Jessica did not want that at all. Garimi insists that I caused it.
She felt something inside her head and resisted, but Garimi was stronger, forcing the Sharing upon her, pouring memories, unleashing them. Hammers pounded Jessica’s skull from the inside, strong enough to crack through bone and break out. She heard a snapping sound in the blackness, and wondered if Garimi had won. . . .
SHAKEN, JESSICA—THE real Jessica, bound concubine to Duke Leto Atreides, Reverend Mother of the Bene Gesserit—looked around herself with a new wonder she had never imagined possible. Though she saw only the walls of the no-ship, she recalled how good her life had been with the Duke and with their son Paul. She remembered the shell-blue sky of Caladan, the spectacular sunrises on Arrakis.
In the end, she had beaten Garimi. Now she marched out of the angry woman’s quarters, swaying and saturated with the knowledge. That flood of memories was a mixed blessing and a new burden, for she was without her beloved Duke Leto.
The sudden emptiness made her feel as if she were plunging into an endless pit. Leto, my Leto! Why couldn’t the Sisters have brought you back at the same time, like Paul and Chani? And damn you, Yueh, for taking him from me twice!
She felt profoundly alone, her heart drained and her mind left with mere memories and knowledge. Jessica was determined to find a way to make herself useful to her Sisters once more.
Returning to her quarters, she found Alia waiting for her. Possessing a sharp intelligence far beyond her years, the girl looked her over calmly and said, “Mother, I told Dr. Yueh you would have your memories back. Now he’s even more afraid of you. You could kill him with a look. I chased him and kicked him for you.”
Jessica fought back her automatic hatred of Yueh. The old Yueh. “You mustn’t do that. Especially not now.” The Traitor had been right to fear the return of her memories, even though she had already known of his crimes and forgiven him. But that was with my head, not with my heart. As she stood there, Jessica’s restored memories and emotions drove the dagger in deeper.
With a rush of emotion she found herself unable to keep from reaching out and hugging Alia fiercely. Then she looked upon her daughter for the very first time. “I am your mother again.”
A test must be defined before it can be useful. What are the parameters? What is the accuracy? Too often a test does nothing more than analyze the tester herself.
—The Bene Gesserit Acolytes’ Handbook
The death of the Hawat Face Dancer couldn’t be kept secret for long. Everyone was accounted for and locked away while Sheeana and her cadre of tested individuals performed a full count, isolated and approved security teams, and then guided all of the ship’s inhabitants into the main meeting hall. That giant chamber could easily house hundreds of people for days, if need be, and if enough food was brought in. Meanwhile, Garimi remained up on the navigation deck, monitoring the Ithaca by herself.
Since all hands—at least the known ones—were sealed in the meeting hall, any hidden traitors could very well be trapped inside. In the next few days, over the course of meticulous testing, any remaining Face Dancers among them would be rooted out.
At first, the younger children born during the journey seemed to think it was a game, but they soon grew restless; the people became uncomfortable and suspicious, wondering why only a handful of individuals were allowed to come and go on mysterious assignments. And why was the horrid little Tleilaxu one of the trusted ones? Many of those aboard still viewed Scytale with open scorn, but he was accustomed to such treatment. The Tleilaxu race had always been despised and distrusted. Now who was to blame?
Working frantically over the past day, he and the Suk doctors had assembled enough analytical kits to perform a genetic comparison on every untested individual. As a backup plan, he had also created enough of his Face Dancer–specific toxic gas to fill numerous canisters, though Sheeana was not ready to approve such a hazardous experiment—not yet. They didn’t trust him enough and kept the gas under their strict control.
He didn’t trust them entirely, either. After all, he was a Tleilaxu Master, perhaps the last one in existence. Secretly, he put together a more startling, fail-safe test, knowing full well what he was doing. He told no one of it.
When all was ready, Scytale sat in a front row for what he expected to be an important process of revelation. He watched the uneasy Bene Gesserits, Suk doctors, archivists, and proctors. Out in the audience, Teg sat next to the Rabbi and two Bene Gesserit Sisters. The ghola children were a few rows away, each of them already proven to be untainted. Duncan Idaho waited by one of the sealed doors, and male Bene Gesserits guarded the other exit points.
