The Dosadi Experiment (26 page)

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Authors: Frank Herbert

BOOK: The Dosadi Experiment
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Does a population have informed consent when that population is not taught the inner workings of its monetary system, and then is drawn, all unknowing, into economic adventures?
 
—from The Trial of Trials
F
or almost an hour after the morning meal, Aritch observed Ceylang as she worked with the McKie simulator. She was pushing herself hard, believing Wreave honor at stake, and had almost reached the pitch Aritch desired.
Ceylang had set up her own simulator situation: McKie interviewing five of Broey's Gowachin. She had the Gowachin come to McKie in surrender, hands extended, the webbed fingers exposed to show that the talons were withdrawn.
Simulator-McKie merely probed for military advantages.
“Why does Broey attack in this fashion?”
Or he'd turn to some places outside the h-focus of the simulator.
“Send reinforcements into that area.”
Nothing about the Rim.
Earlier, Ceylang had tried the issue with a prisoner simulation where the five Gowachin tried to confuse McKie by presenting a scenario in which Broey massed his forces at the corridor. The makings of a breakout to the Rim appeared obvious.
Simulator-McKie asked the prisoners why they lied.
Ceylang cleared the simulator and sat back. She saw Aritch at the observation window, opened a channel to him.
“Something has to be wrong in the simulation. McKie cannot
be led into questioning the purposes of the Rim.”
“I assure you that simulation is remarkable in its accuracy. Remarkable.”
“Then why …”
“Perhaps he already knows the answer. Why don't you try him with Jedrik? Here …” Aritch operated the controls at the observer station. “This might help. This is a record of McKie in recent action on Dosadi.”
The simulator presented a view down a covered passage through a building. Artificial light. Darkness at the far end of the passage. McKie, two blocky guards in tow, approached the viewers.
Ceylang recognized the scene. She'd watched this action at Gate Eighteen from several angles; had seen this passage empty before the battle, acquainting herself with the available views. As she'd watched it then, the passage had filled with Human defenders. There was a minor gate behind the viewer and she knew the viewer itself to be only a bright spot, a fleck of glittering impurity in an otherwise drab brick over the gate's archway.
Now, the long passage seemed strange to Ceylang without its throng of defenders. There were only a few workmen along its length as McKie passed. The workmen repaired service pipes in the ceiling. A cleanup crew washed down patches of blood at the far end of the passage, the high-water mark of the Gowachin attack. An officer leaned against a wall near the viewer, a bored expression on his face which did not mislead Ceylang. He was there to watch McKie. Three soldiers squatted nearby rolling hexi-bones for coins which lay in piles before each man. Every now and then, one of the gamblers would pass a coin to the watching officer. A repair supervisor stood with his back to the viewer, notebook in hand, writing a list of supplies to complete the job. McKie and his guards were forced to step around these people. As they passed, the officer turned, looked directly into the viewer, smiled.
“That officer,” Ceylang said. “One of your people?”
“No.”
The viewpoint shifted, looking down on the gate itself,
McKie in profile. The gatekeeper was a teenager with a scar down his right cheek and a broken nose. McKie showed no signs of recognition, but the youth knew McKie.
“You go through on request.”
“When did she call?”
“Ten.”
“Let us through.”
The gate was opened. McKie and his guards went through, passed beyond the viewer's focus.
The youthful gatekeeper stood up, smashed the viewer. The h-focus went blank.
Aritch looked down from his observation booth for a moment before speaking.
“Who called?”
“Jedrik?” Ceylang spoke without thinking.
“What does that conversation tell you? Quickly!”
“That Jedrik anticipated his movements, was observing him all the time.”
“What else?”
“That McKie … knows this, knows she can anticipate him.”
“She carries a better simulation of him in her head than we have … there.”
Aritch pointed at the h-focus area.
“But they left so much unspoken!” Ceylang said.
Aritch remained silent.
Ceylang closed her eyes. It was like mind reading. It confused her.
Aritch interrupted her musings.
“What about that officer and the gatekeeper?”
She shook her head.
“You're wise to use living observers there. They all seem to know when they're being watched. And how it's done.”
“Even McKie.”
“He didn't look at the viewers.”
“Because he assumed from the first that we'd have him under almost constant observation. He's not concerned about the mechanical intrusions. He has built a simulation McKie of
his own who acts on the surface of the real McKie.”
“That's your assumption?”
“We arrived at this from observation of Jedrik in her dealings with McKie. She peels away the simulation layers one at a time, coming closer and closer to the actuality at the core.”
Another observation bothered Ceylang.
“Why'd the gatekeeper shut down that viewer just then?”
“Obviously because Jedrik told him to do that.”
Ceylang shuddered.
“Sometimes I think those Dosadi play us like a fine instrument.”
“But of course! That's why we sent them our McKie.”
The music of a civilization has far-reaching consequences on consciousness and, thus, influences the basic nature of a society. Music and its rhythms divert and compel the awareness, describing the limits within which a consciousness, thus fascinated, may operate. Control the music, then, and you own a powerful tool with which to shape the society.
 
