He inspected rows of modified lasguns, pulse rifles, splinter guns, and projectile launchers. These weapons represented an edgy potential for violence that made him think of Honored Matres. The whores would not want distant and impersonal stunners; they preferred weapons that caused extreme damage up close, where they could see the carnage, and smile. He had already gained far too much insight into their tastes when he’d discovered the sealed torture chamber. He wondered what else the terrible women might have hidden aboard the great vessel.
For the entire time Duncan had been a prisoner aboard the grounded no-ship, these weapons had been stored here, securely locked but still within reach. Had he wanted to, he surely could have broken into the armory and stolen them. He was surprised that Odrade had underestimated him . . . or trusted him. In the end, she had given him what history called the “Atreides choice,” explaining the consequences and allowing him to decide whether or not to stay with the no-ship. She trusted his loyalties. Anyone who knew him, either personally or from history, understood that Duncan Idaho and Loyalty were synonymous.
Now he considered the compact, sealed mines that had been meant to bring the no-ship down in a flaming collapse. A fail-safe.
“Those aren’t the only ticking bombs aboard this ship.” The voice startled him, and he spun about, instinctively assuming a fighting stance. Dour, curly-haired Garimi stood at the hatch. In spite of all his experience with them, Duncan was still astonished by how silently the damned witches could move.
Duncan struggled to regain his composure. “Is there another armory, a secret stash of weapons?” It was possible, he supposed, given the thousands of chambers aboard the giant ship that had never been opened or searched.
“I was speaking metaphorically. I meant those gholas from the past.”
“That has already been discussed and decided.” In the medical center, the first ghola from Scytale’s sample cells would soon be decanted.
“Simply making a decision does not make the decision correct,” Garimi said.
“You harp on it too much.”
Garimi rolled her eyes. “Even you haven’t seen any sign of your hunters since the day we consigned our five tortured Sisters to space. It’s time for us to find a suitable world and establish a new core for the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood.”
Duncan frowned. “The Oracle of Time also said the hunters were searching for us.”
“Another encounter that only you experienced.”
“Are you suggesting I imagined it? Or that I’m lying? Bring me any Truthsayer you like. I will prove it to you.”
She grumbled. “Even so, it has been years since the Oracle purportedly warned you. We have eluded capture all this time.”
Leaning against one of the shelves of weapons, Duncan gave her a cool stare. “And how do you know the Enemy isn’t patient, that they won’t just wait for us to make a mistake? They want this ship, or they want someone aboard it—probably me. Once these new gholas regain their knowledge and experience, they may be our greatest advantage.”
“Or an unrecognized danger.”
He realized he would never convince her. “I knew Paul Atreides. As the Atreides Swordmaster, I helped to raise and train that boy. I will do so again.”
“He became the terrible Muad’Dib. He began a jihad that slaughtered trillions, and he turned into an emperor as corrupt as any in history before him.”
“He was a good child and a good man,” Duncan insisted. “And while he shaped the map of history, Paul was himself shaped by the events around him. Even so, in the end he refused to follow the path that he knew led to so much pain and ruin.”
“His son Leto did not have such reservations.”
“Leto II was forced into a Hobson’s choice of his own. We cannot judge that decision until we know everything that was behind it. Perhaps not enough time has passed for anyone to say whether or not his choice was ultimately correct.”
A storm of anger crossed Garimi’s face. “It’s been five thousand years since the Tyrant began his work, fifteen hundred years since his death.”
“One of his most prominent lessons was that humanity should learn to think on a truly long time scale.”
Uncomfortable with allowing the Bene Gesserit woman so close to so many tempting weapons, he eased her back out into the corridor and sealed the vault door. “I was on Ix fighting the Tleilaxu for House Vernius when Paul Atreides was born in the Imperial Palace on Kaitain. I found myself embroiled in the first battles of the War of Assassins that consumed House Ecaz and Duke Leto for so many years. Lady Jessica had been summoned to Kaitain for the last months of her pregnancy because Lady Anirul suspected the potential of Paul and wanted to be present at the birth. Despite treachery and assassinations, the baby survived and was brought back to Caladan.”
