Routine? Murbella had hated the routines of becoming Bene Gesserit, all of that

study, listening and reacting to Proctors. She had particularly loathed the

necessity to refine reactions she had believed adequate but there could be no

sloughing off under those watchful eyes.

Adequate! What a dangerous word.

This recognition had been precisely what they sought. Precisely the leverage

their acolyte required.

If you loathe it, do it better. Use your loathing as guidance; home in on

exactly what you need.

The fact that her teachers saw so directly into her behavior, what a marvelous

thing! She wanted that ability. Oh, how she wanted it!

I must excel in this.

It was a thing any Honored Matre might envy. She saw herself abruptly with a

form of doubled vision: both Bene Gesserit and Honored Matre. A daunting

perception.

A hand touched her cheek, moved her head and went away.

Responsibility. I am about to learn what they mean by "a new sense of history."

The Bene Gesserit view of history fascinated her. How did they look at multiple

pasts? Was it something immersed in a grander scheme? The temptation to become

one of them had been overwhelming.

This is the moment when I learn.

She saw an oral syringe swing into position above her mouth. Bellonda's hand

moved it.

"We carry our grail in our heads," Odrade had said. "Carry this grail gently if

it comes into your possession."

The syringe touched her lips. Murbella closed her eyes but felt fingers open

her mouth. Cold metal touched her teeth. Odrade's remembered voice was with

her.

Avoid excesses. Overcorrect and you always have a fine mess on your hands, the

necessity to make larger and larger corrections. Oscillation. Fanatics are

marvelous creators of oscillation.

"Our grail. It has linearity because each Reverend Mother carries the same

determination. We will perpetuate this together."

Bitter liquid gushed into her mouth. Murbella swallowed convulsively. She felt

fire flow down her throat into her stomach. No pain except the burning. She

wondered if this could be the extent of it. Her stomach felt merely warm now.

Slowly, so slowly she was several heartbeats recognizing it, the warmth flowed

outward. When it reached the tips of her fingers she felt her body convulse.

Her back arched off the padded table. Something soft but firm replaced the

syringe in her mouth.

Voices. She heard them and knew people were speaking but could not distinguish

words.

As she concentrated on the voices she became aware she had lost touch with her

body. Somewhere, flesh writhed and there was pain but she was removed from it.

A hand touched a hand and clasped it firmly. She recognized Duncan's touch, and

abruptly there was her body and agony. Her lungs pained when she exhaled. Not

when she inhaled. Then they felt flat and never full enough. Her sense of

presence in living flesh became a thin thread that wound through many presences.

She sensed others all around her, far too many people for the tiny amphitheater.

Another human being floated into view. Murbella felt herself to be in a factory

shuttle . . . in space. The shuttle was primitive. Too many manual controls.

Too many blinking lights. A woman at the controls, small and untidy with the

sweat of her labors. She had long brown hair and it had been bound up in a

chignon from which paler strands escaped to hang around her narrow cheeks. She

wore a single garment, a short dress of brilliant reds, blues, and greens.

Machinery.

There was awareness of monstrous machinery just beyond this immediate space.

The woman's dress contrasted severely with the drab and dragging sense of

machinery. She spoke but her lips did not move. "Listen, you! When it comes

time for you to take over these controls, don't become a destroyer. I'm here to

help you avoid the destroyers. Do you know that?"

Murbella tried to speak but had no voice.

"Don't try so hard, girl!" the woman said. "I hear you."

Murbella tried to shift her attention away from the woman.

Where is this place?

One operator, a giant warehouse . . . factory . . . everything automated . . .

webs of feedback lines centered into this tiny space with its complex controls.

Thinking to whisper, Murbella asked: "Who are you?" and heard her own voice

roar. Agony in her ears!

"Not so loud! I'm your guide of the mohalata, the one who steers you clear of

the destroyers."

Dur protect me! Murbella thought. This is no place; it's me!

On that thought, the control room vanished. She was a migrant in the void,

condemned never to be quiet, never to find a moment of sanctuary. Everything

but her own fleeting thoughts became immaterial. She had no substance, only a

wispy adherence that she recognized as consciousness.

I have constructed myself out of fog.

Other Memory came, bits and pieces of experiences she knew were not her own.

Faces leered at her and demanded her attention but the woman at the shuttle

controls pulled her away. Murbella recognized necessities but could not put

them into coherent form.

"These are lives in your past." It was the woman at the shuttle controls but

her voice had a disembodied quality and came from no discernible place.

"We are descendants of people who did nasty things," the woman said. "We don't

like to admit there were barbarians in our ancestry. A Reverend Mother must

admit it. We have no choice."

Murbella had the knack of only thinking her questions now. Why must I . . .

"The victors bred. We are their descendants. Victory often was gained at great

moral price. Barbarism is not even an adequate word for some of the things our

ancestors did."

Murbella felt a familiar hand on her cheek. Duncan! The touch restored agony.

Oh, Duncan! You're hurting me.

Through the pain, she sensed gaps in the lives being revealed to her. Things

withheld.

"Only what you're capable of accepting now," the disembodied voice said.

"Others come later when you're stronger . . . if you survive."

Selective filter. Odrade's words. Necessity opens doors.

Persistent wailing came from the other presences. Laments: "See? See what

happens when you ignore common sense?"

Agony increased. She could not escape it. Every nerve was touched with flame.

She wanted to cry, to scream threats, to implore for help. Tumbling emotions

accompanied the agony but she ignored them. Everything happened along a thin

thread of existence. The thread could snap!

I'm dying.

The thread was stretching. It was going to break! Hopeless to resist. Muscles

would not obey. There probably were no muscles remaining to her. She did not

want them anyway. They were pain. It was hell and would never end . . . not

even if the thread snapped. Flames burned along the thread, licking at her

awareness.

Hands shook her shoulders. Duncan . . . don't. Each movement was pain beyond

anything she had imagined possible. This deserved to be called the Agony.

The thread no longer was stretching. It was pulling back, compressing. It

became one small thing, a sausage of such exquisite pain that nothing else

existed. The sense of being became vague, translucent . . . transparent.

"Do you see?" the voice of her mohalata guide came from far away.

I see things.

Not exactly seeing. A distant awareness of others. Other sausages. Other

Memory encased in the skins of lost lives. They extended behind her in a train

whose length she could not determine. Translucent fog. It ripped apart

occasionally and she glimpsed events. No . . . not events themselves. Memory.

"Share witness," her guide said. "You see what our ancestors have done. They

debase the worst curse you can invent. Don't make excuses about necessities of

the times! Just remember: There are no innocents!"

Ugly! Ugly!

She could hold on to none of it. Everything became reflections and ripping fog.

Somewhere there was a glory that she knew she might attain.

Absence of this Agony.

That was it. How glorious that would be!

Where is that glorious condition?

Lips touched her forehead, her mouth. Duncan! She reached up. My hands are

free. Her fingers slipped into remembered hair. This is real!

Agony receded. Only then did she realize that she had come through pain more

terrible than words could describe. Agony? It seared the psyche and remolded

her. One person entered and another emerged.

Duncan! She opened her eyes and there was his face directly above her. Do I

still love him? He is here. He is an anchor to which I clung in the worst

moments. But do I love him? Am I still balanced?

No answer.

Odrade spoke from somewhere out of view. "Strip those clothes off her. Towels.

She's drenched. And bring her a proper robe!"

There were scurrying sounds, then Odrade once more: "Murbella, you did that the

hard way, I'm glad to say."

Such elation in her voice. Why was she glad?

Where is the sense of responsibility? Where is the grail I'm supposed to feel

in my head? Answer me, someone!

But the woman at the shuttle controls was gone.

Only I remain. And I remember atrocities that might make an Honored Matre

quail. She glimpsed the grail then and it was not a thing but a question: How

to set those balances aright?

Our household god is this thing we carry forward generation after generation:

our message for humankind if it matures. The closest thing we have to a

household goddess is a failed Reverend Mother -- Chenoeh there in her niche.

-Darwi Odrade

Idaho thought of his Mentat abilities as a retreat now. Murbella stayed with

him as frequently as their duties allowed -- he with his weapons development and

she recovering strength while she adjusted to her new status.

She did not lie to him. She did not try to tell him she felt no difference

between them. But he sensed the pulling away, elastic being stretched to its

limits.

"My Sisters have been taught not to divulge secrets of the heart. There's the

danger they perceive in love. Perilous intimacies. The deepest sensitivities

blunted. Do not give someone a stick with which to beat you."

She thought her words reassuring to him but he heard the inner argument. Be

free! Break entangling bonds!

He saw her often these days in the throes of Other Memory. Words escaped her in

the night.

"Dependencies . . . group soul . . . intersection of living awareness . . . Fish

Speakers . . ."

She had no hesitation about sharing some of this. "The intersection? Anyone

can sense nexus points in the natural interruptions of life. Deaths,

diversions, incidental pauses between powerful events, births . . ."

"Birth an interruption?"

They were in his bed, even the chrono darkened . . . but that did not hide them

from comeyes, of course. Other energies fed the Sisterhood's curiosity.

"You never thought of birth as an interruption? A Reverend Mother finds that

amusing."

Amusing! Pulling away . . . pulling away . . .

Fish Speakers, that was the revelation the Bene Gesserit absorbed with

fascination. They had suspected, but Murbella gave them confirmation. Fish

Speaker democracy become Honored Matre autocracy. No more doubts.

"The tyranny of the minority cloaked in the mask of the majority," Odrade called

it, her voice exultant. "Downfall of democracy. Either overthrown by its own

excesses or eaten away by bureaucracy."

Idaho could hear the Tyrant in that judgment. If history had any repetitive

patterns, here was one. A drumbeat of repetition. First, a Civil Service law

masked in the lie that it was the only way to correct demagogic excesses and

spoils systems. Then the accumulation of power in places voters could not

touch. And finally, aristocracy.

"The Bene Gesserit may be the only ones ever to create the all-powerful jury,"

Murbella said. "Juries are not popular with legalists. Juries oppose the law.

They can ignore judges."

She laughed in the darkness. "Evidence! What is evidence except those things

you are allowed to perceive? That's what Law tries to control: carefully

managed reality."

Words to divert him, words to demonstrate her new Bene Gesserit powers. Her

words of love fell flat.

She speaks them out of memory.

He saw this bothered Odrade almost as much as it dismayed him. Murbella did not

notice either reaction.

Odrade had tried to reassure him. "Every new Reverend Mother goes through an

adjustment period. Manic at times. Think of the new ground under her, Duncan!"

How can I not think of it?

"First law of bureaucracy," Murbella told the darkness.

You do not divert me, love.

"Grow to the limits of available energy!" Her voice was indeed manic. "Use the

lie that taxes solve all problems." She turned toward him in the bed but not

for love. "Honored Matres played the whole routine! Even a social security

system to quiet the masses, but everything went into their own energy bank."

"Murbella!"

"What?" Surprised at the sharpness of his tone. Didn't he know he was talking

to a Reverend Mother?

"I know all of this, Murbella. Any Mentat does."

"Are you trying to shut me up?" Angry.

"Our job is to think like our enemy," he said. "We do have a common enemy?"

"You're sneering at me, Duncan."

"Are your eyes orange?"

"Melange doesn't allow that and you know . . . Oh."

"The Bene Gesserit need your knowledge but you must cultivate it!" He turned on

a glowglobe and found her flaring at him. Not unexpected and not really Bene

Gesserit.

Hybrid.

