Tleilaxu had allowed the Fenrings to stay, and the family planned to remain for several years. But they did not really fit in. They were powindah.
“Look at those men standing on street corners doing nothing,” Margot said in a low tone. “Where are the women?”
“Those are upper-caste men,” Fenring said. “They consider themselves, hmmm,
“I’ve never seen even lower-caste women or female children here.” Lady Margot looked around with her piercing gaze. They both had their suspicions that the Tleilaxu held their females as slaves or experiments.
“Without question, my dear, you are, hmmm, the most beautiful woman in Thalidei.”
“You embarrass me, my love.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and moved on, ever alert. Margot always kept herself well armed with hidden weapons and in prime fighting condition; they never allowed their young daughter to be unguarded even for a moment.
In their relationship, the couple depended on each other greatly, but did not trespass into each other’s private territory. Fenring had even accepted the necessity of Margot conceiving a child by Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Just business. When he’d chosen to marry a Reverend Mother decades ago, he had acknowledged certain things as a matter of course.
Little Marie was back in their flat now, several blocks away, looked after by a talented woman Margot had acquired from the Sisterhood — an acolyte named Tonia Obregah-Xo who served as nanny, tutor, and devoted bodyguard to the child. Though Fenring was sure the Bene Gesserit nanny was also a spy, sending reports on little Marie’s progress back to Wallach IX, he was also certain that the watchful Obregah-Xo would defend the girl with her life. The Sisterhood wanted her bloodline for their own uses.
The breeze turned, driving some of the polluted lake’s stench back out onto the rank water. Fishing trawlers dredged the sediment, hauling up interesting mutations of the few species of marine life that had survived in such a contaminated environment. Every once in a while, large tentacles could be seen rising out of the water, far from shore, but none of the Tleilaxu boats ventured into such deep waters, and the mysterious creature had never been caught or catalogued.
Factory lines delivered fresh slime from the lake bottom into holding pools and separation tanks, in which bodysuited lower-caste Tleilaxu waded, sampling the chemical compositions. Black gulls circled around, screaming at the mess. Cranes hoisted algae-covered screens from growth solutions steeped in the shallows.
He and Lady Margot came within view of a white building eight stories tall — eight, a sacred number to this superstitious race. “Hmmm, at first, Master Ereboam refused to let me bring you here, my dear, but he finally assented. He even decided to show us something special.”
“Perhaps I should have worn an opera dress for the occasion,” she said with clear sarcasm.
“Be sweet, Margot. I know you can do it. Don’t insult our host.”
“I haven’t yet.” She manufactured a smile. “But there’s a first time for everything.” She took him by the arm and they walked toward the building.
The Tleilaxu doctor waited for them by the security field of the arched main doorway of the facility. The pockets of his traditional white laboratory smock bulged, as if filled with secrets. With milky white skin and hair and a pointed white goatee, Master Ereboam was a startling albino in a race that was commonly gray-skinned and black-haired — an unsettling hereditary accident among genetic experts.
Ereboam called out in a cheerful voice. “My spotters say you took the long way here. An alleyway connector would have reduced your walk by at least five minutes.”
“I don’t like alleys,” Fenring said. Too
“Very well, I accept your apology.” He patted Fenring on the back in a manner uncharacteristic of the normally reserved Tleilaxu. Ignoring Margot entirely, as he invariably did, Dr. Ereboam led the two of them through the security field, down a hallway, and into a windowless room where thirty tall, slender men stood with their backs turned. All wore body filmsuits, in accordance with the typical Tleilaxu prudishness; Fenring doubted if the Masters ever looked at
In unison, the men all faced forward, and Fenring chuckled, as did Margot. Though of varying ages, every one of them looked identical — all duplicates of the Baron Harkonnen’s Twisted Mentat Piter de Vries, staring ahead with eyes set in narrow-featured faces.
The original de Vries had been killed on Kaitain by the witch Mohiam. Afterward, the Baron had been served by a ghola of the Mentat, who had purportedly died on Arrakis along with the captive Duke Leto Atreides in a mysterious release of poison gas.
“Gholas?” Fenring asked. “Why are there so many of them?”
“Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had a standing order for us to keep several ready for delivery. The growth and Twisting process takes a good deal of time.”
“The Baron has been dead for a year,” Margot pointed out.
Ereboam frowned at her, then deigned to answer. “Yes, and they are therefore no longer commercially viable. We contacted other noble houses to try to market them elsewhere, but the Baron managed to taint the reputation of this one. Such a waste of time and resources, and now this line has been discontinued. At least they can serve as experimental subjects for a new nerve poison. Observe. That is why I’ve brought you here.”
In unison, the de Vries gholas took on identical expressions of agony and clutched at their heads. As if choreographed, they fell writhing to the floor one by one, with the degree of their reactions depending on the strength of the poison to which they’d been exposed. They all began babbling long strings of prime numbers and tables of useless facts. Fenring exchanged a quizzical glance with his wife.
“The new poison is a marketable assassination tool,” Ereboam said. “How delightful; their thoughts are detonating inside their brains. Soon they will all go insane, but that is a mere side effect, however interesting it may be. Death is our primary goal with this substance.”
Thick blood and mucous began running out of the mouths, ears, and nostrils. Some of the victims screamed, while others whimpered.
“Because they are all virtually identical,” Ereboam continued, “these discontinued gholas provide an opportunity for us to test various potencies of the neurotoxin. A controlled experiment.”
“This is barbaric,” Margot said, not bothering to keep her voice down.
“Barbaric?” Ereboam said. “Compared to what Muad’Dib has set loose on the universe, this is nothing.”
Count Fenring nodded, realizing that the Tleilaxu man was making some sense — in his own twisted way.
9
It is far better to win a battle through skilled leadership and wise decisions than violence and bloodshed. It may not seem as glorious to the uninitiated, but in the end it results in fewer wounds — of any kind.
It was a matter of simple mathematics, and the numbers did not add up.
For years before it happened, Paul had experienced visions of his Jihad, a storm of armed and fanatical Fremen sweeping across star systems, planting the banners of Muad’Dib and slaughtering any populations that resisted. Though history would paint a dark picture of his rule, Paul could see beyond the next sand dune in the wasteland of time, to the next, and the next. He knew that his Jihad would be but a flurry compared with the titanic upheavals that lay ahead in the path of human destiny, upheavals that would be far more deadly if he failed now.
While still on Kaitain, having dispatched the Fremen warriors to other battlefields and summoned cleanup and reconstruction crews to cement the occupation of the former Imperial capital, he considered his next move. Although he missed Chani greatly, he had vital work to do here.