Garimi stepped away from the armory, still obviously disturbed. “According to the legends, Paul Muad’Dib was born on Caladan, not on Kaitain.”
“Legends are just that, sometimes fraught with errors, sometimes distorted intentionally. As an infant, Paul Atreides was christened on Caladan, and he considered that planet his home, until his arrival on Dune. You Bene Gesserits wrote that history.”
“And now you plan to rewrite it with what you assure us is the truth, with your precious Paul and other ghola children from the past?”
“Not rewrite it. We intend to re-create it.”
Clearly dissatisfied, but seeing that any further argument would simply carry them in circles, Garimi waited to see which direction Duncan would walk. Then she turned the opposite way and stalked off.
The unknown can be a terrible thing, and is often made more monstrous by human imagination. The real Enemy, however, may be far worse than any we can possibly imagine. Do not let your guard down.
—MOTHER SUPERIOR DARWI ODRADE
T
he fat Reverend Mother and the feral Honored Matre stood stiffly together, as far apart as they thought they could without being too obvious. Even an observer without specialized Bene Gesserit training would have noticed their dislike for each other.
“You two will have to work together.” Murbella’s voice allowed for no argument. “I have decided that we must devote more of our efforts to the desert belt. Never forget that melange is the key. We will call in outside researchers to set up observation bases out in the deepest worm territories. Maybe we can find a few old experts who actually visited Rakis before it was destroyed.”
“Our melange stockpiles are still significant,” Bellonda pointed out.
“And the sandtrout seem to be destroying all fertile land,” Doria added. “The flow of spice is secure.”
“Nothing is ever secure! Complacency can be a worse threat than the rebel Honored Matres themselves—or the Outside Enemy,” Murbella said. “To oppose either adversary, we must have the absolute cooperation of the Spacing Guild. We need their immense ships, fully armed to transport us to and from anywhere we choose. We can use the Guild and CHOAM as carrot and stick to force planets, governments, and independent military systems to follow our lead. For that, our most effective tool is melange. With no other source, they will have to come to us for spice.”
“Or they can fly other ships from the Scattering,” Bellonda said.
Doria snorted. “The Guild would never stoop to that.”
With a sideways glance at her rival and partner, Bellonda added, “Because we only let the Guild obtain small amounts of spice from us, they also pay exorbitant prices for black-market melange from other stockpiles. Once we force them to exhaust their spice supplies, we will bring the Guild to its knees, and they will do whatever we ask of them.”
Bellonda nodded. “The Guild is probably desperate already. When Administrator Gorus and the Navigator Edrik came here three years ago, they were nearly frantic. We have kept them on a tight leash since then.”
“They could well be on the verge of irrational action,” Doria warned.
“The spice must flow, but only on our terms.” Murbella turned to
the women. “I have a new assignment for you two. When we offer our generous forgiveness in exchange for Guild cooperation in the coming war, we’ll need to be extravagant in our payment. Doria and Bellonda, I place you in charge of managing the arid zone, the spice extraction process, and the new sandworms.”
Bellonda looked shocked. “Mother Commander, could I not serve you better here, as your advisor—and guardian?”
“No, you could not. As a Mentat you have shown great skill in handling details, and Doria has the edge to push where it is needed. Make sure our sandworms produce spice in the quantities we—and the Guild—will need. From now on, the deserts of Chapterhouse are your responsibility.”
AFTER THE UNLIKELY pair left for the desert, Murbella went to see the old Archives Mother Accadia, still seeking essential answers.
In a large and airy wing of Chapterhouse Keep, the ancient librarian had arranged numerous tables and booths where thousands of Reverend Mothers toiled. Under normal circumstances, the Keep’s archives would have been a quiet place for study and meditation, but Accadia had taken on a special mission that gave the New Sisterhood a wealth of unexpected hope.
