The Winds of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Even the ancient Mother Superior Harishka took a seat like an ordinary acolyte. The Mother Superior remained alert, defying her age, though an attentive Medical Sister sat close to her. Harishka’s dark, almond eyes peered out from beneath her black hood as she leaned forward to speak to a much younger Sister at her other side, whom Jessica recognized as Reverend Mother Genino. Despite her lack of years, Genino had risen quickly to become one of the Mother Superior’s key personal advisers.

  When Harishka squared her shoulders and shifted her body to gaze across the chamber at Jessica, the rustling of low conversations ceased. The imposing Mother Superior spoke into the sudden silence. “We’re grateful you have come such a long way to see us, Jessica.”

  “You summoned me, Mother Superior.” They thought she’d had no choice. “What is this important matter you must discuss with me?”

  The Mother Superior bobbed her head like a crow. “We are concerned about Muad’Dib and his dangerous decisions. We fear those who may be counseling him.”

  Jessica frowned. Like any powerful leader, Paul had numerous people who could advise him, some good and others bad. The self-centered Qizarate sought to increase its power and influence, especially the man Korba, but Paul’s other advisers were trustworthy and earnest. Stilgar, Chani, even Irulan. . . .

  With a thin, wrinkled arm, Harishka gestured to the Medical Sister at her side, who spoke up. “I am Sister Aver Yohsa. I was one of those who tended Emperor Shaddam’s first wife, the Kwisatz Mother Anirul, after the voices within began to overwhelm her.”

  “I’m very aware of Anirul’s story. I was there. What is the relevance now?”

  “It is a reminder of the danger of falling prey to the inner voices.” Harishka’s eyes narrowed further. “The temptation to listen to such ancient wisdom is often irresistible.” Several Sisters shifted uneasily in their seats; Genino slipped off one of her sandals and leaned down to rub what appeared to be a sore spot on her foot. “For Reverend Mothers, our ancestors-within trace only through the maternal lines, but your son Paul does not have those limitations. He sees into both his feminine and masculine pasts.”

  “He is the Kwisatz Haderach, as the Sisterhood itself has admitted.”

  Speaking for the first time, Mohiam cleared her throat. “But he has none of the preparations and precautions that we intended to provide. He is dangerous. We suspect that he is already listening to advice that could destroy the human race. Corrupt ancestors from his pasts. What if Paul-Muad’Dib listens to the greatest dictators in human history?”

  Harishka added, “You know all the obvious names. What if he has inner conversations with Genghis Khan, Keeltar the Ubertat, or Adolf Hitler? What if he takes private counsel from Agamemnon, known to be an Atreides ancestor? Or from . . . others?”

  Jessica frowned. She smoothed her expression to remove any obvious surprise or concern. Were they subtly reminding her that his grandfather was the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen? “Paul would never do anything so foolish,” she said with insufficient conviction. “Besides, Other Memories cannot be searched at will, like records from a filing cabinet. Every Bene Gesserit knows that. The voices must come of their own volition.”

  “Is that true even for the Kwisatz Haderach?” Mohiam asked.

  Now Jessica was angry. “Are you suggesting that Paul is possessed by voices within?” She didn’t want to consider that possibility, but the idea had struck home. Paul himself had suggested a similar flaw, lashing out at her just after the Battle of Arrakeen. “How would you like to live billions upon billions of lives? How can you tell what’s ruthless unless you’ve plumbed the depths of both cruelty and kindness?”

  The Mother Superior gave an aloof shrug. “We merely suggest that possession is a possibility. It might explain some of his extreme and unorthodox actions.”

  Jessica remained firm, just as she had when Shaddam and Fenring pressed her to explain Paul’s behavior during the banquet on Salusa. “My son is strong enough to make his own decisions.”

  “But can any person survive the constant pressure of so many internal voices whose goals are entirely different from those of the living? He may be an abomination, just as Mohiam insists his sister is.”

