Heretics of Dune dc-5

by Frank Herbert

  An addict of some kind? Teg wondered. There was no smell of the familiar narcotics around him, not even melange. There was a tart smell, though, almost like some fruit.

  "There you are, Solitz!" Muzzafar said. He gestured at Teg. "Give him a good scan. Stunner hit him day before yesterday."

  Solitz produced a recognizable Suk scanner, compact and fitting into one hand. Its probe field produced a low hum.

  "So you're a Suk doctor," Teg said, looking pointedly at the orange brand on the forehead.

  "Yes, Bashar. My training and conditioning are the finest in our ancient tradition."

  "I've never seen the identifying mark in that color," Teg said.

  The doctor passed his scanner around Teg's head. "The color of the tattoo makes no difference, Bashar. What is behind it is all that matters." He lowered the scanner to Teg's shoulders, then down across the body.

  Teg waited for the humming to stop.

  The doctor stood back and addressed Muzzafar: "He is quite fit, Field Marshal. Remarkably fit, considering his age, but he desperately needs sustenance."

  "Yes... well, that's fine then, Solitz. Take care of that. The Bashar is our guest."

  "I will order a meal suited to his needs," Solitz said. "Eat it slowly, Bashar." Solitz did a smart about-face that set his jacket and trousers flapping. The tube slot swallowed him.

  "Field Marshal?" Teg asked.

  "A revival of ancient titles in the Dur," Muzzafar said.

  "The Dur?" Teg ventured.

  "Stupid of me!" Muzzafar produced a small case from a side pocket of his jacket and extracted a thin folder. Teg recognized a holostat similar to one he had carried himself during his long service - pictures of home and family. Muzzafar placed the holostat on the table between them and tapped the control button.

  The full-color image of a bushy green expanse of jungle came alive in miniature above the tabletop.

  "Home," Muzzafar said. "Frame bush in the center there." A finger indicated a place in the projection. "First one that ever obeyed me. People laughed at me for choosing the first one that way and sticking with it."

  Teg stared at the projection, aware of a deep sadness in Muzzafar's voice. The indicated bush was a spindly grouping of thin limbs with bright blue bulbs dangling from the tips.

  Frame bush?

  "Rather thin thing, I know," Muzzafar said, removing his pointing finger from the projection. "Not secure at all. Had to defend myself a few times in the first months with it. Grew rather fond of it, though. They respond to that, you know. It's the best home in all the deep valleys now, by the Eternal Rock of Dur!"

  Muzzafar stared at Teg's puzzled expression. "Damn! You don't have frame bushes, of course. You must forgive my crashing ignorance. We've a great deal to teach each other, I think."

  "You called that home," Teg said.

  "Oh, yes. With proper direction, once they learn to obey, of course, a frame bush will grow itself into a magnificent residence. It only takes four or five standards."

  Standards, Teg thought. So the Lost Ones still used the Standard Year.

  The tube slot hissed and a young woman in a blue serving gown backed into the room towing a suspensor-buoyed hotpod, which she positioned near the table in front of Teg. Her clothing was of the type Teg had seen during his original inspection but the pleasantly round face she turned to him was unfamiliar. Her scalp had been depilated, leaving an expanse of prominent veins. Her eyes were watery blue and there was something cowed in her posture. She opened the hotpod and the spicy odors of the food wafted across Teg's nostrils.

  Teg was alerted but he sensed no immediate threat. He could see himself eating the food without ill effect.

  The young woman put a row of dishes on to the table in front of him and arranged the eating implements neatly at one side.

  "I've no snooper, but I'll taste the foods if you wish," Muzzafar said.

  "Not necessary," Teg said. He knew this would raise questions but felt they would suspect him of being a Truthsayer. Teg's gaze locked onto the food. Without any conscious decision, he leaned forward and began eating. Familiar with Mentat-hunger, he was surprised at his own reactions. Using the brain in Mentat mode consumed calories at an alarming rate, but this was a new necessity driving him. He felt his own survival controlling his actions. This hunger went beyond anything of previous experience. The soup he had eaten with some caution at the house of the ruined man had not aroused such a demanding reaction.

