Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [173]
But in all those years since . . .
The corridor’s glowpanels were bright. The breathy white noise of air-recirculation systems was the only sound Duncan could hear except for the pounding of his own heart.
Before he could think too much, forsaking his Mentat ability to project possible consequences, he applied his thumbprint ID and deactivated the nullentropy field. The storage locker opened with a faint exhalation of adjusting atmospheric pressures. And with it came Murbella’s smell, like a slap across his face . . . as if she were here, in front of him.
Even after nineteen years, her scent was as fresh as if he had just held her. Her garments and other personal articles carried that unmistakable fragrance that was so essentially her. He pulled out the items one by one, a loose tunic, a soft towel, the pair of comfortable leggings she often wore when they engaged in combat practice in the training room. He touched each one with a nervous caution, as if afraid he might find hidden knives there.
Duncan had gathered these items and hidden them in storage very soon after escaping from Chapterhouse. He had not wanted to see traces of Murbella in his personal quarters or in the training rooms. He had sealed them away because he couldn’t bear to destroy them. Even then, he had realized the chains she had on him.
Now, he looked at the collar of a rumpled tunic and, as he had hoped, saw a few loose strands of dark amber hair, like fine wires spun from precious metal. And at the end of each strand the pale root. He hoped he had stored these items in time, so many years ago.
Viable cells.
Duncan realized he wasn’t breathing. He looked at the strands of loose hair and let his eyes fall closed, intentionally blocking the automatic Mentat trance. The idea was an impossible temptation to him.
It had been years since another ghola baby had been created, though the axlotl tanks remained functional. Sheeana’s disturbing vision dream had forced her to call a halt to the project. Nevertheless, they had the capability of growing any ghola they wished. The tanks weren’t being used right now. He had every right to consider this, after all he’d done for the people aboard the Ithaca.
He picked up one of Murbella’s loose tunics, brought it to his nose and inhaled a long breath. What did he really want?
Duncan had distracted himself with enough duties and problems that her ghost image had faded back into his subconscious. He had thought he was over her. But his obsessive thinking about Murbella had nearly made him lose the ship to the old man and woman several years ago, and only Teg’s quick instincts had saved them.
If I hadn’t been distracted, preoccupied . . . obsessed! His mistake had almost cost them their freedom. Murbella was dangerous. He had to let her go. Duncan would not allow his weakness to endanger them again.
But when he’d remembered these items in nullentropy storage, when the idea occurred to him that it was possible—possible—to have another Murbella, it was like touching a hot flame to dry tinder.
If he could gather the courage—and ignore his own rational reservations—he could talk to the Tleilaxu Master about the process before Sheeana and the others returned from the planet of the Handlers. He rationalized it to himself, pretending there would be no harm in simply raising the idea to Scytale. It implied no decision on his part.
He threw the articles back into the storage bin. Doing so seemed like swimming upstream against a strong current. The idea had latched itself firmly onto his mind. He slammed the cubicle door shut and sealed it again.
For now.
The only thing I like better than the smell of spice is the smell of fresh blood.
—FORMER HONORED MATRE DORIA,
records of early training sessions
T
he hunt began at dawn.
The tall, raccoon-faced men used stunner goads to roust the five captive Honored