The word leaped into his mind. Was it hybrid vigor? Did the Sisterhood expect

this of Murbella? The Bene Gesserit surprised you sometimes. You found them

facing you in odd corridors, eyes unwavering, faces masked in that way of theirs

and, behind the masks, unusual responses brewing. That was where Teg learned to

do the unexpected. But this? Idaho thought he could grow to dislike this new

Murbella.

She saw this in him, naturally. He remained open to her as to no other person.

"Don't hate me, Duncan." No pleading but something deeply hurt behind the

words.

"I'll never hate you." But he turned off the light.

She nestled against him almost the way she had before the Agony. Almost. The

difference tore at him.

"Honored Matres see the Bene Gesserit as competitors for power," Murbella said.

"It's not so much that men who follow my former Sisters are fanatics, but

they're made incapable of self-determination by their addiction."

"Is that the way we are?"

"Now, Duncan."

"You mean I could get this commodity at another store?"

She chose to assume he was talking about Honored Matre fears. "Many would

abandon them if they could." Turning toward him fiercely, she demanded a sexual

response. Her abandon shocked him. As though this might be the last time she

could experience such ecstasy.

Afterward, he lay exhausted.

"I hope I'm pregnant again," she whispered. "We still need our babies."

We need. The Bene Gesserit need. No longer "they need."

He fell asleep to dream he was in the ship's armory. It was a dream touched by

realities. The ship remained a weapons factory as it actually had become.

Odrade was talking to him in the dream armory. "I make decisions of necessity,

Duncan. Little likelihood you'll break out and run amok."

"I am too much the Mentat for that!" How self-important his dream voice! I'm

dreaming and I know I dream. Why am I in the armory with Odrade?

A list of weapons scrolled before his eyes.

Atomics. (He saw big blasters and deadly dusts.)

Lasguns. (No counting the various models.)

Bacteriologicals.

The scroll was interrupted by Odrade's voice. "We can assume smugglers

concentrate as usual on small things that bring a big price. "

"Soostones, of course." Still self-important. I'm not that way!

"Assassination weapons," she said. "Plans and specifications for new devices."

"Theft of trade secrets is a big item with smugglers." I'm insufferable!

"There are always medicines and the diseases that require them," she said.

Where is she? I can hear her but I can't see her. "Do Honored Matres know our

universe harbors blackguards not above sowing the problem before providing the

solution?" Blackguards? I never use that word.

"All things relative, Duncan. They burned Lampadas and butchered four million

of our finest."

He awoke and sat upright. Specifications for new devices! There it was in

delicate detail, a way to miniaturize Holzmann generators. Two centimeters, no

more. And much cheaper! How was that smuggled into my mind?

He slipped out of bed, not awakening Murbella, and groped his way to a robe. He

heard her snuffle as he let himself out into the workroom.

Seating himself at his console, he copied the design from his mind and studied

it. Perfect! Englobement for sure. He transmitted to Archives with a flag for

Odrade and Bellonda.

With a sigh, he sat back and examined his design once more. It vanished in a

return to his dream scroll. Am I still dreaming? No! He could feel the chair,

touch the console, hear the field buzzing. Dreams do that.

The scroll produced cutting and stabbing weapons, including some designed to

introduce poisons or bacteria into enemy flesh.

Projectiles.

He wondered how to stop the scroll and study details.

"It's all in your head!"

Humans and other animals bred for attack scrolled past his eyes, hiding the

console and its projection. Futars? How did Futars get in there? What do I

know about Futars?

Disruptors replaced the animals. Weapons to cloud mental activity or interfere

with life itself. Disruptors? I've never heard that name before.

Disruptors were succeeded by null-G "seekers" designed to hunt specific targets.

Those I know.

Explosives next, including ones to spread poisons and bacteriologicals.

Deceptives, to project false targets. Teg had used those.

Energizers appeared next. He had a private arsenal of those: ways of

increasing capacities of your troops.

Abruptly, the shimmering net from his vision replaced scrolling weapons and he

saw the elderly couple in their garden. They glared at him. The man's voice

became audible. "Stop spying on us!"

Idaho gripped the arms of his chair and jerked himself forward but the vision

disappeared before he could study details.

Spying?

He sensed a residue of the scroll in his mind, no longer visible but a musing

voice . . . masculine.

"Defenses often must take on characteristics of the attack weapons. Sometimes,

however, simple systems can divert the most devastating weapons."

Simple systems! He laughed aloud. "Miles! Where the hell are you, Teg? I

have your disguised attack vessels! Inflated decoys! Empty except for a

miniature Holzmann generator and lasgun." He added this to his Archives

transmissions.

When he was finished, he asked himself once more about the visions. Influencing

my dreams? What have I tapped?

In every spare minute since becoming Teg's Weapons Master, he had been calling

up Archival records. There had to be some clue in all of that massive

accumulation!

Resonances and tachyon theory held his attention for a time. Tachyon theory

figured in Holzmann's original design. "Techys," Holzmann had called his energy

source.

A wave system that ignored light speed's limits. Light speed obviously did not

limit foldspace ships. Techys?

"It works because it works," Idaho muttered. "Faith. Like any other religion."

Mentats squirreled away much seemingly inconsequential data. He had a

storehouse marked "Techys" and proceeded to go through it without satisfaction.

Not even Guild Navigators professed knowledge of how they guided foldspace

ships. Ixian scientists made machines to duplicate Navigator abilities but

still could not define what they did.

"Holzmann's formulae can be trusted."

No one claimed to understand Holzmann. They merely used his formulae because

they worked. It was the "ether" of space travel. You folded space. One

instant you were here and the next instant you were countless parsecs distant.

Someone "out there" has found another way to use Holzmann's theories! It was a

full Mentat Projection. He knew its accuracy from the new questions it

produced.

Murbella's Other Memory ramblings haunted him now even though he recognized

basic Bene Gesserit teachings in them.

Power attracts the corruptible. Absolute power attracts the absolutely

corruptible. This is the danger of entrenched bureaucracy to its subject

population. Even spoils systems are preferable because levels of tolerance are

lower and the corrupt can be thrown out periodically. Entrenched bureaucracy

seldom can be touched short of violence. Beware when Civil Service and Military

join hands!

The Honored Matre achievement.

Power for the sake of power . . . an aristocracy bred from unbalanced stock.

Who were those people he saw? Strong enough to drive out Honored Matres. He

knew it for a Projection datum.

Idaho found this realization profoundly dislocating. Honored Matres fugitives!

Barbaric but ignorant in the way of all such raiders even from before the

Vandals. Moved by impulsive greed as much as by any other force. "Take Roman

gold!" They filtered all distractions out of awareness. It was a stupefying

ignorance that faltered only when the more sophisticated culture insinuated

itself into the . . .

Abruptly, he saw what Odrade was doing.

Gods below! What a fragile plan!

He pressed his palms against his eyes and forced himself not to cry out in

anguish. Let them think I'm tired. But seeing Odrade's plan told him also he

would lose Murbella . . . one way or another.

When are the witches to be trusted? Never! The dark side of the magic universe

belongs to the Bene Gesserit and we must reject them.

-Tylwyth Waff, Master of Masters

The great Common Room in the no-ship, with its tiered seating and raised

platform at one end, was packed with Bene Gesserit Sisters, more than had ever

before been assembled. Chapterhouse was almost at a standstill this afternoon

because few wanted to send proxies and important decisions could not be

delegated to service cadre. Black-robed Reverend Mothers dominated the

assemblage in their aloof clusterings close to the stage but the room swirled

with acolytes in white-trimmed robes and there were even the newly enrolled.

Groups of white robes marking the youngest acolytes were sprinkled around in

tight little groups, flocking for mutual support. All others had been excluded

by Convocation Proctors.

The air was heavy with melange-perfumed breaths and it had that dank, overused

quality it got when conditioning machinery was overloaded. Odors of the recent

lunch, strong with garlic, rode on this atmosphere like an uninvited intruder.

This and stories being spread throughout the room heightened tensions.

Most kept their attention on the raised platform and the side door where Mother

Superior must enter. Even while talking to companions or moving about, they

focused on that place where they knew someone soon would enter and create

profound changes in their lives. Mother Superior did not herd them all into a

great Common Room with a promise of important announcements unless something to

shake the Bene Gesserit foundations was at hand.

Bellonda preceded Odrade into the room, mounting to the platform with that

belligerent waddle which made her easily recognizable even at a distance.

Odrade followed Bellonda at five paces. Then came senior councillors and aides,

black-robed Murbella (still looking somewhat dazed from her Agony only two weeks

past) among them. Dortujla limped close behind Murbella with Tam and Sheeana at

her side. At the end of this procession came Streggi carrying Teg on her

shoulders. There were excited murmurs when he appeared. Males seldom shared

assemblies but everyone on Chapterhouse knew this was the ghola of their Mentat

Bashar, living now at the cantonment with all that remained of a Bene Gesserit

military.

Seeing the massed ranks of the Sisterhood this way, Odrade experienced an empty

feeling. Some ancient had said it all, she thought. "Any damned fool knows one

horse can run faster than another." Often at the minor assemblages here in this

copy of a sports stadium she had been tempted to quote that bit of advice but

she knew the ritual had its better purposes as well. Assembly showed you to one

another.

Here we are together. Our kind.

Mother Superior and attendants moved like a peculiar bundle of energy through

the throng to the platform, her position of eminence at the edge of the arena.

Mother Superior was never subjected to the mass scrimmage of assemblies. She

never had elbows jammed into her ribs or felt the trodding of a neighbor's foot.

She was never forced to move as others moved in a kind of inchworm flow composed

of bodies pressed together in unwanted proximity.

Thus did Caesar arrive. Thumbs down on the whole damned thing! To Bellonda,

she said: "Let it begin."

Afterward, she knew she would wonder why she had not delegated someone to make

this ritual appearance and utter portentous words. Bellonda would love the preeminent

position and, for that reason, must never have it. But perhaps there

was some lower echelon Sister who would be embarrassed by elevation and would

obey only out of loyalty, out of that underlying need to do what Mother Superior

commanded.

Gods! If there are any of you around, why do you permit us to be such sheep?

There they were, Bellonda preparing them for her. The battalions of the Bene

Gesserit. They were not really battalions, but Odrade often imagined ranked

Sisters, cataloging them by function. That one is a squad leader. That one is

a Captain General. This one is a lowly sergeant and here is a messenger.

The Sisters would be outraged if they knew this quirk in her. She kept it well

concealed behind an "ordinary assignment" attitude. You could assign

lieutenants without calling them lieutenants. Taraza had done the same thing.

Bell was telling them now that the Sisterhood might have to make a new

accommodation with their captive Tleilaxu. Bitter words for Bell: "We have

gone through the crucible, Tleilaxu and Bene Gesserit alike, and we have come

out changed. In a way, we have changed each other."

Yes, we are like rocks rubbed against each other for so long that each takes on

some of the conforming shape required by the other. But the original rock is

still there at the core!

The audience was becoming restive. They knew this was preliminary, no matter

the hidden message within these hints about Tleilaxu. Preliminary and relative

in importance. Odrade stepped to Bellonda's side, signaling her to cut it

short.

"Here is Mother Superior."

How hard the old patterns die. Does Bell think they don't recognize me?

Odrade spoke in compelling tones, just short of Voice.

"Actions have been taken that require me to meet on Junction with Honored Matre

leadership, a meeting from which I may not emerge alive. I probably will not

survive. That meeting will be partly distraction. We are about to punish

them."

