Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [144]
Uxtal considered his solution quite innovative. He didn’t care about these gholas, or how many he might have to use up before he gained the necessary information. He only needed one to survive, and to awaken.
At any other time, he might have felt important, a vital asset, but neither the Honored Matres nor the Navigator seemed to respect him. Perhaps Uxtal should demand respect and insist on better treatment. He could refuse to do any more work. He could demand his due . . . .
“Stop daydreaming, little man,” Ingva snapped.
He nearly jumped out of his skin and looked quickly away. “Yes, Ingva. I am concentrating. Very delicate work.” She can’t kill me! She knows it.
“No mistakes,” the sinewy crone warned.
“No mistakes. Perfect work.” He was far too frightened to make a mistake.
He shuddered to think of the old Waff copies, brain-dead and strapped to inclined tables. Sperm factories. His own situation, while hellish, could have been far worse. Yes, it could have been worse. He tried to summon a hopeful smile, but could not find one within him.
Ingva slithered up behind him and peered down at the axlotl tank that had once been an injured Honored Matre. “You breathe on them too much. Could contaminate them. Frighten the fetuses.”
“The tanks require close monitoring.” Despite his struggles to contain his fear, his voice came out in a squeak.
She pressed her shriveled body against him, attempting Honored Matre seductive techniques, though her body was like twisted wreckage. “It’s such a waste that the Matre Superior has refused to bond you. If Hellica does not want you, then it is time to make you my own toy.”
“She—she would not like that, Ingva. I promise you.” He felt nauseated.
“Hellica will not be Matre Superior forever. Someone might assassinate her any day now. Meanwhile, I could make you work harder, little man. That would gain me great respect, increase my position of power, no matter what happens.”
Fortunately, a commotion and a thick smell cut through the chemical odors in the axlotl labs, distracting Ingva. A dirty man clad in dirty clothes pushed a dirty cart along the sterile hall, his eyes cast down. “Your delivery of slig meat,” called the downtrodden farmer. “Freshly slaughtered, still bloody!”
Ingva released Uxtal and stalked off toward the man, turning her ire on him. “We expected you an hour ago. The slaves need time to prepare our feast for tonight.” No longer interested in Uxtal, Ingva went to tend to the meat. He shuddered, trying to keep the look of revulsion and relief from his face.
The human mind is not a puzzle to be solved but a treasure chest for us to open. If we cannot pick the lock, then we must smash it apart. Either way, the riches inside will be ours.
—KHRONE,
communiqué to the Face Dancers
A
cold rainstorm swept in over the oceans of Caladan. Waves crashed against rugged black rocks far below the restored castle. The local fishermen had brought in their boats and tied them to the docks, then huddled at home with their families. In the dim shadows of cultural memory, their Caladanian ancestors had loved their duke, but they did not hold the same reverence for the strangers who had rebuilt the ancient edifice and moved in.
The castle’s plaz windows were sealed against the storm’s intensity. Dehumidifiers scoured the ever-present clamminess from the air. Thermal generators operated behind blazing holographic fires, warming the temperature to a comfortable level.
Within a stone-walled chamber lit by fiery artificial light, Khrone laid out the instruments of torture and summoned the Baron ghola. Young Paolo was safe in his own quarters in another village,