He had the remnants of his fortune, still a good deal of money. He had the complete freedom of movement afforded to one whom the Imperium thought dead. And now he had nothing to lose.
I am a scorpion under a rock. Now that my half brother has disturbed me, he had better beware of my sting.
Either by design or by some repellent accident of evolution, the Tleilaxu display no admirable qualities. They are abhorrent to look upon. They are generally deceptive, perhaps as part of a genetic imprint. They exude a peculiar odor, like the foul smell of disgusting, rotting food. Because I have had direct dealings with them, perhaps my analysis is not sufficiently objective. But of one fact there can be no doubt: They are extremely dangerous.
— THUFIR HAWAT, ATREIDES SECURITY COMMANDER
Inside a white capsule-car approaching the research pavilion, Hidar Fen Ajidica popped another lozenge into his mouth and chewed it. Such a vile flavor, but necessary to treat his phobia of being underground. He swallowed repeatedly to dissipate the taste, and longed for the glorious sunlight of Thalim that warmed the sacred city of Bandalong.
But as soon as he escaped here, Ajidica would have his own worlds filled with faithful, devout subjects, pursuant to the revelations he had received. His race had strayed from the sacred path, but he would put them back on it. I am the one true Messenger of God.
On its track, the capsule approached a wall of armor-plaz windows. Through them, he glimpsed the Sardaukar installations that provided security for the complex. Their rigorous protocols kept prying eyes away and permitted Ajidica to perform his work.
The capsule came to a stop without incident, and he took a creaking lift tube down to the main level. After decades of necessary purges, finding technicians qualified to work on complex technology had become exceedingly difficult. The Master Researcher had always preferred simpler systems, where fewer things could go wrong.
He heard the lift doors clunk shut behind him. A pale-skinned man lumbered up to the lift tube, his face smashed in, his broken body poorly reassembled onto a machine-puppet form. These bi-Ixians were one of Ajidica’s own developments, a creative diversion that enabled him to utilize the bodies of executed interrogation victims. Ah, efficiency!
The horrific marionettes served to warn the restive population against rebellion. The monstrosities also performed mundane tasks: cleaning up, disposing of toxic wastes and chemicals. Unfortunately, the hybrid creatures failed to function reliably, but he kept making changes to improve them.
Ajidica passed through a bioscanner doorway that identified him by his cellular structure, then entered a room the size of a spacecraft hangar— where the new axlotl tanks were kept.
White-smocked laboratory assistants worked at instrument-laden tables. They glanced nervously at him and increased the intensity of their efforts. The air smelled metallic, scrubbed-clean with chemicals and disinfectants… and over it all hung a thick and distinctive cinnamon scent, reminiscent of melange.
Amal.
Coffin-sized containers held fertile women, their higher brain functions destroyed, their reflexes and senses shut down. Axlotl tanks. Nothing more than bloated wombs. Biological factories far more sophisticated than any machine ever built by a human hand.
Even back on their primary worlds, the Bene Tleilax grew their gholas and Face Dancers inside these “tanks.” No one had ever seen a Tleilaxu woman— because none existed. Any mature female was converted into an axlotl tank, and was used to reproduce the chosen race.
For years, the Tleilaxu had quietly harvested women from the captive Ixian populace. Many thousands had died so that Ajidica could modify them to produce new substances that were biochemically similar to melange. Using the subtle language of genetics and mutations, these axlotl tanks exuded amal, and finally, ajidamal— the Master Researcher’s secret of secrets.
He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the bodies, an unpleasant female odor. Tubes and wires linked each fleshy, turgid container to pulsing diagnostic instruments. He no longer saw the axlotl tanks as human; even in the beginning, they had only been women.
At the center of the room, two research assistants moved aside as Ajidica approached a special tank, the enhanced womb of a captured spy— the Bene Gesserit Miral Alechem. When caught attempting an act of sabotage, she had resisted divulging any information, even under severe torture. But the Master Researcher had known methods of extracting the truth before converting her to his own purposes. And, to his delight, Miral proved to have more capability as an axlotl tank than any of the Ixian stock.