—The Dosadi Analysis, BuSab Documents
I
t was a half-hour before Jedrik and McKie found themselves in the hallway leading to her quarters. McKie, aware of the effort she was expending to conceal a deep weariness, watched her carefully. She concentrated on presenting a show of vitality, her attention glued on the prospect ahead. There was no way of telling what went on in her mind. McKie did not attempt to break the silence. He had his own worries.
Which was the real Jedrik? How was she going to employ Pcharky? Could he resist her?
He knew he was close to a solution of the Dosadi mystery, but the prospect of the twin gambles he was about to take filled him with doubts.
On coming from the projection room, they'd found themselves in a strange delaying situation, as though it were something planned for their frustration. Everything had been prepared for their movement—guards warned, elevator waiting, doors opened. But every time they thought the way clear, they met interference. Except for the obvious importance of the matters which delayed them, it was easy to imagine a conspiracy.
A party of Gowachin at Gate Seventy wanted to surrender, but they demanded a parley first. One of Jedrik's aides didn't like the situation. Something about the assessment of the offer bothered her, and she wanted to discuss it with Jedrik. She stopped them halfway down the first hall outside the projection room.
The aide was an older woman who reminded McKie vaguely of a Wreave lab worker at BuSab, one who'd always been suspicious of computers, even antagonistic toward them. This Wreave had read every bit of history he could find about the evolution of such instruments and liked to remind his listeners of the misuses of the DemoPol. Human history had provided him with abundant ammunition, what with its periodic revolts against “enslavement by machines.” Once, he'd cornered McKie.
“Look here! See this sign: ‘Gigo.' That's a very old sign that was hung above one of your ancient computers. It's an acronym: Garbage In, Garbage Out.' You see! They knew.”
Yes. Jedrik's female aide reminded him of that Wreave.
McKie listened to her worries. She roamed all around a central disquiet, never settling on a particular thing. Aware of Aritch's deadline and Jedrik's fatigue, McKie felt the pressures bearing down upon him. The aide's data was accurate. Others had checked it. Finally, he could hold his impatience no longer.
“Who fed this data into your computer?”
The aide was startled at the interruption, but Jedrik turned to him, waiting.
“I think it was Holjance,” the aide said. “Why?”
“Get him in here.”
“Her.”
“Her, then! Make sure she's actually the one who fed in that data.”
Holjance was a pinch-faced woman with deep wrinkles around very bright eyes. Her hair was dark and wiry, skin almost the color of McKie's. Yes, she was the one who'd fed the data into the computer because it had arrived on her shift, and she'd thought it too important to delegate.
“What is it you want?” she demanded.
He saw no rudeness in this. It was Dosadi directness. Important things were happening all around.
Don't waste time.
“You saw this assessment of the surrender offer?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you satisfied with it?”
“The data went in correctly.”
“That's not my question”
“Of course I'm satisfied!”
She stood ready to defend herself against any charge that she'd slighted her job.
“Tell me, Holjance,” he said, “if you wanted the Gowachin computers to produce inaccurate assessments, what would you do?”
She thought about this a moment, blinked, glanced almost furtively at Jedrik who appeared lost in thought. “Well, sir, we have a regular filtering procedure for preventing …”
“That's it,” Jedrik said. “If I were a Gowachin, I would not be doing that right now.”
Jedrik turned, barked orders to the guards behind her.
“That's another trap! Take care of it.”
As they emerged from the elevator on Jedrik's floor, there was another delay, one of the escort who'd been with McKie at Gate Eighteen. His name was Todu Pellas and McKie addressed him by name, noting the faint betrayal of pleasure this elicited. Pellas, too, had doubts about carrying out a particular order.
“We're supposed to back up Tria's move by attacking across the upper parkway, but there are some trees and other growth knocked down up there that haven't been moved for two days.”
“Who knocked down those trees?” McKie asked.
“We did.”
McKie understood. You feinted. The Gowachin were supposed to believe this would provide cover for an attack, but there'd been no attack for two days.
“They must be under pretty heavy strain,” Jedrik said.
McKie nodded. That, too, made sense. The alternative Gowachin
assumption was that the Humans were trying to fake them into an attack at that point. But the cover had not been removed by either side for two days.
Jedrik took a deep breath.
“We have superior firepower and when Tria … well, you should be able to cut right through there to …”
McKie interrupted.
“Call off that attack.”
“But …”
“Call it off!”
She saw the direction of his reasoning. Broey had learned much from the force which Gar and Tria had trained. And Jedrik herself had provided the final emphasis in the lesson. She saw there was no need to change her orders to Pellas.
Pellas had taken it upon himself to obey McKie, not waiting for Jedrik's response, although she was his commander. He already had a communicator off his belt and was speaking rapidly into it.
“Yes! Dig in for a holding action.”
He spoke in an aside to Jedrik.
“I can handle it from here.”
In a few steps, Jedrik and McKie found themselves in her room. Jedrik leaned with her back against the door, no longer trying to conceal her fatigue.
“McKie, you're becoming very Dosadi.”
He crossed to the concealing panels, pulled out the bed.
“You need rest.”
“No time.”
