Sisterhood of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Over their first glasses of rich red wine, Dorotea told Ingrid all about the Imperial Court on Salusa Secundus, and how she had advised Roderick and Salvador Corrino. Despite the glamour and excitement of the capital world, she was pleased to be home, away from the pettiness of Imperial politics and intrigue.

  Preoccupied, Sister Ingrid sat listening, not saying much in response. She swallowed a slice of cheese without the bread and washed it down with wine, both of which were imported from Lampadas. “The news here is not good. Though I don’t believe the Sisters recognize it themselves, factions are beginning to develop. It started out as an intellectual conversation over a midday meal, but escalated to real disagreements about the use of forbidden technology. Many of the Sisters are like us—they loathe anything that reminds them of the thinking machines. Others assert that we should preserve some aspects of computer technology to make our lives easier.”

  “I’m disappointed to hear that.” Dorotea’s face tightened. “The debate is vehement back in Zimia, but here I would have expected our Sisters to reach the obvious and correct conclusion that such technology is dangerous and unnecessary.” Dorotea stared at her nearly empty wineglass. “Human beings can do whatever machines can.”

  “I have argued about the dangers of technology, but some Sisters will not listen. Sister Hietta, for example, and Sister Parga, both use an ancient saying that we shouldn’t throw the baby out with the bathwater. They argue that we should retain some thinking machines to aid humankind, to give people more leisure time for important pursuits. It’s nonsense, of course.”

  “In the few days I’ve been back, I’ve heard nothing of this issue.” Dorotea set the glass aside. “How widespread are these arguments?”

  “Hietta and Parga have perhaps twenty-five women with them—not a large group—and around the same number support our strict view. Most Sisters prefer to stay out of the fray, but no one can avoid this issue forever.”

  “Some people have short memories, and bad thinking leads to bad decisions,” Dorotea said. “But the Sisterhood does not use thinking machines, so it’s an irrelevant argument.”

  Ingrid pinched her face into a scowl. She looked around, lowered her voice: “There are rumors of computers here on Rossak!”

  Dorotea nearly choked on the berries she had popped into her mouth. “What?”

  “The breeding information maintained by the Sisterhood is vast. No human mind, or combination of human minds—even our Mentats—can encompass it all. Some Sisters have concluded that computers are being used.”

  “If that is true, we have a problem, a very serious one.”

  “Back on Lampadas, I heard reports of Butlerian search-and-destroy missions,” Ingrid said. “It would be a shame if that were to happen here.…”

  Dorotea no longer had an appetite. “We must see that it doesn’t, then. If there are computers on Rossak, we must find them and destroy them ourselves.”

  Love endures, but flesh does not. One must grasp any possible happiness in the time allotted to a lifetime.

  —VORIAN ATREIDES, PRIVATE JOURNALS

  Accompanied by nine surplus military ships provided by Emperor Salvador Corrino, Vorian returned to Kepler feeling triumphant but burdened. Mariella would hate the terms that bound him, but he’d been forced to agree. Besides, after all these years in one place, maybe it was time for Vor to move on.

  Given the enthusiastic and hopeful cheers he had received from the crowds on Salusa Secundus, he knew the Emperor had good reason to be worried. Vor had used his own leverage as much as possible, reaching one definition of a reasonable agreement in that both sides were somewhat dissatisfied with the terms, but willing to accept it nonetheless.

  At least Kepler would be safe. Vor’s loved ones would be safe.

  These leftover warships from the Army of Humanity would stand guard in orbit, stationed there indefinitely to frighten away slavers. Within twelve months, the Imperial troops manning the vessels would be recalled to Salusa Secundus, but the ships would remain behind. By then, Vor’s people would be trained to mount their own defenses. They would not be caught unawares again, and no longer would human predators see this backwater world as easy pickings.

  But he wished he didn’t have to leave Kepler, and hoped that Mariella would go with him—though he did not hold out much hope in that regard. She was old, and her children and grandchildren were here; a lifetime of memories were here, and at her stage in life it would not be easy for her to leave it all behind.

