Hunters of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  She could not move until the process was complete. Finally, she tumbled backward onto the hard pavement. Silent and growing cold, Bellonda wore a maddening, oddly victorious smile on her thick, dead lips.

  “You will carry her with you always,” Murbella said. “Honored Matres have a long tradition of promotion through assassination. Your own actions gave you this job, so accept it . . . a fitting Bene Gesserit punishment.”

  Rising to her knees, Doria looked in anguish at the Mother Commander. Feeling dirty and violated, she wanted to vomit and disgorge the intrusion, but that was impossible.

  “Henceforth, you are the sole Spice Operations Director. All sandworm functions are your responsibility, so you’ll have to work twice as hard. Do not disappoint me again, as you did today.”

  A woman’s deep voice surfaced inside Doria’s head, annoying and taunting. I know you don’t want my old job, said Bellonda-within, and you’re not qualified to accomplish it. You will need to consult with me constantly for advice, and I may not always talk to you nicely. Baritone laughter filled Doria’s skull.

  “Shut up!” Doria glared vindictively at the corpse that lay at the foot of the still-cooling ’thopter.

  Murbella remained cold to her. “You should have tried harder before. It would have been much easier for you.” She scowled in disgust at the scene. “Now clean up this mess and prepare her for burial. Listen to Bellonda—she will tell you her wishes.” The Mother Commander marched away and left Doria alone with her inescapable new inner partner.

  One must always keep the tools of statecraft sharp and ready. Power and fear—sharp and ready.

  —BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN,

  the original, 10,191 B.G.

  B

  ack again in the laboratories of Bandalong, enduring the nerve-wracking daily grind, Uxtal stood before the grossly pregnant axlotl tank. The nine-year-old child beside him stared with an intense, unsettling fascination. “That’s how I was born?”

  “Not quite. That is how you were grown.”

  “Disgusting.”

  “You think that’s disgusting? You should see how natural humans procreate.” Uxtal could barely keep the revulsion from his voice.

  The air smelled of chemicals, disinfectants, and cinnamon. The skin of the tank pulsed gently. Uxtal found it both hypnotic and repellent. To be working with the axlotl tanks again, growing another ghola for the Face Dancers, at least he felt like a real Tleilaxu speaking the Language of God—somebody important! It was more fulfilling than just creating fresh drugs for the constantly demanding whores. After two years of preparation and effort—and more than one time-consuming mistake—he would be ready for the next vital ghola to be decanted within a month.

  Then, maybe they would leave him alone. But he doubted it. Khrone seemed to be running out of patience, as if he guessed that the delays might have been caused by Uxtal’s bumbling and ineptitude.

  Matre Superior Hellica was obviously not pleased that the Lost Tleilaxu researcher would take his attentions from the production of the orange spice substitute, but she had granted him another axlotl tank with only halfhearted complaints. Uxtal wondered what kind of hold the Face Dancers had over her.

  Checking the pregnant tank for the tenth time in the past hour, Uxtal studied the readings. There was nothing more to do but wait. The fetus was growing perfectly, and he had to confess his own curiosity about this one. A ghola of Paul Atreides . . . Muad’Dib . . . the first man to ever become a Kwisatz Haderach. Now he had brought back the Baron Harkonnen, then Muad’Dib. What could the Face Dancers possibly want with those two?

  After returning from Dan with the preserved bloody knife, the process of growing the requested ghola had taken longer than Uxtal had expected. As soon as he switched off the nullentropy field, finding viable cells on the blade had not been difficult, but the first attempt at implanting a ghola in an old axlotl tank had failed. He had intended to grow a new Paul Atreides in the same womb that had given birth to Vladimir Harkonnen—it had a certain delicious historical irony—but the used-up axlotl tank had not been properly tended over the years and it rejected the first fetus. Then the womb actually died. A waste of female flesh.

  Ingva had watched accusingly, growing bolder in her resentment toward the little man. She seemed to think she herself was as important as the Matre Superior because of her work in the torture laboratories. Strangely deluded by her sexual prowess, Ingva also believed herself attractive. Apparently her own mirror had malfunctioned! To Uxtal, she looked like a lizard dressed up as a woman.

