She helped him to his feet, anxious to usher him out of the Embassy Building.
His heart felt like molten lead. The proctor didn’t need to answer him as she led him out to the reception area. C’tair looked around, searching for his brother, but the waiting room was empty.
Then he learned that his own failure wasn’t the worst thing he had to face.
“Where’s D’murr? Did he succeed?” C’tair’s voice filled with hope.
The proctor nodded. “Admirably.” She extended her hand toward the exit, but he sidestepped her. C’tair looked back toward the inner corridor and the sealed testing chamber where his brother had gone. He needed to congratulate D’murr, even though the victory was now bittersweet. At least one of them would become a Navigator.
“You will never see your brother again,” the proctor said, coldly. She moved to block the way back in. “D’murr Pilru is ours now.”
Recovering after an instant of shock, C’tair broke past the proctor and ran to the sealed chamber door. He pounded against it and shouted, but received no answer. Within minutes, Guild guards surrounded him— more businesslike than gentle— and peeled him away.
Still dizzy from the unaccustomed aftereffects of melange exposure, C’tair didn’t realize where they were taking him. Blinking and disoriented, he found himself standing on the crystal walkway outside the blocky gray embassy. Below him, other walkways and streets bustled with traffic and pedestrians traveling from one tower building to another.
Now he was more alone than ever.
The testing proctor stood on the embassy steps, barring C’tair from reentering. Even though his mother worked somewhere inside, deep in the banking section, C’tair knew that the doors of this facility, as well as the doors to the future he had counted on, were now locked to him.
“Rejoice for your brother,” the proctor called from the steps, her voice finally showing some life. “He has entered another world. He can travel to places you’ll never imagine.”
“I can never see him, or talk to him again?” C’tair said, as if part of him had been ripped away.
“Doubtful,” the proctor said, crossing her arms over her chest. She gave him an apologetic frown. “Unless he . . . suffers a reversal. His first time, your brother immersed himself so completely in the spice gas that he started the . . . conversion process right there and then. The Guild cannot deny such talent. He has already started to change.”
“Bring him back,” C’tair said, his eyes tear-filled now. He prayed for his brother. “Just for a little while.” He wanted to be happy for his twin— and proud. D’murr had passed the test that meant so much to both of them.
The twins had always been so close. How could they possibly go on without one another? Perhaps his mother could use her Guild banking connections, so that they would at least be able to have their farewells. Or maybe his father would use ambassadorial privilege to get D’murr back.
But C’tair knew that would never happen. He could see that now. His mother had already known it, had been afraid of losing both sons.
“The process is, in the majority of cases, irreversible,” the proctor said with finality.
Guild security guards marched out to stand beside her, ensuring that C’tair did not become irrational and try to force his way inside.
“Trust me,” said the proctor. “You don’t want your brother back.”
The human body is a machine, a system of organic chemicals, fluid conduits, electrical impulses; a government is likewise a machine of interacting societies, laws, cultures, rewards and punishments, patterns of behavior. Ultimately, the universe itself is a machine, planets around suns, stars gathered into clusters, clusters and other suns forming entire galaxies. . . . Our job is to keep the machinery functioning.
—Suk Inner School, Primary Doctrine
Both frowning, Crown Prince Shaddam and Chamberlain Aken Hesban watched the approach of a diminutive, scrawny man who nonetheless walked as tall as a Mutellian giant. After years of training and conditioning, all Suk doctors seemed compelled to take themselves far too seriously.
“That Elas Yungar looks more like a circus performer than a respected medical professional,” Shaddam said, looking at the arched eyebrows, black eyes, and the steel-gray ponytail. “I hope he knows what he’s doing. I want only the best care for my poor ailing father.”
Beside him, Hesban tugged on one of his long mustaches, but made no response. He wore a floor-length blue robe with golden piping. For years, Shaddam had disliked this pompous man who hovered too close to his father’s presence, and he vowed to choose a new Chamberlain after assuming the throne. And so long as this Suk doctor could find no explanation for Elrood’s gradually worsening illness, Shaddam’s ascendancy would be assured.
