Hunters Of Dune by Frank Herbert
To make matters worse, during the sudden emergency he received a summons to go to the Palace of Bandalong immediately. He hurried off toward the sickeningly ostentatious building. As he ran the gauntlet of the colonnaded entry, he ignored the magenta columns and the garishly dressed statues of Honored Matres arrayed in threatening positions.
A cowed-looking bonded male stood in a bright yellow tuxedo outside the immense door, wearing a dazed expression. Striding up to him, Uxtal lifted his own chin in a disdainful sniff, since he had never been sexually twisted by the Honored Matres himself. "I am here to see the Matre Superior."
The man blinked at him and said dully, "She is occupied setting up a trap for the witches. We have been threatened by the New Sisterhood."
Bene Gesserit witches? So that was what all the turmoil was about. Overhead in the sky, a swarm of dark ships was descending like a flock of carrion birds. Uxtal watched nervously, expecting explosives to drop onto the rooftops. Hellica certainly had a way of provoking other people.
The researcher held out the rolled message he had received. "Perhaps the Matre Superior wants me at her side during the emergency. I am her greatest living researcher, the man who will restore melange production from the axlotl tanks. My work may be the key to her negotiations." He crossed his arms over his small chest.
Yes, that must be the real reason. If the witches from Chapterhouse counted on their spice monopoly, then Hellica would want to flaunt Uxtal's success with the Waff ghola. She would offer him as her champion genius! Also, Navigator Edrik would surely never allow harm to come to his work. Uxtal should be safe, no matter what happened.
The tuxedoed man studied the summons, nodded sagely, and then dashed Uxtal's preconceptions. "Ah, now I understand. This is not, in fact, from the Matre Superior. We have prepared a room. Follow me."
"Shouldn't you at least inform her that I am here?"
"No. I was given specific instructions on that account."
Confused and uneasy, the little researcher was escorted down a wide corridor that featured paintings of dead Bene Gesserits in macabre poses. The bonded male indicated for him to pass through an archway and descend a stairway to a large, sunken chamber.
When Uxtal stepped down into the main room, alone, the entire chamber glowed orange as thousands of luminous eyes appeared in the floor. Terrified, he tried to retreat, but the whole staircase melted into the wall, trapping him like an unarmed slave in a combat arena. "Matre Superior? What is it you require of me?" He thought furiously, reminding himself, They need me, that is why I am still alive. They need me!
The glowing eyes in the floor went dark, plunging the sunken room into blackness. Through his panic, he became aware of a trickle of noise that entered the chamber like a stream running down the wall. Growing louder, the sound metamorphosed into a woman's grating laughter. "You see? My eyes are always on you, little man."
Burning light filled the room, dazzling him. Peering through his fingers, Uxtal saw Ingva standing before him completely naked. Her aged body was carved from knots of muscle and taut skin; her breasts were too small to sag. "The Matre Superior clearly does not want you. And now while she is preoccupied with the Chapterhouse witches, I will claim you for my own. Then you will really work for me. Hellica need never know, until I decide to make my move."
"But I have done everything requested of me!" His voice cracked. "I have grown gholas, produced your orange spice drug, restored the Tleilaxu Master's memories. Soon I will provide you with all the melange you could possibly--"
"Exactly. And that is why I must control you. Against all of my expectations, you have actually proved yourself to be of value." She moved closer, and he felt like a mouse transfixed by a viper. "From this day forth you will be my slave, which will therefore make me indispensable. After my imprinting, no other woman will be sufficient for you--not even another Honored Matre." Her smiling lips looked as ragged as torn paper. "Your service in past years has earned you this reward. Most males do not survive so long among us."
Uxtal didn't dare run, lest he enrage her. This was the lingering threat that he had feared for years. He saw an unquenchable orange fire begin to burn in Ingva's eyes. Sexual bonding, total enslavement--to this hideous crone.
"You are about to discover my pleasures." She caressed his face with a bony, clawed finger. "You're going to enjoy this."
