Hunters of Dune

by Brian Herbert

“The difference is only a matter of words, not substance.”

  There are times when manipulating the masses is the only way to form an adequate defense. A fighting force of fanatics can surpass any number of enemy weapons.

  “Paul Muad’Dib proved that. His bloody jihad rocked the galaxy.”

  The other voice chuckled within her. He was by no means the first to use such tactics. He learned much from the past. He learned much from me.

  Sheeana cast her inner vision deep into her mind. “Who are you?”

  I am one who knows this subject better than most. Better than almost anyone. The voice paused. I am Serena Butler. I started the mother of all jihads.

  WITH SERENA BUTLER’S warning fresh in her mind, Sheeana strode through a lower-level corridor. Considering all the factions aboard the Ithaca, each with their own agendas and distortions, Sheeana knew of an innocent, yet impenetrable, source of information: the four captive Futars.

  The creatures had caused no further trouble in the five years since one had escaped from the brig and killed a Sister, a minor proctor. Sheeana had visited them on occasion and talked to all of them, but so far she had been frustrated in her attempts to gain useful information. Nevertheless, Serena Butler had given her a new idea—to use religious awe as a tool.

  Confident that she could protect herself if necessary, she released the one that called himself Hrrm from the large holding chamber where the Futars now lived. Years ago, after she had found Hrrm loose in the lower corridors, she had done everything possible to give him and his companions a larger space. They were predators, feral things, and they needed to run and roam. So, Sheeana had added security systems to an armor-walled storage bay, then instructed several proctors and a few of the Rabbi’s hardworking Jews to construct a simulated environment. The new enclosure did not fool the Futars, but it comforted them. Though not quite freedom, it was far preferable to the stark, separated brig cells.

  During the construction of the special arboretum, Sheeana had done her best to find out what their original home with the Handlers had been like, but the Futars offered few details. Their vocabulary was quite limited. When they said “trees,” she could not get them to describe the size or species. Instead, she resorted to showing them images until they finally grew excited, pointing to a tall, silver-barked aspen.

  Now, after ensuring that the nearby corridors and lift tubes were empty of distractions or threats, Sheeana took the tense beast-man to the observation chamber above the sand-filled hold.

  Hrrm paced warily along beside her. The Honored Matres had abused him so terribly that he was reluctant to extend trust, but in the years since Sheeana had begun visiting the Futars, Hrrm had come to accept her.

  In order to draw information out of them, Sheeana decided she needed to make a stronger impression. Although it went against her usual principles, she decided to portray herself as the Missionaria Protectiva did—as a religious figure who wielded mystical powers. The Futars would see her in a different light. Perhaps if she could impress Hrrm, he would answer the same questions, but in a more useful manner. The Futars were too simple and direct to keep secrets, but they plainly did not comprehend the implications of the things they understood.

  Inside the observation chamber, the Futar stepped closer to the plaz window and looked down toward the sand inside the cargo hold. His pupils dilated and his nostrils flared when he saw movement there, the stirring dunes. One of the large sandworms rose up, its cavernous mouth yawning open as sand streamed from its rings. The blind head of a second worm rose, as if the creatures could sense Sheeana’s presence high above them.

  Hrrm backed away, his lips curling in a half snarl. His breathing sounded like a growl. “Monsters.”

  “Yes. My monsters.” The Futar seemed confused and intimidated. Hrrm could not take his eyes from the worms. “My monsters,” she repeated. “You stay here, and watch.”

  Sheeana slipped away from the chamber and code-locked the door behind her before taking a lift directly down to the cargo hold level. She opened the hatch and stepped out onto the temperature-controlled sands under artificial-yellow sunlight. The sandworms came toward her, shaking the hold with their weight and friction. Unafraid, Sheeana marched out and climbed up the dunes to face them.

  With a burst of sand, the largest worm rose up, followed by a second one beside it, and a third behind her. Sheeana stared up toward the small, dark observation window through which she hoped Hrrm would be watching her with awe.

