Duncan had lowered his eyes and backed off. Always obedient, he never again tried to make these beasts his pets.
He had seen holorecordings of the Duke’s previous spectacles, as well as the performances of other renowned matadors; while he was saddened to witness the slaughter of one of his magnificent charges, he was amazed at the bravery and self-assurance of Duke Atreides.
The last corrida on Caladan had been staged to celebrate the departure of Leto Atreides for his off-planet schooling. Now after many months there would be another, as the Old Duke had recently announced a new grand bullfight, this one to entertain his guests from Ix, who had come to stay as exiles on Caladan. Exiles. In a sense, Duncan was one, too. . . .
Though he had his own sleeping quarters in a communal outbuilding where many of the Castle workers lived, sometimes Duncan bedded down out in the stables, where he could hear the snorting and simmering beasts. He had put up with far worse conditions in his life. The stables themselves were comfortable, and he enjoyed being alone with the animals.
Whenever he slept out there, he listened to the movements of the bulls in his dreams. He felt himself becoming attuned to their moods and instincts. For days now, though, the creatures had grown increasingly fretful and moody, prone to rampages in their pens . . . as if they knew their nemesis the Old Duke was planning another bullfight.
Standing outside the cages, young Duncan noticed fresh, deep score marks where the Salusan bulls had rammed their enclosures in an attempt to break free, trying to gore imaginary opponents.
This was not right. Duncan knew it. He’d spent so much time watching the bulls that he felt he understood their instincts. He knew how they should react, knew how to provoke them and how to calm them— but this behavior was out of the ordinary.
When he mentioned it to Stablemaster Yresk, the gaunt man looked suddenly alarmed. He scratched the shock of thinning white hair on his head, but then his expression changed. He fixed his suspicious, puffy eyes on Duncan. “Say, there’s nothing wrong with those bulls. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were just another Harkonnen, trying to cause trouble. Now run along.”
“Harkonnens! I hate them.”
“You lived among them, stable-rat. We Atreides are trained to be constantly on the alert.” He gave Duncan a nudge. “Don’t you have chores to complete? Or do I need to find some more?”
He’d heard that Yresk had actually come from Richese many years before, so he was not truly an Atreides. Still, Duncan didn’t contradict the man, though he refused to back down. “I was their slave. They tried to hunt me down like an animal.”
Yresk lowered his bushy eyebrows; with his lanky build and wild, pale hair he looked like a scarecrow. “Even among the common people, the old feud between Houses runs deep. How do I know what you might have up your sleeve?”
“That’s not why I told you about the bulls, sir,” Duncan said. “I’m just worried. I don’t know anything about House feuds.”
Yresk laughed, not taking him seriously. “The Atreides-Harkonnen breach goes back thousands of years. Don’t you know anything about the Battle of Corrin, the great betrayal, the Bridge of Hrethgir? How a cowardly Harkonnen ancestor almost cost the humans our victory against the hated machine-minds? Corrin was our last stand, and we would have fallen to the final onslaught if an Atreides hadn’t saved the day.”
“I never learned much history,” Duncan said. “It was hard enough just finding food to eat.”
Behind folds of wrinkled skin, the stablemaster’s eyes were large and expressive, as if he was trying to appear to be a kindly old man. “Well, well, House Atreides and House Harkonnen were allies once, friends even, but never again after that treachery. The feud has burned hot ever since— and you, boy, came from Giedi Prime. From the Harkonnen homeworld.” Yresk shrugged his bony shoulders. “You don’t expect us to trust you completely, do you? Be thankful the Old Duke trusts you as much as he does.”
“But I had nothing to do with the Battle of Corrin,” Duncan said, still not understanding. “What does that have to do with the bulls? That was a long time ago.”
“And that’s about all the jabber I have time for this afternoon.” Yresk removed a long-handled manure scraper from a prong on the wall. “You just keep your suspicions to yourself from now on. Everyone here knows what he’s supposed to do.”
