Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [58]
Uxtal snatched the baby from the assistant, though he found the whole birthing process disgusting. He was sure that Khrone would kill him (and slowly) if he allowed anything to happen to this child.
He showed the infant to Hellica. “There, Matre Superior. As you see, this distracting job will be over as soon as the Face Dancers take the child away. My work for them is done. I can now devote much more of my time and energy to creating the orange spice you want so much. Unless . . . unless you would just like to let me go free?” He raised his eyebrows pleadingly.
She gave a dismissive sniff and stalked back into the new wing, where sounds of screaming echoed through the corridors.
Uxtal stared down at the newborn boy, amazed at his own luck. By some miraculous numerical alignment, he had achieved success. Now Khrone could not complain, or punish him. A quiver of dread shuddered down his spine. What if the Face Dancers insisted that he restore the ghola’s memories as well? So many more years!
Seeing the newborn now, so simple, innocent, and “normal” puzzled Uxtal. Having reviewed the historical records, he couldn’t imagine what this ghola’s destiny would be, what Khrone would do with him. It must be part of a cosmic plan that he could understand, but only if he ascertained all the numbers that pointed to the truth.
He held the ghola baby out before him, looked at the tiny face, and shook his head. “Welcome back, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen.”
SIX YEARS AFTER
ESCAPE FROM CHAPTERHOUSE
We all have a beast within us, hungry and violent. Some of us can feed and control the predator within, but it is unpredictable when unleashed.
—REVEREND MOTHER SHEEANA,
Ithaca logs
M
ulling over her duties and dilemmas, Sheeana walked alone down quiet and isolated passageways. Now that the ghola resurrection program had been decided upon, the long wait had begun. After a year and a half of preparations, three more axlotl tanks were ready, bringing the total to five. The first of the precious embryos now gestated inside one of the new augmented wombs. Soon, the near-mythical figures from history would return.
The Tleilaxu Master Scytale eagerly attended to the axlotl tanks, utterly committed to ensuring that the first ones turned out perfectly, so that Sheeana would allow him to create a ghola of himself. Since the little man had so much to gain from the success of the process, she trusted him—to a certain extent, and only for the time being.
No one knew what the Enemy wanted or why they were so interested in this particular no-ship. “One must understand an enemy to fight that enemy,” the first incarnation of Bashar Miles Teg had once written. And she thought, We know nothing about this old man and woman that only Duncan can see. Whom do they represent? What do they want?
Preoccupied, she continued to walk the lower decks. During their years on the Ithaca, Duncan Idaho had kept an anxious watch outside, searching for any sign of the Enemy’s endlessly questing net. The ship seemed to have remained safe since the narrow escape more than two years ago. Maybe she and the other passengers were safe, after all. Maybe.
As month after month of daily routine passed without any overt threat, Sheeana had to remind herself to fight against complacency, against the natural tendency to grow soft. Through the lessons in Other Memory, especially in her Atreides bloodline, she knew the perils of lowering her guard.
Bene Gesserit senses should always be alert for subtle dangers. Sheeana stopped in midstep in an isolated corridor. She froze as a scent touched her nostrils, a wild animal odor that did not belong in the processed and air-conditioned corridors. It was mixed with a coppery smell.
Blood.
A primal inner sense told her she was being watched, and perhaps even stalked. The invisible gaze burned like a lasgun against her skin. Goose bumps prickled the back of her neck. Realizing that this was a precarious moment, she moved slowly, holding out her hands and spreading her fingers—partly in a placating