Heretics of Dune

"I don't understand your reasoning, but when I've finished another of these confections, we'll go," Teg said.



"You'll like the place where we take refuge from the storm," Delnay said. "I'm mad, you know, to do this. But the proprietor here said I was to help you or never come here again."



It was an hour after dark when Delnay led him to the rendezvous point. Teg, dressed in leathers and affecting a limp, was forced to use much of his mental power to ignore his own odors. Delnay's friends had plastered Teg with sewage and then hosed him off. The forced-air drying brought back most of the effluent aromas.



A remote-reading weather station at the door of the meeting place told Teg it had dropped fifteen degrees outside in the preceding hour. Delnay preceded him and hurried away into a crowded room where there was much noise and the sound of clinking glassware. Teg paused to study the doorside station. The wind was gusting to thirty klicks, he saw. Barometric pressure down. He looked at the sign above the station:



"A service to our customers."



Presumably, a service to the bar as well. Departing customers might well take one look at these readings and return to the warmth and camaraderie behind them.



In a large fireplace with inglenook at the far end of the bar there was a real fire burning. Aromatic wood.



Delnay returned, wrinkled his nose at Teg's smell and led him around the edge of the crowd into a back room, then through this into a private bathroom. Teg's uniform - cleaned and pressed - was laid out over a chair there.



"I'll be in the inglenook when you come out," Delnay said.



"In full regalia, eh?" Teg asked.



"It's only dangerous out in the streets," Delnay said. He went back the way they had come.



Teg emerged presently and found his way to the inglenook through groups that turned suddenly silent as people recognized him. Murmurous comments swept through the room. "The old Bashar himself." "Oh, yes, it's Teg. Served with him, I did. Know that face and figure anywhere."



Customers had crowded into the atavistic warmth of the fireside. There was a rich smell of wet clothing and drink-fogged breaths there.



So the storm had driven this crowd into the bar? Teg looked at the battle-hardened military faces all around him, thinking that this was not a usual gathering, no matter what Delnay said. The people here knew one another, though, and had expected to meet one another here at this time.



Delnay was sitting on one of the benches in the inglenook, a glass containing an amber drink in his hand.



"You put out the word to meet us here," Teg said.



"Isn't that what you wanted, Bashar?"



"Who are you, Delnay?"



"I own a winter farm a few klicks south of here and I have some banker friends who will occasionally loan me a groundcar. If you want me to be more specific, I'm like the rest of the people in this room - someone who wants the Honored Matres off our necks."



A man behind Teg asked: "Is it true that you killed a hundred of them today, Bashar?"



Teg spoke dryly without turning. "The number is greatly exaggerated. Could I have a drink, please?"



From his greater height, Teg scanned the room while someone was getting him a glass. When it was thrust into his hand, it was, as he expected, the deep blue of Danian Marinete. These old soldiers knew his preferences.



The drinking activity in the room continued but at a more subdued pace. They were waiting for him to state his purpose.



Gregarious human nature got a natural boost on such a stormy night, Teg thought. Band together behind the fire in the mouth of the cave, fellow tribesmen! Nothing dangerous will get past us, especially when the beasts see our fire. How many other similar gatherings were there around Gammu on such a night? he wondered, sipping his drink. Bad weather could mask movements that the gathered companions did not want observed. The weather might also keep certain people inside who were otherwise not supposed to remain inside.



He recognized a few faces from his past-officers and ordinary soldiers - a mixed bag. For some of them, he had good memories: reliable people. Some of them would die tonight.



The noise level began to increase as people relaxed in his presence. No one pressed him for an explanation. They knew that about him, too. Teg set his own timetable.



The sounds of conversation and laughter were of a kind he knew must have accompanied such gatherings since the dawn times when humans clustered for mutual protection. Clinking of glassware, sudden bursts of laughter, a few quiet chuckles. Those would be the ones more conscious of their personal power. Quiet chuckles said you could be amused but you did not have to make a guffawing fool of yourself. Delnay was a quiet chuckler.



Teg glanced up and saw that the beamed ceiling had been built conventionally low. It made the enclosed space seem at once more extended and yet more intimate. Careful attention to human psychology here. It was a thing he had observed many places on this planet. It was a care to keep a damper on unwanted awareness. Make them feel comfortable and secure. They were not, of course, but don't let that get through to them.