While the gathered passengers waited, Sheeana spoke from the front of the meeting chamber, her words clear and uncompromising, with an edge of Voice. “We have discovered a Face Dancer among us, and we believe there are more in this room.”
A moment of shocked silence extended uneasily as she attempted to make eye contact with every individual. Scytale was not surprised that no one stepped forward. The old Rabbi looked simultaneously indignant and lost without the rest of his people. From the seat next to the old man, Teg told him to be patient. The Rabbi glared but did not argue.
“We have created a foolproof test.” Sheeana sounded weary even though her voice boomed. “It will be tedious and time-consuming. But you will all submit to it.”
“I hope none of you has anything better to do.” Duncan crossed his arms over his chest and flashed a grim smile. “The doors will remain guarded until this process is complete.”
Scytale and the Suk doctors came forward to the stage, carrying kits, syringes, and chemical swabs. “As each one of you is cleared, our ranks of reliable allies will grow. No Face Dancer can elude this scrutiny.”
“Who was this Face Dancer you caught?” one of the Sisters asked, an undertone of anxiety in her voice. “And why do you assume there are others among us? What is your evidence?” When Sheeana explained how the worms had killed Thufir Hawat, stunned murmurs rippled through the audience.
The Bashar called from his seat, with an edge of guilt and revulsion in his tone. “We know that the false Thufir could not have been responsible for all the sabotage incidents we have on record. He was with me, in person, when several of the known incidents occurred.”
“How do I know you’re not all Face Dancers?” The Rabbi rose to his feet and glared at Sheeana, the Suk doctors, and especially Scytale. “Your behavior has never been comprehensible to me.” Teg tugged him back down.
Sheeana ignored the old man’s question and pointed to the front row. “I will take the first subject now.”
Two female Suk doctors moved forward with their kits, and Sheeana said, “Make yourselves comfortable. This will take a while.”
For Scytale, though, this process was primarily a diversion—and even the Bene Gesserits didn’t know it. Feeling trapped, any Face Dancer in the audience would be trying to find a way to escape detection. Therefore, the Tleilaxu Master had to act precipitously, before any hidden shape-shifters could make a move. Watching the large audience closely, he fingered the small device he carried.
While the slow analytical procedure was certainly reliable, Scytale had fashioned his secret plan based on what he knew of the old Face Dancers created by the original Tleilaxu Masters. He was betting that the new shape-shifters from the Scattering were similar, at least in their fundamental responses. They must have emerged from the same basic blueprint. If so, he might know how to expose them, a weak and secondary test . . . but its very unexpectedness might work in his favor.
In the center of the meeting chamber, the Suk doctors performed their first test on a submissive Sister. She extended her hand, waiting for a drop of blood to be drawn.
Without warning, Scytale activated his high-pitched whistle emitter. A shrill tone warbled up and down, intense but faint, above the range of most human hearing. The original Face Dancers had once communicated with the Tleilaxu in a coded whistling langu
age, a secret set of programming notes burned into their neurological structures. Scytale believed the irresistible noise would make any Face Dancer lose his disguise, at least temporarily.
Suddenly, out in the tiers of seats, the old Rabbi flickered, and his body convulsed. His leathery face shifted and smoothed behind his beard. He let out a cry of surprised outrage and lunged to his feet. Now the old man was unexpectedly supple, wiry, and vicious. His face was flat with sunken eyes and a pug nose, like a bare skull made of half-melted wax.
“Face Dancer!” someone shouted.
The Rabbi became a whirlwind and threw himself against the Bene Gesserits.
Never underestimate your enemy—or your allies.
—MILES TEG,
Memoirs of an Old Commander
Due to his constant complaints, negative attitude, and frail appearance, everyone aboard had dismissed or misjudged the old Rabbi. As had Miles Teg.
In moves as swift and deadly as a lasbeam, the Face Dancer slammed the Bashar with a blow that would have shattered his skull, if it had struck squarely. Just in time, Teg recoiled with a flash of inhuman speed. It was enough to save his life, but even so, the attack stunned him.
