He abhorred the changes, loathed the Tleilaxu gall. And from what he could see, Imperial Sardaukar had actually assisted in this abomination.
C’tair could do nothing about it at the moment; he had to bide his time. He was alone here: his father exiled to Kaitain and afraid to return, his mother murdered, his twin brother taken away by the Guild. Only he remained on Ix, like a rat hiding within the walls.
But even rats could cause significant damage.
Over the months, C’tair learned to blend in, to appear to be an insignificant and cowed citizen. He kept his eyes averted, his hands dirty, his clothes and hair unkempt. He could not let it be known that he was the son of the former Ambassador to Kaitain, that he had faithfully served House Vernius— and still would, if he could find a way to do it. He had walked freely through the Grand Palais, had escorted the Earl’s own daughter. Acts that, if known, would mean a death sentence for him.
Above all, he could not let the rabid antitechnology invaders discover his shielded hiding place or the devices he had hoarded there. His stockpile might just be the last hope for the future of Ix.
Throughout the grottoes of the city, C’tair watched signs being torn down, streets and districts being renamed, and the little gnomes— all men, no women— occupying huge research facilities for their secret, nefarious operations. The streets, walkways, and facilities were guarded by diligent, thinly disguised Imperial Sardaukar or the invaders’ own shape-shifting Face Dancers.
Shortly after their victory was secured, the Tleilaxu Masters had showed themselves and encouraged the suboid rebels to vent their anger on carefully selected and approved targets. Standing back, clothed in a simple workman’s jumpsuit, C’tair had watched the smooth-skinned laborers cluster around the facility that had manufactured the new self-learning fighting meks.
“House Vernius has brought this upon themselves!” screamed a charismatic suboid agitator, almost certainly a Face Dancer infiltrator. “They would bring back the thinking machines. Destroy this place!”
While the helpless Ixian survivors had watched in horror, the suboids smashed the plaz windows and used thermal bombs to ignite the small manufactory. Filled with religious fervor, they howled and threw rocks.
A Tleilaxu Master on a hastily erected podium had bellowed into comspeakers and amplifiers. “We are your new masters, and we will make certain the manufacturing abilities of Ix are fully in accord with the strictures of the Great Convention.” The flames continued to crackle, and some of the suboids had cheered, but most didn’t seem to be listening. “As soon as possible, we must repair this damage and return this world to normal operations— with better conditions for the suboids, of course.”
C’tair had looked around, watched the building burn, and felt sick inside.
“All Ixian technology must henceforth be scrutinized by a strict religious review board, to assure its suitability. Any questionable technology will be scrapped. No one will ask you to endanger your souls by working on heretical machines.” More cheering, more smashed plaz, a few screams.
C’tair had realized, though, that the cost of this takeover would be enormous for the Tleilaxu, even with Imperial support. Since Ix was one of the major powerhouse economies in the Imperium, the new rulers could not afford to let the production lines remain idle. The Tleilaxu would make a show of destroying some of the questionable products, such as the reactive meks, but he doubted any of the truly profitable Ixian devices would be discontinued.
Despite the promises of the new masters, the suboids had been put back to work— as they were bred to do— but this time they followed only Tleilaxu designs and orders. C’tair realized that, before long, the manufactories would begin pouring out merchandise again; and shiploads of solaris would flow back into the Bene Tleilax coffers to pay them for this costly military adventure.
Now, though, the secrecy and security developed by generations of House Vernius would work against them. Ix had always shrouded itself in mystery, so who would notice the difference? Once the paying customers were satisfied with the exports, no one in the Imperium would much care about internal Ixian politics. Anyone on the outside would forget all that had happened here. It would be cleanly swept under the rug.
That must be what the Tleilaxu were counting on, C’tair thought. The entire world of Ix— he would never refer to it, not even in his mind, as Xuttuh— was walled off from the Imperium as an enigma . . . much as the homeworlds of the Bene Tleilax had been for centuries.