  The Suk doctor chose correctly, Teg thought. This food had been selected directly out of the scanner's summation.

  The young woman kept bringing more dishes from hotpods ordered via the tube slot.

  Teg had to get up in the middle of the meal and relieve himself in an adjoining washroom, conscious there of the hidden comeyes that were keeping him under surveillance. He knew by his physical reactions that his digestive system had speeded up to a new level of bodily necessity. When he returned to the table, he felt just as hungry as though he had not eaten.

  The serving woman began to show signs of surprise and then alarm. Still, she kept bringing more food at his demand. Muzzafar watched with growing amazement but said nothing.

  Teg felt the supportive replacement of the food, the precise caloric adjustment that the Suk doctor had ordered. They obviously had not thought about quantity, though. The girl obeyed his demands in a kind of walking shock.

  Muzzafar spoke finally. "Must say I've never before seen anyone eat that much at one sitting. Can't see how you do it. Nor why."

  Teg sat back, satisfied at last, knowing he had aroused questions that could not be answered truthfully.

  "A Mentat thing," Teg lied. "I've been through a very strenuous time."

  "Amazing," Muzzafar said. He arose.

  When Teg started to stand, Muzzafar gestured for him to remain. "No need. We've prepared quarters for you right next door. Safer not to move you yet."

  The young woman departed with the empty hotpods.

  Teg studied Muzzafar. Something had changed during the meal. Muzzafar watched him with a coldly measuring stare.

  "You've an implanted communicator," Teg said. "You have received new orders."

  "It would not be advisable for your friends to attack this place," Muzzafar said.

  "You think that's my plan?"

  "What is your plan, Bashar?"

  Teg smiled.

  "Very well." Muzzafar's gaze went out of focus as he listened to his communicator. When he once more concentrated on Teg, his gaze had the look of a predator. Teg felt himself buffeted by that gaze, recognizing that someone else was coming to this room. The Field Marshal thought of this new development as something extremely dangerous to his dinner guest but Teg saw nothing that could defeat his new abilities.

  "You think I am your prisoner," Teg said.

  "By the Eternal Rock, Bashar! You are not what I expected!"

  "The Honored Matre who is coming, what does she expect?" Teg asked.

  "Bashar, I warn you: Do not take that tone with her. You have not the slightest concept of what is about to happen to you."

  "An Honored Matre is about to happen to me," Teg said.

  "And I wish you well of her!"

  Muzzafar pivoted and left via the tube slot.

  Teg stared after him. He could see the flickering of second vision like a light blinking around the tube slot. The Honored Matre was near but not yet ready to enter this room. First, she would consult with Muzzafar. The Field Marshal would not be able to tell this dangerous female anything really important.

  ***

  Memory never recaptures reality. Memory reconstructs. All reconstructions change the original, becoming external frames of reference that inevitably fall short.

  - Mentat Handbook

  Lucilla and Burzmali entered Ysai from the south into a lowerclass quarter with widely spaced streetlights. It lacked only an hour of midnight and yet people thronged the streets in this quarter. Some walked quietly, some chatted with d
rug-enhanced vigor, some only watched expectantly. They wadded up at the corners and held Lucilla's fascinated attention as she passed.

  Burzmali urged her to walk faster, an eager customer anxious to get her alone. Lucilla kept her covert attention on the people.

  What did they do here? Those men waiting in the doorway: For what did they wait? Workers in heavy aprons emerged from a wide passage as Lucilla and Burzmali passed. There was a thick smell of rank sewage and perspiration about them. The workers, almost equally divided between male and female, were tall, heavy-bodied and with thick arms. Lucilla could not imagine what their occupation might be but they were of a single type and they made her realize how little she knew of Gammu.

  The workers hawked and spat into the gutter as they emerged into the night. Ridding themselves of some contaminant?

