Paul of Dune hod-1 Page 20

  Shaddam’s eyes slipped briefly out of focus. Even Hasimir Fenring had apparently abandoned him. Though Bashar Garon had tracked him down years ago and dutifully delivered the jewel-handled Imperial knife as a gift, Fenring had not come running back to Salusa. Why else does he think I allowed his insipid cousin to marry Wensicia? What could be a greater gesture of penitence than that? Even Dalak had tried to make contact, desperate to prove his worth to Shaddam, but to no avail.

  If Hasimir would only work beside him again, Shaddam was sure they could find a solution to this galactic crisis. But the Count refused to come back, which led to unsettling questions. What was Hasimir really up to? Why would he voluntarily live among the disgusting Tleilaxu for years — and raise his daughter there?

  Beaming and bubbling as a new father, Dalak Zor-Fenring left Wensicia’s bedside and looked up at the Emperor’s troubled expression. “Are you all right, Father?” The man’s voice sounded almost feminine in its timbre. He was five years younger than Wensicia.

  Shaddam glared at him. “I have not granted you leave to call me that.”

  His son-in-law backed away quickly, flushing. “Excuse me if I have been too familiar, Sire. If you are not comfortable with my expression of affection, I will never call you Father again.”

  “Very little about you makes me comfortable, Dalak. I will always be Emperor Corrino to you.” Unless, of course, you deliver Hasimir Fenring to me.

  Fenring’s cousin had pinched features and overlarge, dark eyes, but his physical resemblance to the Count went no farther than that. Hasimir’s dapper dress suited him well, but similar garments made Dalak look like a dandy. He was the only person in exile on Salusa who wore silk and lace. Wensicia didn’t even seem to like him (a small mercy there).

  Stranded here and in disgrace, he despaired of finding any better matches for his three remaining daughters. Mercifully, even though Dalak had no formal title, at least he had some noble blood flowing in his veins, and at least he had managed to create a male child. None of Shaddam’s wives had succeeded in that.

  Behind him, the door of the birthing room opened without his permission — another indication of the lack of decorum here. “We came to see the baby.” Chalice, heavyset and tall, was a little older than Wensicia; the two youngest daughters, Josifa and Rugi, were both adults, though they remained sheltered, despite their initial Bene Gesserit-supervised instruction. They all rushed to Wensicia’s bedside to coo over the infant.

  “Have you chosen a name yet?” Rugi asked, looking from Wensicia to Dalak. With her medium-brown curly hair, high cheekbones, and lavender eyes, his youngest daughter was pretty enough, but she seemed waifish and quiet, with few thoughts in her head. Rugi was just… there. Despite her lack of personality, in prior days handsome young nobles would have lined the streets of Kaitain for the chance to request her hand in marriage. Not anymore.

  “We have decided to call him Farad’n,” Shaddam said, using the Imperial we. “It is an honored name in Corrino history, the most famous of which was Crown Prince Raphael’s great grandfather Farad’n. There were other illustrious Farad’ns as well, dating back to the wars of…”

  He let his words trail off when he noticed that no one was listening to him. Josifa had picked up the baby to rock it in her arms, talking to him in a silly fashion. Shaddam grimaced. My first grandson has just been bom in the stinking armpit of the universe, and now an idiot is talking to him.

  He stepped closer to the bed. “Give him to me, Josifa.” She looked startled. “And stop babbling at him like a fool. You will pollute his mind with the nonsense contained in yours. I will place Farad’n with the best tutors I can find. He is the heir to the Imperium.”

  Getting his way, Shaddam held the baby awkwardly. He spoke with great portent down to the bundle, “You will be a true Corrino one day, Farad’n. Mark my words.”

  “A Zor-Fenring-Corrino,” Dalak said, a proud smile crossing his cherubic features.

  “He is Farad’n Corrino. And you, Dalak, are never to suggest otherwise.”

  The room went silent, except for Shaddam’s voice, as he droned on to the child about how great he would be one day.

  7

  There are many ways to teach, and many ways to unteach. It is frequently a matter of inflicting pain in precise ways.

