The Guild shuttle carried only her. Working under the spectre of the Jihad, the Richesian manufacturers of the robo-pilot had gone out of their way to make a clunky-looking, rivet-covered device that most vehemently neither emulated the human mind nor looked the least bit human . . . or even sophisticated, for that matter.
The robo-pilot transported passengers and materials from a big ship to the surface of a planet, and back again in a well-rehearsed chain of events. Its functions included barely enough programming flexibility to deal with air-traffic patterns or adverse weather conditions. The robo-pilot took its shuttle in a routine sequence: from Heighliner to planet, from planet to Heighliner. . . .
At a window seat in the shuttle, Mohiam reflected on the delicious revenge she had exacted on the Baron. It had been months already, and no doubt he still suspected nothing, but a Bene Gesserit could wait a long time for the appropriate payment. Over the years, as his precious body weakened and bloated from the disease, an utterly defeated Vladimir Harkonnen might even contemplate suicide.
Mohiam’s vengeful action might have been impulsive, but it was fitting and appropriate after what the Baron had done. Mother Superior Harishka would not have allowed House Harkonnen to go unpunished, and Mohiam thought her spontaneous idea had been cruelly apt. It would save the Sisterhood time and trouble.
As the ship descended into the cloud layer, Mohiam hoped this new child would be perfect, because the Baron would no longer be of any use to them. But if not, the Sisterhood always had other options and other plans. They had many different breeding schemes.
Mohiam was of a type considered optimal for a certain mysterious genetic program. She knew the names of some, but not all, of the other candidates, and knew as well that the Sisterhood didn’t want simultaneous pregnancies in the program, fearing this might muddle the mating index. Mohiam did wonder, though, why she had been selected again, after the first failure. Her superiors hadn’t explained it to her, and she knew better than to ask. And again, the Voices in Other Memory kept their counsel to themselves.
Do the details matter? she wondered. I carry the requested daughter in my womb. A successful birth would elevate Mohiam’s stature, might even result in her eventual election as Mother Superior by the proctors, when she got much older . . . depending on how important this daughter really was.
She sensed the girl would be very important.
Aboard the robo-piloted shuttle, she felt a sudden change of motion. Looking out the narrow window, she saw the horizon of Wallach IX lurch as the craft flipped over and plunged down, out of control. The safety field around her seat glimmered an unfamiliar, disconcerting yellow. Machine sounds, which had been limited to a smooth whir, now screamed through the cabin, hurting her ears.
Lights blinked wildly on the control module ahead of her. The robo’s movements were jerky and uncertain. She had been trained to handle crises, and her mind worked rapidly. Mohiam knew about occasional malfunctions on these shuttles— statistically unlikely— exacerbated by the lack of pilots with the ability to think and react. When a problem did occur— and Mohiam felt herself in the midst of one now— the potential for disaster was high.
The shuttle plummeted, lurching and bucking. Clothlike scraps of cloud slapped the windows. The robo-pilot went through the same circular motions, unable to try anything new. The engine flared out, went silent.
This can’t be, Mohiam thought. Not now, not when I’m carrying this child. Viscerally, she felt that if she could just survive this, her baby would be healthy and would be the one so badly needed by the Sisterhood.
But dark thoughts assailed her, and she began to tremble. Guild Navigators, such as the one in the Heighliner above her, utilized higher-order dimensional calculations, and they did so in order to see the future, enabling them to maneuver ships safely through the dangerous voids of foldspace. Had the Spacing Guild learned of the secret Bene Gesserit program, and did they fear it?
As the shuttle hurtled toward disaster, an incredible array of possibilities tumbled through Mohiam’s mind. The safety field around her stretched and grew more yellow. Her body pressed against it, threatening to break through. Holding her hands protectively over her womb, she felt a frantic desire to live, and for her unborn child to thrive— and her thoughts went beyond the parochial concerns of a mother and child, to a much larger significance.
