Chapterhouse: Dune

They were infinitely valuable to Honored Matres. Murbella doubted that any other Honored Matre even suspected this.



Vanity.



That was the judgment she attached to her former Sisters. And to myself as I was. A terrible pride. It had grown out of being subjugated so many generations before they gained their own ascendancy. Murbella had tried to convey this to Odrade, recounting from history taught by Honored Matres.



"The slave makes an awful master," Odrade said.



There was an Honored Matre pattern, Murbella realized. She had accepted it once but now rejected it and could not give all of her reasons for this change.



I have grown out of those things. They would be childish to me now.



Duncan once more had stopped the practice session. Perspiration poured from both teacher and student. They stood panting, regaining breath, an odd exchange of looks between them. Conspiracy? The child looked strangely mature.



Murbella recalled Odrade's comment: "Maturity imposes its own behavior. One of our lessons - make those imperatives available to consciousness. Modify instincts."



They have modified me and will do so even more.



She could see the same thing at work in Duncan's behavior with the ghola-child.



"This is an activity that creates many stresses in the societies we influence," Odrade had said. "That forces us to constant adjustments."



But how can they adjust to my former Sisters?



Odrade revealed characteristic sangfroid when braced with this question.



"We face major adjustments because of our past activities. It was the same during the reign of the Tyrant."



Adjustments?



Duncan was talking to the child. Murbella moved closer to listen.



"You've been exposed to the story of Muad'Dib? Good. You're an Atreides and that includes flaws."



"Does that mean mistakes, sir?"



"You're damned right it does! Never choose a course just because it offers the opportunity for a dramatic gesture."



"Is that how I died?"



He has the child thinking of his former self in the first person.



"You be the judge. But it was always an Atreides weakness. Attractive things, gestures. Die on the horns of a great bull as Muad'Dib's grandfather did. A grand spectacle for his people. The stuff of stories for generations! You can even hear bits of it around after all of these eons."



"Mother Superior told me that story."



"Your birth-mother probably told it to you, too."



The child shuddered. "It gives me a funny feeling when you say birth-mother." Awe in his young voice.



"Funny feelings are one thing; this lesson is another. I'm talking about something with a persistent label: The Desian Gesture. It used to be Atreidesian but that's too cumbersome."



Once more the child touched that core of mature awareness. "Even a dog's life has its price."



Murbella caught her breath, glimpsing how it would be - an adult mind in that child's body. Disconcerting.



"Your birth-mother was Janet Roxbrough of the Lernaeus Roxbroughs," Idaho said. "She was Bene Gesserit. Your father was Loschy Teg, a CHOAM station factor. In a few minutes I'm going to show you the Bashar's favorite picture of his home on Lernaeus. I want you to keep it with you and study it. Think of it as your favorite place."



Teg nodded but the expression on his face said he was afraid.



Was it possible the great Mentat Warrior had known fear? Murbella shook her head. She had an intellectual knowledge of what Duncan was doing but felt gaps in the accounts. This was something she might never experience. What would the feeling be - reawakening to new life with the memories of another lifetime intact? Much different from a Reverend Mother's Other Memory, she suspected.



"Mind at its beginning," Duncan called it. "Awakening of your True Self. I felt I had been plunged into a magic universe. My awareness was a circle and then a globe. Arbitrary forms became transient. The table was not a table. Then I fell into a trance - everything around me had a shimmering quality. Nothing was real. This passed and I felt I had lost the one reality. My table was a table once more. "



She had studied the Bene Gesserit manual "On Awakening a Ghola's Original Memories." Duncan was diverging from those instructions. Why?



He left the child and approached Murbella.



"I have to talk to Sheeana," he said as he passed her. "There's got to be a better way."



Ready comprehension is often a knee-jerk response and the most dangerous form of understanding. It blinks an opaque screen over your ability to learn. The judgmental precedents of law function that way, littering your path with dead ends. Be warned. Understand nothing. All comprehension is temporary.