  She ran toward the nearest worm, and the giant backed away, scuttling through the sand. She ran at another, and it also retreated; then she stood in the middle and began to twirl. She waved her hands at the worms and began swaying back and forth in a lissome dance. The worms followed, weaving and swaying.

  Around her she could smell fresh spice, the bitter yet stimulating aroma that had no other natural origin. The worms circled her like sycophants. Finally Sheeana collapsed onto the sand and let them continue their circling, until all seven of the creatures reared up around her, and she dismissed them.

  Turning tail, the creatures rippled through the contained dunes, leaving her. Sheeana struggled to her feet, brushed herself off, and went to the hatch. By now, Hrrm should be sufficiently impressed.

  When she reentered the observation chamber, the Futar turned to her, then backed away and raised his face, baring his own throat in a gesture of submission. Sheeana felt the warmth of the moment thrill through her. “My monsters,” she said.

  “You stronger than bad women,” Hrrm said.

  “Yes, stronger than Honored Matres.”

  The beast-man seemed to force the words from his throat. “Better than . . . Handlers.”

  Sheeana pounced. “Who are the Handlers?”

  “Handlers.”

  “Where are they? Who are they?”

  “Handlers . . . control Futars.”

  “What are Futars?” She needed to know more, needed to pin him down. There were too many questions about what the whores had brought from the Scattering and how they were all connected to the Outside Enemy.

  “We are Futars,” Hrrm said, sounding indignant. “Not fish people.”

  Ah, an intriguing new nugget of information. “Fish people?”

  “Phibians.” Hrrm growled with disgust. His mouth had trouble forming the word.

  Sheeana frowned, imagining a modification that combined amphibious genes with humans, the same way feline DNA had been used to create Futars. Hybrids. “Did the Handlers create Phibians?”

  “Handlers made Futars. We are Futars.”

  “Did they also create Phibians?”

  Hrrm seemed to grow angry. “Handlers made Futars. Kill Honored Matres.”

  Sheeana fell silent, processing the information. The chromosomal tinkering that had created Futars might be similar to what was used to breed aquatic-dwelling “Phibians.” While the Handlers had used those techniques to breed creatures who would target Honored Matres, someone else had made Phibians. To what purpose?

  She wondered if Lost Tleilaxu from the Scattering had sold their skills to the highest bidder. If the Futars hated Phibians, then were the “fish people” somehow allied with the Honored Matres? Or was Sheeana simply reading too much into the crude utterances of the beast-man?

  “Who are the Handlers?” she said again.

  “You better,” Hrrm answered. It was all the response she could get. Though he looked at her in a different way, Sheeana had achieved no insights or vital information. Just clues, without the necessary context.

  She took him back to his holding cell and turned him loose among the other Futars. She didn’t know how well they communicated with one another, but she was certain Hrrm would share what he had learned. He would tell his fellows about the woman who controlled the worms.

  The best method of attack is to make a quick kill. Always be ready to strike your opponent’s jugular. If you want to provide a performance, be a dancer.

  —MOTHER COMMANDER MURBELLA
,

  rally before troop deployment

  W

  hen the Enemy came, the New Sisterhood would not fight every battle alone. Murbella refused to allow that. Though there was no central leadership in the disjointed civilizations of the Old Empire, she vowed that she would compel those civilizations to participate. They could not be allowed to sit on the sidelines when so much was at stake for humanity.

  Under the instruction of her daughter Janess, as well as the veteran bashar Wikki Aztin, the Sisterhood’s deadliest fighters were being trained, but Murbella needed access to powerful weapons, and a great many of them. Therefore, she went to Richese, the primary competitor of Ix.

  After Murbella’s small shuttle landed in the main Richesian commercial complex, the Factory Commissioner arrived to meet her. He was a short man with a round face, close-cropped hair, and a sincere-looking smile that he could mount on his face at will. Two women and three men accompanied him, all wearing identical smart-looking business attire. They carried projection pads and easily revised papers, contracts, price lists.