  After Vor landed his ship on an open, stubbled field in the middle of the valley, his people rushed forward, cheering. They had made welcoming banners and signs for him, and his chest swelled as the applause buffeted him. The locals seemed to consider the liberation of the captives as equivalent to a victory against the thinking machines.

  He viewed the smiling faces of people he had last seen in the Poritrin slave markets when he paid for their passage back home. His daughter Bonda stood there holding the small dog he had purchased as part of his disguise in New Starda.

  He saw work crews, construction machinery, lumber deliveries. The homes and outbuildings damaged in the slave raid were already being rebuilt or repaired, as the villagers worked together to strengthen their community. And they all cheered him. It meant more to him than all the pageants and parades in Zimia.

  Tears sprang to his eyes. Vor loved this world and these people, and he hated the fact that he would have to depart. But he had agreed to the terms in order to keep Kepler safe. A fair trade. Neither Salvador nor Roderick had hinted that they might address the greater problem of rampant slaving operations, but for now Vor’s focus was closer to home … the home he would soon have to leave behind.

  At the front of the crowd, he spotted the face he most longed to see: weathered and lined with age, her hair gray but eyes bright, stood Mariella. And when Vor looked through his heart instead of his eyes, he still saw the beautiful woman he had romanced so many decades before.

  Over the centuries, Vorian Atreides had been blessed with a succession of deep and abiding loves. In his youth he had loved the legendary Serena Butler, although chastely … and next there was Leronica Tergiet from Caladan. His two sons by Leronica had both gone off to form their own families far away, leaving Caladan. Then Mariella had been the center of his life for more than fifty years.

  He remembered them all, still loved them all, and could envision their faces in brief glimpses of memory, but time and a plethora of human lives flowed past him like the waters of a rushing stream, while he remained stuck, a rock in the midst of the cascade. Sometimes, beloved people like Leronica or Mariella splashed up a high spray around him, but eventually they, too, passed on. And he could see how old Mariella was.

  In his younger years, Vorian had lived an oblivious, sheltered life, running Omnius updates across the Synchronized Worlds with his closest friend, the independent robot Seurat. Reading Agamemnon’s memoirs had led him to believe he understood the feral humans and their squalid lives. He had wanted to please his father.

  The other twelve known sons of Agamemnon had been raised, trained, and ultimately killed by the cymek general. From an early age, Vor had dreamed of becoming a cymek one day, of having his brain removed from his weak biological body so he could live indefinitely as a cymek beside Titans like Agamemnon, Juno, Xerxes, and Ajax. But that had never happened.

  Instead, after Vor had won a huge victory against humans, General Agamemnon dragged him off to a cymek laboratory, strapped Vor to a table, and tortured him with probes, burning chemicals, and sharp instruments. Thus, through unspeakable pain, Agamemnon bestowed the life-extension treatment that made his thirteenth and best son virtually immortal. “I gave you many centuries,” he had told Vor later. “You can’t expect that to come cheap.”

  Afterward, Vor had agreed that enduring the pain was indeed a small price to pay for a vastly extended life, albeit in his original human body. In the long and difficult centuries that followed, however, Vor h
ad his doubts. On Kepler, again he remained unchanged while everyone grew old around him.…

  Now, ignoring the rest of the crowd, he wrapped his arms around Mariella and drew her close; he wanted to embrace her tightly and never let go. She melted up against him. “I’m so glad you’re home. Thank you for what you did.”

  The crush of people around Vor demanded his attention, and though he was not interested in feasts or celebrations, nevertheless his family and neighbors insisted on it. Bonda and Tir came up, laughing, and lifted their little dog so that it could lick his cheek.

  Smiling, Vor raised his hands for silence, and shouted, “All of you will be safe now. I’ve reached an agreement with Emperor Corrino. The whole Imperium knows that he has issued a decree making this planet off-limits to slavers. A group of armed ships will be stationed in orbit overhead, and I have arranged to provide you with additional weapons for defending your families and homes. No one will ever prey upon this world again.”

