Something was terribly wrong. He knew it, but no one would listen to him.
Imperfections, if viewed in the proper light, can be extremely valuable. The Great Schools, with their incessant questing for perfection, often find this postulate difficult to understand, until it is proven to them that nothing in the universe is random.
-From The Philosophies of Old Terra, one of the recovered manuscripts
In the darkness of her isolated and protected bedroom in the Mother School complex, Mohiam sat straight up, holding her swollen belly. Her skin felt tight and leathery, without the resilience of youth. Her bedclothes were drenched in perspiration, and the nightmare remained fresh in her mind. The back of her skull pounded with visions of blood, and flames.
It had been an omen, a message . . . a screaming premonition that no Bene Gesserit could ignore.
She wondered how much melange her nurse had given her, and if it might have interacted with some other medication they'd administered. She could still taste the bitter gingery-cinnamon flavor inside her mouth. How much spice was it safe for a pregnant woman to take? Mohiam shuddered. No matter how she tried to rationalize her terror, she could not ignore the power of the sending.
Dreams . . . nightmares . . . prescience -- foretelling terrible events that would shake the Imperium for millennia. A future that must never come to pass! She dared not ignore the warning . . . but could she trust herself to interpret it correctly?
Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam was but a tiny pebble at the beginning of an avalanche.
Did the Sisterhood really know what it was doing? And what about the baby growing inside her, still a month from term? The vision's focus had been centered on her daughter. Something important, something terrible . . . . The Reverend Mothers had not told her everything, and now even the Sisters in Other Memory were afraid.
The room smelled damp from the rain outside: The old plaster walls were wet and powdery. Though precise heaters kept her private chamber at a comfortable temperature, the homiest warmth came from the embers in the low fire opposite her bed -- an inefficient anachronism, but the aroma of woodsmoke and the yellow-orange glow of coals inspired a sort of primal complacency.
The fires of destruction, the blaze of an inferno sweeping from planet to planet across the galaxy. Jihad! Jihad! That was to be the fate of humanity if something went wrong with the Bene Gesserit plans for her daughter.
Mohiam sat up in her bed, composed herself mentally, and ran a quick check through the systems of her body. No emergencies, everything functioning normally, all biochemistry optimal.
Had it only been a nightmare . . . or something more?
More rationalization. She knew she must not make excuses, but she had to heed what the premonition had shown her. Other Memory knew the truth.
Mohiam remained under close observation by the Sisters -- possibly even now. A purple light in the corner of her room was attached to a night-vision comeye, with watchdogs on the other end who reported to Reverend Mother Anirul Sadow Tonkin, the young woman who seemed to carry an importance beyond her years. Finally, though, in Mohiam's dream the secretive Other Memory Voices had hinted at Anirul's place in the project. The nightmare had jarred them loose, shocked the reticent recollections into veiled explanations.
Kwisatz Haderach. The Shortening of the Way. The Bene Gesserit's long-sought-after messiah and superbeing.
The Sisterhood had numerous breeding programs, building upon various characteristics of humanity. Many of them were unimportant, some even served as diversions or shams. None held such prominence as the Kwisatz Haderach program, though.
As an ancient security measure at the beginning of the hundred-generation plan, the Reverend Mothers with knowledge of the scheme had sworn themselves to silence, even in Other Memory, vowing to divulge the full details to none but a rare few each generation.
Anirul was one such, the Kwisatz Mother. She knew everything about the program. That is why even Mother Superior must listen to her!
Mohiam herself had been kept in the dark, though the daughter growing in her womb was to be only three steps away from the culmination. By now the real genetic plan had been set in stone, the end of thousands of years of tinkering and planning. The future would ride on this new child. Her first daughter, the flawed one, had been a misstep, a mistake.
And any mistake could bring about the terrible future she had foreseen.
Mohiam's nightmare had shown her what could happen to humanity's destiny if the plan went astray. The premonition had been like a gift, and difficult as the decision was, she could not fail to act on it. She didn't dare.
Does Anirul know my thoughts, too, the terrible act foretold in my dream? A warning, a promise -- or a command?
Thoughts . . . Other Memory . . . the multitude of ancient ones within offered their advice, their fears, their warnings. They could no longer keep their knowledge of the Kwisatz Haderach silent, as they had always done before. Mohiam could call to them now, and at their discretion they would come forth, individually or in multitudes. She might ask them for collective guidance, but she didn't want that. They had already revealed enough to awaken her with a scream on her lips.
Mistakes must not be allowed to happen.
Mohiam had to make her own decision, choose her own path into the future and determine how best to prevent the hideous blood-filled fate she had foreseen.
Rising from her bed, straightening her nightclothes, Mohiam moved ponderously through darkness into the next room, the creche where the babies were kept. Her swollen belly made it more difficult to walk. Mohiam wondered if the Sisterhood's watchdogs would stop her.