Odrade waited for murmurs to subside, hearing both agreement and disagreement in

the sounds. Interesting. The ones who agreed were closer to the stage and

farther back among new acolytes. Disagreement from advanced acolytes? Yes.

They knew the warning: We dare not feed that fire.

She pitched her voice lower, letting remotes carry it to those in the high

tiers. "Before leaving, I will Share with more than one Sister. These times

require such caution."

"Your plan?" "What will you do?" Questions were shouted at her from many

places.

"We will feint at Gammu. That should drive Honored Matre allies to Junction.

We then will take Junction and, I hope, capture the Spider Queen."

"The attack will occur while you are on Junction?" This question came from

Garimi, a sober-faced Proctor directly below Odrade.

"That is the plan. I will be transmitting my observations to the attackers."

Odrade gestured to Teg seated on Streggi's shoulders. "The Bashar will lead the

attack in person."

"Who goes with you?" "Yes. Who are you taking?" No mistaking the worry in

those cries. So the word had not yet spread through Chapterhouse.

"Tam and Dortujla," Odrade said.

"Who will Share with you?" Garimi again. Indeed! That is the political

question of most interest. Who may succeed Mother Superior? Odrade heard

nervous stirring behind her. Bellonda excited? Not you, Bell. You already

know that.

"Murbella and Sheeana," Odrade said. "And one other if Proctors care to name a

candidate."

Proctors formed little consulting groups, shouting suggestions from group to

group, but no names were submitted. Someone had a question though: "Why

Murbella?"

"Who knows Honored Matres better?" Odrade asked.

That silenced them.

Garimi moved closer to the stage and looked up at Odrade with a penetrating

stare. Don't try to mislead a Reverend Mother, Darwi Odrade! "After our feint

at Gammu, they will be even more alert and reinforced on Junction. What makes

you think we can take them?"

Odrade stepped aside and motioned Streggi forward with Teg.

Teg had been watching Odrade's performance with fascination. He looked down now

at Garimi. She was currently Chief Assignment Proctor and no doubt had been

chosen to speak for a bloc of Sisters. It occurred to Teg then that this

ludicrous position on the shoulders of an acolyte had been planned by Odrade for

reasons other than those she voiced.

To put my eyes closer to a level with adults around me . . . but also to remind

them of my lesser stature, to reassure them that a Bene Gesserit (if only an

acolyte) still controls my movements.

"I will not go into all of the weaponry details at the moment," he said. Damn

this piping voice! He had their attention, though. "But we are going for

mobility, for decoys that will destroy a great deal of the area around them if a

lasgun beam hits them . . . and we are going to englobe Junction with devices to

reveal the movements of their no-ships."

When they continued to stare at him, he said: "If Mother Superior confirms my

previous knowledge of Junction, we will know our enemy's positions intimately.

There should not be significant changes. Not enough time has passed."

Surprise and the unexpected. What else did they expect from their Mentat

Bashar? He stared back at Garimi, daring her to voice more doubts of his

military ability.

She had another question. "Are we to presume that Duncan Idaho advises you on

weapons?"

"When you have the best, you would be a fool not to use it," he said.

"But will he accompany you as Weapons Master?"

"He chooses not to leave the ship and you all know why. What is the meaning of

that question?"

He had deflected her and silenced her and she did not like it. A man should not

be able to maneuver a Reverend Mother that way!

Odrade stepped forward and put a hand on Teg's arm. "Have you all forgotten

that this ghola is our loyal friend, Miles Teg?" She stared at particular faces

in the throng, choosing ones she was certain watchdogged the comeyes and knew

Teg was her father, moving her gaze from face to face with a deliberate slowness

that could not be misinterpreted.

Is there one among you who dares cry "nepotism"? Then look once more at his

record in our service!

Sounds of the Convocation became once more those in keeping with other graces

they expected in assemblies. No more vulgar clash of demanding voices vying for

attention. Now, they fitted their speech into a pattern much like plainsong and

yet not quite a chant. Voices moved and flowed together. Odrade always found

this remarkable. No one directed the harmony. It happened because they were

Bene Gesserit. Naturally. This was the only explanation they needed. It

happened because they were practiced in adjusting to each other. The dance of

their everyday movements continued in their voices. Partners no matter

transitory disagreements.

I will miss this.

"It is never enough to make accurate predictions of distressful events," she

said. "Who knows this better than we? Is there one among us who has not

learned the lesson of the Kwisatz Haderach?"

No need to elaborate. Evil prediction should not alter their course. That kept

Bellonda silent. The Bene Gesserit were enlightened. Not dullards who attacked

the bearer of bad tidings. Discount the messenger? (Who could expect anything

useful from the likes of that one?) That was a pattern to be avoided at all

costs. Will we silence disagreeable messengers, thinking the deep silence of

death obliterates the message? The Bene Gesserit knew better than that! Death

makes a prophet's voice louder. Martyrs are truly dangerous.

Odrade watched reflexive awareness spread through the room, even up to the

highest tiers.

We are entering hard times, Sisters, and must accept that. Even Murbella knows

it. And she knows now why I was so anxious to make a Sister of her. We all

know it one way or another.

Odrade turned and glanced at Bellonda. No disappointment there. Bell knew why

she was not among the chosen. It's our best course, Bell. Infiltrate. Take

them before they even suspect what we're doing.

Shifting her gaze to Murbella, Odrade saw respectful awareness. Murbella was

beginning to get her first batches of good advice from Other Memory. The manic

stage had passed and she was even regaining a fondness for Duncan. In time

perhaps . . . Bene Gesserit training assured that she would judge Other Memory

on her own. Nothing in Murbella's stance said: "Keep your lousy advice to

yourself!" She had historical comparisons and could not evade their obvious

message.

Don't march in the streets with others who share your prejudices. Loud shouts

are often the easiest to ignore. "I mean, look at them out there shouting their

fool heads off! You want to make common cause with them?"

I told you, Murbella: Now judge for yourself. "To create change you find

leverage points and move them. Beware blind alleys. Offers of high positions

are a common distraction paraded before marchers. Leverage points are not all

in high office. They are often at economic or communications centers and unless

you know this, high office is useless. Even lieutenants can alter our course.

Not by changing reports but by burying unwanted orders. Bell sits on orders

until she believes them ineffective. I give her orders sometimes for this

purpose: so she can play her delaying game. She knows it and yet she plays her

game anyway. Know this, Murbella! And after we Share, study my performance

with great care."

Harmony had been achieved but at a cost. Odrade signaled that Convocation was

ended, knowing well that all questions had not been answered nor even asked.

But the unasked questions would come filtering through Bell where they would get

the most appropriate treatment.

Alert ones among the Sisters would not ask. They already saw her plan.

As she left the Great Common Room, Odrade felt herself accept full commitment

for choices she had made, recognizing previous hesitancy for the first time.

There were regrets, but only Murbella and Sheeana might know them.

Walking behind Bellonda, Odrade thought about the places I will never go, the

things I will never see except as a reflection in the life of another.

It was a form of nostalgia that centered on the Scatterings and this eased her

pain. There was just too much for one person to see out there. Even the Bene

Gesserit with its accumulated memories could never hope to catch up with all of

it, not with every last interesting detail. It was back to grand designs. The

Big Picture, the Mainstream. The specialties of my Sisterhood. Here were

essentials Mentats employed: patterns, movements of currents and what those

currents carried, where they were going. Consequences. Not maps but the

flowings.

At least, I have preserved key elements of our jury-monitored democracy in

original form. They may thank me for that one day.

Seek freedom and become captive of your desires. Seek discipline and find your

liberty.

-The Coda

"Who expected the air machinery to break down?"

The Rabbi asked his question of no one in particular. He sat on a low bench, a

scroll clutched to his breast. The scroll had been reinforced by modern

artifice but it still was old and fragile. He was not sure of the time.

Midmorning probably. They had eaten not long ago food that could be described

as breakfast.

"I expected it."

He appeared to be addressing the scroll. "Passover has come and gone and our

door was locked."

Rebecca came to stand over him. "Please, Rabbi. How does this help Joshua at

his labors?"

"We have not been abandoned," the Rabbi told his scroll. "It is we who have

hidden ourselves away. When we cannot be found by strangers, where would anyone

look who might help us?"

He peered up abruptly at Rebecca, owlish behind his glasses. "Have you brought

evil to us, Rebecca?"

She knew his meaning. "Outsiders always think there's something nefarious about

the Bene Gesserit," she said.

"So now I, your Rabbi, am Outsider!"

"You estrange yourself, Rabbi. I speak from the viewpoint of the Sisterhood you

made me help. What they do is often boring. Repetitious but not evil."

"I made you help? Yes, I did that. Forgive me, Rebecca. If evil joins us, I

have done it."

"Rabbi! Stop this. They are an extended clan. And still, they keep a touchy

individualism. Does an extended clan mean nothing to you? Does my dignity

offend you?"

"I tell you, Rebecca, what offends me. By my hand you have learned to follow

different books than . . ." He raised the scroll as though it were a bludgeon.

"No books at all, Rabbi. Oh, they have a Coda but it's just a collection of

reminders, sometimes useful, sometimes to be discarded. They always adjust

their Coda to current requirements."

"There are books that cannot be adjusted, Rebecca!"

She stared down at him with ill-concealed dismay. Was this how he saw the

Sisterhood? Or was it fear talking?

Joshua came to stand beside her, hands greasy, black smears on forehead and

cheeks. "Your suggestion was the right one. It's working again. How long I

don't know. The problem is --"

"You do not know the problem," the Rabbi interrupted.

"The mechanical problem, Rabbi," Rebecca said. "This no-chamber's field

distorts machinery."

"We could not bring in frictionless machinery," Joshua said. "Too revealing,

not to mention the cost."

"Your machinery is not all that has been distorted."

Joshua looked at Rebecca with raised eyebrows. What's wrong with him? So

Joshua trusted Bene Gesserit insights, too. That offended the Rabbi. His flock

sought guidance elsewhere.

The Rabbi surprised her then. "You think I'm jealous, Rebecca?"

She shook her head from side to side.

"You display talents," the Rabbi said, "that others are quick to use. Your

suggestion fixed the machinery? These . . . these Others told you how?"

Rebecca shrugged. This was the Rabbi of old, not to be challenged in his own

house.

"I should praise you?" the Rabbi asked. "You have power? Now, you will govern

us?"

"No one, least of all I, ever suggested that, Rabbi." She was offended and did

not mind showing it.

"Forgive me, daughter. That is what you call 'flip.' "

"I don't need your praise, Rabbi. And of course I forgive."

"Your Others have something to say about this?"

"The Bene Gesserit say fear of praise goes back to an ancient prohibition

against praising your child because that brings down the wrath of the gods."

He bowed his head. "Sometimes a bit of wisdom."

Joshua appeared embarrassed. "I'm going to try sleeping. I should be rested."

He aimed a meaningful glance at the machinery area where a labored rasping could

be heard.

He left them for the darkened end of the chamber, stumbling on a child's toy as

he went.

The Rabbi patted the bench beside him. "Sit, Rebecca."

She sat.

"I am fearful for you, for us, for all of the things we represent." He caressed

the scroll. "We have been true for so many generations." His gaze swept the

room. "And we don't even have a minyan here."

Rebecca wiped tears from her eyes. "Rabbi, you misjudge the Sisterhood. They

wish only to perfect humans and their governments."

"So they say."

"So I say. Government, to them, is an art form. You find that amusing?"

