Hunters Of Dune

"Where Handlers?" the Futar asked, his interest suddenly piqued.

  "They are not here, and I can't find them unless you help me."

  "Futars and Handlers. Partners." Hrrm stretched his muscles, snuffling. The other creatures bristled and flexed their cablelike muscles, as if proud of their physical appearance.

  Apparently when the Futars had a focus, it was difficult to get them to consider other matters. In any event, Sheeana had convinced Hrrm (and to a lesser extent the other three) that the Bene Gesserits were different from Honored Matres. Hrrm had entirely forgotten that he had murdered a proctor years ago. Though the Sisters were not the much-anticipated Handlers, the Futars had finally accepted that these women were not to be killed and eaten, like Honored Matres. At least Sheeana hoped so. Slowly, she uncrossed her legs and rose to her feet.

  "Hungry," Hrrm said again. "Want food now."

  "You'll get food. We never forget to feed you, do we?"

  "Never forget," Hrrm confirmed.

  "Where Handlers?" another Futar asked.

  "Not here. Far away."

  "Want Handlers."

  "Soon. As soon as you help us find them."

  She left the arboretum enclosure as the Futars bounded through the artificial trees, searching relentlessly for something they would never find on the Ithaca. She took special care to lock the chamber securely behind her.

  It is often easier for us to destroy each other than it is to resolve our differences. Such is the cosmic joke of human nature!

  --MOTHER COMMANDER MURBELLA,

  Chapterhouse meeting notes

  I

  n order to receive their small but desperately needed rations of melange, the Guild regularly sent Heighliners to Chapterhouse. The ships carried supplies, recruits for the New Sisterhood, and surveillance information collected from far-flung scouts. Murbella kept a careful watch on the rebel Honored Matre strongholds, preparing for her next major offensive with the Valkyries.

  Six hours before the regular Guildship was scheduled to arrive, a smaller vessel careened into the system. Immediately upon emerging from foldspace, the ship began to broadcast an emergency warning.

  The small craft from the Scattering had an unusual oval design, Holtzman engines, and its own no-field that flickered in and out of phase. Spewing out high levels of radiation in its exhaust, the ship had probably been damaged during its headlong flight to Chapterhouse. It maneuvered erratically as it approached.

  Upon being notified, Murbella raced to the Keep's communications center, afraid this might be another embattled Honored Matre ship from far outside the Old Empire. On the screen, the crackling image was so filled with static that she could barely make out the vague outline of a pilot. Only after the ship burned all its remaining fuel to achieve a barely stable orbit did the transmission resolve enough that Murbella could discern the face of a Priestess of the Cult of Sheeana, who had been dispatched by the Missionaria Protectiva to promote the wild new religion.

  "Mother Commander, we bring dire news! An urgent warning."

  Murbella could see figures with her in the oval ship's crowded cockpit, but the Sister had not used any code words to denote that she was being forced or held captive. Knowing the others were listening, but not knowing who they were, Murbella carefully selected her words after identifying the young woman. "Yes . . . Iriel. Where have you come from?"

  "Gammu."

  With every moment, the transmitted images became clearer. Murbella could see five people inside the vessel's piloting chamber. Many of them wore the traditional clothing of Gammu. The anxious passengers appeared to be bruised and battered; dried blood caked their cheeks and clothes. At least two of those aboard appeared to be either dead or unconscious.

  "No choice . . . no chance. We had to take the risk."

  Murbella snapped at the nearest woman in the communications center. "Send up a retrieval ship. Get those people down here safely--now!"

  "Not much time," the priestess transmitted; her whole body shook with utter weariness. "Need to warn you. We escaped from Gammu before the Heighliner departed, but the whores nearly killed us. They know what we discovered. When is the Guildship coming?"

  "We still have several hours," Murbella said, trying to sound reassuring.

  "It may be sooner, Mother Commander. They know."

  "What do they know? What have you discovered?"

  "Obliterators. The Honored Matres on Gammu still have four Obliterators. They received orders from their Matre Superior Hellica on Tleilax. They are coming here aboard the Guildship. They mean to destroy Chapterhouse."

