But the crisis went far beyond internal politics and power struggles. She decided to go out there herself and travel among the worlds on the edge of the war zone, not as Mother Commander, but as a keen observer. She would let a council of Reverend Mothers run the everyday activities here on Chapterhouse, dealing with bureaucratic matters and doling out spice rations to the Guild in order to ensure their cooperation.
When Murbella announced her intent, Laera cried, "Mother Commander, that's not possible. We need you here--there's so much to do!"
"I represent more than the New Sisterhood. Since no one else will step up to the plate, I am responsible for the whole human race." She sighed. "Somebody has to be."
Our no-ship holds many secrets, yes, but not nearly the number we hold inside ourselves.
--LETO II,
the ghola
Leto II and Thufir Hawat had never known each other in their original lifetimes. To them, that was not a disadvantage. It left them free to form a friendship without any expectations or preconceptions.
Nine-year-old Leto hurried ahead, down the corridor. "Come with me, Thufir. Now that nobody's watching, I can show you a special place."
"Another one? Do you spend all your days exploring instead of studying?"
"If you're going to be deputy chief of security, you need to know everything about the Ithaca. Maybe we'll find your saboteur down here." Leto turned sharply right, dropped into a small emergency lift, then paused at a dim, lower deck, where everything seemed larger and darker. He led Thufir to a sealed hatch that was posted with warnings and restrictions in half a dozen languages. Despite the locks, he opened it with barely a pause.
Thufir looked puzzled, even a little offended. "How did you bypass security so easily?"
"This ship is old, and systems break down all the time. Nobody even knows this one failed." He ducked into the low passageway.
The tunnel on the other side was a whistling, cool air channel. Up ahead the roaring grew louder, and the wind became powerful. Thufir sniffed. "Where does it go?"
"To an air-exchange filtration system." The passages were smooth and curving--like worm tunnels. A shiver brushed across Leto's skin, perhaps from a memory of when he had been joined with numerous sandtrout, from when he was the God Emperor of Dune, the Tyrant. . . .
The two reached the central recyclers where large fans drove the air through thick curtains of filter mats, scrubbing out particulates and purifying the atmosphere. Breezes tugged at the boys' hair. Ahead, sheets of filtration material blocked further passage. The lungs of the ship, replenishing and redistributing oxygen.
Recently, Thufir had begun to mark his lips with a cranberry-red stain. As the pair stood in the bowels of the ship, listening to the roaring wind, Leto finally asked, "Why do you do that to your mouth?"
Self-consciously, the fourteen-year-old rubbed his lips. "My original used the sapho drug, which made stains like these. The Bashar wants me to live the part. He says he's preparing to awaken my memories." Thufir didn't sound entirely pleased with the situation. "Sheeana has been talking about forcing me to remember. She has some special technique to trigger a ghola's awakening."
"Aren't you excited at the prospect? Thufir Hawat was a great man."
The other boy remained preoccupied and troubled. "It's not that, Leto. I really don't want my memories back, but Sheeana and the Bashar have their minds made up."
"That's why you were created." Leto was baffled. "Why wouldn't you want your past life? The Master of Assassins would not be afraid of the ordeal."
"I'm not afraid. I'd just rather be the person I choose to become, and not emerge fully formed. I don't feel I've earned it."
"Trust me, they'll make you earn it, once you become the real Thufir again."
"I am the real Thufir! Or do you doubt that, too?"
Thinking of the restless worm that crouched inside him, aware of all the atrocious things he would soon remember, Leto understood completely.
By following the same beliefs and making the same decisions, one wears Life's path into a circular rut, going nowhere, accomplishing nothing, making no progress. With God's help, though, we can turn a sharp corner in the circle and achieve enlightenment.
--The Cant of the Shariat
At last Waff was ready to release his new worms, and Buzzell was a convenient ocean planet on Edrik's standard trade route. A perfect test bed.
