Sisterhood of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  The robot fell silent for a long moment, then said, “It reminds me of when I was trapped in that crevasse on Corrin, frozen in place, locked there for years and years. Now I’m just as imprisoned, except this is worse, because I can see some of what is going on out there. My son, I so want to participate. Think of how much we could learn, how much we could accomplish!”

  “All those years in the crevasse with nothing to do but think and expand your mind turned you into the remarkable being you are now. Use this time to keep evolving and improving.”

  “Of course … but it is incredibly tedious. I so enjoyed my body!”

  Gilbertus pushed the metallic core back into its hidden shielded alcove, then closed the interlocking compartment segments. He brushed perspiration from his forehead and realized that his heart was pounding.

  Even altruism has business implications.

  —JOSEF VENPORT, VENHOLD INTERNAL MEMO

  As Chief Administrator of the Suk School, Dr. Zhoma could not afford to keep a low profile. Her job was to seek benefactors, highlight the benefits and accomplishments of the Suks—and save the school from its desperate straits. Taking it upon herself to push for the development of advanced medical technology, especially among reactionary populations who viewed science with suspicion, she gave frequent informational speeches to planetary leaders on the League worlds, hoping to inspire them.

  Though she was not a woman to panic or overreact, Zhoma took great care to conceal just how shaky and unstable the school’s finances were after years of mismanagement and corruption by her predecessor. Suk funding had also been damaged by the baffling and ever-growing tide of Butlerians, who shunned sensible medical treatment and testing in favor of prayer. Through it all, the Suk order had to survive, and Dr. Zhoma was determined to save it, regardless of rules or conventions she might have to bend, or break. Even Reverend Mother Raquella did not know of their budgetary plight, because Zhoma would have been ashamed to admit it to her.

  In the year since taking over her position from the charlatan and embezzler Elo Bando, she had spent very little time serving as a physician; instead, she constantly sought funding and promoted the cause of the Suk School. In effect, she had become a solicitor rather than a doctor, but such work was necessary for the survival of the institution, which was widely acknowledged as the best humanity had to offer.

  She had been giving investors a tour through the old Suk headquarters building in Zimia when Emperor Salvador called for her to verify the identity of the man who claimed to be Supreme Bashar Vorian Atreides. She had met Salvador numerous times, as he repeatedly requested replacement doctors and she assigned new ones. The Emperor went through many physicians, treating most of them badly; he hadn’t liked a Suk doctor since Elo Bando (which, in itself, didn’t speak much for the Corrino Emperor’s intelligence, because Bando had been a villain and an idiot).

  Nevertheless, Zhoma had been eager to demonstrate her personal capabilities to the Emperor himself, proving her competence. If the Corrinos became patrons of the Suk doctors, the school’s financial worries would be over. Alas, that was not likely to happen.

  And now she was off on another mission for the school—this time a much more private one. Sometimes, out of sheer necessity, she had to operate in gray areas of the law—as she had done during her brief years at the Sisterhood. The Reverend Mother had once scolded her for easy rationalizations and convenient situational ethics, but Zhoma knew that Raquella would have made the same choices if her Sisterhood were at stake.

  This time, rather than speaking at a banquet or meeting with treasury representatives, Dr. Zhoma had to hide her movements so that no one could track her. She had already assumed three different false identities on the trip to a distant star system, boarding a VenHold ship under one name, getting off, and embarking on another ship as another person, hopscotching from planet to planet to reach an important rendezvous.

  Finally, aboard the appropriate vessel on the appropriate date, she met with Directeur Josef Venport himself.

  All his vessels had ultra-secure decks that housed their mysterious Navigators, as well as restricted areas and administrative boardrooms for conducting business. Zhoma was not dressed as a Suk doctor; she had set aside the traditional silver metal ring that bound her dark-brown hair. Here, she was a businesswoman seeking funding.

  Venport was a husky man with a prominent mustache, heavy eyebrows, and a thick head of combed-back hair. They had met before, both openly in Landsraad situations, and in secret, like today. He had the resources to keep the school intact.

