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--KHRONE,
communique to the Face Dancers
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." Khrone slipped Vladimir's pale, twitching hand into the opening. "It contains agony, in its purest form."
"I can't wait."
Khrone knew that this would be an interesting challenge.
For thousands of years the Tleilaxu had created gholas, and since the time of Muad'Dib they had awakened them through a combination of mental anguish and physical pain that brought the mind and body to a fundamental crisis. Unfortunately, even Khrone didn't know exactly what was required to accomplish this. Maybe he should have brought pathetic Uxtal from Bandalong for the event, though he doubted the Lost Tleilaxu could have helped much.
The Baron ghola was particularly ripe for reawakening. Best to proceed vigorously. Khrone fitted a second Box over Vladimir's other hand. "Here we are. Enjoy the process."
Khrone activated both devices, and the young man's body jerked and twisted. Vladimir's face grew white, his pouting lips pressed together over his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut. Spasms rippled through his face, his chest, his arms. Vladimir tried to withdraw his hands. He must be feeling sheer torment, though Khrone smelled no burning flesh, observed no damaged body parts--that was the beauty of the Box. Nerve induction could evoke unendurable pain, and it need never stop until the victim's mind was overloaded.
"This may take a while," Khrone said, a gentle whisper beside the young man's sweaty brow. He increased the level of pain.
Vladimir shuddered. His lips drew back in a rictus, but he did not cry out. Like water from a high-pressure hose, agony streamed into the ghola's body.
Next, Khrone thrust needles into the ghola's neck, chest, and thighs, siphoning off the adrenaline-laced chemicals that could be used as precursors for the Honored Matres' orange spice substitute. Created
with such intensity and purity, Khrone was sure he could sell the product to the Honored Matres on Tleilax. The Matre Superior herself would probably consider it a fine vintage. He could always count on the insatiable needs of Hellica's whores. Under the watchful gaze of the augmented emissaries, Khrone would demonstrate a double efficiency.
After the torture went on for hours, Khrone disconnected the Boxes and looked into the bleary eyes of the sweating young Harkonnen. "We are doing this only to help you."
The ghola looked blankly up at him. No flash of awakened memory in the spider-black eyes. "Not . . . that . . . easy."
So Khrone replaced the Boxes on the ghola's hands. With barely a second thought, he directed that two more be folded around the boy's naked feet. Four unbearable agonies would hit him. The pain was pure and unfiltered, seasoned with adrenaline and garnished with anguish. The torment continued to pound upon the ghola's mind, seeking to free the locked-in memories. Vladimir twisted, cursed, and finally screamed.
But nothing changed.
When it was time for dinner, Khrone invited the patchwork representatives to join him. They left the chamber and sat in the dining hall, listening to the crash of the storm outside. Expecting to celebrate success, Khrone had ordered a long and complicated feast; now they ate each of the fine courses, then returned hours later to the lower chambers. Vladimir continued to squirm, but showed no sign of becoming himself.
"This may take days," Khrone warned the augmented emissaries.
"Then it will take days," they answered.
The Face Dancer began to question his own assumptions, realizing a problem he had not anticipated: Physical pain was not the same as mental pain. The Agony Boxes might not be sufficient.
When he looked down at the thrashing Vladimir, his sweatdrenched clothes, and the defiant grin on his flushed face, the Face Dancer realized another possible problem. The torture might be ineffective for the simple and straightforward fact that this ghola actually enjoyed it.