  THOUGH NOT SEVERELY injured, Priestess Iriel was exhausted and nearly starved. She had used all of her bodily reserves to help the small ship escape. Three of her six companions died before they could receive medical attention; the others were taken to the Keep's infirmary.

  Before resting, Iriel insisted on finishing the report to her Mother Commander, even though she could barely remain upright. Murbella summoned potent melange drinks, and the stimulant temporarily revived the battered young woman.

  Iriel told of her ordeal on Gammu. She had been assigned to that planet for several years now, given orders to prepare the populace for the coming conflict. By preaching the message of Sheeana and the need to stand against the Outside Enemy, Iriel had cultivated wholehearted fanatical followers. The more concerned the people of Gammu grew about the danger from the outside, the more they wanted to hear Iriel's message of hope and urgency.

  But the rebel Honored Matres also had one of their strongest enclaves there. As the cult spread, the entrenched whores had struck, hunting down Sheeana's followers. Perversely, the persecution made the cultists more resolute and determined. When Iriel had asked for their help in stealing this vital information and escaping from Gammu, she'd had no trouble finding volunteers. Fifteen of her brave followers had died before the warning ship could take off.

  "You have done what was required of you, Iriel. You delivered your warning in time. Now go recover." Murbella held the Ridulian crystal sheets that the priestess had stolen from the Honored Matres.

  Just then the Heighliner arrived--two hours ahead of schedule.

  Iriel glanced knowingly at her Mother Commander. "Our work is only just beginning."

  Murbella had hoped for more time, but had not counted on it. Only an hour earlier, suspensor-propelled launchers had placed hundreds of new-design Richesian space mines in orbit. Concealed by individual no-fields, they drifted in the orbital zones where Heighliners traditionally parked.

  Her battle orders had already been issued, and as soon as the giant Guildship appeared, the members of the New Sisterhood went to work. Her daughter Janess would lead one of the primary strike teams, but the Mother Commander intended to be in the fight right beside her. She would never let herself become a mere bureaucrat.

  According to the priestess, the Honored Matres had bribed this Heighliner crew to transport them to Chapterhouse, which directly violated Spacing Guild prohibitions. Another example of how the Guild looked sideways whenever it was convenient for them. Was the Navigator even aware of the Obliterators on board the Honored Matre frigate? Even if the Guild wanted to punish the New Sisterhood for withholding melange, Murbella didn't think they were foolish enough to allow Chapterhouse to become a charred ball. This was their only source of spice, their last chance.

  Murbella decided that one bribe deserved another, if only to show the Guild that Honored Matres could never hope to compete financially against the Sisterhood. With her soostones, her spice stockpiles, and the sandworms in the desert belt, Murbella could outbid anyone--and garnish it with a significant threat.

  Before the great ship's cargo doors could open to disgorge any CHOAM vessels or hidden Honored Matre ships, Murbella transmitted an insistent call. She wore an implacable expression. "Attention, Guild Heighliner. Your sensors will show that I have just placed a swarm of Richesian mines around your vessel." She gave a signal, and the no-fields around the mines dropped aw
ay. Hundreds of the glittering, mobile explosives winked into view like diamond chips in space. "If you open your doors or release any ships, I will direct those mines to strike your hull and turn you into space dust."

  The Navigator attempted to protest. Guild Administrators came on the commline, crying foul. But Murbella did not reply. She calmly transmitted copies of the Ridulian crystal sheets Iriel had brought and allowed two minutes of silence for them to absorb the information.

  Then she said, "As you can see, we are perfectly justified in destroying your Heighliner, both to prevent the release of the Obliterators, and to impose a fitting punishment on the Guild. Our Richesian explosives could do the job without my having to risk the life of a single Sister."

