Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [145]
The horrifically augmented emissaries from the outside masters stood against one of the stone walls, observing, recording. Their faces were pasty except for scarlet patches of raw flesh and unhealed wounds that held tubes and implants. The machinery made a distracting gurgle and hiss. The observers had been here, always observing Khrone and his pet project, for years. Each day, he expected one of them to break down and fall apart, but the patchwork people remained unchanged, watching, waiting.
He would show them a success today.
Three Face Dancer assistants escorted the haughty young ghola. In the guise of guards, they chose to appear as muscular brutes who could snap a neck with two fingers. Young Vladimir’s hair was mussed, as if he had been dragged out of a restless sleep. With a bored expression, he looked around the stone-walled chamber. “I’m hungry.”
“Better you don’t eat. Less chance of vomiting,” Khrone said. “Then again, one additional bodily fluid, more or less, won’t make much difference by the end of the day.”
Vladimir shrugged off the burly Face Dancer guards. His eyes flicked from side to side, suspicious, confrontational. When he saw the chains, the table, and the torture devices, the ghola smiled in anticipation. Khrone gestured to the equipment. “These are for you.”
Vladimir’s eyes lit up. “Am I to learn flaying techniques today? Or something less messy?”
“You will be the victim.”
Before the boy could react, the guards dragged him over to the table. Khrone expected to see a look of panic on the round face. Instead of cursing, howling, or struggling, the young boy snapped, “How am I to trust that you know what you’re doing? Or that you won’t mess it up?”
Khrone’s face formed a gentle, paternal smile. “I am a fast learner.”
The patchwork emissaries from Outside exchanged glances, then continued to watch Vladimir, silently absorbing every instant. Khrone expected to put on a good show for their distant masters. The muscular guards strapped the young man’s arms securely in place, then manacled his ankles.
“Not so tightly that he can’t thrash and writhe,” Khrone instructed. “That could be an important part of the process.”
Vladimir raised his head and turned toward the smiling Khrone. “Will you tell me what you intend to do? Or is guessing part of the game?”
“The Face Dancers have decided that it is time to awaken your memories.”
“Good. I was growing impatient.” This ghola had an uncanny knack for saying the unexpected to disorient anyone who might try to gain the upper hand. His very eagerness might be an obstacle to triggering a sufficient crisis.
“My masters also demand it,” Khrone continued for the benefit of the emissaries who stood against the wall. “We created you for one purpose only. You must have your memories, you must be the Baron before you can serve that purpose.”
Vladimir chuckled. “Why should I bother?”
“It is a task to which you are eminently suited.”
“Then how do you know I’ll want to do it?”
“We will make you want to do it. Have no fear.”
Vladimir laughed again as a thicker band was strapped around his chest. Long needle spikes bit into his flesh to encourage the pain, and Khrone cinched it tighter. “I’m not afraid.”
“We can change that.” Khrone gestured, and his Face Dancer assistants brought forth the Agony Box.
He knew from the old Tleilaxu that pain was a necessary component in restoring a ghola’s memories. As a Face Dancer with precise and intimate knowledge of the human body’s nervous system and pain centers, Khrone felt he was up to the task.
“Do your worst!” The boy let out a throaty chuckle.
“On the contrary, I will do my best.”
The Box was an ancient device used by the Bene Gesserit for provocation and testing. Its flat faces were engraved with incomprehensible symbols, jagged grooves, and complex patterns. “This will force you to explore yourself.” Khrone slipped Vladimir’s pale, twitching hand into the opening. “It contains agony, in its purest form.”
“I can’t wait.