"Alas, they are all dead."
"Killed?" Teg asked.
"Extinct. They don't breed the same as others do." He sniffed, as if disinterested in that part of the story. "Our Futars were bred to hunt Honored Matres. Those women came to our planets, confident they would conquer us. But we turned the tables on them. They are fit to serve as food for our Futars, nothing more."
*
FOR SAFETY, TEG suggested that their group sleep in the lighter with the hatches sealed and defensive fields up, which obviously displeased their hosts. The Chief Handler cast a glance over his shoulder. "Though these forests are well tamed, a few of the old predators still roam the grounds at night. It would be better if you stayed with us, up here in the safe towers."
A flicker of dismay crossed the Rabbi's face. "What old predators?" He didn't want to hear about any flaws with this world.
"The feline beasts that supplied genetic material for creating the Futars."
Orak Tho gestured with his loose arms across to another cylindrical wooden tower. "We have a grand show tomorrow. You should be well rested for what you will witness."
"What kind of show?" Hawat sounded eager. At times he seemed no more than the boy he truly was, rather than a potential warrior-Mentat.
With a mysterious smile, the Chief Handler motioned for them to follow him.
His green irises now looked like blazing emeralds.
It was full dark outside. Unfamiliar constellations sparkled like a million eyes reflecting firelight. He guided the four visitors across a sturdy plank walkway to a nearby tower, then down a spiraling interior staircase that circled the cylinder twice before reaching the ground level. They walked across the leaf-strewn forest floor to a much shorter tower that looked like a thick, man-made stump.
The stench struck them first. The base of the stout artificial tree had been hollowed out, like a dank lair. Thick vertical bars extended deep into the mulchy ground, blocking off the hollow to form a dirt-floored cell.
Teg raised his eyebrows. "You have prisoners."
The chamber contained five ragged, angry captives. Despite their tattered and beaten appearance, Sheeana could tell they were human. All were females with matted hair, rough hands, and bloodied knuckles. The remnants of torn leotards clung to their pale skin, and their eyes flashed faintly orange.
Honored Matres!
One of the whores saw them approach. Snarling, she lunged toward the wooden bars of her cage, flying sideways to deliver a devastating kick. Her bare foot slammed into the iron-hard wood. The impact produced a faint but hollow crack, and as the Honored Matre limped away, Sheeana realized the crack had been the fracture of bone, not wood. The women had already battered themselves bloody against the barricade.
Orak Tho's face constricted as if a thunderstorm were brewing behind it.
"Honored Matres came down in a transport ship three months ago, expecting easy prey. We massacred them, but managed to save some for… training purposes."
His lips curled back. "It is not the first time they have tried to harass us.
They form isolated cells that don't necessarily know what the others are doing. Thus they repeat the same mistakes."
Two Futars prowled around the base of the wooden tower, circling and sniffing.
Sheeana recognized one of them as Hrrm; the second beast-man had a black stripe in the wiry hair of its chest. One of the captive Honored Matres called out in a threatening voice. "Free us, or our Sisters will peel strips of meat from your bones while you still live!"
Hrrm snarled and hurled himself at the cage, backing off only at the last moment. Hot spittle from his mouth splattered the captive Honored Matre. Three of the beaten women came forward to the bars, looking as bestial as the Futars.
"As I said," Orak Tho continued in his calm and confident voice, "Honored Matres are fit for little more than food."
A Handler came with a wooden bowl of red bones to which clung scraps of meat and fatty skin with patches of fur. A second bowl held slick-looking entrails and purplish organs. He dumped the offal through a slot into the cage. The filthy Honored Matres looked at it in disgust.
"Eat, if you wish to have strength for tomorrow's hunt."
"We don't eat garbage!" said one of the Honored Matres.
"Then you starve. It matters not to me."
Sheeana could tell the women were ravenous. After a shaky hesitation, they grabbed for the scraps, tearing off raw pieces and eating until their faces and fingers were smeared with grease and covered with old blood. They looked through the bars at their captors with such hateful expressions that they seemed capable of putrefying flesh.
