Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [53]
The old man adjusted a straw hat on his head and leaned closer to Khrone, though his image came from impossibly far away. “Our detailed projections have provided us with the answer we need. There is no possibility for error. Kralizec will soon be upon us, and our victory requires the Kwisatz Haderach, the superhuman bred by the Bene Gesserit. According to the predictions, the no-ship is the key. He is—or will be—aboard.”
“Isn’t it amazing that mere humans reached the same conclusion thousands of years ago with their prophecies and their writings?” The old woman sat on a bench and began to peel the portygul. Sweet juice dripped from her fingers.
Unimpressed, the old man waved a callused hand. “They laid down so many millions of prophecies, they couldn’t possibly have been wrong all the time. We know that once we acquire the no-ship, we acquire the Kwisatz Haderach. That has been proven.”
“Predicted, Daniel. Not proven.” The woman offered him a section of the fruit, but the old man declined.
“When there is no doubt, then a thing is proven. I have no doubt.”
Khrone did not need to pretend confidence. “My Face Dancers will find the no-ship.”
“We have faith in your abilities, dear Khrone,” the old woman said. “But it has been nearly five years, and we need more than mere assurances.” She smiled sweetly as if she meant to reach out and pat him on the cheek. “Don’t forget your obligations.”
Suddenly the multicolored lines of force around Khrone grew incandescent. Through all the nerves of his body, penetrating every bone and muscle fiber, he felt a searing agony, an indescribable pain that went beyond his cells and beyond his mind. With his intrinsic Face Dancer control, he tried to shut down all of his receptors, but he could not escape. The agony continued, yet the old woman’s voice remained exceptionally clear in the back of his thoughts: “We can keep this up for ten million years if we choose.”
Abruptly the pain was gone, and the old man reached over to take half of the peeled fruit the woman offered him. Tearing off a section, he said, “Do not give us an excuse to do it.”
Then the illusory world wavered. The bucolic orchard disappeared, and the bright network of lines faded, leaving only the metal-walled corridors of the Guildship again. Khrone had collapsed to the deck, and no one else was around. Shaking, he climbed to his feet. The throbbing agony still burst out in cellular echoes from dark afterimages behind his eyes. He drew several breaths to regain his strength, using his outrage as a crutch.
During the wash of pain, his features had shifted through numerous assumed guises and reverted to their blank Face Dancer appearance again. Gathering himself, Khrone vengefully formed his face into an exact replica of the old man’s. But that was not enough for him. Feeling petty rage, he drew back his lips to expose teeth that he transformed into brown and decayed stumps. Khrone’s imitation of the old man’s wrinkled face became decayed. Flesh hung in sagging folds, then turned yellow before separating from the muscles. Vindictively leprous blotches covered the skin, and the face became a mass of boils, the eyes milky and blind.
If only he could project the condition, it was what the old bastard deserved!
Khrone reasserted himself again, restoring his normal appearance, though the anger remained unquenched within him. Then his smile gradually returned.
Those who considered themselves the rulers of the Face Dancers had been fooled again, just like the original Tleilaxu Masters and their offshoots, the Lost Ones. Still shaking, Khrone chuckled now as he walked along the Guildship’s corridor, regathering his strength. He looked like an average crewman again. No one could possibly understand the fine art of deception better than he did.
I am its greatest practitioner, he thought.
Damn your analyses and your infernal projections! Damn your legal arguments, your manipulations, your subtle and not-so-subtle pressures. Talk, talk, talk! It all comes down to the same thing: When a difficult