  —MASTER EREBOAM, Manual of Laboratory Procedures

  “The Twisting process is one of the most sacred of Tleilaxu secrets,” Dr. Ereboam said, an edge of warning in his voice, “and is comprised of many subtle steps.” At the entrance of his cluttered office, he looked with particular ire at Lady Margot and little Marie. “You will understand, of course, that I can show you only one small part of the lengthy routine.”

  “Ahh, of course.” Standing with his wife and little Marie, Count Hasimir Fenring did not blink. His personality, like a loaded weapon, was intimidating in itself. “We each have secrets, hmmm? In all these years I have not told my friend Shaddam about the true plans… and mistakes… you Tleilaxu made during the amal project.” He ran a finger along his upper lip. “Wouldn’t the Emperor Muad’Dib be interested to learn of them? Yes, I know he would.”

  “Hidar Fen Ajidica was a rogue researcher! His plan was not sanctioned by the kehl!” Ereboam’s excuse sounded thin. His milky skin turned even paler.

  “Hmmm-ahh, yes, I am sure Muad’Dib would believe you.” Lady Margot took her husband’s arm. “You have nothing to fear from the truth, Dr. Ereboam… if it is the truth.”

  Looking cornered, the albino researcher tugged on his white goatee. “You have already used that to blackmail us, and we have given you sanctuary for years. Further threats are not necessary.”

  “Yes, ahh-hmmm, our destinies are intertwined.” A crafty smile worked at the edges of his mouth. “We should have nothing to fear from each other… and few secrets. Let us witness this Twisting process. Perhaps my Lady and I can learn techniques applicable to the raising of our dear daughter.”

  Months ago, Fenring hadn’t believed Ereboam’s altruistic assertions for a moment when the researcher had proposed using the Twisting process on Marie. “It could unlock hitherto unseen potentials in the female child. Do you not want the girl to be armed against any sort of challenge?” Ereboam had asked. The very existence of free and independent women offended the Tleilaxu Masters. And the girl child seemed to be a thorn in their side as well. No, Count Fenring didn’t trust their motives.

  Fenring said, “Hmmm, perhaps we should observe this process of yours first.” When he saw how the Tleilaxu researcher balked at the idea, he knew he had reached the right decision. “I insist.”

  Marie gave an angelic smile. “I am just a little girl, but I want to learn.”

  Given Marie’s superior breeding, as well as impeccable upbringing and training, Fenring knew he and Margot could accomplish a great deal with the girl. Spy, assassin, savior, child Empress… So much more than the Bene Gesserits would have allowed.

  Now the albino researcher’s long white hair was unkempt, and he had dark circles under his eyes, as if he had not slept. Even so, he spoke in an energetic — even frenetic — voice. “Come with me, but do not expect to understand all the nuances. I find it a wildly exciting process.”

  Ereboam led them into a laboratory chamber that contained many tall clearplaz cylinders that extended from floor to ceiling, surrounded by pipes, brackets, and two levels of upper walkways. Around the room, sullen middle-caste technicians tended humming, pulsing machinery at identical-looking control panels. Eight men with shaved heads stood near the tubes wearing modest filmsuits that did not entirely disguise their different bodily configurations. One of them shivered and two others appeared fearful, while the rest seemed stoic. Fenring did not believe they were all gholas, like the copies of Piter de Vries that had been exterminated.

  Lady Margot and Marie looked as if they were about to watch a Jongleur performance. The fidgeting albino doctor was a mass of nervous energy as he paced back and forth. “You are about
to witness one of the chemical phases of indoctrination, only a small part of the preparatory process to soften the subject’s psyche for proper reconfiguration.”

  “How much damage does it cause to the original personality?” Lady Margot asked.

  The Tleilaxu man looked offended. “In some areas we are competitors of the Sisterhood. You cannot expect us to reveal everything.” She continued to stare intently at him, adding to his uneasiness, and finally he added, “The Twisting process includes a chemical and pharmacological component, a physical stress component, and a psychological component. In the end, the subject is broken and re-formed, completely pliable and extraordinarily trained. This is a particularly useful technique to use on Mentats, who require severe as well as delicate maneuvers to create a superior mental format.”