For a few moments longer, Teg watched the drinks being distributed by the skilled waiting staff: dark local beers and some expensive imports. Scattered along the bar and on the softly illuminated tables were bowls containing crisp-fried local vegetables, heavily salted. Such an obvious move to heighten thirst apparently offended no one. It was merely expected in this trade. The beers would be heavily salted, too, of course. They always were. Brewers knew how to kick off the thirst response.



Some of the groups were getting louder. The drinks had begun to work their ancient magic. Bacchus was here! Teg knew that if this gathering were allowed to run its natural course, the room would reach a crescendo later in the night and then gradually, very gradually, the noise level would subside. Someone would go look at the doorside weather station. Depending on what that one saw, the place might wind down immediately or continue at the more subdued pace for some time. He realized then that somewhere behind the bar there would be a way to distort the weather station's readouts. This bar would not overlook such a way of extending its trade.



Get 'em inside and keep 'em here by any means they don't find objectionable.



The people behind this institution would fall in with the Honored Matres and not blink an eye.



Teg put his drink aside and called out: "May I have your attention, please?"



Silence.



Even the waiting staff stopped in what they were doing.



"Some of you guard the doors," Teg said. "No one goes in or out until I give the order. Those back doors, too, if you please."



When this had been sorted out, he stared carefully around the room, picking the ones his doubled vision and old military experience told him could be most trusted. What he had to do now had become quite plain to him. Burzmali, Lucilla, and Duncan were out there at the edge of his new vision, their needs easily seen.



"I presume you can get your hands on weapons rather quickly," he said.



"We came prepared, Bashar!" Someone out in the room shouted. Teg heard the drink in that voice but also the old adrenaline pumping that would be so dear to these people.



"We are going to capture a no-ship," Teg said.



That grabbed them. No other artifact of civilization was as closely guarded. These ships came to the landing fields and other places and they left. Their armored surfaces bristled with weapons. Crews were on constant alert in vulnerable locations. Trickery might succeed; open assault stood little chance. But here in this room Teg had reached a new awareness, driven by necessity and the wild genes in his Atreides ancestry. The positions of the no-ships on and around Gammu were visible to him. Bright dots occupied his inner vision and, like threads leading from one bauble to another, his doubled vision saw the way through this maze.



Oh, but I do not want to go, he thought.



The thing driving him would not be denied.



"Specifically, we are going to capture a no-ship from the Scattering," he said. "They have some of the best. You, you and you and you." He pointed, singling out individuals. "You will stay here and see that no one leaves or communicates with anyone outside of this establishment. I think you will be attacked. Hold out as long as you can. The rest of you, get your weapons and let's go."



Justice? Who asks for justice. We make our own justice. We make it here on Arrakis - win or die. Let us not rail about justice as long as we have arms and the freedom to use them.



- Leto I: Bene Gesserit Archives



The no-ship came in low over the Rakian sands. Its passage stirred up dusty whirlwinds that drifted around it as it settled in a crunching disturbance of the dunes. The silvered yellow sun was sinking into a horizon disturbed by the heat devils of a long hot day. The no-ship sat there creaking, a glistening steely ball whose presence could be detected by the eyes and ears but not by any prescient or long-range instrument. Teg's doubled vision made him confident that no unwanted eyes saw his arrival.



"I want the armored 'thopters and cars out there in no more than ten minutes," he said.



People stirred into action behind him.



"Are you certain they're here, Bashar?" The voice was that of a drinking companion from the Gammu bar, a trusted officer from Renditai whose mood no longer was that of someone recapturing the thrills of his youth. This one had seen old friends die in the battle on Gammu. As with most of the others who survived to come here, he had left a family whose fate he did not know. There was a touch of bitterness in his voice, as though he were trying to convince himself that he had been tricked into this venture.



"They will be here soon," Teg said. "They will arrive riding on the back of a worm."



"How do you know that?"



"It was all arranged."



Teg closed his eyes. He did not need eyes to see the activity all around him. This was like so many command posts he had occupied: an oval room of instruments and people who operated them, officers waiting to obey.



"What is this place?" someone asked.



"Those rocks to the north of us," Teg said. "See them? They were a high cliff once. It was called Wind Trap. There was a Fremen sietch there, little more than a cave now. A few Rakian pioneers live in it."



"Fremen," someone whispered. "Gods! I want to see that worm coming. I never thought I'd ever see such a thing."



