Hunters of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Taking the infant Paul into her arms, Sheeana spoke quietly. “To the Fremen he was the messiah who came to lead them to victory. To the Bene Gesserit, he was a superhuman who emerged under the wrong circumstances and escaped our control.”

  “He is a baby,” the old Rabbi said. “An unnatural one.”

  The Rabbi, himself trained as a Suk doctor, attended the birth, though only reluctantly. He had a pronounced aversion to the tanks, but he looked somewhat defeated. With his brow furrowed and his eyes troubled, he had mumbled to Duncan, “I feel duty bound to be here. I made a promise to watch over Rebecca.”

  The woman was all but unrecognizable on the med-center table, hooked up to tubes and pumps. Was she dreaming of her other lives? Lost in a sea of ancient memories? The old man seemed to see something of his personal failure in her sagging face. Before the Bene Gesserit doctors had extracted the child from the augmented womb, he prayed for Rebecca’s soul.

  Duncan focused on the baby. “Long ago, I gave my life to save Paul. Would the universe have been better off if he had died that day under Sardaukar knives?”

  “Many Sisters would make that argument. Humanity has been recovering for millennia from how he and his son changed the universe,” Sheeana said. “But now we have a chance to raise him properly and see what he can do against the Enemy.”

  “Even if he changes the universe again?”

  “Change is preferable to extinction.”

  Master Paul’s second chance, Duncan thought.

  He reached down with a strong hand, a Swordmaster’s hand, to touch the baby’s tiny cheek. If a miracle was created by technology, was it still a miracle? The infant smelled of medicinals, disinfectants, and melange that had been added to the surrogate mother’s vat for months, a precise mixture that old Scytale had told them was necessary.

  The baby’s eyes seemed to focus on Duncan for a moment, though such a young infant could not possibly see clearly. But who could say what a Kwisatz Haderach might or might not see? Paul had foreseen the future of humankind after journeying in his mind to a place others could not go.

  Like Magi, three Bene Gesserit Suk doctors crowded closer, chattering with awe over the baby they had worked so hard to create.

  In disgust, the Rabbi turned and swept past Duncan, heading for the med-center’s door, muttering “Abomination!” before he slipped out into the corridor.

  Behind him, the Bene Gesserit doctors adjusted their life-support machinery and announced that the now deflated axlotl tank was ready to be impregnated with another ghola baby from the Tleilaxu Master’s stored cells.

  When one has an obvious need, one has an obvious weakness. Take care when you make a request, for in doing so you reveal your vulnerabilities.

  —KHRONE,

  private communiqué to his Face Dancer operatives

  F

  or millennia, the Ixians had managed to deliver miracles, providing what no one else could, and they rarely failed to live up to expectations. The Spacing Guild had no choice but to go to Ix when they needed an unorthodox solution for the melange shortage.

  The technocrats and fabricators on Ix continued their industrious research, pushing technological boundaries with their inventions. During the chaos of the Scattering, Ixians had achieved significant progress in developing machines that had previously been considered taboo because of ancient restrictions imposed in the wake of the Butlerian Jihad. By purchasing devices that were suspiciously close to “thinking machines,” the customers themselves became complicit in breaking the age-old laws. In this atmosphere, it was in the best interest of everyone to maintain complete discretion.

  When the desperate Guild delegation arrived on Ix, members of the Face Dancer myriad were everywhere, in secret. Posing as an Ixian engineer, Khrone attended the meeting—another step in a dance so well-choreographed that the participants could not see their own movements. The New Sisterhood and the Guild would dig their own graves, and Khrone considered that a good thing.

  The Guild representatives were ushered into one of the giant underground manufactories where copper shielding and scan-scramblers concealed them from view. No one would ever know this group had come here except for the Ixians. And the Face Dancers. After decades of infiltration, Khrone and his improved shape-shifters easily fit in. They looked exactly like scientists, engineers, and fast-talking bureaucrats.