Abruptly, the Rabbi killed two Sisters on the other side of him, then moved in a direct, murderous line toward the nearest exit, clearing the way with a flurry of deadly blows. From hidden pockets in his dark, conservative clothes, the Face Dancer withdrew a small throwing dagger for each hand. The blades were no longer than his thumbs, but he hurled them with precision. The sharp tips, undoubtedly poisoned, pierced the throats of two male Bene Gesserits who guarded the door. With barely a sound, the Rabbi shoved their dying bodies out of the way and plunged out into the corridor.
Scytale urgently scanned the crowd to make certain that this one escaping enemy did not divert attention from any other Face Dancers hidden among those gathered in the chamber. The Tleilaxu saw no other sudden shiftings.
Sheeana shouted for others to pursue the Rabbi. “We know who he is, but he can change his shape. Now we have to track him down.”
One of the Sisters tried to use the ship’s intercom to warn Garimi, but got no response. “It’s been damaged.”
“Fix it.” Sheeana realized that the Rabbi had had sufficient time during their quarantine in this large chamber to subtly perform more sabotage.
Dr. Yueh rushed to a groaning Teg and bent to check the severity of his injury; beside him, the two fallen Sisters were obviously dead. The look on the ghola doctor’s face was of dismay rather than vindication. As he examined Teg, he murmured, as if trying to make sense of the situation. “The Rabbi gave me the sample of the ghola baby’s cells. He must have taken Piter de Vries’s cells from storage and tricked me. He knew what I would do, how I would react.”
Duncan glanced from Yueh and Teg to Sheeana. “The connection is obvious to me now. Thufir Hawat and the Rabbi. Why didn’t I see it?”
Sheeana caught her breath as she suddenly realized the same thing. “Both went down to the planet of the Handlers!”
Duncan nodded. “Hawat and the Rabbi were alone together during the hunt of the Honored Matres. You all had to fight your way back to the lighter after you discovered that the Handlers were Face Dancers.”
“Of course.” Sheeana’s face was grave. “Those two came running in from the forest at the last moment. It seems they didn’t escape the Handlers after all.”
“So the original Rabbi and Thufir—” Duncan began.
“Both dead long ago, replaced by Face Dancers on the planet, and their bodies discarded during the hunt.”
Finally achieving Mentat focus, Duncan jumped to the next obvious conclusion. “Then it’s been more than five years since the substitutions. Five years! In all that time, the Hawat and Rabbi duplicates must have been waiting for their opportunity, killing gholas and axlotl tanks, sabotaging our life-support systems, forcing us to stop at Qelso, where we were vulnerable to discovery by our pursuers. Did the Enemy pick up our trail there? So far, we’ve managed to elude the net, but now that the Face Dancers have been exposed—”
Sheeana paled. “And what about the stolen mines? What did the Rabbi do with the explosive mines? He can set them off at any time, if he gets to them.”
Starting to recover but clearly woozy, Teg was already moving toward the door. “That Face Dancer knows he has to seize the no-ship before we can kill him. He will head for the navigation bridge.”
“Garimi is there,” Sheeana said. “Let’s hope she can stop him.”
BY THE TIME the Face Dancer reached the navigation bridge, he had resumed his disguise as the Rabbi. He contained all the memories, experiences, and personality details of the old man, and much more. The frail and frightened-looking Rabbi burst into the chamber, startling Garimi. “What are you doing up here?” she asked.
His eyes were wide and panicked as if he thought she could offer him protection. His spectacles had fallen off. “Face Dancer!” he panted, staggering toward her. “He’s killing Bene Gesserits!”
Garimi spun toward the intercom panel to contact Sheeana—and the Rabbi struck. His deadly blow came close to her neck, but she sensed the movement and turned at the last possible moment. The side of his fist drove down on her shoulder instead. She slid from her chair, and the Rabbi dove at her again.