She wondered if her suspicions might be totally in error. What if some higher force than either she or her Sisters could possibly imagine was behind this? Were the Bene Gesserit, through their breeding program, playing God? Did a real God— regardless of the Sisterhood’s cynicism and skepticism toward religion— in fact exist?
What a cruel joke that would be.
The deformities of her first child, and now the impending death of this fetus and Mohiam, too . . . it all seemed to add up to something. But if so, who— or what— was behind this emergency?
The Bene Gesserit did not believe in accidents or coincidences.
“ ‘I must not fear,’ ” she intoned, her eyes closed. “ ‘Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.’ ”
It was the Litany Against Fear, conceived in ancient times by a Bene Gesserit Sister and passed on to generation after generation.
Mohiam took a deep breath, and felt her trembling subside.
The shuttle held position momentarily, with her window pointed planetward. The engine sputtered again. She saw the continental mass approaching fast, and made out the sprawling Mother School complex, a labyrinthine white-stuccoed city with sienna roof tiles.
Was the shuttle being sent out of control into the main school, with some terrible explosive force aboard? A single crash could wipe out the heart of the Sisterhood.
Mohiam struggled against the safety field, but could not break free. The shuttle shifted, and the land disappeared from view. The window cocked upward to reveal the blue-white sun on the edge of the atmosphere.
Then her safety field grew clear, and Mohiam realized that the shuttle had righted itself. The engine was on again, a sweet flow of machinery. In the front compartment, the robo-pilot moved with apparent efficiency, as if nothing had happened. One of its programmed emergency routines must have worked.
As the shuttle set down smoothly on the ground in front of the grand plaza, Mohiam breathed a long sigh of relief. She rushed to the doorhatch, meaning to flee into the safety of the nearest building . . . but she paused, took a moment to compose herself, and then strode calmly out. A Reverend Mother had to maintain appearances.
When she glided down the ramp, Sisters and acolytes swarmed protectively around her. Mother Superior demanded that the shuttle be impounded for a complete overhaul and investigation, seeking evidence of sabotage or confirmation of a simple malfunction. A brusque radio transmission from the Heighliner above, however, prevented this.
Reverend Mother Anirul Sadow Tonkin stood waiting to greet Mohiam, beaming with pride, looking very young with her doelike face and short bronze hair. Mohiam had never understood Anirul’s importance, though even the Mother Superior often showed her deference. The two women nodded to each other.
In the midst of her fellow Sisters, Mohiam was escorted to a safe building; a large contingent of armed female guards had been posted to watch her. She would be pampered and observed carefully until the baby was due.
“There will be no more travel for you, Mohiam,” Mother Superior Harishka said. “You must remain safely here— until we have your daughter.”
You of fearful heart, be strong and fear not. Behold, your God will come with a vengeance; He will come and save you from the worshipers of machines.
—The Orange Catholic Bible
In the concubines’ wing of the Imperial Palace, throbbing massage machines slapped and kneaded bare skin, using scented oils to
caress every glorious contour of the Emperor’s women. Sophisticated physical-maintenance devices extracted cellulite, improved muscle tone, tautened abdomens and chins, and made tiny injections to soften the skin. Every detail had to be the way old Elrood preferred, though he didn’t seem much interested anymore. Even the eldest of the four women, the septuagenarian Grera Cary, had the figure of a woman half her age, sustained in part through frequent imbibing of spice.
Dawn’s light was tinged amber by passing through the bank of thick armor-plaz windows. When Grera’s massage was complete, the machine wrapped her in a warm towel of karthan weave and placed a refreshing cloth soaked with eucalyptus and juniper over her face. The concubine’s bed changed into a sensiform chair that conformed perfectly to her body.
A mechanized manicure station dropped from the ceiling, and Grera whispered through her daily meditations as her fingernails and toenails were trimmed, polished, and painted a lush green. The machine slid back up into its overhead compartment, and the woman stood and dropped her towel. An electric field passed over her face, arms, and legs, removing barely discernible and unwanted hairs.
Perfect. Perfect enough for the Emperor.