The new masters restricted travel off-planet and imposed curfews with deadly force. Face Dancers rooted out “traitors” from hiding rooms similar to C’tair’s and executed them without fanfare or ceremony. He saw no end to the repression, but he vowed not to give up. This was his own world, and he would fight for it, in any way he could.
C’tair told no one his name, called little attention to himself— but he listened, absorbed every whispered story or rumor, and he planned. Not knowing whom to trust, he assumed everyone was an informant, either a Face Dancer or simply a turncoat. Sometimes an informant was easily recognizable by the directness of a line of inquiry: Where do you work? Where do you live? What are you doing on this street?
But others were not so easy to detect, such as the gnarled old woman with whom he had initiated a conversation. He’d only meant to ask directions to a work site where he had been assigned. She hadn’t sought him out at all, except to appear harmless . . . somewhat like a child with a grenade in its pocket.
“Such an interesting choice of words,” she’d said, and he didn’t even remember his own phrasing. “And your inflection . . . you are Ixian nobility, perhaps?” She looked meaningfully at some of the ruined stalactite buildings in the ceiling.
He had stammered an answer. “N-no, although I have been a s-servant all my life, and perhaps I picked up some of their distasteful mannerisms. My apologies.” He had bowed and departed quickly, without ever getting directions from her.
His response had been awkward and perhaps incriminating, so he’d thrown away the clothes he’d been wearing and hadn’t gone down that narrow street again. Afterward, he had paid more attention than ever before to masking his own vocal identity markers. Whenever possible, he avoided talking to strangers at all. It appalled C’tair that so many opportunistic Ixians had switched allegiance to the new masters, forgetting House Vernius in less than a year.
In the first days of confusion following the takeover, C’tair had hoarded scraps of abandoned technology, from which he had constructed the cross-dimensional “Rogo” transceiver. Soon, though, all but the most primitive technology had been confiscated and made illegal. C’tair still snatched what he could, scavenging anything that might prove valuable. He considered the risk well worth taking.
His fight here might continue for years, if not decades.
He thought back to the childhood he’d shared with D’murr, and the crippled inventor, Davee Rogo, who had befriended the boys. In his private laboratory, secreted inside an ignored coal vein in the upper crust, old Rogo had taught the youths many interesting principles, had shown them some of his failed prototypes. The inventor had chuckled, his bright eyes sparkling as he goaded the boys into disassembling and reassembling some of his complicated inventions. C’tair had learned a great deal under the crippled man’s tutelage.
Now C’tair recalled his Navigator brother’s lack of interest when he’d told him of the wavy vision he’d seen in the rubble. Perhaps the ghost of Davee Rogo had not come back from the dead to provide instructions. He’d never seen a similar apparition, before or since. But that experience, whether a supernatural message or a hallucination, had permitted C’tair to accomplish a very human purpose: remaining in communication with his twin, maintaining the bond of love as D’murr became lost in the mysteries of the Guild.
Trapped in his various hiding places, C’tair had to live vicariously, soaring across the universe in his brother’s mind whenever they made contact via the transceiver. Over the month
s he learned with excitement and pride of D’murr’s first solo flights through foldspace as a trainee Pilot in his own Guild ship. Then, a few days ago, D’murr had been approved for his first commercial assignment, navigating an unmanned colony transport craft that plied the void far beyond the Imperium.
If his outstanding work for the Guild continued, the Navigator trainee who had been D’murr Pilru would be promoted to transporting goods and personnel between the primary worlds of the Houses Major, and perhaps along the coveted Kaitain routes. He would become an actual Navigator, possibly even working his way up to Steersman. . . .
But the communications device exhibited persistent problems. The silicate crystals had to be sliced with a cutteray and connected in a precise manner; then they functioned only briefly before disintegrating from the strain. Hairline cracks rendered them useless. C’tair had used the device on four occasions to reach his brother, and after each time he’d had to painstakingly cut and refit new crystals.
