Kynes answered without looking at him. “I see limitless possibilities.”
• • •
In a sealed chamber deep in the sietch, wizened Heinar sat at the head of a stone table, glaring with his single eye. Trying to remain apart from the debate, the sietch Naib watched the council elders shout at each other.
“We know the man’s loyalty,” said one old man, Jerath. “He works for the Imperium. You’ve seen his dossier. He’s on Dune as a guest of the Harkonnens.” Jerath had a silver ring in his left earlobe, a treasure taken from a smuggler he’d killed in a duel.
“That means nothing,” said another elder, Aliid. “As Fremen, do we not don other clothes, other masks, and pretend to fit in? It’s a means of survival when circumstances require it. You, of all people, should know not to judge someone solely on appearances.”
Garnah, a weary-looking long-haired elder, rested his pointed chin on his knuckles. “I’m most incensed at those three young idiots, what they did after the Planetologist helped them defeat the Harkonnen bravos. Any straight-thinking adult would have shrugged and sent the man’s shade to join those of the six dead vermin on the ground . . . with some regret, of course, but still it should have been done.” He sighed. “These are inexperienced youths, poorly trained. They should never have been left alone in the desert.”
Heinar flared his nostrils. “You cannot fault their thinking, Garnah. There was the moral obligation— Pardot Kynes had saved their lives. Even brash young men such as those three realized the water burden that had been placed on them.”
“But what of their obligations to Red Wall Sietch and our people?” long-haired Garnah insisted. “Does a debt owed to a mere Imperial servant outweigh their loyalty to us?”
“The question isn’t about the boys,” Aliid interrupted. “Ommun, Turok, and Stilgar did what they thought was best. We are now left to decide about this Planetologist and his fate.”
“He’s a madman,” the first elder, Jerath, said. “Have you heard him talk? He wants trees, open water, irrigation, crops— he envisions a verdant planet instead of desert.” A snort, then a toying with the ring in his ear. “He’s mad, I say.”
Puckering his mouth skeptically, Aliid pointed out, “After the thousands of years of wandering that finally brought us here and made our people what we are— how can you scorn one man’s dream of paradise?”
Jerath frowned, but accepted the point.
“Perhaps Kynes is mad,” Garnah said, “but just mad enough to be holy. Perhaps he’s mad enough to hear the words of God in a way that we cannot.”
“That is a question we cannot decide among us,” Heinar said, finally using a Naib’s voice of command to focus the discussion back on the matter at hand. “The choice we face is not about the word of God, but about the survival of our sietch. Pardot Kynes has seen our ways, lived in our hidden home. By Imperial command, he sends reports back to Kaitain whenever he finds himself in a city. Think of the risk to us.”
“But what of all his talk about paradise on Dune?” Aliid asked, still trying to defend the stranger. “Open water, dunes anchored by grass, palmaries filled with tall date palms, open qanats flowing across the desert.”
“Crazy talk and no more,” grumbled Jerath. “The man knows too much— about us, about the Fremen, about Dune. He cannot be allowed to hold such secrets.”
Doggedly, Aliid tried again. “But he killed Harkonnens. Doesn’t that place upon us, and our sietch, a water debt? He saved three members of our tribe.”
“Since when do we owe the Imperium anything?” Jerath asked with another tug on his earring.
“Anyone can kill Harkonnens,” Garnah added with a shrug, shifting his pointed chin to his other fist. “I’ve done it myself.”
Heinar leaned forward. “All right, Aliid— what of this talk about the flowering of Dune? Where is the water for all this? Is there any possibility the Planetologist can do what he says?”
“Haven’t you heard him?” Garnah replied in a mocking tone. “He says the water is here, far more than the miserable amounts we collect for our sustenance.”
Jerath raised his eyebrows and snorted. “Oh? This man has been on our world for a Standard Month or two, and already he knows where to find the precious treasure that no Fremen has discovered in generations upon generations of living in the desert? An oasis on the equator perhaps? Hah!”
“He did save three of our own,” Aliid persisted.
“Three fools put themselves in the way of the Harkonnen fist. I feel no obligation to him for their rescue. And he has seen crysknives. You know our law: Who sees that knife must be cleansed or slain. . . . “ Garnah’s voice trailed off.
