Sisterhood of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Zhoma actually gasped, then caught herself, fighting to reestablish her cool demeanor. “Reverend Mother, I don’t know … don’t know what to say.”

  Raquella sweetened the offer. “The Sisterhood controls great wealth. If you help us in this matter, I am willing to transfer significant amounts to the Parmentier treasury, an investment to strengthen the new school complex and seal our alliance.”

  She saw the reaction in Zhoma’s eyes. Yes indeed, the medical school was in dire financial straits.

  Zhoma swallowed hard. “Those funds will be well used.”

  Employing a precise tone of voice, with all the persuasion she could muster, Raquella said, “Think of humanity as your patient, not the Emperor. According to our very accurate projections, one of his descendants will wreak havoc on such a scale that by comparison it will make every previous tyrant look like no more than a schoolboy throwing rocks. Our race, our civilization, is on the brink of disaster, and I’m offering you a way to bring us back from the edge.”

  Zhoma’s eyes misted over and she nodded. “Yes, humanity is my patient.” She steeled herself. “I will do it, because I have faith in you, Reverend Mother.”

  As mortal humans, each of us is born with a death sentence anyway, so what difference does a little poison make? Why not take a chance you will survive the ordeal and make something significant of your life? Why not attempt to become a Reverend Mother? I am living proof that this leap in human consciousness can be achieved.

  —REVEREND MOTHER RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL, FROM AN INSPIRATIONAL SPEECH TO ACOLYTES

  Dorotea kept her voice low and intense, even though they were out in the open air, far from other Sisters. “I have something very important to discuss with you, Sister Valya.”

  They had walked to the edge of the paved canopy and sat together on the broad, lavender expanse. From this vantage, Valya could see the cliff wall and the steep path from which she had pushed Ingrid to her death. After Anna Corrino was caught trying to steal one of the experimental Reverend Mother poisons from Sister Karee’s lab, and the dismissive report of Ingrid’s death was published, Dorotea had been wary around Valya.

  Now, not sure what to expect, Valya kept her body alert against attack. How much had Dorotea discovered? For good or ill, though, Dorotea seemed to resent Reverend Mother Raquella’s reaction, but not Valya’s. As proof of that, Valya was still invited to sit in on the hushed meetings of the secret group Dorotea had formed, spreading rumors of illegal technologies in the Sisterhood.

  “I am always here if you need to talk with me,” Valya said. “We are friends, aren’t we?”

  For some time now, she had stayed close to Dorotea, so that she could keep an eye on the other woman, stringing her along with a cleverly feigned concern over Ingrid. The unfortunate side effect was that even the smallest amount of warmth that Valya displayed toward Dorotea made Anna Corrino jealous, and the Emperor’s sister was not accustomed to sharing. But Dorotea was a more immediate problem.

  Valya had her priorities clear: If she had to kill again to protect the secret of the breeding computers, she would do so without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Sometimes we are friends,” Dorotea answered, “yet sometimes we seem to be rivals. Even so, I respect you, Sister Valya. I know we are equals, and the Reverend Mother assigned important responsibilities to each of us. You and I are the Sisterhood’s best hope to become the next Reverend Mothers—and we must prove ourselves worthy. It’s up to us.”

  Valya swallowed hard, and asked a question to which she already sensed the answer. “And how do you think we should do that?”

  Dorotea reached into her robe pocket and withdrew two small capsules, one slightly darker than the other. “These are derivatives of the Rossak drug, which I recently prepared with Sister Karee—a slight, but critical, alteration. It’s the substance she intends to give to the next volunteer.”

  “The Rossak drug? That’s what almost killed Reverend Mother Raquella. Everyone else who consumed it has died.”

  “Not this particular formulation,” Dorotea said. She held out the capsules. “These are the best chance we will ever have. By passing through the ordeal, we will become as powerful as Reverend Mother Raquella.”

