AN HOUR LATER, Sister Dorotea swept into the observation suite in her characteristic black robe, but her brown hair looked freshly cut; as always, she had a presence about her. She gave both the Emperor and Roderick curt nods, and then her unflinching gaze settled on Quemada, who sat in a straight-backed chair. The Grand Inquisitor looked very uncomfortable, only minimally cleaned up after his efforts in the square. Outside, at Roderick’s request, Imperial guards had dispersed the unhappy crowd. Maintenance workers were dismantling the props and spraying down the interrogation equipment.
Dorotea and Quemada had been told why they were summoned. Roderick noted that the Grand Inquisitor seemed oddly intimidated by the Truthsayer; he was obviously more comfortable asking questions than answering them.
Salvador gestured impatiently. “Very well, let’s get on with it.”
“Considering the likely results of Quemada’s handiwork, Sister Dorotea will go first,” Roderick said.
Dorotea stood tall and stared at the Grand Inquisitor, not saying anything, not asking anything. As moments passed, Quemada grew increasingly red-faced and indignant. Several times his mouth quivered as if he were about to say something, but he clamped his lips shut. He held Dorotea’s gaze, undoubtedly imagining what he would inflict on her when he got his turn.
Finally, the Emperor lost patience. “Ask him what you’re supposed to ask.”
“He is already speaking to me without words, Sire.” She paused for a moment longer, then stepped closer to Quemada. “We both seek the truth. Why do you need so much violence to ply your trade? Your training from the Suk School should be sufficient to inflict pain without resorting to physical damage or death. Are you unskilled, or do you enjoy hurting people? Is that why you look forward to going to work every day?”
Quemada half rose, but forced himself to sit back down. “I do only what is necessary.”
“Necessary?” She leaned forward like a bird that had spotted a bright shiny object. “Many of your subjects die under questioning — a great many. Yet a skilled Suk practitioner should be able to keep even the most grievously injured victim alive. Why do you find it necessary to kill them? Is it intentional?”
“I obtain the information the Emperor requires.”
“But he doesn’t require you to kill them. In fact, their deaths are often inconvenient. Blanton Davido should not have died so quickly under your questioning.” She watched him like a specimen under high magnification.
“I derive the truth the Emperor needs.”
Dorotea drew back, catching her breath. “Ah, but I see much more than that, more than just the enjoyment of inflicting pain. I did not recognize that you were being pragmatic, and I apologize for thinking you were a sadist — that’s not it at all. This is a practical matter, isn’t it? I see now that you find the victims useful in secret ways. And profitable.” Her eyes flicked back and forth, and Roderick noticed a changing demeanor in the Grand Inquisitor as she continued to speak. “When someone dies during questioning, the Emperor doesn’t ask what you do with the bodies afterward.” She turned to Salvador. “Do you, Sire?”
He was confused. “Of course not.”
Roderick had not expected this at all.
Dorotea continued to press Quemada. “You and your Scalpel assistants dispose of the bodies personally. Is there some reason you want them? How do you benefit from corpses? You kill specific people … or you let them die, because…” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re after their organs?”
“No, I — uh, I—” Thick beads of perspiration had formed on Quemada’s forehead and upper lip, and his entire body was shaking. He seemed to be dissolving before their eyes.
“Tell us!” Dorotea’s eyes were dark, penetrating, and almost hypnotic.
Suddenly, as if her importunate voice had broken him, Quemada began to babble. “There are those who purchase organs on the black market, Tlulaxa researchers, even Suk transplant physicians. When a person dies under questioning, my Scalpel team is there to remove the organs. No waste, and others benefit.” Perspiration poured from him. “It is not forbidden! I’ve done nothing illegal.”
“But you have a financial incentive in letting them die.”
Quemada glanced at a horrified Salvador with eyes that burned with guilt, shame, and a rage that he could not conceal.
Dorotea stepped back, looking exhausted. She turned to the Emperor. “I can tell he is keeping other secrets, Sire, but I trust that was a sufficient demonstration?”
Roderick said in a mild voice, “You’ll notice, brother, that Sister Dorotea determined that information in only a few minutes, without even touching the man, without so much as one crushed finger or ripped-away nail. And he is still alive for you to treat as you wish. I’d say the Truthsayer’s methods are far superior.”
Salvador trembled with excitement. “You certainly made your point, brother. And if my Grand Inquisitor is hiding even more from me, we shall learn exactly what it is. It’s only fitting, however, that his own Scalpel practitioners extract the information from him. In public.”
The Grand Inquisitor writhed and pleaded. “Ask Empress Tabrina what you want to know. Get the truth out of her!”
Salvador raised his eyebrows, then turned to Roderick, even more pleased. “Oh, we will.”
Chapter 34 (History often distorts through a lens of fear)
History often distorts through a lens of fear. After disregarding the bombastic nonsense about General Agamemnon and the original Titans, I realize that those cymeks could have been great, if hubris had not destroyed them.
— PTOLEMY, Denali Laboratory Journals
The shimmer of sunlight on dunes dazzled Ptolemy as he emerged from the landing vehicle. Yes, these wastelands of Arrakis would make an excellent testing bed for his new cymeks.
As Ptolemy had requested, their private VenHold craft had landed out in the open desert, bypassing the main spaceport so there would be no record of its presence. The Mentats at the Combined Mercantiles headquarters had made all the necessary arrangements. Directeur Venport intended to keep this work secret for now, but when Ptolemy finally unleashed the cymeks against Manford Torondo’s savages, everyone would tremble before these gigantic machines.
He felt a chill that the desert heat could not dispel. His mind filled with a wishful vision of the hateful rabble leader whimpering in terror as he watched the nightmarish mechanical walkers smashing his panicked barbarians and tossing their shattered bodies like bloody dolls.
He coughed, then attempted to cover the sound, not wanting to appear weak in front of the Directeur. Ptolemy’s lungs had not stopped aching and burning since his exposure to Denali’s atmosphere. The research facility’s doctors had performed a deep scan, verifying that he had suffered significant pulmonary scarring. They assured him that with treatment, he could regain his health. But his work was all that mattered to him, and he could not take time for the extensive cellular restructuring the treatment would require.
Inside the domed medical facility, Administrator Noffe had taken care of him for weeks, making sure his friend ate regularly and took his medication. Although Ptolemy did not like the way the inhalant dulled his thoughts, the pain had an even more adverse effect, distracting him from what he needed to do.…
Their craft rested on a safe ridge of rock that overlooked an ocean of dunes, where the test would take place. As wind whipped sand around, Ptolemy stood with the others, but alone with his thoughts, ignoring the conversation around him. He wished Elchan were there, but his friend could no longer speak to him, because he’d been murdered by the Butlerians.