Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [26]
The Thufir ghola raised his smooth chin in a display of pride. He was strong and gangly with a heavy brow; he had let his hair grow shaggy. “Then you and I will find him.”
Teg smiled at Thufir. “As soon as you regain his memories and experience as a warrior Mentat and Master of Assassins, you will be a formidable ally.”
“I’m formidable now.” Thufir had already proved his worth during the tense escape from the Handlers, risking his own life to help the Rabbi get away from Face Dancers in league with the Enemy. Teg believed the young ghola had the potential to do much more.
Varying his pattern, he insisted on an exhausting round of daily security inspections while he left Duncan Idaho on the navigation bridge, ever vigilant for the Enemy’s glowing net.
The Ithaca continued to wander in empty space. At first, their voyage had simply been to get away from the Enemy hunters. Duncan had been forced to remain hidden behind the ship’s veiling no-field, since the old man and woman seemed to want him in particular. Now, after more than two decades, the population aboard had increased, and children were growing up and being taught necessary skills without ever having set foot on a planetary surface.
Despite all the worlds settled during the Scattering, habitable systems seemed sparse indeed. For the first time, Teg wondered how many ships of refugees fleeing from the Famine Times had simply died without ever finding their destination. The Ithaca had no Guild Navigator; only pure chance brought them within range of planets. So far, they had encountered only two places that might have supported a new colony: one Honored Matre world that had been completely wiped out by Enemy plagues, and the planet of the insidious Handlers.
Nevertheless, with its recyclers, greenhouses, and algae tanks, the aging Ithaca should have been able to sustain the present number of passengers for centuries, if necessary. They—and their successors—could effectively stay onboard forever and never stop running. Is that our fate? Teg asked himself. But because of leakages, losses, and “accidents,” the passengers had cause for concern. Sooner or later, they would need to replenish their reserves.
Thinking of resources, the Bashar took a side corridor to the fermentation bins and adjacent algae-growth tanks. Grown in the vaulted, humid chamber, the biomass provided raw material for the food-manufacturing units. A prime vulnerability.
As he opened a hatch, Teg caught the rich, marshy smell of compost and algae. They climbed metal steps to a catwalk and looked down into the cylindrical vat filled with hairy green slime. The stinking wet mass of fecund algae digested anything organic, growing large amounts of edible, rather unpalatable, material that could be converted into better-flavored foods. Ceiling fans whirred, drawing the odorous air upward through filters and into the intricate set of ducts that acted as the no-ship’s circulatory system. After taking samples and testing the chemical balance of the tanks, Teg concluded that everything was in order. No sign of sabotage since his last inspection.
The serious young man tagged along beside him. “I am not a Mentat yet, sir, but I have been giving the sabotage problem a great deal of thought.”
With raised eyebrows Teg turned to his protégé. “And do you have a first-order approximation?”
“I have an idea.” Thufir did not try to conceal his anger. “I suggest you have a long talk with the Yueh ghola. Perhaps he knows more than he has admitted.”
“Yueh is only thirteen. He does not have his memories back.”
“Maybe the weakness is in his blood. Bashar, we know that someone committed the sabotage.” The young man sounded disappointed in himself for allowing it to happen. “Even the real Thufir Hawat didn’t find