  After the first axlotl tank had perished, Uxtal was terrified, though he did his best to cover any errors by leaving evidence that his assistants had caused the problem. They were expendable, after all, and he wasn’t. But the repercussions never came.

  Matre Superior Hellica flippantly gave him a damaged woman for a replacement tank. The skull and brain were injured, but her body remained alive. She was an Honored Matre . . . nearly killed in an assassination attempt gone awry, perhaps? Nevertheless, her reproductive systems—the only important parts of the female anatomy, as far as he was concerned—functioned perfectly well. So Uxtal had started again, first converting the body into an axlotl tank, running meticulous and redundant tests, and then selecting more genetic material from the preserved blood on the dagger. This time there would be no mistake.

  The nine-year-old’s dark eyes gleamed. “Will he be my playmate? Like my new kitten? Will he do everything I command?”

  “We shall see. The Face Dancers have great plans for him.”

  Vladimir looked angry. “They have plans for me, too! I’m important.”

  “That may be. Khrone tells me nothing.”

  “I don’t want another ghola here. I want a new kitten. When do I get a new kitten?” Vladimir pouted. “The other one is broken.”

  Uxtal gave an exasperated sigh. “You killed another one?”

  “They break too easily. Get me a new one.”

  “Not now. I have work to do. I told you, this new ghola is very important.” He studied the tubes and pumps, making sure the readings were all acceptable. Suddenly fearing that Ingva might be watching, he added aloud, “But not more important than my work for the Honored Matres.”

  Even with the production lines moving smoothly, Hellica required increased amounts of the adrenaline spice, insisting that her women had to be stronger and more alert, now that the New Sisterhood had begun rooting them out so fiercely. The witches of Chapterhouse had already seized Buzzell and several smaller Honored Matre strongholds.

  In the meantime, needing a source of income after losing their soostone operations, Hellica insisted that he rediscover the old Tleilaxu technique of producing real melange. He had quailed at the challenge, which was impossibly difficult—far more so than making mere gholas—and so far he had failed in every attempt. The task was simply beyond his capabilities. Every month when Uxtal had to deliver the same pathetic report, the same lack of results, he was sure someone would execute him on the spot.

  Ten years—how have I survived this nightmare for ten years?

  The boy Vladimir poked the distended flesh of the tank with his finger, and Uxtal slapped his hand away. With this child in particular, it was necessary to establish clear boundaries. If there was any way of hurting the unborn Atreides child inside, the brat would find it.

  Vladimir recoiled and glowered, first at his stung hand, then at Uxtal. Obviously, his little mind was churning as he turned away peevishly. “I’m going outside to have fun. Maybe I’ll kill something.”

  LEAVING THE AXLOTL tank and counting down the time remaining until the baby could be decanted, Uxtal went to the “pain encouragement rooms.” There, closely monitored by Honored Matres, his assistants siphoned chemicals from writhing torture victims. Over the years, Uxtal had learned that certain types of pain led to differences in the purity and potency of the resulting substance. Hellica rewarded him for that sort of research and analysis.

  Unsett
led by Vladimir’s near tantrum, he threw himself into the work, snapping orders to his assistants, monitoring the dull-eyed fear on the faces of the strapped victims being milked for pre-spice chemicals. At least they were cooperating. He wasn’t going to give lizardlike Ingva anything to report to the Matre Superior.

  Hours later, exhausted and anxious for a few moments of privacy in his quarters where he could complete his ritual ablutions and prayers, then mark off another day that he had survived, Uxtal left the pain laboratories. By now, the boy Vladimir had either gotten himself into trouble or found the Matre Superior to exchange cruelties with her. Uxtal didn’t care.

  Though weary, he headed toward the smaller laboratory section to check on the pregnant axlotl tank one final time, but the young Baron blocked the way, standing with his hands on his hips. “I want another kitten. Right now.”