  First Anna, and now Dorotea …

  The older woman extended one of the pills, but Valya did not move to accept it. Based on everything that had happened before, this would be suicide. But she didn’t want to appear to be a coward to someone as influential as Dorotea … did not want to mirror the shame of her ancestor Abulurd Harkonnen. “I long to have the control and wisdom of a Reverend Mother, like Raquella, but the pathway is too uncertain.” Valya had too much at stake—what would Griffin do without her? She had to live so she could help him take advantage of the situation after killing Vorian Atreides. She also had to finish her Sisterhood training and return to House Harkonnen so they could reclaim their heritage.

  She did not want to end up a rotted, half-consumed corpse dumped in the jungles, like the other dead Sisters.

  “Someone needs to be first. I had hoped you would join me.” Dorotea’s voice had an edge. “When we are both Reverend Mothers, we can talk to the other Sisters and use our heightened perceptions to discover who is lying—and what really happened to Ingrid.”

  Stalling for time, Valya gazed out on the sunlit, polymerized canopy. Of course, she had no intention of helping this woman discover that particular truth. “You may not like the answer you find. What if it truly was an accident?”

  “Then it was an accident. But at least we’ll know what happened.”

  Valya was playing a very serious game, trying to monitor and distract Dorotea for the good of the Sisterhood. Right now, with Raquella away at the Suk School, she felt that the other woman was most dangerous. “We can’t consume the poison out here on the open canopy.” She glanced down at the jagged chasms in the silvery treetops, and the fatal drop to the jungle floor. “We should be inside the medical chambers, under careful supervision by doctors, when we try the poison. This is even more dangerous—”

  Dorotea frowned. “It is an inner battle, a challenge we must face ourselves. No amount of medical assistance will help us.” She found a sturdy, open section of the reinforced canopy. “We’ll be as safe here as any place in the caves—if we survive the poison. It is up to us, Valya … not to any doctors.”

  Valya looked down at the poison pill and felt her pulse racing. She could easily grab it and swallow it—or slap it away.

  Dorotea said, “You know this is what the Reverend Mother wants.”

  Valya had seen so many previous volunteers—the absolute best candidates at the time—perish in the attempt, or end up brain damaged. “Why would you take such a risk yourself?”

  “The primary tenet of the Sisterhood is for us to reach the pinnacle of humanity, but I suspect corruption in our order, maybe even the insidious influence of thinking machines. If I become a Reverend Mother, then I will be equal to Raquella. I will be her obvious successor, and I can lead the Sisterhood along the proper path. We can share that power, if you join me.” Sister Dorotea withdrew her hand. “Or are you afraid to join me?”

  “I didn’t say that, but the odds of success are vanishingly small. If we truly are the best the Sisterhood has, then would it not cause great harm to the school if we both died?”

  “If humans did not harbor unrealistic hopes, we would never have defeated Omnius. If we each take the pill, Valya, one of us could very well survive and become the natural successor to Reverend Mother Raquella. And if we both survive, then you and I share leadership. It is the best chance for the Sisterhood’s future. Up to now we’ve been veering off course, and this is the only way we can guide it in a different direction.” She extended the second capsule again. “Please, Valya. I want you with me.”

  Reluctantly, Valya accepted the pill.

  Dorotea seemed greatly relieved. “Let’s do it now! We have waited long enough already.” Her eyes shone with a strange inten
sity. Then, as if eager to proceed before she lost her nerve, Dorotea downed her capsule.

  In alarm, Valya mimicked her gesture, pretended to pop the other pill into her mouth, but palmed it instead and waited to see what would happen to Dorotea.

  Swallowing the drug, Dorotea let out a sigh, closed her eyes … and began to writhe on the rough surface of fused leaves, slowly at first, and then with increasing agony. Valya watched her convulsions for a moment, not daring to help or sound an alarm. Finally, Dorotea curled up with her face contorted in pain; spittle trickled from her clenched lips.

  Valya touched her shoulder, feeling the tremors of violent shivers, and then no movement at all. She leaned closer, unable to tell if the other Sister was still breathing. Valya disposed of her own pill, dropping it through a gap in the branches, letting it fall all the way to the jungle floor, far below.