  Burzmali put his mouth close to Lucilla's ear and whispered: "Those workers are the Bordanos."

  She risked a glance back at them where they walked toward a side street. Bordanos? Ahhh, yes: people trained and bred to work the compression machinery that harnessed sewer gases. They had been bred to remove the sense of smell and the musculature of shoulders and arms had been increased. Burzmali guided her around a corner and out of sight of the Bordanos.

  Five children emerged from a dark doorway beside them and wheeled into line following Lucilla and Burzmali. Lucilla noted their hands clutching small objects. They followed with a strange intensity. Abruptly, Burzmali stopped and turned. The children also stopped and stared at him. It was clear to Lucilla that the children were prepared for some violence.

  Burzmali clasped both hands in front of him and bowed to the children. He said: "Guldur!"

  When Burzmali resumed guiding her down the street, the children no longer followed.

  "They would have stoned us," he said.

  "Why?"

  "They are children of a sect that follows Guldur - the local name for the Tyrant."

  Lucilla looked back but the children were no longer in sight. They had set off in search of another victim.

  Burzmali guided her around another corner. Now, they were in a street crowded with small merchants selling their wares from wheeled stands - food, clothing, small tools, and knives. A singsong of shouts filled the air as the merchants tried to attract buyers. Their voices had that end of the workday lift - a false brilliance composed of the hope that old dreams would be fulfilled, yet colored by the knowledge that life would not change for them. It occurred to Lucilla that the people of these streets pursued a fleeting dream, that the fulfillment they sought was not the thing itself but a myth they had been conditioned to seek the way racing animals were trained to chase after the whirling bait on the endless oval of the racetrack.

  In the street directly ahead of them a burly figure in a thickly padded coat was engaged in loud-voiced argument with a merchant who offered a string bag filled with the dark red bulbs of a sweetly acid fruit. The fruit smell was thick all around them. The merchant complained: "You would steal the food from the mouths of my children!"

  The bulky figure spoke in a piping voice, the accent chillingly familiar to Lucilla: "I, too, have children!"

  Lucilla controlled herself with an effort.

  When they were clear of the market street, she whispered to Burzmali: "That man in the heavy coat back there - a Tleilaxu Master!"

  "Couldn't be," Burzmali protested. "Too tall."

  "Two of them, one on the shoulders of the other."

  "You're sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  "I've seen others like that since we arrived, but I didn't suspect."

  "Many searchers are in these streets," she said.

  Lucilla found that she did not much care for the everyday life of the gutter inhabitants on this gutter planet. She no longer trusted the explanation for bringing the ghola here. Of all those planets on which the precious ghola could have been raised, why had the Sisterhood chosen this one? Or was the ghola truly precious? Could it be that he was merely bait?

  Almost blocking the narrow mouth of an alley beside them was a man plying a tall device of whirling lights.

  "Live!" he shouted. "Live!"

  Lucilla slowed her pace to watch a passerby step into the alleyway and pass a coin to the proprietor, then lean into a concave basin made brilliant by the lights. The proprietor stared back at Lucilla. She saw a man with a narrow dark face, the face of a Caladanian primitive on a body only slightly taller than that of a Tleilaxu Master. There had been a look of contempt on his brooding face as he took the customer's money.

  The customer lifted his face from the basin with a shudder and then left the alley, staggering slightly, his eyes glazed.

  Lucilla recognized the device. Users called it a hypnobong and it was outlawed on all of the more civilized worlds.

  Burzmali hurried her out of the view of the brooding hypnobong proprietor.

  They came to a wider side street with a corner doorway set into the building across from them. Foot traffic all around; not a vehicle in sight. A tall man sat on the first step in the corner doorway, his knees drawn up close to his chin. His long arms were wrapped around his knees, the thin-fingered hands clasped tightly together. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat that shaded his face from the streetlights, but twin gleams from the shadows under that brim told Lucilla that this was no kind of human she had ever before encountered. This was something about which the Bene Gesserit had only speculated.