"That is not possible, Honored Matre--"
She cackled. "Little man, I am an adept of the fifth order, a qualified member of the black veil. I can overcome any blockage of desire." She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the floor. She was too strong, and he could not fight her off. Smiling as she straddled him, Ingva said, "Now for your reward."
The gnarled woman ripped his clothes away, and Uxtal prayed that he would survive this day. He whimpered. Years ago, at the very beginning, the Face Dancers had tried to protect him before delivering him to Bandalong, but Khrone had not shown himself here for some time. The Face Dancer had discarded the Lost Tleilaxu researcher as soon as he'd provided the Paul Atreides ghola. Khrone had simply left him at the mercy of the Honored Matres. The Face Dancers could do nothing to protect him from Ingva's fury once she discovered what had been done to him.
With sinewy, greedy hands, the crone reached down, gasped, and then hurled him across the floor naked. "Castrated! Who did that to you?"
"Th-the Face Dancers. Long ago. I--I needed to concentrate on my work, without the temptation of an Honored Matre's pleasures."
"You disgusting, stupid little man! Do you know what you have denied yourself? What you have denied me?"
Uxtal slipped away, scrambling to retrieve the remnants of his clothing before she killed him out of sheer indignation. But Ingva moved like a panther to intercept him. "I have never been pleased with you, little man, and now you have made my job more difficult. Castration, however, does not render you utterly useless as a sexual slave. To an adept with my skill level, even a eunuch is not entirely unreachable. It will require extra effort, but I will imprint you anyway." She pushed him back down to the floor. "You will thank me for this when it's over. I promise you that."
Uxtal argued, whined, and then screamed, but no one heard or cared.
The hunt has been a fundamental part of the natural order since life first emerged. The prey knows this as well as the predator.
--Bene Gesserit dictum
A
lone on their breezy observation platform above the giant aspen trees, the ghola of Thufir Hawat tried to absorb everything and see everything, adding details together for a correct summation and analysis. He was not yet a Mentat, but according to historical records, Thufir had the potential to be a great warrior, a strategist, and a human computer.
In his original lifetime, he had served three generations of House Atreides. After the fall of Arrakeen, the Harkonnens had captured him and used a residual poison to coerce him to serve the evil Baron. How I must have hated that! Back then, Thufir had been an old veteran, his mind heavy with a lifetime of service and battles . . . somewhat like the old Bashar. Young Thufir very much wanted to live up to those expectations.
Even here, safely high above the ground, he could smell blood in the air from the hunt. Two lanky Handlers stood guard at the base of the wooden tower to protect him and the Rabbi from the dangerous Futars and Honored Matres loose in the forest. Or were the Handlers simply making certain their two visitors didn't go anywhere off-limits and didn't see anything they weren't supposed to see?
The anxious Rabbi paced across the open platform and peered down into the broad grove of silver-barked trees. Thufir had already made enough of an analysis of the old man to predict how he would react in a situation. Hardened by a lifetime of feeling wrongfully downtrodden, the Rabbi fought for his people while trying not to be seen as a victim. Most of all, he feared being indecisive, anything less than a leader.
Now the old man looked sickened and disappointed, as if his dreams of having a perfect new world for his followers w
Thufir was sure he and his fellow young gholas would never come here to live. They belonged on the Ithaca with the Bashar and Duncan Idaho, ready to defend against the Outside Enemy. That was why they had been reborn in the first place.
Even if some of the refugees left the no-ship to settle on the planet, Duncan would never allow the Ithaca to remain here. Motionlessness creates vulnerability. Complacency is dangerous. Regardless of how welcoming the Handlers might seem, this planet could only be a temporary stopover for most of them. Though his past-life memories had not been restored, Thufir's loyalties remained with the people aboard the ship.
In the forest below, he heard snarling Futars and the sharp cracking of branches. He shaded his eyes, trying to discern details from shadows in the trees as the chase came toward them.
