Heretics of Dune

  Two richly robed priests, their garments all gold and white with purple trim, emerged and ran toward her across the sand. They knelt in front of Sheeana so close she could smell their perspiration and the musky melange incense which permeated their clothing. They were young but much like all the priests she could remember: soft of features, uncalloused hands, careless of their moisture losses. Neither of them wore a stillsuit under those robes.

  The one on her left, his eyes on a level with Sheeana's, spoke.

  "Child of Shai-hulud, we saw your Father bring you from His lands."

  The words made no sense to Sheeana. Priests were men to be feared. Her parents and all the adults she had ever known had impressed this upon her by words and actions. Priests possessed ornithopters. Priests fed you to Shaitan for the slightest infraction or for no infraction at all, for only priestly whims. Her people knew many instances.

  Sheeana backed away from the kneeling men and cast her glance around. Where could she run?

  The one who had spoken raised an imploring hand. "Stay with us."

  "You're bad!" Sheeana's voice cracked with emotion.

  Both priests fell prostrate on the sand.

  Far away on the city's towers, sunlight flashed off lenses. Sheeana saw them. She knew about such flashings. Priests were always watching you in the cities. When you saw the lenses flash that was the signal to be inconspicuous, to "be good."

  Sheeana clasped her hands in front of her to still their trembling. She glanced left and right and then at the prostrate priests. Something was wrong here.

  Heads on the sand, the two priests shuddered with fear and waited. Neither spoke.

  Sheeana did not know how to respond. The crush of her immediate experiences could not be absorbed by an eight-year-old mind. She knew that her parents and all of her neighbors had been taken by Shaitan. Her own eyes had witnessed this. And Shaitan had brought her here, refusing to take her into his awful fires. She had been spared.

  This was a word she understood. Spared. It had been explained to her when she learned the dancing song.

  "Shai-hulud spare us!

  "Take Shaitan away... "

  Slowly, not wanting to arouse the prostrate priests, Sheeana began the shuffling, unrhythmic movements of the dance. As the remembered music grew within her, she unclasped her hands and swung her arms wide. Her feet lifted high in the stately movements. Her body turned, slowly at first and then more swiftly as the dance ecstasy increased. Her long brown hair whipped around her face.

  The two priests dared to lift their heads. The strange child was performing The Dance! They recognized the movements: The Dance of Propitiation. She asked Shai-hulud to forgive his people. She asked God to forgive them!

  They turned their heads to look at each other and, together, rocked back onto their knees. There, they began clapping in the time-honored effort to distract the dancer. Their hands clapped rhythmically as they chanted the ancient words:

  "Our fathers ate manna in the desert,

  "In the burning places where whirlwinds came!"

  The priests excluded from their attention all except the child. She was a slender thing, they saw, with stringy muscles, thin arms and legs. Her robe and stillsuit were worn and patched like those of the poorest. Her cheekbones had high planes that drew shadows across her olive skin. Brown eyes, they noted. Reddish sun streaks drew their lines in her hair. There was a water-spare sharpness about her features--the narrow nose and chin, the wide forehead, the wide thin mouth, the long neck. She looked like the Fremen portraits in the holy of holies at Dar-es-Balat. Of course! The child of Shai-hulud would look thus.

  She danced well, too. Not the slightest quickly repeatable rhythm entered her movements. There was rhythm but it was an admirably long beat, at least a hundred steps apart. She kept it up while the sun lifted higher and higher. It was almost noon before she fell exhausted to the sand.

  The priests stood and looked out into the desert where Shai-hulud had gone. The stampings of the dance had not summoned Him back. They were forgiven.

  That was how Sheeana's new life began.

  Loudly in their own quarters and for many days, the senior priests engaged in arguments about her. At last, they brought their disputations and reports to the High Priest, Hedley Tuek. They met in the afternoon within the Hall of Small Convocations, Tuek and six priestly councillors. Murals of Leto II, a human face on the great wormshape, looked down upon them with benevolence.

