The Dosadi Experiment

by Frank Herbert

  Tria’s informants said this was Jedrik’s bolt hole. Not in the deep Warrens at all. Clever. But Tria had maintained an agent in this building for years, as she kept agents in many buildings. A conventional precaution. Everything depended on timing now. Her agent in the building was poised to eliminate the inner guards at the spy device station. Only the doorguard would remain. Tria waited for the agreed upon moment.

  The street around her smelled of sewage: an open reclamation line. Accident? Riot damage? Tria didn’t like the feeling of this pace. What was Jedrik’s game? Were there unknown surprises built into this guarded building? Jedrik must know by now that she was suspected of inciting the riot—and of other matters. But would she feel safe there in her own enclave? People tended to feel safe among their own people. She couldn’t have a very large force around her, though. Still, some private plot worked itself through the devious pathways of Jedrik’s mind, and Tria had not yet fathomed all of that plot. There were surface indicators enough to risk a confrontation, a parley. It was possible that Jedrik flaunted herself here to attract Tria. The potential in that possibility filled Tria with excitement.

  Together, we’d be unbeatable!

  Yes, Jedrik fitted the image of a superb agent. With the proper organization around her …

  Once more, Tria glanced left and right. The streets were appropriately empty. She checked the time. Her moment had come. With hand motions, she sent flankers out left and right and another young male probing straight across the street to the gate. When they were in place, she slipped across with her three remaining companions in a triangular shield ahead.

  The doorguard was a Human with grey hair and a pale face which glistened yellow in the dim light of the passage. His lids were heavy with a recent dose of his personal drug, which Tria’s agent had supplied.

  Tria opened the gate, saw that the guard carried a round dead-man switch in his right hand as expected. His grin was gap toothed as he held the switch toward her. She knew he’d recognized her. Much depended now on her agent’s accuracy.

  “Do you want to die for the frogs?” Tria asked.

  He knew about the rioting, the trouble in the streets. And he was Human, with Human loyalties, but he knew she worked for Broey, a Gowachin. The question was precisely calculated to fill him with indecision. Was she a turncoat? He had his Human loyalties and a fanatic’s dependence upon this guard post which kept him out of the depths. And there was his personal addiction. All doorguards were addicted to something, but this one took a drug which dulled his senses and made it difficult for him to correlate several lines of thought. He wasn’t supposed to use his drug on duty and this troubled him now. There were so many matters to be judged, and Tria had asked the right question. He didn’t want to die for the frogs.

  She pointed to the dead-man switch, a question.

  “It’s only a signal relay,” he said. “No bomb in this one.”

  She remained silent, forcing him to focus on his doubts.

  The guard swallowed. “What do you …”

  “Join us or die.”

  He peered past her at the others. Things such as this happened frequently in the Warrens, not very often here on the slopes which led up to the heights. The guard was not a one trusted with full knowledge of whom he guarded. He had explicit instructions and a dead-man relay to warn of intruders. Others were charged with making the more subtle distinctions, the real decisions. That was this building’s weak point.

  “Join who?” he asked.

  There was false belligerency in his voice, and she knew she had him then.

  “Your own kind.”

  This locked his drug-dulled mind onto its primary fears. He knew what he was supposed to do: open his hand. That released the alarm device in the dead-man switch. He could do this of his own volition and it was supposed to deter attackers from killing him. A dead man’s hand opened anyway. But he’d been fed with suspicions to increase his doubts. The device in his hand might not be a simple signal transmitter. What if it actually were a bomb? He’d had many long hours to wonder about that.

  “We’ll treat you well,” Tria said.

  She put a companionable arm around his shoulder, letting him get the full effect of her musk while she held out her other hand to show that it carried no weapon. “Demonstrate to my companion here how you pass that to your relief.”

  One of the young males stepped forward.

  The guard showed how it was done, explaining slowly as he passed the device. “It’s easy once you get the trick of it.”