"You arouse my curiosity. Are these women self-deluded by dreams of their own

importance?"

"They think of themselves as watchdogs."

"Dogs?"

"Watchdogs, alert to when a lesson may be taught. That is what they seek.

Never try to teach someone a lesson he cannot absorb."

"Always these bits of wisdom." He sounded sad. "And they govern themselves

artistically?"

"They think of themselves as a jury with absolute powers that no law can veto."

He waved the scroll in front of her nose. "I thought so!"

"No human law, Rabbi."

"You tell me these women who make religions to suit themselves believe in a . .

. in a power greater than themselves."

"Their belief would not accord with ours, Rabbi, but I do not think it evil."

"What is this . . . this belief?"

"They call it the 'leveling drift.' They see it genetically and as instinct.

Brilliant parents are likely to have children closer to the average, for

example."

"A drift? This is a belief?"

"That is why they avoid prominence. They are advisors, even king-makers on

occasion, but they do not want to be in the target foreground. "

"This drift . . . do they believe there is a Drift-Maker?"

"They don't assume there is. Only that there is this observable movement."

"So what do they do in this drift?"

"They take precautions."

"In the presence of Satan, I should think so!"

"They don't oppose the current but seem only to move across it, making it work

for them, using the back eddies."

"Oyyy!"

"Ancient sailing masters understood this quite well, Rabbi. The Sisterhood has

what amounts to current charts telling them places to avoid and where to make

their greatest efforts."

Again, he waved the scroll. "This is no current chart."

"You misinterpret, Rabbi. They know the fallacies about overwhelming machines."

She glanced at the laboring machinery. "They see us in currents machinery

cannot breast."

"These little wisdoms. I do not know, daughter. Meddling in politics, I

accept. But in holy matters . . ."

"A leveling drift, Rabbi. Mass influence on brilliant innovators who move out

of the pack and produce new things. Even when the new helps us, the drift

catches the innovator."

"Who is to say what helps, Rebecca?"

"I merely tell what they believe. They see taxation as evidence of the drift,

taking away free energy that might create more new things. A sensitized person

detects it, they say."

"And these . . . these Honored Matres?"

"They fit the pattern. Power-closed government intent on making all potential

challengers ineffectual. Screen out the bright ones. Blunt intelligence."

A tiny beeping sound came from the machinery area. Joshua was past them before

they could stand. He bent over the screen that revealed events on the surface.

"They are back," he said. "See! They dig in the ashes directly above us."

"Have they found us?" The Rabbi sounded almost relieved.

Joshua watched the screen.

Rebecca placed her head beside his, studying the diggers -- ten men with that

dreaming look in their eyes of those who had been bonded to Honored Matres.

"They only dig at random," Rebecca said, straightening.

"You're sure?" Joshua stood and looked into her face, seeking secret

confirmation.

Any Bene Gesserit could see it.

"Look for yourself." She gestured at the screen. "They are leaving. They go

to the sligsty now."

"Where they belong," the Rabbi muttered.

Making workable choices occurs in a crucible of informative mistakes. Thus

Intelligence accepts fallibility. And when absolute (infallible) choices are

not known, Intelligence takes chances with limited data in an arena where

mistakes are not only possible but also necessary.

-Darwi Odrade

Mother Superior did not just board an outgoing lighter and transfer to any

convenient no-ship. There were plans, arrangements, strategies -- contingencies

on contingencies.

It took eight hectic days. Timing with Teg had to be precise. Consultations

with Murbella ate up hours. Murbella had to know what she faced.

Discover their Achilles heel, Murbella, and you have it all. Stay on the

observation ship when Teg attacks but watch carefully.

Odrade took detailed advice from all who could help. Then came the vital-signs

implant with encrypting to transmit her secret observations. A no-ship and

long-range lighter had to be refitted, crew chosen by Teg.

Bellonda muttered and growled until Odrade intervened.

"You are distracting me! Is that your intent? Weaken me?" It was late morning

four days before departure and they were temporarily alone in the workroom.

Weather clear but unseasonably cold and air an ochre tinge from a dust storm

that had blown across Central in the night.

"Convocation was a mistake!" Bellonda needed her parting shot.

Odrade found herself snapping back at Bellonda, who had become a bit too

caustic. "Necessary!"

"To you, maybe! Saying goodbye to your family. Now, you leave us here taking

in each other's laundry."

"Did you just come up here to complain about the Convocation?"

"I don't like your latest comments on Honored Matres! You should have consulted

us before spreading --"

"They're parasites, Bell! It's time we made that clear: a known weakness. And

what does a body do when afflicted by parasites?" Odrade delivered this with a

broad grin.

"Dar, when you assume this . . . this pseudo-humorous pose, I would like to

throttle you!"

"Would you smile as you did it, Bell?"

"Damn you, Dar! One of these days . . ."

"We don't have many more days together, Bell, and that's what's eating you.

Answer my question."

"Answer it yourself!"

"The body welcomes periodic delousing. Even addicts dream of freedom."

"Ahhhhh." A Mentat peered from Bellonda's eyes. "You think addiction to

Honored Matres could be made painful?"

"In spite of your dreadful inability at humor, you still can function."

A cruel smile flexed Bellonda's mouth.

"I've managed to amuse you," Odrade said.

"Let me discuss this with Tam. She has a better head for strategy. Although .

. . Sharing softened her."

When Bellonda had gone, Odrade leaned back and laughed quietly. Softened!

"Don't go soft tomorrow, Dar, when you Share." The Mentat stumbles on logic and

misses the heart. She sees the process and worries about failure. What do we

do if . . . We open windows, Bell, and let in common sense. Even hilarity.

Puts more serious matters in perspective. Poor Bell, my flawed Sister. Always

something to occupy your nervousness.

Odrade left Central on departure morning much entangled in her thinking -- an

introspective mood, worried by what she had learned Sharing with Murbella and

Sheeana.

I'm being self-indulgent.

That offered no relief. Her thoughts were framed by Other Memory and almost

cynical fatalism.

Queen bees swarming?

That had been suggested of Honored Matres.

But Sheeana? And Tam approves?

This carried more in it than a Scattering.

I cannot follow into your wild place, Sheeana. My task is to produce order. I

cannot risk what you have dared. There are different kinds of artistry. Yours

repels me.

Absorbing lifetimes of Murbella's Other Memory helped. Murbella's knowledge was

a powerful leverage on Honored Matres but full of disturbing nuances.

Not hypnotrance. They use cellular induction, a byproduct of their damned Tprobes!

Unconscious compulsion! How tempting to use it for ourselves. But

this is where Honored Matres are most vulnerable -- enormous unconsciousness

content locked in by their own decisions. Murbella's key only emphasizes its

danger to us.

They arrived at the Landing Flat in the midst of a windstorm that buffeted them

when they emerged from their car. Odrade had vetoed a walk through what

remained of orchards and vineyards.

Leaving for the last time? The question in Bellonda's eyes as she said goodbye.

In Sheeana's worried frown.

Does Mother Superior accept my decision?

Provisionally, Sheeana. Provisionally. But I have not warned Murbella. So . .

. perhaps I do share Tam's judgment.

Dortujla, in the van of Odrade's party, was withdrawn.

Understandable. She has been there . . . and watched her Sisters eaten.

Courage, Sister! We are not yet defeated.

Only Murbella had appeared to take this in stride but she was thinking ahead to

Odrade's encounter with the Spider Queen.

Have I armed Mother Superior sufficiently? Does she know in her guts how very

dangerous this will be?

Odrade pushed such thoughts aside. There were things to do on the crossing.

None of them more important than gathering her energies. Honored Matres could

be analyzed almost out of reality, but the actual confrontation would be played

as it came -- a jazz performance. She liked the idea of jazz although the music

distracted her with its antique flavors and the dips into wildness. Jazz spoke

about life, though. No two performances ever identical. Players reacted to

what was received from the others: jazz.

Feed us with jazz.

Air and space travel did not often concern itself with weather. Bludgeon your

way through transitory interferences. Depend on Weather Control to provide

launch windows through storms and cloud cover. Desert planets were an exception

and that would have to be entered into Chapterhouse equations before long. Many

changes, including return to Fremen mortuary practices. Bodies rendered for

water and potash.

Odrade spoke of this as they waited for transport up to the ship. That wide

cummerbund of hot, dry land expanding around the planet's equator would begin

generating dangerous winds before long. One day, there would be coreolis

storms: a blast-furnace from the desert interior with speeds in hundreds of

kilometers an hour. Dune had seen winds of more than seven hundred kmh. Even

space lighters took notice of such force. Air travel would be subject to the

constant whims of surface conditions. And frail human flesh must find whatever

shelter it could.

As we always have.

The lounge at the Flat was old. Stone inside and out, their first major

building material here. Spartan slingchairs and low tables of molded plaz were

more recent. Economy could not be ignored even for Mother Superior.

The lighter arrived in a dusty maelstrom. No nonsense about suspensor

cushioning. This would be a quick lift with uncomfortable gees but not high

enough to damage flesh.

Odrade felt almost disembodied as she said her final farewells and turned

Chapterhouse over to a triumvirate of Sheeana, Murbella, and Bellonda. One last

word: "Don't interfere with Teg. And I don't want anything nasty happening to

Duncan. Hear me, Bell?"

All of the wonderful technological things they could accomplish and they still

could not keep a thick sandstorm from almost blinding them as they lifted.

Odrade closed her eyes and accepted the fact that she was not to get a last lowlevel

overview of her beloved planet. She awoke to the thump of docking.

Buzzcar waiting in a corridor just beyond the lock. A humming traverse to their

quarters. Tamalane, Dortujla, and the acolyte servant maintained silence,

respecting Mother Superior's desire to be with her own thoughts.

The quarters, at least, were familiar, standard on Bene Gesserit ships: a small

sitting-dining room in elemental plaz of uniform light green; smaller sleeping

chamber with walls in the same color and a single hard cot. They knew Mother

Superior's preferences. Odrade glanced into a usiform bath and toilet.

Standard facilities. Adjoining quarters for Tam and Dortujla were similar.

Time later to look at the ship's refittings.

All essentials had been provided. Including unobtrusive elements of

psychological support: subdued colors, familiar furnishings, a setting to

disturb none of her mental processes. She gave orders for departure before

returning to her sitting-dining room.

Food was waiting on a low table -- blue fruit, sweet and plummy, a savory yellow

spread on bread tailored to her energy needs. Very good. She watched the

assigned acolyte at her self-effacing work arranging Mother Superior's effects.

The name evaded Odrade for a second, then: Suipol. A dark little thing with a

round, calm face and manners to match. Not one of our brightest but guaranteed

efficient.

It struck Odrade suddenly that these assignments had an element of callousness

in them. A small entourage, not to offend Honored Matres. And keep our losses

to a minimum.

"Have you unpacked all of my things, Suipol?"

"Yes, Mother Superior." Very proud of having been chosen for this important

assignment. It showed in her walk as she left.

There are some things you cannot unpack for me, Suipol. I carry those in my

head.

No Bene Gesserit from Chapterhouse ever left the planet without taking along a

certain amount of chauvinism. Other places were never quite as beautiful, never

quite as serene, never as pleasant a habitat.

But this is the Chapterhouse that was.

It was an aspect of the desert transformation she had never before viewed in

quite that way. Chapterhouse was removing itself. Going away, never to return,

at least not in the lifetimes of those who knew it now. It was like being

abandoned by a beloved parent-disdainfully and with malice.

You are no longer important to me, child.

