Straightening himself, Ajidica pushed out of the cramped tube, shouldering his sputtering subordinates out of the way. “Come with me, Count Fenring.”
The Master Researcher led the Spice Minister to a familiar demonstration room, an enormous chamber with white smoothplaz walls, floors, and ceiling. The room contained scientific instruments and receptacles, and a red table topped by a translucent dome.
“Hmmm, you’re going to show me one of the desert worms again? Another small one, I hope, and not as sickly as the last?”
Ajidica brought forth a plaz vial containing an orangish ooze, which he held under Fenring’s nostrils. “The latest batch of amal. Smells like melange, don’t you agree?” Fenring’s nose twitched as he inhaled. Without waiting for an answer, Ajidica pressed a button at the base of the dome. The foggy plaz cleared, revealing churned sand that half covered a meter-long sandworm.
“How long from Arrakis?” Fenring asked.
“We smuggled this one in eleven days ago. Worms always die away from their home, but it should live another month, maybe two.”
Ajidica poured the orange liquid into a receptacle at the top of the dome. The receptacle dropped, embedded itself in the sand, and tilted toward the worm.
The snake-sized creature slithered toward the amal, its round mouth open to reveal tiny crystal teeth deep inside its throat. In a sudden violent motion, the creature lunged at the orange substance and devoured it, receptacle and all.
Meeting Fenring’s inquisitive gaze, Ajidica said, “Just like real melange.”
“The worms still die, though?” The Spice Minister clung to his skepticism.
“They die whether we give them amal or melange. It makes no difference. They simply cannot live away from their native desert.”
“I see. I’d like to take a sample to the Emperor now. Have it prepared.”
In a condescending tone, Ajidica answered, “Amal is a biological substance and is dangerous if not handled properly. The final product will be safe only after the addition of a stabilizing agent.”
“Well add it, then, hmmm? I’ll wait here while you do it.”
The Master Researcher shook his head. “We are in the process of testing a number of such agents now. Melange is an extremely complex substance, but success is imminent. Come back when I summon you.”
“You do not summon me. I report only to the Emperor.”
Looking through heavily lidded eyes, Ajidica responded in an arrogant tone, “Then report to him what I have told you. No person can tell the difference between amal and genuine melange.”
Observing Fenring’s frustrated reaction, he smiled to himself. The “stabilizing agent” was a sham. Neither the Emperor nor Ajidica’s incompetent Tleilaxu superiors would ever receive true amal. Instead, the Master Researcher would escape and take everything with him, leaving no clues about the actual, extremely potent spice substitute, which he called “ajidamal.” If the formulation could fool a sandworm of Arrakis, what more convincing test could there possibly be?
Fenring said, “Always remember that I convinced Elrood to begin this project in the first place, hmmm? Therefore, I feel a tremendous sense of responsibility.” He paced the small room. “You have performed Spacing Guild tests, I presume? We must know if a Navigator can use your synthetic melange to envision safe paths through foldspace.”
Ajidica struggled for a reply. He hadn’t expected such a question.
“Apparently not? Mm-m-m-m. Did I strike a nerve?”
“Rest assured, a Navigator will notice no difference either.” Ajidica touched the button to fog over the dome containing the worm.
Fenring pressed his advantage. “Nevertheless, the supreme test would be to place amal inside a Navigator’s tank, hmmm? Only then can we be sure.”
“But we cannot accomplish that, sir.” Ajidica squirmed. “We cannot openly request Guild cooperation, since Project Amal must remain completely secret.”
The Count’s eyes glittered as schemes blossomed in his mind. “But one of your Face Dancers might breach even the Guild’s tight security. Yes, hmmm-ah. I will accompany your Face Dancer, to see that it’s done properly.”
Ajidica considered the suggestion. This Imperial functionary did have a point. Moreover, using a Face Dancer presented him with other possibilities… a way of getting rid of this meddlesome man.
Unknown to anyone except Ajidica himself, he had already disseminated hundreds of the tank-bred Face Dancers to strategic locations around the galaxy, transporting them in long-range exploration vessels to uncharted reaches. The shape-shifters had been developed centuries ago, but their possibilities had not been adequately explored. That was about to change.