  “I already said no.” Uxtal tried to go around, but the nine-year-old moved to block his way again.

  “Or something else. A lamb! Get me a little lamb. Sligs are boring.”

  “Stop this,” Uxtal snapped. Drawn by the commotion of voices, Ingva slinked out of the torture wing and watched them hungrily. He looked away from her, swallowing hard.

  When the boy saw the old Honored Matre spy, his attention spun in another direction, like a projectile ricocheting off thick armor. “Ingva told Matre Superior Hellica that my sexuality is very powerful for my age—and quite perverse.” He seemed to know the comment would be provocative. “What did she mean by that? Do you think she wants to bond with me?”

  Uxtal looked over his shoulder. “Why don’t you ask her yourself? In fact, why don’t you go do that right now?” As he tried to step around the boy yet again, he became aware of an unusual sound in the laboratory. Splashing noises came from somewhere by the axlotl tank.

  Startled, Uxtal roughly shoved Vladimir aside and hurried toward the tank. “Wait!” the boy said, hurrying to catch up.

  But Uxtal had already reached the mounded female form. “What have you done?” He ran to the flex-tube nutrient connections. Ripped loose, they were gushing red and yellow fluids all over the floor. The sympathetic nervous system in the womb-body caused the jellylike flesh to shudder. A thin squealing and sucking sound came from the slack remnants of its mouth, an almost-conscious sound of desperation. A surgical knife from the pain-encouragement rooms lay on the floor. An alarm klaxon went off.

  In panic, Uxtal struggled to reconnect the lines. He whirled to grab the smug child by the shirt and shook him. “Did you do this?”

  “Of course. Don’t be stupid.” Vladimir kicked at Uxtal’s groin, but succeeded only in hitting his thigh, though it was enough to make the Tleilaxu release him. The boy ran off, shouting, “I’m going to tell Hellica!”

  Torn between his fears of the Matre Superior and the Face Dancers, Uxtal looked in dismay at the tank’s mangled life-support systems. He couldn’t let the womb—and the critically important child within—die. That poor baby . . . and poor Uxtal!

  Drawn by the alarm, two lab assistants rushed in—competent ones, thankfully, instead of Ingva. Maybe if they worked swiftly enough . . .

  Under Uxtal’s direction, he and his assistants frantically installed new flexible tubing, refilled the reservoirs, pumped in stimulants and stabilizing drugs, and reconnected the monitors. He wiped sweat from his grayish brow.

  Ultimately, Uxtal saved the tank. And the unborn ghola.

  VLADIMIR THOUGHT HE’D been clever. In contrast, his punishment was swift, severe, and, for him, most unexpected.

  He went directly to Hellica to tattle on Uxtal for his abuses, but the Matre Superior’s face was already flushed hot with anger. Ingva had been swifter, racing to the Palace to make her damning report.

  Before the boy could tell his lying version of the story, Hellica grabbed him by the front of his shirt with fingers as sharp and strong as a tiger’s claws. “For your sake, you little bastard, the new ghola had better not be harmed. You wanted to kill him, didn’t you?”

  “N-no. I wanted to play with him. Right now.” Terrified, Vladimir backed up a step. He tried to look as if he might cry. “I wasn’t trying to hurt him. I was trying to make him come out. I’m tired of waiting for my new playmate. I was going to cut him free. That’s why I took the knife.”

  “Uxtal interrupted him before he could succeed.” Ingva slinked out from behind a hanging where she had been eavesdropping.

  Her eyes flashing orange, the Matre Superior gave him a stern lecture. “Don’t be such a fool, boy! Why would you destroy when you can control? Is that not a better revenge against House Atreides?”

  Vladimir blinked; this had not occurred to him.

  Hellica discarded him, as if he were a bothersome insect. “Do you know what exile means? It means you’re going back to Dan—or wherever Khrone wants to stash you away. As soon as I can obtain a Guildship, you will be in his hands.”

  “You can’t! I’m too important!” Even at a young age, his twisted little mind was beginning to understand plots and schemes, but he didn’t yet grasp the deep intrigues of the politics that prevailed all around him.

