The quiet Tlulaxa partner did not seem so optimistic; in fact, Manford could sense a deep-seated fear emanating from him, as if he were walking a tightrope across a deep chasm. Ptolemy, though, was like a puppy, smiling encouragement to his friend. After opening the case, the Tlulaxa reached in and removed a flesh-colored object—an amputated leg!
Anari flinched, grabbed for her sword. Elchan blurted out, “No, it’s no trick! Please, just look.” Ptolemy sent his partner a questioning look, surprised at the reaction.
No, Manford realized upon closer inspection, it was a prosthetic leg sheathed in a very realistic, skinlike polymer.
Ptolemy continued with unabashed pride in his voice. “On Zenith, we have a separate independent laboratory dedicated to developing lifelike artificial replacement limbs that connect directly with biological nerve endings. In the past, many Jihad veterans were forced to live as amputees. Earlier, before the organ-farm troubles”—he glanced over at Dr. Elchan, then back at Manford—“the Tlulaxa labs provided tank-grown eyes or internal organs, but that work has been all but abandoned for almost a century. Now he and I have created this new bionic system that, when properly attached and configured, can tap into your mind’s impulses. The muscle analogs are responsive polymer fibers, and the nerve conductors are thin wires.”
He took the flopping false leg from his partner and held it up like a prop, poking at the flesh with his fingertips. “Our gift to you, Leader Torondo—an olive branch to show you the real benefits of properly applied technology. With this, you shall walk again! Dr. Elchan and I can give you your legs back, to let you see how science can help humanity and ease the hurt of so many who suffer.”
Manford was not the least bit tempted by the offer. “The cymeks used similar principles for their brains to operate machine forms. The human body is not a machine.”
Ptolemy looked baffled. “But of course it is—a biological machine. The skeleton is a structural framework, muscle fibers are like cables and pulleys, blood vessels are fluid-transport conduits, nerve endings are like sensors, the heart is the engine and the brain like a memory core—”
“What you say is deeply offensive.”
The scientist seemed disappointed by Manford’s stony reaction, but he pressed ahead anyway with dogged determination. “Please hear me out. If you will look at my friend and colleague?” He turned to his Tlulaxa partner, though the other man did not at all want the attention. “Through a serious accident, Dr. Elchan lost the use of his left arm, and we have replaced it with one of these prosthetics. I doubt you even noticed it until now.”
The other man raised his arm, flexed his fingers, and used his real hand to tug a gray sleeve up to reveal the smooth plastic skin on his left arm. A shiver of revulsion ran down Manford’s back. Standing at the doorway of the office, Anari Idaho was also repulsed by the prosthetics.
Still jabbering as if presenting a rosy progress report to a board meeting, Ptolemy removed the second leg from the coffin-container. “After we affix these to your body, you will be a whole man again.” He didn’t realize that he had stepped over a very important line.
Fighting back his disgust, Manford raised his chin and looked over at Anari. “You know what to do, Swordmaster.”
Like a released spring, she drew her sword and shouldered the two scientists aside. With a surprised cry, Ptolemy dropped the artificial leg onto Manford’s desk, and Anari swung her blade like a woodsman chopping a log. Lubricants and nutrient fluids spurted, dousing the papers, but Manford didn’t flinch. Ptolemy and Elchan cried out in dismay. Anari struck three times before the first leg was mangled beyond repair, then she made quick work of the other. “The mind of man is holy,” she said.
Sobbing, Dr. Elchan pulled his left arm tight against his chest, fearing the Swordmaster would hack the artificial limb off his body.
Appalled, Ptolemy said in a hollow voice, as if he were the one who had been betrayed, “Why did you do that? Those legs were our gift to you.” Manford almost pitied the man. He honestly didn’t understand!
“There is a seductive quality to machine technology. It is a slippery slope,” Manford said. “If I permit one thing, where do I draw the line? I do not want to open that door.”
“But you use machines regularly, sir! Your logic is arbitrary.”
Unbelievable—the man was still trying to get through to him! In a way, he admired Ptolemy’s dedication to his beliefs, even if they were wrong. “My faith is perfectly clear.”
Dr. Elchan was terrified and shuddering, but Ptolemy stuck to his principles. “Please, there must be something! If you won’t allow us to give you replacement limbs, then we can create a simple suspensor platform for you to ride in.”
“No. A suspensor platform is still technology, a first step on the road to ruin, and I will not allow it. Your temptations won’t work on me.”
Ptolemy pointed toward the naked sword Anari held. “Technology made that blade. Technology drives the starships that you use to travel from planet to planet. You accept it only when it meets your needs?”
Manford shrugged, not willing to concede the point. “I am not perfect, and I make some sacrifices for the greater good. There are many thousands of worlds in the Imperium, and all of them need to hear my words. I can’t simply shout across space. It’s a necessary compromise. I have to use some forms of technology for the greater good.”
“That’s a contradiction,” Ptolemy said.
“Faith sees through contradictions, while science cannot.” He looked down at the mangled prosthetics. “But when it comes to my body, I draw the line. Sacred human flesh was made in God’s image, and the only assistance I will accept in place of walking is from another human being. Countless volunteers are willing to carry me on a palanquin wherever I need to go. Anari here”—he gestured to the Swordmaster—“bears me on her shoulders when necessary.”