Though Duncan worked hard and did everything he could to earn his keep, the fact that he had come from the Harkonnens continued to cause him grief. Some of the others working in the stables, not just Yresk, treated him as a barely concealed spy . . . though what Rabban would have wanted with a nine-year-old infiltrator, Duncan couldn’t guess.
Not until now, however, had he felt so affronted by the prejudice. “There’s something wrong with the bulls, sir,” he insisted. “The Duke needs to know about it before his bullfight.”
Yresk laughed at him again. “When I need the advice of a child in my business, I’ll be sure to ask you, young Idaho.” The stablemaster left, and Duncan returned to the stalls to stare at the agitated, ferocious Salusan bulls. They glared back at him with burning, faceted eyes.
Something was terribly wrong. He knew it, but no one would listen to him.
Imperfections, if viewed in the proper light, can be extremely valuable. The Great Schools, with their incessant questing for perfection, often find this postulate difficult to understand, until it is proven to them that nothing in the universe is random.
—From The Philosophies of Old Terra,
one of the recovered manuscripts
In the darkness of her isolated and protected bedroom in the Mother School complex, Mohiam sat straight up, holding her swollen belly. Her skin felt tight and leathery, without the resilience of youth. Her bedclothes were drenched in perspiration, and the nightmare remained fresh in her mind. The back of her skull pounded with visions of blood, and flames.
It had been an omen, a message . . . a screaming premonition that no Bene Gesserit could ignore.
She wondered how much melange her nurse had given her, and if it might have interacted with some other medication they’d administered. She could still taste the bitter gingery-cinnamon flavor inside her mouth. How much spice was it safe for a pregnant woman to take? Mohiam shuddered. No matter how she tried to rationalize her terror, she could not ignore the power of the sending.
Dreams . . . nightmares . . . prescience— foretelling terrible events that would shake the Imperium for millennia. A future that must never come to pass! She dared not ignore the warning . . . but could she trust herself to interpret it correctly?
Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam was but a tiny pebble at the beginning of an avalanche.
Did the Sisterhood really know what it was doing? And what about the baby growing inside her, still a month from term? The vision’s focus had been centered on her daughter. Something important, something terrible. . . . The Reverend Mothers had not told her everything, and now even the Sisters in Other Memory were afraid.
The room smelled damp from the rain outside: The old plaster walls were wet and powdery. Though precise heaters kept her private chamber at a comfortable temperature, the homiest warmth came from the embers in the low fire opposite her bed— an inefficient anachronism, but the aroma of woodsmoke and the yellow-orange glow of coals inspired a sort of primal complacency.
The fires of destruction, the blaze of an inferno sweeping from planet to planet across the galaxy. Jihad! Jihad! That was to be the fate of humanity if something went wrong with the Bene Gesserit plans for her daughter.
Mohiam sat up in her bed, composed herself mentally, and ran a quick check through the systems of her body. No emergencies, everything functioning normally, all biochemistry optimal.
Had it only been a nightmare . . . or something more?
More rationalization. She knew she must not make excuses, but she had to heed what the premonition had shown her. Other Memory knew the truth.
Mohiam remained under close obs
ervation by the Sisters— possibly even now. A purple light in the corner of her room was attached to a night-vision comeye, with watchdogs on the other end who reported to Reverend Mother Anirul Sadow Tonkin, the young woman who seemed to carry an importance beyond her years. Finally, though, in Mohiam’s dream the secretive Other Memory Voices had hinted at Anirul’s place in the project. The nightmare had jarred them loose, shocked the reticent recollections into veiled explanations.
Kwisatz Haderach. The Shortening of the Way. The Bene Gesserit’s long-sought-after messiah and superbeing.
The Sisterhood had numerous breeding programs, building upon various characteristics of humanity. Many of them were unimportant, some even served as diversions or shams. None held such prominence as the Kwisatz Haderach program, though.