"I do not like this." The Rabbi raised his hands in a warding gesture.
"It will take more than a superstitious symbol to block these attackers."
"You may think yourself safer, ghola, because you will someday be a warrior, but I fight in a much more important arena. Faith is my weapon--the only one I need."
Below, they saw the cautious predatory movement of two Futars slinking through the trees to set a trap. Thufir realized what was happening: With loud roars in the distance, other beast-men were driving an Honored Matre in this direction, and then the rest of the pack would close in on her.
Using implanted communication devices, the Handler guards at the base of the tower received an update. They turned their bandit-masked eyes up to the observation platform. "Three of the five Honored Matres have been killed," one called. "The hunting ability of our Futars is proven."
But two of the deadly women remained alive, and one was coming toward the observation tower at that very moment.
She ran out of the trees, her face scratched by lashing branches, her left arm mauled and hanging useless, her bare feet torn and bleeding from fleeing across the rough ground. But she showed no signs of slowing.
The Rabbi squirmed and put a hand over his eyes, as if offended. "I will not watch this."
As the woman burst into the clearing, looking over her shoulder, two Futars sprang from their hiding places in the trees and surprised their prey. Another pair of hunting Futars closed in from behind her, running hard. Thufir leaned over the railing to get a better view, while the Rabbi cringed back.
Without pausing in her stride, the Honored Matre bent to snatch up a fallen branch with her good hand. Using amazing strength, she spun and shoved it like a wobbly, off-balance javelin. The splintered end skewered one of the leaping Futars. Mortally wounded, he fell, yelping and thrashing, as she sprang aside.
Another Futar jumped the woman, striking at her wounded side, hoping to latch onto her shoulder and wrench her already-mauled arm out of its socket. Thufir saw instantly that the Honored Matre had merely been feigning the severity of her injury. Her mangled arm darted up and grabbed the Futar by his throat. His jaws snapped only a centimeter from her face. With a loud grunt, the whore pushed the creature away. The Futar staggered backward and crashed into one of the silvery trunks. Stunned, he struggled to his feet.
As the other two Futars closed with her, the Honored Matre looked sideways. Her orange eyes fixed on the two Handlers standing guard by the lookout tower. With a burst of desperate, vengeful speed, she ran directly toward them, leaving the beast-men behind.
Both of the long, lanky men raised their stun-goads, but she outmatched them with a hurricane of movement. Her callused hand knocked the staffs away and she drove in, relishing the brief look of fear behind her first victim's eyes. With a single, powerful blow, she broke the Handler's neck, and he crumpled to the ground.
She lunged toward the second Handler, but the nearest Futar intercepted her to protect his master. The other two beast-men came closer, one of them limping. Seeing that she could not fight off the creatures, the Honored Matre grabbed the fallen stun-goad and bounded off into the forest again. Snarling, the Futars ran after her.
Thufir grabbed the Rabbi's arm. "Quickly!" He went to the steep wooden stairs that would take them down to the ground. "Maybe we can help."
The Rabbi hesitated. "But he is already dead, and it is safe up here. We should stay--"
"I am tired of being a spectator!" Thufir descended swiftly, two creaking steps at a time. The Rabbi came after him, grumbling.
When Thufir reached the ground, the remaining Handler guard was bent over his comrade. Thufir expected to hear the lanky man wailing in grief or shouting in anger; instead, he seemed more intent.
Unusual. Curious.
From far off in the forest came a bloodcurdling shriek as the three Futars cornered the Honored Matre again. She hurled obscenities. Thufir heard a crashing violence, a crack that sounded like breaking bone, terrible snarls followed by a brief scream . . . and then silence. After a moment's pause, Thufir's sensitive ears caught the unmistakable sounds of feeding.
Huffing great breaths, the Rabbi reached the base of the observation tower, and steadied himself by holding the wooden rail. Thufir hurried toward the Handler and his dead companion. "Is there anything we can do to help?"
