Hunters of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Even when they scrambled onto each other’s shoulders to see if one of them could leap over the force field, they argued over who got to stand on top. Though the gholas were identical, they didn’t trust one another. If he could pit them against each other, Uxtal was sure he could apply the right amount of pressure to wring out the information he needed.

  One of the children tumbled off the edge of a slippery ramp and fell onto the hard floor. He began crying and holding his arm, which appeared to be broken, or at least severely sprained. To keep track of them, Uxtal had pressed tiny numerical brands onto their left wrists. This one was Number Five. As the child wailed, his genetic siblings ignored him.

  Uxtal told two of his lab assistants to open the force field to let him step through. He was disgusted and impatient with the need to provide unnecessary medical attention; maybe these children would be easier to control if he just strapped them to the tables, like their sperm-donor predecessors.

  Old Ingva was there as always, watching, leering, and silently threatening. Uxtal tried to concentrate on his immediate obligations. Kneeling by the injured toddler, he tried to inspect Number Five’s arm, to see how badly it was injured. The Waff yanked himself away, refusing to let Uxtal near.

  Abruptly, the other seven Waffs formed a circle around the researcher. When they moved closer, he could smell their sour breath. Something was wrong. “Get back!” he barked, trying to sound intimidating. They were on all sides of him, and he had an uneasy feeling that they had tricked him, lured him inside.

  The eight Waffs fell upon him with bared sharp teeth, biting and ripping at his skin and clothing. He thrashed and struck back, shouting for his assistants, knocking the small, gnomish gholas away. They were only children, yet they had formed a deadly sort of pack. Were they working together in a hive mentality, like Face Dancers? Even the supposedly injured boy threw himself into the fray, his “broken arm” a sham.

  Fortunately, the Waffs were not strong yet, and he sent them skidding across the floor. The anxious lab assistants helped Uxtal keep them at bay while they pulled the shaken researcher back out through the field.

  Breathing hard and sweating, he tried to gather his composure and looked around for someone to blame. His injuries were minor, only a few scrapes and bruises, but he was appalled that they had taken him by surprise.

  Left in their pen, the identical gholas ran about in a frenzy of frustration. Finally, they all fell silent and went off to different parts of the enclosure to play, as if nothing had happened.

  “ ‘Men must do God’s work,’ ” Uxtal reminded himself, from the catechism of the Great Belief. Next time, he would be more careful with these little monsters.

  Is it enough just to find a home, or must we create one for ourselves? I am willing to do either, if we would only decide.

  —PROCTOR SUPERIOR GARIMI,

  personal journals

  A

  nother blind jump through foldspace. The Ithaca emerged safely, following its random course according to the whims of prescience. With Duncan at the controls, the no-ship cruised toward a bright, comfortable-looking planet. A new world. He and Teg had conferred on the course, on the wisdom of making another journey at all even though the hunters had not found them again—and the two of them had brought the great vessel to this place.

  Even from a distance the planet looked promising, and excitement blossomed among the refugees aboard the vessel. At long last, after almost two decades of wandering, three years since the dead no-planet, could this be a place to rest and recuperate? A new home?

  “It looks perfect.” Sheeana set aside the summary of the scan data, looked at Duncan and Teg. “Your instinct guided us true.”

  Standing with them on the navigation bridge, anxious Garimi looked at the landmasses, oceans, clouds. “Unless it’s another plague world.”

  Duncan shook his head. “We’re already detecting transmissions from small cities, so there’s an active populace. Most of the continents are forested and fertile. Temperature is well within habitable norms. Atmospheric content, moisture, vegetation . . . It may be one of the worlds settled in the Scattering, long ago. So many groups were lost, disappearing into the wilderness.”

  Garimi’s eyes gleamed. “We have to investigate. This could be the place to found our new Bene Gesserit core.”

  Duncan was more practical. “If nothing else, it would be good for us to refresh the ship’s supplies of air and water. Our stores and recycling systems can’t last forever, and our population is gradually growing.”

