Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [197]
Engaging the shuttle’s commline, Waff transmitted a message over the standard Spacing Guild frequency, identifying himself. “I require a meeting with a Guild representative—a Navigator, if possible.” He dredged a name from his recent memories, from the bloody day when his seven identical brothers had been slaughtered before his eyes. “Edrik. He knows I have vital information about spice.”
Without further argument, a guidance signal locked onto his navigation controls, and Waff found himself drawn toward the Heighliner, directed upward to the elite-level bridges. The craft floated into a small, exclusive landing bay.
A security detail of four Guildsmen in gray uniforms greeted him. Much taller than Waff, the milky-eyed Guildsmen escorted him to the viewing compartment. High overhead, Waff saw a Navigator in his tank, staring down through the plaz with oversized eyes. With his plan to regain the technique of mass-producing melange, Edrik would never inform his Bene Gesserit passengers of Waff’s presence on board.
A distorted voice spoke through speakers. “Tell us about spice. Tell us what you remember about axlotl tanks, and we will keep you safe.”
Waff stared up at him defiantly. “Promise me sanctuary, and I will share the fruits of my knowledge.”
“Even Uxtal did not make such demands.”
“Uxtal did not know what I know. And he is probably dead. Now that my memories have awakened, you don’t need him anymore.” Waff was careful not to reveal his dangerous memory gaps.
The Navigator drifted closer to the wall, his huge eyes filled with eagerness. “Very well. We grant you sanctuary.”
Waff had an alternate plan in mind. He remembered every aspect of the Great Belief and his duty to his Prophet.
“I can do better than create artificial, inferior melange using the wombs and chemistry of females. For envisioning safe pathways through space, a Navigator should have real melange, pure spice created by the processes of a sandworm.”
“Rakis is destroyed, and sandworms are extinct, save for those few on the Bene Gesserit planet.” The Navigator stared at him. “How will you bring back the worms?”
Grinning, Waff said, “You have more choices than you realize. Wouldn’t you rather have your own sandworms? Advanced worms that can create a more potent spice for you Navigators . . . and only for you?”
Edrik swam in his tank, alien, incomprehensible, but unquestionably intrigued. “Continue.”
“I am in possession of certain genetic knowledge,” Waff said. “Perhaps we can reach a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
We all have an innate ability to recognize flaws and weaknesses in others. It takes much greater courage, however, to recognize the same flaws in ourselves.
—DUNCAN IDAHO,
Confessions of More Than a Mentat
A
fter six of the suicidal craft had pierced various parts of the Ithaca like spear points, emergency teams and automated systems had rushed to patch the no-ship’s hull. Once an atmospheric field was put back into place, Duncan entered the unused bay where one of the Handler ships had crashed through the hull. On five additional decks, other vessels from the planet had also left wreckage and dead pilots.
Probing into the mangled craft, he discovered the burned remnants of a body. A Face Dancer. He looked at the blackened and inhuman corpse, burned beyond recognition. What had they wanted? How were Face Dancers in league with the old man and old woman who tried to capture them?
On his rushed inspection, after receiving reports from other searchers at the five remaining crash sites on different decks, Duncan had found that three of the mangled vessels held a pair of dead Face Dancers in each one, all killed on impact; this craft, however, held only one body, as did two of the other wrecks.
Three empty seats. Was it possible that those ships had each been flown solo? Or that one or more of the Handlers had ejected into