“Landsraad representatives will demand immediate reparations and unanimously push through legislation that imposes restraint. If Muad’Dib ignores or vetoes it, then he will lose the support of all the nobles who have sided with him. His government will not be able to contain them all. You see, Jessica? We will succeed with or without you.”
Suddenly, Mayor Horvu’s surprising and naïve idea of declaring Caladan’s independence made sense. He had been led to it by a manipulative Bene Gesserit operative. Jessica fired words at Mohiam like projectiles: “How dare you try to start a revolt on Caladan. My Caladan!”
“Your Sisterhood should matter more to you than a mere planet. We want you to take power away from a tyrant who has already killed more people than any other leader in recorded history. What is one mother’s love in comparison to that?” Mohiam sniffed, as if offended that she even had to convince Jessica. “whatever decision you make, we will still bring him down.”
Jessica tried to shake her away, but Mohiam kept up. The Sisters saw Paul only as a dangerous and destructive force . . . but she knew her son as kind, caring, intelligent, and clever, full of curiosity and love. That was the real Paul, not any adverse perceptions of him that had sprung up in the backwash of the Jihad!
The two women paused together, allowing other Sisters to pass in their progression downhill. Jessica stared into her burning candle, smelled the smoke, and struggled to control her emotions.
Grabbing her by the arm with surprising strength, Mohiam rasped, “You owe the Sisterhood. Your very life belongs to us! Remember that we saved you from drowning in your childhood. A woman died for you. How can you forget that? Remember.”
As if the Reverend Mother’s voice triggered a long-suppressed memory, Jessica suddenly recalled struggling for her life, going underwater in a fast-flowing river, the raging torrent all around her, in her mouth, in her lungs . . . and so cold. She couldn’t swim against the swift current, remembered being swept against a large rock and bumping her head. She couldn’t recall how she had fallen into the river, but she was just a child, no more than five or six years old.
Two brave Sisters had jumped into the raging river to rescue her. Jessica remembered being dragged to the shore and resuscitated. She’d learned later that one of the Sisters had lost her life in the attempt. Mohiam was right; she would have died that day if those women hadn’t helped her.
Oddly, however, Jessica could not recall the name of the Sister who had perished, and couldn’t remember the location of the river. Suddenly, as she slowed her thoughts and crystallized her memories of the event, she clearly remembered two Sisters dragging her onto the bank, both of them taking turns to clear water from her lungs, breathing into her mouth.
Two Sisters? How then, had one of them died in the rescue?
And why were other details faint? The Sisterhood left nothing to chance. Somehow her memory had been altered.
“Maybe I do owe the Bene Gesserit my life, or maybe you long ago planted that story in my mind to be used exactly in circumstances like this.”
From the flicker of shadowy expression on the old woman’s face, Jessica thought she had her confirmation. The near drowning had never occurred! What schemes did this old woman and her cohorts have in place, and what falsehoods did they hide?
Peering down her nose at Mohiam, Jessica said, “Thank you for helping me make up my mind. This night I have indeed achieved clarity. I owe the Sisterhood nothing!”
Mohiam grabbed Jessica’s sleeve. “You will listen. You will make the correct choice.” Jessica heard the commanding Voice, the importunate tone that she should not have been able to resist. Because she knew Mohiam so well, she identified the fringes of it, the dangerous undertones, and knew how to prepare herself mentally for the onslaught.
Another Reverend Mother stepped out of the tree-latticed shadows, a looming form whose wrinkled face became recognizable in the candlelight. Stokiah, a woman she had seen long ago on Ix . . . the woman Tessia had warned her about. Her heart stuttered with instinctive fear. I must not fear. . . .
Stokiah’s voice was like a rough bone saw. “You disappoint us further by refusing to rectify your mistakes, Jessica. How can you bear such guilt?” The words were drawn out like a long, strained note on a tortured violin.
Powerful waves of psychic energy struck Jessica, infusing her with an awful, dragging despair that sapped her strength and hammered her with shame. Several Sisters had stepped off the trail nearby and drew in around her and Mohiam, joining in the attack. Stokiah pressed closer.
