the no-ship's recent escape provides evidence of the prophetic projection? It must mean that the one you expect —whom the humans call the Kwisatz Haderach—is truly aboard. How else could they have slipped away? Perhaps that is proof of the projection?'
'We always knew he was aboard. That is why we must have the no-ship.' The old woman laughed. 'We predict he is aboard, Daniel. There is a difference.
Centuries and centuries of mathematical projections convinced us that the necessary one would be there.'
The old man jammed his sharp hedge trimmers point first into the grass, impaling the lawn as if it were an enemy.
The mathematical projection had been so sophisticated and complex that it was tantamount to a prophecy. The two knew full well that they required the Kwisatz Haderach to win the impending typhoon struggle. Previously, they would have considered such a prophesy no more than a superstitious legend spawned by frightened people cowering from the dark. But after the impossibly detailed analytical projections, along with millennia of eerily clever human prophecies, the old couple knew that their victory required possession of the wild card, the human loose cannon.
'Long ago, others learned the folly of trying to control a Kwisatz Haderach.'
The old woman stood up from her weeding. She put a hand to the small of her back as if she had a muscle ache, though it was only an affectation. 'He nearly destroyed them, and they spent fifteen hundred years bemoaning what happened.'
'They were weak.' The old man took a half-full glass of lemonade from where he had set it on an ornate lawn table and drank it down in a single gulp.
She went to his side and looked through a razor-edged gap in the hedge toward the extravagant and complex towers and interlinked buildings in the faraway city that surrounded their perfect sanctuary. She touched his elbow. 'If you promise not to pout, I can help you repair the net. You really must accept the fact that plans can be disrupted quite easily.'
'Then we must make better plans.'
Nonetheless he joined her in concentration, and they began to weave the gossamer strands through the fabric of the universe once more, reconstructing their tachyon net and sending it out at great speed, covering impossible distances in the blink of an eye.
'We will keep trying to catch that ship,' the old woman said, 'but we might be better off focusing our efforts on the alternative plan that Khrone has in mind. Thanks to what was found on Caladan, we do have another option, a second chance to assure our victory. We should pursue both alternatives. We know that Paul Atreides was a Kwisatz Haderach, and a ghola of the boy has already been born, thanks to Khrone's foresight—'
'Accidental foresight, I am sure.'
'Nevertheless, he also has the Baron Harkonnen, who will be a perfect fulcrum with which to turn the new Paul to our purposes. Therefore, even if we do not capture the no-ship, we are guaranteed to have a Kwisatz Haderach in our possession. We win, either way. I will make certain Khrone does not fail us. I have sent special watchers.'
The old man was powerful and rigid, but at times naive. He did not suspect treachery enough. The old woman knew she needed to keep a better watch on their minions dispersed throughout the Old Empire. Sometimes the Face Dancers were too full of themselves.
She was happy to let each participant play his role, whether it be the old man, the Face Dancers, the passengers on the no-ship, or the vast herds of victims standing in the way in the Old Empire.
It amused her for now, but everything was changeable. That was the way of the universe.
11
Plans within plans within plans — like an infinite array of nested reflections cast fry angled mirrors. It takes a superior mind to see all of the causes and effects.
On Caladan, the strange delegation from far, far outside arrived to see Khrone. They did not need to identify themselves when they demanded to learn of his progress with the Baron child and the Atreides ghola they called 'Paolo.' Khrone already had what the old man and woman needed, a little boy with all the necessary potential in his gene markers. A Kwisatz Haderach.
Instead of rewarding the Face Dancer, though, the distant puppet masters breathed down his neck, watching everything he did. They wanted complete control, and Khrone resented it. The Face Dancer myriad had suffered from too much domination by fools during the millennia of their existence.
Nevertheless, he bided his time. He could deal with these misfit spies.
According to the Guild manifest and the expertly doctored identification glyphs they carried, the bizarrely augmented humans claimed to come from Ix.
It was an acceptable cover story that would explain their odd appearance to any human who happened to see them. But Khrone knew that this technology sprang from an entirely different seed, and these ambassadors came from a much greater distance, where the breakwater fringes of the human Scattering had crashed against the bulwarks of the Enemy.
In the past, the meddling masters had pestered him via their interconnected net, but apparently since the net had recently sustained some damage, the two faraway watchers preferred a less vulnerable communication method. The old man and woman had sent these… monstrosities. He wondered if the supposed masters actually meant to intimidate him—him! The Face Dancer leader smiled at the very idea as he went to meet the delegation.
In the high-ceilinged foyer of the restored Castle Caladan, Khrone selected a guise that looked like an old archival painting of Duke Leto Atreides. He dressed in crisp gray clothes of an antique style, checked his appearance in a tall goldplaz-framed mirror, then clasped his hands behind his back as he descended the grand waterfall of stairs to the echoing hall. Stopping on the bottom step, he put on a bland smile, and waited coolly to receive the six men.
The scarred, pale-skinned representatives were clearly flustered by the physical effort of trudging up the steep walkway from the spaceport. Khrone had no incentive to make the journey easier for them, however. He had not asked for their presence, and did not intend to make them feel welcome. If the tachyon net was damaged, maybe the old man and woman would not transmit their waves of agony to goad him anymore. And then the Face Dancers could at last act with impunity.
Or maybe not. Uncertain, Khrone decided to maintain his docile charade just a while longer.
After the strange-looking ambassadors arranged themselves in a clump, Khrone looked down at them from the steps on which he stood. 'Inform your superiors that you arrived safely.' He unclasped his hands, brought them to the front, and cracked his knuckles. 'And please inform them that the damage to your bodies was no fault of mine.'
The men looked confused. 'Damage?' The hairless men had pale skin with an oily appearance. Various devices were implanted in their skulls and chests: primitive electronic gauges, tubing, augmented memory chips, indicator lights.
Raw red sores of unhealed wounds surrounded the implants. Everything had such a horrific, retrograde feel that Khrone had to wonder if this was a subtle and incomprehensible joke played by the old woman. She had a far quirkier sense of humor than her aged companion.
'Damage? We were designed this way.'
'Hmm. Interesting. My sympathies.'
The mechanical additions were so primitive that they looked like a child's botched experiment. Yes, Khrone thought, this has to be a joke. The old woman must be truly bored.
'We have come to observe and record.' The foremost man stepped away from the cluster. Dark fluid
