the explosions and conflagrations and streaking attack ships, no one noticed a small adolescent escaping through a blast hole in the laboratory wall and running away through the smoke.
Concealing himself, the only surviving Waff ghola hunkered down and wondered what to do. The black- uniformed women from the New Sisterhood marched about the city, mopping up. Bandalong had already fallen. The Matre Superior was dead.
Despite significant gaps in his memories and knowledge, Waff could recall difficulties the Bene Gesserit had given his predecessors. After seeing his seven counterparts slaughtered by Honored Matres, he had no desire to be taken prisoner by either group of women. The knowledge in his mind, though fragmented, was far too valuable for that. The witches and whores were both powindah, outsiders and liars.
He ran furtively into the dangerous streets. Because he had memories of being a Master, Waff was stunned and saddened to see this sacred city burning out of control. Once, Bandalong had been full of holy sites, kept pure and clean from outsiders. No longer. He doubted if Tleilax could ever be restored.
But at the moment, that was not Waff's mission. The Guild would want him. That much was certain. The Navigator who had observed his horrific awakening grasped the importance of having an authentic Tleilaxu Master, rather than that Lost fool Uxtal. He couldn't understand why the Navigators hadn't come to rescue him during the initial attack. Maybe they had tried. There had been so much confusion.
As he kept himself hidden, Waff began to consider the first tantalizing sparks of an idea. The Heighliner must still be up there.
AFTER DARKNESS SET in, the ghola found a small, low-orbital shuttle in a repair yard at the edge of the burning city. The shuttle's engine compartment was open, and tools lay about on the pavement. He saw no one as he cautiously approached.
A door in a dilapidated shed slid open, and a low-caste Tleilaxu emerged, wearing greasy coveralls. 'What are you doing, kid? You need something to eat?' He wiped his hands on a cloth, which he stuffed in his pocket.
'I am not a child. I am Master Waff.'
'All the Masters are dead.' The short man had uncharacteristically blond hair and matching eyebrows. 'Did you get hit on the head during the attack?'
'I am a ghola, but I have a Master's memories. Master Tylwyth Waff.'
The man gave him a second, less skeptical look. 'All right, I'll accept the possibility, for the sake of argument. What do you want?'
'I need a spacecraft. Does that shuttle fly?' Waff pointed at the old vessel.
'Just needs a fuel cartridge. And a pilot.'
'I can fly it.' He had enough of those memories.
The mechanic smiled. 'Somehow I believe you, kid.' He trudged over to a pile of components. 'I confiscated a pallet of fuel cartridges during the battle.
No one will notice, and it doesn't look like the Honored Matres will be around to punish either of us.' He put his hands on his hips, regarded the shuttle, then shrugged. 'This rig doesn't belong to me anyway, so what do I care?'
Within the hour, Waff flew up to orbit, where the Heighliner waited for the return of the Valkyrie attack force. The immense black vessel, larger than most cities, shimmered with reflected sunlight. Another Guildship, one obviously equipped with a no-field, circled the planet in a lower orbit.
Engaging the shuttle's commline, Waff transmitted a message over the standard Spacing Guild frequency, identifying himself. 'I require a meeting with a Guild representative—a Navigator, if possible.' He dredged a name from his recent memories, from the bloody day when his seven identical brothers had been slaughtered before his eyes. 'Edrik. He knows I have vital information about spice.'
Without further argument, a guidance signal locked onto his navigation controls, and Waff found himself drawn toward the Heighliner, directed upward to the elite-level bridges. The craft floated into a small, exclusive landing bay.
A security detail of four Guildsmen in gray uniforms greeted him. Much taller than Waff, the milky-eyed Guildsmen escorted him to the viewing compartment.
High overhead, Waff saw a Navigator in his tank, staring down through the plaz with oversized eyes. With his plan to regain the technique of mass-producing melange, Edrik would never inform his Bene Gesserit passengers of Waff's presence on board.
A distorted voice spoke through speakers. 'Tell us about spice. Tell us what you remember about axlotl tanks, and we will keep you safe.'
Waff stared up at him defiantly. 'Promise me sanctuary, and I will share the fruits of my knowledge.'
'Even Uxtal did not make such demands.'
'Uxtal did not know what I know. And he is probably dead. Now that my memories have awakened, you don't need him anymore.' Waff was careful not to reveal his dangerous memory gaps.
The Navigator drifted closer to the wall, his huge eyes filled with eagerness.
'Very well. We grant you sanctuary.'
Waff had an alternate plan in mind. He remembered every aspect of the Great Belief and his duty to his Prophet. 'I can do better than create artificial, inferior melange using the wombs and chemistry of females. For envisioning safe pathways through space, a Navigator should have real melange, pure spice created by the processes of a sandworm.'
'Rakis is destroyed, and sandworms are extinct, save for those few on the Bene Gesserit planet.' The Navigator stared at him. 'How will you bring back the worms?'
Grinning, Waff said, 'You have more choices than you realize. Wouldn't you rather have your own sandworms? Advanced worms that can create a more potent spice for you Navigators… and only for you: Edrik swam in his tank, alien, incomprehensible, but unquestionably intrigued.
'Continue.'
'I am in possession of certain genetic knowledge,' Waff said. 'Perhaps we can reach a mutually beneficial arrangement.'
25
We all have an innate ability to recognize flaws and weaknesses in others. It takes much greater courage, however, to recognize the same flaws in ourselves.
Than a Mentat After six of the suicidal craft had pierced various parts of the Ithaca like spear points, emergency teams and automated systems had rushed to patch the no-ship's hull. Once an atmospheric field was put back into place, Duncan entered the unused bay where one of the Handler ships had crashed through the hull. On five additional decks, other vessels from the planet had also left wreckage and dead pilots.
Probing into the mangled craft, he discovered the burned remnants of a body. A Face Dancer. He looked at the blackened and inhuman corpse, burned beyond recognition. What had they wanted? How were Face Dancers in league with the old man and old woman who tried to capture them?
On his rushed inspection, after receiving reports from other searchers at the five remaining crash sites on different decks, Duncan had found that three of the mangled vessels held a pair of dead Face Dancers in each one, all killed on impact; this craft, however, held only one body, as did two of the other wrecks.
Three empty seats. Was it possible that those ships had each been flown solo? Or that one or more of the Handlers had ejected into space? Or had they somehow survived the crash and slipped away into the Ithaca?
After the frantic plunge through foldspace and away from the planet of the Handlers, while teams responded to the emergency, it had taken almost an hour to find each of the crashed ships on six different unoccupied decks.
Duncan was sure that nothing could have survived those crashes. The vessels were destroyed, the Face