  Garimi blurted, “I will call an all-ship meeting. There is more at stake here than simply replenishing our supplies. What if the inhabitants down there welcome us? What if it is a suitable place for us to settle?” She looked around. “At least for some of us.”

  “Then we will have an important decision to make.”

  EVEN WITH EVERY adult onboard in attendance, the Ithaca’s huge convocation chamber looked mostly empty. Miles Teg sat back against a low-tier seat, continually repositioning his long legs. Though he would observe the discussion with interest, he expected to make few comments. He had always followed the mandate of the Bene Gesserit, but at the moment he wasn’t sure what the mandate was.

  A young man took a seat adjacent to Teg, the ghola of Thufir Hawat. The heavy-browed twelve-year-old did not usually go out of his way to be with the Bashar, but Teg knew that Thufir watched him intently, almost to the point of hero worship. In the archives, Thufir often studied details of Miles Teg’s military career.

  Teg nodded to the young man. This was the loyal weapons master and warrior Mentat who had served the Old Duke Atreides, then Duke Leto, and finally Paul, before being captured by the Harkonnens. Teg felt he had much in common with the battle-seasoned genius; someday, after the Thufir Hawat ghola had his memories again, they would have many things to discuss, commander to commander.

  Thufir leaned over, gathered his courage, and whispered, “I have wanted to speak with you, Bashar Teg, about the Cerbol Revolt and the Battle of Ponciard. Your tactics were most unusual. I cannot imagine they would have worked, and yet they did.”

  Teg smiled with the memory. “They wouldn’t have worked for anyone else. As the Bene Gesserit use their Missionaria Protectiva to plant the seeds of religious fervor, so my soldiers created a myth about my abilities. I became larger than life, and my opponents managed to intimidate themselves more than my soldiers or weapons could have done. I really did very little in each battle.”

  “I disagree, sir. In order for your reputation to become such a potent tool, you first had to earn it.”

  Teg smiled and kept his voice low, almost wistful as he admitted the truth in his own mythology. “Ah, and earn it I did.” He explained to the fascinated young man how he had also averted a massacre on Andioyu, a confrontation against the desperate dregs of a losing army that would surely have resulted in their deaths as well as the slaughter of tens of thousands of civilians. Much had hung in the balance on that day . . . .

  “And then you died on Rakis fighting the Honored Matres.”

  “As a point of fact, I died on Rakis to provoke the Honored Matres, as part of the overall Bene Gesserit plan. I played my role so that Duncan Idaho and Sheeana could escape. But after I was killed, the Sisterhood brought me back because they considered my Mentat skills and experiences to be invaluable—like your own. That is why they brought us all back.”

  Thufir was completely engrossed. “I’ve read the history of my own life, and I’m convinced that I can learn much from you, Bashar.”

  With a smile, Teg squeezed the boy’s shoulder. Thufir was abashed. “Have I said something amusing, sir?”

  “When I look at you, how can I not remember that I myself learned a great deal from studying the famous warrior-Mentat of House Atreides? You and I could be very useful to each other.” The boy blushed.

  When the debate began, Teg and Thufir turned their attention to the center of the convocation chamber. Sheeana remaine
d seated in the imposing Advocate’s Chair, a carryover from when this vessel had been designed for other groups.

  Garimi, as usual, was anxious to provoke a change in the status quo. She strutted forward to the podium and spoke without preamble, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We did not depart on a race or a journey. Our goal was to get away from Chapterhouse before the Honored Matres destroyed everything. Our intent was to preserve the core of the Sisterhood, and we have done so. But where are we going? That question has plagued us for nineteen years.”

  Duncan stood. “We escaped from the true Enemy who was closing in. They still want us—that hasn’t changed.”

  “Do they want us?” Garimi challenged. “Or do they want you?”

  He shrugged. “Who can say? I am not willing to be captured or destroyed just to have your questions answered. Many of us have special talents on this ship—especially the ghola children—and we need all of our resources.”

