Hunters of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  SIX YEARS AFTER

  ESCAPE FROM CHAPTERHOUSE

  We all have a beast within us, hungry and violent. Some of us can feed and control the predator within, but it is unpredictable when unleashed.

  —REVEREND MOTHER SHEEANA,

  Ithaca logs

  M

  ulling over her duties and dilemmas, Sheeana walked alone down quiet and isolated passageways. Now that the ghola resurrection program had been decided upon, the long wait had begun. After a year and a half of preparations, three more axlotl tanks were ready, bringing the total to five. The first of the precious embryos now gestated inside one of the new augmented wombs. Soon, the near-mythical figures from history would return.

  The Tleilaxu Master Scytale eagerly attended to the axlotl tanks, utterly committed to ensuring that the first ones turned out perfectly, so that Sheeana would allow him to create a ghola of himself. Since the little man had so much to gain from the success of the process, she trusted him—to a certain extent, and only for the time being.

  No one knew what the Enemy wanted or why they were so interested in this particular no-ship. “One must understand an enemy to fight that enemy,” the first incarnation of Bashar Miles Teg had once written. And she thought, We know nothing about this old man and woman that only Duncan can see. Whom do they represent? What do they want?

  Preoccupied, she continued to walk the lower decks. During their years on the Ithaca, Duncan Idaho had kept an anxious watch outside, searching for any sign of the Enemy’s endlessly questing net. The ship seemed to have remained safe since the narrow escape more than two years ago. Maybe she and the other passengers were safe, after all. Maybe.

  As month after month of daily routine passed without any overt threat, Sheeana had to remind herself to fight against complacency, against the natural tendency to grow soft. Through the lessons in Other Memory, especially in her Atreides bloodline, she knew the perils of lowering her guard.

  Bene Gesserit senses should always be alert for subtle dangers. Sheeana stopped in midstep in an isolated corridor. She froze as a scent touched her nostrils, a wild animal odor that did not belong in the processed and air-conditioned corridors. It was mixed with a coppery smell.

  Blood.

  A primal inner sense told her she was being watched, and perhaps even stalked. The invisible gaze burned like a lasgun against her skin. Goose bumps prickled the back of her neck. Realizing that this was a precarious moment, she moved slowly, holding out her hands and spreading her fingers—partly in a placating gesture, partly in preparation for hand-to-hand combat.

  The no-ship’s winding corridors were wide enough to accommodate the movement of heavy machinery such as Guild Navigator tanks. Built out in the Scattering, much of the vessel’s design was driven by needs and pressures that were no longer relevant. Support struts curved overhead like the ribs of a huge prehistoric beast. Adjoining passages plunged off at angles. Storage chambers and unoccupied quarters were dark, and most of the doors to the main passenger areas were sealed but not locked. With only their own refugees aboard, the escaping Bene Gesserits rarely felt the need for locks.

  But something was here. Something dangerous.

  Inside her head, the voices from Sheeana’s past clamored for her to be careful. Then they backed off into necessary mental silence so that she could concentrate. She sniffed the air, took two steps farther down the hall, and stopped as the warning instinct grew more potent. Danger here!

  One of the storeroom doors was dark and almost closed, but not quite sealed. The tiny crack was just wide enough that an observer hiding within could keep watch on anyone who passed by.

  There! That was where the scent of blood came from, and a rank, musky, animal smell. Intent on her discovery, she could not hide her reaction.

  The door burst open, and a muscular dynamo stood there naked, pale flesh dusted with reddish-brown hair, a mouth widened to accommodate thick, tearing fangs. The muscles beneath the tight skin were as tight as coiled shigawire. One of the Futars! His curved claws and dark lips were stained with a bright splash of fresh blood.

  With all the force of Voice she could put behind a single word, Sheeana snapped, “Stop!”

