Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [103]
Grabbing Doria by the material of her black singlesuit, Murbella dragged her closer to Bellonda and the red pool spreading around her body on the ground. “Do it! It is the only way you can make up for what you have done. It is the only way I will let you live.”
“What?” The dead woman’s eyes were already starting to grow glassy.
“Share. Do it now, or I’ll kill you myself and Share with both of you!”
Bending over the warm corpse, Doria grudgingly placed her forehead against her opponent’s. She fought back her disgust and revulsion. In a matter of seconds, Bellonda’s life began pouring into her own, filling her with all the secret vitriol that this vile woman had felt for her, along with her thoughts and experiences and all of the Other Memories lodged deep in her awareness. Soon Doria possessed all of the disgusting data that made up her rival.
She could not move until the process was complete. Finally, she tumbled backward onto the hard pavement. Silent and growing cold, Bellonda wore a maddening, oddly victorious smile on her thick, dead lips.
“You will carry her with you always,” Murbella said. “Honored Matres have a long tradition of promotion through assassination. Your own actions gave you this job, so accept it . . . a fitting Bene Gesserit punishment.”
Rising to her knees, Doria looked in anguish at the Mother Commander. Feeling dirty and violated, she wanted to vomit and disgorge the intrusion, but that was impossible.
“Henceforth, you are the sole Spice Operations Director. All sandworm functions are your responsibility, so you’ll have to work twice as hard. Do not disappoint me again, as you did today.”
A woman’s deep voice surfaced inside Doria’s head, annoying and taunting. I know you don’t want my old job, said Bellonda-within, and you’re not qualified to accomplish it. You will need to consult with me constantly for advice, and I may not always talk to you nicely. Baritone laughter filled Doria’s skull.
“Shut up!” Doria glared vindictively at the corpse that lay at the foot of the still-cooling ’thopter.
Murbella remained cold to her. “You should have tried harder before. It would have been much easier for you.” She scowled in disgust at the scene. “Now clean up this mess and prepare her for burial. Listen to Bellonda—she will tell you her wishes.” The Mother Commander marched away and left Doria alone with her inescapable new inner partner.
One must always keep the tools of statecraft sharp and ready. Power and fear—sharp and ready.
—BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN,
the original, 10,191 B.G.
B
ack again in the laboratories of Bandalong, enduring the nerve-wracking daily grind, Uxtal stood before the grossly pregnant axlotl tank. The nine-year-old child beside him stared with an intense, unsettling fascination. “That’s how I was born?”
“Not quite. That is how you were grown.”
“Disgusting.”
“You think that’s disgusting? You should see how natural humans procreate.” Uxtal could barely keep the revulsion from his voice.
The air smelled of chemicals, disinfectants, and cinnamon. The skin of the tank pulsed gently. Uxtal found it both hypnotic and repellent. To be working with the axlotl tanks again, growing another ghola for the Face Dancers, at least he felt like a real Tleilaxu speaking the Language of God—somebody important! It was more fulfilling than just creating fresh drugs for the constantly demanding whores. After two years of preparation and effort—and more than one time-consuming mistake—he would be ready for the next vital ghola to be decanted within a month.
Then, maybe they would leave him alone. But he doubted it. Khrone seemed to be running out of patience, as if he guessed that the delays might have been caused by Uxtal’s bumbling and ineptitude.
Matre Superior Hellica was obviously not pleased that the Lost Tleilaxu researcher would take his attentions from the production of the orange spice substitute, but she had granted him another axlotl tank with only halfhearted complaints. Uxtal wondered what kind of hold the Face Dancers had