  Tuek seated himself on a stone bench that had been recovered from Windgap Sietch. Muad'dib himself was reputed to have sat on this bench. One of the legs still bore the carvings of an Atreides hawk.

  His councillors took lesser modern benches facing him.

  The High Priest was an imposing figure; silky gray hair combed smoothly to his shoulders. It was a suitable frame for the square face with its wide, thick mouth and heavy chin. Tuek's eyes retained their original clear whites surrounding dark blue pupils. Bushy, untrimmed gray eyebrows shaded his eyes.

  The councillors were a motley lot. Scions of old priestly families, each carried in his heart the belief that matters would move better if he were sitting on Tuek's bench.

  The scrawny, pinch-faced Stiros put himself forward as opposition spokesman: "She is nothing but a poor desert waif and she rode Shai-hulud. That is forbidden and the punishment is mandatory."

  Others spoke up immediately. "No! No, Stiros. You have it wrong! She did not stand on Shai-hulud's back as the Fremen did. She had no maker hooks or... "

  Stiros tried to shout them down.

  It was deadlocked, Tuek saw: three and three with Umphrud, a fat hedonist, as advocate for "cautious acceptance."

  "She had no way to guide Shai-hulud's course," Umphrud argued. "We all saw how she came down to the sand unafraid and talked to Him."

  Yes, they all had seen that, either at the moment or in the holophoto that a thoughtful observer had recorded. Desert waif or not, she had confronted Shai-hulud and conversed with Him. And Shai-hulud had not engulfed her. No, indeed. The Worm-of-God had drawn back at the child's command and had returned to the desert.

  "We will test her," Tuek said.

  Early the following morning, an ornithopter flown by the two priests who had brought her from the desert conveyed Sheeana far out away from the sight of Keen's populace. The priests took her down to a dune top and planted a meticulous copy of a Fremen thumper in the sand. When the thumper's catch was released, a heavy beating trembled through the desert--the ancient summons to Shai-hulud. The priests fled to their 'thopter and waited high overhead while a terrified Sheeana, her worst fears realized, stood alone some twenty meters from the thumper.

  Two worms came. They were not the largest the priests had ever seen, no more than thirty meters long. One of them scooped up the thumper and silenced it. Together, they rounded in parallel tracks and stopped side by side not six meters from Sheeana.

  She stood submissive, fists clenched at her sides. This was what priests did. They fed you to Shaitan.

  In their hovering 'thopter, the two priests watched with fascination. Their lenses transmitted the scene to equally fascinated observers in the High Priest's quarters at Keen. All of them had seen similar events before. It was a standard punishment, a handy way to remove obstructionists from the populace or priesthood, or to pave the way for acquisition of a new concubine. Never before, though, had they seen a lone child as victim. And such a child!

  The Worms-of-God crept forward slowly after their first stop. They became motionless once more when only about three meters from Sheeana.

  Resigned to her fate, Sheeana did not run. Soon, she thought, she would be with her parents and friends. As the worms remained motionless, anger replaced her terror. The bad priests had left her here! She could hear their 'thopter overhead. The hot spice smell from the worms filled the air around her. Abruptly, she raised her right hand and pointed up at the 'thopter.

  "Go ahead and eat me! That's what they want!"

&nbs
p; The priests overhead could not hear her words but the gesture was visible and they could see that she was talking to the two Worms-of-God. The finger pointing up at them did not bode well.

  The worms did not move.

  Sheeana lowered her hand. "You killed my mother and father and all my friends!" she accused. She took a step forward and shook a fist at them.

  The worms retreated, keeping their distance.

  "If you don't want me, go back where you came from!" She waved them away toward the desert.

  Obediently, they backed farther and turned in unison.

  The priests in the 'thopter tracked them until they slipped beneath the sand more than a kilometer away. Only then did the priests return, fear and trepidation in them. They plucked the child of Shai-hulud from the sand and returned her to Keen.

  The Bene Gesserit embassy at Keen had a full report by nightfall. Word was on its way to the Chapter House by the following morning.

  It had happened at last!