"Another one of your unexpected arrangements, eh?" asked the officer of the growing bitterness.



What would he say if I revealed my new abilities? Teg wondered. He might think I concealed purposes that would not bear close examination. And he would be right. That man is on the edge of a revelation. Would he remain loyal if his eyes were opened? Teg shook his head. The officer would have little choice. None of them had much choice except to fight and die.



It was true, Teg thought then, that the process of arranging conflicts involved the hoodwinking of large masses. How easy it was to fall into the attitude of the Honored Matres.



Muck!



The hoodwinking was not as difficult as some supposed. Most people wanted to be led. That officer back there had wanted it. There were deep tribal instincts (powerful unconscious motivations) to account for this. The natural reaction when you began to recognize how easily you were led was to look for scapegoats. That officer back there wanted a scapegoat now.



"Burzmali wants to see you," someone off to Teg's left said.



"Not now," Teg said.



Burzmali could wait. He would have his day of command soon enough. Meanwhile, he was a distraction. There would be time later for him to skirt dangerously near the role of scapegoat.



How easy it was to produce scapegoats and how readily they were accepted! This was especially true when the alternative was to find yourself either guilty or stupid or both. Teg wanted to say for all of those around him:



"Look to the hoodwinking! Then you'll know our true intentions!"



The communications officer on Teg's left said: "That Reverend Mother is with Burzmali now. She insists they be allowed in to see you."



"Tell Burzmali I want him to go back and stay with Duncan," Teg said. "And have him look in on Murbella, make sure she's secured. Lucilla can come in."



It had to be, Teg thought.



Lucilla was increasingly suspicious about the changes in him. Trust a Reverend Mother to see the difference.



Lucilla swept in, her robes swishing to accent her vehemence. She was angry but concealing it well.



"I demand an explanation, Miles!"



That was a good opening line, he thought. "Of what?" he said.



"Why didn't we just go in at the -"



"Because the Honored Matres and their Tleilaxu companions from the Scattering hold most of the Rakian centers."



"How... how do you..."



"They've killed Taraza, you know," he said.



That stopped her, but not for long. "Miles, I insist that you tell me -"



"We don't have much time," he said. "The next satellite passage will show us on the surface here."



"But the defenses of Rakis -"



"Are as vulnerable as any other defenses when they become static," he said. "The families of the defenders are down here. Take the families and you have effective control of the defenders."



"But why are we out here in -"



"To pick up Odrade and that girl with her. Oh, and their worm, too."



"What will we do with a -"



"Odrade will know what to do with the worm. She's your Mother Superior now, you know."



"So you're going to whisk us off into -"



"You'll whisk yourselves! My people and I will remain to create a diversion."



That brought a shocked silence throughout the command station.



Diversion, Teg thought. What an inadequate word.



The resistance he had in mind would create hysteria among the Honored Matres, especially when they were made to believe the ghola was here. Not only would they counterattack, they eventually would resort to sterilization procedures. Most of Rakis would become a charred ruin. There was little likelihood that any humans, worms, or sandtrout would survive.



"The Honored Matres have been trying to locate and capture a worm without success," he said. "I really don't understand how they could be so blind in their concept of how you transplant one of them."



"Transplant?" Lucilla was floundering. Teg had seldom seen a Reverend Mother at such a loss. She was trying to assemble the things he had said. The Sisterhood had some of the Mentats' capabilities, he had observed. A Mentat could come to a qualified conviction without sufficient data. He thought that he would be long out of her reach (or the reach of any other Reverend Mother) before she assembled this data. Then there would be a scrambling for his offspring! They would pick up Dimela for their Breeding Mistresses, of course. And Odrade. She would not escape.



They had the key to the Tleilaxu axlotl tanks, too. It would be only a matter of time now until the Bene Gesserit overcame its scruples and mastered that source of the spice. A human body produced it!



"We're in danger here, then," Lucilla said.



"Some danger, yes. The trouble with the Honored Matres is that they're too wealthy. They make the mistakes of the wealthy."



"Depraved whores!" she said.



"I suggest you get to the entry port," he said. "Odrade will be here soon."



She left him without another word.



"Armor is all out and deployed," the communications officer said.



"Alert Burzmali to be ready for command here," Teg said. "The rest of us will be going out soon."



"You expect all of us to join you?" That was the one who looked for a scapegoat.



"I am going out," Teg said. "I will go alone if necessary. Only those who wish need join me."