One of the women glowered at Sheeana. "You don't belong here."
"Neither do you. However, I am outside the cage, while you are behind the bars."
The woman slammed the palm of her hand against the wooden barricade with a loud crack, but it was a halfhearted attempt at an attack. Hrrm pounced beside Sheeana as if to protect her, then prowled in front of the cage, his muscles rippling. He seemed very agitated.
Sheeana found it ironic, knowing what the Honored Matres had done to Hrrm and to his companions. The sexual perversions, the whippings and deprivations. It seemed a strikingly odd turnabout to see the women imprisoned, with the Futars prowling free.
She turned to the Chief Handler. "Honored Matres abuse their captive Futars.
Your punishments are appropriate."
"My guests, tomorrow we will put you in our best observation stations, from which you can watch the hunt." Orak Tho reached over to pat both Futars on their heads. "It will be good for this one to run with his brothers, and get in practice again. It is what he was born to do."
With his bestial eyes fixed on the Honored Matres, Hrrm bared his teeth in a menacing smile.
Before they all slept, Teg returned to the lighter to transmit an optimistic report back to the Ithaca.
13
An alliance is often more a work of art than a simple business transaction.
MOTHER SUPERIOR DARWI ODRADE, private records, Bene Gesserit Archives
The Guild Navigator finally came to Chapterhouse in response to the Mother Commander's summons. Though she was impatient and frustrated with him, he did not explain where he had been or why he had delayed coming for several days.
In the meantime, Janess, Kiria, and ten other handpicked Valkyries—most of them from the original Honored Matres who had undergone Bene Gesserit training — had already been secretly deposited on Tleilax to begin their underground work. They would be infiltrating the last stronghold of the rebel whores to undermine their defenses, planting the seeds of destruction while setting up for a surprise ambush. A part of Murbella wished she could be with her daughter's team, wearing traditional Honored Matre clothing again, letting the predator half of her dual nature come to the fore.
But she trusted Janess and her companions. For now, Murbella had to arrange the rest of the details and secure Guild cooperation, either through bribery or threat. She had to be the Mother Commander, not just an average fighter.
The mutated Navigator swam in his tank, not looking at all eager or interested, which troubled the Mother Commander. She had hinted that he would be rewarded well for speaking with her, but he did not seem excited by the prospect.
"The gas looks thin in your tank, Navigator," she said.
"It is only a temporary shortage." He did not seem to be bluffing.
"We may be ready to increase your supply of mélange, if the Guild is ready to cooperate with us and participate in the fight against the oncoming Enemy."
Edrik's metallic voice came through the speakers of his tank. "Your offer comes much too late, Mother Commander. For years you have tried to frighten us with the existence of this shadow Enemy, and you have tantalized us with promises of mélange. But your treasure has lost its luster. We have been forced to seek other alternatives, other supply lines."
"There are no other sources of mélange." Murbella glided forward
to stand close to the curved plaz and peer inside.
"The Spacing Guild is in crisis. The severe shortage of spice—perpetuated by your Sisterhood—has split us into two factions. Many Navigators have already died from withdrawal, while others do not have sufficient mélange to perceive safe paths through foldspace. One faction of the Guild led by human Administrators has clandestinely hired the Ixians to develop improved navigation machines. They intend to install them in all Guildships."
"Machines! Ix has been talking about such things for centuries. People in the Scattering used navigational devices, and so did Chapterhouse. They have never been fully acceptable before."
"And after years of intensive research, it seems they may have a viable solution to the ancient impossible problem. I believe they are inferior substitutes, not at all comparable to Navigators. Still, they do work."