Hasimir Fenring had emphasized that even all the resources of the exalted Suk Inner School could not stop what had been set in motion. The catalyst chemical implanted in the old man’s brain would register on no poison-snooper, since it was not itself poison, but would only convert to a dangerous substance in the presence of spice beer. And as he felt worse and worse, old Elrood consumed ever-increasing quantities of the beer.
No more than a meter in height, the shrunken doctor had smooth skin but ancient eyes from the vast medical knowledge hammered into his mind. A black diamond tattoo marked the center of Yungar’s creased forehead. His ponytail of steel-gray hair, secured in the back by a silver Suk ring, was longer than a woman’s, reaching nearly to the floor.
Wasting no time on further pleasantries, Elas Yungar broached a familiar subject. “You have our payment?” He looked first at the Chamberlain, then at the Crown Prince, where his gaze settled. “Fresh accounts must be established before we can begin treatment. Given the Emperor’s age, our care could be quite prolonged . . . and ultimately fruitless. He must pay his bills, like every other citizen. King, miner, basket-weaver— it makes no difference to us. Every human wants to be healthy, and we cannot treat everyone. Our care is available only to those willing and able to pay for it.”
Shaddam rested a hand on the Chamberlain’s sleeve. “Ah yes, we will spare no expense for my father’s health, Aken. It is already arranged.”
They stood just inside the high-arched doorway of the Imperial audience chamber, beneath glorious ceiling frescoes of epic events from the history of the Corrino family: the blood of the Jihad, the desperate last stand on the Bridge of Hrethgir, the destruction of thinking machines. Shaddam had always found ancient Imperial history ponderous and boring, with little relevance to his current goals. Centuries and centuries ago didn’t matter— he just hoped it wouldn’t take that long for a change in the Palace.
In the echoing hall, the Padishah Emperor’s magnificent jeweled throne sat invitingly empty. Court functionaries and a few dark-robed Bene Gesserit scuttled about in side passages and alcoves, trying to remain unseen. A pair of heavily armed Sardaukar guards stood at the dais steps, attentive. Shaddam wondered whether they would obey him right now, knowing his father lay sick in his chambers. He decided not to test the idea. Too soon.
“We are all familiar with promises,” the doctor said. “Still, I wish to see the payment first.” Stubborn tone, an impertinent upward gaze that didn’t move from Shaddam, even though the Crown Prince hadn’t done much talking. Yungar chose to play strange power games, but soon he would be out of his league.
“Payment before even looking at the patient?” the Chamberlain gasped. “Where are your priorities, man?”
Finally, Dr. Yungar deigned to look over at Hesban. “You have dealt with us before, Chamberlain, and you know the costs of producing a Suk doctor, fully conditioned, fully trained.”
As heir to the Golden Lion Throne, Shaddam was familiar with Suk Imperial Conditioning, which guaranteed absolute loyalty to a patient. In centuries of medical history, no one had ever managed to subvert a graduate of the Inner School.
Some members of the royal Court had a hard time reconciling the legendary Suk loyalty
with their incessant greed. The doctors never wavered from the clear but unstated position that they would not minister to anyone— not even to an Emperor— on a mere promise of remuneration. Suk doctors extended no credit. Payment had to be tangible and immediate.
Yungar spoke in an irritating whine. “Though we are perhaps not as prominent as the Mentats or the Bene Gesserit, the Suk School is still one of the greatest in the Imperium. My equipment alone costs more than most planets.” Yungar pointed to a suspensor pod at his side. “I do not receive your payment on my own behalf, of course. I am only a custodian, holding it in a fiduciary capacity. When I return, your credits go with me to the Suk School, for the benefit of mankind.”
Hesban glared at him with unconcealed loathing, his face turning ruddy, his mustaches twitching. “Or at least to benefit that portion of mankind that can afford your services.”
“Correct, Chamberlain.”
Seeing the doctor’s staunch and misplaced self-importance, Shaddam shuddered. When he sat on the throne himself, he wondered if he could initiate any changes to put these Suks in their place. . . . He caught his rambling thoughts and quelled them. All in due time.