  “So, ahh, drugs, psychological stresses, imposed conflicts that reach a crisis point.”

  Marie watched eagerly, almost hungrily. “I want to see closer.” Fenring looked at the researcher, making sure Ereboam knew this was not a request.

  The eight subjects were herded, sometimes roughly, into the tubes through side hatches, which were then sealed, trapping them within a cylindrical prison. Fenring stared at the growing expressions of alarm on the subjects’ faces; one of the men began to pound uselessly on the thick, curved wall.

  “This is all routine,” Ereboam said dismissively. “All subjects are expected to be confused and alarmed. It is part of the process.”

  With a gushing noise, the tubes began to fill with brown, syrupy liquid. Marie let out a cry, either of alarm or delight, as the hairless men were completely submerged. Although the eight subjects tried to swim higher as the fluid levels rose, soon they could no longer keep their heads above the surface. The gush of liquid stopped, and shadowy forms could be seen struggling in the murk. Ereboam did not move to stop the experiment.

  “You’re drowning them?” Lady Margot said.

  Standing at the base of the nearest tube, the doctor smiled reassuringly. “Once they inhale, they will fill their lungs with a highly oxygenated mixture. They will be able to breathe — after they fully surrender to the process. It is a lesson infused with spirituality, the need to put complete faith in something beyond their comprehension. To trust us. The subjects are helpless, and they must know they could die in there… but when they submit they will also see that we — their supreme Masters — are merciful. After facing death, they pass through the first step of submission. The first of many.”

  “Hmm-ahh-ahh. I see how that would be effective.”

  In the tubes, when all eight of the men stopped thrashing, bubbles drifted through the liquid. The subjects were inhaling the liquid and blowing air back out of their lungs.

  “This also keys to the primitive programming in their brains, going back to before the species crawled out of the oceans,” Ereboam continued. “We expose our Twisting subjects to primordial conditions to bypass the clutter of human experience. In a sense, Twisting is a misnomer. I prefer to think of it as untwisting, a cleansing process by which we create a tabula rasa, a blank canvas upon which to perform our genetic arts.”

  Ereboam raised his arms and pointed at the adjacent tubes, then the color of the liquid clarified to reveal the submerged subjects. “They look like fish in a tank,” Marie said. “Look at their lips.”

  “Once they realize they are still alive, that they can breathe, we begin to change the chemical content, adding drugs that make them euphoric and therefore even more submissive. Soon, by repetition and by alternating the sensations of pain and fear, we will create a framework for their new mental template. Our template. The entire process requires years — which is why a true Twisted Mentat commands such a high price. More than half of the subjects fail.”

  “They fail? Or they die?” Lady Margot asked.

  Ereboam looked at her. “Failure is death. This is neither game nor diversion. We Tleilaxu have standards to uphold.”

  “As do we, hmmm.” Fenring placed a paternal hand on the little girl’s shoulder. He himself had been training their daughter in highly sophisticated combat tricks, subtle ways of killing, and other nuanced niceties of assassination. Enhanced with Bene Gesserit mental disciplines from Lady Margot and the nanny, Marie was already as adept as an acolyte twice her age. “But we do not wish to put this dear child at such risk.”

  Margot added, “The Bene Gesserit breeding program has proceeded for generations, and our daughter is the culmination of centuries of careful manipulation. She is a remarkable specimen.”

  The Tleilaxu researcher surprised them by snorting. “We know of your Sisterhood’s breeding effort, and we Tleilaxu have long shared your goal of creating a Kwisatz Haderach.”

  “Why would the Bene Tleilax need a Kwisatz Haderach?” Lady Margot said with a note of scorn in her voice.

  “The same reason your Sisterhood wants one. Your plans may have culminated before ours, but they failed utterly. Look what the witches have set loose upon the universe.”

  “And your plans would do better?” Margot looked at the albino man. Her own husband was a failed Kwisatz Haderach as well, but as she saw it, his “failure” had ultimately proved more triumphant than the alleged “success” of Paul Atreides.

