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banderilla on the ground. Turning his back on the bull, he listened for it to
grind to a stop, spin around, and come back -- but as he bent over to retrieve
his weapon, the huge bull was suddenly there with impossible speed, horns
lowered.
The Duke scrambled to one side, trying to get out of the way, but the bull was
already within his safety zone, ducking under the partial shield and ramming
home. Its long, curved horns gouged deep into the Duke's back, breaking through
his ribs and into his lungs and heart.
The bull roared with triumph. To the horror of the crowd, it lifted Paulus up,
thrashing him from side to side. Blood sprayed on the sand, red droplets slowed
by the concave surface of the small shield. The doomed Duke flailed and
twitched, impaled on the forest of horns.
The audience fell deathly silent.
Within seconds, Thufir Hawat and the Atreides guards surged out onto the field,
their lasguns cutting the rampaging Salusan bull into piles of smoking meat.
The creature's own momentum caused pieces of the carcass to fly apart in
different directions. The decapitated but otherwise intact head thumped onto
the ground.
The Duke's body pirouetted in the air and landed on its back in the trampled
sand.
Up in the ducal box, Rhombur cried out in disbelief. Kailea sobbed. The Lady
Helena let her chin sink against her chest and wept.
Leto rose to his feet, all color draining from his skin. His mouth opened and
closed, but he could find no words to express his utter shock. He wanted to run
down into the arena, but saw from the mangled condition of his father that he
would never reach him in time. There would be no gasping and whispering of last
words.
Duke Paulus Atreides, this magnificent man of his people, was dead.
Deafening wails erupted from the spectator stands. Leto could feel the
vibration rumbling through the ducal box. He couldn't tear his eyes from his
father, lying broken and bloodied on the ground, and he knew it was a nightmare
vision that would remain with him for the rest of his life.
Thufir Hawat stood next to the fallen Old Duke, but even a warrior Mentat could
do nothing for him now.
Oddly, his mother's quiet voice cut through the surrounding din, and Leto heard
the words clearly, like ice picks. "Leto, my son," Helena said, "you are Duke
Atreides now."
Machine-vaccine principle: Every technological device contains within it the
tools of its opposite, and of its own destruction.
-GIAN KANA,
Imperial Patent Czar
It didn't take the invaders long to make permanent changes in the prosperous
underground cities. Many innocent Ixians died and many disappeared, while
C'tair waited for someone to find and kill him.
During brief sojourns from his shielded hiding room, C'tair learned that Vernii,
the former capital city of Ix, had been renamed Hilacia by the Tleilaxu. The
fanatical usurpers had even changed Imperial records to refer to the ninth
planet in the Alkaurops system as Xuttuh, rather than Ix.
C'tair wanted to strangle any Tleilaxu he found, but instead he developed a
subtler plan.
He dressed like a low-level worker and doctored forms to show that he had once
been a minor line supervisor, one step above a suboid, who had watched over a
labor crew of twelve men. He'd read enough about hull-plate welding and sealing
so that he could claim it had been his job. No one would expect much from him.
All around him, the Bene Tleilax were gutting his city and rebuilding it into a
dark hell.
He abhorred the changes, loathed the Tleilaxu gall. And from what he could see,
Imperial Sardaukar had actually assisted in this abomination.
C'tair could do nothing about it at the moment; he had to bide his time. He was
alone here: his father exiled to Kaitain and afraid to return, his mother
murdered, his twin brother taken away by the Guild. Only he remained on Ix,
like a rat hiding within the walls.
But even rats could cause significant damage.
Over the months, C'tair learned to blend in, to appear to be an insignificant
and cowed citizen. He kept his eyes averted, his hands dirty, his clothes and
hair unkempt. He could not let it be known that he was the son of the former
Ambassador to Kaitain, that he had faithfully served House Vernius -- and still
would, if he could find a way to do it. He had walked freely through the Grand
Palais, had escorted the Earl's own daughter. Acts that, if known, would mean a
death sentence for him.
Above all, he could not let the rabid antitechnology invaders discover his
shielded hiding place or the devices he had hoarded there. His stockpile might
just be the last hope for the future of Ix.
Throughout the grottoes of the city, C'tair watched signs being torn down,
streets and districts being renamed, and the little gnomes -- all men, no women
-- occupying huge research facilities for their secret, nefarious operations.
The streets, walkways, and facilities were guarded by diligent, thinly disguised
Imperial Sardaukar or the invaders' own shape-shifting Face Dancers.
Shortly after their victory was secured, the Tleilaxu Masters had showed
themselves and encouraged the suboid rebels to vent their anger on carefully
selected and approved targets. Standing back, clothed in a simple workman's
jumpsuit, C'tair had watched the smooth-skinned laborers cluster around the
facility that had manufactured the new self-learning fighting meks.
"House Vernius has brought this upon themselves!" screamed a charismatic suboid
agitator, almost certainly a Face Dancer infiltrator. "They would bring back
the thinking machines. Destroy this place!"
While the helpless Ixian survivors had watched in horror, the suboids smashed
the plaz windows and used thermal bombs to ignite the small manufactory. Filled
with religious fervor, they howled and threw rocks.
A Tleilaxu Master on a hastily erected podium had bellowed into comspeakers and
amplifiers. "We are your new masters, and we will make certain the
manufacturing abilities of Ix are fully in accord with the strictures of the
Great Convention." The flames continued to crackle, and some of the suboids had
cheered, but most didn't seem to be listening. "As soon as possible, we must
repair this damage and return this world to normal operations -- with better
conditions for the suboids, of course."
C'tair had looked around, watched the building burn, and felt sick inside.
"All Ixian technology must henceforth be scrutinized by a strict religious
review board, to assure its suitability. Any questionable technology will be
scrapped. No one will ask you to endanger your souls by working on heretical
machines." More cheering, more smashed plaz, a few screams.
C'tair had realized, though, that the cost of this takeover would be enormous
for the Tleilaxu, even with Imperial support. Since Ix was one of the major
powerhouse economies in the Imperium, the new rulers could not afford to let the
production lines remain idle. The Tleilaxu would make a show of destroying some
of the questionable products, such as the reactive meks, but he doubted any of
the truly profitable Ixian devices would be discontinued.
Despite the promises of the new masters, the suboids had been put back to work - [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]