  From their cheers and whistles, they obviously expected little else from the great Vorian Atreides. They would feel obligated to shower him with well-intentioned gifts—helping on his farm, cooking food, making clothing for him, whether or not he needed it. He had never seen the people so happy.

  It pained his heart that he would have to leave without telling them … except for Mariella.

  * * *

  WHEN THE TWO of them returned home late that night, weary from dancing and conversation and feasting, their ears ringing from music, Vor noted that the roof had been repaired from the fire the slavers had set. The house also had a fresh coat of paint and new shingles.

  Mariella looked tired when she entered the drawing room, and sat in a chair, pulling a blanket onto her lap. “Our home has been so lonely, Vor. Just having you back fills it up.”

  He heated water to make tea and sat next to her, studying her face, eager to preserve every remaining moment with her. “Our family doesn’t need to worry anymore. I made sure of that.” He hesitated as he sipped his strong herbal tea with a faint hint of melange. His wife held her cup, just staring at the steam that rose from the liquid. Her eyes sparkled as if with a sheen of tears. Did she suspect already? His voice cracked as he said, “But I had to make certain concessions. I had to agree that I would … drop out of sight again.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Mariella said with a long sigh. “I know you well, my husband, and I’ve been sensing a darkness today, something you were having trouble telling me.”

  Vor swallowed hard. He loved this life on Kepler, wanted to remain here forever, but that was impossible. “I’m an antique, a relic of bygone days. With the Jihad over, the Imperium needs to move on, but I’m a reminder of the past. The Emperor is uneasy to have someone with such great and renewed popularity in the Landsraad League. No matter how much I insist that I have no interest in taking the throne, he will always harbor that doubt. And there would be people coming out of the proverbial woodwork, wanting to use me to accomplish their own agendas.” He shook his head and said in a low voice, “Before Salvador Corrino would agree to protect Kepler, he made this his strict condition: I have to go away. Vorian Atreides must seem to disappear—permanently.”

  She gave him a wan smile, but the tears stayed in her eyes, and in the flood of emotions she seemed to be having trouble coming up with what to say.

  He straightened. “I want you to come with me, Mariella. We can move to another world … we’ll review dozens of possibilities first, if you like. We can bring our children, too. Anyone who wants to go.” His words came out in a rush as he began to feel hope again. “It could be a grand adventure for all of us—”

  “Oh, Vor! As much as I love you, I can’t leave Kepler. This is my home. And you can’t uproot our children, our grandchildren, their families, their friends, their spouses from this valley!”

  Vor’s throat went dry. “I don’t want to leave without you. We could go together, just the two of us.”

  “Don’t be foolish. I am an old woman—too old to start a new life. We both know you will have to move on without me sooner or later.” She wiped her cheeks self-consciously, then patted her gray hair. “It’s time you left anyway, so you don’t have to see me grow any older. It’s embarrassing to have such a handsome young man in my bed.”

  “I hadn’t noticed you were any less beautiful,” Vor said, barely able to form the words, “and I mean that. I’m the one who should be thankful, not you.”

  He wrestled with his emotions and obligations. He could change his appearance and his name, remain hidden on Kepler in some remote outpost. What difference would it make? A handful of the people would know, but he could swear them to secrecy, and Emperor Salvador would never find out.

  Vor sighed in resignation. Such things were always discovered, and if he went back on his word, it could put his family and neighbors in danger.

  Mariella said in a musing voice, “You’ve already given me a happier life and a longer marriage than any woman could hope for, but I know you were born to wander. When we first married, you explained the fact that you don’t age. We both knew, and we both agreed, that a time would come when you would have to move on.”

  “But not during your lifetime.”

  “Maybe it is better this way,” she insisted.

  He went to her chair, bent down, and kissed her on the cheek, then on the lips, a kiss that reminded him of their first, so long ago. “Leaving you reminds me of just how long I’ve been alive, Mariella. It’s hard to explain how heavily the years can weigh on me.”