“It is as you say,” Aliid admitted.
“Kynes is known to travel alone and explore many inhospitable areas,” Heinar said with a shrug. “If he disappears, he disappears. No Harkonnen or Imperium officials will ever be the wiser.”
“It will no doubt be interpreted as a simple accident. Our world is not a comfortable place,” said Garnah.
Jerath simply smiled. “If the truth is told, the Harkonnens may be perfectly happy to get rid of this meddlesome man anyway. There is no risk to us if we kill him.”
Silence hung in the dusty air for a moment. “What must be, must be,” Heinar said, rising to his feet at the head of the table. “All of us know this. There can be no other answer, no changing of our minds. We must protect the sietch above all, no matter the cost, no matter the burden it places on our hearts.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “It is decided. Kynes must die.”
Two hundred thirty-eight planets searched, many of only marginal habitability. (See star charts attached in separate file.) Resource surveys list valuable raw materials. Many of these planets deserve a second look, either for mineral exploitation or possible colonization. As in previous reports, however, no spice found.
—Independent scout survey, third expedition,
delivered to EMPEROR FONDIL CORRINO III
Hasimir Fenring had bribed old Elrood’s guards and retainers, setting up what he called “a surprise secret meeting with an important, though unexpected, representative.” The weasel-faced man had used his silken tongue and his iron will to manipulate the Emperor’s schedules to leave an opening. As a fixture around the Palace for more than three decades, Fenring, by virtue of his association with Crown Prince Shaddam, was a man of influence. With various methods of persuasion, he convinced everyone he needed to convince.
Old Elrood suspected nothing.
At the appointed hour of the Tleilaxu delegate’s arrival, Fenring made certain he and Shaddam were present in the audience chamber— ostensibly as eager students of the bureaucracy, intent on becoming viable leaders of the Imperium. Elrood, who liked to think he was instructing these protégés in important matters of state, had no idea the two young men laughed at him behind his back.
Fenring leaned close to the Crown Prince and whispered in his ear, “This is going to be most entertaining, hm-m-m-m-ah?”
“Watch, and learn,” Shaddam said ponderously, then raised his chin in the air and snickered.
The huge embossed doors swung open, sparkling with soostones and rain crystals, etched with ghlavan metal. Sardaukar guards, standing stiff and formal in their gray-and-black uniforms, snapped to attention for the new arrival.
“Now the show begins,” Fenring said. He and Shaddam kept further chuckles to themselves.
Liveried house pages stepped forward to introduce the off-world visitor in a rippling overtone of processed, electronically translated pomp. “My Lord Emperor, Highness of a Million Worlds— the Master Hidar Fen Ajidica, representative of the Bene Tleilax, is here at your request for a private meeting.”
A gnomelike man with grayish skin walked proudly into the hall flanked by pasty-faced guards and his own retainers. His slippered feet scuttled like whispered gossip across the polished stones of the floor.
A ripple of surprise and distaste passed
through the attendees at court. Chamberlain Aken Hesban, his mustaches drooping, stood indignantly behind the throne and glared at the Emperor’s scheduling advisors as if this were some sort of trick.
Elrood IX lurched forward in his massive throne and demanded to see his calendar.
Thus caught off guard, the old reprobate might just be surprised enough to listen, Fenring thought. With surprising astuteness, Chamberlain Hesban’s eagle gaze fell on him, but Fenring returned the look with only a bland, curious expression.
Ajidica, the Tleilaxu representative, waited patiently, letting the chatter and whispers flow around him. He had a narrow face, long nose, and a pointed black beard that protruded like a trowel from his cleft chin. Maroon robes gave Ajidica an air of some importance. His skin was weathered-looking, and pale and discolored blotches marked his hands, especially on the fingers and palms, as if frequent exposure to harsh chemicals had neutralized the melanin. Despite his diminutive stature, the Tleilaxu Master came forward as if he had a perfect right to be in the Imperial audience chamber of Kaitain.
From the side of the room Shaddam studied Ajidica, and his nose wrinkled, from the lingering food odors that were so characteristic of the Tleilaxu.