  Behind her, she heard Sisters running toward them and their voices calling for help. In a subterfuge of her own, Valya pretended to collapse and began to twitch and spasm. She hoped her display was convincing.

  The desert is not always the safest place to hide.

  —ZENSUNNI SAYING

  When the investigator reported to Griffin that he had been unsuccessful in finding any information about Vorian Atreides, the man demanded payment nevertheless. Griffin refused, citing their oral agreement. When the man pressed the issue and threatened him with a projectile pistol, Griffin broke his wrist with a crisp blow, and took the weapon away from him.

  “I have my own leads to follow,” he said.

  Leaving the whimpering man behind, Griffin went to the Arrakis City headquarters of the Combined Mercantiles spice-harvesting operations. Encompassing two square blocks, the building looked like a fortress. Considering the upheavals, feuds, and competing melange operations on the desert planet, perhaps it was a fortress.

  Still unsettled by this world’s rugged violence, which he had encountered twice now, Griffin did not relax his guard as he continued to search. He refused to touch the contingency funds he had set aside to buy his passage back home, but he would spend the rest of his money, exhausting it in an attempt to find Vorian Atreides and achieve the result that honor demanded.

  Revenge pays its own debt, his sister had said.

  And when he finally returned to Lankiveil, he could focus on putting the house in order and expanding their commercial dealings, seeking to set the family on a steady course.

  The previous day, he had recorded a lengthy message for Valya, describing his progress and his hope for the imminent completion of his quest. He wanted to reassure her how hard he’d been working. Recording the message focused his thoughts and fueled his desire to continue, even so far from home.

  For sentimental reasons, he recorded another brief letter to the rest of his family on Lankiveil, though he did little more than tell them he was healthy and safe, and missed them. By the time he got home, he was sure his certification as a Landsraad representative would be waiting for him. At the end of the letter, he gave his father several assignments—to send inquiries to Salusa about acquiring office space near the Landsraad Hall, to negotiate short-term construction projects with inland laborers who came to the coast each spring, and to invest in whale-fur futures on a particular harvesting fleet—though he didn’t know if Vergyl would follow through on any of it. Griffin paid a fee to dispatch the messages to Rossak and Lankiveil, aware that they might be months in transit.

  He went to the headquarters of the spice operations and asked several clerks for information on a possible employee named Atreides. In response, he received only uncaring shrugs; a bored-looking woman merely told him, “When people come to Arrakis, they don’t want to be found.” Flustered, Griffin paid to peruse the personnel records on the many spice crews that worked in the desert for Combined Mercantiles, and the clerk gave him a dauntingly large and disorganized set of record books.

  He spent the better part of that day combing the lists for one specific name. The logbooks were incomplete, some organized by date of hire, others grouped by crew locations. Only three volumes listed the names in alphabetical order. The work crews were paid in cash or water, and very little record was kept of other financial transactions.

  If Atreides was using an alias, Griffin might never find him, but the self-important man was not the sort of person to hide his identity. Did he have any reason to?

  While Griffin pestered them with questions, the Combined Mercantiles clerks were preoccupied by a disturbing new report, that a spice crew had been ambushed out in the desert, the equipment destroyed and every one of the workers killed. The loss of the crew and machinery would typically have been written off as due to weather or sandworm attack, but an eyewitness had reported that the harvester was attacked by armed men. Combined Mercantiles immediately increased the security alert and redoubled military escorts on their desert operations.

  Perhaps the victims had been Vorian’s crew, Griffin mused, which gave him some measure of hope. Valya would never be satisfied if the man perished without first having to face a Harkonnen and suffer for the pain he had caused, but Griffin was not sure how he felt about that himself. He had never killed anyone before.

  He spotted a desert woman leaving the headquarters and hurried to query her. She was hardened, weathered, and covered in dust. Her blue-within-blue eyes were bird-bright as he stopped her. She sneered at his offer of a bribe. “Information is not a thing to be bought or sold, but to be shared, or withheld—as I see fit.”

  The woman brushed past him, but he persisted. “I’m looking for a man named Vorian Atreides. He’s somewhere on Arrakis, but I don’t know where to look.”

