Mohiam entered the main foyer and met the Mother Superior as she glided down the stairs. Three young Acolytes scurried out into the cold, bracing themselves. Mohiam said, “Many Sisters are having trouble staying warm.”
“Winter is a time of testing,” Harishka said in a clipped voice. “But this cold snap comes early, and no one is ready for it.” She motioned with one arm and walked with surprising quickness for a woman of her age. “We have an urgent situation … questions that must be answered immediately. We need your wisdom and experience.”
Intrigued, Mohiam accompanied the other woman down the central corridor past a residential wing, then took a lift to the third floor in a secure section of the enormous building. Mohiam felt a chill when she realized where they were going. She had been here before. “You are taking me to see Lethea, the Kwisatz Mother.”
“Yes. She has grown worse. Much worse.”
Just ahead, a woman’s scream, high-pitched and bloodcurdling, rolled down the corridor. “That’s her!” Harishka said. The door to the Kwisatz Mother’s room was open, but the Mother Superior hesitated before both of them rushed inside.
Ancient Lethea lay on her bed in a large room, her sticklike arms flailing as if fighting invisible ghosts. Five medical Sisters tended her, two of them trying to hold her down, one monitoring instruments that jittered alarmingly; another woman attempted to give her an injection, while the last recorded her unintelligible jabbering. Lethea thrashed her head from side to side and tried to bite one of the Sisters holding her, but another Sister smoothly and forcefully pulled the old woman’s head away, just in time.
Lethea cried out a name that turned Mohiam’s blood to ice. “Jessica! Jessica of Caladan! Take her away! Our future depends on it.” She choked, then spouted more words around spittle in her mouth. “I have seen horror … bloodshed! Disaster! The end of the Sisterhood! Take her from the boy.”
Jessica? Mohiam was surprised. So that is why I’m here?
One of the women, Reverend Mother Terta, looked up with relief when Harishka walked in. Terta had auburn hair and round, anachronistic spectacles. The careworn medical Sister shook her head in dismay. “She is worse than ever. She continues to call out that name, and her vital signs are going downhill at an alarming rate.” As another Sister performed medical tests, Terta spoke in a hushed voice to Mohiam and Harishka. “Who is this Jessica of Caladan? Why is she significant? And who is the boy?”
Mohiam answered, though she reeled at the onslaught of unexpected memories. “The Lady Jessica, consort of Duke Leto Atreides. I was her mentor and proctor at school here. The boy Lethea refers to is likely Jessica’s son. But what does she mean by it? Take her from where?” She was careful to say no more, though she considered.
Mother Superior Harishka was not so circumspect, and her response indicated that Terta was to be trusted. “As a Kwisatz Mother, Lethea understands all the intricacies of our breeding lines. Jessica bore a son to Duke Leto rather than a daughter, as she was commanded. A male child creates complications, as well as possibilities.”
Harishka did not, however, reveal that Jessica was also the natural-born daughter of Reverend Mother Mohiam by the Baron Harkonnen, a fact known to only a select few. Mohiam kept that knowledge to herself and said instead, “But Lethea wants Jessica separated from the boy? She says our future depends on it?”
“She rants,” Terta said. “Often she makes little sense.” She lowered her voice. “And after the destruction she has caused, I would not be confident that Lethea thinks of the Sisterhood’s best interests.”
Harishka nodded. “That is why I called Mohiam, on the chance that she can help us understand before we disrupt our other carefully laid plans.”
Mohiam asked, “Why not just bring Jessica here? To be safe? You know where to find her. Send her a summons, and she must obey. Take her away from Caladan, as Lethea demands. Then you will have your answers. Jessica was raised in the Sisterhood and would never defy a command from her Mother Superior. Why go to all the trouble of bringing me here first?”
“Lethea’s actions are volatile and dangerous. We felt caution was warranted.” Harishka seemed hesitant to say more.
The chill deepened inside Mohiam’s heart. In having a son, Jessica’s act of defiance had caused great turmoil to the extensive Kwisatz Haderach breeding program. Empress Anirul, a previous Kwisatz Mother, had been directly involved in the birth, and treachery had cost her life.
