"Sometimes I think you're a comic, Duncan."
"If I can't laugh at myself I'm really lost."
"Laugh at your pretensions to humor, too?"
"Those first." He turned toward her and cupped her left breast in his hand, feeling the nipple harden under his palm. "Did you know I was never weaned?"
"Never in all of those..."
"Not once."
"I might have guessed." A smile formed fleetingly on her lips, and abruptly both of them were laughing, clutching each other, helpless with it. Presently, Murbella said, "Damn, damn, damn."
"Damn who?" as his laughter subsided and they pulled apart, forcing the separation.
"Not who, what. Damn fate!"
"I don't think fate cares."
"I love you and I'm not supposed to do that if I'm to be a proper Reverend Mother."
He hated these excursions so close to self-pity. Joke then! "You've never been a proper anything." He massaged the pregnant swelling of her abdomen.
"I am proper!"
"That's a word they left out when they made you."
She pushed his hand away and sat up to look down at him. "Reverend Mothers are never supposed to love."
"I know that." Did my anguish reveal itself?
She was too caught up in her own worries. "When I get to the Spice Agony..."
"Love! I don't like the idea of agony associated with you in any way."
"How can I avoid it? I'm already in the chute. Very soon they'll have me up to speed. I'll go very fast then."
He wanted to turn away but her eyes held him.
"Truly, Duncan. I can feel it. In a way, it's like pregnancy. There comes a point when it's too dangerous to abort. You must go through with it."
"So we love each other!" Forcing his thoughts away from one danger into another.
"And they forbid it."
He looked up at the comeyes. "The watchdogs are watching us and they have fangs."
"I know. I'm talking to them right now. My love for you is not a flaw. Their coldness is the flaw. They're just like Honored Matres!"
A game where one of the pieces can't be moved.
He wanted to shout it but listeners behind the comeyes would hear more than spoken words. Murbella was right. It was dangerous to think you could gull Reverend Mothers.
Something veiled in her eyes as she looked down at him. "How very strange you looked just then." He recognized the Reverend Mother she might become.
Veer away from that thought!
Thinking about the strangeness of his memories sometimes diverted her. She thought his previous incarnations made him somehow similar to a Reverend Mother.
"I've died so many times."
"You remember it?" The same question every time.
He shook his head, not daring to say anything more for the watchdogs to interpret.
Not the deaths and reawakenings.
Those became dulled by repetition. Sometimes he didn't even bother to put them into his secret data-dump. No ... it was the unique encounters with other humans, the long collection of recognitions.
That was a thing Sheeana claimed she wanted from him. "Intimate trivia. It's the stuff all artists want."
Sheeana did not know what she asked. All of those living encounters had created new meanings. Patterns within patterns. Minuscule things gained a poignancy he despaired of sharing with anyone ... even with Murbella.
The touch of a hand on my arm. A child's laughing face. The glitter in an attacker's eyes.
Mundane things without counting. A familiar voice saying: "I just want to put my feet up and collapse tonight. Don't ask me to move."
All had become part of him. They were bound into his character. Living had cemented them inextricably and he could not explain it to anyone.
Murbella spoke without looking at him. "There were many women in those lives of yours."
"I've never counted them."
"Did you love them?"
"They're dead, Murbella. All I can promise is that there are no jealous ghosts in my past."
Murbella extinguished the glowglobes. He closed his eyes and felt darkness close in as she crept into his arms. He held her tightly, knowing she needed it, but his mind rolled of its own volition.
An old memory produced a Mentat teacher's saying: "The greatest relevancy can become irrelevant in the space of a heartbeat. Mentats should look upon such moments with joy. "
He felt no joy.
All of those serial lives continued within him in defiance of Mentat relevancies. A Mentat came at his universe fresh in each instant. Nothing old, nothing new, nothing set in ancient adhesives, nothing truly known. You were the net and you existed only to examine the catch.
What did not go through? How fine a mesh did I use on this lot?
That was the Mentat view. But there was no way the Tleilaxu could have included all of those ghola-Idaho cells to recreate him. There had to be gaps in their serial collection of his cells. He had identified many of those gaps.
But no gaps in my memory. I remember them all.
He was a network linked outside of Time. That is how I can see the people of that vision ... the net. It was the only explanation Mentat awareness could provide and if the Sisterhood guessed, they would be terrified. No matter how many times he denied it, they would say: "Another Kwisatz Haderach! Kill him!"
So work for yourself, Mentat!
He knew he had most of the mosaic pieces but still they did not go together in that Ahh, hah! assembly of questions Mentats prized.
A game where one of the pieces can't be moved.
Excuses for extraordinary behavior.
"They want our willing participation in their dream.
Test the limits!
Humans can balance on strange surfaces.
Get in tune. Don't think. Do it.