Jessica felt intense pain in her head, the demanding sensation that she must do what Mother Superior Harishka wanted and turn against her own son.
But Tessia had prepared her, showing her survival skills to use against such an attack. Rhombur’s wife had been pummeled and damaged, but not defeated; she had found her own thread of strength, had resisted even as the Sisters tried to break her. And Jessica now shared that knowledge.
Rallying her strength and fury against what Stokiah, Mohiam, and these other women were trying to do to her—and to Paul!—Jessica steeled her mind and followed the mental channels she had prepared with Tessia’s help, shoring up her defenses and drawing upon her own strength.
She fought the guilt, using the strongest aspect of her core, the foundation of her life. She did it with her abiding love for Duke Leto Atreides and for their son—and drew strength from them. In memory, she saw Leto’s ruggedly handsome face, with his woodsmoke gray eyes looking at her so tenderly, so protectively—and she focused on that for a moment. With Leto’s memory beside her, with his nobility and strength saturating every cell in her body, she had an armor that the Sisters could not penetrate.
With great effort, Jessica shouted, “Save . . . your guilt . . . for yourselves!”
Making a concerted surge, she threw off the attack, and as she focused harder and harder, Jessica felt the psychic pummeling recede, and heard screams of pain as she inflicted echoes of guilt on her attackers. As moments passed and she gained the upper hand, she stalked off down the trail, leaving the Sisters reeling and moaning.
INTERLUDE
10, 207 AG
Halfway to Sietch Tabr, the grounded ’thopter perched on its outcropping in the middle of the desert. The wind picked up, making the hull plates creak and rattle, which Jessica could hear from their sheltered place a short distance away. A hiss of sand scattered across the rocks, but the sound only deepened the sad silence as Jessica paused in her story.
Upon hearing the startling revelations, Gurney showed more overt emotion than Irulan did. “ ‘A memory can be sharper than a dagger and can cut more deeply.’ Those were sad times, my Lady, and difficult for both of us, but I was not aware of the vile things the witches asked of you. It doesn’t surprise me that you’ve distanced yourself from the Sisterhood.”
“Oh, I’ve more than distanced myself, Gurney. I have turned my back on the Bene Gesserit entirely.”
Irulan shifted uncomfortably on the rock. “The Sisters ask many things, without regard to the damage they may do. They’re concerned only with their own goals.” She drew a long breath through her filter. “But I still don’t see how any of this changes or excuses Bronso’s crimes. And I don’t understand why you insist that you must keep this information from Alia. The Regent certainly has no love for the Bene Gesserit, nor did Paul. In fact, I think she’d be pleased to hear how you thwarted them.”
Gurney said in a rumbling voice, “I am happy enough that you refused to do what the witches demanded, my Lady. Compelling a mother to kill her own son is appalling and inhuman.”
“It’s worse than that, Gurney.” Jessica leaned back against the hard, rough rock and forced herself to say the words aloud. “Not long afterward, I decided they were right, and I did make up my mind to kill him. And because of that, I did even more terrible things.”
Reverend Mothers are not mothers in the human sense. A real mother loves, understands, and forgives her child for almost an
ything.
But not everything.
—LADY JESSICA, private journal note
Even though Jessica had turned against them, the words of the militant Sisters had still penetrated, stirring her thoughts until they reinforced her own doubts.
As the Heighliner carried her away from Wallach IX, she isolated herself, in no mood for visitors or conversation. She had always clung to the certainty—perhaps delusion?—that Paul was right, that he did indeed know what he was doing, even if she didn’t understand it fully.
In the quiet of her private stateroom, she meditated to calm her fears, while trying to reach a resolution in her mind. If love and misplaced kindness prevented her from doing a terrible but necessary thing, then how much more death and destruction would occur? How many more lives would be lost?
How could she even understand what Paul was trying to do?
Her son could be extremely persuasive, with charismatic and oratory skills he had learned from Duke Leto, from the Bene Gesserit instruction she had given him, and from his time among the skilled Jongleurs. Paul could make his followers believe in him and react in whatever ways he deemed necessary—mass persuasion.
