“We Ixians do not rest on our laurels.” Shayama Sen then quoted one of the tenets of Ix, “ ‘Those who do not actively pursue progress and innovation soon find themselves at the tail end of history.’ ”
Khrone interceded before foolish questions could be raised. “We prefer to call these new devices ‘mathematical compilers,’ to avoid inadvertent confusion with thinking machines of any kind. These compilers simply automate the processes that a Navigator or even a Mentat can do. We do not wish to raise the ugly specter that led to the Butlerian Jihad.”
He listened to his own euphemisms and rationalizations, knowing that these men would do exactly what they wanted to do anyway, regardless of laws and moral restrictions. They were just imaginative—and greedy—enough to provide any necessary justifications, should questions come up.
Shayama Sen added with a stern edge to his voice, “If you gentlemen had any doubts, you would not be here. By pretending uneasiness and citing ancient prohibitions against thinking machines, are you trying to bully us into lowering our price? That will never work.” He set his cup down, but continued smiling.
“In fact, it makes commercial sense for us to offer this technology more widely. We believe the New Sisterhood would be particularly eager to obtain navigation devices of their own to build an autonomous fleet. They deal with the Spacing Guild now because they have little choice. How much would they pay for their independence, I wonder?”
At this, Administrator Gorus, the Guild banker, and the CHOAM representative all cried foul, an overlapping litany of protests. They had suggested this line of development in the first place; they had been promised exclusivity; they had already agreed to pay an exorbitant amount.
Khrone intercepted the comments before they could turn into an outright argument. He did not wish to let his carefully laid plans be sidetracked. “The Chief Fabricator is simply offering an example to make certain you understand the value of our technological development. While you gentlemen believe you have some claims to originating this work, you must also realize we could take bids from elsewhere. There will be no raising, or lowering, of the agreed-upon price.”
Sen nodded briskly. “All right, let’s not waste time with such ploys. Our price may be high, but you will pay it. No more outrageous melange expenditures, no more dependence on capricious Navigators. You are visionary businessmen, and even a child can see the immense profits that will accrue to the Guild once your ships are fitted with our”—he paused to recall the term Khrone had suggested—“mathematical compilers.” Then he turned to the CHOAM man, who had eaten all of his confections and finished his hot spice beverage. “I trust I do not need to explain this to a master merchant.”
“CHOAM has to keep up trade even during wartime. Richese is reaping huge profits by building a vast military force for the New Sisterhood.”
The Ixian Chief Fabricator gave an annoyed grunt at the reminder.
Administrator Gorus seemed very excited. “Previously, when we installed primitive navigation machines on Guildships, we still carried a Navigator aboard each vessel.” He looked apologetically at the Chief Fabricator. “We did not entirely trust your earlier machines, you see, but back then we didn’t have to. There were questions of reliability, a few too many missing ships . . . Now, however, with the New Sisterhood’s stranglehold on supplies and the proven accuracy of your . . . compilers, I see no reason not to rely on your navigation machines.”
“So long as they work as well as you’ve promised,” the Guild banker said.
When it was obvious that everyone believed in the new mathematical compilers, Khrone planted his seed of discord. “You know, of course, that this change will make Navigators obsolete. They are not likely to be pleased.”
Administrator Gorus shifted uncomfortably and glanced from the banker to his fellow Guildsmen. “Yes, we know. That is most unfortunate.”
Our motivations are as important as our goals. Use this to understand your enemy. With such knowledge, you can either defeat him or, even better, manipulate him into becoming your ally.
—BASHAR MILES TEG,
Memoirs of a Battle Commander
T
he crisis among the Navigators was so severe that Edrik sought an audience with the Oracle of Time herself.
