mother Corysta had sent the New Sisterhood many shipments of soostones, which covered other expenses while the spice production was devoted to paying for the armaments Richese had begun to produce. Murbella had distributed her spies widely, gathering information about the remaining rebel Honored Matre strongholds, preparing her long-term plan. Soon, she would be ready to move against the main enclaves in earnest.
Recapturing Buzzell and seizing all soostone production had cut off the rest of the Honored Matres from a primary source of wealth. It had both provoked and weakened the strongest remaining bastions of rebellious women.
So far, the New Sisterhood had subsumed five rebel strongholds in addition to Buzzell. For every hundred thousand that her female soldiers killed, they captured only a thousand. For every thousand captured, maybe a hundred were successfully converted to the New Sisterhood. Murbella had declared to her advisors, “Rehabilitation is never guaranteed, but death is certain. No one needs to remind us how Honored Matres think. Would they respect our pleas for unification? No! They need to be broken first.”
The last strongholds of the violent women would be tough nuts to crack, but Murbella convinced herself that the Valkyries were up to the task. Not every conquest could be as clean and simple as the recapture of Buzzell.
Over the past several months, Corysta had made many changes to the operations on the ocean planet, and the Mother Commander approved. From the beginning, Corysta—“the woman who had lost two babies”—had been willing to help. Even before Sharing with Murbella, she seemed to remember a good deal about being a Bene Gesserit.
The Buzzell settlements consisted of only a few buildings and defensive towers on the patchy outcroppings of rock and hardscrabble islands, along with large boats, processing barges, and anchored rafts. Under Corysta’s supervision, many of the resentful Bene Gesserit exiles had initially demanded to be transferred away from the rough soostone labor. Some had been petulant and wanted revenge on the vicious whores. Pointedly leaving the most strident exiles in their old assignments, Corysta—thinking much like Murbella—had promoted others to be special local advisors.
She had commandeered the reasonably comfortable quarters that Matre Skira and her whores had taken from the Bene Gesserit exiles and ordered the remaining handful of Honored Matres to erect their own thin tents on the rocky ground. Murbella understood that this was a means of control, rather than revenge. Skira and her group, as well as the Bene Gesserit exiles, had been isolated from outside politics for a long time. Clearly, uniting these particular women was another difficult task, and a significant challenge to Corysta’s leadership abilities, but gradually the women were learning the benefits of working together. It was like a microcosm of what had happened at Chapterhouse.
Now, on the afternoon of the second day of her follow-up inspection, the Mother Commander toured the revamped soostone operations, accompanied by Corysta and the Honored Matre Skira. Nearby, a dozen workers—all Honored Matre survivors—continued washing and sorting stones according to their size and color, the work they had once forced the Bene Gesserit exiles to do. Phibian guards no longer stood over the workers; Murbella wondered if the aquatic people had noticed, or cared, that their female masters had changed.
Beneath the surface of the water, Phibian divers trapped and corralled the large slow-moving shellfish. Cholisters had a fleshy, probing body covered by a thick and lumpy carapace; persistent abrasions of that casing produced hard milky scars that could be chipped off like gems embedded in rock. The slow growth of the nodules, the scarcity of the sea creatures themselves, and the difficulty of harvesting deep underwater all contributed to the rarity and value of the gems.
When the Honored Matres brought in the hybrid Phibians, production increased dramatically. The amphibious people lived in the sea, swam deep without any special equipment, and ranged far from the island outcroppings as they hunted for the slowly wandering cholisters.
Standing on the dock with her new advisors, Murbella turned toward a large Phibian male who stood at the reef’s edge; apparently he had once been a guard, for he still carried his barbed whip. Four other Phibian deep divers crouched together on the rocky beach, where they had just delivered a load of soostones.
The Honored Matres did not know exactly where the Phibians had come from, just “somewhere out in the Scattering, a long time ago.” Skira said that the amphibious half-breeds were an insular species with only limited vocabularies, but Murbella’s Bene Gesserit instincts told her otherwise. The memories she had Shared with Corysta added evidence to this; the Phibians were more than they appeared to be.
Ordering her two escorts to accompany her, Murbella descended a spray-slick rock stairway to the shingle beach.
“This is not safe.” Skira ran to catch up with the Mother Commander. “Phibians can be violent. Last week, one of them drowned an Honored Matre. Took her out and pulled her underwater.”
