Murbella called out. “Wait! Why not prove they’re Face Dancers before you kill anyone—”
The old woman shoved past, eager to get to the officials. She stepped on Murbella’s foot, heard her shouted cautions, then turned to her with a narrowed gaze like a serpent’s. “Why do you hesitate, Reverend Mother? Help us capture the traitors. Or are you a Face Dancer yourself?”
Murbella’s Honored Matre reflexes came to the fore, and her hand snapped out, cutting into the woman’s neck with a blow that rendered her unconscious. She had not meant to kill the woman, but as her accuser fell to the steps a dozen people surged forward, trampling her to death.
Heart pounding, Murbella pressed against the wall to avoid the brunt of the stampede. If the cry had been taken up—“Face Dancer! Face Dancer!”—with fingers pointing at her, the crowd would have killed her without thinking. Even with superior fighting abilities, Murbella could never fend off so many.
She backed up farther and took shelter behind the tall statue of a long-forgotten hero of the Famine Times, shielding herself with its plastone bulk. The screaming mob would crush many of its own members to get into the government building.
She could hear cries inside, a discharge of weapons, and small explosions. Some of the trapped officials must have been carrying personal protection. Murbella waited, knowing it would be over soon. . . . .
The bloody attack burned itself out in half an hour. The mob found and killed all twenty government officials suspected of being enemy Face Dancers. Then, still not sated in their thirst for blood, they turned against any of their own members who had not shown sufficient murderous fervor, until most of the violence drained away into guilty exhaustion. . . . .
Standing tall, Mother Commander Murbella entered the building, where she surveyed the smashed windows, display cases, and artwork. Jubilant murderers dragged bodies onto the polished tiled floor of the main legislative gallery. Almost thirty men and women were dead, some shot with projectile weapons, others beaten to death, many with such violence that their genders were hardly recognizable. The corpses on the polished stone floor wore expressions of horror and shock.
One of the bodies among the bloody mess was indeed a Face Dancer.
“We were right! You see, Reverend Mother.” A man pointed at the dead shape-shifter. “We were infiltrated, but we rooted out the enemy and killed it.”
Murbella looked around, at all of the innocent humans murdered to discover one Face Dancer. What was the economy of bloodshed? She tried to assess it coolly. How much damage could that one Face Dancer have caused, exposing vulnerabilities to the oncoming Enemy forces? All of those lives? Yes, and more, she had to admit.
From their elation it was obvious that the people of Oculiat considered their uprising a victory, and Murbella could not dispute that. But if this wave of insane vigilantism continued, would all governments topple? Even on Chapterhouse? Then who would organize the people to defend themselves?
Weak minds are gullible. The weaker the thought processes, the more ridiculous the notions they will believe. Strong minds, like mine, can turn that to an advantage.
—BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN,
original recordings
Despite being unarmed, the Baron sneered into the face of the red-eyed mongrel hound. The growling animal moved toward him on the flagstoned floor, baring its sharp fangs, ready to spring.
Fortunately, the Baron had killed the feral creature with a poison dart gun some time ago, and this stuffed mechanical version merely followed a programmed reenactment. The simulacrum went motionless when he gave it a hand signal. An amusing toy.
Nine-year-old Paolo moved around the trophy chamber, admiring the wild animals on display. The Baron had dragged the boy out on many hunts in the pristine wilderness of Caladan, so that he could witness the killing firsthand. It was good for his development and education.
Rabban had always enjoyed such things, but Paolo had originally been reluctant to engage in the slaughter. Maybe it was some flaw in the genetics. However, the Baron was gradually breaking down his resistance. With vigorous training and a system of rewards and punishments (plenty of the latter), the Baron had almost managed to squash the core of innate goodness in this ghola of Paul Atreides.
Weathersats had predicted constant rain and wind for the rest of the week. The Baron had looked forward to going out on a fresh hunt, but the cold and wet would have made for a miserable expedition. He and Paolo were trapped inside the castle. The two had formed a remarkable bond. House Atreides and House Harkonnen—how ironic! But though Paolo was a clone of the hated Duke’s son, raised properly he was turning out more like a Harkonnen.