On the way to becoming a Reverend Mother, they were taught early that travel

could provide a peaceful byway for rest. Odrade fully intended to take

advantage of this and told her companions immediately after eating, "Spare me

details."

Suipol was sent to summon Tamalane. Odrade spoke in Tam's own terse meter.

"Inspect the refitting and tell me what I should see. Take Dortujla."

"Good head, that one." High praise from Tam.

"When we're through, isolate me as much as possible."

During part of the crossing, Odrade strapped herself into the webbing of her cot

and occupied herself composing what she thought of as a last will and testament.

Who would be executor?

Murbella was her personal choice, especially after the Sharing with Sheeana.

Still . . . the Dune waif remained a potent candidate if this venture to

Junction failed.

Some assumed any Reverend Mother could serve if responsibility fell on her. But

not in these times. Not with this trap set. Honored Matres were unlikely to

avoid the pitfall.

If we've judged them correctly. And Murbella's data says we've done our best.

The opening is there for Honored Matres to enter, and oh, how inviting it will

appear. They won't see the dead end until they're well into it. Too late!

But what if we fail?

Survivors (if any) would hold Odrade in contempt.

I have often felt diminished but never an object of contempt. Yet the decisions

I made may never be accepted by my Sisters. At least, I make no excuses . . .

not even to the ones with whom I Shared. They know my response comes from the

darkness before a human dawn. Any of us may do a futile thing, even a stupid

thing. But my plan can give us victory. We will not "just survive." Our grail

requires us to persist together. Humans need us! Sometimes, they need

religions. Sometimes, they need merely know their beliefs are as empty as their

hopes for nobility. We are their source. After the masks are removed, that

remains: Our Niche.

She felt then that this ship was taking her into the pit. Closer and closer to

awful threat.

I go to the axe; it does not come to me.

No thoughts of exterminating this foe. Not since the Scattering magnified human

population had that been possible. A flaw in Honored Matre schemes.

The high-pitched beep and flashing orange light that signaled arrival brought

her out of repose. She struggled from her sling straps and, with Tam, Dortujla,

and Suipol close behind, followed a guide to the transport lock where a longrange

lighter clung to its shiptit. Odrade looked at the lighter visible in

bulkhead scanners. Incredibly small!

"It'll only be nineteen hours," Duncan had said. "But that's as close as we

dare bring the no-ship. They're sure to have foldspace sensors close around

Junction."

Bell, for once, had agreed. Don't risk the ship. It's there to plot outer

defenses and receive your transmissions, not just to deliver Mother Superior.

The lighter was the no-ship's forward sensor, signaling what it encountered.

And I am the foremost sensor, a fragile body with delicate instruments.

There were guide arrows at the lock. Odrade led the way. They went through a

small tube in free-fall. She found herself in a surprisingly rich cabin.

Suipol, tumbling behind, recognized it and went up a notch in Odrade's

estimation.

"This was a smuggler ship."

One person awaited them. Male by his smell but an opaque pilot's hood bristling

with connectors concealed his face.

"Everyone strap in."

Male voice within that instrumentation.

Teg chose him. He'll be the best.

Odrade slipped into a seat behind a landing port and found the lumpy protrusions

that unreeled into web harness. She heard the others obeying the pilot's

command.

"All secure? Stay strapped in unless I say otherwise." His voice came from a

floating speaker behind his seat at the drive console.

The umbilicus went "Bap!" Odrade felt gentle motions, but the view in the relay

beside her showed the no-ship receding at a remarkable rate. It winked out of

existence.

Going about its business before anyone can come out to investigate.

The lighter had surprising speed. Scanners reported planetary stations and

transition barriers at eighteen-plus hours but winking dots identifying them

were visible only because they had been enhanced. A window in the scanner said

the stations would be naked-eye visible in a little more than twelve of those

hours.

The sense of motion ceased abruptly and Odrade no longer felt the acceleration

her eyes reported. Suspensor cabin. Ixian technology for a nullfield this

small. Where had Teg acquired it?

Not necessary for me to know. Why tell Mother Superior where every oak

plantation is located?

She watched sensor contacts begin within the hour and gave silent thanks for

Idaho's astuteness.

We're beginning to know these Honored Matres.

Junction's defensive pattern was apparent even without scanner analysis.

Overlapping planes! Just as Teg predicted. With knowledge of how barriers were

spaced, Teg's people could weave another globe around the planet.

Surely it's not that simple.

Were Honored Matres so confident of overwhelming power that they ignored

elementary precautions?

Planetary Station Four began calling when they were just under three hours out.

"Identify yourself!"

Odrade heard an "or else" in that command.

The pilot's response obviously surprised the watchers. "You come in a little

smuggler ship?"

So they recognize it. Teg is right once more.

"I'm about to burn the sensor equipment in the drive," the pilot announced. "It

will add to our thrust. Make sure you're all securely harnessed."

Station Four noticed. "Why are you increasing velocity?"

Odrade leaned forward. "Repeat the countersign and say our party is fatigued

from too long in cramped quarters. Add that I have equipped myself with a

precautionary vital-signs transmitter to alert my people should I die."

They won't find the encryption! Clever Duncan. And wasn't Bell surprised to

discover what he hid in Shipsystems. "More romantics!"

The pilot relayed her words. Back came the order: "Reduce velocity and lock

onto these coordinates for landing. We are taking over your ship control at

this point."

The pilot touched a yellow field on his board. "Just the way the Bashar said

they would." A gloating sound in his voice. He lifted the hood off his head

and turned.

Odrade was shocked.

Cyborg!

The face was a metal mask with two glittering silver balls for eyes.

We enter dangerous ground.

"They didn't tell you?" he asked. "Waste no pity. I was dead and this gave me

life. It's Clairby, Mother Superior. And when I die this time, that will buy

me life as a ghola."

Damn! We're trading in coin that may be denied us. Too late to change. And

that was Teg's plan. But . . . Clairby?

The lighter landed with a smoothness that spoke of superb control by Station

Four. Odrade knew the moment because a manicured landscape visible in her

scanner no longer moved. The nullfield was turned off and she felt gravity.

The hatch directly in front of her opened. Temperature pleasantly warm. Noise

out there. Children playing some competitive game?

Luggage floating behind, she stepped onto a short flight of steps and saw that

the noise did indeed come from a large group of children in a nearby field. In

their high teens and female. They were butting a suspensor float-ball back and

forth, shouting and screaming as they played.

Staged for our benefit?

Odrade thought it likely. There probably were two thousand young women on that

field.

Look how many recruits we have coming along!

No one to greet her but Odrade saw a familiar structure down a paved lane to her

left. Obvious Spacing Guild artifact with a recent tower added. She spoke of

the tower as she glanced around her, giving the implanted transmitter data on a

change from Teg's groundplan. Nobody who had ever seen a Guild building could

mislabel this place, though.

So this was like other Junction planets. Somewhere in Guild records there

doubtless was a serial number and code for it. So long under Guild control

before Honored Matres that, in these first moments of debarking, getting their

"ground legs," everything around them could be seen to have that special Guild

flavor. Even the playing field -- designed for outdoor meetings of Navigators

in their giant containers of melange gas.

The Guild flavor: It was compounded of Ixian technology and Navigator design --

buildings wrapped around space in the most energy-conserving way, paths direct;

few slide-walks. They were wasteful and only the gravity-bound needed them. No

flowery plantings near the Landing Flat. They were susceptible to accidental

destruction. And that permanent grayness to all construction -- not silver but

as dull as Tleilaxu skin.

The structure on her left was a great bulging shape with extrusions, some

rounded and some angular. This had been no lavish hostelry. Opulent little

nooks, of course, but those were rare, built for VVIPs, mostly inspectors from

the Guild.

Once more, Teg is right. Honored Matres kept existing structures, remodeling

minimally. A tower!

Odrade reminded herself then: This is not only another world but also another

society with its own social glue. She had a handle on that from Sharing with

Murbella but did not think she had plumbed what held Honored Matres together.

Surely not just a lusting after power.

"We'll walk," she said and led the way down the paved lane toward the giant

structure.

Goodbye, Clairby. Blow your ship as soon as you can. Let it be our first great

surprise for Honored Matres.

The Guild structure loomed higher as they approached.

The most astonishing thing to Odrade whenever she saw one of these functional

constructions was that someone had taken a great deal of care in planning it.

Intentional detail in everything although you sometimes had to dig for it.

Budget dictated reduced quality in many choices, endurance preferred over luxury

or eye appeal. Compromise and, like most compromise, satisfying no one. Guild

comptrollers undoubtedly had complained at the price, and present occupants

still could feel irritated at shortcomings. No matter. The thing was tangible

substance. It was here to be used now. Another compromise.

The lobby was smaller than she had expected. Some interior changes. Only about

six meters long and perhaps four meters wide. Reception slot was on their right

as they entered. Odrade motioned Suipol to register their party and indicated

that the rest of them should wait in the open area well within striking distance

of one another. Treachery had not been ruled out.

Dortujla obviously expected it. She looked resigned.

Odrade made a careful inspection and commented on their surroundings. Plenty of

comeyes but the rest of it . . .

Each time she entered one of these places, she had the sensation of being in a

museum. Other Memory said hostelries of this sort had not changed significantly

in eons. Even in early times she found prototypes. A glimpse of the past in

the chandeliers -- gigantic glittering things imitative of electric devices but

furnished with glowglobes. Two of them dominated the ceiling like imaginary

spaceships descending in splendor from the void.

There were more glimpses of the past that few transients in this age would

notice. The arrangement of reception area behind grilled slots, space for

waiting with its mixture of seats and inconvenient lighting, signs directing

them to services -- restaurants, narcoparlors, assignation bars, swimming and

other exercise facilities, automassage rooms, and the like. Only language and

script had changed from ancient times. Given an understanding of the language,

the signs would be recognizable to pre-space primitives. This was a temporary

stopping place.

Plenty of security installations. Some had the look of artifacts from the

Scattering. Ix and Guild had never wasted gold on comeyes and sensors.

A frenetic dance of roboservants in the reception area -- dartings here and

there, cleaning, picking up litter, guiding newcomers. A party of four Ixians

had preceded Odrade's group. She gave them close attention. How self-important

yet fearful.

To her Bene Gesserit eye, the people of Ix were always recognizable no matter

the disguises. Basic structure of their society colored its individuals.

Ixians displayed a Hogbenesque attitude toward their science: that political

and economic requirements determined permissible research. That said the

innocent naivete of Ixian social dreams had become the reality of bureaucratic

centralism -- a new aristocracy. So they were headed into a decline that would

not be stopped by whatever accommodation this Ixian party made with Honored

Matres.

No matter the outcome of our contest, Ix is dying. Witness: no great Ixian

innovations in centuries.

Suipol returned. "They ask us to wait for an escort."

Odrade decided to start negotiations immediately with a chat for the benefit of

Suipol, the comeyes, and listeners on her no-ship.

"Suipol, did you notice those Ixians ahead of us?"

"Yes, Mother Superior."

"Mark them well. They are products of a dying society. It is naive to expect

any bureaucracy to take brilliant innovations and put them to good use.

Bureaucracies ask different questions. Do you know what those are?"

"No, Mother Superior." Spoken after a searching look at their surroundings.

She knows! But she sees what I'm doing. What have we here? I've misjudged

her.

"These are typical questions, Suipol: Who gets the credit? Who will be blamed

if it causes problems? Will it shift the power structure, costing us jobs? Or

will it make some subsidiary department more important?"