“She probably deserved it. Do you doubt that the three of us can defend ourselves?” Nearby, a squad of Murbella’s Valkyries also watched over their commander, weapons at the ready.
Corysta pointed to the group. “The tallest one is our best producer. See the scar on his forehead? He dives the deepest and brings back the most soostones.”
From a flash of Corysta’s memory, Murbella recalled the abandoned Phibian baby she had rescued from a tide pool. He’d had a scar on his forehead, a claw mark. Could this be the same one, from so many years ago? The one she called “Sea Child?” She recalled other instances, other encounters. Yes, this aquatic male definitely knew who Corysta was.
The scarred Phibian was the first to notice the women approaching. All of the creatures turned warily, blinking their slitted eyes. Three smaller Phibians retreated into the foaming water, where they hovered out of reach. The scarred one, though, held his ground.
Murbella regarded him carefully, trying to read his alien body language for some clue as to what he was thinking. Though shorter than the creature, she assumed a confident fighting posture.
For a long moment, the Phibian regarded her with his membranous eyes. Then he spoke in a throaty voice that sounded like a dripping rag drawn through a pipe. “Boss boss.”
“What do you mean?”
“You. Boss boss.”
Corysta interpreted. “He knows you are the boss of all the bosses.”
“Yes. I am your boss now.”
He bowed his head deferentially.
“I think you’re a good deal smarter than you let on. Are you a good Phibian?”
“Not good. Best.”
Boldly, Murbella took a step closer. Other than what she knew from Corysta, she had no idea about the Phibians’ social inclinations or taboos. “You and I are both leaders in our own way. And as one leader to another, I promise that we will no longer treat you the way the Honored Matres did. You have already seen the changes. We won’t use the lash on you, or let you use it on anyone else. Work for all. Benefit for all.”
“No more lash.” He lifted his chin, proud and stern. “No more soostones for smugglers.”
Murbella tried to process what he was implying. Was it a promise, or a threat? Surely, after a year the Phibians must have noticed a significant difference in their lives.
“Smugglers are always a problem,” Corysta explained to her. “We can’t stop them from taking soostones out in the open water.”
The nostrils flared in Skira’s beaklike nose. “We have long suspected the Phibians also traded with smugglers, stealing our soostone harvests and providing for themselves.”
“Not your soostones,” the Phibian said with a long bubbling rumble.
Murbella felt she was on the verge of an interesting breakthrough. “You promise not to deal with smugglers if we treat you fairly? Is that what you mean?”
Skira sounded mortally offended. “Phibians are slaves! Subhuman creatures. They do what they are created to do—”
Murbella regarded her with a murderous glare. “Provoke me if you dare. I am perfectly willing to kill another arrogant whore to make my point.”
Skira met her eyes like a mouse facing a rattlesnake. At last she bowed, and then took a small step back. “Yes, Great Honored Matre. I did not mean to offend.”
The Phibian seemed amused. “No more smugglers.”
Corysta explained, “The smugglers have always been smart enough to leave us most of the haul. They were an irritation to the Honored Matres, maybe, but not enough of a thorn to require massive retaliation.”
Skira grumbled, “We would have crushed them sooner or later.”
“What could the smugglers pay you?” Murbella asked the creature, ignoring Skira. “What do Phibians want?”
“Smugglers bring spice. We give soostones.”
So that was it! Though the Guild was desperate for melange, and Murbella still refused to provide them with anything more than a trickle for their bare necessities, smuggling groups and black-market traders had begun to disseminate their own hoarded spice.
From her singlesuit pocket, she produced a small cinnamon-colored tablet and handed it to the Phibian. “We have more melange than smugglers could ever bring to you.”
With a perplexed expression, the creature held it in his webbed hand, and then sniffed cautiously. The thick-lipped smile returned. “Spice. Good.” With a very serious expression, he stared at the tablet of melange in his hand, but did not attempt to swallow it.
“You will get along just fine with the Sisterhood. We think the same way.” Murbella pointed at the tablet of melange. “You keep.”
“Trade?”
She shook her head. “No. A gift, for you.”
“He doesn’t understand the concept of a gift. It’s not part of their culture,” Skira said. “Slaves are not accustomed to having any possessions.” Murbella wondered if all Honored Matres were so blind and simplistic and full of preconceptions.