  Her brows drew together, and she fixed a breathing mask over her mouth. She seemed anxious to go. “What do you want him for?”

  “I need to speak with him about a personal matter. He knew my family a long time ago.”

  She didn’t seem to believe him, had a strange, agitated look on her face. “I have never heard of the person you seek. You’re wasting your time.” He thanked her as she hurried out into the street, showing no more interest in him.

  * * *

  THE DESERT’S QUIET emptiness gave Vorian a sense of serenity, especially at night. He missed his contented nights in a familiar bed with Mariella, yet felt comfortable among these Freemen, though they remained wary and suspicious of him; he doubted they would ever accept an outsider, even if he spent the rest of his life here.

  From the other desert people, he’d heard tales of the tribulations endured by the Freemen, the generations of slavery, how their ancestors rioted on Poritrin and stole an experimental spacefolder ship for a mass exodus from the League Worlds, only to crash here on Arrakis. They joined with the descendants of a legendary desert outlaw, Selim Wormrider. All that history, unknown and unwritten, was fascinating to Vor—the rest of the Imperium was entirely unaware of it.

  He liked to sit outside under the stars. He looked up now as the two moons drew close in the sky, the lower and faster satellite approaching its cousin. The Freemen had set out innovative dew collectors among the rocks, condensing a faint trace of moisture as the atmosphere cooled. Most of Sharnak’s people were asleep, and those on sentry duty ignored him.

  As he pondered these things, his eyes spotted a flicker of movement in the shadowy rocks below. For an instant, moonlight exposed a pair of figures, which vanished again into black obscurity. Alert, he tried to convince himself that he had seen a pair of evening scouts sent out by Naib Sharnak. Who else could possibly be out here, and how would they survive?

  Sitting motionless, he studied the rocks for a long moment, caught another moving shadow, then crept back inside and closed the cave’s moisture door as he looked for one of the camp guards.

  By now he had grown accustomed to the wealth of unusual smells and common background noises of people crowded together with very little comfort or privacy. The tunnels were dark and silent, but he found one of the sentries, a sour-faced man with a patchy beard.
The man seemed annoyed at the interruption of his nocturnal wanderings.

  “I saw something outside,” Vor said. “You should find out what it is.”

  “There is nothing out there but rocks and sand—and Shai-Hulud, if you are unfortunate enough to see him.”

  “I saw two figures out there.”

  “Only ghosts or shadows. I have lived in the desert all my life, offworlder.”

  Vor bristled, spoke loudly. “Once, I commanded the entire Army of Humanity, and fought more battles than you could imagine. You should at least look into it.”

  Hearing voices, another sentry came up, one of the young men who had been dispatched to investigate the spice-harvesting site. For days now, Inulto had listened to Vor talk about Arrakis City, Kepler, and Salusa Secundus, all of which were equally exotic to him. He seemed inclined to believe Vor, and said, “Come, we’ll wake up Naib Sharnak and let him decide.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” said the sour-faced sentry. “I forbid it.”

  Inulto scoffed, showing little respect for the other man. “You forbid nothing, Elgar.” Ignoring him, the scout led Vor to Sharnak’s quarters, muttering in a sarcastic tone, “Elgar thinks he’ll be our Naib one day, but he can’t even lead the tribe when only five of us are awake.”

  They called at the curtain, and Naib Sharnak came out, blinking and grumbling. His dark, gray-shot hair, normally braided, was spread out in a flowing fan, rumpled by sleep. However, before Vor could tell the leader what he had seen, shouts came from down the stone corridor, and a piercing scream.

  Sharnak was instantly awake, yelling to rouse his people. The men and women of the caves bounded out of their sleeping chambers, calling their fellows to arms; they had not forgotten being preyed upon by slave hunters, even after generations of relative peace.

  “Give me a weapon!” Vor shouted. Inulto had only one knife, but Sharnak kept a pair of the milky-white daggers. Grudgingly, he handed one to Vor, and the three ran down the corridor.