Hunters Of Dune by Frank Herbert
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."
Duncan stood from the pilot's chair and gestured to the controls. "Your prescience is as good as mine, Miles. Probably better, with your Atreides bloodline. You've never given me reason to doubt your competence. Go ahead and guide us there." His offer was sincere.
Teg's expression became uncertain, but he accepted the console. He could feel Duncan's confidence and acceptance, and it reminded him of his past military campaigns. As the old Bashar, he had led swarms of men to their deaths. They had accepted his tactics. More often than not, he had found a way to make violence unnecessary, and his men had come to think of his abilities as nearly supernatural. Even when he failed, his men died knowing that if even the great Bashar could not succeed, then the problem itself must be utterly unsolvable.
Studying the projections around him, Teg tried to get a feel for the space in which they roamed. In planning for this, before coming to the navigation bridge, he had consumed four days' ration of spice. Again, he had to do the impossible.
As the spice worked through him, he called up coordinates, letting the doubling vision of his innate prescience guide him. He would take the vessel where it needed to be. Without second-guessing himself or performing a backup navigational calculation, he lurched the Ithaca into the void. The Holtzman engines folded space, plucked them from one part of the galaxy and deposited them somewhere else. . . .
Teg delivered the no-ship to an unremarkable solar system with a yellow sun, two gas giant planets and three smaller rocky worlds closer to the star, but nothing within the habitable life zone. The readings were completely blank.
And yet his prescience had taken him to this place. For a reason . . . For the better part of an hour, he continued to study the empty orbits, probing with his intense senses, sure that his ability had not led them astray.
After the activation of the Holtzman engines, Sheeana had come to the navigation bridge, afraid that the net had located them again. Now she waited anxiously to see what he had found. She did not discount the Bashar's certainty.
"There's nothing here, Miles." Duncan leaned over his shoulder to study the same screens.
Though unable to disprove the statement, Teg did not agree with it. "No . . . wait a moment." His gaze blurred, and suddenly he spotted it--not with his real vision but with a dark and isolated corner of his mind. The potential had been stored deep in his complex genetics, awakened through the devastating T-probe torture that had also unlocked his ability to move at incredible speed. The instinctive capacity to see no-ships was another talent Teg had carefully guarded from the Bene Gesserits, afraid of what they might do to him.
The no-field he beheld now, however, was larger than the most mammoth ship he had ever seen. Much larger.
"Something's there." As he guided the no-ship closer, he sensed no danger, only a deep mystery. The orbital zone wasn't as empty as he had at first thought. The silent blot was merely an illusion, a blurry shroud large enough to cover a whole planet. A whole planet!
"I see nothing." Sheeana looked at Duncan, who shook his head.
"No, trust me." Fortunately, the guise of the no-field was not perfect, and as Teg struggled to think of a like
Duncan saw it, too. "He's right." He gave Teg an awed and questioning glance. "How did you know?"
"The Bashar has Atreides genes, Duncan. You should know by now not to underestimate them," Sheeana said.
As their ship approached, the planetary no-field flickered one more time to give a tantalizing glimpse of an entirely hidden world, a splash of sky, green-brown continents. Teg did not take his eyes from the screen. "A network of satellites generating no-fields would explain it. But the field is either flawed or degenerating."
The no-ship approached the world that wasn't there. Duncan sank back in the command chair. "It is . . . almost inconceivable. The energy requirements would be immense. Those people must have had access to technologies beyond our own."
For years, Chapterhouse itself had been camouflaged by a moat of no-ships, enough to mask the planet from a cursory, distant search, but that shield had been sketchy and imperfect--forcing Duncan to remain aboard the landed no-ship. This world, though, was completely surrounded by an all-encompassing no-field.
As Teg guided the vessel forward, they traversed the unmarked ring of satellites that generated the overlapping no-field. The orbital sensors were blinded for an instant, but the Ithaca's similar masking technology allowed it to pass through.
Behind them, as if their passage had disrupted a delicate balance, the planetary no-field flickered again, winked in and out of existence, and then restored itself.
"Such an expenditure of energy would have bankrupted entire empires," Sheeana said. "No one would do it on a whim. Somebody certainly wanted to stay hidden down there. We must be cautious."
We can learn much from those who came before us. The most valuable legacy our predecessors can leave us is the knowledge of how to avoid the same deadly mistakes.
--REVEREND MOTHER SHEEANA,
Ithaca logs
T
he powerful civilization that had once thrived on the no-planet was dead now. Everything was dead.
As the Ithaca circled the hidden planet in a tight orbit, the bristling quills of scanners picked out silent cities, the distinctive remnants of industry, abandoned agricultural settlements, empty living complexes. Every outside transmission band was utterly still, without so much as the faint static of repeating weather satellites or distress beacons.
"The inhabitants went to great lengths to hide," Teg said. "But it looks as if they were found after all."
Sheeana studied the readings. In light of the mystery, she had summoned several other Sisters to help her study the data and develop conclusions. "The ecosystem seems to be undamaged. The minimal levels of pollutants and residue in the air suggest that this place has been uninhabited for a century or more, depending on its prior level of industrialization. The prairies and forests are untouched. Everything looks perfectly normal, almost pristine."
Garimi's frown etched deep creases around her lips and on her forehead. "In other words, this was not caused in the same manner as the whores turned Rakis into a charred ball."
"No, only the people are gone." Duncan shook his head, studying the information as it flowed across the screens, including city layouts and atmospheric details. "Either they left, or they perished. Do you think they were hiding from the Outside Enemy, so desperate to remain unseen that they covered their entire world in a no-field?"