  "I assure you, Mother Commander, we have no knowledge of such heinous weapons aboard--"

  "Even the most amateur Truthsayer could detect your lies, Guildsman." She cut off his protests, gave him a moment to regroup and become rational again, then continued in a more reasonable tone. "Another alternative--one which I prefer, because it would not destroy all those innocent passengers you carry--is for you to welcome us aboard and let us capture the Honored Matres and their Obliterators. In fact"--she ran a finger along her lips--"I will even be generous. Provided you cooperate without further delay, and don't insult our intelligence by protesting your innocence, we will grant you two full measures of spice--after our mission is successfully completed."

  The Navigator hesitated for several moments, then accepted. "We will identify which small frigates in the hold came from Gammu. Presumably they carry Honored Matres and Obliterators. You will need to deal with those women yourselves."

  Murbella flashed a predatory smile. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

  WEARY AND SORE but exhilarated, the Mother Commander stood proudly beside her daughter in the blood-spattered hold of one of the unmarked Honored Matre ships. Eleven of the whores lay on the deck, their leotards torn, their bodies snapped. Murbella had not expected any of the Honored Matres to let themselves be captured alive. Six of her own Sisters had also died in the hand-to-hand combat.

  One of the slain Bene Gesserits was, sadly, the brave priestess Iriel, who had begged to join in the fight despite her weariness. Driven by a fire of vengeance, she had killed two of the whores herself before a thrown knife caught her between the shoulder blades. As Iriel died, Murbella had Shared with her, in order to learn all that the woman knew about Gammu and the infestation of the whores there.

  The threat was worse than Murbella had imagined. She would have to deal with it immediately.

  Teams of male workers used suspensor pallets to remove the ominous-looking spiked Obliterators, two from the hatches below each of the Honored Matre frigates. The angry rebels had no compunctions about destroying a whole planet and its inhabitants, just to decapitate the New Sisterhood. They would have to be punished.

  "We need to study these weapons," Murbella said, excited by the prospect of duplicating them. "We must reproduce the technology. We will need thousands of them once the Enemy arrives."

  Janess looked grimly at the dead body of the priestess on the floor and at the slaughtered whores strewn like dolls in the ship's corridors. Simmering anger colored her cheeks. "Perhaps we should use one of the Obliterators against Gammu and wipe out those women once and for all."

  Murbella smiled with anticipation. "Oh, we will indeed move on Gammu next, but it will be a much more personal attack."

  We never see the jaws of the hunter closing around us until the fangs draw blood.

  --DUNCAN IDAHO,

  A Thousand Lives

  D

  uncan tapped the touchpads of the instrument console to alter course slightly as the Ithaca moved through empty space. Without charts or records, he had no way of knowing if any humans had gone this far in the Scattering. It made no difference. For fourteen years they had been flying blind, going nowhere. To reduce the risk of a navigational disaster, Duncan only rarely activated the Holtzman engines.

  At least he had kept them safe. So far. Some of the passengers--especially Garimi and her faction, as well as the Rabbi's people--were growing increasingly restless. By now, dozens of children had been born, and were being raised by Bene Gesserit proctors in isolated sections of the Ithaca. They all wanted a home.

  "We can't keep running forever!" Garimi had said during one of their recent all-hands meetings.

  Yes we can. We may have to. The giant self-contained ship needed refueling only once or twice a century, since it was able to gather most of what it needed from the rarified sea of molecules scattered throughout space.

  The no-ship had been cruising for years without making another leap through foldspace. Duncan had taken them farther than the imaginations of those who charted space. Not only had he eluded the Enemy, he had slipped away from the Oracle of Time, never knowing whom to trust.

  In all that time, he had seen no sign of the glittering net, but it made him uneasy to remain in one area for long. Why do the old man and woman want us so badly? Is it me they're after? Is it the ship? Or is it someone else aboard?

  As Duncan waited, letting his thoughts drift along with the vessel itself, he felt the overlappings of his own lifetimes, so many lifetimes. The mergings of flesh and consciousness, the flow of experience and imagination, the great teachings and the epic events he had experienced. He sifted through countless lifetimes, all the way back to his original boyhood on Giedi Prime under Harkonnen tyranny, and later on Caladan as the loyal weapons master of House Atreides. He had given his first life to save Paul Atreides and Lady Jessica. Then the Tleilaxu had restored him as a ghola called Hayt, and afterward many Duncan Idaho incarnations had served the capricious God Emperor. So much pain, so much exhilaration.

