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human could resist, she said curtly, "Cooperate with me." It was a command she
expected him to obey.
The Baron just smiled. He didn't move, but his eyes flicked to one side.
Mohiam was so startled at the ineffectiveness of Voice that she realized too
late the Baron had set a different trap for her.
The Mentat Piter de Vries had already launched himself out of a hidden alcove.
She turned, battle-ready, but the Mentat moved as swiftly as any Bene Gesserit
could.
The Baron took it all in, and enjoyed what he was seeing.
De Vries held a crude but effective weapon in his hands. The old-fashioned
neural scrambler would serve as a brutal high-powered stunning device. He fired
a volley before she could move. The crackling waves slammed into her, short-
circuiting her mind/muscle control.
Mohiam fell backward, twitching and wrenching with painful spasms, every square
centimeter of her skin alive with imaginary biting ants.
Such a delightful effect, the Baron thought as he watched.
She dropped to the polished-stone floor, arms and legs akimbo, as if she had
been squashed by a giant foot. Her head struck the hard tiles, and her ears
rang from the blow. Unblinking, her eyes stared up at the vaulted ceiling.
Even with extreme prana-bindu muscular control, she couldn't move.
Finally the mocking face of the Baron loomed over her, pushing itself into her
limited field of view. Her arms and legs jittered with random nerve impulses.
She felt warm wetness and realized that her bladder had let go. A thin line of
spittle trickled from the corner of her lip down her cheek, weaving a path to
the base of her ear.
"Now then, witch," the Baron said, "that stunner will do no permanent damage.
In fact, you'll have bodily control again in about twenty minutes. Time enough
for us to get to know one another." He walked around her, smiling, passing in
and out of her peripheral vision.
Raising his voice so that electronic pickups would transmit everything to the
hidden observers, he continued. "I know what false blackmail material you have
fabricated against House Harkonnen, and my lawyers are prepared to deal with it
in any court of the Imperium. You have threatened to use it if I don't grant
you another child, but that is a toothless threat from toothless witches."
He paused, then smiled as if an idea had just occurred to him. "Still, I don't
mind giving you the additional daughter you desire. Really, I don't. But know
this, witch, and take my message back to your Sisterhood: You cannot twist
Baron Vladimir Harkonnen to your purpose without suffering the consequences."
Using all of her training to focus on the output of certain nerves and muscles,
Mohiam reconnected her eyes so that she could at least move them to look around.
The neural scrambler had been incredibly effective, though, and the rest of her
body lay helpless.
Fighting his revulsion, the Baron reached down and tore at her skirts. What a
disgusting form she had, without the male muscle patterns he so admired and
desired. "My, it looks like you've had a little accident here," he said,
frowning at the urine-wet fabric.
Piter de Vries stood over her from behind, looking down at her broad, slack
face. She saw the red-stained lips and the half-mad glint in the Mentat's eyes.
Below, the Baron knocked her legs apart and then fumbled at his loose-fitting
black pants.
She couldn't see what he was doing, didn't want to.
Giddy with the success of his plan, the Baron had no difficulty maintaining an
erection this time. Flushed in the afterglow of the brandy he had drunk, he
stared down at the unattractive woman, imagined her as a withered old crone that
he had just sentenced to the most brutal of the Harkonnen slave pits. This
woman, who fancied herself so great and powerful, now lay completely helpless .
. . at his mercy!
The Baron took enormous pleasure in raping her -- the first time he could ever
recall enjoying himself with a woman, though she was just a limp piece of meat.
During the violence of the attack, Mohiam lay supine on the cold floor, furious
and impotent. She could feel every movement, every touch, every painful thrust,
but she still had no control over her voluntary muscles. Her eyes remained
open, although she thought she might have been able to blink if she worked hard
enough at it.
Instead of wasting that energy, the Reverend Mother concentrated internally,
feeling her biochemistry, changing it. The Mentat's stunner weapon hadn't done
a complete job on her. Muscles were one thing, but internal body chemistry was
quite another. The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen would regret this.
Previously she had manipulated her ovulation to achieve the peak of fertility in
this exact hour. Even raped, she would have no trouble conceiving a new
daughter with the Baron's sperm. That was the most important consideration.
Technically, she required nothing more from the vile man. But the Reverend
Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam intended to give him something back, a slow-acting
revenge he would never forget for the rest of his life.
No one was ever allowed to forget a Bene Gesserit punishment.
Though she remained paralyzed, Mohiam was an accomplished Reverend Mother. Her
body itself contained unorthodox weapons that remained at her disposal even now,
even as helpless as she appeared to be.
With the sensitivities and remarkable functions of their bodies, Bene Gesserit
Sisters could create antidotes for poisons introduced into their systems. They
were able to neutralize the most hideous strains of diseases to which they had
been exposed, and either destroy the virulent pathogens . . . or render them
latent in their bodies, keeping the diseases themselves as resources for later
use. Mohiam carried several such latencies within her, and she could activate
those diseases by controlling her own biochemistry.
Now the Baron lay on top of her, grunting like an animal, his jaw clenched, his
lips curled back in a sneer. Beadlets of stinking sweat covered his reddened
face. She stared up. Their eyes met, and he thrust harder, grinning.
That was when Mohiam selected the particular disease, an oh-so-gradual
vengeance, a neurological disorder that would destroy his beautiful body. The
Baron's physique obviously brought him much pleasure, was a source of great
pride. She could have infected him with any number of fatal, suppurating
plagues -- but this affliction would be a deeper blow to him, much slower in its
course. She would make the Baron face his own appearance every day as he grew
fatter and weaker. His muscles would degenerate, his metabolism would go
haywire. In a few years, he wouldn't even be able to walk by himself.
It was such a simple thing for her to do . . . but its effects would last for
years. For the rest of his life. Mohiam envisioned the Baron pain-wracked, so
obese he couldn't even stand erect unassisted, screaming out in agony.
Finished, smug in the belief that he had shown the witch who was the more
powerful, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen withdrew and stood up, frowning at her in
disgust now. "Piter, get me a towel, so I can wipe the whore's slime off of
me."
The Mentat scuttled out of the room, chuckling. The hall doors were opened [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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