Suipol nodded on cue but her glance at the comeyes might have been a little

obvious. No matter.

"These are political questions," Odrade said. "They demonstrate how motives of

bureaucracy are directly opposed to the need for adapting to change.

Adaptability is a prime requirement for life to survive."

Time to talk directly to our hosts.

Odrade turned her attention upward, picking a prominent comeye in a chandelier.

"Note those Ixians. Their 'mind in a deterministic universe' has given way to

'mind in an unlimited universe' where anything may happen. Creative anarchy is

the path to survival in this universe."

"Thank you for this lesson, Mother Superior."

Bless you, Suipol.

"After all of their experiences with us," Suipol said, "surely they no longer

question our loyalty to one another."

Fates preserve her! This one is ready for the Agony and may never see it.

Odrade could only agree with the acolyte's summation. Compliance with Bene

Gesserit ways came from within, from those constantly monitored details that

kept their own house in order. It was not philosophical but a pragmatic view of

free will. Any claim the Sisterhood might have to making its own way in a

hostile universe lay in scrupulous adherence to mutual loyalty, an agreement

forged in the Agony. Chapterhouse and its few remaining subsidiaries were

nurseries of an order founded in sharing and Sharing. Not based on innocence.

That had been lost long ago. It was set firmly in political consciousness and a

view of history independent of other laws and customs.

"We are not machines," Odrade said, glancing at the automata around them. "We

always rely on personal relationships, never knowing where those may lead us."

Tamalane stepped to Odrade's side. "Don't you think they should be sending us a

message at the very least?"

"They've already sent us a message, Tam, putting us up in a second-class

hostelry. And I have responded."

Ultimately, all things are known because you want to believe you know.

-Zensunni koan

Teg took a deep breath. Gammu lay directly ahead, precisely where his

navigators had said it would be when they emerged from foldspace. He stood

beside a watchful Streggi seeing this in displays of his flagship's command bay.

Streggi did not like it that he stood on his own feet instead of riding her

shoulders. She felt superfluous amidst military hardware. Her gaze kept going

to the multi-projection fields at command bay center. Aides moving efficiently

in and out of pods and fields, bodies draped with esoteric hardware, knew what

they were doing. She had only the vaguest idea of these functions.

The comboard to relay Teg's orders lay under his palms, riding there on

suspensors. Its command field formed a faint blue glow around his hands. The

silvery horseshoe linking him to the attack force rested lightly on his

shoulders, feeling familiar there in spite of being much larger relative to his

small body than comlinks of his previous lifetime.

None of those around him any longer questioned that this was their famous Bashar

in a child's body. They took his orders with brisk acceptance.

The target system looked ordinary from this distance: a sun and its captive

planets. But Gammu in center focus was not ordinary. Idaho had been born

there, his ghola trained there, his original memories restored there.

And I was changed there.

Teg had no explanation for what he had found in himself under the stresses of

survival on Gammu. Physical speed that drained his flesh and an ability to see

no-ships, to locate them in an image field like a block of space reproduced in

his mind.

He suspected a wild outcropping in Atreides genes. Marker cells had been

identified in him but not their purpose. It was the heritage Bene Gesserit

Breeding Mistresses had meddled with for eons. There was little doubt they

would view this ability as something potentially dangerous to them. They might

use it but he would certainly lose his freedom.

He put these reflections out of his mind.

"Send in the decoys."

Action!

Teg felt himself assume a familiar stance. There was a sense of climbing onto a

refreshing eminence when planning ended. Theories had been articulated,

alternatives carefully worked out, and subordinates deployed, all thoroughly

briefed. His key squad leaders had committed Gammu to memory -- where partisan

help might be available, every bolt hole, every known strongpoint and which

access routes were most vulnerable. He had warned them especially about Futars.

The possibility that humanoid beasts might be allies could not be overlooked.

Rebels who had helped ghola-Idaho escape from Gammu had insisted Futars were

created to hunt and kill Honored Matres. Knowing the accounts of Dortujla and

others, you could almost pity Honored Matres if this were true, except that no

pity could be spared for those who never showed it to others.

The attack was taking its designed shape -- scout ships laying down a decoy

barrage and heavy carriers moving into strike position. Teg became now what he

thought of as "the instrument of my instruments." It was difficult to determine

which commanded and which responded.

Now, the delicate part.

Unknowns were to be feared. A good commander kept that firmly in mind. There

were always unknowns.

Decoys were nearing the defensive perimeter. He saw enemy no-ships and

foldspace sensors -- bright dots arrayed through his awareness. Teg

superimposed this onto the positions of his force. Every order he gave must

appear to originate from a battle-plot they all shared.

He felt thankful Murbella had not joined him. Any Reverend Mother might see

through his deception. But no one had questioned Odrade's order that Murbella

wait with her party at a safe distance.

"Potential Mother Superior. Guard this one well."

Explosive demolition of decoys began with a random display of brilliant flashes

around the planet. He leaned forward, staring at projections.

"There's the pattern!"

There was no such pattern but his words created belief and pulses quickened. No

one questioned that the Bashar had seen vulnerability in the defenses. His

hands flashed over the comboard, sending his ships forward in a blazing display

that littered space behind them with enemy fragments.

"All right! Let's go!"

He fed the flagship's course directly into Navigation, then turned full

attention to Fire Control. Silent explosions dotted space around them as the

flagship mopped up surviving elements of Gammu's perimeter guardians.

"More decoys!" he ordered.

Globes of white light blinked in the projection fields.

Attention in the command bay concentrated on the fields, not on their Bashar.

The unexpected! Teg, justly famous for that, was confirming his reputation.

"I find this oddly romantic," Streggi said.

Romantic? No romance in this! The time for romance was past and yet to come.

A certain aura might surround plans for violence. He accepted that. Historians

created their own brand of drama-cum-romance. But now? This was adrenaline

time! Romance distracted you from necessities. You had to be cold inside, a

clear and unimpaired line between mind and body.

As his hands moved in the comboard's field, Teg realized what had driven Streggi

to speak. Something primitive about the death and destruction being created

here. This was a moment cut out of normal order. A disturbing return to

ancient tribal patterns.

She sensed a tom-tom in her breast and voices chanting: "Kill! Kill! Kill!"

His vision of guardian no-ships showed survivors fleeing in panic.

Good! Panic has a way of spreading and weakening your enemies.

"There's Barony."

Idaho had converted him to the old Harkonnen name for the sprawling city with

its giant black centerpiece of plasteel.

"We'll land on the Flat to the north."

He spoke the words but his hands gave the orders.

Quickly now!

For brief moments when they disgorged troops, no-ships were visible and

vulnerable. He held elements of the entire force responsive to his comboard and

responsibility was heavy.

"This is only a feint. We go in and out after inflicting serious damage.

Junction is our real target."

Odrade's parting admonition lay there in memory. "Honored Matres must be taught

a lesson such as never before. Attack us and you get hurt badly. Press us and

the pain can be enormous. They've heard about Bene Gesserit punishments. We're

notorious. No doubt Spider Queen sniggered a bit. You must shove that snigger

down her throat!"

"Quit ship!"

This was the vulnerable moment. Space above them remained empty of threat but

fire lances arced inward from the east. His gunners could handle those. He

concentrated on the possibility that enemy no-ships might return for a suicide

attack. Command bay projections showed his hammerships and troop carriers

pouring from the holds. The shock force, an armored elite on suspensors,

already had the perimeter secured.

There went the portable comeyes to spread his field of observation and relay the

intimate details of violence. Communication, the key to responsive command, but

it also displayed bloody destruction.

"All clear!"

The signal rang through the bay.

He lifted off the Flat and repositioned in full invisibility. Now, only the

comlinks gave defenders a clue to his position and that was masked by decoy

relays.

Projection displayed the monstrous rectangle of the ancient Harkonnen center.

It had been built as a block of light-absorbing metal to confine slaves. The

elite had lived in garden mansions on top. Honored Matres had returned it to

its former oppression.

Three of his giant hammerships came into view.

"Clear the top of that thing!" he ordered. "Wipe it clean but do as little

damage as possible to the structure."

He knew his words were superfluous but spoke for the release. Everyone in the

attack force knew what he wanted.

"Relay reports!" he ordered.

Information began flowing from the horseshoe on his shoulders. He brought it up

on secondary. Comeyes showed his troops clearing the perimeter. Battle

overhead and on the ground was well in hand for at least fifty klicks out.

Going far better than he had expected. So Honored Matres kept their heavy stuff

off-planet, not anticipating bold attack. A familiar attitude and he had Idaho

to thank for predicting it.

"They're power-blind. They think heavy armor is for space and only light stuff

for the ground. Heavy weapons are brought down as needed. No sense keeping

them on planet. Takes too much energy. Besides, awareness of all that heavy

stuff up there has a quieting effect on captive populations."

Idaho's concepts of weaponry were devastating.

"We tend to fix our minds on what we believe we know. A projectile is a

projectile even when miniaturized to contain poisons or biologicals."

Innovations in protective equipment improved mobility. Built into uniforms

where possible. And Idaho had brought back the shield with its awesome

destruction when struck by a lasgun beam. Shields on suspensors hidden in what

appeared to be soldiers (but were actually inflated uniforms) spread out ahead

of troops. Lasgun fire at them produced clean atomics to clear large areas.

Will Junction be this easy?

Teg doubted it. Necessity enforced quick adaptation to new methods.

They could have shields on Junction in two days.

And no inhibitions about how to employ them.

Shields had dominated the Old Empire, he knew, because of that oddly important

set of words called "Great Convention." Honorable people did not misuse weapons

of their feudal society. If you dishonored the Convention, your peers turned

against you with united violence. More than that, there had been the

intangible, "Face," that some called "Pride."

Face! My position in the pack.

More important to some than life itself.

"This is costing us very little," Streggi said.

She was becoming quite the battle analyst and much too banal for Teg's liking.

Streggi meant they were losing few lives but perhaps she spoke truer than she

knew.

"It's difficult to think of cheap devices doing the job," Idaho had said. "But

that's a powerful weapon."

If your weapons cost only a small fraction of the energy your enemy spent, you

had a potent lever that could prevail against seemingly overwhelming odds.

Prolong the conflict and you wasted enemy substance. Your foe toppled because

control of production and workers was lost.

"We can begin to pull out," he said turning away from the projections as his

hands repeated the order. "I want casualty reports as soon as --" He broke off

and turned at a sudden stir.

Murbella?

Her projection was repeated in all of the bay's fields. Her voice blared from

the images: "Why are you disregarding reports from your perimeter?" She

overrode his board and the projections displayed a field commander caught in

mid-sentence: ". . . orders, I will have to deny their request."

"Repeat," Murbella said.

The field commander's sweaty features turned toward his mobile comeye. The

comsystem compensated and he appeared to look directly into Teg's eyes.

"Repeating: I have self-styled refugees here asking for asylum. Their leader

says he has an agreement requiring the Sisterhood to honor his request but

without orders . . ."

"Who is he?" Teg demanded.

"He calls himself Rabbi."

Teg moved to resume control of his comboard. "I don't know of any --"

"Wait!" Murbella overrode his board.

How does she do that?

Again her voice filled the bay. "Bring him and his party to the flagship. Make

it quick." She silenced the perimeter relay.

Teg was outraged but at a disadvantage. He chose one of the multiple images and

glared at it. "How dare you interfere?"

"Because you don't have the proper data. The Rabbi is within his rights.

Prepare to receive him with honors."

"Explain."