“May the one true God shine his light upon you from all the stars in the Imperium, my Lord Emperor,” said Hidar Fen Ajidica, placing his palms together and bowing as he quoted from the Orange Catholic Bible. He stopped in front of the massive Hagal-quartz throne.
The Tleilaxu were notorious for handling the dead and harvesting corpses for cellular resources, yet they were unquestionably brilliant geneticists. One of their first creations had been a remarkable new food source, the slig (“sweetest meat this side of heaven”), a cross between a giant slug and a Terran pig. The overall populace still thought of sligs as tank-bred mutations, however— ugly creatures who excreted slimy, foul-smelling residue, and whose multiple mouths ground incessantly on garbage. This was the context in which people thought of the Bene Tleilax, even as they savored marinated slig medallions in sauces prepared from rich Caladan wines.
Elrood drew back his bony shoulders into a firm line. He frowned down at the visitor. “What is . . . this doing here? Who let this man in?” The old Emperor looked around the echoing room, his eyes flashing bright. “No Tleilaxu Master has ever entered my Court for a private audience. How do I know he’s not a Face Dancer mimic?” Elrood glared down at his personal secretary, then over at his Chamberlain. “And since he got on my schedule at all, how do I know you’re not a Face Dancer yourself? This is outrageous.”
The personal secretary stepped back, appalled at the suggestion. Diminutive Ajidica looked up at the Emperor, calmly letting the resentment and prejudice wash past without being affected by it. “My Lord Elrood, tests can be performed to prove that none of our shape-shifters has subsumed the identity of anyone in your Court. I assure you, I am no Face Dancer. Neither am I an assassin, nor a Mentat.”
“And why are you here?” Elrood demanded.
“As one of the premier scientists of the Bene Tleilax, my presence here was requested.” The gnomish man hadn’t moved a centimeter, and remained at the foot of the Golden Lion Throne, unflappable in his maroon robes. “I have developed an ambitious plan that can benefit the Imperial family, as well as my own people.”
“Not interested,” the Padishah Emperor said. He flicked a glance at his Sardaukar, began to raise his gnarled hand to issue a command of forceful dismissal. The Court attendees watched, amused and eager.
Hasimir Fenring rapidly stepped forward, knowing he had only an instant to intercede. “Emperor Elrood, may I speak?” He didn’t wait for permission, but tried to appear innocent and interested. “The sheer audacity of this Tleilaxu’s arrival has me curious. I find myself wondering what he has to say.” He glanced over at the emotion-masked face of Hidar Fen Ajidica; the gray-skinned Master seemed impervious to any harsh treatment foisted upon him. Nothing in his demeanor betrayed his connection with Fenring, who had suggested the synthetic spice idea to him— an idea that had quickly found support among Tleilaxu scientists.
Crown Prince Shaddam took the lead and looked up at his father with a guileless, anticipatory expression. “Father, you have instructed me to learn everything I can from the example of your leadership. It would be most educational for me to observe how you handle this situation with an open mind and a firm hand.”
Elrood raised a ring-adorned hand that trembled with faint, uncontrollable spasms. “Very well, we will hear briefly what this Tleilaxu has to say. Briefly, under pain of severe punishment if we determine he has wasted our precious time. Watch, and learn.” The Emperor slid a sidelong glance at Shaddam, then took a sip of the spice beer at his side. “This shouldn’t take much time.”
How true, Father. You don’t have much time left, Shaddam thought, still smiling attentively and innocently.
“My words require privacy, my Lord Emperor,” Ajidica said, “and the utmost discretion.”
“I will determine that,” Elrood snapped. “Speak of your plan.”
The Tleilaxu Master folded his hands in the voluminous sleeves of his maroon robes. “Rumors are like a disease epidemic, Sire. Once they escape, they spread from person to person, often with deadly effect. Better to take simple initial precautions than be forced into eradication measures at a later date.” Ajidica fell silent, standing rigid, and refused to speak further until the audience chamber had been emptied.
Impatiently, the Emperor gestured to dismiss all the functionaries, pages, ambassadors, jesters, and guards. Sardaukar security men stationed themselves at the doorways, where they could protect the throne, but everyone else departed, muttering and shuffling. Humming privacy screens were erected to prevent any potential eavesdroppers from listening in.
