Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [35]
“But is that knowledge useful enough to save your life?” She heaved a disappointed sigh. “The Face Dancers seem to think so.”
“And what do the Face Dancers want, Matre Superior?”
Her eyes flashed orange, and he knew he had made a mistake by blurting his question. “I have not yet finished telling you what the Honored Matres want, little man. Though we are not so weak as to be addicted to spice, like the Bene Gesserit witches, we do understand its value. You would please me most if you rediscovered how to create melange. I will provide as many women as you need for brainless wombs.” Her words carried a cruel undertone.
“There is, however, an alternative substance we use, an orange adrenaline-based chemical that is derived primarily from pain. We will show you how to manufacture it. That will be your first service for us. A repaired laboratory building will be made available to you. We can add modules, if necessary.”
When Hellica rose from her throne, her presence was even more intimidating. “Now, as for what the Face Dancers want from you: When we conquered this planet and liquidated the despicable Masters, we discovered something unusual during our autopsy and analysis of one burned corpse. A damaged nullentropy capsule was cleverly hidden inside the Master’s body. It contained cellular samples, mostly destroyed, but with a small amount of viable DNA. Khrone is very interested to learn what was so important about those cells, and why the Masters protected and hid them so well.”
Uxtal’s mind spun forward. “He wants me to grow a ghola from those cells?” He could barely cover his relief. This was something he could indeed do!
“I will allow you to do so, provided you also create our orange spice substitute. If you succeed in producing actual melange from the axlotl tanks, then we will be even more pleased.” Hellica’s eyes narrowed. “From this day forth your solitary goal in life is to see how well you can please me.”
DESPERATELY RELIEVED TO be away from the volatile Matre Superior—and still alive—Uxtal followed the two female escorts to his purported research center. Bandalong was so full of chaos and destruction, he wasn’t sure what sort of facility to expect. Along the way, he and his two looming companions passed a large military convoy of purple-uniformed women, groundtrucks, and demolition equipment.
When they arrived at the commandeered lab, a locked door stood against them. While the stern-looking females tried to deal with the problem, growing more befuddled and angry by the moment, Uxtal slipped away on trembling legs. He made a show of inspecting the grounds, primarily to keep his distance from the dangerous women as they pounded on the door and demanded entrance. He had no hope of escaping, even if he found a weapon, attacked them, and raced back to the Bandalong spaceport. Uxtal cringed, thinking up excuses if the women should challenge what he was doing.
Grasses and weeds already grew in the charred ground surrounding the facility. He peered over a split bar fence to the adjacent property where an elderly, low-caste farmer tended to immense sligs, each larger than a man. The ugly creatures rooted around in mud, eating steaming piles of garbage and debris stripped from the burned buildings. Despite the creatures’ filthy habits, slig meat was considered a delicacy. At the moment, however, the stench of excrement robbed Uxtal of all appetite.
After having been bullied for so long, he was pleased to see someone weaker than himself for a change, and shouted officiously to the low-caste slig farmer, “You! Identify yourself.” Uxtal doubted if the filth-smeared worker could provide any useful information, but Elder Burah had taught him that all information was useful, especially in unfamiliar surroundings.
“I am Gaxhar. I’ve never heard an accent like yours.” The farmer limped over to the fence and looked at Uxtal’s formal high-caste uniform, which was, thankfully, much cleaner than the slig farmer