The Master gestured around the hot, stinking chamber. The clatter of the automated conveyor rolled on, dumping rocks and twisted scraps of metal over the lip into the blazing pit. “This work is far beneath your skills. Come with us, and we will give you something much more interesting and worthwhile to do.”
With a thin smile of hope, the man nodded faintly. “I’m very good at accounting. I could help you. I could be very valuable. You have to run this like a business, you know.”
C’tair wanted to scream a warning. How could the man be so stupid? If he’d survived for a dozen years under Tleilaxu oppression, how could he not be aware of such an obvious trick?
“There, there,” the Master said. “We’ll have a council meeting, and you can tell us all your ideas.”
The guard looked sharply at C’tair, and the Ixian’s heart froze again. “Is our business of concern to you, Citizen?”
C’tair made every effort to keep his face slack, not to show fear in his eyes, to keep his voice slow and dull. “Now there’ll be more work for me.” He looked forlornly at the assembly line.
“Then work harder.”
The guard and the Tleilaxu Master took their captive away. C’tair went back to his labors, staring at the debris, picking over every item before it toppled into the long shaft. . . .
Two days later, C’tair and his work shift were ordered to gather out on the floor of the main grotto so they could watch the execution of the accountant “spy.”
• • •
When he accidentally stumbled upon Miral Alechem during his monotonous daily routine, C’tair covered his surprise well.
He had changed jobs again, nervous by the arrest of the hidden accountant. He never used the same identity card more than two days in a row. He moved from assignment to assignment, enduring a few curious looks, but Ixian workers knew better than to question. Any stranger could well be a Face Dancer who had infiltrated work gangs in an attempt to pick up talk of unrest or secret sabotage plans.
C’tair had to bide his time and make new plans. He frequented different food stations, standing in long lines where bland cooked fare was distributed to the workers.
The Tleilaxu had put their biological technology to work, creating unrecognizable food in hidden vats. They grew vegetables and roots by splitting cells so that the plants produced only shapeless tumors of edible material. Eating became a process rather than a pleasurable activity, as much a chore as the routine tasks during a shift.
C’tair remembered times he had spent in the Grand Palais with his father, the Ambassador to Kaitain, and his mother, an important Guild Bank representative. They had sampled outworld delicacies, the finest appetizers and salads, the best imported wines. Such memories seemed like fantasies now. He could not recall what any of that food had tasted like.
He straggled at the end of the line so that he did not have to fight the press of other workers. When he received his helping from the server, he noticed the large dark eyes, raggedly cropped hair, and narrow but attractive face of Miral Alechem.
Their gazes locked and recognition flashed between them, but both knew enough not to speak. C’tair glanced behind him toward the seating areas, and Miral raised her spoon. “Sit at that table, worker. It’s just come free.”
Without questioning, C’tair sat at the indicated place and began eating. He concentrated on his meal, chewing slowly to give her all the time she needed.
Before long, the line ended and the food shift was over. Finally, Miral came over, bearing her own food tray. She sat down, stared at her bowl, and began eating. Although C’tair did not look directly at her, they soon began a mumbled conversation, moving their lips as little as possible.
“I work at this food distribution line,” Miral said. “I’ve been afraid to change assignments because it might draw attention to me.”
“I have lots of identity cards,” C’tair said. He had never given her his correct name, and he was going to leave it that way.
“We are the only two left,” Miral said. “Of the whole group.”
“There will be others. I’ve still got a few contacts. For now, I’m working alone.”
“Can’t accomplish much that way.”
“Can’t accomplish anything at all if I’m dead.” When she slurped her food and didn’t answer, he continued, “I’ve been fighting alone for twelve years.”
“And you haven’t accomplished enough.”
“It will never be enough until the Tleilaxu are gone and Ix has been returned to our people.” He clamped his lips together, afraid he had spoken too vehemently. He took two slow mouthfuls from his bowl. “You never told me what you were working on, those technological items you were scavenging. Do you have a plan?”
After glancing at him, Miral quickly tore her glance away. “I’m building a detection device. I need to find out what the Tleilaxu are doing in that research pavilion they keep so carefully guarded.”