Of the current retinue of concubines, only Grera was old enough to remember Shando, a plaything who had left Imperial service to marry a war hero and settle down into a “normal life.” Elrood hadn’t paid Shando much attention when she’d been among his numerous women, but once she’d left, he had railed at the others and moaned about his loss. Most of his favorite concubines chosen in succeeding years looked a great deal like Shando.
As she watched the other concubines go through similar bodytoning procedures, Grera Cary thought of how things had changed for all the Emperor’s harem. Less than a year earlier, these women had congregated only rarely, since Elrood was with one of them so often, performing what he called his “royal duty.” One of the concubines, an Elaccan, had secretly given the old goat a nickname that stuck— “Fornicario,” a reference from one of the Old Terran languages to his sexual prowess and appetites. The women only used it among themselves, and snickered.
“Has anyone seen Fornicario?” asked the taller of the two youngest concubines at the other end of the room.
Grera exchanged a smile with her, and the women giggled like schoolgirls. “I’m afraid our Imperial oak has turned into a drooping willow.”
The old man rarely came to the concubines’ wing anymore. Though Elrood spent as much time in bed now as ever, it was for an entirely different reason. His health had declined rapidly, and his libido had already died. His mind was the next thing likely to go.
Suddenly the chattering women grew silent, turning with alarm toward the main entrance of the concubines’ wing. Without announcing himself, Crown Prince Shaddam entered with his ever-present companion, Hasimir Fenring, whom they often called “the Ferret” because of his narrow face and pointed chin. The women covered themselves quickly and stood at attention to show their respect.
“What’s so funny in here, hm-m-m-m-ah?” Fenring demanded. “I heard giggling.”
“The girls were just enjoying a little joke,” Grera said, in a cautious tone. Senior among them, she often spoke for the concubines.
It was rumored that this undersized man had stabbed two of his lovers to death, and from his slithery demeanor Grera believed it. Through her years of experience, she had learned how to recognize a man capable of extreme cruelty. Fenring’s genitals were supposedly malformed and sterile, though sexually functional. She had never slept with him herself, nor did she wish to.
Fenring studied her with overlarge, soulless eyes, then moved past her to the two new blondes. The Crown Prince remained behind him, near the doorway to the solarium. Slim and red-haired, Shaddam wore a gray Sardaukar uniform with silver-and-gold trim. Grera knew the Imperial heir loved to play military games.
“Please share your little joke with us,” Fenring insisted. He addressed the smaller blonde, a petite girl barely beyond her teens who was only slightly shorter than he was. Her eyes resembled Shando’s. “Prince Shaddam and I both enjoy humor.”
“It was just a private conversation,” Grera responded, stepping forward protectively. “Personal things.”
“Can’t she speak for herself?” Fenring snapped, glaring back at the elder woman. He wore a black tunic trimmed in gold, and many rings on his hands. “If this one’s been chosen to entertain the Padishah Emperor, I’m sure she knows how to relay a simple joke, ah-mm-m-m-m?”
“It was as Grera said,” the young blonde insisted. “Just a girl thing. Not worth repeating.”
Fenring took hold of one of the edges of the towel she had been gripping tightly about her curvaceous body. Surprise and fear covered her face. He jerked at the towel, exposing one of her breasts.
Angrily, Grera said, “Cease this nonsense, Fenring. We are royal concubines. No one but the Emperor may touch us.”
“Lucky you.” Fenring gazed across the room at Shaddam.
The Crown Prince nodded stiffly. “She’s right, Hasimir. I’ll share one of my concubines with you, if you like.”
“But I didn’t touch her, my friend— I was only fixing her towel a little.” He let go, and the girl covered herself again. “But has the Emperor been . . . um-m-m-m-ah, utilizing your services much lately? We hear that a certain part of him is already deceased.” Fenring looked up at Grera Cary, who towered over the Ferret.
Grera glanced over at the Crown Prince, seeking support and safety, but found none. His cold eyes looked past her. For a moment she wondered what this Imperial heir would be like in bed, if he had the sexual prowess his father had once possessed. She doubted it, though. From the cold-cod look of this one, even the withered man on his deathbed would still be a superior lover.