  “Do you know where you’ll go? Or does that have to be a secret?”

  “I only promised the Emperor I would leave Kepler and never come back—not that I wouldn’t tell you where I was. I … have in mind a place I’d like to visit,” he said. “Arrakis. I need a clean break, and I’ve heard there are tribes in the deserts there, people with incredibly long life spans—possibly from constant consumption of melange. I doubt they’ve lived as long as I have, but they might have some insights for me.”

  “I’ll think of you every day,” Mariella said. “I’ll tell our children so that they know you’re out there somewhere, and safe. And you’ll know where we are. We won’t forget you.”

  “And I could never forget you,” he said. “My love for you is in every breath I take. When I get established, I’ll send word. I’ll find a way to stay in touch.”

  I am the real Emperor of the Known Universe, and Salvador Corrino is my puppet.

  —MANFORD TORONDO, REMARKS TO ANARI IDAHO

  Roderick Corrino experienced feelings of unease whenever he watched combat robots in the private exhibition fights sponsored by his brother. Elegantly dressed noblemen and their ladies watched from behind safety barriers, cheering for their favorites and booing opponents. It was evening in a small private arena on the grounds of the Imperial Palace, following a sumptuous feast. Many of the nobles wore veils and domino masks to disguise their identities and protect them; the Butlerian influence on Salusa remained strong.

  According to the tight legal strictures set out at the end of the Jihad, these reactivated robots had no artificial intelligence whatsoever and were instead programmed to run through a series of fighting maneuvers, which were salted with chance variables—flaws that would cause an unexpected deficiency, or surprise enhancements. Spectators did not know in advance which type of fighter they were getting when they placed their wagers, and the outcome was never predetermined.

  Roderick had to admit that it made for interesting, stimulating entertainment, watching these vanquished machine demons duel in the arena, knowing that they would destroy one another. Because it danced so close to the cliff edge of forbidden technology, the carefully selected nobles were titillated by the spectacle. Such events were, of course, kept secret from Butlerian observers.

  When his brother first suggested the idea, Roderick had cringed. If Manford Torondo ever found out what the Emperor and his inner circle of nobles did behind the high gates and w
alls of the private estate … But Salvador brushed aside his concerns. “Nobles must have their diversions. It’s harmless entertainment, and the end result is to destroy robots, so what is the harm?”

  Roderick could imagine a great deal of harm, so without his brother’s knowledge, he had doubled security surrounding each private combat exhibition, and made certain that only the most trusted nobles were invited, each of whom was sworn to secrecy—a pledge that the powerful Corrino family could enforce.

  Now he watched as two combat robots—one with a deep copper alloy skin and the other shimmering chrome—circled one another, probing with built-in (though limited) weapons that battered each other, knocking their armored bodies to the ground. A small army of palace guards surrounded the ring, bearing heavy weapons and ready to destroy any combat mek that might get out of hand.

  Sitting in his private, shaded box beside Roderick, the Emperor spoke with Alfonso Nitta, a wheedling nobleman in search of a favor to curtail the operations of a business adversary. Nitta manufactured expensive ladies’ dresses, and an upstart commoner had opened a large rival business on Hagal, after paying bribes to the planetary leader.

  “It’s dirty business,” Nitta insisted. “The Hagals have a grudge against House Nitta because my grandfather reported their grandfather’s illegal war-profiteering operations during the Jihad.”

  Salvador kept his eyes on the clashing robots. “I’ll see what I can do.” He didn’t seem interested, and Nitta was particularly inept in making his request.

  Roderick helped the nobleman with a nudge, because he didn’t seem to understand how business was conducted at this level. “Investigating the matter will take time and resources, Lord Nitta. The Emperor has to worry about his discretionary budget.”

  Finally, Nitta’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Ah, perhaps as a demonstration of the quality of my product. I’ll provide a large sampling of my finest dresses for the Empress Tabrina—lovely gowns, the most lavish wardrobe to make her breathtakingly beautiful for you, Sire. Perhaps even some stylish unmentionables could be arranged.”