  Jessica clenched her hands in her lap, and then surprised the other women by laughing. “And there you have it—the standard Bene Gesserit response to anything you find not to your liking. Abomination!” Now that she had identified their flaw, she found them amusing. “You’re just being petulant because my son has made the Sisterhood irrelevant. With your Missionaria Protectiva and your Manipulator of Religions on Dune, you set in motion the circumstances that created him. You placed a tool in front of him, and now you complain that he used it? He grasped the reins of the myth—your myth—and rode it to power and glory. After the way the Bene Gesserit treated him, do you expect him to respect you at all?”

  “Maybe you could make him do so,” Harishka said. “If your role were expanded, you could convince him of our worth.”

  Reverend Mother Genino slipped her sandal back on and said abruptly, “We have a proposal for you, Jessica—a proposal for the good of the Sisterhood and all humankind.”

  Finally, they are getting to the point, Jessica thought.

  “The Sisterhood has decided that we must bring the Emperor down, by any means necessary. And we want you to help us end his reign of terror.”

  The cold statement stunned her. “What do you mean, bring him down?”

  Mohiam said, “Paul Atreides is a genetic mistake—your mistake, Jessica. He grows more dangerous and unpredictable with each passing moment. It is up to you to rectify your error.”

  “He must either be killed or controlled.” Harishka shook her head sadly. “And we very much doubt if he can be controlled.”

  Jessica drew in a sharp breath through flared nostrils. “Paul is not a monster. I know him. He has clear reasons for everything he does. He is a good man.”

  Harishka slowly shook her head from side to side. “Maybe at one time he was, but how well do you know him now? Do not hide from what you feel in your heart. Tens of billions have died in the past seven years of his Jihad, and the war shows no sign of ending. An incalculable swath of pain and suffering across the galaxy. Look at it, child! You know full well what your son has done—and we can only imagine the additional horrors that lie in store.”

  Jessica no longer feared this old woman, was beyond being impressed by her supposed strength and wisdom. “What makes you think I would ever choose the Sisterhood over my son?”

  Seeming to change the subject, Harishka rose from the hard elacca-wood bench. “I am old, and I have seen much of life, and of death.” She seemed small and frail. She pressed a hand to her back, as if it pained her greatly. “Here is the Sisterhood’s offer: If you do as we wish, I will step down immediately as Mother Superior and elevate you to the position. You, Jessica, will lead the Bene Gesserit order. With that power, perhaps you can find a way to influence your son and bring him back under the Sisterhood’s control—for the good of humanity.”

  The idea startled her. “And why do you believe such an offer would be attractive to me?”

  Harishka said, “Because you are a Bene Gesserit. We taught you everything that is important in life.”

  “But not of love. You know nothing of love.”

  Mohiam spoke in a hard voice. “If Paul-Muad’Dib cannot be tamed, then we have only one alternative.”

  Jessica shook her head. “I will not do it.”

  But . . . as Mother Superior, Jessica knew she could change the focus of the whole Sisterhood, take them back from the brink, restore an order that had existed for more than ten millennia. She could change their teachings and rectify the mistakes that they had perpetuated. The consequences, the benefits, were immeasurable.

  But she would not do it at the cost of betraying her son.

  Jessica forced a wave of cold calmness through her body, summoning prana-bindu techniques to slow her breathing. She neede
d to leave the Mother School, but now she worried about what the Sisters would do to her if she refused them outright.

  Harishka swayed on her feet, and Medical Sister Yohsa steadied her. “We realize this is a difficult decision for you, but remember your training. Think about all we taught you, all the things that you know. Do not let your love as a mother blind you to the ruin your son is causing. Make the right choice, or all of our futures are forfeit.” Her dark eyes glittered with intensity.

  Jessica clung to her dignity as she left the chamber. “I will give you my answer in due course.”

  Exile is among the cruelest of acts, for it separates the heart from the body.

  —SHADDAM CORRINO IV

  Though she would have preferred to be away from the insistent eyes of the Sisters, Mohiam wanted Jessica to stay long enough to attend the Night Vigil two evenings hence. And Jessica knew the Bene Gesserits would continue to pressure her.

