Rossak.
She had never expected to die on such a strange world. Raquella had not been born here, had no connection to Rossak, would never have journeyed to this place at all if not for the reappearance of the Scourge, and her need to help.
She felt adrift and numb, without any tactile sensations to her skin, without any ability to move. It was as if something thick and heavy covered her body, and she could feel it forcing the life out of her. The retrovirus itself? Or her impossible responsibilities? With great difficulty, she managed to heave a deep nourishing breath.
Jimmak Tero had taken her somewhere, a hidden place deep in the silvery-purple jungle. She’d been barely conscious at the time and remembered only the sounds and the damp, perplexing smells. Now she had no idea where she was.
Despite the constant clamor in her mind and body, Raquella tried to calm herself. It is all right. I have done considerable good. Mohandas and I have helped plague victims. My life was worth sacrificing for their benefit.
Long ago on Parmentier, Vorian Atreides had said he was proud of her; she had held on to that kind comment ever since, tasting the emotion that this stranger, her grandfather, had felt for her. Vor had visited her many times in the intervening years and offered her his affection and unwavering support. Now that she knew and cared for him, her heroic grandfather’s respect and pride meant more to her than ever. The Supreme Bashar of the Army of Humanity was an important, famous man. He had gone to a great deal of trouble to locate her, and had finally found her, but in a time of plague.
As she struggled to contain the shockwaves of pain shooting through her body, Raquella needed all of her energy to keep breathing. She focused on the dripping sound, hung on to the rhythmic noise, balancing on the razor’s edge of consciousness and life. Drip. Breath. Drip. Breath.
Raquella thought back, remembering oases of happiness in a desert of turmoil. Most of life was spent working, seeking, achieving, and very little of it in the enjoyment of the delightful surprises that God sprinkled about. But Raquella had made a difference, and that should be enough for one person. She felt tired, almost ready to let go of the slender strands linking her with existence.
The dripping sound grew louder. She felt something on her face, cool wetness, and involuntarily swallowed a mouthful. It was not the first swallow, she realized. How long had she been here? And where was here? The water had done something to her… or she had done something to it. An odd sensation.
Raquella stirred, opened her eyes, and saw the wide, innocent face of Jimmak, who knelt next to her, splashing water on her cheeks and forehead. His expression brightened to unfettered joy to see her awake. “I am Doctor Boy. I do good work.”
She saw that she lay stretched out on loamy soil beside a mirror-still pool. Roots, walls, and a dirt ceiling showed that she was in a dimly lit cavern. Shafts of light angled through from holes in the roof, filtered by dust. Spiderwebs, hairy roots, and thick cables of growth plunged from the low ceiling to the floor.
Phosphorescent bluish fungus clung to stone walls. Water trickled from the ceiling and flowed peacefully into the pool without disturbing the surface. She heard voices echoing, and noticed two strange people on the other side of the water. Both had twisted, deformed bodies. One of them, a rail-thin girl, pointed at her.
“I think Doctor Lady is cured.” Jimmak’s words were slow. “Fever went away, but you kept sleeping. I put more mineral water on you. You even drank some. That helped a lot.”
Raquella shivered, realizing that her hospital work clothes were drenched. She noticed the abandoned suspensor gurney floating nearby, where Jimmak had left it after bringing her here. She had read of places like this, limestone sinkholes. Her reeling mind searched for the term… a cenote.
Sounding apologetic, Jimmak said, “We put you in the healing water. My friends and me. Let you soak for a whole day. It washed away your fever.”
“Healing water?” Raquella realized that she did feel strangely energized.
“Special place.” He smiled. “Only the Misborn know it.”
“You’re very smart, Jimmak.” The words were heavy as she forced them out, but she seemed to be gaining strength. “You knew exactly what to do to help me. I didn’t think I was going to survive.”
“I brought dry clothes and blankets,” Jimmak said. “For you.”
“Thank you. I think… I’ll feel better in dry, clean clothes.” Her garments were cold and clammy.