He is your grandson, after all, the internal voice of Alia nagged at him.
Overcoming an urge to shout back at her, the Baron watched four workmen with suspensors hoist an immense stuffed mastaphont onto a viewing stand. Yet another nearly extinct creature, this ferocious beast had charged at them across a field last autumn, slashing with its serrated horns. But the Baron, Paolo, and half a dozen guards had opened fire with lasguns, cutting disks, and poison flechettes, mangling the creature before it finally fell. What an exciting hunt that had been!
Paolo looked at the animated creatures on stands. “Instead of going outside to the wilderness, let’s go hunting in here. We can pretend they’re not already dead. Then we don’t have to worry about getting wet and cold.”
The Baron looked out at the stormy skies, wondering if the weather was the real reason for Paolo’s reluctance. “I don’t mind pain, but personal discomfort is another matter entirely.” He looked around, assessing possibilities for damage. And grinned. “You’re absolutely right, my boy!” It pleased him to hear how deep his own voice was becoming.
They ordered servants to bring a selection of lasguns, dart pistols, swords, and knives for their next ersatz adventure. When the mechanical systems were activated, the dead animals went into a frenzy all over the trophy room. The two hunters took cover, imagined their danger, and shot the mechanical creatures off of their stands, chopping through prosthetic bones, stuffing, and preserved flesh. Last of all, they activated the huge mastaphont and watched it stomp over the debris. Finally catching it in a crossfire of lasgun blasts, they amputated its legs. The beast crashed to the floor, its automatic servos writhing.
The Baron found the violence to be eminently satisfying, and even Paolo seemed to warm to the activity. Afterward, the brave hunters surveyed the damage and laughed as they marched out into the corridor. The Baron spotted three workmen, who looked as if they wanted to become invisible. “Get back in there and clean things up!”
You always make a mess of things, don’t you, Grandfather?
The Baron pressed his hands against his head. “Shut up, damn you!” Alia began humming repetitive singsong tunes, designed to drive him mad, no doubt. When a bewildered Paolo pestered him with questions, the Baron slapped him away. “Leave me alone! You’re as bad as your sister!”
Confused and startled, Paolo ran off.
The girl’s grating voice vibrated in his mind until he couldn’t stand it. He hurried out of the castle. Barely able to see where he was going, the Baron bumped into one of the blocky Harkonnen statues and rushed toward the sea cliff. “I’ll hurl myself over the edge—I swear it, Abomination—unless you leave me alone!”
He got all the way to the windy, rocky brink, before the Alia voice at last faded into sweet silence. The Baron dropped to his knees on the high stone walkway, looking with delicious vertigo over the tremendous drop-off. Maybe he should just do it anyway, and fall to the wet black rocks and churning waves. If the damned Face Dancers needed him so badly, they could just grow another ghola, and maybe that one wouldn’t be so flawed. The Baron Harkonnen would be back!
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Gathering his remaining shreds of dignity, he looked up to see a pug-nosed Face Dancer staring at him. Though all shape-shifters looked exactly the same to him, he somehow knew this one was Khrone. �
�What do you want?”
Officiously, the Face Dancer said, “You and Paolo will depart Caladan and never return. The great war is proceeding, and the evermind has decided that he needs the Kwisatz Haderach close to him. Omnius wants you to complete the boy’s preparation under his direct supervision in the heart of the machine empire. You will depart for Synchrony as soon as a ship is ready.”
The Baron flicked his gaze past the Face Dancer to Paolo, who crouched by a Harkonnen statue, close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation. He chuckled to himself, for this boy was as persistent as Piter de Vries! As soon as he realized he was discovered, Paolo scampered forward. “Is he talking about me?”
“Discuss Paolo’s destiny with him on the way,” Khrone said to the Baron. “Do more than explain it. Make the boy believe.”