Navigators used prescience to guide foldspace ships, not to observe human events. The Administrator faction had duped them, bypassed them. The esoteric Navigators had never considered the activities and desires of people outside the Guild to be relevant. What folly! The Spacing Guild had been caught completely off-guard by the loss of spice and the intractability of the only remaining suppliers. A quarter century had passed since the destruction of Rakis; to make matters worse, the Honored Matres had foolishly exterminated every Tleilaxu Master who knew how to produce melange from axlotl tanks.
Now, with so many groups desperate for spice, the Navigators had been forced to the brink of a treacherous cliff. Perhaps the Oracle would offer a solution that Edrik could not see. In their earlier encounter, she had hinted there might be a solution to their dilemma. He was certain, however, that it did not involve navigation machines.
Faced with such a difficult situation, Edrik commanded that his tank be delivered to the giant ages-old enclosure that held the Oracle of Time whenever she chose to manifest in this physical universe. Intimidated in her presence, Edrik had spent a great deal of time planning his argument and marshaling his thoughts, knowing all the while it might be a pointless exercise. With prescience far superior and more expansive than any Navigator’s, the Oracle must already have foreseen this encounter and imagined every word Edrik would speak.
Humbled, he looked out through his curved tank at the Oracle’s translucent structure. Long ago, arcane symbols had been etched into the walls—coordinates, hypnotic designs, ancient runes, mysterious markings that only the Oracle comprehended. Her enclosure reminded him of a miniature cathedral, and Edrik felt like her supplicant.
“Oracle of Time, we face our greatest emergency since the time of the Tyrant. Your Navigators are starving for spice, and our own Administrators plot against us.” He shuddered with the strength of his anger. The foolish lesser Guildsmen believed they could solve the problem by creating better Ixian navigation machines! Inferior copies. The Guild needed spice, not artificial mathematical compilers. “I beseech you, show us our path to survival.”
He sensed an enormous thunderstorm of thoughts, the incredibly complex preoccupation of the churning mind hidden within the swirling mists. When the Oracle answered, Edrik felt that she was granting him only the tiniest fraction of her attention while her brain was focused elsewhere on much larger issues.
“There is always an insatiable hunger for spice. It is a small problem.”
“A small problem?” Edrik said, incredulous. All of his arguments were washed away. “Our stockpiles are nearly exhausted, and the New Sisterhood doles out only a tiny fraction of what we need. Navigators could become extinct. What could be a more vital problem?”
“Kralizec. I will call all my Navigators again when I require them.”
“But how can we assist you if we have no melange? How can we survive?”
“You will find another way to obtain spice—this I have foreseen. A forgotten way. But you must discover it yourself.”
The sudden silence in his mind told Edrik that the Oracle was finished with this conversation and had gone back to pondering her greater questions. He clung to her startling pronouncement: Another source of spice!
Rakis was destroyed, the New Sisterhood refused to release their stockpiles, and the Tleilaxu Masters were all dead. Where else could the Navigators search? Since the Oracle herself had spoken it, he was confident there was a solution. As he drifted, Edrik let his thoughts spin out. Could there be another planet with sandworms? Another natural source of spice?
What about a new—or rediscovered—means of manufacturing melange? What had been forgotten? Only the Tleilaxu had known how to produce spice arti
ficially. Was there a way to rediscover that knowledge? Did someone else still know the technique? That information had long ago been buried by the clumsy Honored Matres. How could it be dredged up again?
The Masters had carried their secrets to the grave, but even death did not always erase knowledge. Elders of the Lost Tleilaxu, shadow-brothers of the once-great Masters, did not know how to create melange, but they did know how to grow gholas. And gholas could have their memories triggered!
Suddenly, Edrik knew the answer, or thought he did. If he resurrected one of the old Masters, then he could wrest that knowledge free. And the damnable Sisterhood would be left without their advantage once again.
The unexplored vastness into which humans fled in the Scattering was a hostile wilderness, filled with unexpected traps and dangerous beasts. Those who survived were hardened and changed in ways that we cannot fully comprehend.
