Sisterhood of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Salvador looked decidedly uncomfortable. “There have been … concerns expressed about some of the technology being used by the Suk School. I simply wanted to ensure we had nothing to worry about.”

  The crowds cheered and whistled as the roof on one of the building’s wings collapsed.

  “But you had only to consult with me! I assure you the Suk School neither creates nor uses any technology that violates the principles.”

  “But your attitude is wrong, Doctor,” Manford said, as if explaining to a child. “I have read of the tortures performed by the robot Erasmus in the name of research. And we will send inspectors to Parmentier, to be certain.”

  “That will not be necessary, Leader Torondo,” Roderick interrupted in a hard voice. “We agreed to this demonstration today, and that is quite enough.” Zhoma looked at him, grateful for at least that small amount of support; Salvador, though, did not look sympathetic to her at all.

  The Emperor refused to stand up for the school and its physicians, and yet he wanted her to monitor his health and cure his every ill? Zhoma’s heart pounded. As she looked at Salvador, she could fully believe Reverend Mother Raquella’s contention that this man would spawn a monstrous tyrant within a few generations. Yes, he had to be sterilized—at the very least. But how much more damage would Salvador do throughout the rest of his reign?

  Zhoma watched in dismay as demolition engineers set charges around the research laboratory structure, the oldest building in the complex. She smelled smoke from the other building, and could no longer watch. She covered her eyes, but Roderick touched her arm, and whispered, “You must not look away, or it will cause you more trouble. This battle is already lost.”

  Salvador continued to watch. He didn’t even seem disturbed to observe the destruction. Trembling and feeling sick to her stomach, Dr. Zhoma looked down in an attempt to conceal her agony.

  With the buildings destroyed behind him and smoke rising into the air, Manford Torondo rode on the stone-faced Swordmaster’s shoulders, to a speaking platform. An aide scurried up and handed him a bound volume, after which Manford said, “These passages are from the journals of the evil robot Erasmus, the accounts of the demented, horrific medical experiments he performed on human captives.”

  Zhoma blinked, horrified but also fascinated. The records of those experiments had been sealed away, although she knew they contained valuable medical data. How had the Butlerians managed to obtain them?

  Manford began to read, his words amplified across the throng by an unseen sound system. The crowd wailed and grumbled as he recited countless descriptions of tortures performed on countless captives—how he had cut limbs from living subjects and grafted on bizarre replacements, how he had vivisected thousands of victims, simply to understand how human beings functioned.

  When he was finished, Manford closed the book and waved to the burning administration building behind him. “Suk medical research is much the same as what the robot Erasmus did, and now we have prevented such horrors from occurring here. Using technology to keep oneself alive is unnatural—like what the cymeks did to themselves. Proper care and prayer are all a person needs to stay healthy. If such is not sufficient, if a person requires extraordinary machines to remain alive, it is that person’s time to die. One should be content.”

  Frightened by the fervor, Zhoma wished she could get rid of this fanatic, just as she had eliminated the charlatan Dr. Bando. Without the assistance of “extraordinary machines,” the legless man would never have survived the explosion that destroyed half of his body.

  And Emperor Salvador was allowing this descent into barbarism! Had all of society gone insane?

  Leaning close again, Roderick said, “Believe me, Doctor, we will try to make amends to the Suk School.”

  Emperor Salvador strolled over to Zhoma, smiling with relief. “There now, that’s over with, and the Butlerians can be on their way back to Lampadas. Come with me to the Imperial Palace, Doctor. We will share a sumptuous banquet, and I’ll begin to tell you of my ills.”

  Some people consider facts to be dangerous things that must be locked away and carefully guarded. But I consider mysteries a far greater threat. We should seek answers wherever possible, regardless of the consequences.

