Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [45]
Standing tall, Mother Commander Murbella entered the building, where she surveyed the smashed windows, display cases, and artwork. Jubilant murderers dragged bodies onto the polished tiled floor of the main legislative gallery. Almost thirty men and women were dead, some shot with projectile weapons, others beaten to death, many with such violence that their genders were hardly recognizable. The corpses on the polished stone floor wore expressions of horror and shock.
One of the bodies among the bloody mess was indeed a Face Dancer.
“We were right! You see, Reverend Mother.” A man pointed at the dead shape-shifter. “We were infiltrated, but we rooted out the enemy and killed it.”
Murbella looked around, at all of the innocent humans murdered to discover one Face Dancer. What was the economy of bloodshed? She tried to assess it coolly. How much damage could that one Face Dancer have caused, exposing vulnerabilities to the oncoming Enemy forces? All of those lives? Yes, and more, she had to admit.
From their elation it was obvious that the people of Oculiat considered their uprising a victory, and Murbella could not dispute that. But if this wave of insane vigilantism continued, would all governments topple? Even on Chapterhouse? Then who would organize the people to defend themselves?
Weak minds are gullible. The weaker the thought processes, the more ridiculous the notions they will believe. Strong minds, like mine, can turn that to an advantage.
—BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN,
original recordings
Despite being unarmed, the Baron sneered into the face of the red-eyed mongrel hound. The growling animal moved toward him on the flagstoned floor, baring its sharp fangs, ready to spring.
Fortunately, the Baron had killed the feral creature with a poison dart gun some time ago, and this stuffed mechanical version merely followed a programmed reenactment. The simulacrum went motionless when he gave it a hand signal. An amusing toy.
Nine-year-old Paolo moved around the trophy chamber, admiring the wild animals on display. The Baron had dragged the boy out on many hunts in the pristine wilderness of Caladan, so that he could witness the killing firsthand. It was good for his development and education.
Rabban had always enjoyed such things, but Paolo had originally been reluctant to engage in the slaughter. Maybe it was some flaw in the genetics. However, the Baron was gradually breaking down his resistance. With vigorous training and a system of rewards and punishments (plenty of the latter), the Baron had almost managed to squash the core of innate goodness in this ghola of Paul Atreides.
Weathersats had predicted constant rain and wind for the rest of the week. The Baron had looked forward to going out on a fresh hunt, but the cold and wet would have made for a miserable expedition. He and Paolo were trapped inside the castle. The two had formed a remarkable bond. House Atreides and House Harkonnen—how ironic! But though Paolo was a clone of the hated Duke’s son, raised properly he was turning out more like a Harkonnen.
He is your grandson, after all, the internal voice of Alia nagged at him.
Overcoming an urge to shout back at her, the Baron watched four workmen with suspensors hoist an immense stuffed mastaphont onto a viewing stand. Yet another nearly extinct creature, this ferocious beast had charged at them across a field last autumn, slashing with its serrated horns. But the Baron, Paolo, and half a dozen guards had opened fire with lasguns, cutting disks, and poison flechettes, mangling the creature before it finally fell. What an exciting hunt that had been!
Paolo looked at the animated creatures on stands. “Instead of going outside to the wilderness, let’s go hunting in here. We can pretend they’re not already dead. Then we don’t have to worry about getting wet and cold.”
The Baron looked out at the stormy skies, wondering if the weather was the real reason for Paolo’s reluctance. “I don’t mind pain, but personal discomfort