—REVEREND MOTHER TAMALANE,
Chapterhouse Archives,
Projections and Analyses of the Scattering
S
heeana sat cross-legged on the hard floor of the arboretum while the four Futars prowled around her. She used Bene Gesserit skills to slow her heartbeat and respiration rate. After the one called Hrrm watched her dance with the sandworms, the shared awe among the beast-men had kept her safe among them. Although she controlled the scents that came from her body, she did not avert her gaze.
Most of the time the Futars walked on two feet, but occasionally they reverted to a four-pawed pacing. Restless, always restless.
Sheeana had not moved for several minutes. The Futars twitched each time she blinked, and then they went back to their restless prowling. Hrrm came close to her and sniffed. She lifted her chin and sniffed back.
Despite the potential violence in these creatures, she knew it was important for her to be with them inside this large chamber. After continued study, Sheeana was convinced the Futars could reveal much more, if only she could sift the information out of them.
In the deep unknowns of the Scattering, they had been bred by “Handlers” specifically to hunt down Honored Matres. But who were the Handlers? Did they know of the Enemy? Maybe she could winnow out a vital key to the origin of the whores and the nature of the old man and woman Duncan said were pursuing them.
“More food,” Hrrm said, pacing around close to her. His wiry body hair was rank, and his breath smelled like partially digested meat.
“You’ve already eaten well today. If you eat too much, you will grow fat. Then you will be slow on the hunt.”
“Hungry,” one of the other Futars said.
“You are always hungry. Food will come later.” It was a biological impulse for them to want to eat constantly, and their Honored Matre captors had kept them on the verge of starvation. The Bene Gesserit, however, maintained a regular, healthy feeding schedule.
“Tell me about the Handlers.” She had asked the question hundreds of times, trying to get a few extra words out of Hrrm, another kernel of information.
“Where Handlers?” the Futar asked, his interest suddenly piqued.
“They are not here, and I can’t find them unless you help me.”
“Futars and Handlers. Partners.” Hrrm stretched his muscles, snuffling. The other creatures bristled and flexed their cablelike muscles, as if proud of their physical appearance.
Apparently when the Futars had a focus, it was difficult to get them to consider other matters. In any event, Sheeana had convinced Hrrm (and to a lesser extent the other three) that the Bene Gesserits were different from Honored Matres. Hrrm had entirely forgotten that he had murdered a proctor years ago. Though the Sisters were not the much-anticipated Handlers, the Futars had finally accepted that these women were not to be killed and eaten, like Honored Matres. At least Sheeana hoped so. Slowly, she uncrossed her legs and rose to her feet.
“Hungry,” Hrrm said again. “Want food now.”
“You’ll get food. We never forget to feed you, do we?”
“Never forget,” Hrrm confirmed.
“Where Handlers?” another Futar asked.
“Not here. Far away.”
“Want Handlers.”
“Soon. As soon as you help us find them.”
She left the arboretum enclosure as the Futars bounded through the artificial trees, searching relentlessly for something they would never find on the Ithaca. She took special care to lock the chamber securely behind her.
It is often easier for us to destroy each other than it is to resolve our differences. Such is the cosmic joke of human nature!
—MOTHER COMMANDER MURBELLA,
Chapterhouse meeting notes
I
n order to receive their small but desperately needed rations of melange, the Guild regularly sent Heighliners to Chapterhouse. The ships carried supplies, recruits for the New Sisterhood, and surveillance information collected from far-flung scouts. Murbella kept a careful watch on the rebel Honored Matre strongholds, preparing for her next major offensive with the Valkyries.
Six hours before the regular Guildship was scheduled to arrive, a smaller vessel careened into the system. Immediately upon emerging from foldspace, the ship began to broadcast an emergency warning.
The small craft from the Scattering had an unusual oval design, Holtzman engines, and its own no-field that flickered in and out of phase. Spewing out high levels of radiation in its exhaust, the ship had probably been damaged during its headlong flight to Chapterhouse. It maneuvered erratically as it approached.