Her own churning thoughts made her pause. Inside the dim, warm nursery, she detected the irregular, imperfect breathing of her first Harkonnen daughter, now nine months old. And in her womb the unborn sister kicked and twisted -- was this one driving her forward? Had the baby inside triggered the premonition?
The Sisterhood needed a perfect daughter, healthy and strong. Flawed offspring were irrelevant. In any other circumstance, the Bene Gesserit could have found a use even for a sickly and crippled child. But Mohiam had seen her vital place in the Kwisatz Haderach program -- and seen what would happen if the program went down the wrong path.
The dream was bright in her mind, like a holo-schematic. She simply had to follow it, without thinking. Do it. Heavy consumption of melange often offered prescient visions, and Mohiam had no doubt of what she had seen. The vision was clear as Hagal crystal -- billions murdered, the Imperium toppled, the Bene Gesserit nearly destroyed, another jihad raging across the galaxy, sweeping away all in its path.
All of that would happen if the breeding plan went wrong. What did one unwanted life matter in the face of such epochal threats?
Her sickly first daughter by the Baron Harkonnen was in the way, a risk. That girl-child had the potential to ruin the orderly progression along the genetic ladder. Mohiam had to remove any possibility of that mistake, or she could find the blood of billions on her hands.
But my own child?
She reminded herself that this was not really her child; it was a product of the Bene Gesserit mating index and the property of every Sister who had committed herself -- knowingly or unknowingly -- to the overall breeding program. She'd borne other offspring in her service to the Sisterhood, but only two would carry such a dangerous combination of genes.
Two. But there could be only one. Otherwise, the risk was too great.
This weak baby would never suit the master plan. The Sisterhood had already discarded her. Perhaps someday the child could be raised as a servant or cook at the Mother School, but she would never achieve anything of significance. Anirul rarely looked at the disappointing infant anyway, and it received little attention from anyone.
I care about you, Mohiam thought, then chastised herself for the emotion. Difficult decisions had to be made, prices had to be paid. In a cold wave, memories of the nightmare vision washed over her again, strengthening
her resolve.
Standing over the child in the nursery, she gently massaged its neck and temple . . . then drew back. A Bene Gesserit did not feel or show love -- not romantic love, not familial love; emotions were considered dangerous and unseemly.
Once again blaming the chemical changes in her pregnant body, Mohiam tried to make sense of her feelings, to reconcile them with what she had been taught all her life. If she didn't love the child . . . because love was forbidden . . . then why not . . . She swallowed hard, unable to form the horrible thought into words. And if she did love this baby -- against all dictates -- then that was even more reason to do what she was about to do.
Eliminate the temptation.
Was she feeling love for the child, or just pity? She didn't want to share these thoughts with any of her Sisters. She felt shame for experiencing them, but not for what she was about to do.
Move quickly. Get it over with!
The future demanded that Mohiam do this. If she did not act on the prescient warning, whole planets would die. This new child would be a daughter with an immense destiny, and to ensure that destiny, the other had to be sacrificed.
But still Mohiam hesitated, as if a great maternal weight restrained her, trying to hold back whatever vision had driven her.
She stroked the child's throat. Skin warm . . . breathing slow and regular. In the shadows Mohiam couldn't see the misshapen facial bones and sloping shoulder. The skin was pale . . . the baby seemed so weak. She stirred and whimpered.
Mohiam felt her daughter's breath hot against her hand. Clenching her fist, the Reverend Mother worked hard to control herself and whispered, "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. . ." But she was shaking.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw another comeye, glowing purple to pierce the darkness of the nursery room. She positioned her body between the comeye and the child, with her back to the watchers. She looked into the future, not at what she was doing. Even a Reverend Mother sometimes had a conscience . . . .
Mohiam did what the dream had commanded her to do, holding a small pillow over the child's face until sound and movement stopped.
Finished, still shaking, she arranged the bedding around the little body, then positioned the dead child's head on the pillow and covered her tiny arms and deformed shoulder with a blanket. Suddenly she felt very, very old. Ancient beyond her years.
It is done. Mohiam rested the palm of her right hand on her swollen belly. Now you must not fail us, daughter.
One who rules assumes irrevocable responsibility for the ruled. You are a husbandman. This demands, at times, a selfless act of love which may be amusing only to those you rule.
-DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES
In the Plaza de Toros, up in the spectacular box seats reserved for House Atreides, Leto chose a green-cushioned chair beside Rhombur and Kailea. The Lady Helena Atreides, who had no fondness for such public displays, was late arriving. For the occasion Kailea Vernius wore silks and ribbons, colorful veils, and a lush, flowing gown that Atreides seamstresses had made specially for her. Leto thought she was breathtaking.
The gloomy skies did not threaten rain, but the temperature remained cool and the air damp. Even from up here he could smell the dust and old blood in the bullring, the packed bodies of the populace, the stone of the pillars and benches.