  “The New Sisterhood wishes to do business with you, Commissioner. Please show me everything you have in the way of weaponry—offensive and defensive.”

  Beaming, the round-faced man reached forward to clasp her hand, which she reluctantly allowed him to shake. “Richese is glad to be of service, Mother Commander. We can manufacture anything from a dagger to a fleet of battleships. Are you interested in explosives, hand weapons, projectile launchers? We have defensive space mines that can be hidden by no-fields. Please tell me, what is your particular need?”

  Murbella met him with a hard gaze. “Everything. We’re going to need the whole list.”

  For thousands of years Richese and Ix had been technological and industrial rivals, each with their own areas of expertise. Ix had made its name doing groundbreaking research, producing creative designs and pioneering new technologies. Though many of their projects failed spectacularly, the successful ones generated sufficient profits to more than pay for the mistakes.

  Richese, on the other hand, was better at imitation than innovation. They were more conservative in the risks they took, yet increasingly ambitious in their output and efficiency. By taking advantage of economies of scale, cutting profit margins, and pushing automated factory lines to the very limits of what the strictures of the Butlerian Jihad allowed, Richese was able to produce sought-after items in enormous quantities at low cost. Murbella selected them over Ix because the New Sisterhood needed huge numbers of weapons—as soon as possible.

  The business complex where the Factory Commissioner always met his potential customers included lush landscaping with parks and fountains; the buildings were clean, stylized, and welcoming. Any unsightly industrial zones remained far from view. Walking down spacious hallways lined with showcases of items that Richese could produce on a moment’s notice, Murbella felt as if she were wandering through an unending exhibit hall of marketing displays.

  Giving her plenty of time to examine the merchandise, the Commissioner chattered as they walked from one display case to another. “Since the death of the Tyrant and the Famine Times, Richese has been called on to provide defensive armaments for any number of brushfire wars. You will be satisfied with what we can produce.”

  “If we survive the coming conflict, then I will be satisfied.”

  She studied body armor and ship armor, pseudoatomics, lasguns, projectile launchers, microexplosives, pulse cannons, blasters, poison dusts, shard-daggers, flechette guns, disruptors, mind scramblers, offensive X-probes, hunter-seeker assassination tools, deceptives, energizers, burners, dart launchers, stun grenades, even genuine atomics “for display purposes only.” A holo-model of Richese’s southern continents showed vast shipyards producing space yachts and military no-ships.

  Murbella said, “I want all of those space yachts converted into warships. In fact, we need to commandeer all of your factory systems. You must completely devote your production lines to producing the weapons we need.”

  The attorneys and salespeople gasped, then consulted with each other. The Factory Commissioner seemed alarmed. “That is quite an astonishing request, Mother Commander. We do have other customers, you know—”

  “None more important than we are.” She fixed him with a cold glare. “We will pay for the privilege, of course—in melange.”

  The Commissioner’s eyes lit up. “It has long been said that wartime is hard on people, but good for business. Doesn’t the Guild have a standing order for all the spice your new desert belt produces?”

  “I have severely restricted Guild purchases, though their demand remains high,” Murbella said. The Richesian was already aware of this, of course. He was simply playing a game.

  The hovering attorneys and sales representatives were mentally going through some preliminary calculations. After they were paid in melange, the Richesians could turn around and sell the spice to the desperate Guild for ten times the already steep value the New Sisterhood had placed on it. They would reap profits backward and forward.

  Murbella crossed her arms over her chest. “We will need a military force such as humanity has never before seen, because we face an Enemy unlike any other.”

  “I’ve heard rumors. Who is this foe and when will they strike? What do they want?”

  She blinked as a flicker of anxiety passed through her. “I wish I knew.”