C’tair established careful ties to black market groups that furnished him with what he required. The contraband silicate crystals surreptitiously bore laser-scribed approvals by the Religious Review Board. Ever resourceful, the black marketers had their own means of counterfeiting the approval marks, and had scribed them everywhere, thus frustrating the controlling efforts of the occupation forces.
Still, he dealt with the furtive salesmen as little as possible to reduce his own risk of being caught . . . but that also limited the number of times he could talk with his brother.
• • •
C’tair stood behind a barricade with other restless, sweaty people who studiously refused to recognize each other. He looked out across the sprawling grotto floor to the construction yards where the skeleton of the partially built Heighliner sat. Overhead, portions of the projected sky remained dark and damaged, and the Tleilaxu showed no inclination to repair it.
Suspensor-borne searchlights and speakers hovered over the crowd as the gathered people waited for an announcement and further instructions. No one wanted to ask, and no one wanted to hear.
“This Heighliner is of an unapproved Vernius design,” the floating speakers boomed in a sexless voice that resonated against the rock walls, “and does not meet the standards of the Religious Review Board. Your Tleilaxu masters are returning to the previous design, so this craft is to be dismantled immediately.”
A soft susurration of dismay crept across the crowd.
“Raw materials are to be salvaged and new work crews established. Construction begins again in five days.”
C’tair’s mind whirled as maroon-robed organizers marched through the crowds, assigning teams. As the son of an ambassador he’d had access to information that had not been available to others of his age. He knew the old-style Heighliners had a significantly smaller cargo capacity and operated less efficiently. But what possible religious objection could the invaders have to increased profits? What did the Tleilaxu have to gain from less efficient space transport?
Then he remembered a story that his ambassador father had told back in a time of smug assurance, that old Emperor Elrood had been displeased with the innovation, since it curtailed his tariff revenue. Pieces began to fit into place. House Corrino had provided disguised Sardaukar troops to maintain an iron grip on the Ixian population, and C’tair realized that reverting to the old Heighliner design might be how the Tleilaxu intended to repay the Emperor for his military support.
Wheels within wheels within wheels . . .
He felt sick inside. If true, it was such a petty reason for so many lives to have been lost, for the glorious traditions of Ix to have been destroyed, for the overthrow of an entire noble family and a planetary way of life. He was angry with everyone involved— even with Earl Vernius, who should have foreseen this and taken steps not to create such powerful enemies.
The call to work came across the PA system, and C’tair was assigned to join suboid crews as they dismantled the partially finished ship and salvaged its parts in the grotto yard. Struggling to maintain a bland expression on his face as he wielded a construction laser to sever components, he wiped sweat from his dark hair. He wished instead that he could use the laser to attack the Tleilaxu. Other teams hauled the girders and plates away, stacking them for the next assembly project.
With ringing and clanging all around him, C’tair recalled a better, more ordered time, when he’d stood with D’murr and Kailea on the observation deck above. So long ago, it seemed. They had watched a Navigator guide the last new Heighliner out of the grotto. Perhaps it would be the last such ship ever built . . . unless C’tair could help overthrow these destroyers.
The magnificent ship gradually fell to pieces, and the echoing sounds and chemical smells were horrific. Did suboids work this way all the time? If so, he could begin to imagine how they might have been dissatisfied enough to consider a rebellion. But C’tair could not believe the violence had been entirely at the workers’ instigation.
Had this all been part of the Emperor’s plan? To destroy House Vernius and quash progress? Where and how the Bene Tleilax came into play in the scheme of influences, C’tair wasn’t certain. Of all races, these were the most hated people in the known galaxy. Surely, Elrood could have found any number of Great Houses to take over the operations on Ix without disrupting the economics of the Imperium. What else could the Padishah Emperor have in mind for these religious fanatics? Why would he dirty his hands with them?
