Hunters of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  When she was held captive among the Bene Gesserit, even she had naively assumed her strength and abilities would prove to be greater than that of the witches. Such arrogance! At first she had schemed to destroy the Sisterhood from within, but the more Bene Gesserit knowledge and philosophy she received, the more she began to understand—and frown upon—her former organization. Murbella was merely the first convert, the first hybrid of Honored Matre and Bene Gesserit . . .

  On the morning of the gathering, the mixed representatives assumed their marked seats, dark green cushions arranged on the floor in ever-expanding concentric circles, like the petals of a blossoming flower. The Mother Commander placed her own cushion down among the Sisters, rather than looming over them from a high throne.

  Murbella wore a simple black singlesuit that gave her perfect freedom of movement, but without the flashy ornamentation, cape, or bright colors the Honored Matres preferred; she also eschewed the concealing robes the Bene Gesserits usually draped over themselves.

  As the representatives situated themselves in a clash of mismatched clothes and colors, Murbella decided abruptly that she would impose a dress code. She should have done so a year ago, following the bloody school-yard brawl that had left several acolytes dead. Even after four years, these women still clung to their old identities. No more armbands, no more gaudy colors or capes, no more flowing ravenlike robes. From now on, a simple black singlesuit would do for everyone.

  Both sides would have to accept changes. Not compromise, but synthesis. Compromises only drove both ends of the curve to an unacceptable and weaker average; instead, both sides must take the best from the other and discard the rest.

  Sensing their palpable uneasiness, Murbella rose to her knees and stared the women down. She had already heard of more former Honored Matres slipping away to join the outcasts in the northern regions. Other rumors—no longer so absurd—suggested that some had even joined the largest group of rebels led by Matre Superior Hellica on Tleilax. In light of what they had all just learned about the Enemy, such distractions could not be tolerated any longer.

  She knew that many of the gathered Sisters would automatically argue against the changes Murbella planned to impose. They already resented her for the turmoil she had caused in the past. For a chilling moment, she compared herself to Julius Caesar standing before the Senate to propose monumental reforms that would have benefited the Roman Empire. And the Senators had voted with their daggers.

  Before speaking, Murbella performed a Bene Gesserit breathing exercise to calm herself. She became conscious of a change in the air currents around her, something intangible. Narrowing her eyes, she took note of details, of the placement of seated and standing women.

  After activating the receiving hall’s sound system with a wave of her hand, Murbella spoke into a microphone that dropped on a suspensor and hovered in front of her face. “I am unlike any leader the Sisterhood or the Honored Matres have ever had. It is not my purpose to please everyone, but instead to forge an army that has a chance—however slight—of survival. Our survival. We cannot afford the time for gradual changes.”

  “Can we afford changes at all?” grumbled one Honored Matre. “I cannot see how they have benefited us.”

  “That is because you cannot see. Will you open your eyes, or congratulate yourself on your blindness?” The other woman’s eyes flashed, though the orange flecks had long ago gone away from the lack of orange spice substitute.

  Just behind her, a Bene Gesserit Sister arrived late. She approached along a narrow aisle, scanning the area around her as if searching for her seat. But every woman knew her assigned place. The latecomer should not be going in that direction.

  Watching with peripheral vision as she spoke, Murbella gave no sign that she had noticed anything amiss. The dark-haired and high-cheekboned woman looked unfamiliar. Not someone I know.

  She kept her gaze forward, internally counting the seconds as she mentally mapped the newcomer’s approach. Then, without looking back, using the full reflexes wired into her from both Honored Matre and Bene Gesserit training, Murbella sprang to her feet. With breathtaking speed, she spun in the air to face the woman. Before her feet could touch the floor again, the Mother Commander bent backward, just as the attacker moved in a blur, pulling something from the pocket of her robe and slashing out in a single fluid motion. Milky white and crystalline-sharp—an ancient crysknife!

  Murbella’s muscular responses bypassed conscious thought. She dipped with one flattened hand, avoiding the tip of the plunging crysknife and drove upward to strike the wrist. A thin bone popped with a sound like dry wood breaking. The would-be assassin’s fingers opened, and the crysknife began to fall, but so slowly it seemed to hang suspended, like a feather. When the woman raised her other arm to fend off a second blow, Murbella hit her with a smashing punch to the throat, crushing her larynx before she could cry out.