After that, all of them would come, he thought. Peer pressure was little understood by anyone except those trained by the Bene Gesserit.



It grew silent in the command station except for the faint hummings and clicks of instruments. Teg fell to thinking about the "depraved whores."



It was not correct to call them depraved, he thought. Sometimes, the supremely rich did become depraved. That came from believing that money (power) could buy anything and everything. And why shouldn't they believe this? They saw it happening every day. It was easy to believe in absolutes.



Hope springs eternal and all of that gornaw!



It was like another faith. Money would buy the impossible.



Then came depravity.



It was not the same for the Honored Matres. They were, somehow, beyond depravity. They had come through it; he could see that. But now they were into something else so far beyond depravity that Teg wondered if he really wanted to know about it.



The knowledge was there, though, inescapable in his new awareness. Not one of those people would hesitate an instant before consigning an entire planet to torture if that meant personal gain. Or if the payoff were some imagined pleasure. Or if the torture produced even a few more days or hours of living.



What pleased them? What gratified? They were like semuta addicts. Whatever simulated pleasure for them, they required more of it every time.



And they know this!



How they must rage inside! Caught in such a trap! They had seen it all and none of it was enough - not good enough nor evil enough. They had entirely lost the knack of moderation.



They were dangerous, though. And perhaps he was wrong about one thing: Perhaps they no longer remembered what it had been like before the awful transformation of that strange tart-smelling stimulant that painted orange in their eyes. Memories of memories could become distorted. Every Mentat was sensitized to this flaw in himself.



"There's the worm!"



It was the communications officer.



Teg swiveled in his chair and looked at the projection, a miniature holo of the exterior to the southwest. The worm with its two tiny dots of human passengers was a distant sliver of wriggling movement.



"Bring Odrade in here alone when they arrive," he said. "Sheeana - that's the young girl - will remain behind to help herd that worm into the hold. It will obey her. Be sure Burzmali is standing ready nearby. We won't have much time for the transfer of command."



When Odrade entered the command station she was still breathing hard and exuding the smells of the desert, a compound of melange, flint, and human perspiration. Teg sat in his chair apparently resting. His eyes remained closed.



Odrade thought she had caught the Bashar in an uncharacteristic attitude of repose, almost pensive. He opened his eyes then and she saw the change about which Lucilla had only been able to blurt a small warning - along with a few hasty words about the ghola's transformation. What was it that had happened to Teg? He was almost posing for her, daring her to see it in him. The chin was firm and held slightly upthrust in his normal attitude of observation. The narrow face with its webwork of age lines had lost none of its alertness. The long, thin nose so characteristic of the Corrinos and Atreides in his ancestry had grown a bit longer with advancing years. But the gray hair remained thick and that small peak at the forehead centered the observing gaze...



On his eyes!



"How did you know to meet us here?" Odrade demanded. "We had no idea where the worm was taking us."



"There are very few inhabited places here in the meridian desert," he said. "Gambler's choice. This seemed likely."



Gambler's choice? She knew the Mentat phrase but had never understood it.



Teg lifted himself from his chair. "Take this ship and go to the place you know best," he said.



Chapter House? She almost said it but thought of the others around her, these military strangers Teg had assembled. Who were they? Lucilla's brief explanation did not satisfy.



"We change Taraza's design somewhat," Teg said. "The ghola does not stay. He must go with you."



She understood. They would need Duncan Idaho's new talents to counter the whores. He was no longer merely bait for the destruction of Rakis.



"He will not be able to leave the no-ship's concealment, of course," Teg said.



She nodded. Duncan was not shielded from prescient searchers... such as the Guild navigators.



"Bashar!" It was the communications officer. "We've been bleeped by a satellite!"



"All right, you ground hogs!" Teg shouted. "Everybody outside! Get Burzmali in here."



A hatch at the rear of the station flew open. Burzmali lunged through. "Bashar, what are we -"



"No time! Take over!" Teg lifted himself from his command chair and waved for Burzmali to take it. "Odrade here will tell you where to go." On an impulse that he knew was partly vindictive, Teg grasped Odrade's left arm, leaned close, and kissed her cheek. "Do what you must, daughter," he whispered. "That worm in the hold may soon be the only one in the universe."



Odrade saw it then: Teg knew Taraza's complete design and intended to carry out his Mother Superior's orders to the very end.



"Do what you must." That said it all.