The giant vessel carried merchants who traded in soostones. Earlier, when Honored Matres had conquered Buzzell and killed most of the exiled Reverend Mothers, the whores had taken the soostone wealth for themselves. Since then, few of the aquatic gems had been traded on the galactic market, which made their value skyrocket. Now that the New Sisterhood had recaptured Buzzell, soostone production was up again. The witches ran tightly regimented operations there and kept smugglers at bay, thus maintaining stable but high prices for the stones. With mercenary armies to protect them, CHOAM merchants began to sell large quantities of the gems, reaping profits before a glut drove prices down again. A temporary market fluctuation.
Though pretty and desirable, soostones were not necessary. Melange, on the other hand, was vital--as the Navigators well knew. Waff knew that his experiments would eventually produce far more wealth than these undersea baubles could ever represent. Soon, if his expectations were met, Buzzell would be home to something far more interesting than baubles. . . .
The Heighliner appeared above the liquid sapphire world, where tiny islands dotted the expansive ocean. Buzzell's oceans were deep and fertile, a large zone where the genetically altered worms would thrive, provided they survived their initial baptism.
The Tleilaxu Master paced the cold metal floor of his laboratory chamber. Soon, Edrik would inform him that the commercial lighters and cargo transports had disembarked for the island outposts. Once they were safely gone, Waff could begin his real work on Buzzell without being observed.
Inside the lab, the smell of salt, iodine, and cinnamon had replaced harsh chemical odors. Waff's test tanks were full of murky green water, rich with algae and plankton. Once turned loose in the oceans, the modified worms would have to find their own sources of nourishment, but Waff was sure they could adapt. God would make it all possible.
Serpentine forms swam about in the tanks looking like ringed eels. Their ridges were an iridescent blue-green, showing a soft pink membrane between segments, a surrogate set of gills that absorbed oxygen from the water. Their mouths were round like those of lampreys. Though they had no eyes, the new seaworms could navigate using water vibrations in much the way that Rakian worms had been attracted by tremors in the dunes. Using carefully mapped models from sandtrout chromosomes, Waff knew that these creatures had the same internal metabolic reactions as a traditional sandworm.
Therefore, they should still produce spice, but Waff didn't know what kind of spice, or how it would be harvested. He stepped back, interlocking his grayish fingers. That wasn't his problem or concern. He had done as Edrik commanded. He only wanted the worms back.
It had taken more than a year out of his accelerated lifetime, but if Waff succeeded in resurrecting God's messengers, his destiny would be complete. Even if the little man never received another ghola lifetime, he would have earned his place beside God in the highest levels of Heaven.
Under proper conditions, sandtrout specimens reproduced swiftly. From them, he had adapted nearly a hundred seaworms, most of which he would deposit in the oceans of Buzzell. For a new species to survive, especially in an unfamiliar environment, the creatures faced quite a challenge, and Waff fully expected that many of his test specimens would die. Maybe most of them. But he was also convinced that some would live--enough to establish a foothold.
Waff stood on his tiptoes, pressing his face to the tank. "If you are in there, Prophet, I will soon give you a whole new domain."
Five Guild assistants entered the lab without knocking. When Waff turned abruptly, the seaworms sensed his movement. With a thump, fleshy heads
struck the reinforced tank walls. Startled again, Waff turned the other direction.
"Passengers have disembarked for Buzzell," said one of the grayclothed men. "Navigator Edrik has commanded us to follow your instructions."
The five all had oddly distorted heads, swollen brows, and asymmetric facial features. Any Tleilaxu Master could have repaired genetic flaws so that their descendants would be more physically attractive. But that would serve no purpose, and Waff had no interest in cosmetics.
He gestured to the tanks as the Guildsmen sealed them for transport. "Exercise extreme care. Those creatures are worth more than all your lives."
The reticent assistants installed handles on the crowded tanks and began lugging them along the curving halls of the Heighliner. Knowing he had only four hours to complete his task before the passenger shuttles returned, Waff urged them to hurry.