He sighed. His father Elrood had let too many threads of control slip right through his fingers. Fenring was right. As much as Shaddam despised dirtying his fingers with blood, removing the ancient Emperor was a necessary action.
“If cost of treatment is your paramount concern,” the Suk doctor said, quietly goading the Chamberlain, “you are welcome to hire a less expensive physician for the Emperor of the Known Universe.”
“Enough bickering. Come with me, Doctor,” Shaddam said, taking charge. Dr. Yungar nodded, then turned his back on the Chamberlain, as if he was of no consequence whatsoever.
“Now I know why you people have the shape of a diamond tattooed on your foreheads,” Hesban growled as he followed behind them. “You always have treasure on your minds.”
The Crown Prince led the way to a security-shielded antechamber and passed through a shimmering electrical curtain to the inner vault. On a golden table at the center of the room lay opafire pendants, danikins of melange, and fold-pouches partially open to reveal glittering soostones.
“This will be sufficient,” the Suk said. “Unless the treatment proves to be more involved than we expect.” With his floating equipment pod at his side like a dutiful pet dog, the doctor shuffled back the way they had come. “I already know the way to the Emperor’s chamber.” Without explanation, Yungar hurried through a doorway and up the grand staircase that led to the guarded bedroom suites where the Emperor rested.
Sardaukar guards remained behind at the force field that protected the treasure vault, while Shaddam and Hesban marched after the doctor. Fenring would already be waiting at the dying old man’s side, making his annoying humming noises and making sure none of the treatment could potentially be successful.
• • •
The withered emperor lay on an enormous four-poster bed beneath a canopy of the finest merh-silks embroidered in the ancient Terran method. The bedposts were carved ucca, a fast-growing hardwood native to Elacca. Soothing fountains, set into alcoves in the walls, trickled fresh water, bubbling and whispering. Scented glowglobes tuned to the low range floated in the corners of the room.
As Shaddam and Fenring stood together and watched, the Suk doctor waved a liveried attendant away and mounted the two shallow steps to the bedside. Three lovely Imperial concubines hovered behind the ailing man, as if their mere presence could revitalize him. The old man’s stink clung to the air, despite the ventilation and the incense.
Emperor Elrood wore slick royal satins and an old-fashioned sleeping cap that covered his liver-spotted scalp. He lay atop the covers, since he had complained about being too warm. The man looked haggard, could barely keep his eyes open.
Shaddam was pleased to see how markedly his father’s health had declined since the Tleilaxu Ambassador’s visit. Still, Elrood had good days and bad days, and he had the annoying habit of recovering his vitality after a significant downslide like this one.
A tall mug of cool spice beer rested on a tray beside his clawed and ring-bedecked hand, next to a second empty mug. And mounted on the bed canopy, Shaddam noted the waving insect arms of a poison-snooper.
You must be thirsty, Father, Shaddam thought. Drink more of the beer.
The doctor opened his suspensor pod to reveal shiny instruments, clicking scanners, and colored vials of testing liquids. Reaching inside the kit, Yungar brought out a small white device, which he passed over Elrood.
After tugging off the satin sleeping cap to reveal the sweaty scalp, Dr. Yungar scanned Elrood’s skull, lifting the old man’s head to check all around. Looking small and weak and old, the Emperor grumbled at the discomfort.
Shaddam wondered what he himself would look like after 150 years . . . preferably at the end of a long and glorious reign. He fought back a smile and held his breath during the examination. Beside him, Fenring remained calm and aloof. Only the Chamberlain scowled.
The doctor withdrew his scanner, then studied the Imperial patient’s case-history cube. Presently he announced to the groggy old man, “Even melange can’t keep you young forever, Sire. At your age, health naturally begins to decline. Sometimes rapidly.”
Inaudibly, Shaddam released a sigh of relief.
With great difficulty Elrood sat up, and his concubines propped tasseled pillows behind him. His cadaverous, parchment face creased in a deep frown. “But only a few months ago I felt so much better.”
