Hunters of Dune

by Brian Herbert

“Then he must cease failing.”

  Uxtal wrung his hands. “It is not a trivial task. Worlds full of Tleilaxu Masters worked all throughout the Famine Times to perfect the complex process. I am only one man, and the old Masters did not share their secrets with the Lost Tleilaxu.” He gulped again. Surely the Guild knew all this already?

  “If your people are so ignorant, how did they create Face Dancers so superior to any previous ones?” the Navigator asked. Uxtal shuddered, knowing—now—that his people had not, after all, created Khrone or his superior breed of shape-shifters. Apparently, they had merely been found out in the Scattering.

  “I am not interested in Face Dancers,” Hellica snapped. She had always seemed at odds with Khrone. “I am interested in profits from melange.”

  Uxtal swallowed. “When the Masters all died, their knowledge died with the last one. I have been working diligently to reacquire the technique.” He did not remind them that the Honored Matres themselves were responsible for losing those secrets; Hellica did not take even implied criticism well.

  “Then use the indirect approach.” Edrik delivered his words like a blow. “Bring one of them back.”

  The idea took Uxtal by surprise. He certainly had the ability to use an axlotl tank to resurrect one of the Masters, provided he had viable cells. “But . . . they are all dead. Even in Bandalong, the Masters were killed many years ago.” He remembered the boy Baron and Hellica gleefully feeding body parts to the sligs. “Where am I to get cells for such a ghola?”

  The Matre Superior stopped her tigerlike pacing and spun toward him as if to deliver a fatal thrust. “That is all you needed? A few cells? Thirteen years and you did not tell me you required only a few cells to solve this problem?” The orange in her eyes glowed like embers.

  He quailed. The idea had never occurred to him. “I did not think it a possibility! The Masters are gone—”

  She growled at him. “How stupid do you think we are, little man? We would not dispose of anything so valuable. If the Navigator’s scheme will work—if we can create melange and sell it to the Guild—then I will give you the cells you need!”

  Edrik’s enormous head bobbed behind the plaz walls, and his bulging eyes glared at the quivering researcher. “You accept this project?”

  “We accept it. This Lost Tleilaxu man works for us, and survives only at our pleasure.”

  Uxtal was still reeling from the revelation. “Then . . . then some of the old Masters are still alive?”

  Her quirk of a smile was frightening. “Alive? After a fashion. Alive enough to provide the cells you need.” She gave the Navigator a perfunctory bow and grabbed Uxtal by the arm. “I will take you to them. You must start right away.”

  AS THE MATRE Superior led him into a lower level of the commandeered Bandalong Palace, the stench grew worse with every step. He stumbled, but she dragged him along like a rag doll. Though Honored Matres decorated themselves with colorful fabrics and gaudy adornments, they were not particularly clean or fastidious. Hellica wasn’t bothered by the stink wafting out of the dim chambers ahead; to her, it was the smell of suffering.

  “They still live, but you won’t get anything from their minds, little man.” Hellica gestured for Uxtal to precede her. “That isn’t what we kept them for.”

  With uncertain steps, he entered the shadowy room. He heard bubbling noises, the rhythmic hiss of respirators, gurgling pumps. It reminded him of the noisome lair of some foul beast. Ruddy light seeped from glowpanels near the floor and ceiling. He drew shallow breaths to keep himself from gagging as his eyes adjusted.

  Inside he saw twenty-four small men, or what remained of them. He counted quickly before absorbing other details, searching for numerical significance. Twenty-four—three groups of eight.

  The gray-skinned men had the distinctive features of old Masters, higher-caste leaders of the Tleilaxu. Over many centuries, genetic drift and inbreeding had given the Lost Tleilaxu a somewhat distinctive appearance; to outsiders, the gnomish men all looked alike, but Uxtal easily noted the differences.

  All of them lay strapped to flat, hard tables, as if they’d been mounted on racks. Though the victims were naked, so many tubes and sensors were connected to them that he could see little of their gaunt forms.