“Paolo is inclined to believe anything that reinforces his delusions of grandeur,” the Baron said, ignoring the boy. “So, this Kwisatz Haderach business is . . . real?”
Even though the Face Dancers had finally explained the truth to him, the idea still sounded preposterous. He was not convinced that this young ghola could be so important in the grand scheme of things.
Khrone looked ghastly in his blank state. Shadows around his eyes darkened as his displeasure became evident. “I believe it, and so does Omnius. Who are you to question?”
Believe it, dear Grandfather, said the annoying voice. By his very genes, Paul Atreides has the potential to be greater than you will ever be, in any incarnation.
The Baron refused to reply, either aloud or in his own thoughts. Ignoring the Abomination often made her shut up.
And now they were going to Synchrony, the home of Omnius. He looked forward to seeing the thinking-machine empire. New challenges, new opportunities.
In spite of the sum of his first life’s memories, the stories of the evil thinking machines and the Butlerian Jihad were too distant to seem relevant. Though he harbored considerable resentment toward the Face Dancers, he was glad to be on the side of greater strength.
Later, during the shuttle ride to orbit, the Baron gazed down at the coastline, the villages, the new smokestacks and strip-mined areas of Caladan. In his excitement, Paolo bustled from window to window. “Will we have a long journey?”
“I’m not a pilot. How should I know? The thinking machines must be very far away, otherwise humans would have known about them long before now.”
“What will happen when we get there?”
“Ask a Face Dancer.”
“They won’t talk to me.”
“Then ask Omnius when you see him. In the meantime, amuse yourself.”
Paolo sat down beside him in the passenger compartment and began sampling packets of syrupy packaged food. “I’m special, you know. They’ve been grooming me, watching over me carefully. What exactly is a Kwisatz Haderach, anyway?” He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.
“Don’t crawl into their delusions, boy. There is no such thing as a Kwisatz Haderach. A myth, a legend, something with a hundred vague explanations in as many prophecies. The entire Bene Gesserit breeding program is utter nonsense.” He recalled from deep memories that he had been part of that breeding program himself, forced to impregnate the vile witch Mohiam. He had humiliated her during the act, but in retaliation the hag had transmitted the debilitating disease that had made him bloated and fat.
“It can’t be nonsense. I have visions, especially when I take spice tablets. I see it again and again. I’ve got a bloody knife in my hand, and I’m victorious. I see myself rushing to take my prize—melange, but more than melange. I also see myself lying on the floor, bleeding to death. Which one is right? It’s so confusing!”
“Shut up and take a nap.”
They docked with an unmarked ship high above Caladan. It bore no markings of the Guild and carried no Navigator. Wide hangar doors opened, drawing the shuttle up and inside. Silvery figures moved within the cold, airless landing bay, guiding the small vessel into a docking cradle. Robots—demons from ancient history! Ah, so, at least part of Khrone’s wild tale might be true.
The Baron smiled at the boy staring out the windows. “You and I are about to undertake an interesting journey, Paolo.”
A sheathed dagger is useless in a fight. A maula pistol without projectiles is no more than a club. And a ghola without his memories is merely flesh.
—PAUL ATREIDES,
secret ghola journals
Now that the ghola of Dr. Yueh had his memories restored, Paul Atreides knew he had to attempt more innovative measures to awaken himself. Paul was the oldest of the ghola children, the one with (presumably) the greatest potential, but Sheeana and the Bene Gesserit observers had chosen Yueh as a test case. Unlike the Suk doctor, however, Paul actually wanted his past back. He longed to remember his life and love with Chani, his childhood with Duke Leto and Lady Jessica, his friendships with Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho.
But Paul continued to be haunted by prescient memory-visions of his own double death. And he was growing impatient.
How could the passengers aboard the no-ship think there was still time for caution? Only a few months ago, they had again narrowly escaped the Enemy’s net, brighter and stronger than ever before. Of great concern, the saboteur still had not been caught. Though the saboteur had done nothing else as dramatic as the murder of the three axlotl tanks and unborn gholas, the danger remained.