The Bene Gesserit library world of Lampadas had been among the many planetary casualties from Honored Matre depredations. Knowing their imminent fate, the doomed women had Shared among each other, distilling the experience and knowledge of an entire population into only a few representatives. Eventually, all of those memories, and the entire library of Lampadas, had been placed in the mind of the wild Reverend Mother Rebecca, who had managed to Share again with many others, thus saving the memories of all those people.
Accadia’s grand new scheme was to re-create the lost Lampadas library. She gathered Reverend Mothers who had obtained the knowledge and experiences of the Lampadas horde. The ones who were Mentats were able to remember word for word everything those previous lives had read and learned.
The archives wing was a drone of conversation and background noise, women sitting before shigawire spool recorders and dictating from memory, reading aloud page after page of rare books that their experiences recalled. Other women sat with their eyes closed, sketching on crystal sheets the diagrams and designs that were locked away in memory. Murbella watched volume after volume being re-created before her eyes. Each woman had a specific assignment, to reduce the likelihood of duplicating efforts.
Accadia seemed content as she greeted her visitor. “Welcome, Mother Commander. With great effort, we are managing to undo more and more losses.”
“I can only hope that the Enemy does not obliterate Chapterhouse and render your efforts in vain.”
“Preserving knowledge is never a pointless exercise, Mother Commander.”
Murbella shook her head. “But we don’t seem to have certain vital knowledge. Key elements are missing, the simplest, most straightforward information. Who or what is our Enemy? Why would they cause such appalling destruction? For that matter, who are the Honored Matres? Where did they come from, and how did they provoke such wrath?”
“You yourself were an Honored Matre. Do your Other Memories give you no clues?”
Murbella gritted her teeth. She had tried and tried, with no success. “I can study the course of the Bene Gesserit lines I have acquired, but not the Honored Matres. Their past is a black wall before my eyes. Each time I delve into it, I reach an impassable barrier. Either the Honored Matres do not know their own origins, or it is such a terrible secret that they have managed to block it completely.”
“I’ve heard that is true for all of our Honored Matres who have passed through the Spice Agony.”
“Every one.” Murbella had received the same answer again and again. The origins of the Honored Matres, and of the Enemy, were no more than dim myths in their past. Honored Matres had never been reflective, pondering consequences or tracing events back to first principals. Now, it seemed they would all suffer for it.
“You will have to find the information some other way, Mother Commander. If we discover any clues while reproducing the Lampadas library, I will inform you.”
Murbella thanked her, yet sensed that the information she needed did not lie here.
SHORTLY BEFORE JANESS decided to undergo the Spice Agony—three years after her twin sister had failed—the Mother Commander went to her room in the acolytes’ barracks.
“I deceived myself about Rinya’s chances in the ordeal.” The words did not come easily to Murbella. “I never dreamed that a daughter of mine and Duncan’s could possibly fail. My old Honored Matre hubris showed itself.”
“This daughter won’t fail, Mother Commander,” Janess said, sitting straight. “I have trained hard, and I am as ready as anyone can be. I am frightened, yes, but only enough to maintain my edge.”
“Honored Matres believe there is no place for fear,” Murbella mused. “They do not consider that one can be strengthened by admitting weakness, instead of trying to hide it or bulldoze your way over it.”
“ ‘If you do not face your weaknesses, how do you know where to be strong?’ I read that quote in the archival writings of Duncan Idaho.”
Over the years, Janess had studied the many lives of Duncan Idaho. Though she would never meet her father, she had learned much from the combat techniques of the great Swordmaster of House Atreides, classic fighting abilities that had been recorded and passed on to others.
Setting aside the distraction of Duncan, Murbella looked down at her oldest surviving daughter. “You don’t need my help. I can see it in your eyes. Tomorrow you face the Spice Agony.” She rose and prepared to go. “I have been looking for someone whose loyalties and skills I can trust completely. After tomorrow, I believe you will be that person.”
