Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [196]
Duncan plunged back into Mentat mode, seeking a solution, and a new course finally crystallized in his mind, a random path that would let him slip free of the binding strands. He hammered the engine controls, forced the foldspace equations.
This time the fabric of space wrapped around the Ithaca, caressed it, and drew it into the void—away from the planet, away from the Handlers, and away from the Enemy.
No matter how complex human civilization becomes, there are always interludes during which the course of mankind depends upon the actions of a single individual.
—from The Tleilaxu Godbuk
A
t the laboratory complex, during the hand-to-hand fighting between Valkyries and Honored Matres, among the explosions and conflagrations and streaking attack ships, no one noticed a small adolescent escaping through a blast hole in the laboratory wall and running away through the smoke.
Concealing himself, the only surviving Waff ghola hunkered down and wondered what to do. The black-uniformed women from the New Sisterhood marched about the city, mopping up. Bandalong had already fallen. The Matre Superior was dead.
Despite significant gaps in his memories and knowledge, Waff could recall difficulties the Bene Gesserit had given his predecessors. After seeing his seven counterparts slaughtered by Honored Matres, he had no desire to be taken prisoner by either group of women. The knowledge in his mind, though fragmented, was far too valuable for that. The witches and whores were both powindah, outsiders and liars.
He ran furtively into the dangerous streets. Because he had memories of being a Master, Waff was stunned and saddened to see this sacred city burning out of control. Once, Bandalong had been full of holy sites, kept pure and clean from outsiders. No longer. He doubted if Tleilax could ever be restored.
But at the moment, that was not Waff’s mission. The Guild would want him. That much was certain. The Navigator who had observed his horrific awakening grasped the importance of having an authentic Tleilaxu Master, rather than that Lost fool Uxtal. He couldn’t understand why the Navigators hadn’t come to rescue him during the initial attack. Maybe they had tried. There had been so much confusion.
As he kept himself hidden, Waff began to consider the first tantalizing sparks of an idea. The Heighliner must still be up there.
AFTER DARKNESS SET in, the ghola found a small, low-orbital shuttle in a repair yard at the edge of the burning city. The shuttle’s engine compartment was open, and tools lay about on the pavement. He saw no one as he cautiously approached.
A door in a dilapidated shed slid open, and a low-caste Tleilaxu emerged, wearing greasy coveralls. “What are you doing, kid? You need something to eat?” He wiped his hands on a cloth, which he stuffed in his pocket.
“I am not a child. I am Master Waff.”
“All the Masters are dead.” The short man had uncharacteristically blond hair and matching eyebrows. “Did you get hit on the head during the attack?”
“I am a ghola, but I have a Master’s memories. Master Tylwyth Waff.”
The man gave him a second, less skeptical look. “All right, I’ll accept the possibility, for the sake of argument. What do you want?”
“I need a spacecraft. Does that shuttle fly?” Waff pointed at the old vessel.
“Just needs a fuel cartridge. And a pilot.”
“I can fly it.” He had enough of those memories.
The mechanic smiled. “Somehow I believe you, kid.” He trudged over to a pile of components. “I confiscated a pallet of fuel cartridges during the battle. No one will notice, and it doesn’t look like the Honored Matres will be around to punish either of us.” He put his hands on his hips, regarded the shuttle, then shrugged. “This rig doesn’t belong to me anyway, so what do I care?”
Within the hour, Waff flew up to orbit, where the Heighliner waited for the return of the Valkyrie