  “The fate of our candidate remains to be seen,” Ereboam said. “Our most promising specimen has not yet reached his culmination. We need a few more months, and then we will have a Kwisatz Haderach of our own.”

  Fenring looked at his wife, the two of them sharing the same thought. A Tleilaxu-bred Kwisatz Haderach? That was another secret project they would have to insist on seeing.

  8

  I do not fear poisons or predators, daggers or natural hazards. It is people I fear, for they are harder to defend against, and much more difficult to understand.

  —ST. ALIA OF THE KNIFE

  Construction teams had erected tall towers and monuments throughout Arrakeen, many of them named after Alia Atreides, the unusual — and some said holy — sister of Muad’Dib. Though she had never asked for this honor, Alia found it amusing.

  In the ongoing citadel project north of the city, Whitmore Bludd had designed an entire wing supposedly with her in mind, although the foppish Swordmaster had an unrealistic view of Alia’s interests and preferences. Unable to change his perception that she was not a mere child, he chose gentle pastel colors for her, elaborate and flowery archways, and rooms filled with sugar-and-spice ornamentation. Toys, playthings. As if she were a normal little girl.

  Instead, Alia moved into a set of chambers that Bludd had labeled “guest quarters.” Her extravagant apartments remained unoccupied, much to the Swordmaster’s dismay; they could be turned into warehouses, as far as Alia was concerned.

  Inside the room she had chosen, a large plaz-walled tank contained scuttling black creatures, seventeen of them. She could sit for hours watching their movements under an artificial heat panel. They loved to hide in the shadows or sun themselves on the decorative rocks. For the most part, the black scorpions rarely moved, but crouched waiting for prey, which Alia provided whenever it was feeding time. The scorpions sat motionless until some impulse triggered an instinctive reaction, a genetically programmed movement and response.

  From her memories of countless lifetimes, Alia knew that children generally liked to have pets. Thus, she made a conscious decision to keep some of her own, though a part of her realized that she did it for the wrong reasons.

  Alia removed the lid and leaned over the tank. She could identify all seventeen individual arachnids, although she had not taken the frivolous step of naming them. She wasn’t that much of a little girl.

  Two of the creatures moved, while the rest remained motionless. Sometimes she would watch them fight territorial battles over their tiny patch of encapsulated ground. They were like sandworms clashing at the edges of one another’s territories… or like her brother’s armies facing off in battles of the Jihad. It was only a difference of scale.

  She reached int
o the plaz-walled chamber, reminded of an ornamental aquarium her mother had kept in Castle Caladan… a memory from long before Alia’s birth. Aquarium. A word not often spoken here on Dune. The idea of using a transparent container of water to keep fish as pets would have seemed bizarre to a Fremen. This aquarium held only dryness, creatures of the sand and rocks.

  Black scorpions such as these were common in the deserts of Dune. In the sietches, Fremen kept scorpions for their poison, which was applied to crysknife blades. Their sting contained an extravagantly potent venom superior to many poisons used by the Tleilaxu.

  But poisons didn’t bother Alia. She had emerged from the womb with the thoughts and capabilities of a Reverend Mother. When her mother had consumed the Water of Life, it had fundamentally changed Jessica’s body chemistry, along with that of her unborn daughter. A scorpion’s sting need not concern her.

  Her fingers were small and stubby, still those of a child. Very little extra flesh padded her short arm. As she put her hand into the tank, the black scorpions backed away, raising their curved tails in a defensive posture. The stingers were like hooked needles. The two arachnids nearest her arm raised their pincers, ready to fight.

  But Alia moved slowly, reaching her other hand into the aquarium. Grasping the backs of their segmented tails with care, she plucked out one scorpion and then another, placing it on the back of her hand. They settled down quickly; she had done this often. When they moved along her arm, their sharp legs tickled her skin. They were not afraid of her. She laughed to herself.

  Within her head, she had the company of many ghostly friends, sisters, and ancestors, but they were memories of full lives, with personalities formed over uncounted years and experiences. They made poor childhood playmates, leaving Alia lonely. She had no real friends, no confidante to giggle with or whisper ideas to. The scorpions weren’t actually very good pets, either.