  —GILBERTUS ALBANS, SECRET ERASMUS DIALOGUES

  The skimcraft returned to the desert sietch just after dawn. Still on high alert from the previous night’s attack, Naib Sharnak’s guards swept out to surround the craft, weapons drawn, ready to fight. They were battered and bruised, still in shock, grieving for lost comrades.

  Ishanti emerged from the skimcraft, baffled by their behavior. “I just returned from Arrakis City where I made my report to Combined Mercantiles.” She scowled at them. “You know who I am. You act like frightened desert mice.”

  Sharnak himself came out to meet her. “They struck us in the night, causing great damage and killing six. We managed to drive them off, but they’re still out there.” He shook his head. “We thought you might be their reinforcements.”

  “Who attacked? Another spicing operation? A military force?” Her eyes widened. “Was it the two pursuing Vorian and me?”

  Sharnak seemed embarrassed as he admitted, “Yes, only two of them.”

  One of the young fighters blurted out, “They were demons that could not be killed! We slashed and stabbed them with knives, pummeled them with fists, and they brushed it all aside.”

  Sharnak gave a sage nod. “I fear they will come back.”

  “A Naib should show no fear,” Ishanti said with a scolding tone. “Yet I know how monstrous those two are.”

  Sharnak looked grim. “The attackers were looking for Vorian Atreides. He brought down the calamity on us, and his fate will be determined by the sietch.”

  “His life is in my hands,” Ishanti said. “I rescued him.”

  “Now he owes a debt to our tribe: six Freemen dead, five wounded—and there may be more casualties if the attackers return.”

  Ishanti showed her annoyance. “Take me back into the caves. I have troubling news that Vorian Atreides needs to know.”

  * * *

  VOR WAS RESTLESS in his stone-walled chamber while two young and anxious Freemen waited outside the opening, their hands on the hilts of their daggers. He considered guards redundant. Where would he go? He wanted to be alone to ponder the implications of what Andros and Hyla had said.

  They claimed to be General Agamemnon’s offspring? The idea was so unexpected that he had been crippled by shock, and now Vor was ashamed. He still had his personal shield; perhaps if he had fought harder, breaking free of the Naib’s orders and throwing himself against his “siblings,” the innocent tribe members might not have been killed.

  The desert people had every right to hold him accountable. His long and eventful life might end here in an isolated desert settlement where no one in the Imperium would ever know what had happened to him.

  How he missed Mariella and his friends and family on Kepler, although he had accepted the fact that he might never see them again. All the people from that part of his life now joined the ever-growing lists of aches and regrets, from Leronica and that branch of his past, even to Xavier Harkonnen and young Abulurd. Xavier in particular had been treated badly by history, and Vor was the only one who knew the truth, that his friend’s death had been heroic.…

  A long time ago, when they’d worked as a team, Vor and Abulurd had planned to correct that injustice as soon as the thinking machines were defeated at Corrin. But after Abulurd betrayed him and nearly lost the Battle of Corrin because of his cowardice, Vor had refused to follow through on those plans, and as a consequence Xavier was still portrayed as a monster in the official records. Vor felt guilt for that. Abulurd deserved his punishment, but Xavier was merely a scapegoat in the politically driven Jihad.…

  Yes, after his long life, Vor knew he needed to atone for many things, and he did not make excuses or ignore his responsibilities. He tried to do what was right and necessar
y—and hope that the two things were the same more often than not.

  The twins had come hunting for him. Did they want to recruit him, or kill him? Vor had assassinated their father, but the cymek general had deserved to be executed, and Vor would not accept even a momentary flicker of guilt about that, even if the strange children of Agamemnon demanded revenge.

  Vor heard someone approaching. The young guards outside the door stood at attention and acknowledged Ishanti and Naib Sharnak. Vor turned to face them as they entered.

  The desert woman crossed her arms over her chest and did not defer to the tribal leader. “Sounds as if you’ve been busy while I was gone, Vorian Atreides.”

  “I did not intend to be, but the killers followed us here.”

