"Why?"
"Someone will be bankrupted acquiring that shipment. We think we know who the buyer is. Whoever it is, we will learn of it. Then we will know what was really being traded here."
Lady Janet then began to point out the identifiable incongruities that betrayed a Face Dancer to trained eyes and ears. They were subtle signs but Miles picked up on them immediately. His mother told him then that she thought he might become a Mentat ... perhaps even more.
Shortly before his thirteenth birthday, Miles Teg was sent away to advanced schooling at the Bene Gesserit stronghold on Lampadas, where his mother's assessment of him was confirmed. Word went back to her:
"You have given us the Warrior Mentat we had hoped for."
Teg did not see this note until sorting through his mother's effects after her death. The words inscribed on a small sheet of ridulian crystal with the Chapter House imprint below them filled him with an odd sense of displacement in time. His memory put him suddenly back on Lampadas where the love-awe he had felt for his mother was deftly transferred to the Sisterhood itself, as originally intended. He had come to understand this only during his later Mentat training but the understanding changed little. If anything, it bound him even more strongly to the Bene Gesserit. It confirmed that the Sisterhood must be one of his strengths. He already knew that the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood was one of the most powerful forces in his universe--equal at least to the Spacing Guild, superior to the Fish Speaker Council that had inherited the core of the old Atreides Empire, superior by far to CHOAM, and balanced somehow with the Fabricators of Ix and with the Bene Tleilax. A small measure of the Sisterhood's far-reaching authority could be deduced from the fact that they held this authority despite Tleilaxu tank-grown melange, which had broken the Rakian monopoly on the spice, just as Ixian navigation machines had broken the Guild monopoly on space travel.
Miles Teg knew his history well by then. Guild Navigators no longer were the only ones who could thread a ship through the folds of space--in this galaxy one instant, in a faraway galaxy the very next heartbeat.
The School Sisters held back little from him, revealing there for the first time the fact of his Atreides ancestry. That revelation was necessary because of the tests they gave him. They obviously were testing for prescience. Could he, like a Guild Navigator, detect fatal obstructions? He failed. They tried him next on no-chambers and no-ships. He was as blind to such devices as the rest of humankind. For this test, though, they fed him increased doses of the spice and he sensed the awakening of his True Self.
"The Mind at Its Beginning," a teaching Sister called it when he asked for an explanation of this odd sensation.
For a time, the universe was magical as he looked at it through this new awareness. His awareness was a circle, then a globe. Arbitrary forms became transient. He fell into trance state without warning until the Sisters taught him how to control this. They provided him with accounts of saints and mystics and forced him to draw a freehand circle with either hand, following the line with his awareness.
By the end of the term, his awareness resumed its touch with conventional labels, but the memory of the magic never left him. He found that memory a source of strength at the most difficult moments.
After accepting the assignment as Weapons Master to the ghola, Teg found his magical memory increasingly with him. It was especially useful during his first interview with Schwangyu at the Keep on Gammu. They met in the Reverend Mother's study, a place of shiny metal walls and numerous instruments, most of them with the stamp of Ix on them. Even the chair in which she sat, the morning sun coming through a window behind her and making her face difficult to see, even that chair was one of the Ixian self-molders. He was forced to sit in a chairdog, though he realized she must know he detested the use of any life form for such a demeaning task.
"You were chosen because you actually are a grandfatherly figure," Schwangyu said. The bright sunlight formed a corona around her hooded head. Deliberate! "Your wisdom will earn the child's love and respect."
"There's no way I could be a father figure."
"According to Taraza, you have the precise characteristics she requires. I know of your honorable scars and their value to us."
This only reconfirmed his previous Mentat summation: They have been planning this for a long time. They have bred for it. I was bred for it. I am part of their larger plan.
All he said was: "Taraza expects this child to become a redoubtable warrior when restored to his true self."