After so much time, the witch’s skin had taken on an orange cast. A receptacle connected to her neck contained a liter of clear liquid, her newly synthesized product. When pumped through her Bene Gesserit systems, the amal she exuded was different from that produced by any other tank. Ajidamal!
“Miral Alechem, we have a mystery. How can I adapt the other tanks to accomplish what you do?” Her flat, spiritless eyes flickered slightly, and deep within their pupils he thought he detected terror and unbridled rage. But with her vocal cords dead and her mind lost, she could not respond. Thanks to Tleilaxu technology, this womb could be forced to live for centuries. With her mind destroyed, even suicide was impossible for her.
Soon, when he and his Face Dancer minions departed from Xuttuh, Ajidica would take this valuable axlotl tank to a safe planet. Perhaps he could obtain a few more Bene Gesserit captives to see if something about them made the best tanks. For now, he had only this one, and through stimulants he had already pumped up her production levels as high as possible.
Ajidica clipped an extraction device to the receptacle and drained the liter of synthetic spice into a container, which he took with him. For several days now he had ingested a great deal of ajidamal and experienced no deleterious aftereffects, only pleasant sensations. So, he intended to take more. Much more.
Pulse racing, he hurried into his office and sealed the identity screens and defensive systems behind him. Dropping into a chairdog, he waited for the mindless, sedentary animal to conform to his body. Finally, he tilted his head back and gulped the warm, slick ajidamal, fresh from the flow of Alechem’s body, like milk from a cow. He had never before consumed so much at once.
A sudden, violent fit of coughing came over him, and his stomach tried to cast out the substance in an acid upheaval. Spilling the rest of the container onto the floor, he rolled out of the twitching chairdog and doubled over. His face contorted; muscles stretched and tore. Yellow fluids poured from his mouth, vile-smelling food remnants. But his system had already absorbed the fast-acting substance.
He tumbled into euphoric convulsions that escalated until he longed for the welcome serenity of unconsciousness. Had the Bene Gesserit witch poisoned him? He clung to a furious need for revenge. With fierce Tleilaxu methods, he was sure he could make even a dreaming axlotl tank feel pain.
Countless agony-infused moments passed, until he felt a shift in the microcosm that made up his tortured mind and body. The distress diminished, or perhaps his nerves had already been burned into cinders.
Surfacing from the nightmarish misery, Ajidica opened his eyes. He found himself on the floor of his office, with shigawire spools, filmbooks, and sample trays scattered and broken around him, as if he had flown into a mindless frenzy. The chairdog cowered in the corner, its fur ragged and pliable bones twisted and torn. The stench of his bile was overwhelming; even his body and clothes reeked. Nearby, an overturned chronometer revealed that an entire day had passed.
I should be hungry or thirsty. The stench robbed him of any such inclination, but not the rage that had kept him alive. With his long-fingered hands, he located the flat shard of a broken tray and scooped up a sample of his own vomit, which had coagulated into bead-shaped chunks.
As he hurried back onto the lab floor, Sardaukar guards and research assistants gave him a wide berth. Despite his high status, they wrinkled their noses as he passed.
He marched straight to the Miral Alechem tank, int
ending to hurl the bile into her face and inflict her with unimaginable indignities, though she would never know what was happening. The tank’s large female eyes stared dispassionately, without focus.
With a sudden rush, new sensations and thoughts washed through his mind, an alien experience that blasted open mental blockades he had not even known existed. Vast quantities of data poured through his brain.
A side effect of the overdose of ajidamal? He saw the axlotl tanks around him in a new light. For the first time, he realized clearly that he could link every one of the tanks to the Alechem unit, so that all of them would produce the precious substance. With clear insight he saw how it could all fit together, and what adjustments he would need to make.
Off to one side he noticed laboratory technicians watching with their dark little eyes, whispering among themselves. Several of them skittered away, but he shouted, “Come over here! Immediately!”