  Now he sat at a flat desk that hovered at exactly the right height, held up by a sturdy suspensor field. Its writing surface was an extremely thin sheet of bloodwood from Ecaz, and the preserved crimson wood grain still flowed and pulsed like a wounded circulatory system.

  Venport was a rugged and inflexible man, yet his eyes now held a twinkle of amusement. “You do understand, Dr. Zhoma, that it’s futile to work so hard at hiding your movements? Every passenger is monitored and investigated from the moment they board.”

  A knot coalesced in Zhoma’s stomach. She always prided herself on her proficiency. “You keep track of everyone on your ships? Everyone?” Considering the number of passengers that moved among the thousands of worlds in the Imperium, she shuddered to think of the sheer recordkeeping capacity that such an effort would require.

  “The VenHold Spacing Fleet has sufficient computing power, in addition to Mentats and expert observers who are trained for our purposes.” For Venport to admit that he used computers—nonsentient ones, of course—was a provocative statement; perhaps he meant to demonstrate a level of trust in her; perhaps he was simply flaunting his invincibility.

  “I hope you don’t share the information you acquire,” she said.

  “Of course not. As a doctor, you also hold a great deal of confidential medical data. We wouldn’t want that to get out, either. Hmmm, we are fiduciaries of certain information, you and I.”

  She straightened. “The Suk School rests on a foundation of trust and reliability. We hold the confidence of our patients to be sacred.”

  Venport brightened. “You see? Rational people understand rational needs. But all too often we have to deal with irrational people, and in times like these, when headstrong barbarians are intent on plunging us into a new Dark Age, I have to be sure of my own allies. That’s why I’ve been willing to help your school.” He folded his hands on top of the bloodwood desktop. The dark red patterns swirled around in an unsettling way.

  Dr. Zhoma managed a brittle smile. Venport had been very generous in helping the Suk School through its severe financial difficulties, but he still charged enough interest to cripple their already shaky treasury. She would have to test his generosity now. “I’ve come to ask a bit more indulgence and understanding from you, Directeur Venport.”

  A frown flickered across his face, and his demeanor changed ever so slightly. He was not a man who liked when things did not go his way. “Please explain further.”

  “I’ll need more time, or more flexible terms, to make the next few scheduled payments. With all of our new facilities on Parmentier, the Suk School is in a difficult transitional period.”

  “Still in budgetary chaos, you mean,” Venport said.

  “That’s the legacy of my predecessor, Dr. Bando—as you well know.” Zhoma swallowed hard, trying to fight back the flush of shame.

  “Fortunately, he is no longer with us.” Venport gave her a knowing smile, which only deepened the disgrace she felt for her involvement in his death.

  Elo Bando had been found dead in his opulent new headquarters office at the half-constructed school complex on Parmentier. Bando had chosen to move the main school complex from Zimia to the former homeworld of the school founder, Mohandas Suk, where the great man had spent years tending the terminally ill.

  Elo Bando’s death had been ruled a suicide, a self-inflicted overdose—a conclusion that was absurd to anyone who looked at the
record: He had been injected more than fifty times with various poisons, stimulants, and hallucinogens, so that his death was long and agonizing. Dr. Zhoma, the school’s secondary administrator at the time, insisted on conducting the pro forma autopsy herself, but she already knew the conclusion she would write in the formal records, and she did not regret what she had done. There could be no excuse for the man’s obscene behavior.

  The reprehensible Bando had nearly destroyed the fine academic institution that Mohandas Suk had founded decades ago, robbing the students and humanity of an enduring legacy of medicine. But the money was gone, thanks to the self-serving, profligate man, and the numerous training hospitals under construction on Parmentier were on the verge of bankruptcy.

  Bando had gained great prominence by worming himself close to Salvador Corrino, gaining the Emperor’s trust, preying upon his phobias, and proposing a host of imaginary and expensive treatments—“poison-protection therapy” and bogus life-extension treatments. For his services to the Emperor, Bando had pocketed huge sums, which he then leveraged to expand the Suk facilities far beyond the school’s means, so that the organization appeared to be flourishing. It was all an illusion, and the school was greatly in debt, built upon a foundation of eggshells.