Take her from the boy … Our future depends on it.
Mohiam remained skeptical. “I also question the wisdom of separating a Sisterhood-trained mother from a boy with such potential. I know the preliminary reports. Do we not need Jessica to continue instructing him in Bene Gesserit ways, just in case?”
She looked toward the writhing crone on the bed. The boy, Paul, had been born fourteen years ago. What would have triggered Lethea now?
Leto Atreides was already considering possible marriage matches for the boy, and although the Duke had been ambivalent to her direct offer of assistance in choosing a mate for his son, the Sisterhood had issued instructions to Jessica. Mohiam hoped she would do as she was told. With marriages being considered for Paul Atreides, perhaps that was the catalyst that had increased the dementia of the old Kwisatz Mother.
Terta shook her head. “We want to be careful. We know Lethea’s value as well, even if she is dangerous.”
Mohiam’s brow furrowed. Lethea looked no more than a wisp of a person. “How is she dangerous? She can’t even leave the bed.”
“She is irrational, vindictive, and powerful,” Harishka explained. “She used Voice to compel an unfortunate Sister to bash her own brains out, and forced another to record the whole thing.”
Mohiam was stunned. “You think she wants to kill Jessica if we bring her here?”
“Unknown,” Harishka said. “We have Lethea under constant surveillance, with layers of checks and balances. While medical Sisters tend her in person, others observe from the next room, shielded, ready to spring into action if necessary. We must protect Lethea from herself.”
“And protect us from her,” said Terta.
Disaster! The end of the Sisterhood.
Was the ancient Kwisatz Mother prophetic, or just insane? Mohiam knew about Lethea’s special skills of focused prescience, which rendered her too valuable for the Sisterhood to lose. They had kept her alive through artificial means far longer than they should.
The medical Sisters finally managed to calm the old woman down, and she lay on the bed breathing fitfully, wheezing and coughing. She looked enraged, frustrated, and then as if a switch had been thrown, defeated.
From her years in the order, Mohiam knew that after Lethea began to grow mentally unbalanced, a Bene Gesserit council had held an emergency session to appoint a new Kwisatz Mother. Even as her mind faded, though, Lethea was still consulted when she was not lost in a combination of dementia and spice trance. Enhanced by the consumption of melange, the ancient woman could see the near future of the breeding program. On her more rational days, Lethea had provided invaluable advice and guidance for strategic decisions. Now, though …
“Her moments of clarity are diminishing,” Harishka said. “She used to be lucid every other day or so, but it has been more than a week since we’ve had a glimpse of her real mind.” She looked away. “When I summoned you here, I had hoped you could penetrate her fog, speak to her about Jessica.”
Mohiam drew a breath. “The information is there, inside her head. And she cannot live much longer. Has anyone tried to transfer her memories, as dying Reverend Mothers do?”
The Mother Superior shook her head. “We are worried about damaging the information … and killing Lethea. I kept hoping she would become clearheaded again, so I could make the attempt myself, before she relapsed into gibberish. But it has been so long…”
Harishka glanced at the medical Sisters adjusting the intravenous lines, checking and rechecking the readings. Lethea began to twitch and gurgle. Moh
iam rushed closer, alarmed. “I think she’s dying.”
Terta rechecked some of the vitals and shook her head in dismay. “You may be right.”
Mohiam grew determined. “If she’s dying anyway, we should attempt to transfer her memories. They will be lost regardless.”
Harishka hesitated. “It is too dangerous.”
But Mohiam felt the urgency. “If Lethea dies, we lose whatever is inside her head! There may not be time to call Jessica all the way from Caladan, and I do not see how that would help anyway. We might try to use the energy of another Reverend Mother to capture and transfer the contents of Lethea’s mind. It might be our last chance.”
“She could have only hours left,” said one of the medical Sisters. “Or she might last years more. Her resilience has been incalculable.”
“There are three Reverend Mothers in this room right now,” Mohiam said. “You, Terta, and myself.” She gathered her courage. “I could do it.”