But did he make the correct choices, or was he deluding himself? For years Jessica had been bombarded by adverse reports from a variety of sources. What if he was wrong? What if he had lost his way? Her son was not who she had once thought he was, not the man she’d hoped he would be. That was why she and Gurney had left Arrakis, left the Jihad.
What if the Bene Gesserit were correct?
She knew full well that the Sisters had their own agenda. Their arguments were not objective, no matter how persuasive they sounded or how vehemently the women argued their points. On this particular subject, the Bene Gesserit had shown their true colors by trying to destroy her psyche through guilt-casting. But that in itself did not mean they were wrong.
When the mocking silence of the stateroom grew too much for her, she disembarked onto the public decks. She did not want conversation or company, just the presence of other people; she hoped the background drone of their lives would fill the empty spaces in her mind.
While she was there, she did not intend to seek out news of the Jihad, but the stories were so horrific that she could not avoid them. The Heighliner had stopped at several waypoints, picking up new passengers, new rumors, and even eyewitness accounts. The buzz of shock and disbelief overwhelmed the unsettled crowds.
Her heart pounded with renewed urgency. What had Paul done now?
Fresh reports had come aboard with passengers embarking at the current planetfall, and the news hadn’t yet had a chance to grow in the telling. Paul’s propaganda scouts had not been able to sanitize or contradict the witnesses’ statements. This was the true, raw reporting.
A pogrom had taken place on the planet Lankiveil, a former stronghold of House Harkonnen. In the snowy mountain fastnesses, Buddislamic monks lived in ancient cliffside monasteries surrounded by glaciers. The monks had been persecuted for years by Count Glossu Rabban, but not out of any particular religious hatred; Rabban merely liked to flaunt his power.
This time it was much, much different.
The Buddislamics had always been a quiet, peaceful sect who spent their days writing sutras, chanting prayers, and meditating on unanswerable questions. Members of Paul’s Fremen Qizarate had swept down upon Lankiveil’s religious retreats and demanded that the quiet monks erect a giant statue of Paul Atreides, as well as change their teachings and beliefs to reflect the fact that Muad’Dib was the greatest of all holy prophets, second only to God himself.
Although they had never spoken against Muad’Dib or the Jihad, and they had no political leanings whatsoever, the monks still had firm convictions. Meaning no disrespect, yet remaining adamant, they declined to follow the priests’ orders. They refused to accept that Muad’Dib possessed the sacred aspects attributed to him by the Qizarate.
As a punishment, the monks were slaughtered to the last man. The ancient monasteries were blasted from the cliffsides, and avalanches were sent down to bury the rubble. In the aftermath, the Qizarate dispatched hunters across the Imperium to discover and eradicate any other enclaves of the “heretical Buddislamic sect.”
Jessica sat down unsteadily in a hard, worn waiting chair, unable to deny how appalling the act was. Muad’Dib’s religion was like a cancer, metastasizing across the universe. But the reports were conflicting, and she could not be sure whether this heinous act had been committed by out-of-control priests and warriors, or if Paul had given the direct orders.
Then she learned more.
After the initial outcry and uproar, Muad’Dib released a widely distributed video statement, which was played and replayed onboard the Heighliner. These words were not some bureaucratic proclamation issued by a sanctimonious official. Paul spoke them himself.
“Regarding the recent tragedy on Lankiveil, I am saddened by the foolish loss of life. Those poor Buddislamic monks did not need to die. I feel their pain and suffering.
“But while we grieve because they were human beings, we must not forget that those people had the power to save themselves. The responsibility for their deaths lies with them alone. My Qizarate explained how they could save themselves, and they ignored the warning.” He paused, and his spice-saturated eyes blazed with fervor for his audience; he was like a master showman in his element. “And they paid the necessary price.”
His Harkonnen side is showing, she thought. That might as well have been his grandfather the Baron talking.