  Hellica silenced him with a threatening frown. “Unfortunately for you, the ghola baby is far more important than you are.”

  FOURTEEN YEARS AFTER

  ESCAPE FROM CHAPTERHOUSE

  The human body can achieve many things, but perhaps its greatest role is to act as a storage mechanism for the genetic information of the species.

  —TLEILAXU MASTER WAFF,

  at a kehl meeting on the Duncan Idaho ghola project

  H

  is ghola son was himself . . . or would be, once the memories within were brought to the surface. But that could not happen for several years yet. Scytale hoped his aging body would last long enough.

  Everything the Tleilaxu Master had experienced and learned in countless sequential lifetimes was stored in his own genetic memory and reflected in the same DNA that had been used to create the five-year-old Scytale duplicate who stood before him. This was actually a clone, not a true ghola, because the cells had been taken from a living donor. The child’s predecessor was not dead. Yet.

  But old Scytale could feel the increasing physical degeneration. A Tleilaxu Master should not fear death, because it had not been a real possibility for millennia—not since his race had discovered the means to immortality through ghola-reincarnation. Though his ghola child was flourishing, he was still much too young.

  Year by year, the inevitable march of death paraded through his body’s systems, making his organs function less efficiently than they once had. Planned obsolescence. For millennia, the Masheikh elite of his race had met in secret councils, but never had they imagined a holocaust such as they now faced—such as Scytale now faced, as the last living Master.

  Realistically, he did not know what he could accomplish alone. With unrestricted access to axlotl tanks, Scytale might have restored other Masters like himself, the true geniuses of his race. Cells of the last Tleilaxu Council had been stored within his nullentropy capsule, but the Bene Gesserit refused to consider creating gholas of those men. In fact, after the uproar surrounding the baby Leto II, as well as an ominous vision Sheeana claimed to have received in Other Memory, the witches had halted the entire ghola program. “Temporarily,” they said.

  At least the powindah women had finally granted him his son, his copy. Scytale might achieve continuity after all.

  The boy was with him now in the portion of the ship that had once been Scytale’s prison. Since revealing the last of his secrets, Scytale’s restrictions had been eased, and he could move about wherever he wished. He could observe the other eight ghola children undergoing whatever training the Bene Gesserit considered necessary. Reluctantly placed in charge of the young gholas, Proctor Superior Garimi had offered to instruct his son as well, but Scytale refused, not wishing to have him contaminated.

  The Tleilaxu Master gave his son private instruction to prepare him for his great respons
ibility. Before the elder incarnation died, a great deal of important information needed to be passed on, much of it secret.

  He wished he had the witches’ ability to Share their memories. Human downloading, he called it. If only he could awaken his son that way, but the Sisterhood kept that particular secret to themselves. No Tleilaxu had ever been able to determine the method, and such information was not for sale. The witches claimed it was a power they held as women, that no male could ever achieve it. Ridiculous! The Tleilaxu knew, and had proved, that females were as unimportant as the pigment on a wall. They were just biological vessels to produce offspring, and a conscious brain was not necessary for that process.

  Alone, he faced the challenge of teaching the boy the most sacred rituals and cleansings. Though he spoke in whistles and whispers, using a coded tongue that no one except Masters should be able to speak, he still feared the witches could understand him. Years ago, Odrade had tried to entrap him by speaking that ancient language to prove she deserved his trust. To Scytale it only proved that he should never underestimate their wiles. He suspected that the witches had installed listening devices in his quarters, and no powindah must be allowed to hear the deep mysteries.

  Desperation had painted him into smaller and smaller corners. His body was dying, and this child was his only option. If he did not take the risk that some of his words might be overheard, then those holy secrets might die with him. Wondrous knowledge, vanished forever. Which was worse, discovery or extinction?

  Scytale leaned forward. “You carry a great burden. Few in our glorious history have ever borne such a responsibility. You are the hope of the Tleilaxu race, and my personal hope.”

  The familiar boy seemed both intimidated and eager. “How am I to do it, Father?”