Harishka recoiled. “You are the Emperor’s Truthsayer! The Bene Gesserit could never risk losing you. On Kaitain, you are the Sisterhood’s highest political placement.”
“And we cannot risk the Mother Superior,” Terta said, squaring her shoulders. “Therefore, if we make the attempt, the choice is clear. It should be me.”
As if she had overheard, Lethea convulsed on the bed and clawed at the air, drawing the attention of her attendants. Medical alarms rang out. Harishka flashed an urgent glance at Mohiam, as they both realized that Lethea could perish in a matter of minutes.
“It has to be me,” Terta insisted. “And I should make the attempt now, before it is all lost.”
Harishka nodded reluctantly. “Go ahead.”
The other Reverend Mother pushed her round glasses against the bridge of her nose, shook her hair loose, and cupped her palms against the papery skin on the old woman’s temples. Taking a deep breath, she leaned down and touched her forehead against Lethea’s.
Terta’s worried expression smoothed as she concentrated, extending her thoughts in an attempt to draw out the old woman’s vault of memories.
Mohiam watched, absorbing details.
“I’m getting something,” Terta whispered, her eyes closed behind her glasses. Her voice grew excited. “Yes, I’ve broken through. Oh, incredible! This is fantastic!”
The other women in the room seemed to be holding their breaths.
Then Terta whimpered and shook. She tried to pull away from Lethea, but was unable to do so, as if her brow had fused to the old woman’s forehead. The medical Sister grimaced, struggled, gasped.
Mohiam and Harishka grabbed her arms, pulled her away, and broke the physical contact, but Terta screamed, staggered backward, and wailed. “The voices! Voices overwhelming me!” she howled. “I’m drowning in them!”
The other medical Sisters rushed forward to help her, but she pushed them away and ran blindly, still screaming. With unexpected strength, Terta knocked the other women down, tore herself away, and bolted toward a balcony door.
Seeing her intent, Mohiam shouted, using Voice in an attempt to stop Terta with a command. But even that had no effect.
Reverend Mother Terta crashed open the balcony door, vaulted over the railing, and dove out into the cold winter air. She screamed all the way down.
On the bed, old Lethea fell back into her catatonic state, a cruel smile on her face.…
As a doctor and a scientist, I have studied the intricacies of nature and the mechanisms of the human body. Yet sometimes I wish I did not know the answers.
—DR. WELLINGTON YUEH, private journals
He walked a fine line between being the Duke and being Paul’s father.
As Leto considered the tensions on Caladan, he grew more worried about the depth of corruption implied by the illicit distribution of the now-deadly ailar drug. The ferns were supposedly wild, but this new subspecies was considerably more potent. And the increasing use of “the Caladan drug” implied a lack of leadership and responsibility on his part, which he could not allow.
At home, Leto still felt a reticence from Paul, which came from the boy’s inner turmoil after his father’s brush with death and learning that he had been offered up—at least provisionally—for a political marriage.
Leto wanted to strengthen the relationship, but could not help who he was. He had been raised in a similar fashion, taught to wall off his emotions when he observed Paulus and Helena in their cold and loveless marriage. Neither of his own parents had shown much warmth toward their only child but Leto had not treated Paul like that. In wistful moments, he imagined he could be a father like some of those dockside fishermen who would take their boys out to the boats, let them play with the fishing lines, and help unload the wriggling catch.
As a father—and a Duke—Leto rarely spent such casual, carefree moments with his son, although each year, they did take several days to go on a rugged wilderness retreat, father and son. Otherwise, he and Paul did not laugh or play games. As the head of a House Major, Leto was expected to be formal, serious, and political, and Paul was not allowed to be a rambunctious boy. He had too much to study and practice in preparation for his noble responsibilities. There were other teenagers in Cala City, but the Atreides heir was sheltered. He did not stay out late with friends, didn’t get in trouble with other boys. While Paul devoted hours each day to education that would make him a respected Landsraad leader, he had little chance to experience life.
It was time for them to go away again on an adventure, to make them remember some of their favorite times. Leto needed this, too. He could fulfill two roles, as father and Duke, and do it well.