  She was determined to keep her faith in her son, but she would have been stronger in that resolve if she didn’t have some of the same doubts that others had voiced. Jessica wished she understood him better. Her intellect could achieve superiority over her emotions, but only if she had reasons. She scorned people who exhibited glaze-eyed faith, but now she exhibited the same behavior as the fanatics who blinded themselves to reason and accepted the myth that Muad’Dib was infallible. If she refused to consider that he might be wrong, might be misled by his own delusions, how was her devotion to him any different?

  Because he is Paul, she thought to herself. She realized how foolish she had been, how blind to reality. Because he is Paul.

  Jessica kept to her own thoughts and avoided socializing with the other Sisters. The cold days on the Bene Gesserit home world carried a whisper of snow that blew but did not settle. Bundled in a thick coat, she followed a path through the lower gardens of rare orchids, star roses, and rugged but exotic vegetable flora from Grand Hain, all of which flourished in the cool climate. Despite the chill in the air, the blossoms unfolded in the weak morning sunlight.

  Hearing sudden screeching sounds, she ducked as a flock of songbirds flew low to the ground, streaked past her, and dropped into a thicket of shrubbery. Before she could see what had disturbed them, a rush of powerful winds whipped her hair and clothing, seeming to come from all around her.

  A number of tall, thin wind funnels twice her height whirled toward her from a shaded area, brightening as if they collected available sunlight and used it for energy. Jessica spotted more of the whirling objects coming toward her. Dust devils? Contained whirlwinds? Some kind of bizarre attack, treachery from the Sisters?

  She threw herself prone in the path, wary but curious, and the whirling funnels circled her, their progress stalled. The small tornadoes were stunning to behold, with hypnotic rainbows of morphing color, like crystalline life-forms. Additional funnels circled and danced over a nearby conservatory building, the only shelter in sight, knocking loose some of the plaz panels.

  Lurching to her feet and keeping her head low, Jessica ran toward the building, darting through the dark spaces between the funnels. As she went through, the winds clawed at her, trying to drag her one direction or another, but she struggled to the conservatory. Just as she ducked into the doorway, a loose plaz panel shot past her and shattered against the hard wall.

  Inside the building, she looked up through gaps in the ceiling where roof panels were broken or missing. The predatory whirlwinds kept circling until a loud, percussive noise sounded, and the funnels abruptly disappeared. Blue sky appeared overhead, leaving the garden grounds strewn with broken plants and debris.

  “Quite a show,” said a female voice. “Residual psychic energy. It’s been doing that around here recently.”

  Jessica saw a brown-haired woman with creased skin and sepia eyes, weary eyes . . . a familiar face from long ago. She caught her breath, so surprised that it took her a moment to recognize the woman. “Tessia? Tessia!”

  Rhombur’s wife had aged perceptibly, as if she had barely emerged alive from a personal crucible. She came forward to take Jessica’s hands in her own. Tessia was shaking, either from fear or from exhaustion. “No need hide your surprise. I know what’s happened to me.”

  “Are you all right? We sent so many inquiries, but no one would say what had happened to you. The Sisterhood turned down my requests for information. How long have you been . . . awake? And after what happened to poor Rhombur, Bronso broke off all contact with House Atreides for the past twelve years.” She wondered if Tessia even knew how the cyborg prince had been killed in Balut’s Theater of Shards.

  And what did she mean by residual psychic energy? Had the Sisters been tampering and testing, developing new skills? A weapon? And would that weapon be used against Paul? Jessica didn’t trust them.

  Before she could ask, two Bene Gesserit proctors rushed along the walkway in the aftermath of the bizarre windstorm. Seeing them, Tessia drew Jessica farther into the dimly lit conservatory. “This is my velvet-lined prison. I have recovered, but not entirely in the way the Sisters expected. I’m the only person ever to emerge from the hell of a guilt-casting.” She glanced around uneasily.

