Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [184]
On the buckboard, the woman leaned back and said, “When we have the no-ship and its passengers, we will control what the mathematical prophecy says we require. All of our prescient-level projections indicate that the Kwisatz Haderach is aboard. He will stand beside us during Kralizec.”
“Our massive fleets are about to launch a full-scale offensive against the worlds of the Old Empire. It will all be over soon. We have waited so long.” The old man snapped the reins again, looked smug.
The old woman’s wrinkled lips curled upward in an apologetic smile. “Therefore, Khrone, your time-consuming and costly plan simply isn’t necessary anymore.”
Aghast, the Face Dancer took two more steps beside the cart to maintain his pace. “But you can’t do that! I have already awakened the Baron’s memories, and the Paolo ghola is perfect, ripe for our purposes.”
“Speculation. We no longer need him,” the old man repeated. “Once we seize the no-ship, we will have the Kwisatz Haderach.”
As if she were giving him a consolation prize, the woman reached into the back of the cart, selected a small paradan melon, and extended it to Khrone. “It was nice to work with you. Here, have a melon.”
He took it, confused and disturbed. The illusion around him twinkled and washed out, fading until he found himself back in the tower room. He was empty-handed, his palms cradling a nonexistent paradan melon.
He found himself standing at the very edge of the high tower window, his feet on the brink. The plaz panes were open, and a gusty sea breeze slapped his face. The stomach-lurching drop extended to the rugged rocks at the tide line far below. Another half step, and he would plunge to his death.
Khrone pinwheeled his arms and staggered backward, collapsing to the flagstone floor with an embarrassing lack of grace.
The augmented emissaries regarded him coolly from the side of the tower room. With considerable effort, Khrone maintained his composure. He didn’t even speak to the patchwork monstrosities, but stalked out of the tower chamber.
No matter what the old man and old woman said, Khrone would not abandon his plans until he was finished with them.
To a seasoned fighter, each battle is a banquet. Victory should be savored like the finest wine or the most extravagant dessert. Defeat is like a rancid chunk of meat.
—teachings of the Swordmasters of Ginaz
T
he sixty ships descended to the heart of Bandalong, where Hellica would be waiting for them. Murbella was sure that the Matre Superior intended to savor this confrontation, toying with what she saw as an inferior opponent. The pretender queen would expect true Bene Gesserit behavior from the New Sisterhood—discussions and negotiations. It would be a game to her.
Murbella, though, was not entirely Bene Gesserit. She had a surprise for the Honored Matres below. Several, in fact.
Her ships circling over the Palace were far outnumbered by Hellica’s forces on the ground. The whores expected civilized behavior from the Mother Commander, diplomatic protocols, ambassadorial courtesies. Murbella had already decided that would be a waste of time. Janess, Kiria, and the other infiltrator Sisters in the city below knew what to do.
Precisely on cue, as Murbella’s escort squad prepared to land in the Matre Superior’s “trap,” seven major buildings in Bandalong erupted into flames. Concussion waves knocked down walls, blasting Honored Matre emplacements into cinders. Moments later, three bombs vaporized dozens of ships on the spaceport landing field.
Before the stunned whores around the Palace could try to shoot down her escort ships, Murbella yelled into the commline: “Valkyries, launch your attack!”
Her escort ships began their bombardment, wiping out the protective forces that encircled the Matre Superior’s seat of power. Out of harsh necessity, Murbella had decreed Bandalong expendable. Hellica and her rebels were a dangerous firebrand to be extinguished. Period.