The best art imitates life in a compelling way. If it imitates a dream, it must be a dream of life. Otherwise, there is no place where we can connect. Our plugs don't fit.
--Darwi Odrade
As they traveled south toward the desert in the early afternoon, Odrade found the countryside disturbingly changed from her previous inspection three months earlier. She felt vindicated in having chosen ground vehicles. Views framed by the thick plaz protecting them from the dust revealed more details at this level.
Much drier.
Her immediate party rode in a relatively light car--only fifteen passengers including the driver. Suspensors and sophisticated jet drive when they were not on ground-effect. Capable of a smooth three hundred klicks an hour on the glaze. Her escort (too large, thanks to an overzealous Tamalane) followed in a bus that also carried changes of clothing, foods and drinks for wayside stops.
Streggi, seated beside Odrade and behind the driver, said: "Could we not manage a small rain here, Mother Superior?"
Odrade's lips thinned. Silence was the best answer.
They had been late starting. All of them assembled on the loading dock and were ready to leave when a message came down from Bellonda. Another disaster report requiring Mother Superior's personal attention at the last minute!
It was one of those times when Odrade felt her only possible role was that of official interpreter. Walk to the edge of the stage and tell them what it meant: "Today, Sisters, we learned that Honored Matres have obliterated four more of our planets. We are that much smaller."
Only twelve planets (including Buzzell) and the faceless hunter with the axe is that much closer.
Odrade felt the chasm yawning beneath her.
Bellonda had been ordered to contain this latest bad news until a more appropriate moment.
Odrade looked out the window beside her. What was an appropriate moment for such news?
They had been driving south a little more than three hours, the burner-glazed roadway like a green river ahead of them. This passage led them through hillsides of cork oaks that stretched out to ridge-enclosed horizons. The oaks had been allowed to grow gnomelike in l
ess regimented plantations than orchards. There were meandering rows up the hills. The original plantation had been laid out on existing contours, semi-terraces now obscured by long brown grass.
"We grow truffles in there," Odrade said.
Streggi had more bad news. "I am told the truffles are in trouble, Mother Superior. Not enough rain."
No more truffles? Odrade hesitated on the edge of bringing a Communications acolyte from the rear and asking Weather if this dryness could be corrected.
She glanced back at her attendants. Three rows, four people in each row, specialists to extend her observational powers and carry out orders. And look at that bus following them! One of the larger such vehicles on Chapterhouse. Thirty meters long, at least! Crammed with people! Dust whirled across and around it.
Tamalane rode back there at Odrade's orders. Mother Superior could be peppery when aroused, everyone thought. Tam had brought too many people but Odrade had discovered it too late for changes.
"Not an inspecton! A damned invasion!" Follow my lead, Tam. A little political drama. Make transition easier.
She returned her attention to the driver, only male in this car. Clairby, a vinegary little transport expert. Pinched-up face, skin the color of newly turned damp earth. Odrade's favorite driver. Fast, safe, and wary of limits of his machine.
They crested a hill and cork oaks thinned out, replaced ahead by fruit orchards surrounding a community.
Beautiful in this light, Odrade thought. Low buildings of white walls and orange-tiled roofs. An arch-shaded entrance street could be seen far down the slope and, in a line behind it, the tall central structure containing regional overview offices.
The sight reassured Odrade. The community had a glowing look softened by distance and a haze rising from its ring orchards. Branches still bare up here in this winter belt but surely capable of at least one more crop.
The Sisterhood demanded a certain beauty in its surroundings, she reminded herself. A cosseting that provided support for the senses without subtracting from needs of the stomach. Comfort where possible ... but not too much!
Someone behind Odrade said: "I do believe some of those trees are starting to leaf."
Odrade took a more careful look. Yes! Tiny bits of green on dark boughs. Winter had slipped here. Weather Control, struggling to make seasonal shifts, could not prevent occasional mistakes. The expanding desert was creating higher temperatures too early here: odd warming patches that caused plants to leaf or bloom just in time for an abrupt frost. Die-back of plantations was becoming much too common.
A Field Advisor had dredged up the ancient term "Indian Summer" for a report illustrated by projections of an orchard in full blossom being assaulted by snow. Odrade had felt memory stirring at the advisor's words.
Indian Summer. How appropriate!
Her councillors sharing that little view of their planet's travail recognized the metaphor of a marauding freeze coming on the heels of inappropriate warmth: an unexpected revival of warm weather, a time when raiders could plague their neighbors.
Remembering, Odrade felt the chill of the hunter's axe. How soon? She dared not seek the answer. I'm not a Kwisatz Haderach!
Without turning, Odrade spoke to Streggi. "This place, Pondrille, have you ever been here?"
"It was not my postulant center, Mother Superior, but I presume it is similar."