  He, Duncan Idaho, had been present at many critical moments in human history, from the fall of the Old Empire and the rise of Muad'Dib, through the long rule and death of the God Emperor . . . and beyond. Through it all, history had been distilling events, processing and sifting them through the Duncans, renewing them.

  Long ago, he had loved the beautiful, dark-haired Alia, even with all her strangeness. Centuries later, he had loved Siona deeply, though it was obvious the God Emperor had thrown them together intentionally. In all of his ghola lifetimes he had loved many beautiful, exotic women.

  Why, then, was Murbella so difficult to get over? He could not break the debilitating bond she had with him.

  Duncan had slept little in the past week because whenever he went to his cot and clasped his pillow, he could only think of Murbella, sensing the emptiness where her body wasn't. So many years--why wouldn't the ache and addictive longing fade?

  Restless and wanting to put even more distance between himself and Murbella's siren call, he erased the current navigation coordinates, used his bold--or reckless--intuition, and made a random foldspace jump.

  When they arrived at a new and uncharted portion of space, Duncan let his mind drift in a fugue state, deeper than a Mentat's trance. Though he did not admit it to himself, he was looking for any hint of Murbella's presence, though she could not possibly be here.

  Obsession.

  Duncan could not concentrate, and his woolgathering left them vulnerable to the gossamer yet deadly net that began to coalesce unnoticed around the no-ship.

  TEG ARRIVED ON the navigation bridge, saw Duncan at the controls, and noted that the other man seemed consumed by his thoughts, as he often was, especially of late.

  His glance went to the control modules, the viewscreen, the path the no-ship had taken along its projected course. Teg studied the patterns on the console, then the patterns in the emptiness. Even without the no-ship's sensors and viewscreens, he could grasp the sheer volume of empty space around them. A new void, a different starless region from where they had been.

  Duncan had made a reckless jump through foldspace. But the nature of randomness was such that any new location was just as likely to be closer to the Enemy than farther away.


  Something troubled him, something he could not ignore. His Atreides-based abilities allowed him to focus on those anomalies and discern what was not there. Duncan wasn't the only one who could see strange things.

  "Where are we?"

  Duncan answered with a distant riddle. "Who knows where we are?" He snapped out of his preoccupied trance, then gasped. "Miles! The net--it's closing in, tightening like a noose!"

  Duncan had thrown the ship not into a safe wasteland, but directly into the vicinity of the Enemy. Like hungry spiders reacting to unexpected vibrations in their web, the old man and woman were closing in.

  Already on edge from his premonition, Teg reacted with a burst of speed, without thinking. His body went into overdrive, his reflexes burning bright, his actions accelerating to indefinable speeds. Moving with a metabolism no human body was meant to withstand, he seized command of the navigation controls. His hands worked in a blur. His mind flashed from system to system, reactivating the Holtzman engines in the middle of their recharge. Immeasurably swift and alert, Teg became part of the ship--and guided them into a sudden and alarming foldspace jump.

  He could feel the gossamer, sentient strands make one last futile grasp, but Teg tore the ship free, damaging the net as he lurched the huge vessel across a wrinkle in space, jumping to another place, and then another, wrenching the craft from the searchers' trap. Behind him he sensed pain, severe damage to the net and its casters, and then outrage at losing their prey again.

  Teg streaked across the bridge, making adjustments, sending commands, moving so swiftly that no one--not even Duncan--would know he was covering for the other man's mistake. Finally, he slowed back to real time, exhausted, drained, and famished.

  Astonished by what Teg had done in less than a second, Duncan shook his head to clear away the tar-pit memories of Murbella. "What did you just do, Miles?"

  Slumped at a secondary console, the Bashar gave Duncan a mysterious smile. "Only what was necessary. We're out of danger."

  A mere player should never assume he can influence the rules of a game.