Though clearly alarmed at the bloodshot madness in his eyes, they complied. With just an assessing glance, as if each new thought were a revelation, Ajidica realized that two of these scientists would be better suited to other duties. How could he not have noticed this before? The tiniest remembered actions came to him now, petite perceptions he had been too busy to notice previously. Now it all signified something. Amazing!
For the first time in his life, Ajidica’s eyes were completely open. His mind could now chronicle every action he’d seen, every word these men had uttered in his presence. All of the information lined up in his mind, as if he were a pre-Butlerian computer.
More data streamed into his brain through open floodgates, bits and pieces from every person Ajidica had ever met. He remembered everything. But how was this happening, and why? The ajidamal!
An enlightening passage from the Sufi-Buddislamic Credo came to him: To achieve s’tori no understanding is needed. S’tori exists without words, without even a name. It had all happened in an instant, a glimmer of cosmic time.
Ajidica no longer noticed the odor or taste of his own bile, for that was on a physical plane, and he had attained a higher state of consciousness. The large dose of artificial spice had opened untapped regions of his mind.
In a blinding new vision, he beheld the path to his own eternal salvation, by the grace of God. He was now more convinced than ever that he would lead the Bene Tleilax to holy glory— at least those worth saving. Anyone who thought differently would die.
“Master Ajidica,” a tremulous voice said, “are you feeling well?”
Opening his eyes, he saw research assistants hovering around him, showing concern mixed with fear. Only one man had found the nerve to speak up. Using his heightened powers of observation, Ajidica knew that this was a person who could be trusted, one who would serve well in his new regime.
Rising to his feet, still holding the chunks of vomit on the shard of broken tray, Ajidica said, “You are Blin, third assistant operator of tank fifty-seven.”
“That is correct, Master. Do you require medical assistance?”
“We must perform God’s work,” Ajidica said.
Blin bowed. “So I learned at an early age.” He appeared confused, but from his body language Ajidica could tell that he wanted desperately to please his superior. With a smile that revealed sharp teeth, Ajidica said, “Hereafter you are second-in-command of my research facility, reporting only to me.”
Blin’s dark eyes blinked in surprise. He squared his shoulders. “I will serve in any capacity you command, sir.”
Hearing a gasp of displeasure from one of the other scientists, Ajidica hurled the sample of bile at the man. “You. Clean my office, and replace everything that’s broken. You have four hours to complete the work. If you fail, it will be Blin’s first assignment to fit you with an apparatus to make you the first male axlotl tank.”
Consumed with terror, the man hurried away.
Ajidica smiled down at Miral Alechem, a motionless hulk of repulsive naked flesh in a coffin-shaped container. Despite his enhanced abilities, he could not be certain if the Bene Gesserit spy had truly attempted to harm him, even with her buried subconscious. She did not seem aware of anything.
Now Ajidica knew that God was watching over him, a mighty presence that guided him on the path to the Great Belief— the only true path. His destiny was clear.
Despite the pain he had suffered, the overdose had been a blessing.
One can never separate politics from the economics of melange. They have walked hand in hand throughout Imperial history.
— SHADDAM CORRINO IV, PRELIMINARY MEMOIRS
An excited spotter in Red Wall Sietch summoned Liet-Kynes to the hidden observation post high on the rugged ridge. He ascended through perilous shafts and hidden cracks, finding hand- and toeholds until he reached an exposed ledge. The air smelled like burned gunpowder.
“I see a man approaching, even in the heat of day.” The spotter was a grinning boy with a weak chin and an eager smile. “Someone alone.”
Intrigued, Liet followed the wiry, wide-eyed youth into the dry heat. Thermal currents shimmered from the red-and-black lava buttresses that thrust like a citadel from the dunes.
“I have summoned Stilgar as well.” The spotter was full of anticipation.
“Good. Stil has the best eyes among us.” Instinctively, Liet inserted plugs into his nostrils; his stillsuit was new, replacing the one the Emperor’s guards had clumsily ruined.