Hunched over, the surviving Handler's back suddenly tensed, as if he'd forgotten the two were there. He swiveled his head on a long neck and looked at them. The dark band was a heavy shadow across his eyes.
Then Thufir glimpsed the dead Handler lying on the ground.
The corpse's features had shifted, changed . . . reverted. He was no longer tall and lanky, and his face was not streamlined; he had no black mask around his eyes. Instead, the dead Handler had grayish skin, dark, close-set eyes, and a pug nose.
Thufir recognized it from archival images--a Face Dancer!
The other Handler guard glared at them, then let his face revert to its neutral state. No longer human, but cadaverous . . . and blank.
Thufir's mind spun, and he wished desperately that he had Mentat abilities. The Handlers were Face Dancers? All of them, or just a few? Handlers fought the Honored Matres, a common enemy. The Enemy. Handlers, Face Dancers, Enemy . . .
This planet was not at all as it seemed.
He flashed a glance at the Rabbi. The old man had seen the same thing, and though his horror and surprise had made him freeze for an instant, he seemed to be drawing the same conclusions.
The powerful Handler drew himself up and came toward them with his stun-goad.
"We'd better run," Thufir said.
Even the most delicate plans can be thrown into turmoil by an impetuous action from our supposed masters. Is it not ironic when they claim that Face Dancers are shiftless and changeable?
--KHRONE,
communique to Face Dancer myriad
F
rom inside the reconstructed Castle Caladan, Khrone pulled his strings, played his roles, and moved his game pieces. The Face Dancer myriad had manipulated the Ixians, the Guild, CHOAM, and the Honored Matre rebels who still ruled Tleilax. They had already achieved many milestones of success. Khrone had traveled wherever he was needed, wherever he was summoned, but he always came back here to his pair of precious gholas. The Baron and Paolo. The work continued.
On Caladan, year after year, the group of machine-augmented observers sent regular reports to the distant old man and woman. Despite their bodily degeneration, they showed damnable patience, and still they'd found nothing to fault him for. Khrone was always watched by the patchwork observers, but never discovered. Even those hideous spies didn't know everything.
The summons came to him from the castle tower, interrupting his work and concentration. Khrone trudged up the stone staircase to see what the spies wanted. When they invoked the name of their masters, he coul
He knew the old man and woman understood the wisdom of his alternative plan. Since their efforts to find the lost no-ship kept failing, it made sense to pursue another route for obtaining their Kwisatz Haderach: the Paolo ghola.
But would the old man and woman allow him the necessary time to awaken the child? Paolo was only six, and it would be several years yet before Khrone could even begin the process of triggering his memories, saturating him with spice, preparing him for his destiny. The distant masters had made their demands and set their schedules. According to sparse reports from the patchwork observers, the old man and woman were ready to launch their vast fleet on a long-anticipated conquest of everything, whether the Kwisatz Haderach was ready or not. . . .
Silent and stony, the hideous emissaries awaited him inside the high tower room. Just as Khrone reached the top of the winding stairs, the men turned with stuttering movements to face him. He put his hands on his hips. "You are delaying my work."
One emissary's head twitched from side to side, as if his neurons were firing conflicting impulses that caused his neck and shoulder muscles to spasm. "This message--we cannot deliver--deliver this message--ourselves." He balled his bony hand into a fist. Bubbles gurgled through the tubes. "Deliver a message."
"What is it?" Khrone crossed his arms. "I have work to complete for our masters."
The lead emissary opened his hands wide in a beckoning gesture. The other augmented humans stood motionless, presumably recording his every movement. Khrone stepped into the gallery room while the pale-faced horrors retreated to the wall. He frowned. "What is this--"
Suddenly his vision fuzzed around the edges, and the walls of the tower became indistinct. Reality shifted around him. At first Khrone saw the ethereal grid of the net, strands of connected tachyons completing an infinite chain. Then he found himself in another place, a simulation of a simulation.