Hunters of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Garimi looked back at her equally stern followers and seemed to draw strength from them. “Rational argument? I resist this proposal because it is patently dangerous. These are people we know from history. We know them, and what they are capable of doing. Do we dare unleash another Kwisatz Haderach upon the universe? We made that mistake once already. We should know better now.”

  When Duncan spoke, he had only his convictions, lacking the Bene Gesserit ability of Voice or their subtle manipulations. “Paul Atreides was a good man, but the Sisterhood and other forces sent him spinning in dangerous directions. His much-maligned son was good and brave himself, until he allowed the worm of the desert to dominate him. I knew Thufir Hawat, Gurney Halleck, Stilgar, Duke Leto, and even Leto II. This time, we can protect them from the flaws in their pasts and let them achieve their potential. To help us!”

  As the women shouted, Garimi raised her voice loudest of all. “Through Other Memory, we know what the Atreides did as well as you do, Duncan Idaho. Oh, the cruelties committed in the name of Muad’Dib, the billions who died in his jihad! The Corrino Empire that had lasted for thousands of years fell! But even the disasters of Emperor Muad’Dib were not enough. Then came his son the Tyrant and thousands of years of crushing terror! Have we learned nothing?”

  Raising her voice, Sheeana used a hint of command, enough to silence the other Bene Gesserits. “Of course, we have learned. Until today, I thought we had learned wise caution. Now it seems that history has only taught us unreasoning fear. Would you discard our greatest advantage just because someone might be unintentionally injured? We have enemies who will do us intentional violence. There is always a risk, but the ingenuity in our cellular banks at least offers us a chance.”

  She tried to calculate how many passengers Garimi had brought over to her side. Identifying and categorizing them in her mind, Sheeana found few surprises; all were traditionalists, ultraconservatives among the conservatives. At the moment, their numbers remained a minority, but that could change. This debate must end before more damage occurred.

  Even once the project began in earnest, each ghola child would require a full gestation period, and then it must be raised and trained, with an eye toward the possibility of awakening its internal memories. It would take years. In the next decade or more, how many times would their no-ship fly headlong into crisis? What if they collided with the mysterious Enemy tomorrow? What if they were trapped in the shimmering net that Duncan said always followed them, always sought them out?

  Long-term planning was what the Sisterhood did best.

  Finally, Sheeana drew her generous mouth back in a firm line and stood her ground. This was a fight she did not intend to lose, but the debate had run its course, whether or not Garimi would admit it. “Enough of these circular arguments. I call for a vote. Now.”

  And she carried the motion. Just barely.

  Even our ship’s no-field cannot protect us from the prescience of Guild Navigators as they search the cosmos. Only the wild genes of an Atreides can completely veil the ship.

  —THE MENTAT BELLONDA,

  addressing a convocation of acolytes

  H

  is mind numb after the shouting match among the Bene Gesserits, Duncan Idaho went through a round of solo exercises on the practice floor. To sort out his thoughts, he felt a compulsion to go to this familiar place where he had spent so many enjoyable hours. With Murbella.

  In attempting to exert supreme control over his muscles and nerves, he became more conscious of his failures. There were always reminders. Employing his Mentat abilities, he recognized when he missed certain advanced prana-bindu movements by the merest hair’s breadth; few observers would have noticed the errors, but he saw them. With the whole matter of the new gholas weighing heavily on him, he felt out of balance.

  Again, he completed the ritualistic steps. Holding a short-sword, he tried to achieve the relaxed preparedness of prana-bindu, that inner calmness that would enable him to defend himself and strike with lightning speed. But his muscles stubbornly refused to comply with the impulses of his mind.

  Fighting is a matter of life and death . . . not of mood. Gurney Halleck had taught him that.

  Taking two deep breaths, Duncan closed his eyes and slipped into a mnemonic trance in which he arrayed the data involved with this dilemma. In his mind’s eye, he saw a long scratch on an adjacent wall that had previously escaped his attention. Odd that no one had repaired it in so many years . . . odder still that he had not noticed it in all that time.