Assisted by several of the Misborn women, who were strikingly different from the tall and icily perfect Sorceresses, Raquella went into a dim side passage and changed into a loose, clean black robe. She put her sodden garments in the bin beneath the suspensor gurney, then tottered back to squat on the cool floor beside an eager Jimmak and wrapped one of the dry blankets around herself.
She indicated the group of curious and shy misfits. “Who are these people, Jimmak? Why do they live out here?”
“Sorceresses throw us into jungle. Hope monsters will eat us.” He grinned. “But we have secret places. Like this.”
Shafts of sunlight danced across the cenote’s water, making the chamber a soothing, magical environment far from the hatred and scorn of the telepathic, perfect women.
“Sorceresses don’t come here. Not even VenKee men, who take plants and mushrooms.” Jimmak stood tall. “The water is special. Now, Sorceresses die, but Misborn stay alive.”
Raquella could not deny that something had cured her, and it was probably the cenote water. She had tended enough patients, knew the stages of the new Scourge, and realized that no one had ever survived after reaching the depths into which she had fallen. The retrovirus had certainly sent her into a fatal spiral before Jimmak took her from the cliff city. She would have died.
But there was no telling what kind of chemical contaminants had settled into the brew of this underground pool. She did not look to Jimmak for technical explanations. It was not surprising that some combination of toxins and natural by-products might prove deadly to the plague retrovirus.
This water offered the key. Mohandas and his team had been working without rest in their isolated orbital labs aboard the LS Recovery, but every treatment had so far failed. If he could determine the key contaminant present in the cenote, reproduce and distribute it to the suffering populace in the cliff cities, then so many victims could be saved.
The sudden surge of hope made her feel giddy and disoriented in her weakened body. With unsteady steps, she moved toward the edge of the placid undergound pool. “We can bring the other sick people here and cure them. Thank you for showing me this, Jimmak.”
The Misborn drew away from her suggestion, hiding in the shadows, whispering and moaning. Alarmed, Jimmak shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no. You can’t do that. This is our special healing place.”
Raquella frowned. “I’m sorry, Jimmak— but all those people are dying. This gives us a chance for a cure. I am a doctor. I can’t ignore such an opportunity.”
Jimmak’s face grew red as he worked himself up. “Sorceresses will steal the magic water. Kill us for hiding it.”
“No, Jimmak. That won’t— “
“Sorceresses always want to kill us. They want to clean the— ” He struggled to remember words his mother had hurled at him. “Clean… the gene pool.”
Raquella wanted to argue with him, but she had seen Ticia Cenva, and knew how cold and cruel the Sorceresses could be. If this hidden underground spring was found, the Sorceresses and VenKee pharmaceutical scouts would descend in a swarm, and they would destroy one of the only places these poor misfits had to themselves. A healing place.
Raquella’s dismay was plain on her face. “Tens of thousands are already dying, not just the Sorceresses but all the people on Rossak. Everybody. You’ve seen them, Jimmak. We don’t know how to save them— but something in this water has a pharmaceutical effect.” She sighed. “All right, then, I need to take a sample of the water to Dr. Suk. That way I won’t have to bring them here to y
our sacred cenote.”
From the water, Mohandas should be able to break down the impurities, and isolate the effective chemical substance before time ran out for the remaining population on Rossak. No one else would need to know about this cenote or its curative properties. She would never reveal where it had come from— she could do that much for Jimmak, at least.
In a mounting frenzy, Jimmak cried, “You can’t tell anyone! They will want to know where you got the water. No!” His eyes were desperate.
Raquella looked at Jimmak’s innocent face, his rounded features and moppish hair. She knew she could never get him to change his mind, and she did owe her life to the young man. And yet, there were so many other victims….
“Promise, Doctor Lady. Promise!”
The other Misborn still watched her nervously, some with aggressive stares, as if they might consider killing her before she could betray them. If she didn’t convince them, they would never let her leave. And then she couldn’t tell Mohandas about the cure.