  The trouble with some kinds of warfare (and be certain the Tyrant knew this, because it is implicit in his lesson) is that they destroy all moral decency in susceptible types. Warfare of these kinds will dump the destroyed survivors back into an innocent population that is incapable of even imagining what such returned soldiers might do.

  --Teachings of the Golden Path, Bene Gesserit Archives

  One of Miles Teg's early memories was of sitting at dinner with his parents and his younger brother, Sabine. Teg had been only seven at the time, but the events lay indelibly in his memory: the dining room on Lernaeus colorful with freshly cut flowers, the low light of the yellow sun diffused by antique shades. Bright blue dinnerware and glistening silver graced the table. Acolyte servants stood ready at hand, because his mother might be permanently detached on special duty but her function as a Bene Gesserit teacher was not to be wasted.

  Janet Roxbrough-Teg, a large-boned woman who appeared cast for the part of grande dame, looked down her nose from one end of the table, watching that the dinner service not be impaired by the slightest misplacement. Loschy Teg, Miles' father, always observed this with a faint air of amusement. He was a thin man with high forehead, a face so narrow his dark eyes appeared to bulge at the sides. His black hair was a perfect counterpoint for his wife's fairness.

  Above the subdued sounds at the table and the rich smell of spiced edu soup, his mother instructed his father on how to deal with an importunate Free Trader. When she said "Tleilaxu," she had Miles' entire attention. His education had just recently touched on the Bene Tleilax.

  Even Sabine, who succumbed many years later to a poisoner on Romo, listened with as much of his four-year-old awareness as he could muster. Sabine hero-worshiped his brother. Anything that caught the attention of Miles was of interest to Sabine. Both boys listened silently.

  "The man is fronting for the Tleilaxu," Lady Janet said. "I can hear it in his voice."

  "I do not doubt your ability to detect such things, my dear," Loschy Teg said. "But what am I to do? He has the proper tokens of credit and he wishes to buy the--"

  "The order for the rice is unimportant at the moment. Never assume that what a Face Dancer appears to seek is actually what it seeks."

  "I'm sure he's not a Face Dancer. He--"

  "Loschy! I know you have learned this well at my instruction and can detect a Face Dancer. I agree that the Free Trader is not one of them. The Face Dancers remain on his ship. They know I am here."

  "They know they could not fool you. Yes, but--"

  "Tleilaxu strategy is always woven within a web of strategies, any one of which may be the real strategy. They learned that from us."

  "My dear, if we are dealing with Tleilaxu, and I do not question your judgment, then it immediately becomes a question of melange."

  Lady Janet nodded her head gently. Indeed, even Miles knew about the Tleilaxu connection with the spice. It was one of the things that fascinated him about the Tleilaxu. For every milligram of melange produced on Rakis, the Bene Tleilax tanks produced long tons. Use of melange had grown to fit the new supply and even the Spacing Guild bent its knee before this power.

  "But the rice ... " Loschy Teg ventured.

  "My dear husband, the Bene Tleilax have no need of that much pongi rice in our sector. They require it for trade. We must find out who really needs the rice."

  "You want me to delay," he said.

  "Precisely. You are superb at what we now require. Don't give that Free Trader the chance to say yes or no. Someone trained by the Face Dancers will appreciate such subtlety."

  "We lure the Face Dancers out of the ship while you initiate inquiries elsewhere."

  Lady Janet smiled. "You are lovely when you leap ahead of me that way."

  A look of understanding passed between them.

  "He cannot go to another supplier in this sector," Loschy Teg said.

  "He will wish to avoid a go, no-go confrontation," Lady Janet said, patting the table. "Delay, delay, and more delay. You must draw the Face Dancers out of the ship."

  "They will realize, of course."

  "Yes, my dear, and it is dangerous. You must always meet on your own ground and with our own guards nearby."

  Miles Teg recalled that his father had, indeed, drawn the Face Dancers out of their ship. His mother had taken Miles to the viewer where he watched the copper-walled room in which his father drove the bargain that won CHOAM's highest commendation and a rich bonus.