  As Murbella’s adversary collapsed, the crysknife clattered to the floor, its blade shattering. A dim part of Murbella’s mind was pleased to see both Sisters and Honored Matres leap from their cushions, instinctively jumping up to aid the Mother Commander in case the coup attempt was more widespread. In their motions, she recognized truth, just as she had seen the lies in the motions of the would-be assassin.

  Both fat Bellonda and wiry Doria pounced on the fallen woman, holding her down. Now those two worked together! Still on her feet, Murbella scanned the large room and catalogued the faces, assuring herself that there were no interlopers present and no threats.

  Though the lone attacker thrashed, trying to breathe, or maybe forcing herself to die, Bellonda pressed the woman’s throat, opening her air passage to keep her alive. Doria roared for a Suk doctor.

  The broken crysknife lay on the floor by the writhing woman. Murbella assessed it with a glance and understood. Traditional weapon . . . ancient ways. The symbolism of the gesture was clear.

  Murbella used Voice, hoping the injured woman was too weak to use standard defenses against the command. “Who are you? Speak!”

  With cracked and broken words rattling through her damaged throat, the woman forced out her answer. She seemed glad to do so and wildly defiant. “I am your future. Others like me will emerge from shadows, drop from ceilings, come at you out of thin air. One of us will get you!”

  “Why do you wish to kill me?” The other Bene Gesserits in the audience had fallen into an utter hush, straining to hear the attacker’s words.

  “Because of what you did to the Sisterhood.” The woman managed to turn her head toward Doria as a symbol of the Honored Matres. If she’d had the strength, she might have spat. “As Mother Commander you raise the alarm about an Outside Enemy, while you welcome real enemies into our midst. Fool!”

  Scowling grimly, Bellonda provided the attacker’s name after ransacking her Mentat mind. “She is Sister Osafa Chram. One of the orchard workers, a new arrival from across the planet.”

  A Bene Gesserit has tried to kill me. No longer was it just the power-hungry Honored Matres who sought to seize her position of power.

  “Sheeana was right to flee . . . and leave the rest of us to rot here!” Looking up at the Sisters, then giving a final glare at Murbella, Osafa Chram summoned the necessary courage and willed herself to die.

  As the assassin began her final spasms, Murbella shouted, “Bellonda! Share with her! We must discover what she knows! How widespread is this conspiracy?”

  The Reverend Mother reacted with unexpected speed and grace, slapping her hands to the woman’s temples and pressing their foreheads together. “She resists me even with her dying breath! Not letting her thoughts flow.” Bellonda winced, then withdrew. “She’s gone.”

  Doria leaned closer and grimaced. “Smell that. Shere, and lots of it. She’s made sure we can’t even use a mechanical probe to pry loose her thoughts.”

  The gathered Sisters murmured uneasily. Murbella wondered if she needed to subject everyone to Truthsayer interrogation. A thousand of them!
And if this Bene Gesserit Sister had tried to kill the Mother Commander, could Murbella trust even her Truthsayers?

  Marshaling her concentration, she gave a dismissive wave toward the dead woman on the floor. “Remove that. Everyone else, resume your seats. A gathering is serious business, and we have fallen behind schedule.”

  “We’re with you, Mother Commander!” a young woman shouted from the audience. Murbella couldn’t tell who said it.

  Doria quietly returned to her seat, watching Murbella with grudging respect. Some of the former Honored Matres in the audience were clearly surprised—some smug, others indignant—that a knife blade could have come from the coldly pacifistic Bene Gesserits.

  Murbella gave no more than an annoyed glance as women hustled away with the bundled body of the dead woman. “I have fended off assassination attempts before. We have important work to do here, and we must quash these petty rebellions among us, erasing all vestiges of our past conflicts.”

  “For that, we would need collective amnesia,” Bellonda snorted.

  A thin wave of laughter spread through the room, and dissipated quickly.