Ptolemy frowned, as if Manford had spoken to him in a foreign language. “So it is your preference to oppress a human being rather than use a simple wheelchair? Don’t you see how demeaning it is to use a person as a beast of burden?”
A flare of rage flushed Anari’s face. “I consider it an honor.”
She raised her sword, stepping toward the two scientists, but Manford stopped her from killing them. “There’s no need for violence, my loyal companion. These misguided scientists came here to speak their point of view, and I agreed to hear them.”
She muttered under her breath. “I am not a slave. I serve you willingly.”
Manford said to the two men, “I will not budge on the matter. I respect your dedication to your delusions, Dr. Ptolemy—but if only you could see the light. Your mission here has been a complete waste of time, and this meeting is at an end. You may leave your equipment rubbish here. We’ll see that it’s disposed of properly.”
As the two scientists left in disgrace, Ptolemy looked back with obvious disappointment, devastated to see the mangled prosthetic legs. He looked so lost and confused; he simply couldn’t comprehend a man whose convictions were different from his own.
Manford felt sorry for him, and for what would have to happen next.
Be careful of the knowledge you seek, and the price you must pay for it.
—AXIOM OF THE SISTERHOOD
When Josef Venport returned from Denali, an unpleasant surprise awaited him at the Kolhar headquarters, one far more serious than the usual administrative problems he faced.
His wife met him, accompanied by his security chief, Ekbir. Cioba said nothing at first, but he could read a wealth of concerns in her stolid expression. She let Ekbir deliver the information. “A spy, sir.”
Josef went rigid as anger built within him, though he didn’t dare show any reaction. The idea seemed utterly preposterous, but was not unexpected. With its space fleet, planetary banking, and mercantile operations, Venport Holdings was much too influential and far-reaching not to attract malicious attention.
“We neutralized him,” Cioba said. “Limite
d the release of information. I have ideas on how to deal with spies, but I thought I should check with you first.”
“Where did you find him?” Josef asked.
Ekbir steeled himself, met the Directeur’s gaze. “Out in the Navigator fields, sir. The man posed as one of our technicians. He had the proper uniform, identification badge, access codes.”
“Find out how he got them.”
Ekbir gave a slow nod. “Already working on it, sir.”
Josef’s thick eyebrows drew together. “All VenHold maintenance technicians are carefully vetted and given specific psychological training. They’re a close-knit team. How did he infiltrate them?”
Cioba nodded. “That is exactly how he was caught. Though his credentials appeared to be impeccable, our people sensed something wrong. He was reported in less than an hour.”
Josef’s face turned warm as he pictured the grassy plain covered with sealed tanks, each containing an embryonic Navigator immersed in mutagenic concentrations of melange gas. “He discovered what we’re doing out there, I presume?”
“Yes, sir.” Ekbir had no way to deny it.
Josef had known the secret would leak out sooner or later. Norma Cenva was the first to experience the biological enhancements caused by long-term exposure to spice gas—but his great-grandmother’s mind had been special in the first place. Only after a great deal of experimentation had another human candidate survived the change. Successes still comprised a relatively small percentage.
“He hasn’t revealed much to us yet, though we’ve only begun the interrogation process,” Cioba said. “I monitored it myself, and we’ve got Scalpel working on it.”
“Good.” The specially trained torturers in the Suk organization’s Scalpel division were efficient at inflicting long-term pain with no visible damage. He looked up at his wife, admired her pale skin, her porcelainlike beauty; Cioba’s Sorceress heritage was prominent in her features, but alas she exhibited no telepathic powers. “I wish you could just go into his mind and rip out the information.”
She stroked his arm with a brief, electric touch. “Yes, we can wish. But in the meantime we’ll have to use other means.” Perhaps their two daughters would show greater mental strength, once they grew older and completed their Sisterhood training.
“We assume he was sent by one of the other commercial transport companies, anxious to learn about our Navigators.…” Ekbir’s voice faltered as he realized he was stating the obvious.
“Arjen Gates already had his company meddling with the spice operations on Arrakis. I put a stop to that, but I still don’t believe he’s learned his lesson.” Josef had taken great pleasure in watching the images Ishanti sent of the capture and destruction of poaching operations near Carthag, hurling the rival chief down into a Coriolis storm.
None of the other space fleets had developed anything similar to Navigators, and his competitors had only the vaguest understanding of why VenHold ships never suffered a mishap, when their own blind flying resulted in high accident rates. Through careful analysis, Cioba had surmised that some of the other companies could be using computerized navigation devices, which were strictly forbidden. Venport had his own spies investigating the matter.
Personally, Josef had no qualms about using mechanical navigation devices, which he considered useful and reliable—he would have used them himself if he didn’t have Norma’s Navigators—and the restrictions against them were just silly. Nonetheless, if he could prove that one of his rivals used outlawed computers, he wouldn’t hesitate to report them, which would result in the confiscation and likely destruction of all ships in the competitor’s fleet. It was, after all, only business.
“Let me see this spy,” Josef said.