- Mentat Fixe (adacto)



Idaho, seated alone at his console, encountered an entry he had stored in Shipsystems during his first days of confinement, and found himself dumped (he applied the word later) into attitudes and sensory awareness of that earlier time. It no longer was afternoon of a frustrating day in the no-ship. He was back there, stretched between then and now the way serial ghola lives linked this incarnation to his original birth.



Immediately, he saw what he had come to call "the net" and the elderly couple defined by criss-crossed lines, bodies visible through a shimmering of jeweled ropes - green, blue, gold, and a silver so brilliant it made his eyes ache.



He sensed godlike stability in these people, but something common about them. The word ordinary came to mind. The by-now-familiar garden landscape stretched out behind them: floral bushes (roses, he thought), rolling lawns, tall trees.



The couple stared back at him with an intensity that made Idaho feel naked.



New power in the vision! It no longer was confined to the Great Hold, an increasingly compulsive magnet drawing him down there so frequently he knew the watchdogs were alerted.



Is he another Kwisatz Haderach?



There was a level of suspicion the Bene Gesserit could achieve that would kill him if it grew. And they were watching him now! Questions, worried speculations. Despite this, he could not turn away from the vision.



Why did that elderly couple look so familiar? Someone from his past? Family?



Mentat riffling of his memories produced nothing to fit the speculation. Round faces. Abbreviated chins. Fat wrinkles at the jowls. Dark eyes. The net obscured their color. The woman wore a long blue and green dress that concealed her feet. A white apron stained with green covered the dress from ample bosom to just below her waist. Garden tools dangled from apron loops. She carried a trowel in her left hand. Her hair was gray. Wisps of it had escaped a confining green scarf and blew around her eyes, emphasizing laughter lines there. She appeared... grandmotherly.



The man suited her as though created by the same artist as a perfect match. Bib overalls over a mounded stomach. No hat. Those same dark eyes with reflections twinkling in them. A brush of close-cropped wiry gray hair.



He had the most benign expression Idaho had ever seen. Up-curved smile creases at the corners of his mouth. He held a small shovel in his left hand, and on his extended right palm he balanced what appeared to be a small metal ball. The ball emitted a piercing whistle that made Idaho clap his hands over his ears. This did not stop the sound. It faded away of itself. He lowered his hands.



Reassuring faces. That thought aroused Idaho's suspicions because now he recognized the familiarity. They looked somewhat like Face Dancers, even to the pug noses.



He leaned forward but the vision kept its distance. "Face Dancers," he whispered.



Net and elderly couple vanished.



They were replaced by Murbella in practice-floor leotards of glistening ebony. He had to reach out and touch her before he could believe she really stood there.



"Duncan? What is it? You're all sweaty."



"I... think it's something the damned Tleilaxu planted in me. I keep seeing... I think they're Face Dancers. They... they look at me and just now... a whistle. It hurt."



She glanced up at the comeyes but did not appear worried. This was something the Sisters could know without it presenting immediate dangers... except possibly to Scytale.



She sank to her haunches beside him and put a hand on his arm. "Something they did to your body in the tanks?"



"No!"



"But you said..."



"My body's not just a piece of new baggage for this trip. It has all of the chemistry and substance I ever had. It's my mind that's different."



That worried her. She knew the Bene Gesserit concern over wild talents. "Damn that Scytale!"



"I'll find it," he said.



He closed his eyes and heard Murbella stand. Her hand went away from his arm.



"Maybe you shouldn't do that, Duncan."



She sounded far away.



Memory. Where did they hide the secret thing? Deep in the original cells? Until this moment, he had thought of his memory as a Mentat tool. He could call up his own images from long-ago moments in front of mirrors. Close up, examining an age wrinkle. Looking at a woman behind him - two faces in the mirror and his face full of questions.



Faces. A succession of masks, different views of this person he called myself. Slightly imbalanced faces. Hair sometimes gray, sometimes the jet karakul of his current life. Sometimes humorous, sometimes grave and seeking inward for wisdom to meet a new day. Somewhere in all of that lay a consciousness that observed and deliberated. Someone who made choices. The Tleilaxu had tampered with that.



Idaho felt his blood pumping hard and knew danger was present. This was what he was intended to experience... but not by the Tleilaxu. He had been born with it.



This is what it means to be alive.