  “The Tleilaxu Masters had a nasty habit of constantly growing gholas of themselves as replacements. Like regurgitating food again and again.” Hellica walked up to one of the tables, looked down at the slack-faced man there. “These were gholas of one of the last Tleilaxu Masters, spare bodies to be exchanged when he grew too old.” She pointed. “This one was called Waff and had dealings with the Honored Matres. He was killed on Rakis, I believe, and never had the chance to reawaken his ghola.”

  Uxtal was reluctant to approach. Stunned, he looked at all the silent, identical men in the room. “Where did they come from?”

  “We found them stored and preserved after we had eliminated all the other Masters.” She smiled. “So, we chemically destroyed their brains and put them to a better use here.”

  The twenty-four sets of machinery hummed and hissed. Snakelike tentacles and tubes mounted to the groins of the mindless gholas began to pump; the strapped-down bodies twitched as the machinery made loud sucking sounds.

  “Now the only thing they’re good for is to provide sperm, should we ever decide to use it. Not that we particularly value your race’s disappointing genetic material, but decent males seem to be in short supply here on Tleilax.” Scowling, she turned away as Uxtal looked on in horror. She seemed to be hiding something; he sensed she hadn’t told him all of her reasons.

  “They are like your axlotl tanks, in a way. A good use for the males of your race. Isn’t it what you Tleilaxu have done to females for so many millennia? These men deserved nothing better.” She looked down her nose. “I’m sure you agree.”

  Uxtal struggled to cover his revulsion. How they must despise us! To do such a thing to males—even to a Tleilaxu Master, his enemy—was monstrous! The words of the Great Belief made clear that God had created females for the sole purpose of reproduction. A female could serve God in no greater way than to become an axlotl tank; her brain was merely extraneous tissue. But to think of males in similar terms was inconceivable. If he hadn’t been so terrified of her, he might have told Hellica a thing or two!

  This sacrilege would surely bring down the wrath of God. Uxtal had loathed these Honored Matres before. Now he could barely keep himself from fainting. The machines continued to milk the mindless males on the tables.

  “Hurry up and take your cell scrapings,” Hellica snapped. “I don’t have all day, and neither do you. Guild Navigators aren’t as pleasant to work with as I am.”

  Axlotl tanks have brought forth gholas and melange, as well as Face Dancers and Twisted Mentats. Out in the Scattering, Lost Tleilaxu genetic work was most likely responsible for creating Futars and Phibians. What other axlotl-grown creatures did they concoct in those fecund wombs? What else remains out there that is still unknown to us?

  —Bene Gesserit Symposium, opening remarks by

  MOTHER COMMANDER MURBELLA

  I

  n the two years since Gammu, one Honored Matre stronghold had fallen after another, a total of twelve smaller rebel enclaves eradicated in maneuvers that would have made even the best Swordmaster of Ginaz proud. Murbella’s Valkyries had proven themselves time and again.

  Soon, the last festering wound would be cauterized. Then humanity would be ready to face the far worse challenge.

  Recently, Chapterhouse had made another substantial spice payment to the weapon shops of Richese. For years, the Richesian industries had been dedicated to building armaments for the New Sisterhood, retooling their manufacturing centers and ramping up to full-scale production. Although they regularly delivered warships and weaponry, their factories were still gearing up for the majority of items the Sisters had ordered. Within a few years, the Mother Commander would have an overwhelming armada of ships to stand together a
nd defend against the Outside Enemy. She hoped it would be soon enough.

  Inside her private chambers, working through reams of administrative matters, Murbella was relieved to be interrupted by a report from Gammu. Since the original crackdown there, Janess—promoted to regimental commandant—had been in charge of the consolidation, strengthening the Sisterhood’s hold on the industries and population.

  But her daughter was not among the three Valkyries who strode into her office. All three, she noted, had originally been Honored Matres. One was Kiria, the hard-edged scout who had investigated the distant Enemy-devastated planet, home of the damaged Honored Matre battleship that had come to Chapterhouse years ago. Given the opportunity, Kiria had been eager to help quash the insurgents on Gammu.

  Murbella sat up straight. “Your report? Have you rooted out, killed, or converted the remaining rebel whores?”