An hour after dinner, as sea mists rose beneath the cliffs, Leto approached Paul’s quarters, but paused when he heard laughter ahead.
“That move is not allowed, Gurney!”
“Gods below, it certainly is allowed! Who taught you to play cheops?”
“My father did, and he is not a man to be loose with the rules.”
Halleck laughed. “You’ll get no argument from me there, young pup. The Duke is a man who lives within a fortress of rules.”
Paul chuckled. “And in Castle Caladan, my father’s rules are law—even his rules on pyramid chess.”
“Then take my piece, damn you, boy, and I will still win the game.”
Leto stepped through the door and saw Paul and the troubadour warrior seated at a table, facing their game of pyramid chess. The young man’s hand wavered on the third level, hesitating over a game piece.
Startled, Halleck was on his feet in a flash, one hand reaching for the blade at his side, but when he recognized the Duke, he straightened, abashed. “Sorry, my Lord. I did not mean to be so jumpy.”
“It is reassuring, Gurney,” Leto said. “You make me confident that not even a biting fly would get close enough to bother my son.”
Paul rose to his feet in stiff formality. Leto could see the boy wanted to bound toward him, but he held himself back. “Good evening, sir.”
The restraint was exactly what Leto had taught, but now it made him sad—such a formal response even in his private quarters in a relaxed moment. Leto sighed. Was this how he wanted his son to treat him? He softened his voice. “I came to see you. We do not spend enough time together in informal settings.”
Halleck picked up his nine-stringed baliset from the side of the table and prepared to go. “I will leave you two together, my Lord.”
“Stay, Gurney. This concerns you as well. I think you’ll like the invitation.”
Paul brightened. “Are we having a banquet? I will represent House Atreides to the best of my abilities.” Then he tensed. “Or is it a reception to introduce me to marriage prospects?”
Leto again felt the heaviness in his heart. “No, it is a bit more relaxed than that, something you’ll enjoy. It’s time for us to go out on another wilderness expedition. You always like our retreats.”
Paul did smile. “I didn’t expect to go for several months yet. The weather will st
ill be rainy.”
“We’ll bring warm gear,” Leto said. “But I think we could use some time away from being a Duke and the Duke’s heir. Don’t you agree?”
“I would like that,” Paul said. He almost added “sir,” but caught himself. “Where are we going this time?”
Wearing a more serious expression, Leto said, “To the northern wilderness beyond the pundi rice fields and the Arondi Cliffs.” The words raised immediate questions, and he added, “Our little expedition can serve an additional purpose, if we keep our eyes open.”
Gurney was instantly alert. “I will arrange a full security escort, Sire, as well as porters and support staff. What is the purpose of this expedition?”
“Not a full escort. We’ll remain in contact, but the purpose is for us to get away from all this—as Paul and I have done before. But you’ll accompany us, Gurney. And Dr. Yueh.”
“Yueh?” Halleck looked surprised. “I suppose it would be good to have a doctor with us, but I cannot picture that man camping in the wilderness.”
“Neither can I,” Leto admitted, “but I need his expertise, and he needs specimens. While we are out in the forest, we’ll have a chance to investigate the barra ferns. Thufir Hawat tells me ailar is a rough and primitive drug, easily collected and shipped in its raw form without extensive processing.” Leto added in a bitter tone, “The Caladan drug. The Muadh followers simply go out in the forests and collect wild ferns for their rituals. Others could be doing the same.” He frowned. “I may have overreacted with Archvicar Torono. I imagined those people were flaunting their access to the drug, to provoke me somehow. I ignored the obvious possibility that others could be harvesting ferns in the wild.”
He directed his attention back to Paul, who showed an eager smile at the possibility of adventure.
Leto continued, “Yueh wants to search for native ferns and test them, see if he can find this new strain. It has been documented that the plant grows nowhere else but Caladan. The ailar that killed Nupree and Wellan might have been genetically altered, and that raises many more questions. Who is behind such a sophisticated, hidden operation? Something is happening in our uncharted forests, and I want to find it.”
Dune: The Duke of Caladan Page 19