Paul knew the Ithaca needed him, and he was tired of being just a ghola. He had an idea to attempt, one that was both desperate and dangerous, but he didn’t hesitate. His real memories hovered like a mirage just beyond the heat-shimmered horizon.
With faithful Chani beside him, he stood outside the hatch that led into the great sand-filled hold. He had told no one else what he intended to do. Over the past two years, security had been tightened as much as the Bashar and an eager Thufir Hawat could manage, but no one guarded the entrance to the cargo hold. The seven sandworms were considered sufficiently dangerous to act as their own watchdogs. Only Sheeana could safely go among the large creatures, and the last time she had done so, even she had been briefly swallowed up.
Paul gazed at Chani’s beautiful elfin face and her thick, dark red hair. Even without prior knowledge, without knowing his destiny was to be with her, he would have found the Fremen girl strikingly attractive. In turn, she ran a methodical eye over his body, his special new suit, his tools. “You look like a real Fremen warrior, Usul.”
After studying records and working with a fabrication station in the engineering levels, Chani had fashioned an authentic stillsuit for him—probably the first one manufactured in centuries—and provided him with a rope, maker hooks, and spreaders. The unusual tools felt oddly familiar in his grasp. According to legend, Muad’Dib had summoned a dangerous monster for his first worm ride. These creatures in the hold, though stunted by their captivity, were still behemoths.
The hatch opened, and he and Chani stepped into the artificial desert. When the flinty odors and arid heat struck him, he said, “Stay here, where it’s safe. I have to do this alone, or it won’t be effective. If I face the worm and ride it, that may jar my memories.”
Chani did not try to stop him. She understood the need as well as he did.
He climbed up the first rise, leaving footprints in the sand, then raised both hands and shouted, “Shai-Hulud! I have come for you!” In this confined space, he did not need a thumper to summon the worms.
A quality in the air changed. He sensed a stirring in the shallow dunes and saw seven serpentlike shapes coming toward him. Instead of running away, he sprinted toward them, selecting a place where he could set up his approach and mount one. His heart pounded. His throat was dry despite the stillsuit mask covering his mouth and nose.
Paul had reviewed holofilms to study Fremen sandriding techniques. Intellectually he knew what to do, just as—intellectually—he knew the factual details of his past. But a theoretical understanding was far different from actual experience. It oc
curred to him now, as he stood small and vulnerable on the sand, that the most effective form of learning was in the actual doing, which ensured a more thorough comprehension than he could derive from dusty archives.
I shall learn well, he thought, letting fear wash past him.
The nearest worm surged toward him with a rushing sound of scattered sand. The sheer size of the worms grew more incomprehensible as they approached, cresting the dunes.
Infusing his heart with courage, Paul forced himself to face this challenge. He held up his hook and spreader and crouched for the first leap. The noise of the monsters’ approach was so loud that at first he did not hear the woman shouting. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sheeana bounding across the dunes, throwing herself in front of him. The largest worm exploded through the dust and reared up, its gigantic round mouth glittering with crystalline teeth.
Sheeana held up her hands and shouted, “Stop, Shaitan!”
The worm hesitated, and quested from side to side with its fleshy head as if confused.
“Stop! This one is not for you.” She placed a firm hand on the chest of Paul’s stillsuit and pushed him behind her. “He is not for you, Monarch.”
As if sulking, the largest worm backed away, keeping its eyeless head turned toward them. “Get back to the hatch, foolish boy,” Sheeana hissed at Paul, using just enough Voice to make his legs respond before he could think.
Duncan Idaho was also there at the hatchway, glowering. Chani looked both fearful and relieved.
Sheeana marched Paul back toward the waiting observers. “That worm would have destroyed you!”
“I’m an Atreides. Shouldn’t I be able to control them like you can?”
“That isn’t a theory I intend to test with you. You are too important to us. Of all the gholas, if you foolishly throw your life away, what are we to do?”
Sandworms of Dune Page 11