Garimi launched a kick up at him from the deck, aiming for one of the old man’s knobby and uncertain knees, but he sprang away like a coiled panther. The Rabbi let out a feral yowl as Garimi leapt to her feet again and assumed a defensive stance. Her lower lip curled. “Clever, Rabbi. Even now that I know what you are, I can hardly smell any Face Dancer stink on you.”
With a yank and a twist, the Rabbi uprooted an anchored chair and swung it at her. She ducked and reached up to grab the chair as it whistled over her head. Tearing it out of his hands, her pull was enough to knock him to the floor.
When the Rabbi rose to his feet again, he shifted his body to mimic the form of a ferocious Futar. His body bulged with muscles, his teeth became sharp and elongated, and his claws slashed the air. Garimi stumbled back to get out of his killing reach and hammered her hand down on the intercom. “Sisters! Face Dancer on the navigation bridge!”
The Futar lunged, and his sharp, newly grown claws ripped her robes. Using wild and frantic punches intended more to hurt her foe than protect her own life, Garimi shattered his ribs. With an outraged kick that employed the full force of her heel, she smashed his left femur out of its hip socket.
But the Futar rolled as he collapsed, spun in a blur, and before she could feel a moment of victory, he snapped Garimi’s neck. She dropped with barely a sigh. In a purely spiteful gesture, he ripped out her throat before calmly reshaping his body to his blank Face Dancer state. He wiped blood from his face with one sleeve.
More broken than even his own shape-shifter abilities could easily heal, the Rabbi crawled and then limped to the Ithaca’s main controls. He heard running feet in the corridor, so he sealed the navigation bridge, applied emergency locks, and activated a mutiny-defense protocol.
In the years he had maintained his disguise, the Face Dancer had covertly sampled the skin cells of Duncan Idaho, Sheeana, and Bashar Miles Teg. Now his hands flowed into the proper identification prints so that the no-ship’s highly secure controls responded to him. The sealed doors would stand against any intrusion. Eventually the Bene Gesserits would find a way to break in, but by that time he would have completed his mission.
His thinking-machine masters would be alerted. And they would come.
Long ago, he had studied how to operate the Holtzman engines. Estimating the coordinates as best he could, not worried about the lack of a Navigator, the Face Dancer folded space and plunged the Ithaca across the galaxy. The ship tumbled out into a different stellar region, not far from Omnius’s advancing forces. He reconfigured the ship’s comsystems and triggered a locator beacon. His superiors knew the signal.
The thinking machines would respond swiftly. Alre
ady the Face Dancer could sense the hungry, invisible tachyon net coming closer. This time there would be no escape. The no-ship would be completely trapped.
Even small opponents can be deadly.
—Bene Gesserit Analytical Report on the Tleilaxu Problem
By the time Duncan, Sheeana, and Teg reached the navigation bridge, the thick hatches were sealed and locked. Impregnable. The bridge had been designed to remain secure against even an army.
Within moments, other Sisters followed, having first raced to the armory and obtained hand weapons: poisonous needle guns, stunners, and a high-powered lascutter. None of those devices would be sufficient. Rushing forward, the ghola children joined the crowd outside the sealed bridge, among them Paul, Chani, Jessica, Leto II, and young Alia.
Duncan could feel the change when the no-ship lurched through foldspace. “He’s at the controls, moving us!”
“Garimi is dead, then,” Sheeana concluded.
“The Face Dancer is going to take us directly to the Enemy,” Teg said.
“Now is the time to use Scytale’s poison gas to kill the Face Dancer.” Sheeana turned to two of the Sisters standing in the corridor. “Find the Tleilaxu and take him to our guarded cabinet. Get one of the canisters, and we will flood the air on the bridge with the gas.”
“No time for that,” Duncan said. “We’ve got to get in there!”
Alia sounded eerily cool and intelligent as she announced, “I can get inside.”
Duncan looked at the girl. To him, the echo-memories evoked by this child were unsettling. The original Duncan had never known her as a youngster—he had been killed by Sardaukar while Jessica was barely pregnant. But he did have vivid memories of an older Alia as his lover, in another life. But that was all history. Now it might as well be myth or legend.
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