  Only a few rumors had leaked out about the Bene Gesserit guilt-casters, and most people did not believe in their existence. “We thought the Ixian technocrats had used some sort of weapon on your mind.” Now Jessica understood what had happened to Rhombur’s wife on that night in the Grand Palais. If not for the consequences of the guilt-casting, Bronso would never have had a falling out with his father, would never have fled with Paul, and on and on, ripples upon ripples. Hard resentment seeped into Jessica’s words. “Rhombur sent you here in hopes you could be saved.”

  Tessia shook her head. “It was Reverend Mother Stokiah—a weapon from their psychic arsenal. My own Sisterhood crushed me and took me from my husband . . . and now he is dead.” Her voice hitched, and Jessica heard the wind suddenly pick up outside.

  “What did they want that was so important? What was worth such a tremendous cost?”

  “A little thing, actually. They wanted me to be a breeding mother, but I defied their commands, and so they punished me. It did me no good to resist. They needed only my body, only my womb. Not my mind. Even while I was unconscious, they impregnated me. My body gave them the children they wanted.” Her voice held heavy bitterness. “ ‘I am Bene Gesserit: I exist only to serve.’ At least Rhombur didn’t live long enough to find out about it. He never knew. Oh, how I miss him.”

  Jessica could not conceal her revulsion. What the Sisterhood had done to this woman, her friend! And now those same women were trying to convince Jessica to destroy Paul? These same women wanted to make her their Mother Superior? If she accepted their offer, she could put an end to breeding abuses . . . but to accept their terms would make Jessica a monster.

  Tessia continued in a dreamy voice, as if her mind were far away. “It took years. I saved myself . . . I found my own way out of the darkness where their guilt-caster threw me.”

  Jessica’s stomach knotted. “Does Bronso know where you are now? Can he help?”

  “I’ve managed to smuggle out several messages. He knows what has happened to me, but what can he do? He is barely a figurehead on Ix these days. He has no real power and could never stand against the Sisterhood. He is as trapped as I am.” She shook her head. “It’s the fall of House Vernius.”

  Jessica hugged the other woman, held her close for a long time. “I wish I could get you out of here, but that is not in my power.”

  However, if she were Mother Superior, she could do so. . . .

  Tessia smiled mysteriously. “Someday, I will find a way. I have already escaped from the mental prison they imposed on me, and oh, they would love to know how I did it. Now they test their techniques on me, alternately showing me compassion and then pummeling me with guilt. Even their guilt-casters don’t understand.”

  “They continue to experiment on you?”

  “Medical Sister
Yohsa constantly tries to deconstruct my mind and build it back up the way the Sisterhood wants it, not the way I want it. But I know ways to deflect their attempts. Those mental defenses are mine, and I won’t surrender them—not after what they did to me.”

  Tessia looked from side to side. By the whisper-rush of wind in the courtyard, Jessica heard what must have been another small, strange tornado, and the sharp cries of Bene Gesserits scattering in alarm. Apparently, the residual psychic energy was not completely under control.

  Leaning close, Tessia whispered. “What do they want from you, Jessica? And will you give it to them? If not, you could be a target yourself. Have you defied them? You will—I know you. Then the guilt-casters will come for you.” Tessia’s voice came out in a desperate flood as she clutched Jessica’s shoulders. “Listen to me! You must block your thoughts and prepare yourself ahead of time. Build up a bastion of powerful memories, a shield of good things. Have it ready at the forefront of your mind. Use it to guard yourself. They will not suspect you can stand against them, even for a moment. Guilt-casting is a psychic storm, but it can be weathered.”

  Jessica knew she might need the information. “Teach me how—please.”

  Tessia touched her own forehead, closed her eyes, and released a long sigh. “Let me show you what you need to know.”

  The very act of breathing is a miracle.

  —teaching of the Suk School

  An unusually warm wind blew in from the sea. Gurney had been hoping for heavy rain to discourage the crowds arriving for the scheduled rally, but as he looked up at the patches of blue sky, the clouds seemed to be scattering.

  Jessica had been right to warn him about what the people might do. Mayor Horvu and his enthusiastic followers did not begin to comprehend the poisonous snake with which they were playing. In the name of Duke Leto, though, Gurney would try to use a compassionate, paternal touch. If it would only work. . . .