“Old one, you will come with me, and we will talk more of jokes. Perhaps we can even exchange a few,” Fenring commanded. “I can be a funny man.”
“Now, sir?” With the fingers of her free hand she indicated her karthan-weave towel.
His gleaming eyes narrowed dangerously. “A person of my station has no time to wait while a woman dresses. Of course I mean now!” He grabbed a tuft of her towel and pulled her along. She went with him, struggling to keep the towel wrapped around her. “This way. Come, come.” While Shaddam followed passively, amused, Fenring forced her to the door.
“The Emperor will hear of this!” she protested.
“Speak loudly, he has trouble hearing.” Fenring gave a maddening smile. “And who will tell him? Some days he doesn’t even remember his own name— he certainly won’t bother with a crone like you.” His tone sent a chill down Grera’s spine. The other concubines milled about, confused and helpless as their grande dame was unceremoniously hauled out of their presence and into the corridor.
At this early hour no members of the royal Court were in evidence, only Sardaukar guards standing rigidly at attention. And with Crown Prince Shaddam here, the Sardaukar guards saw nothing at all. Grera looked at them, but they stared right through her.
Since her flustered, stuttering voice seemed to irritate Fenring, Grera decided it would be safest to become silent. The Ferret was behaving strangely, but as an Imperial concubine she had nothing to fear from him. The furtive man wouldn’t dare do anything so stupid as to actually hurt her.
Glancing back suddenly, she found that Shaddam had disappeared. He must have scuttled off down another passageway. She was completely alone with this vile man.
Fenring passed through a security barrier and pushed Grera ahead of him into a room. She stumbled onto a black-and-white marbleplaz floor. A large chamber with a stonecrete fireplace dominating one wall, this had once been a visitors’ suite but was now devoid of furnishings. It smelled of fresh paint and long abandonment.
Remaining where she was, proud and fearless though wrapped in only a towel, Grera glanced up at him intermittently. She tried not to show defiance or lack of respect. Over her years of service, she had learned to stand on her own
.
The door closed behind them. They were alone now, and Shaddam still hadn’t appeared. What did this little man want with her?
From his tunic Fenring produced a green-jeweled oval. After he pressed a button on its side, a long green blade emerged, glinting in the light of a glowglobe chandelier.
“I didn’t bring you here for questions, crone,” he said in a soft tone. He held the weapon up. “Actually, I need to test this on you. It’s brand-new, you see, and I’ve never really liked some of the Emperor’s walking meat.”
Fenring was no stranger to assassination, and killed with his bare hands at least as often as he engineered accidents or paid for thugs. Sometimes he liked blood work, while on other occasions he preferred subtleties and deceptions. When he was younger, barely nineteen, he had slipped out of the Imperial Palace at night and killed two civil servants at random, just to prove he could do it. He still tried to keep in practice.
Fenring had always known he had the iron will necessary for murder, but he had been surprised at how much he enjoyed it. Killing the previous Crown Prince Fafnir had been his greatest triumph, until now. Once old Elrood finally died, that would be a new feather in his cap. Can’t aim much higher than that.
But he had to keep himself current with new techniques and new inventions. One never knew when they might come in handy. Besides, this neuroknife was so intriguing. . . .
Grera looked at the shimmering green blade, her eyes wide. “The Emperor loves me! You can’t—”
“He loves you? A long-in-the-tooth concubine? He spends more time moaning about his long-lost Shando. Elrood’s so senile he’ll never even know you’re missing, and all of the other concubines will be happy to move up a rank.”
Before Grera could scramble away, the murderous man was on top of her, showing tremendous speed. “No one will mourn your loss, Grera Cary.” He raised the pulsing green blade and, with a dark fire in his flickering eyes, stabbed her repeatedly in the torso. The karthan towel fell away, and the neuroblade struck her freshly creamed and oiled skin.
Dune: House Atreides Page 37