Liet shaded his eyes from the glare of the lemon-yellow sky and stared across the undulating ocean of sand. “I am surprised Shai-Hulud hasn’t taken him.” He discerned a tiny speck, a moving figure that appeared no larger than an insect. “ ’The lone man in the desert is a dead man.’ ”
“That one may be a fool, Liet, but he is not dead yet.”
Turning at the voice, he saw Stilgar approaching from behind. The hawkish man knew how to move with silence and grace.
“Should we go help him? Or kill him?” The spotter’s piping voice was emotionless, trying to impress these two great men. “We can take his water for the tribe.”
Stilgar extended a sinewy hand, and the boy passed him an oft-repaired set of binoculars that had once belonged to Planetologist Pardot Kynes. Liet suspected the desert wanderer might be a lost member of a Harkonnen troop, an exiled villager, or some idiotic prospector.
After focusing the delicate oil lenses, Stilgar reacted with surprise. “He moves like a Fremen. Walks without pattern, his steps irregular.” He increased the magnification, then lowered the binoculars. “It is Turok, and he is either injured or exhausted.”
Liet reacted immediately. “Stilgar, summon a rescue party. Go save him if you can. I would rather have his story than his water.”
* * *
When they brought Turok in, his stillsuit was torn, his shoulder and right arm wounded, though the blood had coagulated. He had lost his left temag boot, causing the stillsuit pumps to cease functioning. Though he’d just been given water, Turok had reached the limit of human endurance. He lay back on a cool stone table, but his skin had a dusty cast, as if he had exhausted all the spare moisture that a Fremen carried.
“You walked during the day, Turok,” Liet said. “Why would you do something so foolish?”
“No choice.” Turok took another sip of the water that Stilgar offered. A little of it ran down his dusty chin, but he caught it on a forefinger and licked it. Every drop was precious. “My stillsuit no longer functioned. I knew I was close to Red Wall Sietch, but no one would have seen me after dark. I had to hope that you would come to investigate.”
“You will live to fight Harkonnens again,” Stilgar said.
“I did not survive merely to fight.” Turok spoke with deathly fatigue. His lips were cracked and bleeding, but he refused more water. He described what had happened on the spice harvester, how Harkonnen troops had lifted off the cargo and then abandoned the crew and equipment to the sandworm.
“The spice they took will be listed as lost,” Liet said, shaking his head
. “Shaddam is so wrapped up with silly concerns for protocol and the garments of power that it is easy to trick him. I have seen it with my own eyes.”
“For every stockpile we capture, like the one at Hadith Sietch, the Baron creates another.” Stilgar looked from Turok to Liet, not liking the implication of what he was thinking. “Should we report this to Count Fenring, or send a message to the Emperor?”
“I will have nothing further to do with Kaitain, Stil.” Liet didn’t even write new reports; he would simply keep sending old documents that his father had written decades before. Shaddam would never notice. “This is a Fremen problem. We do not seek the help of off-worlders.”
“I was hoping you would say that,” Stilgar said, his eyes brightening like those of a carrion bird.
Turok accepted more water now. Faroula appeared and quietly brought the haggard man a bowl of thick, soothing herbal ointment for his sunburns. After wiping exposed areas with a damp cloth, she began to rub the cream into his skin. Liet looked at his wife fondly, watching her ministrations. Faroula was the best healer in the sietch.
She returned his glance, a confident promise of secrets to be shared later. He had fought hard to win the heart of his beautiful wife. Despite the passion they felt for one another, Fremen tradition forced a man and a woman to keep any expression of it behind the hangings of cave chambers. In public, they led almost separate lives.
“The Harkonnens are growing more aggressive— so we must unite in our resistance.” Liet’s mind returned to business matters. “We Fremen are a great people, scattered on the winds. Summon the sandriders to the speaking cave. I will dispatch them to other sietches to announce a grand convocation. All Naibs, elders, and fighting men will attend. In the name of my father, Umma Kynes, this will be a momentous gathering of Fremen.”
Dune: House Corrino Page 11