Fenring and Shaddam sat at the foot of the throne, pretending to be intent students, though they were both in their thirties. Looking frail and battling illness, the old Emperor indicated for them to remain as observers, and the Tleilaxu man did not object.
In all this time, Ajidica’s hard gaze never strayed from Elrood. The Emperor looked back at the little man, feigning boredom. Finally satisfied with the privacy precautions, and ignoring the Emperor’s distaste for him and his race, Hidar Fen Ajidica spoke.
“We Bene Tleilax have continued experiments in all areas of genetics, organic chemistry, and mutations. In our factories we have recently developed highly unorthodox techniques to synthesize, shall we say, unusual substances.” His words were clipped and efficient, providing no more detail than necessary. “Our initial results indicate that a synthetic could be fashioned that, in all important chemical properties, is identical to melange.”
“Spice?” Elrood now gave the Tleilaxu his full attention. Shaddam noticed a twitching tic in his father’s right cheek below his eye. “Created in a laboratory? Impossible!”
“Not impossible, my Lord. Given the proper time and conditions for development, this artificially created spice could become an inexhaustible supply, mass-produced and inexpensive— and it could be earmarked exclusively for House Corrino, if you wish.”
Elrood leaned forward like a mummified carrion bird. “Such a thing has never been possible before.”
“Our analysis shows that the spice is an organically based substance. Through careful experimentation and development, we believe our axlotl tanks can be modified to produce melange.”
“The same way you grow gholas from dead human cells?” the Emperor said, scowling with revulsion. “And clones?”
Intrigued and surprised, Shaddam glanced over at Fenring. Axlotl tanks?
Ajidica continued to focus on Elrood. “In . . . effect, my Lord.”
“Why come to me?” Elrood asked. “I should think the diabolical Tleilaxu would create a spice substitute for themselves and leave the Imperium at their mercy.”
“The Bene Tleilax are not a mighty race, Sire. If we discovered how to produce our own melange, and kept the secret for ourselves, we kno
w it would bring down the wrath of the Imperium. You yourself would send in Sardaukar, tear the secret from our grasp, and destroy us. The Spacing Guild and CHOAM would be happy to assist you— and the Harkonnens, too, would defend their spice monopoly at all costs.” Ajidica gave a thin, humorless smile.
“It’s good to see that you understand your subordinate position,” Elrood said, resting his bony elbow on the arm of the heavy throne. “Not even the wealthiest Great House has ever developed a military force to oppose my Sardaukar.”
“Thus, we have prudently decided to ingratiate ourselves with the most powerful presence in the galaxy— the Imperial House. In that way we can reap the greatest benefit from our new research.”
Elrood placed a long finger on his papery lips, considering. These Tleilaxu were clever, and if they could manufacture the substance exclusively for House Corrino, and cost-effectively, the Emperor would have a powerful bargaining chip.
The economic difference could be huge. House Harkonnen could be driven into the ground, bankrupted. Arrakis would become of little value, with the product there comparatively expensive to get out of the sand.
If this gnome could do as he suggested, the Landsraad, CHOAM, the Spacing Guild, the Mentats, and the Bene Gesserit would be forced to seek favors from the Emperor in order to get their supplies. Most of the important scions of noble families were already addicted to melange, and Elrood himself could become their supplier. Excitement blossomed within him.
Ajidica interrupted Elrood’s train of thought. “Let me emphasize that this will be no simple task, Sire. The precise chemical structure of melange is extraordinarily difficult to analyze, and we must separate out which components are necessary for the substance to be effective, and which are irrelevant. In order to achieve this goal, the Tleilaxu will require enormous resources, as well as the freedom and time to pursue our avenues of research.”
Fenring shifted on the polished steps and, while looking up at the old Emperor, interjected: “My Lord, I see now that Master Ajidica was right in seeking privacy for this audience. Such an undertaking must be carried out entirely in secret if House Corrino is to have an exclusive source. Ah, certain powers in the Imperium would do anything to prevent you from creating an independent and inexpensive supply of spice, hm-m-m-m?”
Dune: House Atreides Page 23