“All right, Jimmak. I promise. I won’t bring people here.”
But what was the greatest call on her loyalty— to save the sick and dying, or to keep a trust? Too many lives hung in the balance. She did not want to dishonor herself… yet there could be no question what her decision must be. Even if she had to trick him, she couldn’t deny all those infected people the chance of a cure.
Surely, the needs of the dying population outweighed the desires of a handful of Misborn. She would protect Jimmak and his companions as much as she could, but she could not deny Mohandas this lead. She had to get him a sample of the water, at least.
There was a way.
The Misborn watched her hawkishly, kept her away from the pool as if afraid she would steal a bottle of the liquid. Raquella sighed, lay back on the suspensor gurney, and told him she was ready. Jimmak wrapped a blindfold over her eyes, and she felt him guiding her out of the cavern. “Promise you won’t tell anyone about this place,” he pleaded, his mouth so close to her ear that she could feel his warm breath.
“You have my word,” she said into the darkness.
* * *
WHEN RAQUELLA RETURNED to the crowded cliffside chambers, the black-robed Sorceresses gathered around her in astonishment. Even Ticia Cenva showed great surprise to see her still alive.
“You have come back from the dead— and you are cured!” young Karee Marques said, ignoring the others. “But how?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Raquella said, noting a look of stern disapproval on Ticia’s face. “I may have found the key to save the rest of you.”
A good plan is flexible, and unexpected results are acceptable… provided they are sufficiently momentous.
— YOREK THURR,
secret Corrin journals
After so many years among thinking machines, Yorek Thurr had almost forgotten the thrill of applying his particular skills at stalking and infiltrating.
For much of his “first life” in the League of Nobles, he had developed sophisticated deception and observation techniques for the Jihad Police. He could spy wherever he wished, could kill a man in a hundred different ways. But after serving as the undisputed ruler of Wallach IX, then living as a coddled captive on Corrin, Thurr’s abilities had atrophied.
Thus, he was pleased to see, as he sneaked late at night into the Grand Patriarch’s administrative mansion, that he still had the necessary skills. Guards patrolled the grounds, and primitive security systems monitored the windows and entrances. But those electronic surveillance devices and the perimeter warning sensors were as easy to fool as the sleepy, complacent sentinels.
During his time with Jipol, Thurr had made a habit of never waking or sleeping at the same time of day. He altered his schedule, staying awake for days or getting by on only a few hours of sleep in bunkers. Iblis Ginjo had thought it was an amusing display of paranoia, but Thurr did not play games.
One of the high, small windows was open, and Thurr managed to crawl along a rooftop ledge, lower himself down to window level, and slide his legs in through the narrow opening. Contracting his shoulders, he slithered in like an eel and dropped silently to the marble floor. He padded across the hall into the open suite of Xander Boro-Ginjo.
When he found the Grand Patriarch’s sleeping chamber, the buffoon was alone, snoring quietly in his bed beside a burbling fountain that drowned out Thurr’s stealthy approach. Perhaps Xander simply was not interesting enough to have any complex vices. Thurr frowned. Any decent leader needed to have a certain edge. This pampered Grand Patriarch, bestowed with the chain of office through his grandmother’s political wrangling, didn’t deserve to command the surviving remnants of humanity. They needed a visionary like Yorek Thurr, someone with guts and vision and intelligence.
Thurr bent over the sleeping, corpulent man like a mother about to give her child a good night kiss. He drove away the insistent buzzing inside his head, focusing on what he must do. “Wake up, Xander Boro-Ginjo, so that we can get down to business. This is the most important appointment of your life.”
The Grand Patriarch snorted and heaved himself into a seated position, naked. As his mouth opened to splutter a question, Thurr calmly extended the small canister in his hand and sprayed a burst of a pungent-smelling liquid into the man’s open mouth and down his throat. Xander coughed and retched, clutching his larynx. His eyes bugged open wide, as if he feared he had just been stuck with an assassin’s stiletto.