In the projected image, the Arrakeen crowds roared their approval as Paul gazed calmly out upon them. The chant grew louder, like an accelerating wave that never seemed to crest. “Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib!”
Jessica felt anger building up inside. Instead of condemning the unnecessary brutality of his own fanatics, instead of ordering restraint, Paul had pinned the blame for the massacre squarely on the poor, innocent monks. He didn’t even look troubled by what had happened.
When had Atreides honor died? She shuddered to imagine what Duke Leto would have thought if he’d seen his son’s behavior.
On the scale of things, after the years of bloodshed in the Jihad, the Lankiveil massacre was a comparatively small event, but it spoke volumes about Paul, about his followers, and about the lengths to which they would go. It was a singular demonstration of how much he had changed, how passionately he had embraced the artificial persona he had created for himself.
In the recording, though, Paul had more to say. Raising his arms high in the air to quell the noise, he said, “I do not speak idle words. My voice carries power across the stars. You who are foolish enough to think that I know not of your heresies shall find no place to hide. You cannot avoid the hammer of fate you have brought on yourselves. I say this to those who continue to defy me: Soon, at a time of my choosing, Guild Heighliners will appear over eleven worlds. There, they will disgorge my warships to sterilize every planet that has displeased me. Eleven worlds . . . and I pray that will be enough.”
The crowd grew strangely quiet, and as the recorder scanned over their faces, Jessica saw shock and surprise even among the Emperor’s most avid supporters. Then, gradually, the expressions began to change, and the stunned people roared their approval. “Eleven more worlds!”
“This is the punishment I have prescribed. Let it be done, and let it be recorded in the annals of the Holy Jihad.” With that, Paul turned and walked away, while the throng cheered wildly.
Jessica sat speechless. He had already sterilized four planets, in addition to the countless horrific battles that had been engaged in seven years of the Jihad. Now even more worlds were going to be erased . . . and she had no reason to believe the unspeakable violence would end there.
A sharp chill ran down the back of her neck. Emperor Muad’Dib no longer resembled the son she had loved and raised. In the past, Jessica had been able to see an echo of his father whenever she looked at Paul, but after hearing this speech, she cou
ld discern nothing of Duke Leto the Just. She’d heard enough, seen enough.
Paul had become the Empty Man, thirsting for the deaths of billions, a husk of a human being without a soul.
With a red haze around her vision, she hurried back to her state-room and sealed herself inside. This was a turning point for her, the crack in the levee that allowed the long-denied truth to flood into her.
She had played a part in the creation of a monster. For so long, Jessica had believed that she would eventually understand Paul’s rationale, if only he would explain himself. At one time she and her son had been a fine team, had relied upon each other through a series of challenges and crises. She had trusted him with her life. But her love for him had caused her to delay too long, just like Gurney and his gaze hounds infected with the bloodfire virus. Now eleven more planetary populations would be annihilated!
The conclusion was as inescapable as death: Paul was crippling the human race, and she could not pretend that events had simply slipped out of his control. He approved, even encouraged, the crimes committed in his name.
The Reverend Mothers had complained about Alia being an Abomination, but Paul was the real threat. Yes, Jessica’s daughter was strange by any mea sure, but the girl could not help the accident of her birth, the voices in her mind. Paul, on the other hand, made his own decisions, had chosen his own path. As a leader, he allowed his soldiers to run like wolfpacks amongst otherwise peaceable populations.
How much more slaughter would Muad’Dib order? How many more planets would he destroy? If Jessica did not do something to stop him, was not she just as responsible? Sitting alone in her dimly lit stateroom, surrounded by the clamor of her thoughts, Jessica came to the inescapable conclusion.
She had to stop Paul . . . kill him. The Bene Gesserit were right.
He had surrounded himself with thorough protective measures, and his personal fighting skills were incomparable. But, as his mother, Jessica could get close to him. She was a force to be reckoned with in her own right, and she believed she had a chance against Paul, against Muad’Dib . . . against her son, because she knew his weaknesses. Just a moment’s hesitation on his part—that was all she needed.
The Winds of Dune Page 32
