Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [56]
As she had expected, he bridled. His nostrils flared, and he grew indignant. “Do you suggest that I am following an evil inclination?”
Her counterblow was strong enough to knock him off his feet. “I’m saying that I have decided to volunteer. I will become one of their womb tanks. My body will provide a necessary receptacle so the gholas can be born.” A softer voice now, kinder words. “I trust you will look upon those children I bear and give them whatever aid and counsel they might require. Teach them if you can.”
The Rabbi was aghast. “You—you cannot do this, daughter. I forbid it.”
“It is Passover, Rabbi. Remember the blood of the lamb on the door-post.”
“That was allowed only during the days of the Solomonic temple in Jerusalem. It is forbidden to do it anywhere else, at any time.”
“Nevertheless, though I am far, far from untainted, this may be enough.” She remained calm, but the Rabbi was shaking.
“It is folly and pride! The witches have lured you into their trap. You must pray with me—”
“My mind is made up, Rabbi. I’ve seen the wisdom of this. The Bene Gesserits will have their tanks. They will find their volunteers. Consider all the other women aboard, younger and stronger by far. They have their futures ahead of them, while I have had countless lives inside my head. That is more than enough for any person, and I am content. By offering myself, I save someone else.”
“You will be cursed!” His hoarse voice cracked before it could rise to a scream. She wondered if he would tear his sleeve and cast her out, disavowing any further connection with her. Right now, the Rabbi was too horrified by what she had told him.
“As you so often remind me, Rabbi, I have millions already within me. In all my pasts a great many of them were devout Jews. Others followed their own conscience. But make no mistake, this is a price I can willingly pay. An honorable price. Don’t think about losing me—think instead of the girl I am saving.”
Grasping at straws, he said, “You are too old. You are past child-bearing years.”
“My body only needs to provide the incubator, not the ovaries. I have already been tested. The Sisters assure me that I can adequately serve.” She rested her hand on his arm, knowing that he cared for her. “You were a Suk doctor once. I trust the Bene Gesserit physicians, but I would feel better if I knew that you would also watch over me.”
“I . . . I—”
She went to the door of the temple chamber and gave him a last smile. “Thank you, Rabbi.” She slipped away before he could marshal his scrambled thoughts and continue arguing with her.
To the loving eye, even an Abomination can be a beautiful child.
—MISSIONARIA PROTECTIVA,
adapted from the Azhar Book
F
or months under the stern and watchful eyes of the Honored Matres, Uxtal worked at monitoring the axlotl tank while also attending the pain laboratories. He felt wrung out in his struggle to satisfy those who controlled him.
Khrone had come to visit him twice in the past half year (twice that he knew about, though a Face Dancer could move unnoticed whenever he liked). In his squalid quarters, the Lost Tleilaxu researcher kept his own calendar, marking off each day as a small victory, as if survival itself were a matter of keeping score.
In the meantime, he had also begun to produce enough of the orange melange alternative to make the whores believe he had value to them after all. Unfortunately, his successes were more a result of repeated attempts than any genuine skill on his part. In spite of his uncertainties and hastily covered blunders, Uxtal had stumbled upon a serviceable manufacturing method; though inefficient, it was good enough to keep the whores from killing him, for the time being.
And meanwhile the ghola baby continued to grow.
When the male fetus reached a point where he could take samples sufficient to run analyses, he compared the DNA