In a grand pronouncement carried by the news crier network all over Caladan, Duke Paulus Atreides had dedicated this bullfight to the exiled children of House Vernius. He would fight in their honor, symbolizing their struggle against the illegal takeover of Ix and the blood price that had been placed on their parents, Earl Dominic and Lady Shando.
Beside Leto, Rhombur leaned forward eagerly, his square chin on his hands as he gazed down at the packed sand of the bullring. His blond hair had been combed and cut, but somehow it still looked mussed. With tremendous anticipation and some concern for the safety of the Old Duke, they waited for the paseo, the introductory parade that would precede the fight itself.
Colorful banners hung in the humid air, along with Atreides hawk pennants over the royal box. In this case, however, the leader of House Atreides was not in his prime seat; he was out in the arena, as performer rather than spectator.
All around them, the Plaza de Toros was filled with the humming, chattering sounds of thousands of spectators. People waved and cheered. A local band played balisets, bone flutes, and brassy wind instruments -- energetic music that heightened the mood of excitement.
Leto looked around the guarded stands, listening to the music and the happy noises of the crowd. He wondered what could be taking his mother so long. Soon, people would notice her absence.
Finally, with a flurry of female attendants, the Lady Helena arrived, moving through the throng. She walked smoothly, head held high, though her face carried shadows. The ladies-in-waiting left her at the doorway to the ducal box and returned to their assigned seats in the lower level.
Without speaking a word to her son or even looking at his guests, Helena settled herself in the tall carved chair beside the empty post where the Duke sat on those occasions when he watched the matadors. She had gone to the chapel an hour beforehand to commune with her God. Traditionally, the matador was supposed to spend time in religious contemplation before his fight, but Duke Paulus was more concerned with testing his equipment and exercising.
"I had to pray for your father to be saved from his stupidity," she murmured, looking at Leto. "I had to pray for all of us. Someone has to."
Smiling tentatively at his mother, Leto said, "I'm sure he appreciates it."
She shook her head, sighed, and looked down into the arena as a loud fanfare of trumpets played, sounds that blasted and overlapped in resonating echoes from speakers encircling the Plaza de Toros.
Stableboys jogged around the ring in unaccustomed finery, waving bright flags and pennants as they rushed across the packed sand. Moments later, in a grand entrance that he performed so exquisitely, Duke Paulus Atreides rode out, sitting high on a groomed white stallion. Green plumes rose from the animal's headdress, while ribbons trailed from the horse's mane to flow back around the rider's arms and hands.
Today, the Duke wore a dashing black-and-magenta costume with sequins, a brilliant emerald sash, and a matador's traditional hat, marked with tiny Atreides crests to indicate the number of bulls he had killed. Ballooning sleeves and pantaloons concealed the apparatus of his protective body-shield. A brilliant purple cape draped over his shoulders.
Leto scanned the figures below, trying to pick out the face of the stableboy Duncan Idaho, who had so boldly positioned himself working for the Duke. He should have been part of the paseo, but Leto didn't see him.
The white stallion snorted and cantered around in a circle as Paulus raised his gloved hand to greet his subjects. Then he stopped in front of the ducal box and bowed deeply to his wife, who sat rigid in her chair. As expected, she waved a blood-red flower and blew him a kiss. The people shouted and cheered as they imagined fairy tales of romance between their Duke and his Lady.
Rhombur hunched forward on his plush but uncomfortable seat, smiling at Leto. "I've never seen anything like this. I, uh, can't wait."
INSIDE THE STABLES, behind force-field bars, the chosen Salusan bull issued a muffled bellow and charged against the wall. Wood splintered. The reinforced iron supports screeched.
Duncan scrambled backward, terrified. The creature's multifaceted eyes burned a coppery red, as if embers inside the orbs had glowed to life. The bull seemed angry and evil, a child's nightmare come true.
For the paseo, the boy wore special white-and-green merh-silks the Duke had given all the stableboys for the day's performance. Duncan had never before worn or even touched such fancy clothes, and it made him uncomfortable to bring them into the dirty stables. But he had a greater sense of uneasiness now.
The fabric felt slick on his clean and lotioned skin. Attendants had scrubbed him, trimmed his hair, cleaned his fingernails. His body felt raw from the clean
sing. White lace rode at the wrists above his callused hands. Working in the stables, his pristine condition would not last long.
Safe enough from the bull now, Duncan straightened the cap on his head. He watched the beast as it snorted, pawed the plank floor, and rammed the side of the cage again. Duncan shook his head in dismay and concern.
Turning, he spotted Yresk standing close beside him. The stablemaster nodded coolly at the ferocious Salusan bull, his puffy eyes haunted and tired. "Looks like he's eager to fight our Duke."
"Something's still wrong, sir," Duncan insisted. "I've never seen the animal this riled."
Yresk raised his bushy eyebrows and scratched his shock of white hair. "Oh, in all your years of experience? I told you not to trouble yourself."
Duncan bridled at the sarcasm. "Can't you see it yourself, sir?"
Dune - House Atreides Page 42