  Zhoma had caught Elo Bando at his crimes. When she discovered that he had already squirreled away a fortune and was preparing to flee, Zhoma killed the vile man herself, then covered up the matter. It was necessary and she had done it without hesitation, afraid the corruption scandal would expose the school’s precarious financial position. But Bando had conducted his con well and managed to fool all outside observers, especially Emperor Salvador.

  In order to keep the institution solvent, Zhoma didn’t dare reveal to the Emperor how Bando had duped him, so she was forced to turn to alternatives. Foremost among them, Venport Holdings had vast sums of money distributed across numerous enterprises, including interplanetary banking. The tycoon had his own sources of information, and after a careful study of Elo Bando’s autopsy report, he easily surmised what Dr. Zhoma had done—and did not hide what he knew.

  Oddly, her method of dealing with the quack Bando earned her Venport’s delighted respect. He told her that he admired how she’d solved a sticky problem, not to mention the fact that she had gotten away with it. Amused and impressed, he had agreed to loan Zhoma large sums of money. “I do, in fact, understand you very well, Doctor.”

  At first, Zhoma was concerned he would use the knowledge to blackmail her, but Venport was a man who hoarded interesting information, even when he did not necessarily make use of it. But he could, of course, at any time.

  Though murder went against Suk principles, Zhoma knew she had done the right thing, the honorable thing, in killing the charlatan for the sake of the school. She longed to tell the Reverend Mother about it one day, sure the older woman would understand. Even after all these years away from the Sisterhood, Zhoma felt she needed Raquella’s acceptance, if not forgiveness.

  She sat stonily now, facing Venport’s scrutiny. “It’s more than just the financial improprieties my predecessor caused,” she said. “Our school continues to suffer from the Butlerian attitude, the foolish resistance to basic medical technology. They have ransacked, even shut down, some of our modern treatment facilities on other planets. Many lives have been lost because testing scanners and surgical instruments have been smashed.”

  His expression darkened. “You don’t need to convince me, Doctor.”

  “I have faith that enlightenment will prevail.”

  “I wish I could share your faith, Dr. Zhoma, but rabid faith is the biggest problem humanity faces now, and the next Age of Reason will not come easily in this time of magical beliefs and superstitious fear.”

  “So we must continue the fight. You have thrown our school a lifeline, Directeur Venport, and I’m afraid we’ll need it just a little longer.”

  He cleared his throat and said, “I understand the difficulties you face, but let’s discuss practical considerations. As businesspeople.”

  She swallowed hard, fearing what terms he would impose.

  “Here is my solution: I understand that you recently acquired and tested biological samples of Vorian Atreides, on orders from Emperor Salvador? Everyone thought him long dead, but now that he’s come back, he hasn’t aged a day—and the man is over two centuries old!”

  “Due to General Agamemnon’s life-extension treatment,” Zhoma said. “That’s a matter of record in the Annals of the Jihad, but the technique has been lost. Only the cymeks knew how to perform the procedure.”

  “And wouldn’t it be a triumph to find it again? In any event, I want those original samples, Dr. Zhoma. Surely they have not been discarded. Obtain them for me, and I’ll accept that as the Suk School’s next three payments.”

  Zhoma’s brow furrowed. “Those samples are private, strictly for proving the genetic identity of Vorian Atreides. You spoke of fiduciary responsibility earlier, so you already understand that it is highly unethical to use them in any unauthorized manner.” From Venport’s expression, she could see that he was not at all interested in her moral dilemma. When he continued to regard her in silence, she asked, “What are you going to do with them?”

  “That is not your concern. Just see that it’s done.”

  History is best left in the past, so that legends do not interfere with our daily lives.