"No! There's no need for you to know. But it was proper for me to make this

decision when I saw you were not responding."

"That commander was in a diversionary area! Not important to --"

"But the Rabbi's request has priority."

"You're as bad as Mother Superior!"

"Perhaps worse. Now hear me! Get those refugees into your flagship. And

prepare to receive me."

"Absolutely not! You are to stay where you are!"

"Bashar! There's something about this request that demands a Reverend Mother's

attention. He says they are in peril because they gave temporary sanctuary to

the Reverend Mother Lucilla. Accept this or step down."

"Then let me get my people aboard and pull back first. We'll rendezvous when

we're clear."

"Agreed. But treat those refugees with courtesy."

"Now, get off my projections. You've blinded me and that was foolish!"

"You have everything well in hand, Bashar. During this hiatus another of our

ships accepted four Futars. They came asking that we take them to Handlers but

I ordered them confined. Treat them with extreme caution."

The bay's projections resumed battle status. Teg once more called in his force.

He was seething and it was minutes before he restored a sense of command. Did

Murbella know how she undermined his authority? Or should he take this as a

measure of the importance she attached to the refugees?

When the situation was secure, he turned the bay over to an aide and, riding on

Streggi's shoulders, went to see these important refugees. What was so vital

about them that Murbella risked interference?

They were in a troop-carrier hold, a congealed party held apart by a cautious

commander.

Who knows what may be concealed among these unknowns?

The Rabbi, identifiable because he was being deferred to by the field commander,

stood with a brown-robed woman at the near side of his people. He was a small,

bearded man wearing a white skullcap. Cold light made him appear ancient. The

woman shielded her eyes with a hand. The Rabbi was speaking and his words

became audible as Teg approached.

The woman was under verbal attack!

"The prideful one will be brought low!"

Without removing her hand from its defensive position, the woman said: "I am

not proud of what I carry."

"Nor of the powers this knowledge may bring you?"

With knee pressure, Teg ordered Streggi to stop them about ten paces away. His

commander glanced at Teg but stayed in position, ready to act defensively if

this should prove to be a diversion.

Good man.

The woman bent her head even lower and pressed her hand against her eyes when

she spoke. "Are we not offered knowledge that we might use it in holy service?"

"Daughter!" The Rabbi held himself stiffly erect. "Whatever we may learn that

we may better serve, it never can be a great thing. All we call knowledge, were

it to encompass everything a humble heart could hold, all of that would be no

more than one seed in the furrows. "

Teg felt reluctant to interfere. What an archaic way of speaking. This pair

fascinated him. The other refugees listened to the exchange with rapt

attention. Only Teg's field commander appeared aloof, keeping his attention on

the strangers and giving an occasional hand-signal to aides.

The woman kept her head respectfully lowered and the shielding hand in place but

she still defended herself. "Even a seed lost in the furrows may bring forth

life."

The Rabbi's lips tightened into a grim line, then: "Without water and care,

which is to say, without the blessing and the word, there is no life. "

A great sigh shook the woman's shoulders but she held herself in that oddly

submissive position when she responded: "Rabbi, I hear and obey. Still, I must

honor this knowledge that has been thrust upon me because it contains the very

admonition you have just voiced."

The Rabbi placed a hand on her shoulder. "Then convey it to those who want it

and may no evil enter where you go."

Silence told Teg the argument had ended. He urged Streggi forward. Before she

could move, Murbella strode past and nodded to the Rabbi while keeping her gaze

on the woman.

"In the name of the Bene Gesserit and our debt to you, I welcome you and give

you sanctuary," Murbella said.

The brown-robed woman lowered her hand and Teg saw contact lenses glittering in

the palm. She lifted her head then and there were gasps all around. The

woman's eyes were the total blue of spice addiction but they also held that

inner force marking one who had survived the Agony.

Murbella made instant identification. A wild Reverend Mother! Not since Dune's

Fremen days had one of these been known.

The woman curtsied to Murbella. "I am called Rebecca. And I am filled with joy

to be with you. The Rabbi thinks I am a silly goose but I have a golden egg for

I carry Lampadas: seven million six hundred twenty-two thousand and fourteen

Reverend Mothers and they are rightfully yours."

Answers are a perilous grip on the universe. They can appear sensible yet

explain nothing.

-The Zensunni Whip

As the wait for their promised escort lengthened, Odrade became first angry and

then amused. Finally, she began following lobby robos, interfering with their

movements. Most were small and none appeared humanoid.

Functional. Hallmark of Ixian servos. Busy, busy, busy little accompaniments

to a sojourn at Junction or its equivalent anywhere.

They were so commonplace that few people noticed them. Since they were not

capable of dealing with deliberate interference, they subsided into motionless

humming.

"Honored Matres have little or no sense of humor." I know, Murbella. I know.

But do they get my message?

Dortujla obviously did. She came out of her funk and watched these antics with

a wide grin. Tam looked disapproving but tolerant. Suipol was delighted.

Odrade had to restrain her from helping to immobilize the devices.

Let me do the antagonizing, child. I know what is in store for me.

When she was sure she had made her point, Odrade took a position under one of

the chandeliers.

"Attend me, Tam," she said.

Tamalane obediently placed herself in front of Odrade with an attentive

expression.

"Have you noticed, Tam, that modern lobbies tend to be quite small?"

Tamalane spared a glance for her surroundings.

"Lobbies once were large," Odrade said. "To provide a prestigious feeling of

space for the powerful, and impressing others with your importance, of course."

Tamalane caught the spirit of Odrade's playlet and said: "These days you're

important if you travel at all."

Odrade looked at the immobilized robos scattered across the lobby floor. Some

hummed and jittered. Others waited quietly for someone or some thing to restore

order.

The autoreceptionist, a phallic tube of black plaz with a single glittering

comeye, came out from behind its cage and picked its way through the stalled

robos to confront Odrade.

"Much too humid today." It had a soupy feminine voice. "Don't know what

Weather is thinking of."

Odrade spoke past it to Tamalane. "Why do they have to program these

mechanicals to simulate friendly humans?"

"It's obscene," Tamalane agreed. She forcibly shouldered the autoreceptionist

aside and it swiveled to study the source of this intrusion but made no other

move.

Odrade was suddenly aware she had touched on the force that had powered the

Butlerian Jihad -- mob motivation.

My own prejudice!

She studied the mechanical confronting them. Was it waiting for instructions or

must she address the thing directly?

Four more robos entered the lobby and Odrade recognized her party's luggage

piled on them.

All of our things carefully inspected, I'm sure. Search where you will. We

carry no hint of our legions.

The four scurried along the edge of the room and found their passage blocked by

the ones rendered motionless. The luggage robos stopped and waited for this

unique state of affairs to be sorted out. Odrade smiled at them. "There go the

signs of the transient concealing our secret selves."

Concealing and secret.

Words to annoy the watchers.

Come on, Tam! You know the ploy. Confuse that enormous content of

unconsciousness, arouse feelings of guilt they will be incapable of recognizing.

Give them the jitters the way I did with the robos. Make them wary. What are

the real powers of these Bene Gesserit witches?

Tamalane took her cue. Transients and secret selves. She explained for the

comeyes in tones one used with children. "What do you carry when you leave your

nest? Are you one who tries to pack it all? Or do you prune to necessities?"

What would the watchers classify as necessities? Tools of hygiene and washable

or replaceable clothing? Weapons? They sought those in our luggage. But

Reverend Mothers tend not to carry visible weapons.

"What an ugly place this is," Dortujla said, joining Tamalane in front of Odrade

and picking up on the drama. "You would almost think it deliberate."

Ahhh, you nasty watchers. Observe Dortujla. Remember her? Why has she

returned when she must know what you might do to her? Food for Futars? See how

little that concerns her?

"A transition point, Dortujla," Odrade said. "Most people would never want this

as their destination. An inconvenience, and the small discomforts serve only to

remind you of that."

"A wayside stop, and it will never be much more unless they completely rebuild,"

Dortujla said.

Would they hear? Odrade aimed a look of utter composure at the selected comeye.

This is ugliness that betrays intent. It says to us: "We will provide

something for the stomach, a bed, a place to evacuate bladder and bowels, a

place to conduct the little maintenance rituals flesh requires, but you will be

gone quickly because all we really want is the energy you leave behind."

The autoreceptionist backed around Tamalane and Dortujla, once more trying to

make contact with Odrade.

"You will send us to our quarters immediately!" Odrade said, glaring into the

cyclopean eye.

"Dear me! We've been inconsiderate."

Where had they found that syrupy voice? Repulsive. But Odrade was on her way

out of the lobby in less than a minute, luggage on its robos ahead of them,

Suipol close behind, Tamalane and Dortujla following.

There was an air of neglect to one wing clearly visible as they passed it. Did

that mean Junction's traffic had declined? Interesting. Shutters had been

sealed along an entire corridor. Hiding something? In the resulting gloom she

detected dust on floor and ledges with only a few tracks of maintenance mechs.

Concealment of what lay outside those windows? Unlikely. This had been closed

off for some time.

She detected a pattern in what was being maintained. Very little traffic.

Honored Matre effect. Who dared move around much when it felt safer to dig in

and pray you would not be noticed by dangerous prowlers? Access lanes to elite

private quarters were being kept up. Only the best was being maintained at its

best.

When Gammu's refugees arrive, there will be room.

In the lobby, a robo had handed Suipol a guide pulser. "To find your way

later." Round blue ball with a yellow arrow floating in it to point your chosen

way. "Rings a tiny bell when you arrive."

The pulser's tiny bell rang.

And where have we arrived?

Another place where their hosts had provided "every luxury" while keeping it

repellent. Rooms with soft yellow floors, pale mauve walls, white ceilings. No

chairdogs. Be thankful for that even though the absence spoke of economics

rather than care for a guest's preferences. Chairdogs required sustenance and

expensive staff. She saw furnishings with permaflox fabrics. And behind the

fabrics she felt plastic resilience. Everything done in the other colors of the

rooms.

The bed was a small shock. Someone had taken the request for a hard mat too

literally. Flat surface of black plaz without cushion. No bedding.

Suipol, seeing this, started to object but Odrade silenced her. Despite Bene

Gesserit resources, comfort sometimes fell by the wayside. Get the job done!

That was their first order. If Mother Superior had to sleep occasionally on a

hard surface without covers, this could be passed off in the name of duty.

Besides, the Bene Gesserit had ways of adjusting to such inconsequentials.

Odrade steeled herself to discomfort, aware that if she objected she might find

another deliberate insult.

Let them add this to all of that unconscious content and worry about it.

Her summons came while she was inspecting the rest of their quarters, displaying

minimal concern and open amusement. A voice piped through ceiling vents

intruded as Odrade and her companions emerged into the common sitting room:

"Return to the lobby where you will meet your escort to Great Honored Matre."

"I will go alone," Odrade said, silencing objections.

A green-robed Honored Matre waited on a fragile chair where the corridor entered

the lobby. She had a face built up like a castle wall -- stone laid on stone.

Mouth a watergate through which she inhaled some liquid via a transparent straw.

Flow of purple up the straw. Sugar odor in the liquid. The eyes were weapons

peeking over ramparts. Nose: a slope down which eyes dispatched their hatred.

Chin: weak. Not necessary, that chin. An afterthought. Something left over

from earlier construction. You could see the infant in it. And hair:

artificially darkened to muddy brown. Unimportant. Eyes, nose, and mouth,

those were important.

The woman stood slowly, insolently, emphasizing what a favor she did merely by

noticing Odrade.