“We’re holding him in an interrogation chamber, sir, pending your orders.”
Josef scratched his thick mustache, glanced at his wife. “You know what my orders are going to be.”
Cioba led him out of the room, walking close beside him. “Don’t take any precipitous action.”
The security man guided them to the underground levels of the headquarters tower, where they met a gaunt man, who kept his head bowed and displayed a funereal manner. Dr. Wantori had completed specialized training at the Suk School, although his degree was not a matter of public record. Over the course of their studies at the medical institution, certain adepts discovered a penchant for inflicting pain rather than relieving it. Wantori was the best of the surreptitious Scalpel interrogators and torturers that Josef could find.
“This way, sir,” said Wantori in a grave voice. “We are beginning to make progress.”
They stopped in front of an opaque plaz viewing window. “Is he in there?” Josef asked. “Why is everything dark?”
“There is nothing to see, at the moment.” Wantori worked the screen, sliding through the spectrum. An image blurred, then focused as the sensors adjusted the range and mathematically shifted the display to visible light.
A man hung at an angle in the middle of the chamber, arms and legs outstretched, with his head tilted toward the floor. He looked like a lost soul in an old story of limbo. “What have you done to him?”
“He is unharmed, sir. The chamber is devoid of light and sound. Suspensors negate the gravity. The temperature precisely matches his body temperature. In his own perceptions, he is nowhere.” Wantori looked up, blinked his large eyes as if he didn’t like to reveal his techniques. “Often that’s enough to break an interrogation subject, but this one hasn’t revealed anything yet.”
“I wouldn’t have expected him to. Any man who could infiltrate my Navigator field is no ordinary spy. He’s either very dedicated or very well paid.” Josef considered. “I hope he’s well paid, because a mercenary can be bought, whereas a man with political or religious convictions is harder to break.”
Ekbir pointed out, “He is physically unharmed, except for some contusions and one broken finger, which he received while resisting capture.”
“I healed it,” Wantori said.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have bothered,” Josef said.
The interrogator shook his head slightly. “The pain of a broken bone or the ache of bruises decreases the effectiveness of sensory deprivation. It gives the subject something to hold on to, a focus. Now he has nothing, not even the pain. To him, it must seem as if a thousand years have passed. And my procedure is just beginning.”
Josef said, “Let me speak to him.”
Wantori looked alarmed. “It’ll be a setback to our disorientation process, sir.”
“Let me speak to him!” Josef barely controlled his temper. The fact that someone would come here like a rapist in a nunnery offended him. For generations the Venports had built their empire, funded research, constructed ships, acquired wealth and power. He found it deeply insulting that anyone would try to take what he had achieved.
Cioba nodded to the interrogator. “Do as my husband says. It may yield some interesting results.”
Wantori activated a set of controls, gestured toward an input speaker. When Josef spoke, his words boomed into the lightless tank. “My name is Josef Venport.” After days of utter silence, without any sensation whatsoever, the captive spy must have thought he sounded like a deity. “I can tell you’re a professional at what you do, and I won’t insult you by asking detailed questions. Dr. Wantori will take care of that for me. Will you at least do me the courtesy of telling me your name and why you are here?”
The spy twisted as he floated, but did not seem uncomfortable or disoriented. He did not try to find the source of the voice. “I was waiting for someone to ask. My name is Royce Fayed, and I should think my reason for coming here is obvious.”
“Who sent you?”
Was that a smile on the spy’s face? “I thought you weren’t going to ask me detailed questions.”
“Indulge my curiosity.” Josef’s nostrils flared.
“I’m sorry, Directeur Venport, but you’ll have to work a little harder than that.”
Josef knew better than to be drawn into that game, so he switched off the transmitter, then turned to Wantori. “Find out what you can. Find out everything.”
* * *
WHEN THE STRANGER named Royce Fayed was brought to Josef Venport’s main offices again two weeks later, the spy looked gaunt and significantly changed. His hands and fingers were comically splayed, the joints smashed and then badly re-fused. His head had been shaved, and scars marred his scalp. Dr. Wantori had been very thorough.
Fayed stood sullenly as the VenHold security chief read his report. “He is working for Celestial Transport. Arjen Gates hired him personally. The company is getting desperate after the recent string of accidents and the sudden unavailability of insurance coverage for them. Clever of you to set that up.”
Josef allowed himself a smile, glanced at his wife. Another plan that he and Cioba had developed together. It had taken years, but his holding company had bought a controlling interest in most of the insurance companies that covered commercial space transportation. As such, VenHold now possessed accurate data on just how many losses Celestial Transport had suffered in spacefolding mishaps; and, since he owned the insurance carriers, Josef was able to deny coverage to CT outright. He could have charged outrageous premiums, but the money didn’t matter to him as much as driving his key competitor out of business.
“Arjen Gates wants to know how you navigate foldspace,” Fayed said without a trace of humor. “And I am paying the price for his curiosity. I’m not complaining. I did accept the job.”
“We won’t even send your body back to him as a warning that his attempt failed. I’ll just let him remain curious.”
The broken man still had a gleam in his eye. “Don’t you want to know why he so urgently needs Navigators?”
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