“Aging is not a perfect downhill graph. There are peaks and valleys, recoveries and slowdowns.” The doctor had the audacity to use a know-it-all tone that implied the Emperor could not understand such complex concepts. “The human body is a chemical and bioelectric soup, and changes are often triggered by seemingly inconsequential events. You have been under stress lately?”
“I’m the Emperor!” Elrood snapped, this time responding as if the Suk were unbearably stupid. “I have many responsibilities. Of course this causes stress.”
“Then start to delegate more to the Crown Prince and to your trusted aides, such as Fenring over there. You’re not going to live forever, you know. Not even an Emperor can do that. Plan for the future.” Smugly, the doctor snapped shut his case. Shaddam wanted to embrace him. “I will leave you with a prescription and devices to make you feel better.”
“The only prescription I want is more spice in my beer.” Elrood took a deep drink from his mug, slurping loudly.
“As you wish,” the scrawny Suk doctor said. From the suspensor pod he removed a satchel, which he placed on a side table. “These are muscle-soothing devices, in case you need them. Instructions are contained with each unit. Have your concubines use them on your aches.”
“All right, all right,” Elrood said. “Now leave me. I have work to do.”
Dr. Yungar backed down the steps from the bed platform with a bow. “With your permission, Sire.”
Impatiently, the Emperor waved a gnarled hand in dismissal. The concubines moved about, whispering to each other, watching with wide eyes. Two of them picked up muscle-soothing devices and toyed with the controls.
Shaddam whispered to one of the attendants to have the doctor go with Chamberlain Hesban, who would arrange for the transfer of payment. Hesban obviously wanted to stay in the bedchamber and discuss certain documents, treaties, and other state matters with the sick old man, but Shaddam— feeling he could take care of such things himself— wanted the dour advisor out of the way.
When the Suk was gone, old Elrood said to his son, “Perhaps the doctor is right, Shaddam. There is a matter I wish to discuss with you and Hasimir. A policy and project I wish to continue, regardless of my personal health. Have I told you about our plans on Ix, and the eventual Tleilaxu takeover?”
Shaddam rolled his eyes. Of course, you old fool! Fenring and I have already done most of the work. It was our idea to send Tleilaxu Face Dancers to Ix, because th
ey could disguise themselves and infiltrate the working classes.
“Yes, Father. We know of the plans.”
Elrood waved a hand to beckon them closer, and the old man’s features darkened. Out of the corner of his eye, Shaddam saw Fenring chase the hovering concubines away, then approach to hear the Emperor’s words. “This morning I received a cipher from our operatives on Ix. You know about the enmity between myself and Earl Dominic Vernius?”
“Ah, yes— we do, Father,” Shaddam said. He cleared his throat. “An old affront, a stolen woman . . .”
Elrood’s rheumy eyes brightened. “It seems that our brash Dominic has been playing with fire, training his men with mobile fighting meks that scan opponents and process data, probably through a computer brain. He has also been selling these ‘intelligent machines’ on the black market.”
“Sacrilege, Sire,” Fenring murmured. “That clearly goes against the strictures of the Great Convention.”
“Quite so,” Elrood agreed, “and this isn’t the only infraction. House Vernius has been developing sophisticated cyborg enhancements as well. Mechanical body replacements. We can use that to our advantage.”
Shaddam frowned, leaning closer and smelling the sour spice beer on the old man’s breath. “Cyborgs? But they are human minds attached to robot bodies, and therefore not in violation of the Jihad.”
Elrood smiled. “But we understand there have been certain . . . compromises. True or not, it’s exactly the sort of excuse our impostors need to finish the job— the time to act is now. House Vernius is poised on the brink of destruction, and a small nudge will topple them.”
“Hmm-m-ah, that is interesting,” Fenring said. “Then the Tleilaxu can take over the sophisticated Ixian facilities for their research.”
“This is very important, and you will watch how I handle this situation,” Elrood said with a sniff. “Watch, and learn. Already I have set my plan in motion. Ixian suboid workers are, shall we say, troubled by these developments, and we are . . .” the Emperor paused to finish his mug of spice beer with a smack of his lips, “. . . encouraging their discontent through our own representatives.”
Dune: House Atreides Page 25