Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [183]
He knew the old man and woman understood the wisdom of his alternative plan. Since their efforts to find the lost no-ship kept failing, it made sense to pursue another route for obtaining their Kwisatz Haderach: the Paolo ghola.
But would the old man and woman allow him the necessary time to awaken the child? Paolo was only six, and it would be several years yet before Khrone could even begin the process of triggering his memories, saturating him with spice, preparing him for his destiny. The distant masters had made their demands and set their schedules. According to sparse reports from the patchwork observers, the old man and woman were ready to launch their vast fleet on a long-anticipated conquest of everything, whether the Kwisatz Haderach was ready or not. . . .
Silent and stony, the hideous emissaries awaited him inside the high tower room. Just as Khrone reached the top of the winding stairs, the men turned with stuttering movements to face him. He put his hands on his hips. “You are delaying my work.”
One emissary’s head twitched from side to side, as if his neurons were firing conflicting impulses that caused his neck and shoulder muscles to spasm. “This message—we cannot deliver—deliver this message—ourselves.” He balled his bony hand into a fist. Bubbles gurgled through the tubes. “Deliver a message.”
“What is it?” Khrone crossed his arms. “I have work to complete for our masters.”
The lead emissary opened his hands wide in a beckoning gesture. The other augmented humans stood motionless, presumably recording his every movement. Khrone stepped into the gallery room while the pale-faced horrors retreated to the wall. He frowned. “What is this—”
Suddenly his vision fuzzed around the edges, and the walls of the tower became indistinct. Reality shifted around him. At first Khrone saw the ethereal grid of the net, strands of connected tachyons completing an infinite chain. Then he found himself in another place, a simulation of a simulation.
He heard the sound of plodding hoofs, smelled manure, and listened to the creaking of rough wheels. Turning to his right, he saw the old man and old woman sitting in a wooden cart drawn by a gray mule. The beast walked along with infinite weariness and patience. No one seemed to be in a hurry.
Khrone had to take a step to follow the cart, which was loaded high with paradan melons, their olive green rinds mottled with splotchy patterns. He looked around, trying to understand the metaphor of their dream world. Far ahead, the road led toward crowded geometric buildings that seemed to move and flow together, an enormous city that looked alive. The perfectly angled structures were like patterns on a circuit board.
In the foreground the old man sat next to the woman on the buckboard, casually holding leather reins. He looked down at Khrone. “We have news. Your time-consuming project is no longer relevant. We have no need for you or your Baron Harkonnen, or for the Paul Atreides ghola you have grown for us.”
The old woman chimed in, “In other words, we will not have to wait so many years for your alternate Kwisatz Haderach candidate.”
The man lifted the reins and urged the mule to greater speed, but the beast ignored the command. “It is time to be done with all this tinkering.”
Khrone walked along beside them. “What do you mean? I am ever so close to—”
“For nineteen years, our sophisticated nets have failed to capture the no-ship, but now we’ve been fortunate. We have laid a primitive trap, an old-fashioned trick, and very soon the no-ship and all those aboard will be in our control. We will have what we need without resorting to your alternative Kwisatz Haderach. Your plan is obsolete.”
Khrone gritted his teeth, trying not to show his alarm. “How did you find the ship after all this time? My Face Dancers—”
“The ship came to