No memory from his other lives, nothing the Tleilaxu had done to him, none of that changed his deepest awareness one whit.



He opened his eyes. Murbella still stood near but her expression was veiled. So that's how she will look as a Reverend Mother.



He did not like this change in her.



"What happens if the Bene Gesserit fail?" he asked.



When she did not reply, he nodded. Yes. That's the worst assumption. The Sisterhood down history's sewerpipe. And you don't want that, my beloved.



He could see it in her face when she turned and left him.



Looking up at the comeyes, he said: "Dar. I must talk to you, Dar."



No response from any of the mechanisms around him. He had not expected one. Still, he knew he could talk to her and she would have to listen.



"I've been coining at our problem from the other direction," he said. And he imagined the busy whirring of recorders as they spun the sounds of his voice into ridulian crystals. "I've been getting into the minds of Honored Matres. I know I've done it. Murbella resonates."



That would alert them. He had an Honored Matre of his own. But had was not the proper word. He did not have Murbella. Not even in bed. They had each other. Matched the way those people in his vision appeared to be matched. Was that what he saw there? Two older people sexually trained by Honored Matres?



"I look at another issue now," he said. "How to overcome the Bene Gesserit."



That threw down the gauntlet.



"Episodes," he said. A word Odrade was fond of using.



"That's how we have to see what's happening to us. Little episodes. Even the worst-case assumption has to be screened against that background. The Scattering has a magnitude that dwarfs anything we do."



There! That demonstrated his value to the Sisters. It put Honored Matres in a better perspective. They were back here in the Old Empire. Fellow dwarves. He knew Odrade would see it. Bell would make her see it.



Somewhere out there in the Infinite Universe, a jury had brought in a verdict against Honored Matres. Law and its managers had not prevailed for the hunters. He suspected that his vision had shown him two of the jurors. And if they were Face Dancers, they were not Scytale's Face Dancers. Those two people behind the shimmering net belonged to no one but themselves.



Major flaws in government arise from a fear of making radical internal changes even though a need is clearly seen.



- Darwi Odrade



For Odrade, the first melange of the morning was always different. Her flesh responded like a starveling who clutched at sweet fruit. Then followed the slow, penetrating and painful restoration.



This was the fearful thing about melange addiction.



She stood at the window of her sleeping chamber waiting for the effect to run its course. Weather Control, she noted, had achieved another morning rain. The landscape was washed clean, everything immersed in a romantic haze, all edges blurred and reduced to essences like old memories. She opened the window. Damp cold air blew across her face, drawing recollections around her the way one put on a familiar garment.



She inhaled deeply. Smells after a rain! She remembered the essentials of life amplified and smoothed by falling water but these rains were different. They left a flinty aftersmell she could taste. Odrade did not like it. The message was not of things washed clean but of life resentful, wanting all rain stopped and locked away. This rain no longer gentled and brought fullness. It carried inescapable awareness of change.



Odrade closed the window. At once, she was back in the familiar odors of her quarters, and that constant smell of shere from the metering implants required of everyone who knew the location of Chapterhouse. She heard Streggi enter, the slip-slip sounds of the desert map being changed.



An efficient sound in Streggi's movements. Weeks of close association had confirmed Odrade's first judgment. Reliable. Not brilliant but supremely sensitive to Mother Superior's needs. Look how quietly she moved. Transfer Streggi's sensitivity to the needs of young Teg and they had his required height and mobility. A horse? Much more.



Odrade's melange assimilation reached its peak and subsided. Streggi's reflection in the window showed her waiting for assignment. She knew these moments were given over to the spice. At her stage, she would be looking forward to the day when she entered this mysterious enhancement.



I wish her well of it.



Most Reverend Mothers followed the teaching and seldom thought of their spice as addiction. Odrade knew it every morning for what it was. You took your spice during the day as your body demanded, following a pattern of early training: dosage minimal, just enough to whet the metabolic system and drive it into peak performance. Biological necessities meshed more smoothly with melange. Food tasted better. Barring accident or fatal assault, you lived much longer than you could without it. But you were addicted.