  The first Face Dancers Miles Teg ever saw: Two small men as alike as twins. Almost chinless round faces, pug noses, tiny mouths, black button eyes, and short-cropped white hair that stood up from their heads like the bristles on a brush. The two were dressed as the Free Trader had been--black tunics and trousers.

  "Illusion, Miles," his mother said. "Illusion is their way. The fashioning of illusion to achieve real goals, that is how the Tleilaxu work."

  "Like the magician at the Winter Show?" Miles asked, his gaze intent on the viewer and its toy-figure scene.

  "Quite similar," his mother agreed. She too watched the viewer as she spoke but one arm went protectively around her son's shoulders.

  "You are looking at evil, Miles. Study it carefully. The faces you see can be changed in an instant. They can grow taller, appear heavier. They could mimic your father so that only I would recognize the substitution."

  Miles Teg's mouth formed a soundless "O." He stared at the viewer, listening to his father explain that the price of CHOAM's pongi rice once more had gone up alarmingly.

  "And the most terrible thing of all," his mother said. "Some of the newer Face Dancers can, by touching the flesh of a victim, absorb some of the victim's memories."

  "They read minds?" Miles looked up at his mother.

  "Not exactly. We think they take a print of the memories, almost a holophoto process. They do not yet know that we are aware of this."

  Miles understood. He was not to speak of this to anyone, not even to his father or his mother. She had taught him the Bene Gesserit way of secrecy. He watched the figures in the screen with care.

  At his father's words, the Face Dancers betrayed no emotion, but their eyes appeared to glitter more brightly.

  "How did they get so evil?" Miles asked.

  "They are communal beings, bred not to identify with any shape or face. The appearance they present now is for my benefit. They know I am watching. They have relaxed into their natural communal shape. Mark it closely."

  Miles tipped his head to one side and studied the Face Dancers. They looked so bland and ineffectual.

  "They have no sense of self," his mother said. "They have only the instinct to preserve their own lives unless ordered to die for their masters."

  "Would they do that?"

  "They have done it many times."

  "Who are their masters?"

  "Men who seldom leave the planets of the Bene Tleilax."

  "Do they have children?"

  "Not Face Dancers. They are mules, sterile. But their
masters can breed. We have taken a few of them but the offspring are strange. Few female births and even then we cannot probe their Other Memories."

  Miles frowned. He knew his mother was a Bene Gesserit. He knew the Reverend Mothers carried a marvelous reservoir of Other Memories going back through all the millennia of the Sisterhood. He even knew something of the Bene Gesserit breeding design. Reverend Mothers chose particular men and had children by those men.

  "What are the Tleilaxu women like?" Miles asked.

  It was a perceptive question that sent a surge of pride through the Lady Janet. Yes, it was almost a certainty that she had a potential Mentat here. The breeding mistresses had been right about the gene potential of Loschy Teg.

  "No one outside of their planets has ever reported seeing a Tleilaxu female," the Lady Janet said.

  "Do they exist or is it just the tanks?"

  "They exist."

  "Are any of the Face Dancers women?"

  "At their own choice, they can be male or female. Observe them carefully. They know what your father is doing and it angers them."

  "Will they try to hurt my father?"

  "They don't dare. We have taken precautions and they know it. See how the one on the left works his jaws. That is one of their anger signs."

  "You said they were com ... communal beings."

  "Like hive insects, Miles. They have no self-image. Without a sense of self, they go beyond amorality. Nothing they say or do can be trusted."

  Miles shuddered.

  "We have never been able to detect an ethical code in them," the Lady Janet said. "They are flesh made into automata. Without self, they have nothing to esteem or even doubt. They are bred only to obey their masters."

  "And they were told to come here and buy the rice."

  "Exactly. They were told to get it and there's no other place in this sector where they can do that."

  "They must buy it from father?"

  "He's their only source. At this very moment, son, they are paying in melange. You see?"

  Miles saw the orange-brown spice markers change hands, a tall stack of them, which one of the Face Dancers removed from a case on the floor.

  "The price is far, far higher than they ever anticipated," the Lady Janet said. "This will be an easy trail to follow."