  The Rabbi spoke up. Though he was still fit and healthy, his beard and hair were grayer and longer now; behind spectacles, his bird-bright eyes were surrounded by a mesh of wrinkles. “My people and I did not choose any of this. We asked for rescue from Gammu, and we’ve been trapped in your folly ever since. When will it end? After forty years in the wilderness? When will you let us go?”

  “And where would you like to go, Rabbi?” Sheeana’s voice was calm, but Teg thought it sounded somewhat patronizing.

  “I would like us to consider—seriously consider—the planet we have just found. I am reluctant to call it Zion, but perhaps it is enough to call it home.” The old man looked back at his handful of followers, all of whom wore dark clothes and adhered to their old ways. Though aboard the Ithaca they no longer needed to hide their religion, the Jews mostly kept to themselves, unwilling to be assimilated by the other passengers. They had their own children, ten so far, and raised them as they saw fit.

  Finally, Teg spoke. “According to our scans, this planet appears to be an excellent place to settle. The population is minimal. Our group of refugees would cause almost no disturbance at all to the local inhabitants. We could even choose an isolated spot and settle far from the natives.”

  “How advanced is their civilization? Do they have technology?” Sheeana asked.

  “At least at pre-Scattering levels,” Teg said. “Indications show minor local industries, a few electromagnetic transmissions. No apparent spaceflight capability, no visible spaceports. If they settled here after the Scattering, they haven’t done any more traveling to other star systems.” In running scans of the new planet, he had enlisted the aid of eager young Liet-Kynes and his friend Stilgar, both of whom had studied more about ecology and planetary dynamics than most of the adult Sisters. All of the readings checked out.

  “It could be a new Chapterhouse,” Garimi said, as if the discussion were already over.

  Duncan’s face darkened. “We would be vulnerable if we settled there. The hunters have found us several times already. If we remain too long in one place, we will be ensnared in their net.”

  “Why would your mysterious hunters have any interest in my people?” the Rabbi said. “We are free to settle on this world.”

  “It’s clear that we must investigate further,” Sheeana said. “We will take a lighter down to the surface on a fact-finding mission. Let’s meet these people and learn from them. Then we can all make an informed decision.”

  Teg turned to the young ghola in the seat beside him and said impulsively, “I intend to go on this expedition, Thufir, and I would like you to accompany me.”

  In our arrogant assumption of superiority, we believe that our developed senses and abilities are the direct result of evolution. We are convinced that our race has bettered itself through technological advancement. Therefore, we are shamed and embarrassed when something we consider to be “primitive” has senses far superior to our own.

  —REVEREND MOTHER SHEEANA,

  Ithaca logs

  W

  hile the mission to the planet was being assembled, the Ithaca rode unseen in orbit. Though the no-field limited the ship’s sensors, it was a necessary safety factor until they learned more about the inhabitants.

  As the de facto captain, Duncan would remain aboard the no-ship, ready in the event of an emergency, since only he could see the mysterious web. Sheeana wanted Miles Teg with her, and the Bashar insisted on bringing the ghola of Thufir Hawat. “Physically he is only twelve years old, but we know Thufir has the potential to become a great warrior-Mentat. We must encourage those skills to blossom if he is to be useful to us.” No one argued with his choice.

  Concurrent with the fact-finding mission, Duncan made arrangements for a small contingent of workers to go to an uninhabited part of the planet with equipment to gather water, air, and any available food, in order to bolster the no-ship’s supplies. Just in case they decided to move on.

  As Sheeana was finalizing the details for departure, the Rabbi entered the navigation bridge and stood as if expecting a challenge. His eyes flashed, and his stance stiffened, though no one had yet argued with him, or even spoken to him. His demand surprised them. “I will go down to the planet with this expedition. My people insist on it. If this is to be a home for us, I will make that decision. You will not stop me from going along. It is my right.”

  “It is a small group,” Sheeana cautioned. “We don’t know what we’ll encounter down there.”

  The Rabbi jabbed a finger at Teg. “He plans to bring one of the ghola children. If it is safe enough for a twelve-year-old boy, then it is safe enough for me.”