  The Futar froze as if a leash around his neck had suddenly been yanked taut. In the bright corridor light, Sheeana stood motionless, non-threatening. The creature glared at her, his lips drawn back to expose long teeth. She used Voice again, though she was aware that these creatures might have been bred to resist known Bene Gesserit skills. Sheeana cursed herself for not spending more time studying the beasts to understand their motivations and vulnerabilities. “Do not harm me.”

  The Futar remained poised for attack, a bomb ready to explode. “You Handler?” He took a deep sniff. “Not Handler!”

  In the dim storeroom that the Futar had chosen for his den, Sheeana caught a glimpse of white flesh and torn dark robes. She saw pale fingers curled toward the ceiling, loose, in a repose of death. Who had it been?

  Until now, the four captive Futars had been surly and restless, but not murderous. Even when they had been held prisoner by the Honored Matres—their natural prey—they had not killed the whores, because apparently they would not act without instructions from their true masters. Handlers. But after their rough treatment by the Honored Matres, and then years of being held in the brig of the no-ship, could the Futars be breaking down? Even the harshest inbred training could grow fuzzy around the edges, allowing “accidents.”

  Sheeana focused on her adversary, forcing herself not to see the creature as something unstable or broken. Don’t underestimate him! At the moment she could not concern herself with how the creature had escaped from its high-security brig cell. Had all four broken free to roam the halls, or was this the only one?

  In a careful gesture, she lifted her chin and turned her head to one side, baring her throat. A natural predator would understand the universal signal of submission. The Futar’s need for dominance, to be the leader of a pack, required him to accept the gesture.

  “You are a Futar,” Sheeana said. “I am not one of your old Handlers.”

  He crept forward to draw a deep sniff. “Not Honored Matre either.” He growled, a low, bubbling sound that demonstrated his hatred for the whores who had enslaved him and his comrades. But Bene Gesserit Sisters were something else entirely. Even so, he had killed one.

  “We are your caretakers now. We give you food.”

  “Food.” The Futar licked blood from his dark lips.

  “You asked us for sanctuary on Gammu. We rescued you from the Honored Matres.”

  “Bad women.”

  “But we are not bad.” Sheeana remained motionless, nonthreatening, facing the coiled danger of the Futar. As a child she had confronted a giant sandworm and shouted at it, heedless of her peril. She could do this. She made her voice as soothing as possible. “I am Sheeana.” She spoke in a lilting, hushed voice. “Do you have a name?”

  The creature growled—at least she thought it was a growl. Then she realized that the confined rumble in his larynx was actually his name. “Hrrm.”

  “Hrrm. Do you recall when you came to this no-ship? When you escaped from the Honored Matres? You asked us to take you away.”

  “Bad women!” the Futar said again.

  “Yes, and we saved you.” Sheeana edged closer. Though she wasn’t entirely sure of its efficacy, she controlled her body chemistry to increase her scent, trying to match some of the markers exuded by the Futar’s musk glands. She made sure he smelled that she was female, not a threat. Something to protect, not attack. She was also careful not to give off any odor of fear, to keep this predator from thinking of her as its prey.

  “You shouldn’t have escaped from your room.”

  “Want Handlers. Want home.” With a longing in his feral eyes, Hrrm glanced back at the dark storage room where the torn body of the hapless Sister lay. Sheeana wondered how long Hrrm had been feeding on the corpse.

  “I need to take you back
to the other Futars. You must stay together. We protect you. We are your friends. You must not hurt us.”

  Hrrm grumbled. Then, taking a big chance, Sheeana reached out and touched his hairy shoulder. The Futar stiffened, but she stroked carefully, seeking pleasure centers along his vivid nerves. Though startled by her attentions, Hrrm did not draw away. Her hands drifted upward, moving with a gentle intensity. Sheeana touched Hrrm’s neck, then behind his ears. The Futar’s suspicious growl became a sound more like a purr.

  “We are your friends,” she insisted, applying just a hint of Voice to reinforce it. “You should not hurt us.” She looked meaningfully into the den chamber, at the dead Sister on the floor.

  Hrrm stiffened. “My kill.”