Upon being notified, Murbella raced to the Keep’s communications center, afraid this might be another embattled Honored Matre ship from far outside the Old Empire. On the screen, the crackling image was so filled with static that she could barely make out the vague outline of a pilot. Only after the ship burned all its remaining fuel to achieve a barely stable orbit did the transmission resolve enough that Murbella could discern the face of a Priestess of the Cult of Sheeana, who had been dispatched by the Missionaria Protectiva to promote the wild new religion.
“Mother Commander, we bring dire news! An urgent warning.”
Murbella could see figures with her in the oval ship’s crowded cockpit, but the Sister had not used any code words to denote that she was being forced or held captive. Knowing the others were listening, but not knowing who they were, Murbella carefully selected her words after identifying the young woman. “Yes . . . Iriel. Where have you come from?”
“Gammu.”
With every moment, the transmitted images became clearer. Murbella could see five people inside the vessel’s piloting chamber. Many of them wore the traditional clothing of Gammu. The anxious passengers appeared to be bruised and battered; dried blood caked their cheeks and clothes. At least two of those aboard appeared to be either dead or unconscious.
“No choice . . . no chance. We had to take the risk.”
Murbella snapped at the nearest woman in the communications center. “Send up a retrieval ship. Get those people down here safely—now!”
“Not much time,” the priestess transmitted; her whole body shook with utter weariness. “Need to warn you. We escaped from Gammu before the Heighliner departed, but the whores nearly killed us. They know what we discovered. When is the Guildship coming?”
“We still have several hours,” Murbella said, trying to sound reassuring.
“It may be sooner, Mother Commander. They know.”
“What do they know? What have you discovered?”
“Obliterators. The Honored Matres on Gammu still have four Obliterators. They received orders from their Matre Superior Hellica on Tleilax. They are coming here aboard the Guildship. They mean to destroy Chapterhouse.”
THOUGH NOT SEVERELY injured, Priestess Iriel was exhausted and nearly starved. She had used all of her bodily reserves to help the small ship escape. Three of her six companions died before they could receive medical attention; the others were taken to the Keep’s infirmary.
Before resting, Iriel i
nsisted on finishing the report to her Mother Commander, even though she could barely remain upright. Murbella summoned potent melange drinks, and the stimulant temporarily revived the battered young woman.
Iriel told of her ordeal on Gammu. She had been assigned to that planet for several years now, given orders to prepare the populace for the coming conflict. By preaching the message of Sheeana and the need to stand against the Outside Enemy, Iriel had cultivated wholehearted fanatical followers. The more concerned the people of Gammu grew about the danger from the outside, the more they wanted to hear Iriel’s message of hope and urgency.
But the rebel Honored Matres also had one of their strongest enclaves there. As the cult spread, the entrenched whores had struck, hunting down Sheeana’s followers. Perversely, the persecution made the cultists more resolute and determined. When Iriel had asked for their help in stealing this vital information and escaping from Gammu, she’d had no trouble finding volunteers. Fifteen of her brave followers had died before the warning ship could take off.
“You have done what was required of you, Iriel. You delivered your warning in time. Now go recover.” Murbella held the Ridulian crystal sheets that the priestess had stolen from the Honored Matres.
Just then the Heighliner arrived—two hours ahead of schedule.
Iriel glanced knowingly at her Mother Commander. “Our work is only just beginning.”
Murbella had hoped for more time, but had not counted on it. Only an hour earlier, suspensor-propelled launchers had placed hundreds of new-design Richesian space mines in orbit. Concealed by individual no-fields, they drifted in the orbital zones where Heighliners traditionally parked.
Her battle orders had already been issued, and as soon as the giant Guildship appeared, the members of the New Sisterhood went to work. Her daughter Janess would lead one of the primary strike teams, but the Mother Commander intended to be in the fight right beside her. She would never let herself become a mere bureaucrat.
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