  The former Honored Matres flinched at the term, especially when used by someone who had previously been one of their own. Kiria stepped forward to speak. “The regimental commandant is not far behind us, Mother Commander, but she wanted us to report to you immediately. We have made an alarming discovery.”

  The other two women nodded, as if conceding Kiria’s authority. Murbella noted one of them had a dark bruise on her neck.

  Kiria turned toward the hall and barked orders to a pair of male workers standing outside. They entered carrying a heavy, lifeless form wrapped crudely in preserving sheets. Kiria tore the covering away from the head. The face was turned away, but the body had the shape and clothing of a man.

  Intrigued, Murbella stood up. “What is this? Is he dead?”

  “Quite dead, but it is not a man. Nor a woman.”

  The Mother Commander came around from behind her cluttered desk. “What do you mean? Is it not human?”

  “It is whatever it chose to be, man or woman, boy or girl, hideous or pleasing in appearance.” She turned the thing’s head toward Murbella. The facial features were bland and humanoid, with staring black-button eyes, a pug nose, and pallid waxy skin.

  Murbella narrowed her eyes. “I have never seen a Face Dancer so close. Nor one so dead. I presume this is their natural state?”

  “Who can tell, Mother Commander? When we rooted out and killed many of the rebel . . . whores, we found several shape-shifters among the dead. Alarmed, we brought in Truthsayers to interrogate the surviving Honored Matres, but found no more Face Dancers that way.” Kiria pointed at the body. “This was one of the survivors. When she tried to escape, we killed her—and that is when her true identity came out.”

  “Undetectable by Truthsayers? Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Murbella wrestled with the complex implications. “Astounding.”

  Face Dancers were creatures made by the Tleilaxu, and the new ones who had returned with the Lost Tleilaxu were far superior to any the Bene Gesserit had previously encountered. Apparently, the new ones worked with, or for, the Honored Matres. And now she knew they could fool Truthsayers!

  The questions fell faster than the answers. Why then had the Honored Matres destroyed the Tleilaxu worlds, attempting to exterminate all of the original Masters? Murbella had been an Honored Matre herself, and she still did not understand.

  Intrigued, she touched the skin of the corpse, the coarse white hair on the head; each strand was rough against her fingertips. She inhaled deeply, sifting and sorting with her olfactory senses, but could find no distinctive smell. Bene Gesserit archives claimed that a Face Dancer could be detected by a very subtle odor. But she wasn’t sure.

  After a long silence, Kiria said, “We conclude that more of the rebel Honored Matres may indeed be Face Dancers, but we found no telltale indicators. No way to detect them whatsoever.”

  “Except for killing them,” one of the other two Sisters said. “That was the only way to be sure.”

  Murbella frowned. “Effective, perhaps, but not entirely useful. We can’t just execute everyone.”

  Kiria matched her frown. “That leads to a different kind of crisis, Mother Commander. Though we killed hundreds of Face Dancers among the rebels on Gammu, we were unable to capture a single one of them alive—not that we know of. They are perfect mimics. Absolutely perfect.”

  Deeply troubled, Murbella paced in her office. “You killed hundreds of Face Dancers? Does that mean you slaughtered thousands of rebels? What percentage of them are these . . . infiltrators?”

  Kiria shrugged. “Posing as Honored Matres, they formed an attack squadron and tried to retake Gammu by force. They had a very complex and detailed plan, striking at vulnerabilities, and they rallied a great many of the rebel women to their cause. Fortunately, we found the viper’s nest and struck. The Valkyries would have killed them either way, whether they were Face Dancers or whores.”

  One of the other women added, “Ironically, the Honored Matres who followed them were just as surprised as we were when their leaders turned into . . . this.” She gestured toward the inhuman cadaver. “Even they did not know they had been infiltrated.”

  The third Sister said, “Regimental Commandant Idaho has placed the whole planet under quarantine, subject to your further orders.”