Her body restored, Odrade blinked and considered Streggi. Curiosity about the morning's long ritual was plain in her. Speaking to Streggi's reflection in the window, Odrade said: "Have you learned about melange withdrawal?"



"Yes, Mother Superior."



Despite warnings to keep awareness of addiction low key, it was never more than an eyeblink away from Odrade and she felt the accumulated resentments. Mental preparations as an acolyte (firmly impressed in the Agony) had been eroded by Other Memory and accumulations of time. The admonition: "Withdrawal removes an essential of your life and, if it occurs in late middle age, can kill you." How little that meant now.



"Withdrawal has intense meaning for me," Odrade said. "I am one of those for whom the morning melange is painful. I'm sure they told you this happens."



"I'm sorry, Mother Superior."



Odrade studied the map. It showed a longer finger of desert thrusting northward and a pronounced widening of drylands to the southeast of Central where Sheeana had her station. Presently, Odrade returned her attention to Streggi, who was watching Mother Superior with new interest.



Brought up short by thoughts of the spice's darker side!



"The uniqueness of melange is seldom considered in our age," Odrade said. "All of the old narcotics in which humans have indulged possess a remarkable factor in common - all except the spice. They all brought shorter life and pain."



"We were told, Mother Superior."



"But you probably were not told that a fact of governance could be obscured by our concern with Honored Matres. There's an energy greed in governments (yes, even in ours) that can dump you into a trap. If you serve me, you will feel it in your guts because every morning you will watch me suffer. Let knowledge of it sink into you, this deadly trap. Don't become uncaring pushers, caught in a system that displaces life with careless death as Honored Matres do. Remember: Acceptable narcotics can be taxed to pay salaries or otherwise create jobs for uncaring functionaries."



Streggi was puzzled. "But melange extends our lives, increases health and arouses appetites for -"



She was stopped by Odrade's scowl.



Right out of the Acolyte Manual!



"It has this other side, Streggi, and you see it in me. The Acolyte Manual does not lie. But melange is a narcotic and we are addicted. "



" I know it's not gentle with everyone, Mother Superior. But you said Honored Matres don't use it."



"The substitute they employ replaces melange with few benefits except to prevent withdrawal agonies and death. It is parallel addictive."



"And the captive?"



"Murbella used it and now she uses melange. They are interchangeable. Interesting?"



"I... suppose we will learn more of this. I notice, Mother Superior, that you never call them whores."



"As acolytes do? Ahh, Streggi, Bellonda has been a bad influence. Oh, I recognize the pressures." As Streggi started to protest. "Acolytes feel the threat. They look at Chapterhouse and think of it as their fortress for the long night of the whores."



"Something like that, Mother Superior." Extremely hesitant.



"Streggi, this planet is only another temporary place. Today we go south and impress that upon you. Find Tamalane, please, and tell her to make the arrangements we discussed for our visit to Sheeana. Speak to no one else about it."



"Yes, Mother Superior. Do you mean I will accompany you?"



"I want you by my side. Tell the one you are training that she now has full charge of my map."



As Streggi left, Odrade thought of Sheeana and Idaho. She wants to talk to him and he wants to talk to her.



Comeye analysis noted that these two sometimes conversed by hand-signals while hiding most of the movements with their bodies. It had the look of an old Atreides battle language. Odrade recognized some of it but not enough to determine content. Bellonda wanted an explanation from Sheeana. "Secrets!" Odrade was more cautious. "Let it go a bit. Perhaps something interesting will come of it."



What does Sheeana want?



Whatever Duncan had in mind it concerned Teg. Creating the pain required for Teg to recover his original memories went against Duncan's grain.



Odrade had noted this when she interrupted Duncan at his console yesterday.



"You're late, Dar." Not looking up from whatever it was he did there. Late? It was early evening.



He had been calling her Dar frequently for several years, a goad, a reminder that he resented his fishtank existence. The goad irritated Bellonda, who argued against "his damned familiarities." He called Bellonda "Bell," of course. Duncan was generous with his needle.



Remembering this, Odrade paused before entering her workroom. Duncan had slammed a fist onto the counter beside his console. "There's got to be a better way for Teg!"



A better way? What does he have in mind?



