Mattes' conquest.
Uxtal felt bleaker by the moment. How was he ever going to get out of this?
What had he done to deserve his fate? While observing his surroundings, integers filled his mind as he tried to decipher codes and find a sacred mathematical explanation for what had occurred here. God always had a master plan, which could be determined if one knew the equations. He tried to count the number of holy sites that had been defiled, how many blocks they passed, how many turns they took on a winding road that led to the former Palace. It rapidly became a calculation far too complex for him to solve.
He was alert, absorbing as much information as possible, to ensure his own survival. He would do whatever was necessary to keep himself alive. It only made sense, especially if he was one of the last of his kind. God would want him to survive.
Above the west wing of the Palace, a suspensor crane floated high, lowering a bright red section of roof into place. Uxtal shuddered at the garish new look of the structure-pink columns, scarlet roofs, and lemon yellow walls. The Palace looked more like a carnival structure than a holy residence for the Masheikhs, the greatest masters.
His two escorts took Uxtal past snaking energy cables and crews of lower-caste Tleilaxu operating power tools, mounting wall hangings, installing rococo glowpanels. Uxtal entered an immense room with a high domed ceiling, which made him feel even smaller than he was. He saw charred panels and the remnants of quoted scripture from the Great Belief. The monstrous women had covered many of the verses with their sacrilegious decorations. Even hidden by lies, though, the word of God remained supremely powerful. Someday, after all this was over and he could come back, maybe he would do something about it. Make things right again.
With a noisy clatter, an ostentatious throne emerged from an opening in the floor. An older blonde woman sat back, looking like a once-beautiful queen who had been poorly preserved. The throne rose higher, until the regal woman glowered down at him. Matre Superior Hellica.
Her eyes flickered with an undertone of orange. 'At this meeting, I decide whether you live or die, little man.' Her words boomed so loudly that her voice must have been augmented.
Uxtal remained petrified as he prayed silently, trying to look as insignificant and conciliatory as possible. He wished he could disappear through an opening in the floor and escape into an underground tunnel. Or, if only he could defeat these women instead, and fight—
'Do you have vocal cords, little man? Or have they been removed? You have my permission to speak, as long as you say something intelligent.'
Uxtal summoned his courage, being as brave as Elder Burah would have wanted him to be. 'I–I do not know exactly why I am here, only that it is an important genetic assignment.' His mind raced for a way out of his predicament. 'My experience in that field is unsurpassed. If you need someone to do the work of a Tleilaxu Master, there can be no better choice.'
'We have no other choice at all.' Hellica sounded disgusted. 'Your ego will diminish after I bond you to me sexually.'
Trying not to cringe, Uxtal said, 'I–I must stay focused on my work, Matre Superior, rather than be distracted by obsessive erotic thoughts.'
She obviously enjoyed watching him suffer, but the Matre Superior was just toying with him. Her smile gaped red and raw, as if someone had cut a gash across her face with a razor blade. 'The Face Dancers want something from you, and so do the Honored Matres. Because all Tleilaxu Masters are now dead, your specialized knowledge grants you a certain importance by default. Perhaps I won't tamper with you. Yet.'
She leaned forward and glared. His two escorts stepped back, as if afraid to be in Hellica's targeting zone. 'It is said you are familiar with axlotl tanks. The Masters knew how to use those tanks to create melange. Incredible wealth! Can you do that for us?'
Uxtal felt his feet turn to ice. He couldn't stop shaking. 'No, Matre Superior. The technique was not developed until after the Scattering, when my people were gone from the Old Empire. The Masters did not share that information with their Lost brothers.' His heart pounded. She was obviously displeased, murderously displeased, so he continued quickly, 'I do know how to grow gholas, however.'
'But is that knowledge useful enough to save your life?' She heaved a disappointed sigh. 'The Face Dancers seem to think so.'
'And what do the Face Dancers want, Matre Superior?'
Her eyes flashed orange, and he knew he had made a mistake by blurting his question. 'I have not yet finished telling you what the Honored Matres want, little man. Though we are not so weak as to be addicted to spice, like the Bene Gesserit witches, we do understand its value. You would please me most if you rediscovered how to create melange. I will provide as many women as you need for brainless wombs.' Her words carried a cruel undertone.
'There is, however, an alternative substance we use, an orange adrenaline-based chemical that is derived primarily from pain. We will show you how to manufacture it. That will be your first service for us. A repaired laboratory building will be made available to you. We can add modules, if necessary.'
When Hellica rose from her throne, her presence was even more intimidating.
'Now, as for what the Face Dancers want from you: When we conquered this planet and liquidated the despicable Masters, we discovered something unusual during our autopsy and analysis of one burned corpse. A damaged nullentropy capsule was cleverly hidden inside the Master's body. It contained cellular samples, mostly destroyed, but with a small amount of viable DNA. Khrone is very interested to learn what was so important about those cells, and why the Masters protected and hid them so well.'
Uxtal's mind spun forward. 'He wants me to grow a ghola from those cells?' He could barely cover his relief. This was something he could indeed do! 'I will allow you to do so, provided you also create our orange spice substitute. If you succeed in producing actual melange from the axlotl tanks, then we will be even more pleased.' Hellica's eyes narrowed. 'From this day forth your solitary goal in life is to see how well you can please me.'
DESPERATELY RELIEVED TO be away from the volatile Matre Superior — and still alive — Uxtal followed the two female escorts to his purported research center.
Bandalong was so full of chaos and destruction, he wasn't sure what sort of facility to expect. Along the way, he and his two looming companions passed a large military convoy of purple-uniformed women, groundtrucks, and demolition equipment.
When they arrived at the commandeered lab, a locked door stood against them.
While the stern-looking females tried to deal with the problem, growing more befuddled and angry by the moment, Uxtal slipped away on trembling legs. He made a show of inspecting the grounds, primarily to keep his distance from the dangerous women as they pounded on the door and demanded entrance. He had no hope of escaping, even if he found a weapon, attacked them, and raced back to the Bandalong spaceport. Uxtal cringed, thinking up excuses if the women should challenge what he was doing.
Grasses and weeds already grew in the charred ground surrounding the facility.
He peered over a split bar fence to the adjacent property where an elderly, low-caste farmer tended to immense sligs, each larger than a man. The ugly creatures rooted around in mud, eating steaming piles of garbage and debris stripped from the burned buildings. Despite the creatures' filthy habits, slig meat was considered a delicacy. At the moment, however, the stench of excrement robbed Uxtal of all appetite.
After having been bullied for so long, he was pleased to see someone weaker than himself for a change, and shouted officiously to the low-caste slig farmer, 'You! Identify yourself.' Uxtal doubted if the filth-smeared worker could provide any useful information, but Elder Burah had taught him that all information was useful, especially in unfamiliar surroundings. 'I am Gaxhar.
I've never heard an accent like yours.' The farmer limped over to the fence and looked at Uxtal's formal high-caste uniform, which was, thankfully, much cleaner than the slig farmer's. 'I thought all the Masters were dead.'
'I'm not a Master, not technically.' Struggling to maintain his haughty position of authority, Uxtal added sternly, 'But I am still your superior.
Keep your sligs away from this side of the property. I cannot afford to have my important laboratory contaminated. Your sligs carry flies and disease.'
'I wash them down every day, but I will keep them away from the fences.' In their pen, the wide, sluglike