  “I will force it upon you,” Murbella said with a glare, “no matter how many heads I have to knock together.”

  The fabric of the universe is connected by threads of thought and tangled alliances. Others may glimpse parts of the pattern, but only we can decipher all of it. We can use that information to form a deadly net in which to trap our enemies.

  —KHRONE,

  secret message to the Face Dancer myriad

  A

  n insistent communication seized Khrone through the tachyon net as the Guildship departed Tleilax, where he had secretly inspected the progress of the new ghola in its axlotl tank.

  His lackey Uxtal had indeed implanted an embryo made from the cells hidden in the burned body of the Tleilaxu Master. So, the Lost Tleilaxu was not completely incompetent. The mysterious child was growing even now. And if the ghola’s identity was as Khrone suspected, the possibilities were interesting, indeed.

  A year ago, Khrone had deposited Uxtal in Bandalong with strict orders, and the terrified researcher had obeyed in every way. A Face Dancer replica might have been adequate to the task, given a clear enough mental imprinting of Uxtal’s knowledge, but the squirming assistant had been performing with an edge of desperation that no Face Dancer could match. Ah, the predictable instinct of humans to survive. It could easily be used against them.

  As the Guildship drifted around to the nightside of Tleilax, the ship’s viewers showed black scars where cities had been erased. Only a few weakly shining lights marked struggling towns that clung to life. Somewhere down there, the greatest works of the Tleilaxu had their origins, even the primitive versions of Face Dancers, so many millennia ago. But those shape-shifting mules were little more than hand-daubed cave paintings compared to the masterpieces that Khrone and his fellows had become.

  Face Dancers had taken over the crew positions on this ship, killing and replacing a handful of Guildsmen, leaving only the oblivious Navigator in his tank. Khrone was not certain whether a Face Dancer could imprint and replace a grandly mutated Navigator. That was an experiment to be considered at some later date. In the meantime, no one would know that he had come to Tleilax just to observe.

  No one, except for his distant supposed controllers who watched the Face Dancers at all times.

  Now, as Khrone walked down the corridor of the cruising ship, his step faltered. The burnished metal walls blurred and became less distinct. His whole view tilted at an angle, then sideways. Abruptly, the reality of the Guildship vanished, leaving him standing in an empty, cold void, with no surface visible beneath his feet. Sparkling, colorful lines of the tachyon net writhed around him, connections extending everywhere, woven through the universe. Khrone froze, his eyes widening as he looked around. He stopped himself from speaking.

  In front of him he discerned a crystal-sharp image of the forms that the two entities chose for him to see: a calm and friendly looking old couple. Actually, they were anything but gentle and harmless. The two had bright eyes, white hair, and wrinkled skin that radiated a warm glow of health. Both wore comfortable clothes: the old man a red plaid shirt, the matronly woman gray gardening overalls. But though she had assumed the shape of a woman’s body, she had not the slightest air of femininity. In the vision that trapped Khrone, the two stood among fruit trees bursting with blossoms, so laden with white petals and buzzing bees that Khrone could smell the perfume and hear the sounds.

  He didn’t understand why this bizarre pair insisted on such a façade, certainly not for his benefit. He did not at all care about their appearance, nor was he impressed.

  Despite his grandfatherly face, the old man’s words were harsh. “We grow impatient with you. The no-ship got away from us when it vanished from Chapterhouse. We caught another glimpse of it a year ago, but the craft slipped away from us again. We continue our own search, but you promised that your Face Dancers would find it.”

  “We will find it.” Khrone could no longer feel the Guildship around him. The air smelled like sweet blossoms. “The fugitives cannot evade us forever. You will have them, I assure you.”

  “We do not have that long to wait. The time is nearly upon us after all these millennia.”

  “Now, now, Daniel,” the old woman chided. “You have always been so goal-oriented. What have you learned in pursuing the no-ship? Hasn’t the journey itself provided many rewards?”

  The old man scowled at her. “That is beside the point. I have always worried about the unreliability of your distracting pets. Sometimes they feel the need to become martyrs. Don’t they, my Martyr?” He said the name with dripping sarcasm.