Schwangyu merely stared at him for a moment, then: "You must not answer any of his questions about gholas, should he encounter the subject. Do not even use the word until I give you permission. We will supply you with all of the ghola data your duties require."
Coldly parceling out his words for emphasis, Teg said: "Perhaps the Reverend Mother was not informed that I am well versed in the lore of Tleilaxu gholas. I have met Tleilaxu in battle."
"You think you know enough about the Idaho series?"
"The Idahos are reputed to have been brilliant military strategists," Teg said.
"Then perhaps the great Bashar was not informed about the other characteristics of our ghola."
No doubt of the mockery in her voice. Something else as well: jealousy and great anger poorly concealed. Teg's mother had taught him ways of reading through her own masks, a forbidden teaching, which he had always concealed. He feigned chagrin and shrugged.
It was obvious, though, that Schwangyu knew he was Taraza's Bashar. The lines had been drawn.
"At Bene Gesserit behest," Schwangyu said, "the Tleilaxu have made a significant alteration in the present Idaho series. His nerve-muscle system has been modernized."
"Without changing the original persona?" Teg fed the question to her blandly, wondering how far she would go in revelation.
"He is a ghola, not a clone!"
"I see."
"Do you really? He requires the most careful prana-bindu training at all stages."
"Taraza's orders exactly," Teg said. "And we will all obey those orders."
Schwangyu leaned forward, not concealing her anger. "You have been asked to train a ghola whose role in certain plans is most dangerous to us all. I don't think you even remotely understand what you will train!"
What you will train, Teg thought. Not whom. This ghola-child would never be a whom for Schwangyu or any of the others who opposed Taraza. Perhaps the ghola would not be a whom to anyone until restored to his original self, firmly seated in that original Duncan Idaho identity.
Teg saw clearly now that Schwangyu harbored more than hidden reservations about the ghola project. She was in active opposition just as Taraza had warned. Schwangyu was the enemy and Taraza's orders had been explicit.
"You will protect that child against any threat."
Ten thousand years since Leto II began his metamorphosis from human into the sandworm of Rakis and historians still argue over his motives. Was he driven by the desire for long life? He lived more than ten times the normal span of three hundred SY, but consider the price he paid. Was it the lure of power? He is called the Tyrant for good reason but what did power bring him that a human might want? Was he driven to save humankind from itself? We have only his own words about his Golden Path to answer this and I cannot accept the self-serving records of Dar-es-Balat. Might there have been other gratifications, which only his experiences would illuminate? Without better evidence the question is moot. We are reduced to saying only that "He did it!" The physical fact alone is undeniable.
--The Metamorphosis of Leto II, 10,000th Anniversary Peroration by Gaus Andaud
Once more, Waff knew he was on lashkar. This time the stakes were as high as they could go. An Honored Matre from the Scattering demanded his presence. A powindah of powindahs! Descendants of Tleilaxu from the Scattering had told him all they could about these terrible women.
"Far more terrible than Reverend Mothers of the Bene Gesserit," they said.
And more numerous, W
aff reminded himself.
He did not fully trust the returned Tleilaxu descendants, either. Their accents were strange, their manners even stranger and their observances of the rituals questionable. How could they be readmitted to the Great Kehl? What possible rite of ghufran could cleanse them after all these centuries? It was beyond belief that they had kept the Tleilaxu secret down the generations.
They were no longer malik-brothers and yet they were the only source of information the Tleilaxu possessed about these returning Lost Ones. And the revelations they had brought! Revelations that had been incorporated in the Duncan Idaho gholas--that was worth all of the risks of contamination by powindah evil.
The meeting place with the Honored Matres was the presumed neutrality of an Ixian no-ship that held a tight orbit around a mutually selected gas giant planet in a mined-out solar system of the old Imperium. The Prophet himself had drained the last of the wealth from this system. New Face Dancers walked as Ixians among the no-ship's crew but Waff still sweated the first encounter. If these Honored Matres were truly more terrible than the Bene Gesserit witches, would the exchange of Face Dancers for Ixian crewmen be detected?