  Now, filling his role as a skilled deputy fabricator, Khrone wore short brown hair and a heavy brow. The lines around his mouth indicated that here was a hardworking functionary, someone whose opinion could be trusted and whose conclusions would stand up to any amount of double-checking. Three others in the largely silent assembly were also Face Dancers, but the spokesman for the Ixians was (for the time being at least) a true human. So far, Chief Fabricator Shayama Sen had given them no reason to replace him. Sen seemed to want the same things Khrone did.

  Ixians and Face Dancers shared a barely concealed disdain for foolish fears and fanaticism. Was it truly an invasion and a conquest, Khrone wondered, if the Ixians would have accepted the new order anyway?

  Inside the immense hall, the air was filled with the hissing of production lines, vaporous plumes of cold baths, and the acrid fluids of imprinting chemicals. Others might have found the clamor of sights, sounds, and smells distracting, but the Ixians considered it soothing white noise.

  Edrik the Navigator’s armored tank drifted on suspensors, flanked by four gray-clad escorts. Khrone knew that the Navigator would be the greatest problem here, for his faction had the most to lose. But the mutated creature did not take charge of the negotiations. That task was left to the sharp-eyed Guild spokesman, Rentel Gorus, who stepped forward on willowy legs. His long white braid hung ropelike from his otherwise bald scalp. The visitors covered themselves with a veneer of importance and entitlement, which revealed a great deal about the extent of their anxiety. True confidence was quiet and invisible.

  “The Spacing Guild has needs,” said Administrator Gorus, sweeping the room with his milky but not-blind eyes. “If Ix can fulfill them, we are willing to pay any reasonable price. Find us a way out of the manacles the New Sisterhood has placed on us.”

  Shayama Sen folded his hands together and smiled. “And what is it you need?” The nails on his two forefingers were metallic and patterned with the kaleidoscopic lines of circuitry.

  Edrik swam close to the speaker in his thick-walled tank. “The Guild needs spice so that we may guide our ships. Can Ix’s machinery create melange? I see no point in coming here.”

  Gorus gave the Navigator a glare of pure annoyance. “I am not so skeptical. The Spacing Guild wonders if Ixian technology could be used regularly and reliably for navigation—at least during this difficult transition period. Since the time of the God Emperor, Ix has produced certain calculating machines that can take the place of Navigators.”

  “Only in part. The machines have always been inferior,” Edrik said. “Poor copies of a real Navigator.”

  “Nevertheless, they proved useful in times of great need,” Shayama Sen pointed out. “During the various waves of Scatterings, many ships used the primitive devices to travel without the benefit of spice or Navigators.”

  “And a vast number of those ships were lost,” Edrik interrupted. “We will never know how many blundered through suns or dense nebulae. We will never know how many were simply . . . lost, arriving in unknown star systems and unidentified worlds, never able to find their way back.”

  “Recently, when melange was plentiful—thanks to Tleilaxu tankmanufactured spice—the Guild had no qualms about relying solely on our Navigators,” Administrator Gorus said, sounding quite reasonable. “Now, however, times have changed. If we can prove to the New Sisterhood that we don’t rely entirely on them, then their monopoly has no teeth. Then, perhaps, they will not be so haughty and intractable, and they will be more willing to sell us spice.”

  “That remains to be proved,” grumbled the Navigator.

  “Naviga
tion devices have remained in use among certain parties,” Shayama Sen added. “When the Honored Matres began to return from the outside fringes, they did not have Navigators. Only when they needed to know the full landscape of the Old Empire did they rely upon the services of the Guild.”

  “And you cooperated with them,” Khrone said, using his words like a needle. “Is that not why the Sisterhood is displeased with you?”

  “The witches also used their own ships, bypassing the Guild,” Gorus said, in a huff. “Until recently, they did not trust even us with the coordinates of Chapterhouse, fearing we would have sold the location to the Honored Matres.”

  “And would you have?” Sen seemed amused. “Yes, I think so.”

  “This has nothing to do with the discussion of navigation machines.” The Guild Administrator abruptly cut off further discussion.