  Almost a decade and a half ago Murbella had slipped and fallen there during a knife-fighting practice with him—and very nearly died. When she’d gone down in slow motion, twisting her knife hand and falling in such a way that the blade would have penetrated her heart, Duncan had envisioned the full range of possible outcomes in his Mentat mind. He saw the many ways that she could die . . . and the few in which she could be saved. As she fell, he thrust a powerful kick at her, knocking the weapon away and scraping the wall.

  A scratch on the wall, unnoticed and forgotten until now . . .

  Only moments after that near tragedy, he and Murbella had made love there on the floor. It had been one of their most memorable coital collisions, with his Bene Gesserit–enhanced masculine abilities pitted against her Honored Matre sexual bonding techniques. Superhuman stud against amber-haired temptress.

  Did she still think of him after nearly four years?

  In his private cabin and in the common areas of the no-ship, Duncan continued to find reminders of his lost love. Before the escape he had been intent on making secret plans with Sheeana, hiding necessary items aboard the vessel, surreptitiously loading the volunteer pilgrims, equipment, supplies, and seven sandworms—keeping Duncan so busy that he had been able to forget Murbella for a while.

  But immediately after the no-ship successfully tore away from the old couple and their clinging web, Duncan had too much time and too many opportunities to stumble upon previously unnoticed emotional land mines. He found a few of Murbella’s keepsakes, training garments, toiletry items. Though he was a Mentat and could not forget details, simply finding these leftovers of her presence had hit him hard, like memory time bombs, worse than the explosive mines that had once been rigged around the no-ship at Chapterhouse.

  For his own sanity, Duncan had finally gathered every scrap, from rumpled exercise clothes caked with her dried sweat, to discarded towels she had used, to her favorite stylus. He had thrown them all into one of the no-ship’s unused small storage bins. The intact nullentropy field would keep the items exactly as they were forever, and the lock would seal them away. There, they had remained for years.

  Duncan never needed to see them again, never needed to think about Murbella. He had lost her, and could never forget.

  Murbella might be gone forever, but Scytale’s nullentropy tube could bring back Duncan’s old friends. Paul, Gurney, Thufir, and even Duke Leto.

  Now, as he toweled himself off, he felt a surge of hope.

  FOUR YEARS AFTER

  ESCAPE FROM CHAPTERHOUSE

  It is not cowardly or paranoid to jump at shadows if a real threat exists.

  —MOTHER COMMANDER MURBELLA,

  private journals

  T

  he large unidentified battleship appeared in dead space far outside of the Chapterhouse system. It hung there, scanning cautiously before moving closer. Using long-range sensors, an incoming Guildship detected the vessel beyond any planetary orbit, a strange ship lurking where it shouldn’t have been.

  Always concerned about the Enemy, never knowing when or how the first attacks might occur, the Mother Commander dispatched two Sisters in a swift scout ship to investigate. The women approached tentatively, making their intention apparent in a nonthreatening way.

  The strange battleship opened fire and destroyed the scout as soon as it came within range. The pilot’s last transmission said, “It’s a warship of some kind. Looks like it’s been through seven hells,
severely damaged—” And then the message cut off in a flash of static. . . .

  In a grim mood, Murbella assembled her military commanders to formulate a swift and massive response. No one knew the identity or armaments of the intruder, whether it was the long-expected Outside Enemy or some other power. But it was a definite threat.

  Many of the former Honored Matres, including Doria, had been spoiling for a fight in the four years since the Battle of Junction. Simmering with violence, the Honored Matres felt that their military abilities were growing stagnant. Now, Murbella would give them a chance to make up for it.

  In a matter of hours, twenty attack ships—which had been part of the Chapterhouse space navy since the days of Bashar Miles Teg—accelerated out of the system. Murbella led them, despite the warnings and complaints of some of her more timid Bene Gesserit advisors, who wanted her to stay out of danger. She was the Mother Commander, and she would take charge of the mission. It was her way.