  “You should not have killed. That is not an Honored Matre. She was one of my Sisters. She was one of your friends.”

  “Futars should not kill friends.”

  Sheeana stroked him again, and his coarse body hair bristled. She began to lead him down the corridor. “We feed you. There is no need for you to kill.”

  “Kill Honored Matres.”

  “There are no Honored Matres on this ship. We hate them, too.”

  “Need to hunt. Need Handlers.”

  “You can’t have either right now.”

  “Someday?” Hrrm sounded hopeful.

  “Someday.” Sheeana could make no more of a promise than that.

  She took him away from the dead Bene Gesserit, hoping the two of them would encounter no one else on the way back to the brig, no other potential victims. Her hold on this creature was far too tenuous. If Hrrm was startled, he might attack.

  She took side passages and service lifts that few others would use, until they arrived at the deep brig level. The Futar seemed disconsolate, reluctant to go back into his cell, and she pitied him his endless confinement. Just like the seven sandworms in the hold.

  Reaching the door, she saw that a minor security circuit had failed after so many years. At first she had dreaded a systemic problem and expected to find all the Futars loose. Instead, this proved to be a minor glitch resulting from poor maintenance procedures. An accident on an old vessel.

  The year before there had been another breakdown involving a water recycling reservoir, when a corroded pipe flooded a corridor. They had also experienced recurring problems with the algae vats that were used for food and oxygen production. Maintenance was growing lax. Complacent.

  Sheeana controlled her anger, not wanting Hrrm to smell it on her. Though the Bene Gesserits lived in constant intangible peril, the danger no longer seemed immediate. She had to impose much stricter discipline from now on. A breakdown like this could have led to disaster!

  Hrrm looked saddened and beaten as he shuffled into the confinement chamber. “You must stay in there,” Sheeana said, trying to sound encouraging. “At least for a while longer.”

  “Want home,” Hrrm said.

  “I will try to find your home. But right now I have to keep you safe.”

  Hrrm plodded to the far wall of the brig chamber and squatted on his haunches. The other three Futars approached the barriers of their separate cells to peer out with hungry, curious eyes.

  Fixing the door shield mechanism was a simple thing. Now all would be safe, Futars and Bene Gesserits. Sheeana feared for them, though. Wandering aimlessly in the no-ship, her people had been too long without a goal.

  That would have to change. Perhaps the birth of the new gholas would give them what they needed.

  To the Sisterhood, Other Memory is one of the greatest blessings and greatest mysteries. We understand only shadows of the process by which lives are transferred from one Reverend Mother to another. That vast reservoir of voices from the past is a brilliant but mysterious light.

  —REVEREND MOTHER DARWI ODRADE

  O

  ver the course of two years, the New Sisterhood had started to become a single unified organism, and all the while the planet of Chapterhouse continued to die. Mother Commander Murbella walked briskly through the brown orchards. One day this would all be desert. On purpose.

  As part of the plan to create an alternative to Rakis, sandtrout worked furiously to encapsulate water. The arid belt expanded, and now only the hardiest apple trees with the deepest roots clung to life.

  Nevertheless, the orchard was one of Murbella’s favorite places, a joy she had learned from Odrade—her captor, teacher, and (eventually) respected mentor. It was mid-afternoon, and sunlight filtered through the sparse leaves and brittle branches. Even so, it was a cool day, with a stiff breeze from the north. She paused and bowed her head out of respect for the woman who lay buried beneath a small Macintosh apple tree, which struggled to grow even as the environment wasted into harsh aridity. No braz plaque identified the Mother Superior’s resting place. Though Honored Matres preferred ostentation and dramatic memorials, Odrade would have been appalled by any such gesture.

  Murbella wished her predecessor could have lived long enough to see the results of her great plan of synthesis: Honored Matres and Bene Gesserits living together on Chapterhouse. The groups had learned from their differences, drawing strength from each other.