The Mother Commander's mind raced ahead, chasing several desirable possibilities she had not previously considered. If the Ixians had developed reliable devices for guiding ships through foldspace, then the New Sisterhood could use them in its own fleet. No longer needing to force the cooperation of the Navigators, they could be independent, not at the mercy of a volatile and unpredictable power base such as the Guild. If indeed Ix would sell such devices to the Sisterhood. Surely the Guild must have some sort of exclusive contract…
Then she realized that even the short-term solution of using navigation machines for her own battle fleet had its drawbacks. Second—and third—order consequences. Only Chapterhouse had spice. With that single substance they could pay and control the Navigators so that no other party could compete. If mélange became unnecessary, then the whole worth and strength of the New Sisterhood would diminish.
Only a moment had passed as Murbella considered all of this. "Navigation machines would mean the end of Navigators such as yourself."
"And it would also remove one of the primary customers for your mélange, Mother Commander. Therefore, my faction seeks a reliable and secure source of spice, so that Navigators can continue to exist. Your New Sisterhood has driven us to this extreme. We cannot depend on you for the spice we need."
"And you have discovered another supplier of mélange?" She let a scoffing tone into her voice. "I find that doubtful. We would know about it."
"We have a high level of confidence in our alternative." Edrik drifted away, came back.
Murbella shrugged nonchalantly. "I offer you an immediate increase in spice."
With a gesture, she directed three of her assistants to move a small suspensor barrow into the room; it was heaped high with packages of spice, as much as one Navigator could use in the better part of a Standard Year.
The tank's speakers remained silent, but she could see the hunger in Edrik's strange eyes. Murbella feared for a moment that he would turn her down, and all of her carefully thought out tactics would come to naught.
"One can never possess too much spice," the Navigator said after an interminable pause. "We have learned the painful lesson of relying on any single source. It would be better for the Navigators, and for the New Sisterhood, if we could reach some sort of accommodation."
I was right, she thought. "You need our spice, and we need your ships."
"The Guild will listen to your proposal, Mother Commander—provided it is a discussion rather than a threat. A business proposal between respected partners, not the sting of a bully's lash."
She stared at the tank, surprised by his bold statement. He might really have another source of spice, or at least the possibility of one. But he seems to harbor doubts and wants to play it safe.
"I need two Guild ships for transport to Tleilax. One equipped with a no-field and the other a traditional Heighliner."
"Tleilax? For what purpose?"
"We will grind down the only remaining stronghold and eliminate the last viable threat of the Honored Matres, once and for all."
"It will be arranged, within two days. I will take the spice now."
*
RENEGADE HONORED matres. The mysterious Enemy. Face Dancers. Murbella could not avoid them all, but the process of physical exercise—running, sweating, and straining—helped her to think as she planned her final assault on Tleilax.
Dressed in a clinging singlesuit, she sprinted along a stony path toward a hill near the Keep. She pushed herself until each breath slashed her lungs like a razor. Some of the inner voices scolded her for wasting time when there was so much work to be done. Murbella only ran harder.
She wanted to stimulate and provoke those Other Memories, needed them alert.
The clamorous sea of past lives was always there, but not always available, and certainly not always helpful. Making sense out of the collective wisdom was a constant challenge, even for the most influential of Sisters.
Upon passing through the Spice Agony, a new Reverend Mother was like a baby thrown into a vast ocean and commanded to swim through the waves of Other Memory to survive. With so many Sisters inside, she could always ask questions, but she also risked getting sucked down into the whirlpool of churning advice.
Other Memory was a tool. It could be a great boon, or a great peril. Sisters who delved too deeply into this reservoir of the past were in danger of going insane. That had been the fate of the Kwisatz Mother, Lady Anirul Corrino, so long ago during the time of Muad'Dib. It was like reaching for a sword and grabbing the blade instead of the hilt. A matter of balance.
The floating souls viewed Murbella's mind from the inside, and some thought they knew her better than she knew herself. But even though she could see the past Sisters of the Bene Gesserit, her Honored Matre ancestry remained blocked from her by a black wall.