We are not looking at a new state of matter but at a newly recognized relationship between consciousness and matter, which provides a more penetrating insight into the workings of prescience. The oracle shapes a projected inner universe to produce new external probabilities out of forces that are not understood. There is no need to understand these forces before using them to shape the physical universe. Ancient metal workers had no need to understand the molecular and submolecular complexities of their steel, bronze, copper, gold, and tin. They invented mystical powers to describe the unknown while they continued to operate their forges and wield their hammers.



- Mother Superior Taraza, Argument in Council



The ancient structure in which the Sisterhood secreted its Chapter House, its Archives, and the offices of its most sacrosanct leadership did not just make sounds in the night. The noises were more like signals. Odrade had learned to read those signals over her many years here. That particular sound there, that strained creaking was a wooden beam in the floor not replaced in some eight hundred years. It contracted in the night to produce those sounds.



She had Taraza's memories to expand on such signals. The memories were not fully integrated; there had been very little time. Here at night in Taraza's old working room, Odrade used a few available moments to continue the integration.



Dar and Tar, one at last.



That was a quite identifiable Taraza comment.



To haunt the Other Memories was to exist on several planes simultaneously, some of them very deep, but Taraza remained near the surface. Odrade allowed herself to sink farther into the multiple existences. Presently, she recognized a self who was currently breathing but remote while others demanded that she plunge into the all-enfolding visions, everything complete with smells, touches, emotions - all of the originals held intact within her own awareness.



It is unsettling to dream another's dreams.



Taraza again.



Taraza who had played such a dangerous game with the future of the entire Sisterhood hanging in the balance! How carefully she had timed the leaking of word to the whores that the Tleilaxu had built dangerous abilities into the ghola. And the attack on the Gammu Keep confirmed that the information had reached its source. The brutal nature of that attack, though, had warned Taraza that she had little time. The whores would be sure to assemble forces for the total destruction of Gammu - just to kill that one ghola.



So much had depended on Teg.



She saw the Bashar there in her own assemblage of Other Memories: the father she had never really known.



I didn't know him at the end, either.



It could be weakening to dig into those memories, but she could not escape the demands of that luring reservoir.



Odrade thought of the Tyrant's words: "The terrible field of my past! Answers leap up like a frightened flock blackening the sky of my inescapable memories."



Odrade held herself like a swimmer balanced just below the water's surface.



I most likely will be replaced, Odrade thought. I may even be reviled. Bellonda certainly was not giving easy agreement to the new state of command. No matter. Survival of the Sisterhood was all that should concern any of them.



Odrade floated up out of the Other Memories and lifted her gaze to look across the room into the shadowy niche where the bust of a woman could be discerned in the low light of the room's glowglobes. The bust remained a vague shape in its shadows but Odrade knew that face well: Chenoeh, guardian symbol of Chapter House.



"There but for the grace of God..."



Every sister who came through the spice agony (as Chenoeh had not) said or thought that same thing, but what did it really mean? Careful breeding and careful training produced the successful ones in sufficient numbers. Where was the hand of God in that? God certainly was not the worm they had brought from Rakis. Was the presence of God felt only in the successes of the Sisterhood?



I fall prey to the pretensions of my own Missionaria Protectiva!



She knew that these were similar to thoughts and questions that had been heard in this room on countless occasions. Bootless! Still, she could not bring herself to remove that guardian bust from the niche where it had reposed for so long.



I am not superstitious, she told herself. I am not a compulsive person. This is a matter of tradition. Such things have a value well known to us.



Certainly, no bust of me will ever be so honored.



She thought of Waff and his Face Dancers dead with Miles Teg in the terrible destruction of Rakis. It did not do to dwell on the bloody attrition being suffered in the Old Empire. Better to think about the muscles of retribution being created by the blundering violence of the Honored Matres.



Teg knew!



The recently concluded Council session had subsided in fatigue without firm conclusions. Odrade counted herself lucky to have diverted attention into a few immediate concerns dear to them all.



The punishments: Those had occupied them for a time. Historical precedents fleshed out the Archival analyses to a satisfying form. Those assemblages of humans who allied themselves with the Honored Matres were in for some shocks.



Ix would certainly overextend itself. They had not the slightest appreciation of how competition from the Scattering would crush them.



The Guild would be shunted aside and made to pay dearly for its melange and its machinery. Guild and Ix, thrown together, would fall together.