Yes, she knew all about the sixty-hour deadline—less than fifty-five hours now. Dosadi's destruction was a reaction she hadn't expected from “X,” and she blamed herself.
He turned, studied her, saw that she'd passed some previously defined limit of personal endurance. She possessed no amplifiers of muscles or senses, none of the sophisticated aids McKie could call upon in emergencies. She had nothing but her own magnificent mind and body. And she'd almost run them out. Still, she pressed on. This told him a great deal about her motivation.
McKie found himself deeply touched by the fact that she'd not once berated him for hiding that ultimate threat which Aritch held over Dosadi. She'd accepted it that someone in Aritch's position could erase an entire planet, that McKie had been properly maneuvered into concealing this.
The alternative she offered filled McKie with misgivings.
Exchange bodies?
He understood now that this was Pcharky's function, the price the old Gowachin paid for survival. Jedrik had explained.
“He will perform this service one more time. In exchange, we release him from Dosadi.”
“If he's one of the original … I mean, why doesn't he just leave?”
“We haven't provided him with a body he can use.”
McKie had suppressed a feeling of horror. But the history of Dosadi which Jedrik unfolded made it clear that a deliberate loophole had been left in the Caleban contract which imprisoned this planet. Fannie Mae had even said it. He could leave in another body. That was the basic purpose behind this experiment.
New bodies for old!
Aritch had expected this to be the ultimate enticement, luring McKie into the Gowachin plot, enlisting McKie's supreme abilities and his powerful position in BuSab.
A new body for his old one.
All he'd have to do would be to cooperate in the destruction of a planet, conceal the real purpose of this project, and help set up another body-trade planet better concealed.
But Aritch had not anticipated what might be created by Jedrik plus McKie. They now shared a particular hate and motivation.
Jedrik still stood at the door waiting for him to decide.
“Tell me what to do,” he said.
“You're sure that you're willing to …”
“Jedrik!”
He thought he saw the beginning of tears. It wasn't that she hid them, but that they reached a suppression level barely visible and she defied them. She found her voice, pointed.
“That panel beside the bed. Pressure latch.”
The panel swung wide to reveal two shimmering rods about two centimeters in diameter. The rods danced with the energies of Pcharky's cage. They emerged from the floor, bent at right angles about waist height and, as the panel opened, they rotated to extend into the room—two glowing handles about a meter apart.
McKie stared at them. He felt a tightness in his breast. What if he'd misread Jedrik? Could he be sure of any Dosadi? This room felt as familiar to him now as his quarters on CC. It was here that Jedrik had taught him some of the most essential Dosadi lessons. Yet … he knew the old pattern of what she proposed. The discarded body with its donor ego had always been killed immediately. Why?
“You'll have your answer to that question when we've done this thing.”
A Dosadi response, ambiguous, heavy with alternatives.
He glanced around the room, found it hard to believe that he'd known this place only these few days. His attention returned to the shimmering rods. Another trap?
He knew he was wasting precious time, that he'd have to go through with this. But what would it be like to find himself in Jedrik's flesh, wearing her body as he now wore his own? PanSpechi transferred an ego from body to body. But something unspeakable which they would not reveal happened to the donor.
McKie took a trembling breath.
It had to be done. He and Jedrik shared a common purpose. She'd had many opportunities to use Pcharky simply to escape or to extend her life … the way, he realized now, that Broey had used the Dosadi secret. The fact that she'd waited for a McKie forced him to believe her. Jedrik's followers trusted her—and they were Dosadi. And if he and Jedrik escaped, Aritch would find himself facing a far different McKie from the one who'd come so innocently across the Rim. They might yet stay Aritch's hand.
The enticement had been real, though. No doubting that.
Shed an old body, get a new one. And the Rim had been the major source of
raw material:
strong, resilient bodies. Survivors.
“What do I do?” he asked.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and she spoke from beside him.
“You are very Dosadi, McKie. Astonishing.”
He glanced at her, saw what it had cost her to move here from the door. He slipped a hand around her waist, eased her to a sitting position on the bed and within reach of the rods.
“Tell me what to do.”
She stared at the rods, and McKie realized it was rage driving her, rage against Aritch, the embodiment of “X,” the embodiment of a contrived fate. He understood this. The solution of the Dosadi mystery had left him feeling empty, but on the edges there was such a rage as he'd never before experienced. He was still BuSab, though. He wanted no more bloodshed because of Dosadi, no more Gowachin justifications.
Jedrik's voice interrupted his thoughts and he saw that she also shared some of his misgivings.
“I come from a long line of heretics. None of us doubted that Dosadi was a crime, that somewhere there was a justice to punish the criminals.”
McKie almost sighed. Not the old Messiah dream! Not that! He would not fill that role, even for Dosadi.
It was as though Jedrik read his mind. Perhaps, with that simulation model of him she carried in her head, this was exactly what she did.
“We didn't expect a hero to come and save us. We knew that whoever came would suffer from the same deficiencies as the other non-Dosadi we saw here. You were so … slow. Tell me, McKie, what drives a Dosadi?”

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