As a little girl Murbella had been captured in one of the Honored Matre sweeps, taken from her family and trained in cruelty and sexual domination. A whore. Yes, the Bene Gesserit name was appropriate.
Those terrible women from the Scattering had their dark secrets, their shame, their ignominious crimes. Somewhere in the past they knew their origin, knew what they had done to provoke the Enemy. If only she could find that information inside herself, she would know the truth about the vicious women she was about to face.
Reaching the rustling grasses and flat brown rocks on the hill, she climbed to the boulder-strewn crest and sat on the highest point of rock. From this vantage she could see Chapterhouse Keep to the east and the encroaching dunes to the west. Her heart pounded from the exertion, and perspiration trickled down her forehead and cheeks. Her body had been pushed to a physical edge, and now it was time to do the same with her mind.
She had accomplished much as Mother Commander. Murbella had managed to keep the two poles of the New Sisterhood from tearing each other apart, but the scars still ran deep. She had crushed or consolidated all but one of the enclaves of renegade Honored Matres.
She needed to know more, needed to understand the Face Dancers that had infiltrated the Old Empire, the Enemy… and the Honored Matres. I must have that information before we depart for Tleilax.
Murbella opened a small pack at her waist and removed three wafers of fresh, concentrated mélange shipped up from the deep desert. She held the brownish-red wafers in her hand, feeling the spice tingle slightly as it mixed with the perspiration of her palm. She consumed all three wafers, intending to use the spice as a mental battering ram.
I will go deep this time, she thought. Guide me, my Sisters, and bring me back out, for I have important information to discover. The spice began to work within her. Closing her eyes, she dove inward, following the taste of mélange.
She could see the sweeping landscape of Bene Gesserit memories extending to an infinite horizon of human history. She seemed to be running down a kaleidoscopic corridor of mirrors, mother to mother to mother. Fear threatened to overwhelm her, but the Sisters within parted and drew her into their midst, absorbing her consciousness.
But Murbella demanded to know about the other half of her existence, to discover what lay behind the black wall that
blocked all Honored Matre paths.
Yes, the memories were there, but muddled and disorganized, and they seemed to reach a dead end after only a handful of centuries, as if she had sprung from nowhere.
Were the whores descended from lost and corrupted Reverend Mothers, isolated out in the Scattering, as had been postulated? Had they formed their society with surviving Fish Speakers from the God Emperor's private guard, creating a bureaucracy based on violence and sexual domination?
Honored Matres rarely looked to the past, except when they glanced fearfully over their shoulders as the Enemy pursued them.
The spice washed through Murbella, sending her still deeper into her crowded thoughts, slamming her up against the obsidian barrier. In a trance atop the dry rocky hill, Murbella backed through generation after generation. Her breathing constricted, her external vision blurred into blindness; she heard a whimper of pain pass her lips.
Then, like a traveler emerging from a narrow defile, she beheld a mental clearing, in which shadowy ghost-women helped her forward. They showed her where to look. A crack in the wall, a way through. Deeper shadows, cold… and then—I see! The answer made her reel.
Yes, during the Famine Times, a splinter group of rogue Bene Gesserits, a few untrained wild Reverend Mothers, and fugitive Fish Speakers had indeed escaped in the turmoil after the Tyrant's death. Yet that was only a small part of the answer.
In their flight, those women had also encountered isolated and insular Tleilaxu worlds. For more than ten thousand years, the fanatical Bene Tleilax had used their females only as breeding machines and axlotl tanks. In a closely guarded secret, they kept their women immobilized, comatose, and uneducated, no more than wombs on tables. No Bene Gesserit, no outsider, had ever seen a Tleilaxu female.
When those rogue Bene Gesserits and militant Fish Speakers discovered the horrific truth, their reaction was swift and unforgiving; they left not a single Tleilaxu male alive on those outlying worlds. Liberating the breeding tanks, they took the Tleilaxu females with them on their journey, tending them, trying to bring them back.
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