As an ancient security measure at the beginning of the hundred-generation plan, the Reverend Mothers with knowledge of the scheme had sworn themselves to silence, even in Other Memory, vowing to divulge the full details to none but a rare few each generation.
Anirul was one such, the Kwisatz Mother. She knew everything about the program. That is why even Mother Superior must listen to her!
Mohiam herself had been kept in the dark, though the daughter growing in her womb was to be only three steps away from the culmination. By now the real genetic plan had been set in stone, the end of thousands of years of tinkering and planning. The future would ride on this new child. Her first daughter, the flawed one, had been a misstep, a mistake.
And any mistake could bring about the terrible future she had foreseen.
Mohiam’s nightmare had shown her what could happen to humanity’s destiny if the plan went astray. The premonition had been like a gift, and difficult as the decision was, she could not fail to act on it. She didn’t dare.
Does Anirul know my thoughts, too, the terrible act foretold in my dream? A warning, a promise— or a command?
Thoughts . . . Other Memory . . . the multitude of ancient ones within offered their advice, their fears, their warnings. They could no longer keep their knowledge of the Kwisatz Haderach silent, as they had always done before. Mohiam could call to them now, and at their discretion they would come forth, individually or in multitudes. She might ask them for collective guidance, but she didn’t want that. They had already revealed enough to awaken her with a scream on her lips.
Mistakes must not be allowed to happen.
Mohiam had to make her own decision, choose her own path into the future and determine how best to prevent the hideous blood-filled fate she had foreseen.
Rising from her bed, straightening her nightclothes, Mohiam moved ponderously through darkness into the next room, the crèche where the babies were kept. Her swollen belly made it more difficult to walk. Mohiam wondered if the Sisterhood’s watchdogs would stop her.
Her own churning thoughts made her pause. Inside the dim, warm nursery, she detected the irregular, imperfect breathing of her first Harkonnen daughter, now nine months old. And in her womb the unborn sister kicked and twisted— was this one driving her forward? Had the baby inside triggered the premonition?
The Sisterhood needed a perfect daughter, healthy and strong. Flawed offspring were irrelevant. In any other circumstance, the Bene Gesserit could have found a use even for a sickly and crippled child. But Mohiam had seen her vital place in the Kwisatz Haderach program— and seen what would happen if the program went down the wrong path.
The dream was bright in her mind, like a holo-schematic. She simply had to follow it, without thinking. Do it. Heavy consumption of melange often offered prescient visions, and Mohiam had no doubt of what she had seen. The vision was clear as Hagal crystal— billions murdered, the Imperium toppled, the Bene Gesserit nearly destroyed, another jihad raging across the galaxy, sweeping away all in its path.
All of that would happen if the breeding plan went wrong. What did one unwanted life matter in the face of such epochal threats?
Her sickly first daughter by the Baron Harkonnen was in the way, a risk. That girl-child had the potential to ruin the orderly progression along the genetic ladder. Mohiam had to remove any possibility of that mistake, or she could find the blood of billions on her hands.
But my own child?
She reminded herself that this was not really her child; it was a product of the Bene Gesserit mating index and the property of every Sister who had committed herself— knowingly or unknowingly— to the overall breeding program. She’d borne other offspring in her service to the Sisterhood, but only two would carry such a dangerous combination of genes.
Two. But there could be only one. Otherwise, the risk was too great.
This weak baby would never suit the master plan. The Sisterhood had already discarded her. Perhaps someday the child could be raised as a servant or cook at the Mother School, but she would never achieve anything of significance. Anirul rarely looked at the disappointing infant anyway, and it received little attention from anyone.
I care about you, Mohiam thought, then chastised herself for the emotion. Difficult decisions had to be made, prices had to be paid. In a cold wave, memories of the nightmare vision washed over her again, strengthening her resolve.
Standing over the child in the nursery, she gently massaged its neck and temple . . . then drew back. A Bene Gesserit did not feel or show love— not romantic love, not familial love; emotions were considered dangerous and unseemly.