“It’s not poison,” Thurr said, “simply an agent to neutralize your vocal cords. You can still whisper, so we’ll have our necessary conversation, but I can’t have you screaming for help. Even your incompetent guards would cause too much of a distraction. It’s hard enough to concentrate these days.” He rubbed his smooth scalp.
Xander gasped and whispered, finally squeezing out hoarse words. “What? Who— “
Thurr frowned. “I told you who I was. How could you have forgotten so much in only a few days? We had a discussion in your own office. Don’t you remember me?”
Boro-Ginjo’s eyes widened. He let out a breathy call for his guards, but the words were nothing more than a squeak.
“Stop wasting my time. There are great changes afoot this evening. The annals of League history will recall this as a watershed of human existence.” Thurr smiled. “You shouldn’t dismiss me until you know what I offer. I lived for many years on Corrin, and I bring vital information about Omnius. I know secrets about the thinking machines that could prove crucial to our survival.”
Xander opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. “But… but the machines are no threat anymore. They’re all bottled up on Corrin.”
Thurr wanted to slap him. “Omnius is always a threat. Never forget that.” For all his life, Thurr’s entire foundation of power, his reason for existence, had hinged on the conflict of the Jihad. And now, if the League truly believed the last of the thinking machines were neutered, he had to find a way to make his mark. More than anything else, Yorek Thurr did not want to become irrelevant.
Xander whispered for his guards again, and Thurr struck him across a fleshy cheek, leaving a bright red handprint. The Grand Patriarch shook with rage. The spoiled fellow had probably never been treated in such a fashion before.
Calmly, Thurr went to the bureau beside Xander’s bed and with great reverence lifted the interlinked chain of office that the Grand Patriarch customarily wore over his shoulders. “I designed this myself, with the widow of Iblis Ginjo,” he said, looking over at the frightened man, who still sat propped speechless on his bed.
“After Iblis was assassinated by Xavier Harkonnen, we met in emergency session to discuss how to lead the Jihad and keep the League of Nobles on its straight track. Because of politics, and because the people would accept it better, Camie insisted that she become her husband’s successor, promising that I would follow her. But after ten years, she handed the chain of office over to her son Tambir. She didn’t consult with me, simply made the decision by f
iat.” His nostrils flared.
“I was livid. I threatened to kill her. She just laughed at me. After all I had done for the Army of the Jihad, after I kept the human race strong against the thinking machines— she betrayed me! So I… changed my alliances.” Scowling, he jangled the ornate chain. “But by all rights this is mine now. You must resign.”
“I… I can’t resign as the spiritual head of the League,” Xander said in his faint whispery voice. “The succession does not occur like that. You don’t understand politics, sir.”
“Then I’ll remove you some other way. But first, ask yourself what have you done for the human race? How have you benefited the League as Grand Patriarch? The answers are obvious.”
Naked, Xander scrambled off the bed and tried to run like a clumsy cow. But Thurr moved with ferret swiftness, intercepting him. With a hard slam against the man’s sternum, he pushed him back to the edge of the bed, where he stumbled and sprawled over it. “Hmm, I take it that’s your decision, then.”
Thurr sat beside the plump Grand Patriarch, who shivered in fear. Going into a near-fetal position, he looked helpless, ready to cry. Dredging up false bluster, Xander squeaked, “You don’t frighten me. You can’t kill me— I’m the Grand Patriarch!”
Thurr squinted, furrowing his leathery brow. “You fail to understand, Xander, that I masterminded both the killer mites that Omnius unleashed on Zimia and the Scourge itself. I am personally responsible for more deaths than any other human being in history. By now I must have killed a hundred billion people.”
The Grand Patriarch lurched to his feet again in a pathetic attempt to flee, but Thurr reached up and grabbed him by the wrist. He dragged him back down, then wrapped his arm around the man’s doughy neck in a casual, almost loving gesture. As Xander gurgled, he squeezed, tightening his hold, then jerked viciously backward until he heard the snap of the spine. He kept holding the chubby man until Xander stopped twitching and squirming.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 47