  First, though, her fighting squads would face the rebel Honored Matres in their dispersed enclaves, and for that she needed armored ’thopters, assault ships, heavy groundcars, personal projectile launchers, pulse rifles, and even razor-sharp mono-blade knives. Many of the battles against the dissidents would involve close-in fighting.

  “We can provide certain items immediately from our stockpiles, a few ships, some space mines. One warlord customer recently suffered from . . . um, an assassination. Therefore his completed order remains unclaimed, and we can offer you all of it.”

  “I’ll take it with me now,” she said.

  THE MOTHER COMMANDER continued to train her troops, honing them into a razor-sharp weapon. Wearing a black singlesuit uniform, Murbella stood beside Janess on a suspensor platform that floated low over the largest training field. Below, in midday sunlight, her handpicked troops went through increasingly difficult personal combat routines, never resting, never tolerating the smallest mistake.

  Upon hearing that Murbella’s special squad had crushed the encampment of dissidents on Chapterhouse, her advisors had been shocked at the swift brutality, but the Mother Commander stood firm against the uproar. “I am not Bashar Miles Teg. He could have used his reputation to subtly manipulate the malcontents, and might have reached a compromise that skated past violence. But the Bashar is no longer with us, and I fear his clever tactics will not be effective against the Armageddon forces of the Enemy. Violence will become more and more necessary.”

  The women had found no effective counterargument.

  After that first decisive battle, the Mother Commander’s crack forces took a new name for themselves: Valkyries.

  Murbella challenged her Valkyries to master a type of fighting that Janess had rediscovered in the archives: the techniques of the Swordmasters of Ginaz. By resurrecting that training discipline and arming her Sisters with skills that no one alive remembered, the Mother Commander intended to produce fighters better equipped than any before them to neutralize the entrenched Honored Matres.

  At the moment, the squads were executing a complex maneuver in which they fought against mock enemy troops on the ground, attacking them in spinning star formations. Viewed from the high suspensor platform, the show was quite impressive as the five points of each star rotated and surged against the opposing force and sent them fleeing in disarray. It was something Murbella called the “choreography of personal combat.” She could not wait to test it in battle.

  Like her mother, Janess plunged into her work with fervor. She had even adopted the surname of her father, calling
herself Lieutenant Idaho. It sounded right to her, and to Murbella. Mother and daughter were becoming quite a formidable force. Some Sisters jokingly claimed that they didn’t need an army—those two were dangerous enough on their own.

  Wearing a satisfied look, the Mother Commander reviewed the troop formations. Janess, too, was clearly proud of the trained fighters. “I will pit our Valkyries against any army the Honored Matres can raise against us.”

  “Yes, Janess, you will—and soon. First, we will conquer Buzzell.”

  Muad’Dib could indeed see the Future, but you must understand the limits of this power. Think of sight. You have eyes, yet cannot see without light. If you are on the floor of a valley, you cannot see beyond your valley. Just so, Muad’Dib could not always choose to look across the mysterious terrain. He tells us that a single obscure decision of prophecy, perhaps the choice of one word over another, could change the entire aspect of the future. He tells us “The vision of time is broad, but when you pass through it, time becomes a narrow door.”And always, he fought the temptation to choose a clear, safe course, warning “That path leads ever down into stagnation.”

  —from “Arrakis Awakening” by the

  PRINCESS IRULAN

  T

  he planet Dan was full of Face Dancers. Just by looking at the natives in the settlement near the ruined Atreides castle, Uxtal could sense them everywhere. His skin crawled, but he didn’t dare show fear. Maybe he could slip away, run to hide in the wilderness of the headlands, or pretend to be a simple fisherman or cliff-farmer.

  But if he tried any of that, the Face Dancers would hunt him down and capture him, punish him. He didn’t dare risk their wrath. So he meekly followed along.

  Maybe Khrone would be so pleased to see the Baron child that he would simply free Uxtal, reward him for his service, and send him away. The Lost Tleilaxu researcher could cling to unrealistic hopes. . . .