  Murbella kept herself from voicing the obvious security nightmare: If that many Face Dancers have infiltrated the rebel whores on Gammu, do we have any among us here on Chapterhouse? They had brought so many candidates for retraining. Her policy had been to absorb as many former Honored Matres as were willing to undergo the Sisterhood’s instruction, their loyalty monitored by strict Truthsayers. After her capture on Gammu, their leader Niyela had killed herself rather than be converted. But what about the ones who claimed to cooperate?

  Uneasily, Murbella studied the three women, trying to detect whether they were shape-shifters, too. But if that were true, why would they raise the suspicion in the first place?

  Sensing the Mother Commander’s suspicions, Kiria looked at her companions. “These are not Face Dancers. Nor am I.”

  “Isn’t that exactly what a Face Dancer would say? I do not find your assurances terribly convincing.”

  “We would submit to Truthsayer interrogation,” one of the other two said, “but you already know that is no longer reliable.”

  Kiria pointed out, “In pitched battle we noticed a strange thing. While some of the Face Dancers died quickly from their wounds, others did not. In fact, when two were on the verge of death, their features began to change prematurely.”

  “So, if we brought a subject to the verge of death, a Face Dancer would reveal itself?” Murbella sounded skeptical.

  “Precisely.”

  With a sudden movement, Murbella flung herself at Kiria and hit her with a hard kick to the temple. The Mother Commander placed the blow precisely, shifting her foot a fraction of a centimeter from what would have been fatal.

  Kiria fell to the floor like a stone. Her companions did not move.

  On her back, Kiria gasped for breath, her eyes glazed. In a blur of motion, before they could run, Murbella felled the other two in the same manner, rendering them all helpless.

  She loomed over the trio, ready to deliver the killing blows. But except for contortions of pain, their features did not change. In contrast, the ghoulish face of the dead shape-shifter was unmistakable in its preservation wrappings.

  The Mother Commander tended to Kiria first, using Bene Gesserit healing holds to calm the victim’s breathing. Then she massaged the woman’s injured temple, her fingers finding the exact pressure points. The former Honored Matre responded quickly, and finally managed to sit up on her own.

  Because the three women had not transformed meant either that they were not Face Dancers, or that the test did not work. Murbella’s uneasiness grew as questions continued to rear up. She found herself in uncharted territory. Face Dancers could be anywhere.

  Simply because something is not seen does not mean it is not there. Even the most observant can make this mistake. One must always be alert.


  —BASHAR MILES TEG,

  strategy discussions

  M

  iles Teg arrived on the navigation bridge with a specific purpose in mind. He took a chair at the console beside Duncan, who only reluctantly turned his attention from the controls. Since his own distraction and preoccupation with Murbella had nearly allowed them to be trapped by the sparkling net, Duncan had been conscientious in his duties to the point of isolating himself. He refused to let down his guard again.

  Teg said, “When I died the first time, Duncan, I was nearly three hundred standard years old. There were ways I could have slowed my aging—through massive consumption of melange, certain Suk treatments, or Bene Gesserit biological secrets. But I chose not to. Now I am feeling old again.” He looked over at the dark-haired man. “In all your ghola lifetimes, Duncan, have you ever been truly old?”

  “I’m more ancient than you can possibly imagine. I remember every one of my lives and countless deaths—so much violence against me.” Duncan allowed himself a wistful smile. “But there were a few times when I had a long and happy life, with a wife and children, and I died peacefully in my sleep. Those were the exceptions, however, not the rule.”

  Teg looked at his own hands. “This body was no more than a child’s when we left. Sixteen years! Children have been born, and people have died, but everything aboard the Ithaca seems stagnant. Is there more to our destiny than constant flight? Will it ever stop? Will we ever find a new planet?”

  Duncan took another scan of space all around the drifting ship. “Where is it safe, Miles? The hunters will never give up, and each trip through foldspace is dangerous. Should I try to find the Oracle of Time and ask for her help? Can we trust the Guild? Should I take us into that other strange, empty universe again? We have more options than we admit, but nothing that makes a good plan.”

  “We should look for someplace unknown and unpredictable. We can travel routes that no mind can follow. You and I could do it.”