“It’s scan-shielded,” C’tair mumbled. “I’ve already tried.”
“That is why I need a new device. I think . . . I think that facility is the reason behind their entire takeover.”
C’tair was startled. “What do you mean?”
“Have you noticed that the Tleilaxu experiments have entered a new phase? Something very dark and unpleasant is happening.”
C’tair paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth, looked over at her, and glanced down at his nearly empty bowl. He would need to eat more slowly if he wished to finish this conversation without anyone noticing.
“Our women have been disappearing,” Miral said with a slash of anger in the back of her voice. “Young women, fertile and healthy. I’ve watched them vanish from the work rolls.”
C’tair had not remained in one place long enough to notice details like that. He swallowed hard. “Are they abducted for Tleilaxu harems? But why would they take ‘unclean’ Ixian women?”
Supposedly, no outsider had ever seen a Tleilaxu female; he’d heard that the Bene Tleilax guarded their women zealously, protecting them from the contamination and perversions of the Imperium. Maybe Tleilaxu women were kept hidden because they were as gnome-ugly as the men.
Could it just be a coincidence that the missing females were all healthy and of childbearing age? Such women would make the best concubines . . . but the mean-spirited Tleilaxu did not seem the type who would indulge in extravagant sexual pleasures.
“I think the answer has something to do with what’s going on in that shielded pavilion,” Miral suggested.
C’tair set his spoon down. He only had one bite left in his bowl. “I know this much: The invaders came here with a terrible purpose, not just to take over our facilities or conquer this world. They have another agenda. If they simply wanted to take over Ix for their own profit, they would not have dismantled so many factories. They would never have ceased production of the new-design Heighliners, reactive fighting meks, and other products that brought a fortune to House Vernius.”
With a nod, she said, “I agree. They intend to accomplish something else— and they’re doing it behind shields and closed doors. Perhaps I’ll learn what it is.” Miral finished her meal and stood up. “If I do, I’ll let you know.”
After she left, C’tair felt a glimmer of hope again for the first time in many months. At least he wasn’t the only one fighting the Tleilaxu. If one other person was involved in the effort, others must be forming pockets of resistance as well, here and there. But he hadn’t heard of anything happening, not for months.
His hopes sagged. He couldn’t stand the thought of waiting for the right opportunity, day after day, week after week. Perhaps he’d been thinking too small. Yes, he needed to change tactics and contact someone outside for assistance. He would have to reach off-world, no matter what the risk might be. He needed to search for powerful allies to help him overthrow the Tleilaxu.
And he knew of one person who had far more at stake than he did.
The Unknown surrounds us at any g
iven moment. That is where we seek knowledge.
— MOTHER SUPERIOR RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL
Oratory Against Fear
In the ornate mummer’s portico of the Imperial Palace, Lady Anirul Corrino stood with a delegation from Shaddam’s Court. Each person was dressed in extravagant finery, some ridiculously gaudy, as they awaited the arrival of yet another dignitary. It was a daily routine, but this guest was different. . . .
Count Hasimir Fenring had always been dangerous.
She squinted into Kaitain’s ever-flawless morning sunlight, watched trained hummingbirds flit over flowers. From orbit, the vigilant weather-control satellites manipulated the flow of warm and cool air masses to maintain an optimal climate around the Palace. Against her cheeks Anirul felt the delicate kiss of a warm breeze, just the right accent on a perfect day.
Perfect . . . except for the arrival of Count Fenring. Though he had married a Bene Gesserit equally as shrewd as himself, Fenring still made Anirul’s skin crawl; a disturbing aura of shed blood surrounded him. As the Kwisatz Mother, Anirul knew every detail of the Bene Gesserit breeding scheme, knew that this man had himself been bred as a potential Kwisatz Haderach in one of the offshoots of the program— but he’d been found lacking and was instead a biological dead end.
But Fenring possessed an extraordinarily sharp mind and dangerous ambitions. Though he spent most of his time in Arrakeen as the Imperial Spice Minister, he kept his boyhood friend Shaddam under his thumb. Anirul resented this influence, which even she, as the Emperor’s wife, did not have.