“Yes, Count Fenring. I can arrange for a Face Dancer to accompany you.”
* * *
With so many distractions, Ajidica felt he would never finish his work.
An overeager group of politicians arrived from the sacred city of Bandalong on the Bene Tleilax homeworlds. Their leader, Master Zaaf, was a haughty man with rodent eyes and a perpetual upward curl of his tiny mouth. Ajidica couldn’t decide whom he loathed more, Fenring or the inept Tleilaxu representatives.
Given the scientific abilities of the Bene Tleilax, he couldn’t understand how Master Zaaf and other government leaders had bungled political affairs so badly. Forgetting the majesty of their place in the universe, they were content to be ground underfoot by powindah noble families.
“What did you say to the Imperial Spice Minister?” Zaaf demanded as he strutted into Ajidica’s large office. “I must have a full report.”
Ajidica drummed his fingers on the frostplaz desktop. He grew tired of explaining himself to outsiders. They always asked such inane questions. One day I will no longer have to deal with idiots.
After Ajidica had summarized the meeting, Zaaf announced in a pompous tone, “Now we wish to observe your amal tests ourselves. We have the right.”
Though Zaaf was his superior, Ajidica feared nothing from the man, since no one could replace him on this project. “There are thousands of ongoing experiments. You wish to see all of them? How long is your life span, Master Zaaf?”
“Show us the most significant. Don’t you agree, gentlemen?” Zaaf glanced at his companions. They nodded and grunted.
“Watch this test, then.” With a confident smile, Ajidica took the vial of liquid ajidamal from his pocket and poured the rest of the contents into his own mouth. He tasted the substance on his tongue, inhaled the cinnamon essence into his sinuses, and swallowed.
This was the first time he’d actually consumed so much at once. Within seconds, a pleasantly warm feeling permeated his stomach and brain, matching any experience he’d ever enjoyed with genuine melange. He chuckled at the shocked expressions on his visitors’ faces. “I’ve been doing this for weeks,” he lied, “and there have been no ill effects.” He was convinced God would not permit anything bad to happen to him. “There can be no doubt whatsoever.”
The Tleilaxu politicians chattered excitedly, congratulating each other as if they’d had a hand in this success. Zaaf flashed small teeth and bent forward with a conspiratorial expression. “Excellent, Master Researcher. We shall see that you are properly rewarded. But first, we have an important matter to discuss.”
Suffused in the warmth of ajidamal, Ajidica listened to Zaaf. The Bene Tleilax were still stinging from Duke Leto’s rebuff of their calculated offer to make a ghola of his dead son Victor. Burning to avenge what they still believed to be an Atreides attack decades before, and angry at the continuing Ixian resistance here on Xuttuh that used Prince Rhombur Vernius as a figurehead, Zaaf wanted to seize Vernius and Atreides genetic lines for Bene Tleilax schemes.
With that vital DNA, they might tailor special diseases that could potentially wipe out House Atreides and House Vernius. If the Tleilaxu felt particularly vengeful, they could even clone simulacrums of Leto and Rhombur and publicly torture them to death— over and over again, if they wished! How much
could the Atreides stand? Even fragmented genetic material from those bloodlines would be sufficient to perform many experiments.
But the Duke’s refusal had crushed those plans.
To Ajidica’s hyperfocused mind, Zaaf’s words were distant and irrelevant. But he listened without comment, allowing Zaaf to plod through his plans to thwart House Atreides and House Vernius. He described a war memorial in the jungles of Beakkal, where almost a millennium ago Atreides and Vernius troops had fought side by side in a legendary last stand known as the Senasar Defense. Several of their heroic ancestors had been entombed there in a jungle shrine.
Ajidica fought off boredom as Zaaf continued, “We have arranged with the Beakkali government to exhume and take cellular ‘samples’ from any bodies we find there. Not an ideal situation, but it should provide enough genetic fragments for our purposes.”
“And Leto Atreides can do nothing to prevent it,” chimed in one of his companions. “Thus, we will get what we want— the perfect revenge.”