No land or sea or planet is forever. Wherever we stand, we are only stewards.
—MOTHER SUPERIOR DARWI ODRADE
C
arrying two passengers, the ornithopter flew over the newborn desert and rock formations, heading away from Chapterhouse Keep. Looking back from her wide seat in the rear compartment, Bellonda watched the rings of dying crops and orchards disappear behind the dunes. From the small cabin ahead of her, Doria controlled the aircraft. The brash former Honored Matre rarely let Bellonda pilot a ’thopter, though she was certainly competent. The two spoke little during their hours of flying.
Farther south, the barren regions continued to expand as the planet itself dried up. Over the course of nearly seventeen years, the waterhoarding sandtrout had drained the large sea, leaving a dust bowl and an ever-widening arid band. Before long, all of Chapterhouse would become another Dune.
If any of us survives to see it, Bellonda thought. The Enemy will find us, and all our worlds, sooner or later. She was not superstitious, nor an alarmist, but the conclusion was a Mentat certainty.
Both women wore plain black singlesuits designed for permeability and cooling. Since the assassination attempt at the gathering, Murbella had made the uniform dress code mandatory across the New Sisterhood, no longer allowing the women to flaunt their different origins. “During times of peace and prosperity, freedom and diversity are considered absolute rights,” Murbella said. “With a monumental crisis facing us, however, such concepts become disruptive and self-indulgent.”
Every Sister on Chapterhouse now wore a black singlesuit, without any obvious identifiers of whether she originated from the Honored Matres or Bene Gesserits. Unlike the heavy, concealing Bene Gesserit robes, the fine mesh of the formfitting fabric hid none of Bellonda’s lumpy bulk.
I look like the Baron Harkonnen, she thought. She felt an odd sort of pleasure whenever the ferally lean Doria looked at her with disgust.
The former Honored Matre was in a foul mood because she didn’t want to go on this inspection trip—especially not with Bellonda. In perverse response, the Reverend Mother made an effort to be overly cheery.
No matter how much Bellonda tried to deny it, the two of them had similar personalities: both obstinate and fiercely loyal to their respective factions, yet
grudgingly acknowledging the greater purpose of the New Sisterhood. Bellonda, always quick to notice flaws, had never hesitated to criticize Mother Superior Odrade either. Doria was similar in her own way, unafraid of pointing out faults in the Honored Matres. Both women tried to hold on to the outdated ways of their respective organizations. As the new Spice Operations Directors, she and Doria shared stewardship of the fledgling desert.
Bellonda wiped perspiration from her brow. They were almost to the desert, and with each passing moment, the heat outside increased. She raised her voice above the drone of the ’thopter’s wings. “You and I should make the best of this trip—for the good of the Sisterhood.”
“You make the best of it.” Doria shouted her sarcasm. “For the good of the Sisterhood.”
Bellonda grabbed a safety strap as the ornithopter passed through turbulence. “You are mistaken if you think I agree entirely with what the Mother Commander is doing. I never thought her mongrel alliance would survive the first year, much less six.”
Scowling, Doria steadied the controls. “That does not make us in any way alike.”
Below, patches of sand and dust swirled, temporarily obscuring the ground. The dunes were encroaching on a line of already dead trees. Comparing the coordinates on a bulkhead screen with her notebook, Bellonda estimated that the desert had advanced by almost fifty kilometers in only a few months. More sand meant more territory for the growing worms, and consequently more spice. Murbella would be pleased.
When the air currents smoothed, Bellonda spotted an interesting exposed rock formation that had previously been obscured by thick forest. On a sheer side of the rock, she saw a magnificent splash of primitive paintings in red and yellow ochre that had somehow endured the passage of time. She had heard of these ancient sites, supposedly indications of the mysterious, vanished Muadru people from millennia past, but she had never seen evidence of them before. It surprised her that the lost race had reached this obscure planet. What had drawn them all the way out here?
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