  The Chief Fabricator smiled and tapped his fingernails together, unleashing a flurry of sparks along the circuit paths like tiny phosphorescent rats scurrying through a maze. “Though such artificial devices were not accurate, or practical, or necessary, we still installed them in a few ships, even in recent times. Though neither Guildships nor independent vessels relied upon them, their primary purpose was to demonstrate to the Tleilaxu and the Priests of the Divided God that we could indeed function without their spice. However, the plans have been shelved for many centuries.”

  Gorus continued, “Perhaps given sufficient monetary incentive, you could revisit that old technology and develop it to a higher level?”

  Khrone required all the control of his fluid facial muscles to keep the smile off his face. This was exactly what he had hoped for.

  Chief Fabricator Sen also looked extremely pleased. He examined Edrik’s armored tank, intrigued by its engineering. “Perhaps Navigators should have used their prescience to see this melange shortage coming.”

  “That is not how our prescience works.”

  Gorus pointed out, “The New Sisterhood is now the sole provider of melange—and their Mother Commander Murbella will not yield, despite our entreaties.”

  Edrik added, “We have met with her. She is not rational.”

  “It seems to me that Murbella is perfectly aware of her power and her bargaining position,” the Chief Fabricator said, speaking mildly.

  “We would like to take that bargaining chip from the witches, but we can only do so with your help,” said the Guild Administrator. “Give us another option.”

  Khrone knew that adding his support would do little; however, by expressing straw-man doubts, he would forge a closer alliance between these others. “To develop a navigation machine of such sophistication—and to use it as more than a mere symbol—would require technology dangerously close to thinking machines. There are the restrictions of the Butlerian Jihad to consider.”

  Sen, Gorus, and even the Navigator responded with scorn. “The people will forget the ancient commands of the Jihad soon enough if Guildships are unable to fly, if all space travel is crippled,” the Administrator said.

  Khrone turned to the Chief Fabricator, who was ostensibly his boss. “I would be honored if Ix accepted this challenge, sir. My best teams can begin work on adapting numerical compilers and mathematical projection devices.”

  Shayama Sen chuckled at the Guildsman. “The price will be high. A percentage, perhaps. The Spacing Guild and CHOAM are among our best customers . . . and our ties could grow stronger still.”

  “CHOAM is sure to contribute to the cost, if they see that it is necessary to keep interstellar trade functioning,” Gorus admitted.

  How these Guildsmen tried to hide their desperation! Khrone decided it was best to give them a different target. “While the Bene Gesserits and the Honored Matres were at each other’s throats, the Guild and CHOAM continued commercial activities unmolested. Now, the New Sisterhood claims that a far worse enemy is coming at them, at us, from outside.”

  Gorus made a rude snort, as if he had much to say on the subject, but swallowed his opinions like thick lumps of phlegm.

  The Chief Fabricator gazed down his nose. “Is there evidence that this enemy exists at all? And is the enemy of the Sisterhood and the Honored Matres necessarily the enemy of Ix, the Guild, or CHOAM?”

  “Trade is trade,” Edrik said in a bubbling voice. “Everyone requires it. The Guild requires Navigators, and we require spice.”

  “Or navigation machines,” Gorus added.

  Khrone nodded placidly. “And thus we return to the necessary price for Ixian services.”

  “If you can produce what we ask, then our profits—and indeed the shift in the balance of power—will be of incalculable value. I believe we can make it a viable prospect for both of us.” As the Administrator spoke, the Navigator continued to look uncomfortable.

  Khrone allowed the faintest of satisfied smiles on his false face. From the far-distant overlords who always watched him through the tachyon net, he already had access to any navigational calculators the Guild could need. Such technology was quite basic compared to what the “Enemy” could command. For Khrone it would be a simple matter of pretending to develop such technology on Ix and then selling it at great cost to the Guild.

  Around them, the fabrication plant continued to produce the sounds and smells of vigorous industry. “I still do not like the implications of technology superceding true Navigators.” Edrik seemed trapped in his tank.

  “Your loyalty is to the Spacing Guild, Edrik,” Gorus brusquely reminded him. “And we will do what we must to survive as an organization. We have little choice in the matter.”