The Fish Speakers could be mostly ignored. Satellites of Ix, they were already fading into a past that humans would abandon.



And the Bene Tleilax. Ah, yes, the Tleilaxu. Waff had succumbed to the Honored Mattes. He had never admitted it but the truth was plain. "Just once and with one of my own Face Dancers."



Odrade smiled grimly, remembering her father's bitter kiss.



I will have another niche made, she thought. I will commission another bust: Miles Teg, the Great Heretic!



Lucilla's suspicions about Teg were disquieting, though. Had he been prescient at last and able to see the no-ships? Well, the Breeding Mistresses could explore those suspicions.



"We have laagered up!" Bellonda accused.



They all knew the meaning of that word: they had retreated into a fortress position for the long night of the whores.



Odrade realized she did not much care for Bellonda, the way she laughed occasionally to expose those wide, blunt teeth.



They had discussed the cell samples from Sheeana for a long time. The "proof of Siona" was there. She had the ancestry that shielded her from prescience and could leave the no-ship.



Duncan was an unknown.



Odrade turned her thoughts to the ghola out there in the grounded no-ship. Lifting herself from the chair, she crossed to the dark window and looked in the direction of the distant landing field.



Did they dare risk releasing Duncan from the shielding of that ship? The cell studies said he was a mixture of many Idaho gholas - some descendant of Siona. But what of the taint from the original?



No. He must remain confined.



And what of Murbella? - pregnant Murbella? An Honored Matre dishonored.



"The Tleilaxu intended for me to kill the Imprinter," Duncan said.



"Will you try to kill the whore?" That was Lucilla's question.



"She is not an Imprinter," Duncan said.



The Council had discussed at length the possible nature of the bonding between Duncan and Murbella. Lucilla maintained there was no bonding at all, that the two remained wary opponents.



"Best not to risk putting them together."



The sexual prowess of the whores would have to be studied at length, though. Perhaps a meeting between Duncan and Murbella in the no-ship could be risked. With careful protective measures, of course.



Lastly, she thought about the worm in the no-ship's hold - a worm nearing the moment of its metamorphosis. A small earth-dammed basin filled with melange awaited that worm. When the moment came, it would be lured out by Sheeana into the bath of melange and water. The resulting sandtrout could then begin their long transformation.



You were right, father. It was so simple when you looked at it clearly.



No need to seek a desert planet for the worms. The sandtrout would create their own habitat for Shai-hulud. It was not pleasant to think of Chapter House Planet transformed into vast areas of wasteland but it had to be done.



The "Last Will and Testament of Miles Teg," which he had planted in the no-ship's submolecular storage systems, could not be discredited. Even Bellonda agreed to that.



Chapter House required a complete revision of all its historical records. A new look had been demanded of them by what Teg had seen of the Lost Ones - the whores from the Scattering.



"You seldom learn the names of the truly wealthy and powerful. You see only their spokesmen. The political arena makes a few exceptions to this but does not reveal the full power structure."



The Mentat philosopher had chewed deep into everything they accepted and what he disgorged did not agree with Archival dependence upon "our inviolate summations."



We knew it, Miles, we just never faced up to it. We're all going to be digging in our Other Memories for the next few generations.



Fixed data, storage systems could not be trusted.



"If you destroy most copies, time will take care of the rest."



How Archives had raged at that telling pronouncement by the Bashar!



"The writing of history is largely a process of diversion. Most historical accounts divert attention from the secret influences around the recorded events."



That was the one that had brought down Bellonda. She had taken it up on her own, admitting: "The few histories that escape this restrictive process vanish into obscurity through obvious processes."



Teg had listed some of the processes: "Destruction of as many copies as possible, burying the too revealing accounts in ridicule, ignoring them in the centers of education, insuring that they are not quoted elsewhere and, in some cases, elimination of the authors."



Not to mention the scapegoat process that brought death to more than one messenger bearing unwelcome news, Odrade thought. She recalled an ancient ruler who kept a pikestaff handy with which to kill messengers who brought bad news.



"We have a, good base of information upon which to build a better understanding of our past," Odrade had argued. "We've always known that what was at stake in conflicts was the determination of who would control the wealth or its equivalent."



Maybe it was not a real "noble purpose" but it would do for the time being.



I am avoiding the central issue, she thought.



Something would have to be done about Duncan Idaho and they all knew it.