"It is an Honored Matre world?" Garimi asked.
Sheeana reached a decision. "This place could hold a key to what we are running from. We have to learn what we can. If Honored Matres lived down there, what drove them away, or what killed them?"
Garimi held up one finger. "The whores came to the Bene Gesserit demanding to know how we control our bodies. They were frantic to understand how Reverend Mothers can manipulate our immune functions, cell by cell. Of course!"
"Speak clearly, Garimi. What do you mean?" Teg's voice was abrupt, the hardened battle commander.
She turned a sour look on him. "You are a Mentat. Make a prime projection!"
Teg did not bristle at the scolding. Instead, his eyes became glazed for just a moment, and then his expression returned. "Ahh. If the whores wanted to learn how to control immune responses, then perhaps the Enemy attacked them using a biological agent. The whores did not have the skills or the medical science to make themselves impervious, therefore they wanted to learn the secrets of Bene Gesserit immunity, even if they had to obliterate planets to do so. They were desperate."
"They were terrified of the Enemy's plagues," Sheeana said.
Duncan leaned forward to stare at the peaceful yet ominous image of the tomb world below them. "Are you suggesting that the Enemy discovered this planet even behind the no-field, and seeded it with a disease that killed everyone?"
Sheeana nodded at the large screen. "We must go down there and see for ourselves."
"Unwise," Duncan said. "If a plague killed every single person--"
"As Miles just pointed out, we Reverend Mothers can guard our bodies against the contamination. Garimi can go with me."
"This is foolhardy," Teg said.
"Being safe and careful has bought us little in the past sixteen years," Garimi said. "If we turn our backs on this opportunity to learn about the real Enemy, and the Honored Matres, then we deserve our fate when they come back to haunt us."
GARIMI PILOTED THE small lighter through the time-scoured atmosphere and over the ghostly metropolis. The empty city was ostentatious and impressive, composed primarily of tall towers and massive buildings with a superfluity of angles. Each structure had a thick solidity that expressed a certain loudness, as if the builders demanded grandeur and respect. But the buildings were crumbling.
"Showy extravagance," Sheeana commented. "It denotes lack of subtlety, perhaps even insecurity in their power."
Inside her head, the ancient voice of Serena Butler awoke. In the Time of Titans, the great cymek tyrants built huge monuments to themselves. That was how they reinforced their own belief in their significance.
Similar things had happened long before that, Sheeana supposed. "As humans, we learn the same lessons over and over and over again. We are doomed to repeat our mistakes."
When she caught the Proctor Superior looking at her oddly, Sheeana realized she had spoken aloud. "This place has the undeniable mark of the Honored Matres. Spectacular yet unnecessary lavishness. Domination and intimidation. The whores bullied those they conquered, but in the end it wasn't enough. Even their incredible expenditure to generate a self-sustaining no-field proved inadequate against the Enemy."
Garimi's lips formed a hard smile. "How it must have galled them to be forced into hiding! Cowering behind invisibility, and still failing."
They set the lighter down in the middle of an empty street. Looking at each other for reassurance and resolve, Sheeana and Garimi opened the airlock hatch and stepped out onto the graveyard world. They each took a cautious breath. Wispy gray clouds scudded across the skies, like memories of industrial smoke.
With their perfect immune-system control, the Sisters could guard every cell in their bodies and fend off any remaining vestiges of a plague. The Honored Matres, however, had forgotten--or never possessed--such skills.
The streets and landing pad were overgrown with tall grasses and hardy weeds that had cracked the armorpave. Wild shrubs grew into writhing shapes, composed mostly of thorns upon which a casually tossed victim could be impaled. Stunted trees resembled racks of swords and spearheads. At one time, Sheeana supposed, the Honored Matres must have considered these plants ornamental. Other knobby growths composed of interlocked lumps rose up like leprous fungi.
The city was not silent, though. A gentle wind blew, moaning a somber song through broken windows and half-collapsed doorways. Flocks of long-feathered birds had taken up residence in the towers and on rooftops. Gardens, probably once tended by slaves, had grown into a wild riot of vegetation. Engorged
Sheeana walked forward, on guard. This empty metropolis had an ominous and mysterious feel, though she had satisfied herself that no one remained alive. She trusted her Bene Gesserit senses and reflexes to alert her to danger, but perhaps she should have brought along Hrrm or one of the other Futars, as a guardian.
The two women stood in somber contemplation, absorbing their surroundings. Sheeana gestured to her companion. "We have to find an information center--a library complex or a data core."
She studied the architecture around her. The skyline had a weathered and broken appearance. After a century or more without maintenance, some of the tall towers had collapsed. Poles that must once have held colorful banners were now naked, the fragile fabric had disintegrated with time.
"Use your eyes and what you've been taught," Sheeana said. "Even if the whores did originate from unschooled Reverend Mothers, maybe they were mixed with Fish Speaker refugees. Or maybe they have another origin entirely, but they carry some of our history in their subconscious."
Garimi gave a skeptical snort. "Reverend Mothers would never have forgotten so many basic skills. We know from Murbella that the whores have no access to Other Memory. Nothing in our history explains their sheer violence and unmitigated rage."
Sheeana remained unconvinced. "If they came from the Scattering, the whores have some commonality with human history, provided we go back far enough. In general, architecture is based on standard assumptions. A library or information center has a different look than an administrative complex or private dwelling. In a city such as this, there will be business buildings, receiving centers, and some sort of central information storehouse."
The two walked past the stark thorntrees, studying the structures they saw. The buildings were blocky and fortresslike, as if the populace had feared that at any moment they would need to run inside and protect themselves from a violent external attack.