Because of the schism in the Guild between Navigators and Administrators, some people might not wish him to create this new avenue for spice production. The Ixians, the New Sisterhood, even the bureaucratic faction of the Guild might all work together, or separately, to assassinate him. Waff didn't know how or why these particular five Guildsmen had been chosen to assist him. If he expressed any misgivings about them, Waff knew that the Navigator would not hesitate to have all five killed, just to keep his Tleilaxu researcher happy. As the troupe walked to a small transport craft, Waff decided that was exactly what he would do. Get rid of these men, these witnesses. Afterward.
The sample tanks were loaded aboard the small transport. Waff did not usually leave the safe confines of the Heighliner, but he insisted on accompanying the crew down to the open sea. It was his experiment, and he wanted to be there in person to make sure the worms were released properly. He didn't trust the five Guildsmen to be sufficiently competent or attentive.
Then his suspicions ran deeper. What was to stop these men from flying off in the ship, revealing--or selling!--the seaworms to one of the opposing factions? Could they be perfectly loyal to Edrik? Waff saw danger everywhere.
As the transport dropped out of the cargo bay, Waff wished belatedly that he had demanded additional bodyguards, or at least a sufficiently powerful hand-weapon for himself. Whom could he really trust?
Using technological apparatus connected to their throats, the silent Guildsmen communicated with each other electronically, transmitting brain signals without voicing words. He knew they could speak aloud--why would they be so secretive? Perhaps they were plotting against him. Waff looked at the immense Heighliner far overhead and wished fervently for this to be over.
The small transport descended into the cloudy skies, fighting choppy air currents. Waff felt ill. Finally, they broke through the moisture layers, and the oceans below sprawled out to every horizon. On charts displayed across the cockpit screens, Waff searched for a temperate zone where he could deposit the test worms, a place where the seas were rich with plankton and fish. It would give the creatures the greatest chance for survival.
He indicated a line of rocks not far from the Sisterhood's main island base and the center of their soostone-harvesting operations. "There. Safe, and close enough to monitor the worms." He smiled, already imagining the first panicked reports of eyewitnesses. "Any rumors or wild stories should be interesting."
The Guildsmen nodded, all business. The transport ship flew low over the waves and hovered above the gentle swells. The lower cargo hatch opened, and Waff went down to observe the emptying of the tanks. He smelled the raw salt air, the tang of floating kelp, the wet breezes that whipped across the sea. A squall was about to begin.
Using the handles, two of the silent Guildsmen brought the first tank to the opening, released the plaz cover sheet, and spilled the water and writhing seaworms into the freedom of the waiting waves.
The serpentine creatures burst out like frantic snakes. Once they plunged into the green water, they streaked away. Waff watched their ridged bodies undulating, then diving and disappearing. They seemed joyous in their newfound freedom, glad to have a large world without plaz boundaries.
Brusquely, he gestured to the Guildsmen, telling them to release the rest of the worms, emptying all of the aquariums. Waff had kept one crowded tank of specimens aboard the Heighliner, and he could always create more.
As he stood by the open hatch, he suddenly shuddered, realizing his vulnerability. Now that he had turned the worms loose, would Edrik even require his services anymore? The Tleilaxu man feared the silent assistants might shove him overboard and leave him floating kilometers from the nearest speck of land. Warily, he backed deeper into the cargo hold and gripped a ridged wall strut.
But the Guildsmen made no move against him. They performed their work exactly as he told them to, and precisely as the Navigator had specified. Perhaps Waff was fearful only because he intended to have these men killed. He naturally suspected they would think the same about him.
Waff anticipated the seaworms would thrive here. The environment was conducive to their growth and reproduction. The worms would mark their territory, and when they grew large enough they would become leviathans of the deep. A fitting form for the Prophet.
The transport's cargo doors sealed again with a low hiss, and the Guild pilot flew away. Waff and his party would arrive back at the Heighliner well before the merchant vessels returned with their loads of soostones. No one would be the wiser.
The Tleilaxu Master glanced through the cockpit's plaz port to see the waves receding. He saw no sign of the seaworms, but he knew they were down there somewhere.
He let out a contented sigh, confident that his Prophet would come back.