Selection of this meeting place and the arrangements had put a strain on the Tleilaxu. Was it secure? He reassured himself that he carried two sealed weapons never before seen off the Tleilaxu core planets. The weapons were the painstaking result of long effort by his artificers: two minuscule dart throwers concealed in his sleeves. He had trained with them for years until the flipping of the sleeves and the discharge of the poisoned darts was almost an instinctive reflex.
The walls of the meeting room were properly copper-toned, evidence that they were shielded from Ixian spy devices. But what instruments might the people of the Scattering have developed beyond the Ixian ken?
Waff entered the room with a hesitant step. The Honored Matre already was there seated in a leather sling chair.
"You will call me what everyone else calls me," she greeted him. "Honored Matre."
He bowed as he had been warned to do. "Honored Matre."
No hint of hidden powers in her voice. A low contralto with overtones that spoke of disdain for him. She looked like an aged athlete or acrobat, slowed and retired but still maintaining her muscle tone and some of her skills. Her face was tight skin over a skull with prominent cheekbones. The thin-lipped mouth produced a sense of arrogance when she spoke, as though every word were projected downward onto lesser folk.
"Well, come in and sit down!" she commanded, waving at a sling chair facing her.
Waff heard the hatch hiss closed behind him. He was alone with her! She was wearing a snooper. He could see the lead for it going into her left ear. His dart throwers had been sealed and "washed" against snoopers, then maintained at minus 340deg Kelvin in a radiation bath for five SY to make them proof against snoopers. Had it been enough?
Gently, he lowered himself into the indicated chair.
Orange-tinted contact lenses covered the Honored Matre's eyes, giving them a feral appearance. She was altogether daunting. And her clothing! Red leotards beneath a dark blue cape. The surface of the cape had been decorated with some pearly material to produce strange arabesques and dragon designs. She sat in the chair as though it were a throne, her clawlike hands resting easily on the arms.
Waff glanced around the room. His people had inspected this place in company with Ixian maintenance workers and representatives of the Honored Matre.
We have done our best, he thought, and he tried to relax.
The Honored Matre laughed.
Waff stared at her with as calm an expression as he could muster. "You are gauging me now," he accused. "You say to yourself that you have enormous resources to employ against me, subtle and gross instruments to carry out your commands."
"Do not take that tone with me." The words were low and flat but carried such a weight of venom that Waff almost recoiled.
He stared at the stringy muscles of the woman's legs, that deep red leotard fabric which flowed over her skin as though it were organic to her.
Their meeting time had been adjusted to bring them together at a mutually personal mid-morning, their waking hours having been balanced en route. Waff felt dislocated, though, and at a disadvantage. What if the stories of his informants were true? She must have weapons here.
She smiled at him without humor.
"You are trying to intimidate me," Waff said.
"And succeeding." Anger surged through Waff. He kept this from his voice. "I have come at your invitation."
"I hope you did not come to engage in a confrontation that you would surely lose," she said.
"I came to forge a bond between us," he said. And he wondered: What do they need from us? Surely they must need something.
"What bond can there be between us?" she asked. "Would you build an edifice on a disintegrating raft? Hah! Agreements can be broken and often are."
"For what tokens do we bargain?" he asked.
"Bargain? I do not bargain. I am interested in this ghola you made for the witches." Her tone gave away nothing but Waff's heartbeat quickened at her question.
In one of his ghola lifetimes, Waff had trained under a renegade Mentat. The capabilities of a Mentat were beyond him and besides, reasoning required words. They had been forced to kill the powindah Mentat but there had been some things of value in the experience. Waff allowed himself a small moue of distaste at the memory but he recalled the things of value.
Attack and absorb the data that attack produces!
"You offer me nothing in exchange!" he said, his voice loud.
"Recompense is at my discretion," she said.
