The Tree of Life
I tell you now that the Tleilaxu must be the richest people in the Universe. Crowds of servants wait on them, while they consume succulent meats and drink the freshest sherbets. Their arts create mentats, gholas, replacement organs, medical devices and medicines that the Imperium cannot do without. Their craft produces meats and other proteins that they sell to the Imperium. And yet let me tell you: they only export their lowest-quality goods. The best and the most delightful perfumes, foods, and lavish delights, they keep to themselves. They indeed are kings of their own, and from their golden worlds they wait for the rest of Humanity to rot.
– TOR RAGHDRAM: MY CLANDESTINE JOURNEY INTO THE FORBIDDEN PLANETS
It was thirty days of work. First the cleaning, every surface disinfected and blessed, then the self purification, the kneeling and pronouncements. Emotion is the enemy of reason. Scytale realized he had lived too long as a prey to lower energies. Fear, isolation, doubt. The newfound dedication to the Work had cleansed him of impure thoughts, impure actions, impure feelings. The Work never ends, he reminded himself. The Work does not hurry. The toil of the peasant is the glory of God. And he was the last peasant, a special peasant, for he was both the farmer and the seed. I consecrate myself to the Work. He was immersed in the darkness of his new apartments on the no-ship. He was certain the comeyes could see in the dark, but anything he could to hide his exact movements from the crew.
It all started with a flowering plant, leaving the lizard alone in its cage. He licked the pistils, the pollen being the catalyzer imprinted in his body's memory. Every master is a master and a ghola, the creator and the creation. His saliva became dense, opaque as it reacted. He reached out to the flower to deposit a drop.
Three days later, he collected the little berry that the flower had turned into, catalyzed by his act of pollination. He sliced the leg of the lizard with a knife, applied the crushed berry juice on it. The small lizard, no longer than a palm long, shrieked. Since the Great discovery, masters have forged themselves to be a seed. All the universe in one body. A few minutes later he dunked the animal in a water bowl. He stopped, thanking the poor little animal for its service and suffering.
Seven days later, the little animal had started to grow a new, tender limb. Life anew. The first Tleilaxu masters were artists of the flesh. No machines, no chemical shortcuts. Painless work, experimentations in translating the language of God. Within the Work, we give and we take. We gift what we give, we regret what we take. He drank the water of the bowl, added back his urine. My body is its own tank, a reservoir of surprises.
Nine days later, the lizard body had extruded many limbs which stuck to the bottom of the bowl. It did not move anymore, its appearance closer to that of a tree with many roots. Its front fingers up in the air, the head immobile with eyes open. Now he had the limb stumps with which he could grow more catalysts. He started focusing on the guinea pig. Tanks made via enzymes produced by the master's body, guess that witches!
If only he had some company. He thought of Waff, even of Bijaz. Bijaz, Malik-brother, would chastise me now. Face Dancers, the Innocents. Masters, the Experienced. What did we do wrong? We drowned in the decadence of Bandalong. Lost interest. We stopped engaging with the universe. It was the Scattered Masters who made the Futars, and we could not even grasp their methods.
Ten days later, the little pig's stomach had grown tenfold. His fat body made his movements slow in its pen. The zipper on its stomach allowed for easy access when the enzymes needed to be extracted. Fluids from the lizard being refined and elaborated via the mammal's digestion. The eleventh day, the lizard was transplanted into the stomach cavity. The primordial stew.
Every great work has its unnamed victims. He kept the lizard-tree alive with the aid of fluid mixtures he kept preparing with the plant and his body fluids, collecting the new colloids from the aching pig. In creating something, get closer to God. His mind felt pure now, his senses balanced. I regret the pain I caused these animals. I shall regret more the pain I will cause to the women in the tanks. Let their breasts spring spice in fountains of orange and brown fluids, and then I will have the token to bargain for my Face Dancers.
Unless a faster way out presented itself. I remain enslaved to Sheeana and her Sisters. But they don't have my soul. I remain Your humble servant.