It is the principle of the ticking time bomb, a strategy of aggression that has long been part of human violence. Thus we have inserted our "time bombs" into the cells of gholas, activating specific behaviors at precise moments of our choosing.
--from The Secret Manual of Tleilaxu Masters
The no-ship had its own time, its own cycles. Most of the people were asleep, except for off-shift watches and maintenance crews. The decks were quiet, the glowpanels dimmed. In the shadowy chamber that held the axlotl tanks, the Rabbi paced back and forth, murmuring Talmudic prayers.
On a surveillance screen Sheeana observed the old man carefully, always alert to prevent any new incident of sabotage. When the saboteur had killed the three gholas and axlotl tanks, he or she had shut down the security imagers, but Bashar Teg had made sure that was no longer possible. Everything was under observation. As a former Suk doctor, the Rabbi had access to the medical center; he often spent time with what remained of the woman he'd known as Rebecca.
Though the old man had answered all questions the Truthsayers asked him, he still hadn't earned her trust. Despite her best efforts, the saboteur and murderer remained at large. And the recent appearance of the glowing net had brought the Enemy too close, reminding the passengers of the very real threat. Everyone onboard had seen it. Their danger remained unabated.
Three relatively new axlotl tanks rested on their platforms; volunteers had come forward to answer Sheeana's call, exactly as she had expected. All three new tanks were currently producing liquid-form melange that dripped into small collecting vials, but she had begun preparations to implant one of the wombs with cells from Scytale's nullentropy tube. A new embryo to bring back yet another figure from the past. She refused to let the sabotage deflect her ghola project.
The Rabbi stood before the new tanks, his tense body exhibiting clear markers of loathing and disgust. He spoke to the fleshy mound. "I hate you. Unnatural, ungodly."
After watching the old man carefully, Sheeana left the monitor screens and entered the medical center, gliding up behind him. "Is it honorable to hate the helpless, Rabbi? Those women are no longer aware, no longer human. Why despise them?"
He whirled, lights reflecting on his polished spectacles. "Stop spying on me. I wish time alone to pray for Rebecca's soul." Rebecca had been his personal favorite, willing to pit her intellect agains
t his; the old man had never forgiven her for volunteering to become a tank.
"Even you need to be watched, Rabbi."
Anger flushed his leathery skin. "You and your witches should have heeded the warnings and ceased your grotesque experiments. If only the Honored Matres had managed to get rid of Scytale when they destroyed all Tleilaxu worlds, then his hateful knowledge of tanks and gholas would have been lost."
"The Honored Matres also hunted down your people, Rabbi. You and the Tleilaxu share the same enemy."
"But it is not the same at all. We have been unfairly persecuted throughout history, while the Tleilaxu merely received their just desserts. Their own Face Dancers turned on them, from what I understand." He took a step away from the fleshy mound, from the chemical and biological odors that wafted from the tanks. "I can hardly recall what Rebecca once looked like, before she became this thing."
Sheeana searched for the memories, and asked the voices within to assist her. This time they did, and she found what she wanted, like accessing old archival images. The woman had looked elegant in her brown robe and braided hair. She'd worn contact lenses to conceal the blue eyes of her spice addiction. . . .
With a bitter expression, the Rabbi placed a hand on Rebecca's exposed flesh. A tear ran down his cheek. He muttered the same thing each time he visited her. A litany for him. "You witches did this to her, made her into a monster."
"She's not a monster, not even a martyr." She tapped her own forehead. "Rebecca's thoughts and memories are in here and inside many other Sisters, Shared with us all. Rebecca did what was necessary, and so will we."
"By making more gholas? Will it never end?"
"You are concerned about a pebble in your shoe, while we seek to avoid the rockslide. Sooner or later, we will no longer be able to run from the Enemy. We'll need the ingenuity and special talents of these gholas, in particular those capable of becoming another Kwisatz Haderach. But we must handle the genetic material carefully, nurturing and developing it in the proper order, at the proper pace." She strolled to one of the new tanks, a fresh young woman whose form had not yet deteriorated into unrecognizability.
Sandworms of Dune Page 8