The Tleilaxu never considered all the possibilities, though. Ajidica tried to keep the disgust from his expression. “The Duke will be furious when he discovers your intent. Do you not fear Atreides reprisals?”
“Leto is crippled with grief and has completely neglected his Landsraad duties.” Master Zaaf looked far too smug. “We need fear nothing from him. Our retrieval operations are already under way, but we have encountered a small snag. The Prime Magistrate of Beakkal has demanded a huge payment from us. I… was hoping we could pay him with amal and allow him to think it is melange. Is your substitute good enough to fool them?”
Ajidica laughed, already envisioning new possibilities. “Absolutely.” But he would use an early formula, similar enough to dupe them without wasting the precious ajidamal. The Beakkali used melange only in food and drink anyway, so they wouldn’t notice the difference. It would be a simple matter.…
“I can produce as much as you require.”
There are tides of leadership, rising and falling. Into each Emperor’s reign flow the tides, ebbing and surging.
— PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO,
Discourses on Leadership in a Galactic Imperium, Twelfth Edition
Beneath the tassled awning of an observation stand, Shaddam IV sat in pleasantly perfumed shade, watching the clockwork maneuvers of his troops. Of all the marvels on Kaitain, these Sardaukar were the most magnificent, as far as he was concerned. Could there be a more heartwarming sight than spotlessly uniformed men following his every order with cool precision?
How he wished all of his subjects responded to Imperial instructions as willingly.
A thin, elegant man with an aquiline nose, Shaddam wore a gray Sardaukar uniform, trimmed with silver and gold— he was their commander in chief, in addition to his other duties. Over his reddish hair he had settled a padded Burseg’s helmet that bore the Imperial crest in gold.
At least he could watch the crisp parade in peace, since his wife Anirul had long ago grown tired of military exhibitions. Thankfully, she had chosen to tend to Bene Gesserit matters for the afternoon, doting on her daughters and raising them to be witches themselves. Or maybe dealing with funeral arrangements for the dead old crone Lobia. He hoped the Bene Gesserit would provide him with a new Truthsayer soon. What else were the damnable Sisters good for?
On the open plaza below, the Sardaukar Corps paraded in flawless unison, boots echoing like gunfire across the swept flagstones. Supreme Bashar Zum Garon, a loyal old veteran from Salusa Secundus, guided his soldiers like a skilled puppeteer, performing spectacular maneuvers that demonstrated efficient battle formations. Perfect.
Unlike the Emperor’s own family.
Normally, the Emperor loved to watch his troops practice, but at the moment his stomach was agitated. He hadn’t eaten all day after swallowing some exceedingly bad news that was burning in his belly. Not even the best Suk doctor could treat this ailment.
Through his ever-diligent spy network, Shaddam had just learned that his father, Elrood IX, had sired a bastard son through one of his favorite concubines, a woman whose name had not yet been determined. Over forty years ago, old Elrood had taken steps to hide and protect the illegitimate son— who would now be a grown man, more than a decade younger than Shaddam. Did the bastard know his heritage? Did he watch with devious anticipation as Shaddam and Anirul failed to produce a male heir, child after child? Only daughters, daughters, and more daughters. Five of them, with baby Rugi the last. Did the bastard plan his moves even now, making preparations to usurp the Golden Lion Throne?
On the flagstone plaza, the soldiers split into two groups and rushed together in a mock battle, firing a webwork of simulated lasgun tracers so they could take possession of a sculpted, roaring lion fountain. High-powered military skimmers swept past in tight formation, ascending into the clear blue sky, where the fleeting clouds looked as if they had been painted by an artist.
With only moderate enthusiasm, a distracted Shaddam applauded the Sardaukar maneuvers, while quietly cursing his father’s memory. How many other secret children did the old vulture spawn? It was a worrisome thought.
At least he knew the name of this one. Tyros Reffa. With connections to his adoptive House Taligari, Reffa had spent much of his life on Zanovar, a Taligari vacation world. Living a pampered life, the man must have little to do other than dream of seizing Imperial power.