  —RODERICK CORRINO, PRIVATE MEMO TO THE EMPEROR

  Wearing his old dress uniform from a military force that no longer existed, Vorian Atreides met privately with the Emperor and Roderick Corrino. Despite the lavish surroundings in the Imperial Palace, he preferred his private home with Mariella on quiet Kepler.

  Now that he had reappeared with such fanfare in the public eye, however, he feared the people would not leave him in peace. The enthusiastic public reaction during the recent parade had disturbed him as much as it had the Emperor.

  As Vor entered the Emperor’s personal office, he noted the gilded desk and tables, the priceless paintings on the walls, the ornately woven curtains tied back with gold braids. He remembered his years of fighting in the old League of Nobles; he had been a hero to the people and could easily have crowned himself the first Emperor after the Battle of Corrin. Back then, Faykan Butler had been afraid of Vor’s popularity, not understanding that Vor never had imperial ambitions. He had been paid off and sent away … which was exactly what Vor wanted.

  Now, summoned by Roderick and Salvador Corrino, he could guess that they wanted the same thing. And he would make them pay dearly—again.

  The three men sat at a whorled elaccawood table, and Vor opened the discussion by talking about the dark practice of slavery on the fringe worlds, as well as the cruel men who had recently struck Kepler. “Perhaps it’s time for me to lead a different crusade.” Vor let the anger bubble in his voice, making sure they knew he could cause plenty of trouble if he wished. “Didn’t the Jihad teach us that human beings should not be treated in such a way?”

  “Slavery is still an important part of the economy out in the frontier,” Roderick observed.

  “Then frontier planets need to be protected from the slavers.”

  At the head of the table, Salvador looked unsettled. “There are so many planets, how can we watch them all?”

  Vor narrowed his eyes. “You can start by watching Kepler. Protect my world.” Leaning forward, forcing himself to remain calm, Vor described the day that many of his people had been taken; he submitted a full roster of their names, as well as his bill of sale to prove that he had purchased them from Poritrin. “I freed them this time, but that doesn’t solve the problem. More slavers will prey on my world—and even if they don’t strike my valley again, they will go to one of the other settled areas. You must not allow that to happen, Sire.”

  Roderick’s expression was hard. “We hear your passion, Vorian Atreides, but in an Imperium burdened with crises, a few unruly slavers on minimally populated planets are not our predom
inant concern.”

  “If I chose to rally the people, I could make it a predominant concern,” Vor said.

  Salvador’s anger flared, but Roderick remained calm. “Perhaps you could use your celebrity to accomplish that—and perhaps we can come to some reasonable accommodation. What, precisely, would you like us to do about your situation?”

  “You can’t ask us to outlaw slavery entirely!” Salvador blurted out.

  “I could ask for that, but it would not be practical.” His gaze shifted to the Prince. “What can you do in exchange for my silence, you mean?” Vor paused, and provided the answer. “Simple enough. Issue an Imperial decree announcing that Kepler is off-limits to slavers, then give me a dozen or so warships to discourage anyone who doesn’t listen.”

  Salvador rocked back as if he had been slapped. “One doesn’t speak to the Emperor in such a manner. It is customary to make requests, not demands.”

  Vor found that humorous. “I knew your great-great grandfather. I fought at his side, and his son’s, and his grandson’s—long before you called yourselves Corrinos and long before the Imperium existed at all.” He leaned across the table. “Considering the fact that my family was kidnapped and sold into slavery, you will forgive me for skipping a few niceties. I came here to request your help, but I can just as easily call upon the people. You saw their reaction at the parade. They would rally around a living legend. They’ve seen statues with my face, and coins imprinted with my likeness—just like an Emperor. But I’m sure you would rather they cheered for you than for me.”

  While Salvador reddened, Roderick made a calming gesture to his brother, then said, “Our Imperium is fragile enough as it is—the CET riots, the Butlerians, so many powerful interests pulling us in all directions.” He spoke as if his words were written on fine parchment even before he uttered them. “We shall not tolerate you creating more unnecessary turmoil. Our people must think of the future, not be reminded of the bloody past.”