  “One day they will come back,” the Naib said, “and we could better prepare ourselves if we understood who they are.”

  “I already told you what I know.” But the Freemen had been away from the League for so long that they didn’t understand the power and fear General Agamemnon had wielded; they didn’t understand the indelible mark he had made on human history. He lowered his voice. “Again, I never intended to bring any harm to your people.”

  “Your intentions do not bring back the spirits of those slain.” The Naib shot a sharp look at Ishanti. “And you are the person who brought him here, uninvited. There are those who mutter that you should be cast out in the desert along with this man.”

  Ishanti gave a rude snort. “Let them try. Let them openly accuse me, and I’ll answer in my own defense. If they’re too frightened to do that, then their whispers are no more than the mutterings of a lone wanderer on the sand. I stand by Vorian Atreides. I believe he is honorable.”

  Vor appreciated her support. Ishanti was rough and leathery, and the desert had scoured the beauty from her. Unwed and independent, she was an anomaly among the Freemen, and he wondered if she might actually be flirting with him. What did Vor care about her age? He had already spent a lifetime with each of two wives, and loved them even as their bodies grew old and infirm. But so soon after leaving Mariella, he had no interest in romance, wasn’t sure he ever would again.

  Naib Sharnak continued, “We Freemen can defend ourselves—but this is not our battle. It has never been our battle, and I refuse to waste the blood of my people on your enemies. I have decided to cast you out into the desert, stranger, for our own safety.”

  Ishanti looked indignant. “Give him supplies and a chance.”

  The Naib didn’t care, one way or the other. “So long as you pay for them, Ishanti. To me, it is not imperative that he dies—simply that he leaves.”

  “First, you should hear what I discovered in Arrakis City.” Ishanti looked at Vor. “I dug through the records of Combined Mercantiles, and found that no rival company claims responsibility for the attack on the spice operations.”

  “I told you,” Vor said. “If those two are the children of Agamemnon, they were hunting me. They don’t care about politics or melange harvesting.”

  “True … but another man approached me in the city, asking detailed questions about Vorian Atreides, as well.”

  Naib Sharnak made a sound of disgust. “Just how many people are after you?”

  Ishanti added, “And why? What have you done?”

  “I’ve done plenty, but I’m still at a loss.” Had Agamemnon released yet another murderous offspring to track Vor down? “Tell me about the man trying to find me.”

  “He was young and water-fat, no more than twenty-five years. Blond hair and a goatee, like nobles wear. He was blatant, even clumsy, when he asked about you. If he was a spy, he wasn’t much of one.”

  Vor didn’t know anyone that young, and it didn’t sound like anyone from Kepler.

  Ishanti turned to the Naib. “If dangerous people are hunting for Vorian Atreides, we should find out who they are before we banish him into the desert. What if they come out here?”

  The Naib considered this for a moment, and nodded. “We must be prepared to defend ourselves.”

  Ishanti said quickly, “I’ll take care of it.”

  * * *

  IN HIS WEEKS in Arrakis City, Griffin had spent most of his money, and so far his search had yielded nothing. He had only sufficient funds for two more nights of lodging, and barely enough for food and water. Though he had tried to be frugal, he’d spent too much on fruitless bribes.

  The specter of Vorian Atreides had loomed over generations of the Harkonnen family, and he was amazed that the man’s name evoked no reaction here. The people on Arrakis were so concerned with their daily toil that they cared little for a figure in a war that had begun almost two centuries ago.

  Griffin refused to touch the final stash of credits he had set aside to buy passage off the planet. He would not compromise there: He had no intention of being stranded on Arrakis, whether or not he found Vorian Atreides. Two more days … and he would go home.

  He missed Lankiveil. He had done what Valya asked, tried his best, but it had not gone well, and House Harkonnen might have to delay, or even abandon, its plan of vengeance.

  Feeling no need to socialize, Griffin took his meals in his room. He was also wary of venturing out into the streets after sunset.