  Burzmali waited until they were well away from the seated figure before satisfying her curiosity.

  "Futar," he whispered. "That's what they call themselves. They've only recently been seen here on Gammu."

  "A Tleilaxu experiment," Lucilla guessed. And she thought: a mistake that has returned from the Scattering. "What are they doing here?" she asked.

  "Trading colony, so the natives here tell us."

  "Don't you believe it. Those are hunting animals that have been crossed with humans."

  "Ahhh, here we are," Burzmali said.

  He guided Lucilla through a narrow doorway into a dimly lighted eating establishment. This was part of their disguise, Lucilla knew: Do what others in this quarter did, but she did not relish eating in this place, not with what she could interpret from the smells.

  The place had been crowded but it was emptying as they entered.

  "This commerciel was recommended highly," Burzmali said as they seated themselves in a mechaslot and waited for the menu to be projected.

  Lucilla watched the departing customers. Night workers from nearby factories and offices, she guessed. They appeared anxious in their hurry, perhaps fearful of what might be done to them if they were tardy.

  How insulated she had been at the Keep, she thought. She did not like what she was learning of Gammu. What a scruffy place this commerciel was! The stools at the counter to her right had been scarred and chipped. The tabletop in front of her had been scored and rubbed with gritty cleaners until it no longer could be kept clean by the vacusweep whose nozzle she could see near her left elbow. There was no sign of even the cheapest sonic to maintain cleanliness. Food and other evidence of deterioration had accumulated in the table's scratches. Lucilla shuddered. She could not avoid the feeling that it had been a mistake to separate from the ghola.

  The menu had been projected, she saw, and Burzmali already was scanning it.

  "I will order for you," he said.

  Burzmali's way of saying he did not want her to make a mistake by ordering something a woman of the Hormu might avoid.

  It galled her to feel dependent. She was a Reverend Mother! She was trained to take command in any situation, mistress of her own destiny. How tiring all of this was. She gestured at the dirty window on her left where people could be seen passing on the narrow street.

  "I am losing business while we dally, Skar."

  There! That was in character.

  Burzmali almost sighed. At last! he thought. She had begun to function once more as a Reverend Mother. He could not
understand her abstracted attitude, the way she looked at the city and its people.

  Two milky drinks slid from the slot onto the table. Burzmali drank his in one swallow. Lucilla tested her drink on the tip of her tongue, sorting the contents. An imitation caffiate diluted with a nut-flavored juice.

  Burzmali gestured upward with his chin for her to drink it quickly. She obeyed, concealing a grimace at the chemical flavors. Burzmali's attention was on something over her right shoulder but she dared not turn. That would be out of character.

  "Come." He placed a coin on the table and hurried her out into the street. He smiled the smile of an eager customer but there was wariness in his eyes.

  The tempo of the streets had changed. There were fewer people. The shadowy doors conveyed a deeper sense of menace. Lucilla reminded herself that she was supposed to represent a powerful guild whose members were immune to the common violence of the gutter. The few people on the street did make way for her, eyeing the dragons of her robe with every appearance of awe.

  Burzmali stopped at a doorway.

  It was like the others along this street, set back slightly from the walkway, so tall that it appeared narrower than it actually was. An old-fashioned security beam guarded the entrance. None of the newer systems had penetrated to the slum, apparently. The streets themselves were testimony to that: designed for groundcars. She doubted that there was a roofpad in the entire area. No sign of flitters or,'thopters could be heard or seen. There was music, though - a faint susurration reminiscent of semuta. Something new in semuta addiction? This would certainly be an area where addicts would go to ground.

  Lucilla looked up at the face of the building as Burzmali moved ahead of her and made their presence known by breaking the doorway beam.

  There were no windows in the building's face. Only the faint glitterings of surface 'eyes here and there in the dull sheen of ancient plasteel. They were old-fashioned comeyes, she noted, much bigger than modern ones.