Once again blaming the chemical changes in her pregnant body, Mohiam tried to make sense of her feelings, to reconcile them with what she had been taught all her life. If she didn’t love the child . . . because love was forbidden . . . then why not . . . She swallowed hard, unable to form the horrible thought into words. And if she did love this baby— against all dictates— then that was even more reason to do what she was about to do.
Eliminate the temptation.
Was she feeling love for the child, or just pity? She didn’t want to share these thoughts with any of her Sisters. She felt shame for experiencing them, but not for what she was about to do.
Move quickly. Get it over with!
The future demanded that Mohiam do this. If she did not act on the prescient warning, whole planets would die. This new child would be a daughter with an immense destiny, and to ensure that destiny, the other had to be sacrificed.
But still Mohiam hesitated, as if a great maternal weight restrained her, trying to hold back whatever vision had driven her.
She stroked the child’s throat. Skin warm . . . breathing slow and regular. In the shadows Mohiam couldn’t see the misshapen facial bones and sloping shoulder. The skin was pale . . . the baby seemed so weak. She stirred and whimpered.
Mohiam felt her daughter’s breath hot against her hand. Clenching her fist, the Reverend Mother worked hard to control herself and whispered, “I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer . . .” But she was shaking.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw another comeye, glowing purple to pierce the darkness of the nursery room. She positioned her body between the comeye and the child, with her back to the watchers. She looked into the future, not at what she was doing. Even a Reverend Mother sometimes had a conscience. . . .
Mohiam did what the dream had commanded her to do, holding a small pillow over the child’s face until sound and movement stopped.
Finished, still shaking, she arranged the bedding around the little body, then positioned the dead child’s head on the pillow and covered her tiny arms and deformed shoulder with a blanket. Suddenly she felt very, very old. Ancient beyond her years.
It is done. Mohiam rested the palm of her right hand on her swollen belly. Now you must not fail us, daughter.
One who rules assumes irrevocable responsibility for the ruled. You are a husbandman. This demands, at times, a selfless act of love which may be amusing only to those you rule.
—DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES
In the Plaza de Toros, up in the spectacular box seats reserved for House Atreides, Leto chose a green-cu
shioned chair beside Rhombur and Kailea. The Lady Helena Atreides, who had no fondness for such public displays, was late arriving. For the occasion Kailea Vernius wore silks and ribbons, colorful veils, and a lush, flowing gown that Atreides seamstresses had made specially for her. Leto thought she was breathtaking.
The gloomy skies did not threaten rain, but the temperature remained cool and the air damp. Even from up here he could smell the dust and old blood in the bullring, the packed bodies of the populace, the stone of the pillars and benches.
In a grand pronouncement carried by the news crier network all over Caladan, Duke Paulus Atreides had dedicated this bullfight to the exiled children of House Vernius. He would fight in their honor, symbolizing their struggle against the illegal takeover of Ix and the blood price that had been placed on their parents, Earl Dominic and Lady Shando.
Beside Leto, Rhombur leaned forward eagerly, his square chin on his hands as he gazed down at the packed sand of the bullring. His blond hair had been combed and cut, but somehow it still looked mussed. With tremendous anticipation and some concern for the safety of the Old Duke, they waited for the paseo, the introductory parade that would precede the fight itself.
Colorful banners hung in the humid air, along with Atreides hawk pennants over the royal box. In this case, however, the leader of House Atreides was not in his prime seat; he was out in the arena, as performer rather than spectator.
All around them, the Plaza de Toros was filled with the humming, chattering sounds of thousands of spectators. People waved and cheered. A local band played balisets, bone flutes, and brassy wind instruments— energetic music that heightened the mood of excitement.
Leto looked around the guarded stands, listening to the music and the happy noises of the crowd. He wondered what could be taking his mother so long. Soon, people would notice her absence.
Dune: House Atreides Page 40