  When her companion had the thing firmly in hand, she raised her arm from the guard’s shoulder, touched his carotid artery with a poisoned needle concealed in a fingernail. The guard had only time to draw one gasping breath, his eyes gaping, before he sank from her embrace.

  “I treated him well,” she said.

  Her companions grinned. It was the kind of thing you learned to expect from Tria. They dragged the body out of sight into the guard alcove, and the young male with the signal device took his place at the door. The others protected Tria with their bodies as they swept into the building. The whole operation had taken less than two minutes. Everything was working smoothly, as Tria’s operations were expected to work.

  The lobby and its radiating hallways were empty.

  Good.

  Her agent in this building deserved a promotion.

  They took a stairway rather than trust an elevator. It was only three short flights. The upper hallway also was empty. Tria led the way to the designated door, used the key her agent had supplied. The door opened without a sound and they surged into the room.

  Inside, the shades had been pulled, and there was no artificial illumination. Her companions took up their places at the closed door and along both flanking walls. This was the most dangerous moment, something only Tria could handle.

  Light came from thin strips where shades did not quite seal a south window. Tria discerned dim shapes of furniture, a bed with an indeterminate blob of darkness on it.

  “Jedrik?” A whisper.

  Tria’s feet touched soft fabric, a sandal.

  “Jedrik?”

  Her shin touched the bed. She held a weapon ready while she felt for the dark blob. It was only a mound of bedding. She turned.

  The bathroom door was closed, but she could make out a thin slot of light at the bottom of the door. She skirted the clothing and sandal on the floor, stood at one side, and motioned a companion to the other side. Thus far they had operated with a minimum of sound.

  Gently, she turned the knob, thrust open the door. There was water in a tub and a body face down, one arm hanging flaccidly over the edge, fingers dangling. A dark purple welt was visible behind and beneath the left ear. Tria lifted the head by the hair, stared at the face, lowered it gently to avoid splashing. It was her agent, the one she’d trusted for the intelligence to set up this operation. And the death was characteristic of a Gowachin ritual slaying: that welt under the ear. A Gowachin talon driven in there to silence the victim before drowning? Or had it just been made to appear like a Gowachin slaying?

  Tria felt the whole operation falling apart around her, sensed the uneasiness of her companions. She considered calling Gar from where she stood, but a feeling of fear and revulsion came over her. She stepped out into the bedroom before opening her communicator and thumbing the emergency signal.

  “Central.” The voice was tense in her ear.

  She kept her own voice flat. “Our agent’s dead.”

  Silence. She could imagine them centering the locator on her transmission, then: “There?”

  “Yes. She’s been murdered.”

  Gar’s voice came on: “That can’t be. I talked to her less than an hour ago. She …”

  “Drowned in a tub of water,” Tria said. “She was knocked out first—something sharp driven in under an ear.”

  There was silence again while Gar absorbed this data. He would have the same uncertainties as Tria.

  Sh
e glanced at her companions. They had taken up guard positions facing the doorway to the hall. Yes, if attack came, it would come from there.

  The channel to Gar remained open, and now Tria heard a babble of terse orders with only a few words intelligible: “ … team … don’t let … time …” Then, quite clearly: “They’ll pay for this!”

  Who will pay? Tria wondered.

  She was beginning to make a new assessment of Jedrik.

  Gar came back on: “Are you in immediate danger?”

  “I don’t know.” It was a reluctant admission.

  “Stay right where you are. We’ll send help. I’ve notified Broey.”

  So that was the way Gar saw it. Yes. That was most likely the proper way to handle this new development. Jedrik had eluded them. There was no sense in proceeding alone. It would have to be done Broey’s way now.

  Tria shuddered as she issued the necessary orders to her companions. They prepared to sell themselves dearly if an attack came, but Tria was beginning to doubt there’d be an immediate attack. This was another message from Jedrik. The trouble came when you tried to interpret the message.