With a pompous clatter, an open coach drawn by two golden Harmonthep lions approached the palace gates. Guards waved the Count in, and the carriage rounded the circular drive in a commotion of wheels and enormous alloy-shoed paws. Footmen stepped forward to open the carriage’s enameled door. Anirul waited with her retinue, smiling like a statue.
Fenring stepped down to the slate of the portico. He had decked himself out for the reception in a black frock coat and top hat, a crimson-and-gold sash, and gaudy badges of office. Because the Emperor admired regal trappings, it amused the Count to play along.
He removed his hat and bowed, then looked up at her with large, glittering eyes. “My Lady Anirul, so nice to see you, hmmmm?”
“Count Fenring,” she said with a simple bow and a pleasant smile. “Welcome back to Kaitain.”
Without a further word or modicum of civility, he put his top hat back on his misshapen head and walked past her on his way to an immediate audience with the Emperor. She followed him at a distance, flanked by the other peacock members of the Court.
Fenring’s access to Shaddam was direct, and it seemed obvious to Anirul that he cared little for the fact that she disliked him; nor did he question why she had formed such an opinion. He had no knowledge of his failed place in the breeding scheme, or the potential he had missed.
Working with Sister Margot Rashino-Zea, whom he’d later married, Fenring had assisted in arranging Shaddam’s marriage to a Bene Gesserit of Hidden Rank— Lady Anirul herself. At the time, the new Emperor had needed to secure a subtle but powerful alliance in the uneasy transition after the death of old Elrood.
Foolishly, Shaddam failed to see his precarious position, even now. The flare-up with Grumman was only one manifestation of unrest throughout the realm, as were the constant gestures of defiance, vandalism, and defacings of Corrino monuments. The people no longer feared or even respected him.
It disturbed Anirul that the Emperor thought he no longer required Bene Gesserit influence, and rarely consulted his ancient Truthsayer, the Reverend Mother Lobia. He had also grown more annoyed with Anirul for producing no sons, pursuant to her secret orders from the Sisterhood.
Empires rise and fall, Anirul thought, but the Bene Gesserit remain.
As she followed Fenring, she watched his athletic steps as he made his way toward her husband’s throne room. Neither Shaddam nor Fenring understood all the subtleties and behind-the-scenes activities that glued the Imperium together. The Bene Gesserit excelled in the arena of history, where the glitter and pomp of ceremony had no importance. Compared with Kwisatz Mother Anirul, both the Padishah Emperor and Hasimir Fenring were rank amateurs— and didn’t even know it.
Inwardly she smiled, sharing her amusement with the crowded Sisters in Other Memory, her constant companions from thousands of past lives. The millennia-long breeding program would culminate soon in the birth of a male Bene Gesserit of extraordinary powers. It would happen in two generations . . . if all plans came to fruition.
Here, while masquerading as a devoted wife to the Emperor, Anirul pulled all the strings, controlled every effort. She commanded Mohiam back on Wallach IX, who worked with her secret daughter by Baron Harkonnen. She watched the other Sisters as they laid plans within plans to connect Jessica with House Atreides. . . .
Ahead of her, Fenring moved confidently, knowing his way around the city-sized Imperial Palace better than any man, better even than Emperor Shaddam himself. He crossed a magnificent jewel-tiled entry and stepped into the Imperial Audience Chamber. The immense room contained some of the most priceless art treasures in a million worlds, but he had seen them all before. Without a backward glance, he tossed his hat to a footman and strode across the polished stone floor toward the throne. It was a long walk.
Anirul hovered next to one of the massive support columns. Courtiers flitted about in self-important business, entering private gossip stations. She skirted priceless statuaries as she made her way toward an acoustically superior alcove where she often stood within easy listening distance.
On the translucent blue-green Golden Lion Throne sat the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV, the eighty-first Corrino to rule the Imperium. He wore layers of military-style clothing, accented by jangling medals and badges and ribbons. Weighed down by the trappings of rank, he could barely move.
