Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [20]
Uxtal and Elder Burah stared at them.
Khrone continued, “Long ago, the original Tleilaxu Masters produced the genesis of what we have become. You, Elder Burah, and your fellows are but faded copies, diluted memories of your race’s former greatness. It offends us that you consider yourselves our masters.”
Three of the Face Dancers moved toward the high seat of Elder Burah. One stepped behind him and one on either side, closing him in. With each passing moment, the Elder looked more afraid.
Uxtal felt as if he would faint. He barely dared to breathe and wanted to flee, but knew there were many more Face Dancers aboard the Guildship than these eight. He would never escape alive.
“Stop this! I command you!” Burah tried to stand up, but the two flanking Face Dancers held his slumped shoulders to keep him from leaving his elevated seat.
Khrone said, “No wonder the others call you Lost. You Masters from the Scattering have always been blind.”
Behind him, a third Face Dancer reached forward with both hands to cover Burah’s eyes. Using his forefingers, the Face Dancer squeezed, pressing like an iron vise into Burah’s skull. The Elder screamed. His eyeballs burst; blood and fluid ran down his cheeks.
Khrone let out a mild, artificial-sounding laugh. “Maybe your Tleilaxu companions could create old-fashioned metal eyes for you. Or have you lost that technology as well?”
Burah’s continuing screams were abruptly cut short as the Face Dancer snapped the man’s head to one side, breaking his neck. Within moments, the shape-shifter had taken a deep imprint; his body shifted, shrank, and acquired the elfin features of the dead Elder. When the transition was complete, he flexed his small fingers and smiled down at the bloodied, identical body on the floor.
“Another one replaced,” the Face Dancer said.
Another one? Uxtal froze, trying to keep from screaming, and wishing he could just become invisible.
Now the shape-shifters turned to face the assistant. Unable to do more than cringe, he held up his hands in complete surrender, though he doubted that would do any good. They would kill him and replace him. No one would ever know. A quiet moan escaped from his throat.
“We will no longer pretend that you are our masters,” Khrone said to Uxtal.
The Face Dancers stepped away from Burah’s body. The copy bent down and wiped his bloody fingers on the crumpled Elder’s garment.
“However, for the overall plan we still need to use certain Tleilaxu procedures, and for that we will retain some of the original genetic stock—if you qualify.” Khrone stepped very close to Uxtal and stared hard at him. “Do you understand the hierarchy here? Do you realize who is your true master?”
Uxtal managed no more than a hoarse gasp as he answered, “Y-yes, of course.”
Three years of wandering in this ship! Our people certainly comprehend the incredible search for the Promised Land. We will endure as we have always endured. We will be patient as we have always been patient. Still, the doubting voice within me asks, “Does anyone know where we are going?”
THE RABBI,
speech to his followers aboard the no-ship
T
he Jewish passengers were given all the freedom they could desire aboard the giant vessel, but Sheeana knew that every prison had its bars, and every camp its fences.
The only Reverend Mother among the refugee Jews, a woman named Rebecca, sought out her boundaries, diligent and quietly curious. Sheeana had always found her to be intriguing, a wild Reverend Mother, a woman who had undergone the Agony without the benefit of Bene Gesserit training. The very idea amazed her, but other such anomalies had occurred throughout history. Sheeana often accompanied Rebecca on her contemplative walks, each of which was more a journey of the mind than an effort to reach any specific room or deck.
“Are we just going to wander in circles again?” the Rabbi complained, tagging along. A former Suk doctor, he always preferred to evaluate the point of any activity before engaging in it. “Why should I