  As the New Sisterhood’s ships swooped closer, Murbella studied the images resolving on her screens, noting the dark scoring along the intruder’s hull, the bright emissions of power leakage from damaged engines, the large holes blasted where contained atmosphere had vented into space.

  “It’s a wreck,” transmitted Bashar Wikki Aztin from her own attack ship.

  “But a deadly one,” noted an adjutant. “It can still shoot.”

  Like a wounded predator, Murbella thought. It was a large craft, much bigger than her attack ships. Studying scanner screens, she recognized part of the design as well as a battle sigil on the heat-damaged hull. “It’s an Honored Matre ship, but not from any of the assimilated groups.”

  “Does it belong to one of the rebel enclaves?”

  “No . . . this is from beyond the edge of the Scattering,” she transmitted. “From far beyond.”

  Over the decades, a great many Honored Matres had swept into the Old Empire like locusts, but their numbers were far greater out among the distant worlds. Honored Matres existed in independent cells, isolated from other groups not only for their own protection, but from a natural xenophobia.

  Apparently the strange vessel had blundered into this section of space. Judging by its appearance, the battleship had been too severely damaged to make it all the way to its intended destination. Chapterhouse, specifically? Or just any habitable planet?

  “Remain outside of firing range,” she warned her commanders, then adjusted her commsystem. “Honored Matres! I am Murbella, the legitimate Great Honored Matre, having assassinated my predecessor. We are not your enemy, but we do not recognize your ship or its markings. You destroyed our scouts unnecessarily. Open fire again at your own peril.”

  Only silence and static answered her.

  “We’re going to board you. This is my command as Great Honored Matre.” She edged her ships forward, still receiving no response.

  Finally a haggard, stern-looking woman appeared on the communications screen, her expression as sharp as broken glass. “Very well, Honored Matre. We will not open fire—yet.”

  “Great Honored Matre,” Murbella said.

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Moving cautiously, with their weapons systems powered up and ready to respond, the twenty New Sisterhood ships closed in around the large battle-scarred hulk. On a private channel, Doria signaled, “We could easily just crawl through a hole in the hull.”

  “I’d rather not be seen as attackers,” Murbella replied, then transmitted on an open channel to the unnamed captain of the Honored Matre battleship, “Do your docking bays still function? How severe is your damage?”

  “One docking bay is serviceable.” The captain provided instructions.

  Murbella told Bashar Aztin and half of her ships to remain outside as guardians while she guided the other ten in to face the survivors of what must have surely been a horrific battle.

  When she and her comrades emerged in the docking bay, Murbella faced thirteen battered-looking women, all of them in colored leotards. Many still sported bruises, barely healed injuries, and medical patches.

  The woman with the broken-glass expression had her left hand wrapped in healing strips. Ever suspicious, Murbella suspected she might be hiding a weapon in the bandaging, but it was unlikely; Honored Matres considered their own bodies to be weapons. This one glowered at Murbella and her team, some of whom were dressed as Bene Gesserits, others in the trappings of Honored Matres.

  “You look different . . . strange,” the captain said. Orange flecks appeared in her eyes.

  “And you look defeated,” Murbella snapped. Honored Matres responded to force rather than conciliation. “Who did this to you?”

  The woman answered with scorn. “The Enemy, of course. The Enemy who has been hounding us for centuries, spreading plagues, destroying our worlds.” She showed skepticism in her face. “If you do not know this, then you are no Honored Matre.”

  “We are aware of the Enemy, but we have been in the Old Empire for a long time. Much has changed.”

  “And apparently much has been forgotten! You look as if you’ve grown soft and weak, but we know the Enemy has been in this sector. We have explored to the best of our abilities in this damaged ship. We found several planets that were clearly charred by Obliterators.”

  Murbella did not correct her, did not tell the captain that those planets—no doubt Tleilaxu or Bene Gesserit worlds—had been destroyed by Honored Matres themselves, and not by the Outside Enemy.