Movement down the corridor beyond the workroom brought her out of this reflection. Streggi returning from Tamalane. Streggi entered the Acolyte Ready Room. Giving the word to her replacement on the desert map.



A stack of Archival records waited on Odrade's table. Bellonda! Odrade stared at the pile. No matter how much she tried to delegate there was always this organized residue that her councillors insisted only Mother Superior could handle. Much of this new lot came from Bellonda's demand for "suggestions and analyses."



Odrade touched her console. "Bell!"



The voice of an Archives clerk responded: "Mother Superior?"



"Get Bell up here! I want her in front of me as fast as her fat legs can move!"



It was less than a minute. Bellonda stood in front of the worktable like a chastened acolyte. They all knew that tone in Mother Superior's voice.



Odrade touched the stack on her table and jerked her hand back as though shocked. "What in the name of Shaitan is all of that?"



"We judged it significant."



"You think I have to see everything and anything? Where's the keynoting? This is sloppy work, Bell! I'm not stupid and neither are you. But this... in the face of this..."



"I delegate as much as -"



"Delegate? Look at this! Which must I see and which may I delegate? Not one keynote!"



"I'll see that it's corrected immediately."



"Indeed you will, Bell. Because Tam and I are going south today, an unannounced inspection tour and a visit with Sheeana. And while I'm gone, you will sit in my chair. See how you like this daily deluge!"



"Will you be out of touch?"



"I'll have a lightline and Ear-C at all times."



Bellonda breathed easier.



" I suggest, Bell, that you get back to Archives and put someone in charge who will take responsibility. I'm damned if you're not beginning to act like bureaucrats. Covering your asses!"



"Real boats rock, Dar."



Was that Bell attempting humor? All was not lost!



Odrade waved a hand over her projector and there was Tamalane in the Transport Hall. "Tam?"



"Yes?" Without turning from an assignment list.



"How soon can we leave?"



"About two hours."



"Call me when you're ready. Oh, and Streggi goes with us. Make room for her." Odrade blanked the projection before Tamalane could respond.



There were things she should be doing, Odrade knew. Tam and Bell were not the only sources of Mother Superior's concerns.



Sixteen planets remaining to us... and that includes Buzzell, definitely a place in peril. Only sixteen! She pushed that thought aside. No time for it.



Murbella. Should I call her and... No. That can wait. The new Board of Proctors? Let Bell deal with that. Community disbandings?



Siphoning personnel into a new Scattering had forced consolidations. Staying ahead of the desert! It was depressing and she did not feel she could face it today. I'm always fidgety before a trip.



Abruptly, Odrade fled the workroom and went stalking the corridors, looking into how her charges were performing, pausing in doorways, noting what the students read, how they behaved in their everlasting prana-bindu exercises.



"What are you reading there?" demanded of a young second-stage acolyte at a projector in a semi-darkened room.



"The diaries of Tolstoy, Mother Superior."



That knowing look in the acolyte's eyes said: "Do you have his words directly in Other Memory?" The question was right there on the edge of the girl's tongue! They were always trying such petty gambits when they caught her alone.



"Tolstoy was a family name!" Odrade snapped. "By your mention of diaries, I presume you refer to Count Leo Nikolayevich."



"Yes, Mother Superior." Abashedly aware of censure.



Softening, Odrade threw a quotation at the girl: " 'I am not a river, I am a net.' He spoke those words at Yasnaya Polyana when he was only twelve. You'll not find them in his diaries but they are probably the most significant words he ever uttered."



Odrade turned away before the acolyte could thank her. Always teaching!



She wandered down to the main kitchens then and inspected them, tracing inner edges of racked pots for grease, noting the cautious way even the teaching chef observed her progress.



The kitchen was steamy with good smells from lunch preparations. There was a restorative sound of chopping and stirring but the usual banter stopped at her entrance.



She went around the long counter with its busy cooks to the teaching chef's raised platform. He was a great beefy man with prominent cheekbones, his face as florid as the meats over which he ministered. Odrade had no doubts he was one of history's great chefs. His name suited him: Placido Salat. He was assured of a warm place in her thoughts for several reasons, including the fact that he had trained her personal chef. Important visitors in the days before Honored Matres had received a kitchen tour and a taste of specialties.



