Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [19]
“Yes,” Khrone said. “According to their projections, the escaped no-ship holds something or someone supremely important to them. We must find it, capture it, and deliver it to them.”
Uxtal found this all so incomprehensible that he had to speak up. “What old man and old woman?” No one ever told him the things he needed to know.
Burah glanced dismissively at his assistant. “Face Dancer delusions.”
Khrone looked down at the Elder as if he were a maggot. “Their projections are infallible. Aboard that no-ship is, or will be, the necessary fulcrum to influence the battle at the end of the universe. That takes precedence over your need for a convenient source of spice.”
“But . . . but how do they know this?” Uxtal asked, surprised that he was finding the nerve to speak. “Is it a prophecy?” He tried to imagine a numerical code that might apply, one buried in the sacred writings.
Burah snapped at him. “Prophecy, prescience, or some sort of bizarre mathematical projection—it does not matter!”
As Khrone stood, he seemed to grow taller. “On the contrary, you do not matter.” He turned to his fellow Face Dancers while the Elder sat in speechless shock. “We must turn our minds and our efforts to discovering where that vessel has gone. We are everywhere, but it has been three years and the trail has grown cold.”
The other seven shape-shifters nodded, speaking in a sort of rapid humming undertone that sounded like the buzz of insects. “We will find them.”
“They cannot escape.”
“The tachyon net extends far and it draws tighter.”
“The no-ship will be found.”
“I do not give you permission for this foolish search!” Burah shouted. Uxtal wanted to cheer for him. “You will heed my commands. I told you to scour the conquered Tleilaxu planets, investigate the laboratories of the fallen Masters, and learn their methods of creating spice with axlotl tanks. Not only do we require it for ourselves, but it is a priceless commodity that we can use to break the Bene Gesserit monopoly and claim the commercial power that is our due.” He delivered this grand speech, as if expecting the Face Dancers to stand up and shout their approval.
“No,” Khrone said emphatically. “That is not our intention.”
Uxtal remained aghast. He himself had never dreamed of challenging an Elder, and this was a mere Face Dancer! He shrank back against the copper wall, wishing he could melt into it. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen.
Angry and confused, Burah twisted back and forth in his chair. “We created Face Dancers, and you will follow our orders.” He sniffed and got to his feet. “Why am I even discussing this with you?”
In unison, as if they shared a single mind, the entire contingent of Face Dancers stood. From their positions around the table, they blocked Elder Burah’s exit. He sat back down on his high seat, and now he seemed nervous.
“Are you certain you Lost Tleilaxu created us . . . or did you simply find us out in the Scattering? True, in the distant shadows of the past, a Tleilaxu Master was responsible for our seed stock. He made modifications and dispatched us to the ends of the universe shortly before the birth of Paul Muad’Dib. But we have evolved since then.”
As if a veil had been lifted simultaneously from their faces, Khrone and his companions blurred and shifted. Their nondescript human expressions melted away, and the Face Dancers returned to their blank state, a bland yet unnervingly inhuman set of features: sunken black-button eyes, pug noses, slack mouths. Their skin was pale and malleable, their vestigial hair bristly and white. Using a genetic map, they could form their muscles and epidermis into any desired pattern to mimic humans.
“We no longer need to expend effort on continuing illusions,” Khrone