Navigator seemed to respect him. Perhaps Uxtal should demand respect and insist on better treatment. He could refuse to do any more work. He could demand his due…
'Stop daydreaming, little man,' Ingva snapped.
He nearly jumped out of his skin and looked quickly away. 'Yes, Ingva. I am concentrating. Very delicate work.' She can't kill me! She knows it.
'No mistakes,' the sinewy crone warned.
'No mistakes. Perfect work.' He was far too frightened to make a mistake.
He shuddered to think of the old Waff copies, brain-dead and strapped to inclined tables. Sperm factories. His own situation, while hellish, could have been far worse. Yes, it could have been worse. He tried to summon a hopeful smile, but could not find one within him.
Ingva slithered up behind him and peered down at the axlotl tank that had once been an injured Honored Matre. 'You breathe on them too much. Could contaminate them. Frighten the fetuses.'
'The tanks require close monitoring.' Despite his struggles to contain his fear, his voice came out in a squeak.
She pressed her shriveled body against him, attempting Honored Matre seductive techniques, though her body was like twisted wreckage. 'It's such a waste that the Matre Superior has refused to bond you. If Hellica does not want you, then it is time to make you my own toy.'
'She—she would not like that, Ingva. I promise you.' He felt nauseated.
'Hellica will not be Matre Superior forever. Someone might assassinate her any day now. Meanwhile, I could make you work harder, little man. That would gain me great respect, increase my position of power, no matter what happens.'
Fortunately, a commotion and a thick smell cut through the chemical odors in the axlotl labs, distracting Ingva. A dirty man clad in dirty clothes pushed a dirty cart along the sterile hall, his eyes cast down. 'Your delivery of slig meat,' called the downtrodden farmer. 'Freshly slaughtered, still bloody!'
Ingva released Uxtal and stalked off toward the man, turning her ire on him.
'We expected you an hour ago. The slaves need time to prepare our feast for tonight.' No longer interested in Uxtal, Ingva went to tend to the meat. He shuddered, trying to keep the look of revulsion and relief from his face.
8
The human mind is not a puzzle to be solved but a treasure chest for us to open. If we cannot pick the lock, then we must smash it apart. Either way, the riches inside will be ours.
A cold rainstorm swept in over the oceans of Caladan. Waves crashed against rugged black rocks far below the restored castle. The local fishermen had brought in their boats and tied them to the docks, then huddled at home with their families. In the dim shadows of cultural memory, their Caladanian ancestors had loved their duke, but they did not hold the same reverence for the strangers who had rebuilt the ancient edifice and moved in.
The castle's plaz windows were sealed against the storm's intensity.
Dehumidifiers scoured the ever-present clamminess from the air. Thermal generators operated behind blazing holographic fires, warming the temperature to a comfortable level.
Within a stone-walled chamber lit by fiery artificial light, Khrone laid out the instruments of torture and summoned the Baron ghola. Young Paolo was safe in his own quarters in another village, far from where anyone could find him.
Today, though, was Baron Vladimir Harkonnen's day.
The horrifically augmented emissaries from the outside masters stood against one of the stone walls, observing, recording. Their faces were pasty except for scarlet patches of raw flesh and unhealed wounds that held tubes and implants. The machinery made a distracting gurgle and hiss. The observers had been here, always observing Khrone and his pet project, for years. Each day, he expected one of them to break down and fall apart, but the patchwork people remained unchanged, watching, waiting.
He would show them a success today.
Three Face Dancer assistants escorted the haughty young ghola. In the guise of guards, they chose to appear as muscular brutes who could snap a neck with two fingers. Young Vladimir's hair was mussed, as if he had been dragged out of a restless sleep. With a bored expression, he looked around the stone-walled chamber. 'I'm hungry.'
'Better you don't eat. Less chance of vomiting,' Khrone said. 'Then again, one additional bodily fluid, more or less, won't make much difference by the end of the day.'
Vladimir shrugged off the burly Face Dancer guards. His eyes flicked from side to side, suspicious, confrontational. When he saw the chains, the table, and the torture devices, the ghola smiled in anticipation. Khrone gestured to the equipment. 'These are for you.'
Vladimir's eyes lit up. 'Am I to learn flaying techniques today? Or something less messy?'
'You will be the victim.'
Before the boy could react, the guards dragged him over to the table. Khrone expected to see a look of panic on the round face. Instead of cursing, howling, or struggling, the young boy snapped, 'How am I to trust that you know what you're doing? Or that you won't mess it up?'
Khrone's face formed a gentle, paternal smile. 'I am a fast learner.'
The patchwork emissaries from Outside exchanged glances, then continued to watch Vladimir, silently absorbing every instant. Khrone expected to put on a good show for their distant masters. The muscular guards strapped the young man's arms securely in place, then manacled his ankles.
'Not so tightly that he can't thrash and writhe,' Khrone instructed. 'That could be an important part of the process.'
Vladimir raised his head and turned toward the smiling Khrone. 'Will you tell me what you intend to do? Or is guessing part of the game?'
'The Face Dancers have decided that it is time to awaken your memories.'
'Good. I was growing impatient.' This ghola had an uncanny knack for saying the unexpected to disorient anyone who might try to gain the upper hand. His very eagerness might be an obstacle to triggering a sufficient crisis.
'My masters also demand it,' Khrone continued for the benefit of the emissaries who stood against the wall. 'We created you for one purpose only.
You must have your memories, you must be the Baron before you can serve that purpose.'
Vladimir chuckled. 'Why should I bother?'
'It is a task to which you are eminently suited.'
'Then how do you know I'll want to do it?'
'We will make you want to do it. Have no fear.'
Vladimir laughed again as a thicker band was strapped around his chest. Long needle spikes bit into his flesh to encourage the pain, and Khrone cinched it tighter. 'I'm not afraid.'
'We can change that.' Khrone gestured, and his Face Dancer assistants brought forth the Agony Box.
He knew from the old Tleilaxu that pain was a necessary component in restoring a ghola's memories. As a Face Dancer with precise and intimate knowledge of the human body's nervous system and pain centers, Khrone felt he was up to the task.
'Do your worst!' The boy let out a throaty chuckle.
'On the contrary, I will do my best.'
The Box was an ancient device used by the Bene Gesserit for provocation and testing. Its flat faces were engraved with incomprehensible symbols, jagged grooves, and complex patterns. 'This will force you to explore yourself.'