In disgust, C’tair watched other changes in the grotto, facilities being modified, as he continued the work of dismantling the Heighliner. The new Tleilaxu overlords were busy little creatures, always hurrying about in a mysterious manner, setting up clandestine operations in the largest structures on Ix, locking formerly open facilities, shuttering windows, erecting stun-fences and minefields. Keeping their filthy little secrets.
C’tair took it as his mission to learn all those secrets, by whatever means necessary, however long it might take him. The Tleilaxu must fall. . . .
The ultimate question: Why does life exist? The answer: For life’s sake.
—ANONYMOUS,
thought to be of Zensunni origin
Two Reverend Mothers stood talking on a treeless knoll: one old, one young. Behind clouds, the waning sun, Laoujin, threw the long shadows of their hooded black robes down the slope. Over the centuries an untold number of other Reverend Mothers had stood on the same spot, under the same sun, discussing grave matters relevant to their times.
If the two women wished, they could revisit those past crises through Other Memory. The Reverend Mother Anirul Sadow Tonkin made such thought-journeys more than most; each circumstance was just another minor step along the long, long road. Over the past year she had let her bronze-brown hair grow long, until its locks hung down to her narrow chin.
At the base of the knoll a whitecrete building was under construction. Like worker bees, female laborers, each one with an entire blueprint in her mind, operated heavy equipment, preparing to lift roof modules into place. To the rare outside observer, Wallach IX with its Bene Gesserit libraries and schools seemed always the same, but the Sisterhood was ever adapting for survival, ever changing, ever growing.
“They’re working too slowly. I wanted them finished already,” Anirul said, rubbing her forehead; she had been experiencing chronic headaches of late. As Mohiam came closer to term, Anirul’s responsibilities as Kwisatz Mother were tremendous. “Do you realize how few days remain until the baby is due?”
“Blame no one but yourself, Anirul. You demanded that this be no ordinary birthing facility,” Mother Superior Harishka said sternly. The Kwisatz Mother flushed and looked away. “Every Sister knows how important it is. Many of them suspect this is not just another child to be lost in the web of our breeding programs. A few have even been talking about the Kwisatz Haderach.”
Anirul tucked a loose strand of bronze hair behind her ear. “Unavoidable. All the Sisters know of our dream, but few suspect how clos
e it is to reality.” She shifted her skirts around her and sat down on the soft grass of the knoll. She gestured toward the construction, where the sounds of carpentry rang clear in the air. “Mohiam is due to deliver in a week, Mother Superior. We don’t even have the roof on yet.”
“They will finish, Anirul. Calm yourself. Everyone is doing her best to follow your orders.”
Anirul reacted as if slapped, then covered her reaction. Does Reverend Mother see me as an untempered and impetuous girl? Perhaps she had been too insistent with her instructions for the facility, and sometimes Mother Superior looked at her with a certain amount of resentment. Is she jealous that Other Memory chose me to lead such an ambitious program? Does she resent my knowledge?
“I’m not as young as you’re treating me,” Anirul said, against the better judgment of the voices. Very few of the Bene Gesserit had the weight of history inside them the way she did. Very few knew all of the machinations, every step of the Kwisatz Haderach program, every failure or success over the millennia, every deviation in the plan, for more than ninety generations. “I have the knowledge to succeed.”
Mother Superior frowned at her. “Then put more faith in our Mohiam. She’s delivered nine daughters for the Sisterhood already. I trust her to control the exact moment at which she chooses to give birth, even to delay her labor if necessary.” A scrap of brittle hair blew out of its prim containment and feathered across the old woman’s cheek. “Her role in this is more important than any birthing facility.”
Anirul challenged the chastising tone. “True. And we must not have another failure, like the last.”
Not even a Reverend Mother could master all facets of embryonic development. Through her internal processes she could set her own metabolism, but not the metabolism ofthe child. Selecting her baby’s sex was an adjustment of the mother’s chemistry, choosing the precise egg and sperm to unite. But once the zygote started growing in the womb, the offspring was effectively on its own, beginning a process of growing away from the mother.
Dune: House Atreides Page 42