  A furtive signal at his door surprised him, and he wondered who could possibly wish to speak to him, especially this late at night. However, he knew he had spread his name widely, planting tiny seeds of bribes with promises of more to come—though he had little money left. He hoped it was someone responding to his inquiries.

  He opened the door to see three people in desert garb, their faces cloaked by dark scarves and hoods. “We have questions for you,” said the person in front, a woman. The voice behind the scarf was raspy and harsh.

  He saw her eyes, noted something about her … and then recognition came. “I spoke with you at the spice administration building.”

  Without invitation, the three desert people pushed into his room. “You ask too many questions, and we want to know why.”

  The young men with her sprang forward. One grabbed Griffin’s arms, and the other tugged a dark hood over his head. He fought back with a strength and speed that surprised them, bruising one, knocking another to the floor—then someone pressed a needle-jet against his neck, and the idea of struggling evaporated into blackness.

  Life is filled with tests, one after another, and if you don’t recognize them, you are certain to fail the most important ones.

  —ADMONITION TO ACOLYTES, THE ROSSAK SCHOOL

  A lone man stood in morning sunlight on the highest rooftop of the Mentat School, staring out at the marsh lake. He wore a wide-brim hat, which he removed to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Gazing across the greenish waters, he saw only school security boats performing their rounds. It was deceptively serene out there, in contrast to the stormy mood in the classes, fostered by the rigid and angry Butlerian students.

  Gilbertus still faced repercussions from the debate in which he had voiced sympathy for thinking machines, albeit theoretically and for instructional purposes only. He had been foolish to believe that the vehement antitechnology followers could even pretend to be logical or objective. And he had placed himself at risk.

  Now that Manford had returned to Lampadas with all his followers and a fleet of dedicated warships, the situation was bound to grow worse. Word had leaked out, reports had been whispered. From the capital city on the main continent of Lampadas, Manford Torondo responded by publicly calling upon Gilbertus to explain himself and renounce his sympathies toward the hated thinking machines.

  High above the linked floating buildings in the complex, Gilbertus walked along the roof edge to the opposite side, where he could look down on the connected buildings. Some structures had been vandalized overnight: heavy objects thrown through windows, and the words “Machine Lover!” painted on his office door. One shockingly primitive drawing depicted Gilbertus himself copulating with a thinking machine. And his students had been carefully selected as the br
ightest, most talented minds?

  By his orders, maintenance workers were painting over the graffiti right now, and performing repairs. He realized he should have been more skillful and cautious in the debate. It was his own fault that the discontent had flared up, but he still didn’t understand how his own students could do such barbaric things to the revered school.

  Many of his trainees remained objective, and quietly supportive, but afraid to criticize the outspoken Butlerians. One student had whispered quickly in passing, “We are with you, sir. We know you didn’t mean what you said in the debate.”

  Now Gilbertus put the hat back on, and drew a deep breath. Despite the cool morning, he could not control the flow of perspiration. He believed in facts, data, and science—and the Mentat School had been built on that firm foundation. He had made many Mentat projections during his life. He was a mathematical fortune-teller, using statistics rather than paranormal powers to predict certain outcomes. Though the Butlerian-trained students in the school were a minority, he had not allowed for the fact that they were more vocal than the moderates, as well as prone to exaggeration and intimidation. He should have projected how swiftly they could make other students at the Mentat School turn against him, or at least fall silent rather than defending their Headmaster.

  As he made his way back downstairs, Gilbertus knew he had to find a way to make the silly furor blow over.

  * * *

  IN CONTRAST WITH the rooftop, his office was dark and gloomy. He had drawn all the window coverings so he could speak to the small golden ball that comprised Erasmus.

  The independent robot was adamant. “All will be lost if Manford’s mobs find my memory core. You made an error in allowing your students to glimpse our true thoughts. Was it only an exercise, or were you trying to win them over to our side with logic?”