  The military mentality is a bandit and raider mentality. Thus, all military represents a form of organized banditry where the conventional mores do not prevail. The military is a way of rationalizing murder, rape, looting, and other forms of theft which are always accepted as part of warfare. When denied an outside target, the military mentality always turns against its own civilian population, using identical rationalizations for bandit behavior.

  —BuSab Manual, Chapter Five:

  “The Warlord Syndrome”

  Mckie, awakening from the communications trance; realized how he must’ve appeared to this strange Gowachin towering over him. Of course a Dosadi Gowachin would think him ill. He’d been shivering and mumbling in the trance, perspiration rolling from him. McKie took a deep breath.

  “No, I’m not ill.”

  “Then it’s an addiction?”

  Recalling the many substances to which the Dosadi could be addicted, McKie almost used this excuse but thought better of it. This Gowachin might demand some of the addictive substance.

  “Not an addiction,” McKie said. He lifted himself to his feet, glanced around. The sun had moved perceptibly toward the horizon behind its streaming veil.

  And something new had been added to the landscape—that gigantic tracked vehicle, which stood throbbing and puffing smoke from a vertical stack behind the Gowachin intruder. The Gowachin maintained a steady, intense concentration on McKie, disconcerting in its unwavering directness. McKie had to ask himself: was this some threat, or his Dosadi contact? Aritch’s people had said a vehicle would be sent to the contact point, but …

  “Not ill, not an addiction,” the Gowachin said. “Is it some strange condition which only Humans have?”

  “I was ill,” McKie said. “But I’m recovered. The condition has passed.”

  “Do you often have such attacks?”

  “I can go years without a recurrence.”

  “Years? What causes this … condition?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I … ahhhh.” The Gowachin nodded, gestured upward with his chin. “An affliction of the Gods, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You were completely vulnerable.”

  McKie shrugged. Let the Gowachin make of that what he could.

  “You were not vulnerable?” Somehow, this amused the Gowachin, who added: “I am Bahrank. Perhaps that’s the luckiest thing which has ever happened to you.”

  Bahrank was the name Aritch’s aides had given as McKie’s first contact.

  “I am McKie.”

  “You fit the description, McKie, except for your, ahhh, condition. Do you wish to say more?”

  McKie wondered what Bahrank expected. This was supposed to be a simple contact handing him on to more important people. Aritch was certain to have knowledgeable observers on Dosadi, but Bahrank was not supposed to be one of them. The warning about this Gowachin had been specific.

  “Bahrank doesn’t know about us. Be extremely careful what you reveal to him. It’d be very dangerous to you if he were to learn that you came from beyond the God Veil.”

  The jumpdoor aides had reinforced the warning.

  “If the Dosadi penetrate your cover, you’ll have to return to your pickup point on your own. We very much doubt that you could make it. Understand that we can give you little help once we’ve put you on Dosadi.”

  Bahrank visibly came to a decision, nodding to himself.

  “Jedrik expects you.”

  That was the other name Aritch’s people had provided. “Your cell leader. She’s been told that you’re a new infiltrator from the Rim. Jedrik doesn’t know your true origin.”

  “Who does know?”

  “We cannot tell you. If you don’t know, then that information cannot be wrested from you. We assure you, though, that Jedrik isn’t one of our people.”

  McKie didn’t like the sound of that warning. “ … wrested from you.” As usual, BuSab sent you into the tiger’s mouth without a full briefing on the length of the tiger’s fangs.

  Bahrank gestured toward his tracked vehicle. “Shall we go?”

  McKie glanced at the machine. It was an obvious war device, heavily armored with slits in its metal cab, projectile weapons protruding at odd angles. It looked squat and deadly. Aritch’s people had mentioned such things.

  “We saw to it that they got only primitive armored vehicles, projectile weapons and relatively unimportant explosives, that sort of thing. They’ve been quite resourceful in their adaptations of such weaponry, however.”