Yes, Elrood’s bastard could cause a great deal of trouble. But how to get to him and kill him? Shaddam sighed. These were the challenges of leadership. Perhaps I should discuss this with Hasimir.
But he exercised his mental muscles instead, stretching his mind, intent on proving that Hasimir Fenring was wrong about him… that he could rule without constant intervention and advice. I make my own decisions!
Shaddam had assigned Fenring to Arrakis as Imperial Spice Minister, as well as giving him the secret responsibility of overseeing the development of amal. Why was it taking Fenring so long to come back from Ix with his report?
The air was comfortably warm, with just enough breeze to make the parade banners flutter. Imperial Weather Control had laid out every aspect of the day in accordance with the Emperor’s specifications.
Moving to a field of polygrass laid down across the plaza, the troops engaged in an elaborate demonstration of close shield fighting and flashing silver blades. Two teams attacked while mock enemy fire lit the square with flashes of purple and orange. In stadium boxes around the perimeter, an audience of minor nobles and court functionaries cheered politely.
The grizzled veteran Zum Garon stood impeccably attired, his expression critical, his standards high for every performance in front of his Emperor. Shaddam encouraged such public displays of military strength, especially now that several Houses of the Landsraad were starting to get unruly. He might need to use a little muscle, very soon.…
A fat brown spider dangled before him, suspended by a gossamer strand from the scarlet-and-gold awning. Irritated, he whispered, “Don’t you realize who I am, little creature? I rule even the smallest living things in my realm.”
More banners, more marching, more simulated fire in the background of his ruminations. A kaleidoscope of Sardaukar moved across the pageantry field. Pomp and glory. Overhead, ‘thopters zoomed by in formation, performing daredevil aerial maneuvers. The audience applauded after each stunt, but Shaddam barely noticed, mulling over the problem of his bastard half brother.
He blew air across his lips and watched the intrusive spider swing in the sudden gust. The spider began to ascend its strand toward the awning.
You aren’t safe from me up there, he thought. Nothing escapes my wrath.
But he knew he deluded himself. The Spacing Guild, the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, the Landsraad, CHOAM— all of them had their own agendas and manipulations, tying his hands and blindfolding him, preventing him from ruling the Known Universe as an Emperor should.
Damn their control over me! How had his Corrino predecessors allowed such a
sorry state of affairs to develop? It had been this way for centuries.
The Emperor reached up and squashed the spider before it could return and bite him.
An individual takes on significance only in his relationship to society as a whole.
— PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES,
An Arrakis Primer, written for his son Liet
The slithering leviathan rushed across the dunes with a scouring sound that reminded Liet-Kynes, incongruously, of a ribbon-thin cascade of fresh water. Kynes had seen the artificial waterfalls on Kaitain, constructed in pointless decadence.
Under the hot yellow sun, he and a group of loyal men rode atop one of the towering sandworms. Skilled Fremen sandriders had called the beast, mounted it, and pried open its ring segments with spreaders. High on the worm’s sloped head, Liet held on to ropes to maintain his position.
The creature raced across the trackless sands toward Red Wall Sietch, where Liet’s lovely wife Faroula would be waiting for him, and where the Fremen Council would be eager to hear his news. Disappointing news. Emperor Shaddam IV had been disappointing as a man, too, beyond even Liet’s worst fears.
Stilgar had greeted Liet at the Carthag Spaceport. They had traveled out into the open desert, away from the Shield Wall, beyond the prying eyes of Harkonnens. There, met by a small band of Fremen, Stilgar had planted a thumper whose resonating heartbeat rhythm attracted a worm. Using techniques known to Fremen since ancient days, they had captured it.
Liet had scrambled up the ropes with familiar moves, planting stakes to secure himself. He remembered the day he had become a sandrider as a youth, proving himself an adult of the tribe. Old Naib Heinar had watched in judgment. Back then, Liet had been terrified, but he had completed the ordeal.
Now, though riding a sandworm was every bit as dangerous, and never to be done lightly, he saw the unruly beast as a mode of transportation, a swift means to get him home.
Dune: House Corrino Page 4