Waff produced a scornful gaze. "Do you play with me?"
She showed white teeth in a feral grin. "You would not survive my play, nor want to."
"So I must be dependent upon your good will!"
"Dependency!" The word curled from her mouth as though it produced a distasteful sensation. "Why do you sell these gholas to the witches and then kill the gholas?"
Waff pressed his lips together and remained silent.
"You have somehow changed this ghola while still making it possible for him to regain his original memories," she said.
"You know so much!" Waff said. It was not quite a sneer and, he hoped, revealed nothing. Spies! She had spies among the witches! Was there also a traitor in the Tleilaxu heartlands?
"There is a girl-child on Rakis who figures in the plans of the witches," the Honored Matre said.
"How do you know this?"
"The witches do not make a move without our knowing! You think of spies but you cannot know how far our arms will reach!"
Waff was dismayed. Could she read his mind? Was it something born of the Scattering? A wild talent from out there where the original human seed could not observe?
"How have you changed this ghola?" she demanded.
Voice!
Waff, armed against such devices by his Mentat teacher, almost blurted an answer. This Honored Matre had some of the witches' powers! It had been so unexpected coming from her. You expected such things from a Reverend Mother and were prepared. He was a moment recovering his balance. Waff steepled his hands in front of his chin.
"You have interesting resources," she said.
A gamin expression came over Waff's features. He knew how disarmingly elflike he could look.
Attack!
"We know how much you have learned from the Bene Gesserit," he said.
A look of rage swept over her face and was gone. "They have taught us nothing!"
Waff pitched his voice at a humorously appealing level, cajoling. "Surely, this is not bargaining."
"Isn't it?" She actually appeared surprised.
Waff lowered his hands. "Come now, Honored Matre. You are interested in this ghola. You speak of things on Rakis. What do you take us for?"
"Very little. You become less valuable by the instant."
Waff sensed the coldest machine logic in her r
esponse. There was no smell of Mentat in it but something more chilling. She is capable of killing me right here!
Where were her weapons? Would she even require weapons? He did not like the look of those stringy muscles, the calluses on her hands, the hunter's gleam in her orange eyes. Could she possibly guess (or even know) about the dart throwers in his sleeves?
, "We are confronted by a problem that cannot be resolved by logical means," she said.
Waff stared at her in shock. A Zensunni Master might have said that! He had said it himself on more than one occasion.
"You have probably never considered such a possibility," she said. It was as though her words dropped a mask away from her face. Waff suddenly saw through to the calculating person behind these postures. Did she take him for some pad-footed seelie fit only for collecting slig shit?
Bringing as much hesitant puzzlement into his voice as possible, he asked: "How could such a problem be resolved?"
"The natural course of events will dispose of it," she said.
Waff continued to stare at her in simulated puzzlement. Her words did not smack of revelation. Still, the things implied! He said: "Your words leave me floundering."
"Humankind has become infinite," she said. "That is the true gift of the Scattering."
Waff fought to conceal the turmoil these words created. "Infinite universes, infinite time--anything may happen," he said.
"Ahhh, you are a bright little manikin," she said. "How does one allow for anything? It is not logical."
She sounded, Waff thought, like one of the ancient leaders of the Butlerian Jihad, which had tried to rid humankind of mechanical minds. This Honored Matre was strangely out of date.
"Our ancestors looked for an answer with computers," he ventured. Let her try that!
"You already know that computers lack infinite storage capacity," she said.
Again, her words disconcerted him. Could she actually read minds? Was this a form of mind-printing? What the Tleilaxu did with Face Dancers and gholas, others might do as well. He centered his awareness and concentrated on Ixians, on their evil machines. Powindah machines!
The Honored Matre swept her gaze around the room. "Are we wrong to trust the Ixians?" she asked.
Waff held his breath.
"I don't think you fully trust them," she said. "Come, come, little man. I offer you my good will."
Heretics of Dune Page 9