  Duncan had known the original Thufir Hawat. Even without his memories restored, he would not consider the ghola a mere child. Nevertheless, he said, “I don’t object to you joining the party, if Sheeana will have you.”

  “Sheeana does not decide my fate!”

  She seemed amused by his posturing. “Don’t I? It seems to me that all the decisions I make aboard this no-ship have a direct impact on your situation.”

  Impatient, Teg cut off their bickering. “We have had nineteen years aboard this vessel to argue amongst ourselves. A planet waits for us. Shouldn’t we see what we are quarreling about first?”

  BEFORE SHE COULD depart for the planet, Sheeana was called to the brig levels by a nervous worker. The Futars let out a great caterwauling, far more restless than usual inside their locked, metal-walled arboretum. They paced, searching for a way out. Whenever they came close to each other, they snapped and snarled, halfheartedly slashing at each other. Then, before more than a few droplets of blood could fly into the air, the beast-men lost interest and continued prowling. One of them emitted a bloodcurdling shriek, a noise perfectly programmed to evoke primal human fear. In all the years aboard the no-ship, the Futars had never exhibited such frantic behavior before.

  Sheeana stood at the arboretum doorway, looming like a goddess; against her better judgment, she deactivated the lock field and stepped inside. Only she could soothe the four creatures and communicate with them in a primitive way.

  As the largest of the Futars, Hrrm had taken the position of dominance, partly because of his strength and partly because of his connection with Sheeana. He bounded toward her, and she did not move, did not flinch. He bristled, showing his canine teeth, raising his claws.

  “You not Handler,” he said.

  “I am Sheeana. You know me.”

  “Take us to Handlers.”

  “I have already promised you. As soon as we find the Handlers, we will deliver you to them.”

  “Handlers here!” Hrrm’s next words were unintelligible growls and snarls, then he said, “Home. Home down there.” He hurled himself against the wall. The other Futars yowled.

  “Home? Handlers?” Sheeana sucked in a quick breath. “This is the home of the Handlers?”

  “Our home!” Hrrm came back to her. “Take us home.”

  She reached out to scratch the sensitive spot on his back. Her decision was obvious. “All right,
Hrrm. I will take you home.”

  The predator rubbed against her. “Not Handler. You Sheeana.”

  “I am Sheeana. I am your friend. I will take you to the Handlers.” She saw that the other three half-human creatures had been standing still, their muscles coiled to pounce if she had given the wrong answer. Their eyes glowed yellow with an inner hunger and a desperate need.

  The planet of the Handlers!

  If the Bene Gesserits hoped to make a good impression on the inhabitants below, returning four lost Futars might gain them leverage. And it would be good for her to bring them back where they belonged.

  “Sheeana promised,” Hrrm said. “Sheeana friend. Sheeana not bad lady Honored Matre.”

  Smiling, she stroked the creature again. “You four will accompany me.”

  Even a great tower has its weak point. The accomplished warrior finds and exploits the smallest flaws to bring about complete ruin.

  —MATRE SUPERIOR HELLICA,

  Internal Directive 67B-1138

  N

  ow that Matre Superior Hellica had provided the services of her pet Lost Tleilaxu researcher, Edrik was confident that Uxtal could re-create one of the old Masters who knew how to manufacture spice. Had not the Oracle herself told him there was a solution?

  But now the Matre Superior demanded something in return. If he meant to have his manufactured spice, Edrik could not refuse.

  Reluctantly, the Navigator accepted the task, knowing full well the consequences he risked. The witch Murbella would be furious, which was only part of the reason he took pleasure in what they were about to do.

  Five years ago, brash Honored Matres from Gammu had tried to launch their last few Obliterators against Chapterhouse itself, but that had been a flawed plan from the start. Even the Navigator aboard that Heighliner had been unaware of the scope of the threat. By attacking Chapterhouse, the Honored Matres had meant to wipe out the only remaining source of melange. Idiocy! The foolish whores had failed, and Mother Commander Murbella had seized their Obliterators. Shortly afterward, she had crushed the Honored Matres on Gammu and destroyed their entire enclave.