Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [10]
The child followed his older self down the dim corridor of the noship, but his steps were too shaky to be furtive. Occasionally the degenerating Scytale needed support from his twelve-year-old “son.” Each day, each lesson, should bring the younger one closer to the tipping point at which his embedded memories would cascade free. Then, finally, old Scytale could allow himself to die.
Years ago, he had been forced to offer his only bargaining chip—his secret stash of valuable cellular material—to bribe the witches. Scytale resented being put in such a position, but in return for the raw makings of heroes from the past for the witches’ own purposes, Sheeana had agreed to let him use the axlotl tanks to grow a new version of himself. He hoped it wasn’t too late.
For years now, every sentence, every day increased pressure on the younger Scytale. His “father,” a victim of planned cellular obsolescence, doubted he had another year before collapsing completely. Unless the boy received his memories soon, very soon, all the knowledge of the Tleilaxu would be lost. Old Scytale winced at the dire prospect, which hurt him far more than any physical pain.
They reached one of the vacant lower levels, where a testing chamber had gone unnoticed in the empty expanses of the ship. “I will use this powindah teaching equipment to show you how God meant for the Tleilaxu to live.” The walls were smooth and curved, the glowpanels tuned to a dull orange. The room seemed to be full of gestating wombs, round, flaccid, mindless—the way women were supposed to serve a truly civilized society.
Scytale smiled at the sight, while the boy stared around with dark eyes. “Axlotl tanks. So many of them! Where did they all come from?”
“Unfortunately they are merely holographic projections.” The high-quality simulation included mock tank sounds, as well as the odors of chemicals, disinfectants, and medicinals.
As Scytale stood surrounded by the glorious images, his heart ached to see the home he missed so much, a home now utterly destroyed. Years ago, before he was allowed to set foot again in sacred Bandalong, Scytale and all Tleilaxu had always undergone a lengthy cleansing process. Ever since the Honored Matres had forced him to flee with only his life and a few bargaining chips, he had tried to observe the rituals and practices as much as possible—and had vigorously taught them to the young ghola—but there were limitations. Scytale had not felt sufficiently clean in a long time. But he knew that God would understand.
“This is how a typical breeding chamber used to look. Study it. Absorb it. Remind yourself of how things were, how they should be. I created these images from my own memories, and those same memories are within you. Find them.”
Scytale had said the same thing again and again, hammering it into the child. His younger version was a good student, very intelligent, and knew all the information by rote learning, but the boy didn’t know it in his soul.
Sheeana and the other witches didn’t grasp the immensity of the crisis he faced, or perhaps they didn’t care. The Bene Gesserits understood little about the nuances of restoring a ghola’s memories, could not recognize the moment when a ghola was perfectly ready . . . but Scytale might not have the luxury of waiting. The child was certainly old enough. He should awaken! Soon the boy would be the only Tleilaxu left, with no one to wake his memories.
As he surveyed the rows of breeding vats, the junior Scytale’s face filled with awe and intimidation. The boy was drinking it all in. Good. “That tank in the second row is the one that gave birth to me,” he said. “The