  Once more, Bahrank gestured toward his vehicle, obviously anxious to leave.

  McKie was forced to suppress an abrupt feeling of profound anxiety. What had he gotten himself into? He felt that he had awakened to find himself on a terrifying slide into peril, unable to control the least threat. The sensation passed, but it left him shaken. He delayed while he continued to stare at the vehicle. It was about six meters long with heavy tracks, plus other wheels faintly visible within the shadows behind the tracks. It sported a conventional antenna at the rear for tapping the power transmitter in orbit beneath the barrier veil, but there was a secondary system which burned a stinking fuel. The smoke of that fuel filled the air around them with acridity.

  “For what do we wait?” Bahrank demanded. He glared at McKie with obvious fear and suspicion.

  “We can go now,” McKie said.

  Bahrank turned and led the way swiftly, clambering up over the tracks and into a shadowed cab. McKie followed, found the interior a tightly cluttered place full of a bitter, oily smell. There were two hard metal seats with curved backs higher than the head of a seated Human or Gowachin. Bahrank already occupied the seat on the left, working switches and dials. McKie dropped into the other seat. Folding arms locked across his chest and waist to hold him in place; a brace fitted itself to the back of his head. Bahrank threw a switch. The door through which they’d entered closed with a grinding of servomotors and the solid clank of locks.

  An ambivalent mood swept over McKie. He had always felt faint agoraphobia in open places such as the area around the rock. But the dim interior of this war machine, with its savage reminders of primitive times, touched an atavistic chord in his psyche and he fought an urge to claw his way outside. This was a trap!

  An odd observation helped him overcome the sensation. There was glass over the slits which gave them their view of the outside. Glass. He felt it. Yes, glass. It was common stuff in the ConSentiency—strong yet fragile. He could see that this glass wasn’t very thick. The fierce appearance of this machine had to be more show than actuality, then.

  Bahrank gave one swift, sweeping glance to their surroundings, moved levers which set the vehicle into lurching motion. It emitted a grinding rumble with an overriding whine.

  A track of sorts led from the white rock toward the distant city. It showed t
he marks of this machine’s recent passage, a roadway to follow. Glittering reflections danced from bright rocks along the track. Bahrank appeared very busy with whatever he was doing to guide them toward Chu.

  McKie found his own thoughts returning to the briefings he’d received on Tandaloor.

  “Once you enter Jedrik’s cell you’re on your own.”

  Yes … he felt very much alone, his mind a clutter of data which had little relationship to any previous experience. And this planet could die unless he made sense out of that data plus whatever else he might learn here.

  Alone, alone … If Dosadi died there’d be few sentient watchers. The Caleban’s tempokinetic barrier would contain most of that final destructive flare. The Caleban would, in fact, feed upon the released energy. That was one of the things he’d learned from Fannie Mae. One consuming blast, a meal for a Caleban, and BuSab would be forced to start anew and without the most important piece of physical evidence—Dosadi.

  The machine beneath McKie thundered, rocked, and skidded, but always returned to the track which led toward Chu’s distant spires.

  McKie studied the driver covertly. Bahrank showed uncharacteristic behavior for a Gowachin: more direct, more Human. That was it! His Gowachin instincts had been contaminated by contact with Humans. Aritch was sure to despise that, fear it. Bahrank drove with a casual expertise, using a complex control system. McKie counted eight different levers and arms which the Gowachin employed. Some were actuated by knees, others by his head. His hands reached out while an elbow deflected a lever. The war machine responded.

  Bahrank spoke presently without taking his attention from driving.

  “We may come under fire on the second ledge. There was quite a police action down there earlier.”

  McKie stared at him.

  “I thought we had safe passage through.”

  “You Rimmers are always pressing.”

  McKie peered out the slits: bushes, barren ground, that lonely track they followed.

  Bahrank spoke.

  “You’re older than any Rimmer I ever saw before.”