The man-machine stood outside the shambles of an Ixian weapons manufactory. During the decades of Tleilaxu occupation, the assembly lines that produced complex machinery and technological marvels had been poorly maintained, abandoned, or used for other purposes. The invaders were not knowledgeable enough to keep sophisticated systems running smoothly, and the skilled Ixian workers passively resisted in every way.
Just days before, the last groaning and shuddering stations on the production line had seized up. Engines smoked, components ground together and broke down. During the emergency, the workers had just watched.
The underground world had been slowly sliding into disorder and decay. Repair technicians halfheartedly removed the ruined assembly-line components, but the Tleilaxu overlords had no replacement parts. Workers at other machines tried to look busy, while prowling Sardaukar guards and Tleilaxu Masters kept a close watch. Surveillance pods drifted overhead, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
Prince Rhombur hid in plain sight. He stood like a statue in front of the bustling facility. Ixian workers glanced at him, then looked away without seeing, without recognizing. Years of oppression had deadened their minds and senses.
His scarred face and the metal skullcap were exposed, like badges of honor. The prosthetic skin on his artificial limbs had been peeled away to reveal pulleys, electronics, and mechanical enhancements, a better approximation of the clumsy bi-Ixian monstrosities. Gurney had even dirtied him up. While Rhombur could not pretend to be completely human, he could masquerade as something far less than he was.
Chemical smoke poured toward the cavern ceiling, where air-exchangers absorbed and filtered the particulates. But even the best purification systems could not remove the traces of innocent people living in fear.
Rhombur’s eyes, both the real and the synthetic, examined everything around him. He felt revulsion, nausea, and anger to see the ruin of this once-wondrous city, and could hardly endure any more. With zero hour fast approaching for the arrival of Atreides forces, he hoped he could seed the revolution quickly enough to make a difference.
When he began to move, Rhombur took slow, jerky steps, wandering aimlessly like one of the Tleilaxu’s reanimated bi-Ixians. Rhombur made his way under a darkened overhang beside the broken-down factory.
Unnoticed among the work crew and guards, Gurney Halleck signaled him. Beside the inkvine-scarred man stood the broken shadow of someone Rhombur remembered from a shared youth. In astonishment at the man’s stark appearance, he whispered, “C’tair Pilru!”
This had once been a vibrant young man, dark-eyed and small in stature like his twin D’murr. But in some ways C’tair’s changes seemed even more horrifying than the Navigator’s alterations. The eyes were fatigue-laden and sunken; the dark hair stuck out in unwashed spikes.
“My… Prince?” His voice was whispery and uncertain. He had suffered too many hallucinations and broken dreams. Appalled to see the horrific changes in the heir to House Vernius, C’tair seemed ready to break down.
Gurney squeezed his arm in a viselike grip. “Careful, both of you. We must not draw attention to ourselves. We dare not stay here in the open for long.”
“I… have a place,” C’tair said. “Several places.”
“We must spread the word.” Rhombur’s voice was low, determined. “Inform those who have given up and those who have retained a spark of hope for all these years. We will even enlist the aid of the suboids. Tell everyone that the Prince of Ix has returned. Freedom is no longer an improbable hope— the time is now. Let there be no question: We are about to retake Ix.”
“It is very dangerous for anyone to say such things aloud, my Prince,” C’tair said. “The people live in terror.”
“Pass the word anyway, even if it causes the monsters to seek me out. My people need to know that I am back and that the long, dark nightmare of Ix will soon be over. Tell them to be ready. Duke Leto’s forces arrive soon.”
Rhombur reached out with a powerful prosthetic arm and embraced the emaciated freedom fighter. Even to the Prince’s clumsy nerve sensors, C’tair felt skeletal. He hoped Leto would not delay.