"May I introduce our senior chef, Placido Salat?"



His beef placido (lower case his choice) was the envy of many. Almost raw and served with an herbed and spicy mustard sauce that did not obscure the meat.



Odrade thought the dish too exotic but never judged it aloud.



When she had Salat's full attention (after a slight interruption to correct a sauce) Odrade said: "I'm hungry for something special, Placido."



He recognized the opening. This was how she always began a request for her "special dish."



"Perhaps an oyster stew," he suggested.



It's a dance, Odrade thought. They both knew what she wanted.



"Excellent!" she agreed and went into the required performance. "But it must be treated gently, Placido, the oysters not overcooked. Some of our own powdered dry celery in the broth."



"And perhaps a bit of paprika?"



"I always prefer it that way. Be extremely careful with the melange. A breath of it and no more."



"Of course, Mother Superior!" Eyes rolling in horror at the thought he might use too much melange. "So easy for the spice to dominate."



"Cook the oysters in clam nectar, Placido. I would prefer you watch over them yourself, stirring gently until the edges of the oysters just start to curl."



"Not a second longer, Mother Superior."



"Heat some quite creamy milk on the side. Don't boil it!"



Placido displayed astonishment that she might suspect him of boiling the milk for her oyster stew.



"A small pat of butter in the serving bowl," Odrade said. "Pour the combined broth over it."



"No sherry?"



"How glad I am that you are taking personal charge of my special dish, Placido. I forgot the sherry." (Mother Superior never forgot anything and they all knew it but this was a required step in the dance.) "Three ounces of sherry in the cooking broth," he said.



"Heat it to get rid of the alcohol."



"Of course! But we must not bruise the flavors. Would you like croutons or saltines?"



"Croutons, please."



Seated at an alcove table, Odrade ate two bowls of oyster stew, remembering how Sea Child had savored it. Papa had introduced her to this dish when she was barely capable of conveying spoon to mouth. He had made the stew himself, his own specialty. Odrade had taught it to Salat.



She complimented Salat on the wine.



"I particularly enjoyed your choice of a chablis for accompaniment."



"A flinty chablis with a sharp edge on it, Mother Superior. One of our better vintages. It sets off the oyster flavors admirably."



Tamalane found her in the alcove. They always knew where to find Mother Superior when they wanted her.



"We are ready." Was that displeasure on Tam's face?



"Where will we stop tonight?"



"Eldio."



Odrade smiled. She liked Eldio.



Tam catering to me because I'm in a critical mood? Perhaps we have the makings of a small diversion.



Following Tamalane to the transport docks, Odrade thought how characteristic it was that the older woman preferred to travel by tube. Surface trips annoyed her. "Who wants to waste time at my age?"



Odrade disliked tubes for personal transport. You were so closed in and helpless! She preferred surface or air and used tubes only when speed was urgent. She had no hesitation about using smaller tubes for chits and notes. Notes don't care just as long as they get there.



This thought always made her conscious of the network that adjusted to her movements wherever she went.



Somewhere in the heart of things (there was always a "heart of things") an automated system routed communications and made sure (most of the time) that important missives arrived where addressed.



When Private Dispatch (they all called it PD) was not needed, stat or viz was available along scrambled sorters and lightlines. Off-planet was another matter, especially in these hunted times. Safest to send a Reverend Mother with memorized message or distrans implant. Every messenger took heavier doses of shere these days. T-probes could read even a dead mind not guarded by shere. Every off-planet message was encrypted but an enemy might hit on the one-time cover concealing it. Great risk off-planet. Perhaps that was why the Rabbi remained silent.



Now why am I thinking such things at this moment?



"No word yet from Dortujla?" she asked as Tamalane prepared to enter the Dispatch roundelay where the others in their party waited. So many people. Why so many?



Odrade saw Streggi up ahead at the edge of the dock talking to a Communications acolyte. There were at least six other people from Communications nearby.



Tamalane turned in obvious pique. "Dortujla! We have all said we will notify you the instant we hear!"