Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [167]
The Chief Handler shrugged his bony shoulders. “We have myths about that, but it was more than a thousand years ago.”
“Fifteen centuries,” Thufir suggested. He was a bright student. Considering his past and his place in history, the Mentat ghola was quite interested in spans of time.
“Our race spread to many nearby worlds. We were not an empire but a . . . political brotherhood. Then out of nowhere the Honored Matres came like a stampede of blind and clumsy animals, as destructive in their ignorance as in their malevolence.” Orak Tho bent his elongated face toward the brazier’s glow. Orange light washed across his skin.
Other Handlers sat around the upper deck’s circular wall, listening and muttering. Their distinctive body smells drifted into the cool air. Their race seemed to have an affinity for scents, as if smell was an important part of their communication abilities.
“Without warning, they came to pillage, destroy, and conquer.” Orak Tho’s face was as hard as petrified wood, his long jaw set. “Naturally, we had to stop this feral incursion.” His lips curved in a faint smile. “So we developed our Futars.”
“But how did you do that?” Sheeana asked. If these deceptively simple people could detect orbiting ships and create sophisticated genetic hybrids, their technology must be far more advanced than was evident.
“Some of those who joined us in settling these worlds were orphans of the Tleilaxu race. They showed us how to change our offspring to create what we needed, since God and evolution would be much too slow to provide them for us.”
“The Futars,” Teg said. “They are most interesting.” After their initial reunion, the Handlers had taken the predatory creatures off to holding areas, where they could be with others of their own kin.
“What happened to these Tleilaxu?” The Rabbi looked around. He had never much liked Master Scytale.
“Alas, they are all dead.”
“Killed?” Teg asked.
“Extinct. They don’t breed the same as others do.” He sniffed, as if disinterested in that part of the story. “Our Futars were bred to hunt Honored Matres. Those women came to our planets, confident they would conquer us. But we turned the tables on them. They are fit to serve as food for our Futars, nothing more.”
FOR SAFETY, TEG suggested that their group sleep in the lighter with the hatches sealed and defensive fields up, which obviously displeased their hosts. The Chief Handler cast a glance over his shoulder. “Though these forests are well tamed, a few of the old predators still roam the grounds at night. It would be better if you stayed with us, up here in the safe towers.”
A flicker of dismay crossed the Rabbi’s face. “What old predators?” He didn’t want to hear about any flaws with this world.
“The feline beasts that supplied genetic material for creating the Futars.” Orak Tho gestured with his loose arms across to another cylindrical wooden tower. “We have a grand show tomorrow. You should be well rested for what you will witness.”
“What kind of show?” Hawat sounded eager. At times he seemed no more than the boy he truly was, rather than a potential warrior-Mentat.
With a mysterious smile, the Chief Handler motioned for them to follow him. His green irises now looked like blazing emeralds.
It was full dark outside. Unfamiliar constellations sparkled like a million eyes reflecting firelight. He guided the four visitors across a sturdy plank walkway to a nearby tower, then down a spiraling interior staircase that circled the cylinder twice before reaching the ground level. They walked across the leaf-strewn forest floor to a much shorter tower that looked like a thick, man-made stump.
The stench struck them first. The base of the stout artificial tree had been hollowed out, like a dank lair. Thick vertical bars extended deep into the mulchy ground, blocking off the hollow to form a dirt-floored cell.
Teg raised his eyebrows. “You have prisoners.”
The chamber contained five ragged, angry captives. Despite their tattered and beaten