"Great Honored Matre agrees to see you."

Heavy, almost masculine voice. Pride walled up so high she exposed it whatever

she did. Packed solid with immovable prejudice. She knew so many things she

was a walking display of ignorance and fears. Odrade saw her as a perfect

demonstration of Honored Matre vulnerability.

At the end of many turnings and corridors, all of them bright and clean, they

came to a long room -- sun pouring in a line of windows, sophisticated military

console at one end; space maps and terrain maps projected there. Center of

Spider Queen's web? Odrade entertained doubts. Console too obvious. Something

of different design from the Scattering but no mistaking its purpose. Fields

that humans could manipulate had physical limits, and a hood for mental

interface could be nothing else even though it was a towering oval shape and a

peculiar dirty yellow.

She swept her gaze over the room. Sparsely furnished. A few slingchairs and

small tables, a large open area where (presumably) people could await orders.

No clutter. This was supposed to be an action center.

Impress that upon the witch!

Windows on one long wall revealed flagstones and gardens beyond. This whole

thing was a set piece!

Where is Spider Queen? Where does she sleep? What is the appearance of her

lair?

Two women came in through an arched doorway from the flagstones. Both wore red

robes with glittering arabesques and dragon shapes on them. Soostones shattered

for decorations.

Odrade held her silence, exercising caution until after introductions by the

escort, who uttered as few words as possible and left hurriedly.

Without Murbella's hints, the tall one standing beside Spider Queen was the one

Odrade would have taken for commander. But it was the smaller one.

Fascinating.

This one did not just climb to power. She sneaked between the cracks. One day,

her Sisters awoke to accomplished fact. There she was, firmly seated at the

center. And who could object? Ten minutes after leaving her you would have

difficulty remembering the target of your objections.

The two women examined Odrade with equal intensity.

Well and good. That is needed at this moment.

Spider Queen's appearance was more than a surprise. Until this moment, no

physical description of her had been achieved by the Bene Gesserit. Only

temporary projections, imaginative constructs based on scattered bits of

evidence. Here she was, finally. A small woman. Expected stringy muscles

visible under red leotards beneath her robe. Face a forgettable oval with bland

brown eyes, orange flecks dancing in them.

Fearful and angered by it but cannot place the precise reasons for her fear.

All she has is a target -- me. What does she think to gain from me?

The aide was something else: in appearance, far more dangerous. Golden hair so

carefully coiffed, slight hook to the nose, thin lips, skin stretched tightly

over high cheekbones. And that venomous glare.

Odrade passed her gaze once more over Spider Queen's features: a nose that some

would have trouble describing a minute after leaving her.

Straight? Well, somewhat.

Eyebrows a match to straw-colored hair. The mouth opened to become pinkly

visible and almost vanished when closed. It was a face in which you had

difficulty finding a central focus and thus the entire thing became blurred.

"So you lead the Bene Gesserit."

Voice equally low-key. Oddly inflected Galach and no jargon, yet you sensed it

just behind her tongue. Linguistic tricks were there. Murbella's knowledge

emphasized that.

"They have something close to Voice. Not the equal of what you gave me but

there are other things they do, word tricks of a sort."

Word tricks.

"How should I address you?" Odrade asked.

"I hear you call me the Spider Queen." Orange flecks dancing viciously in her

eyes.

"Here at the center of your web and considering your vast powers, I'm afraid I

must confess to it."

"So that is what you notice -- my powers." Vain!

The first thing Odrade actually had marked was the woman's smell. She was

bathed in some outrageous perfume.

Covering up pheromones?

Warned about Bene Gesserit ability to judge on the basis of minuscule sense

data? Perhaps. Just as probable she preferred this perfume. The odious

concoction had about it an underlying hint of exotic flowers. Something from

her homeland?

The Spider Queen put a hand to her forgettable chin. "You may call me Dama."

The companion objected. "This is the last enemy in the Million Planets!"

So that's how they think of the Old Empire.

Dama held up a hand for silence. How casual and how revealing. Odrade saw a

luster reminiscent of Bellonda in the aide's eyes. Viciousness watchful in

there and looking for places to attack.

"Most are required to address me as Great Honored Matre," Dama said. "I have

conferred an honor upon you." She gestured toward the arched doorway behind

her. "We will walk outside, just the two of us, while we talk."

No invitation; it was a command.

Odrade paused beside the door to look at a map displayed there. Black on white,

little lines of paths and irregular outlines with labels in Galach. It was the

gardens beyond the flagstones, identification of plantings. Odrade bent close

to study it while Dama waited with amused tolerance. Yes, esoteric trees and

bushes, very few bearing edible fruits. Pride of possession and this map was

here to emphasize it.

On the patio, Odrade said: "I noticed your perfume."

Dama was thrown back into memories and her voice carried subtle undertones when

she responded.

Floral identity marker for her own flamebush. Imagine that! But she is both

sad and angry when she thinks of this. And she wonders why I bring it to

attention.

"Otherwise, the bush would not have accepted me," Dama said.

Interesting choice of verb tense.

The accented Galach was not hard to understand. She obviously adjusted

unconsciously for the listener.

Good ear. Spends a few seconds, watching, listening and adjusts to make herself

understood. Very old art form that most humans adopt quickly.

Odrade saw the origins as protective coloration.

Don't want to be taken for an alien.

An adjustable characteristic built into the genes. Honored Matres had not lost

it but this was a vulnerability. Unconscious tonalities were not completely

covered and they revealed much.

Despite her blatant vanity, Dama was intelligent and self-disciplined. It was a

pleasure to come to that opinion. Certain circumlocutions were not necessary.

Odrade stopped where Dama stopped at the edge of the patio. They stood almost

shoulder to shoulder and Odrade, gazing outward at the garden, was struck by the

almost Bene Gesserit appearance.

"Speak your piece," Dama said.

"What value do I have as a hostage?" Odrade asked.

Orange glare!

"You've obviously asked the question," Odrade said.

"Do continue." Orange subsiding.

"The Sisterhood has three replacements for me." Odrade produced her most

penetrating stare. "It is possible for us to weaken each other in ways that

would destroy us both."

"We could crush you as we would swat an insect!"

Beware the orange!

Odrade was not deflected by warnings from within. "But the hand that swatted us

would fester, and eventually, sickness would consume you."

It could not be stated plainer without specific details.

"Impossible!" An orange glare.

"Do you think us unaware of how you were driven back here by your enemies?"

My most dangerous gambit.

Odrade watched it take effect. A dark scowl was not Dama's only visible

response. Orange vanished, leaving her eyes an oddly bland discrepancy on the

glowering face.

Odrade nodded as though Dama had answered. "We could leave you vulnerable to

those who assail you, those who drove you into this cul de sac."

"You think we . . ."

"We know."

At least, now I know.

The knowledge produced both elation and fear.

What is out there to subdue these women?

"We merely gather our forces before --"

"Before returning to an arena where you are sure to be crushed . . . where you

cannot count on overwhelming numbers."

Dama's voice relapsed into soft Galach that Odrade had difficulty understanding.

"So they have been to you . . . and made their offer. What fools you are to

trust the . . ."

"I have not said we trust."

"If Logno back there . . ." Nod of head indicating the aide in the room ". . .

heard you talking to me this way you would be dead in less time than I take to

warn you of it."

"I am fortunate there are only the two of us."

"Don't count on that to carry you much farther."

Odrade glanced over her shoulder at the building. Alterations in Guild design

were visible: a long facade of windows, much exotic wood and jeweled stones.

Wealth.

She was dealing with wealth in an extreme it would be hard for some to imagine.

Nothing Dama wanted, nothing that could be provided by the society subservient

to her, would be denied. Nothing except freedom to go back into the Scattering.

How firmly did Dama cling to the fantasy that her exile might end? And what was

the force that had driven such power back to the Old Empire? Why here? Odrade

dared not ask.

"We will continue this in my quarters," Dama said.

Into the Spider Queen's lair at last!

Dama's quarters were a bit of a puzzle. Richly carpeted floors. She kicked off

sandals and went barefoot on entering. Odrade followed this lead.

Look at the callused flesh along the outsides of her feet! Dangerous weapons

kept well-conditioned.

Not the soft floor but the room itself puzzled Odrade. One small window looking

over the carefully manicured botanical garden. No hangings or pictures on the

walls. No decorations. An air vent grill drew shadowy stripes above the door

they had entered. One other door on the right. Another air vent. Two soft

gray couches. Two small side tables in glistening black. Another larger table

in tones of gold with a green shimmer above it to indicate a control field.

Odrade identified the fine rectangular outline of a projector inset into the

golden table.

Ahhhh, this is her workroom. Are we here to work?

A refined concentration about this place. Care had been taken to eliminate

distractions. What distractions would Dama accept?

Where are the decorated rooms? She has to live in particular ways with her

surroundings. You cannot always be forming mental barriers to reject things

around you that sit disagreeably in your psyche. If you want real comfort, your

home cannot be set up in a way that attacks you, especially no attacks on the

unconscious side. She is aware of unconscious vulnerabilities! This one is

truly dangerous but she has the power to say "Yes."

It was an ancient Bene Gesserit insight. You looked for the ones who could say

"Yes." Never bother with underlings who can only say "No." You sought the one

who could make an agreement, sign a contract, pay off on a promise. Spider

Queen did not often say "Yes" but she had that power and knew it.

I should have realized when she took me aside. She sent me the first signal

when she permitted me to call her Dama. Have I been too precipitate, setting up

Teg's attack in a way I cannot stop? Too late for second thoughts. I knew it

when I unleashed him.

But what other forces may we attract?

Odrade had Dama's dominance pattern registered. Words and gestures were likely

to make Spider Queen recoil, crouching back to intense awareness of her own

heartbeats.

The drama must go forward.

Dama was doing something with her hands in the green field atop the golden

table. She concentrated on it, ignoring Odrade in a way that was both insult

and compliment.

You will not interfere, witch, because that is not in your best interest and you

know it. Besides, you are not important enough to distract me.

Dama appeared agitated.

Has the attack on Gammu been successful? Are refugees beginning to arrive?

An orange glare focused on Odrade. "Your pilot has just destroyed himself and

your ship rather than submit to our inspection. What did you bring?"

"Ourselves."

"There is a signal coming from you!"

"Telling my companions whether I am alive or dead. You already knew that. Some

of our ancestors burned their ships before an attack. No retreat possible."

Odrade spoke with exquisite care, tone and timing adjusted to Dama's responses.

"If I am successful, you will provide my transport. My pilot was a Cyborg and

shere could not protect him from your probes. His orders were to kill himself

rather than fall into your hands."

"Providing us with coordinates to your planet." The orange subsided from Dama's

eyes, but she still was disturbed. "I did not think your people obeyed you to

that extent."

How do you hold them without sexual bonding, witch? Is the answer not obvious?

We have secret powers.

Careful now, Odrade cautioned herself. A methodical approach, alert for new

demands. Let her think we choose one method of response and stick to it. How

much does she know about us? She does not know that even Mother Superior may be

only a morsel of bait, a lure to gain vital information. Does that make us

superior? If so, can superior training surmount superior speed and numbers?

Odrade had no answer.

Dama seated herself behind the golden table, leaving Odrade standing. There was

a nesting sense about the movement. She did not leave this place often. This

was the true center of her web. All things she thought she needed were here.

She had brought Odrade to this room because it was an inconvenience to be

elsewhere. She was uncomfortable in other settings, perhaps even felt