  Warily, Murbella stepped forward, wondering if these thirteen Honored Matres were all that had survived on the entire battleship. “Tell us what you know of our mutual Enemy. Any information will help us in our defenses.”

  “Defenses? You cannot defend against an invincible foe.”

  “Nevertheless, we shall try.”

  “No one can stand against them! We must flee, seize whatever we can for our survival, and move faster than the Enemy can pursue us. You must know this.” Her bruised eyes narrowed; the broken glass of her expression seemed to sharpen even more. “Unless you are not truly an Honored Matre. I do not recognize these others or their strange clothing, and you have a foreign manner about you . . .” She looked as if she wanted to spit. “We all know that our Enemy has many faces. Is your face among them?”

  The Honored Matre strangers tensed and coiled, then flung themselves upon Murbella and her followers. These outside Honored Matres did not know the superior fighting abilities of the unified New Sisterhood, and they were also weary and scarred. Even so, desperation heated their violence.

  After the bloodbath, four of Murbella’s comrades lay dead on the deck before the rest of her crew subdued and killed all of the Honored Matres, except for the captain.

  When it was clear that her women would be slain, the Honored Matre leader bolted through the docking bay door toward a lift. The Bene Gesserits with Murbella were astounded. “She is a coward!”

  Murbella was already running toward the lift. “Not a coward. She’s going to the bridge. She’ll scuttle this ship before she lets it fall into our hands!”

  The nearest lift tube was damaged and wouldn’t operate. Murbella and several Sisters ran until they found a second elevator that sped them up toward the command deck. The captain could easily destroy all navigation records and perhaps blow up the engines (if they remained intact enough to respond to a self-destruct order). She had no idea how many of the battleship’s systems were still functional.

  By the time Murbella, Doria, and three others burst onto the command deck, the Honored Matre captain was already hammering at the panels with such force that her fingertips were bloody. Sparks and smoke curled up, erupting from short-circuited control stations. Murbella reached the woman in a flash, grabbed her shoulders and hurled her away from the station. The captain lunged back toward them, but a single reflexive blow from the Mother Commander broke her neck. No time for slow interrogations.

  Doria reached the panel first and impetuously used her bare hands to ri
p out the control boards, disconnecting the console. Afterward, she frowned down at the smoking panels, unable to stop the damage that was already underway. Extinguishers smothered the electrical fires.

  Bene Gesserit experts combed over the systems while Murbella waited, worried that the whole battleship was still going to explode around them. One of the Sisters looked up from a navigation station. “Self-destruct sequence successfully interrupted. Most of the records were destroyed by the captain, but I was able to retrieve at least one set of coordinates from outside the Old Empire—the last place this ship went before fleeing here.”

  Murbella made up her mind. “We must learn what we can about what has occurred so far out there.” The mystery had been gnawing at her for years. “I’ll send scouts to retrace the course. After this, let no one dare suggest that I’m merely imagining the Enemy is coming to get us. If the Enemy is finally on the move, we need to know.”

  Naively, the Honored Matres think they have the loyalty of their enslaved Lost Tleilaxu. In reality, many of these Tleilaxu from the Scattering have their own plans. As Face Dancers, it is our task to ruin all of their schemes.

  —KHRONE,

  message to the Face Dancers

  E

  ven by Lost Tleilaxu standards, the laboratory built in the ashes of Bandalong was primitive. Uxtal had only the most basic equipment scavenged from ruined facilities once used by old Masters, and this was the first time he had actually managed such a complex project by himself. He did not dare let the Honored Matres or Face Dancers suspect that the task might be beyond him.

  Useless lab assistants were assigned to help him, generally weak-willed and low-caste males who had been sexually subjugated by the dreadful women. None of the assistants possessed any special knowledge or hints that might help. Already, because of some imagined slight, the mercurial Honored Matres had killed one of the pathetic men, and his replacement did not seem any more talented.