  The old woman chuckled as if he had merely been teasing her. “You know I prefer Marty to Martyr. It’s a more human name . . . more personal.”

  She turned toward the blossom-laden fruit trees behind her, reached up with a tough brown hand and plucked a perfectly round portygul. The rest of the blossoms disappeared, and now the trees were full of fruit, all of it ripe for the picking.

  Lost in this strange illusory place, Khrone stood boiling inside. He resented that his alleged masters could come upon him so unexpectedly, wherever he might be. The Face Dancer myriad was a widely extended network. The shape-shifters were everywhere, and they would catch the no-ship quarry. Khrone himself wanted control of the lost vessel and its valuable passengers as much as the old man and woman did. He had his own agenda, which these two never guessed. The ghola being grown on Tleilax could be an important component of his secret plan.

  The old man adjusted a straw hat on his head and leaned closer to Khrone, though his image came from impossibly far away. “Our detailed projections have provided us with the answer we need. There is no possibility for error. Kralizec will soon be upon us, and our victory requires the Kwisatz Haderach, the superhuman bred by the Bene Gesserit. According to the predictions, the no-ship is the key. He is—or will be—aboard.”

  “Isn’t it amazing that mere humans reached the same conclusion thousands of years ago with their prophecies and their writings?” The old woman sat on a bench and began to peel the portygul. Sweet juice dripped from her fingers.

  Unimpressed, the old man waved a callused hand. “They laid down so many millions of prophecies, they couldn’t possibly have been wrong all the time. We know that once we acquire the no-ship, we acquire the Kwisatz Haderach. That has been proven.”

  “Predicted, Daniel. Not proven.” The woman offered him a section of the fruit, but the old man declined.

  “When there is no doubt, then a thing is proven. I have no doubt.”

  Khrone did not need to pretend confidence. “My Face Dancers will find the no-ship.”

  “We have faith in your abilities, dear Khrone,” the old woman said. “But it has been nearly five years, and we need more than mere assurances.” She smiled sweetly as if she meant to reach out and pat him on the cheek. “Don’t forget your obl
igations.”

  Suddenly the multicolored lines of force around Khrone grew incandescent. Through all the nerves of his body, penetrating every bone and muscle fiber, he felt a searing agony, an indescribable pain that went beyond his cells and beyond his mind. With his intrinsic Face Dancer control, he tried to shut down all of his receptors, but he could not escape. The agony continued, yet the old woman’s voice remained exceptionally clear in the back of his thoughts: “We can keep this up for ten million years if we choose.”

  Abruptly the pain was gone, and the old man reached over to take half of the peeled fruit the woman offered him. Tearing off a section, he said, “Do not give us an excuse to do it.”

  Then the illusory world wavered. The bucolic orchard disappeared, and the bright network of lines faded, leaving only the metal-walled corridors of the Guildship again. Khrone had collapsed to the deck, and no one else was around. Shaking, he climbed to his feet. The throbbing agony still burst out in cellular echoes from dark afterimages behind his eyes. He drew several breaths to regain his strength, using his outrage as a crutch.

  During the wash of pain, his features had shifted through numerous assumed guises and reverted to their blank Face Dancer appearance again. Gathering himself, Khrone vengefully formed his face into an exact replica of the old man’s. But that was not enough for him. Feeling petty rage, he drew back his lips to expose teeth that he transformed into brown and decayed stumps. Khrone’s imitation of the old man’s wrinkled face became decayed. Flesh hung in sagging folds, then turned yellow before separating from the muscles. Vindictively leprous blotches covered the skin, and the face became a mass of boils, the eyes milky and blind.

  If only he could project the condition, it was what the old bastard deserved!

  Khrone reasserted himself again, restoring his normal appearance, though the anger remained unquenched within him. Then his smile gradually returned.

  Those who considered themselves the rulers of the Face Dancers had been fooled again, just like the original Tleilaxu Masters and their offshoots, the Lost Ones. Still shaking, Khrone chuckled now as he walked along the Guildship’s corridor, regathering his strength. He looked like an average crewman again. No one could possibly understand the fine art of deception better than he did.