Yes, these communities were much alike: mostly low structures set in garden plots and orchards, school centers for specific training. It was a screening system for prospective Sisters, the mesh finer the closer you got to Central.
Some of these communities such as Pondrille concentrated on toughening their charges. They sent women out for long hours every day to manual labor. Hands that grubbed in dirt and became stained with fruit seldom balked at muckier tasks later in life.
Now that they were out of the dust, Clairby opened the windows. Heat poured in! What was Weather doing?
Two buildings at the edge of Pondrille had been joined one story above the street, forming a long tunnel. All it needed, Odrade thought, was a portcullis to duplicate a town gate out of pre-space history. Armored knights would not find the dusky heat of this entry unfamiliar. It was defined in dark plastone, visually identical to stone. Comeye apertures overhead surely were places where guardians lay in wait.
The long, shaded entry to the community was clean, she saw. Nostrils were seldom assailed by rot or other offensive odors in Bene Gesserit communities. No slums. Few cripples hobbling along the walks. Much healthy flesh. Good management took care to keep a healthy population happy.
We have our disabled, though. And not all of them physically disabled.
Clairby parked just within the exit from the shaded street and they emerged. Tamalane's bus pulled to a stop behind them.
Odrade had hoped the entry passage would provide relief from the heat but perversity of nature had made an oven of the place and the temperature actually increased here. She was glad to pass through into the clear light of the central square where sweat burning off her body provided a few seconds of coolness.
The illusion of relief passed abrupty as the sun scorched her head and shoulders. She was forced to call on metabolic control to adjust her body heat.
Water splashed in a reflecting circle at the central square, a careless display that soon would have to end.
Leave it for now. Morale!
She heard her companions following, the usual groans against "sitting too long in one position." A greeting delegation could be seen hurrying from the far side of the square. Odrade recognized Tsimpay, Pondrille's leader, in the van.
Mother Superior's attendants moved onto the blue tiles of the fountain plaza--all except Streggi, who stood at Odrade's shoulder. Tamalane's group, too, was attracted to splashing water. All part and parcel of a human dream so ancient it could never be completely discarded, Odrade thought.
Fertile fields and open water--clear, potable water you can dip your face into for thirst-quenching relief.
Indeed, some of her party were doing just that at the fountain. Their faces glistened with dampness.
The Pondrille delegation came to a stop near Odrade while still on the blue tiles of the fountain plaza. Tsimpay had brought three other Reverend Mothers and five older acolytes.
Near the Agony, all of those acolytes, Odrade observed. Showing their awareness of the trial in directness of gaze.
Tsimpay was someone Odrade saw infrequently at Central where she came sometimes as a teacher. She was looking fit: brown hair so dark it appeared reddish-black in this light. The narrow face was almost bleak in its austerity. Her features centered on all-blue eyes under heavy brows.
"We are glad to see you, Mother Superior." Sounded as though she meant it.
Odrade inclined her head, a minimal gesture. I hear you. Why are you so glad to see me?
Tsimpay understood. She gestured to a tall, hollow-cheeked Reverend Mother beside her. "You remember Fali, our Orchard Mistress? Fali has just been to me with a delegation of gardeners. A serious complaint."
Fali's weathered face looked a bit gray. Overworked? She had a thin mouth above a sharp chin. Dirt under her fingernails. Odrade noted it with approval. Not afraid to join in the grubbing.
Delegation of gardeners. So there was an escalation of complaints. Must have been serious. Not like Tsimpay to dump it on Mother Superior.
"Let's hear it," Odrade said.
With a glance at Tsimpay, Fali went through a detailed recital, even providing qualifications of delegation leaders. All of them good people, of course.
Odrade recognized the pattern. There had been conferences concerning this inevitable consequence. Tsimpay in attendance at some of them. How could you explain to your people that a distant sandworm (perhaps not even in existence yet) required this change? How could you explain to farmers that it was not a matter of "just a bit more rain" but went straight to the heart of the planet's total weather. More rain here could mean a diversion of high-a
ltitude winds. That in its turn would change things elsewhere, cause moisture-laden siroccos where they would be not only upsetting but also dangerous. Too easy to bring on great tornadoes if you inserted the wrong conditions. A planet's weather was no simple thing to treat with easy adjustments. As I have sometimes demanded. Each time, there was a total equation to be scanned.
"The planet casts the final vote," Odrade said. It was an old reminder in the Sisterhood of human fallibility.
"Does Dune still have a vote?" Fali asked. More bitterness in the question than Odrade had anticipated.
"I feel the heat. We saw the leaves on your orchards as we arrived," Odrade said. I know what concerns you, Sister.
"We will lose part of the crop this year," Fali said. Accusation in her words: This is your fault!
"What did you tell your delegation?" Odrade asked.
"That the desert must grow and Weather no longer can make every adjustment we need."
Chapterhouse: Dune Page 25