With a sigh, Odrade summoned a 'thopter and prepared herself for the short trip to the no-ship.



Duncan's prison was at least comfortable, Odrade thought when she entered it. This had been the ship commander's quarters lately occupied by Miles Teg. There were still signs of his presence here - a small holostat projector revealing a scene of his home on Lernaeus; the stately old house, the long lawn, the river. Teg had left a sewing kit behind on a bedside table.



The ghola sat in a sling chair staring at the projection. He looked up listlessly when Odrade entered.



"You just left him back there to die, didn't you?" Duncan asked.



"We do what we must," she said. "And I obeyed his orders."



"I know why you're here," Duncan said. "And you're not going to change my mind. I'm not a damned stud for the witches. You understand me?"



Odrade smoothed her robe and sat on the edge of the bed facing Duncan. "Have you examined the record my father left for us?" she asked.



"Your father?"



"Miles Teg was my father. I commend his last words to you. He was our eyes there at the end. He had to see the death on Rakis. The 'mind at its beginning' understood dependencies and key logs."



When Duncan looked puzzled, she explained: "We were trapped too long in the Tyrant's oracular maze."



She saw how he sat up more alertly, the feline movements that spoke of muscles well conditioned to attack.



"There is no way you can escape alive from this ship," she said. "You know why."



"Siona."



"You are a danger to us but we would prefer that you lived a useful life."



"I'm still not going to breed for you, especially not with that little twit from Rakis."



Odrade smiled, wondering how Sheeana would respond to that description.



"You think it's funny?" Duncan demanded.



"Not really. But we'll still have Murbella's child, of course. I guess that will have to satisfy us."



"I've been talking to Murbella on the com," Duncan said. "She thinks she's going to be a Reverend Mother, that you're going to accept her into the Bene Gesserit."



"Why not? Her cells pass the proof of Siona. I think she will make a superb Sister."



"Has she really taken you in?"



"You mean, have we failed to observe that she thinks she will go along with us until she learns our secrets and then she will escape? Oh, we know that, Duncan."



"You don't think she can get away from you?"



"Once we get them, Duncan, we never really lose them."



"You don't think you lost the Lady Jessica?"



"She came back to us in the end."



"Why did you really come out here to see me?"



"I thought you deserved an explanation of the Mother Superior's design. It was aimed at the destruction of Rakis, you see. What she really wanted was the elimination of almost all of the worms."



"Great Gods below! Why?"



"They were an oracular force holding us in bondage. Those pearls of the Tyrant's awareness magnified that hold. He didn't predict events, he created them."



Duncan pointed toward the rear of the ship. "But what about..."



"That one? It's just one now. By the time it reaches sufficient numbers to be an influence once more, humankind will have gone its own way beyond him. We'll be too numerous by then, doing too many different things on our own. No single force will rule all of our futures completely, never again."



She stood.



When he did not respond, she said: "Within the imposed limits, which I know you appreciate, please think about the kind of life you want to lead. I promise to help you in any way I can."



"Why would you do that?"



"Because my ancestors loved you. Because my father loved you."



"Love? You witches can't feel love!"



She stared down at him for almost a minute. The bleached hair was growing out dark at the roots and curling once more into ringlets, especially at his neck, she saw.



"I feel what I feel," she said. "And your water is ours, Duncan Idaho."



She saw the Fremen admonition have its effect on him and then turned away and was passed out of the room by the guards.



Before leaving the ship, she went back to the hold and stared down at the quiescent worm on its bed of Rakian sand. Her viewport looked down from some two hundred meters onto the captive. As she looked, she shared a silent laugh with the increasingly integrated Taraza.



We were right and Schwangyu and her people were wrong. We knew he wanted out. He had to want that after what he did.



She spoke aloud in a soft whisper, as much for herself as for the nearby observers stationed there to watch for the moment when metamorphosis began in that worm.



"We have your language now," she said.



There were no words in the language, only a moving, dancing adaptation to a moving, dancing universe. You could only speak the language, not translate it. To know the meaning you had to go through the experience and even then the meaning changed before your eyes. "Noble purpose" was, after all, an untranslatable experience. But when she looked down at the rough, heat-immune hide of that worm from the Rakian desert, Odrade knew what she saw: the visible evidence of noble purpose.



Softly, she called down to him: "Hey! Old worm! Was this your design?"



There was no answer but then she had not really expected an answer.