  But renegade Honored Matres on outside planets continued to be a thorn in her side, refusing to join the New Sisterhood, causing turmoil while the Mother Commander needed to face the much larger threat of the Outside Enemy. Those women rejected her as their leader, saying that she had tainted and diluted their ways. They wanted to wipe out Murbella and her followers, to the last Sister. And some of those rebels might still have their terrible Obliterators—though certainly not many, or they would have used them by now.

  When her newly formed group of fighters completed their training, Murbella intended to seize the renegades and bring them into the fold, before it was too late. The New Sisterhood would eventually have to go up against large contingents of Honored Matre holdouts on Buzzell, Gammu, Tleilax, and other worlds.

  We must break them and assimilate them, she thought. But first, we must be certain of our unity.

  Bending down, Murbella scooped up a handful of dirt near the base of the small tree. Holding the dry soil in the palm of her hand, she lifted it to her nose and inhaled the pungent, earthy aroma. At times, she wondered if she could detect, ever so faintly, the infinitesimal scent of her mentor and friend.

  “Someday I may join you here,” she said aloud, looking at the struggling tree, “but not yet. First, I have important work to finish.”

  Your legacy, murmured Odrade-within.

  “Our legacy. You inspired me to heal the factions and bring together women who were mortal enemies. I didn’t expect it to be so hard, or to take so long.” In her head Odrade remained silent.

  Murbella walked farther from the fortresslike Keep, putting it behind her, and all of her responsibilities with it. She identified the passing rows of dying trees: apples giving way to peaches, cherries, and oranges. She decided to order an active program of planting date palms, which would survive longer in the changing climate. But did they even have years?

  Climbing a nearby hill, she noted how much harder and drier the soil was. In grasslands beyond the orchards, the Sisterhood’s cattle still grazed, but the pasture was sparse now, forcing the animals to range farther. She saw the flicker of a lizard running across the warm ground. Sensing danger, the tiny reptile scurried up a large stone to look back at her. Suddenly a desert hawk swooped down, snatched the creature, and carried it into the sky.

  Murbella responded with a hard smile. For some time now, the desert had been approaching, killing all growing things in its path. Windblown dust painted the normally blue skies with a constant brownish haze. As the sandworms grew out in the arid belt, so did their desert, to accommodate them. An ever-expanding ecosystem.

  In the encroaching desert ahead of her, and the faltering orchards behind her, Murbella saw two great Bene Gesserit dreams crashing into one another like opposing tides, a beginning absorbing an ending. Long before Sheeana brought a sin
gle aging sandworm here, the Sisterhood planted this orchard. The new plan, however, had far greater galactic importance than any symbolism represented by the orchard graveyards. Through their bold action, the Bene Gesserits had saved the sandworms and melange, before the ravages of the Honored Matres.

  Wasn’t that worth the loss of a few fruit trees? Melange was both a blessing and a curse. She turned and strode back to the Keep.

  The conscious mind is only the tip of the iceberg. A vast mass of subconscious thoughts and latent abilities lies beneath the surface.

  —The Mentat Handbook

  B

  ack when Duncan Idaho was held prisoner at the Chapterhouse spaceport, enough deadly mines had been placed on the no-ship to destroy it three times over. Odrade and Bellonda had planted the explosives throughout the grounded no-ship, ready to be triggered should Duncan try to escape. They had assumed that the deadly mines would be a sufficient deterrent. The loyal Sisters had never dreamed that Sheeana herself and her conservative allies might deactivate those mines and steal the ship for their own purposes.

  The passengers aboard the Ithaca were theoretically trustworthy, but Duncan, staunchly supported by the Bashar, insisted that these mines were simply too dangerous to leave unprotected. Only he, Teg, Sheeana, and four others had direct access to the armory.

  During his routine check, Duncan unsealed the vault and viewed the wide selection of weapons. He drew reassurance from observing his options, tallying the ways that the Ithaca could fight back, should it ever become necessary. He sensed that the old man and woman had not stopped searching, though he had not encountered the shimmering net for three years now. He could not let his guard down.