Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [23]
Sensing the visitors, one of the Futars rushed to the plaz wall of his brig cell. He pressed against it, his wiry body hair bristling, his olive-green eyes alight with fire and interest. “You Handlers?” The Futar sniffed, but the plaz barrier was impenetrable. With obvious disappointment and disdain, he hunched his shoulders and slunk away. “You not Handlers.”
“It smells down here, daughter.” The Rabbi’s voice wavered. “There must be something wrong with the recirculation vents.” Sheeana could detect no difference in the air.
Rebecca looked sidelong at him, a challenging expression on her pinched face. “Why do you hate them so, Rabbi? They cannot help what they are.” Was she referring to herself, too?
His answer was glib. “They are not God’s creatures. Ki-layim. The Torah quite clearly prohibits mixing breeds. Two different animals are not even allowed to plow a field side by side on one bridle. These Futars are . . . wrong on many different levels.” The Rabbi scowled. “As you should well know, daughter.”
The four Futars continued their restless prowling. Rebecca could think of no way to help them. Somewhere out in the Scattering, the “Handlers” had bred Futars for the express purpose of hunting down and killing Honored Matres, who in turn had captured and broken a few Futars. The moment they saw a chance for freedom on Gammu, these animal-men had escaped.
“Why do you want the Handlers so badly?” Sheeana said to the Futar, not knowing if he would understand the question.
With a snakelike motion, the beast-man snapped his head up and came forward. “Need Handlers.”
Leaning closer, Sheeana saw violence in his eyes, but she also detected intelligence mixed with longing. “Why do you need the Handlers? Are they your slave masters? Or is there more of a bond between you?”
“Need Handlers. Where are Handlers?”
The Rabbi shook his head, ignoring Sheeana again. “You see, daughter? Animals can’t understand freedom. They comprehend nothing more than what has been bred and trained into them.”
He clutched Rebecca’s lean arm, pretending to hold onto her for strength as he pulled her from the prison cell. In his demeanor Sheeana could sense the old man’s revulsion, like the heat of flames from a furnace.
“These hybrids are abominations,” he said in a low voice, his tone a feral growling sound of his own.
Rebecca exchanged an instant, knowing glance with Sheeana before saying, “I have seen many worse abominations, Rabbi.” This was something any Reverend Mother could understand.
As they turned from the brig, Sheeana was startled to see a flushed Garimi emerge from the lift and rush forward with Bene Gesserit grace and silence. Her face looked pale and disturbed. “Worse abominations? We have just found one. Something the whores left behind for us.”
Sheeana felt a lump harden in her throat. “What is it?”
“An old torture chamber. Duncan discovered it. He asks you to come.”
We lay this body of our Sister to rest, though her mind and memories will never be stilled. Even death cannot turn a Reverend Mother from her work.
—Bene Gesserit memorial ceremony
A
s a veteran battlefield commander, Bashar Miles Teg had attended more than his share of funerals. This ceremony, though, seemed eerily unfamiliar, acknowledging long-ago suffering the Bene Gesserit refused to forget.
Solemnly, the ship’s entire company gathered on the main deck near one of the small cargo airlocks. Though the chamber was large, the 150 attendees crowded together along the walls for the observance. Sheeana, Garimi, and two other Reverend Mothers named Elyen and Calissa stood on a raised platform at the center of the room. Near the airlock door, wrapped in black, lay the five bodies extricated from the Honored Matre torture chamber.
Not far from Teg, Duncan stood next to Sheeana, leaving the navigation bridge empty for the duration of the funeral. Although