The Phibian leader said, “Smugglers taught us.”
Either not understanding, or refusing the gift, he handed the tablet back to her—reverently, rather than spitefully—and waded into the water next to his companions. Soon his head disappeared beneath the waves, and the other three deep divers followed.
Skira sniffed. “If your Sisterhood has so much melange, we can pay Phibians with it to stay away from smugglers, and give us all the soostones.”
“As soon as I return to Chapterhouse, I’ll issue new orders. We will provide melange to the Phibians if they need it.” Murbella looked at Corysta, wondering how long it had been since the exiled Sister had received a dose herself. Surely during the Honored Matre domination, the exiled Sisters had been cut off. They would have gone through terrible withdrawal. But then, in her Shared memories with Corysta, she recalled instances where the scarred Phibian—Sea Child—had delivered some of the melange obtained from smugglers, secreting it among the rocks where Corysta could find it. “And we will give spice to any others here who may need it as well.”
Superstitions and nonsense from the past should not prevent us from making progress. If we hold ourselves back, we admit that our fears are more powerful than our abilities.
—THE FABRICATORS OF IX
W
hen the Ixian Chief Fabricator sent his message to the Guild announcing success with the new navigation machines, a small delegation raced to Ix. The speed with which they arrived told Khrone everything he needed to know. The Guild Administrators were much more desperate than they let on.
He and his Face Dancers had drawn out the “invention phase” for eight years now, the shortest time he could justify for the reintroduction of such a drastically sophisticated new technology. He could not afford to raise too many questions from the Guild, or even the Ixians. The extraordinary new device could guide any ship safely and efficiently. No Navigator—and hence, no spice—was necessary.
Khrone would have them eating out of his hand.
Wearing a gray formal suit made of a plazsilk that had an oily sheen, Khrone stood quietly beside Chief Fabricator Shayama Sen. Though the Baron Harkonnen ghola and the one-year-old Paul Atreides needed constant tending in their isolation on Caladan, Khrone had decided to come to Ix to observe this interaction for himself.
Administrator Gorus entered the room accompanied by six other men. In addition to Guild functionaries, Khrone noted a representative of the independent Guild Bank and a master merchant from CHOAM. It seemed that the Guild Administrators had pointedly not brought a Navigator to these discussions. Instead, the delegation had left him in his spice-filled chamber high above and isolated in his orbiting ship. Oh, how they must be thirsting after the new technology!
This time they met in a small intimate chamber, not the large manufacturing bay with the clamor of industrial noises that had so dominated their first meeting. Sen called for refreshments, drawing out the moment. He seemed to enjoy the anticipation. “Gentlemen, commerce across the galaxy is about to change forever. What you desire is in your hands, thanks to Ixian innovation.”
Gorus tried to conceal his eagerness with a skeptical expression. “Your claims are impressive and e
xtravagant, Chief Fabricator.”
“They are also true.”
Khrone played his meek role, serving sweet confections and a robust drink that was (ironically, considering the nature of the meeting) heavily laced with melange. As Administrator Gorus politely consumed the proffered treats, he scanned the technical reports and testing results provided by Khrone’s team. “These new Ixian navigation machines seem to be a thousand times more accurate than the previous ones we incorporated into some of our Guildships. Much better than anything used in the Scattering.”
The Chief Fabricator took a long sip of his hot melange beverage. “Never underestimate Ixians, Guildsman. We notice you did not include a Navigator in these discussions.”
Gorus put on a haughty air. “He was not necessary.”
Khrone suppressed a smile. That statement was true on several levels.
“Humanity has been searching for an accurate navigational system for . . . for millennia! Think of how many ships were lost during the Famine Times,” the Guild banker said, his face suddenly florid. “We expected you would take decades to achieve such a dramatic overhaul from first principles.”
Sen beamed proudly at Khrone. Even the Chief Fabricator assumed that the recent breakthroughs were based on real Ixian knowledge and ingenuity, not brought in from the Outside Enemy.
The CHOAM master merchant scowled at the Guild banker. “This is nothing new. Obviously, Ixians must have been working on forbidden technology in secret all along.”
“And much to our benefit, I might add,” Gorus interrupted, cutting off any possible argument.
Hunters of Dune Page 26