  The treatment of an injury may hurt more than the wound itself. Do not allow a sore to fester because you are unwilling to tolerate the momentary pain.

  —BENE GESSERIT SUK DOCTOR FLORIANA NICUS

  M

  urbella walked with Janess—now Reverend Mother Janess—through the stony remnants of the dying gardens around the Keep. They stood by the rocky bed of a dry stream, all the moisture stolen by the dramatically changing climate of Chapterhouse. The polished stones were a poignant reminder of the fast-flowing water that had once rushed along this channel.

  “You are my lieutenant now, no longer my daughter.” She knew her words must sound harsh to the young woman, but Janess did not flinch. Both of them understood that from now on an appropriate emotional separation had to be maintained, that Murbella must be Mother Commander, not mother. “Both the Bene Gesserits and the Honored Matres have tried to prohibit love, but they can only prohibit the expression of it, not the thought or emotion. Mother Superior Odrade was called a heretic among her Sisters because she believed in the power of love.”

  “I understand, Mother . . . Commander. Each of us must give up something for the sake of the new order.”

  “I shall teach you to swim by hurling you into the raging waters, a metaphor that I fear will not be relevant here much longer. I am counting on you to advance more quickly than either of our factions. It has taken six years of struggle, dragging both sides toward the center, for the women to learn to live with each other. Fundamental change may take generations, but we have made great strides.”

  “Duncan Idaho called it ‘compromise by swordpoint,’ ” Janess quoted.

  Murbella raised her eyebrows. “Did he?”

  “I can show you the historical record, if you like.”

  “An apt description. The New Sisterhood is not yet the smoothly running machine I had hoped for, but I have convinced the Sisters to stop killing each other. Most of them, at least.”

  She thought quickly of Janess’s old nemesis, Caree Debrak, who had disappeared from the student bungalows only days before she’d been scheduled to undergo the Agony; Caree had renounced the conversion as brainwashing and slipped away into the night. Few of the Sisters would miss her.

  “Under normal circumstances,” Murbella continued, “I could overlook the fact that some Honored Matres don’t accept my rule. Freedom of discourse and the airing of opposing philosophies. But not
now.”

  Janess drew herself straight, showing that she was ready for her assignment. “Renegade Honored Matres still control much of Gammu and a dozen other worlds. They have seized the soostone operations on Buzzell and gathered their most powerful forces on Tleilax.”

  Over the past year, the Mother Commander had assembled a force of Sisters and vigorously trained them in the combined fighting techniques of Honored Matres and Bene Gesserits. The bond between the two factions was best forged in the crucible of personal combat. “Now it is time to give my trainees a target.”

  “Stop training and start fighting,” Janess said.

  “Another quote from Duncan?”

  “Not that I’m aware of . . . but I think he’d agree with the sentiment.”

  Murbella smiled wryly. “Yes, he probably would. If the renegades will not join us, they must be eliminated. I will not have them slip knives into our backs when we are concentrating on real battles.”

  “They have had years to entrench themselves, and they will not fall without a terrific battle.”

  Murbella nodded. “Of more immediate concern is the enclave of dissidents right here on Chapterhouse. It hurts me like a splinter in my hand. In the best case, it causes troublesome pain; in the worst, it festers and spreads an infection. Either way, the splinter must be removed.”

  Janess narrowed her eyes. “Yes, they are much too close to home. Even if the Chapterhouse dissidents do nothing overt against us, they demonstrate a weakness to outside observers. The situation brings to mind another wise observation from Duncan Idaho’s first life. In a report he submitted when he lived among the Fremen on Dune, he said, ‘A leak in a qanat is a slow but fatal weakness. Finding the leak, and plugging it, is a difficult task, but it must be done for the survival of all.’ ”

  The Mother Commander was both proud and amused. “In citing so many of Duncan’s writings, do not forget to think for yourself. Then someday others will begin quoting you.” Her daughter wrestled with that idea, then nodded. Murbella continued. “You will help me plug the leak in the qanat, Janess.”