His withered Truthsayer, Lobia, stood in an alcove off to one side of the crystal throne. Lobia was the third leg of Shaddam’s advisory tripod, which included the high-browed Court Chamberlain Ridondo and Hasimir Fenring (though, since the Count’s well-publicized banishment, the Emperor rarely consulted him in public).
Shaddam refused to notice his wife. Fifteen Bene Gesserit Sisters stationed in the Palace were like shadows flitting silently between rooms . . . there, but not there. As he intended them to be. Their loyalty to Shaddam was unquestioned, especially after his marriage to Anirul. Some served as ladies-in-waiting, while others cared for the royal daughters Irulan, Chalice, and Wensicia, and would tutor them one day.
The ferretlike Imperial Observer bobbed along a river of red carpeting, and then up the wide, shallow steps of the dais to the base of the throne. Shaddam leaned forward on his perch while Fenring came to a stop, bowed deeply, and looked up with a smile twitching his lips.
Even Anirul didn’t know why the Count had rushed here from Arrakis.
But the Emperor did not look pleased. “As my servant, Hasimir, I expect you to keep me advised about events in your purview. Your latest report is incomplete.”
“Hmmm-ahh, my apologies if Your Highness feels I have omitted something of importance.” Fenring spoke quickly as his mind raced through possibilities, trying to guess the reason for Shaddam’s ire. “I do not wish to trouble you with trivialities that are best handled by myself.” His eyes flicked from side to side, calculating. “Ahhh, what concerns you, Sire?”
“Word has reached me that the Harkonnens are suffering heavy losses of men and equipment on Arrakis through guerrilla activities. Spice production has begun to fall off again, and I have been troubled by numerous complaints from the Spacing Guild. How much of this is true?”
“Hmmm-ah, my Emperor, the Harkonnens whine too much. Perhaps it is a ploy to raise the price of melange on the open market, or to justify a request for lower Imperial tariffs? How has the Baron explained it?”
“I could not ask him,” Shaddam said, springing his trap. “According to reports from a Heighliner tha
t just arrived, he has gone to Wallach IX with a fully armed frigate. What is that all about?”
Alarmed, Fenring raised his eyebrows, then rubbed his long nose. “The Bene Gesserit Mother School? I, hmmm, to be honest I was not aware of that. The Baron doesn’t seem the sort who would consult with the Sisterhood.”
Equally astonished, Anirul leaned forward at her listening post. Why would Baron Harkonnen possibly go to Wallach IX? Certainly not to obtain advisors, for he had made no secret of his dislike for the Sisterhood after they’d forced him to provide a healthy daughter for the breeding program. Why then would he bring a military ship? She calmed her racing pulse. This didn’t sound good.
The Emperor snorted. “Not much of an Observer, are you, Hasimir? Why, too, has there been a bizarre defacement of my most expensive statue in Arsunt? That’s right in your backyard.”
Fenring blinked his large, dark eyes. “I was not aware of any vandalism in Arsunt, Sire. When did it happen?”
“Someone took the liberty of adding anatomically correct genitalia to the front of my Imperial likeness— but because the perpetrator made the size of the organ so small, no one even saw it until recently.”
Fenring had trouble stifling a laugh. “That is most, hmmm, unfortunate, Sire.”
“I don’t find it so amusing, especially when added to other outrages and insults. This has been going on for years. Who is doing it?”
Abruptly, Shaddam stood from his throne and brushed a hand down the front of his uniform, jangling the medals and badges. “Come to my private den, Hasimir. We must discuss this in greater detail.”
When he raised his head in a haughty Imperial gesture, Fenring reacted too smoothly. Anirul realized that, although the affronts Shaddam mentioned had been real enough, the discussion had merely been a ploy to bring the Count here for another purpose. Something they would not discuss in front of others.
Men are so clumsy when they try to keep secrets.
While she would have found those secrets interesting enough, Anirul was much more concerned and alarmed about what the Baron intended at Wallach IX. She and the Truthsayer Lobia, on opposite sides of the Imperial throne, communicated by discreet hand signs.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 18