Sisterhood of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Hearing a furtive noise, she saw Anna in the shadows. The young woman didn’t seem surprised to see Valya there, and she spoke in an excited whisper, although they were the only ones in the chamber. “I have one of the sample drugs here. I can’t tell what it is, though.” She held up an earthenware jar, removed the lid. “I’ve been looking for the one that smells the best.” She pulled out a small, bluish capsule.

  Valya darted toward her and grabbed the capsule from her hand. The earthenware jar fell, breaking on the floor and scattering pills.

  Anna scowled at her. “I was just getting one out for you. You and I can take the drug together and become the first new Reverend Mothers. We’ll show everyone!” She knelt to scoop up some of the fallen capsules, but Valya yanked her to her feet.

  “You should not have come in here without permission! Do you know how many Sisters have already died?”

  Anna’s eyes sparkled with tears, hurt by her friend’s scolding. “I was going to bring pills back and share them with you.” She tried to pull free, but Valya held her firmly by the arm.

  Breathless, Sister Dorotea ran into the lab. Her eyes were bright and suspicious as she glared at Valya. “I followed you. What are you doing in here?”

  A flash of annoyance crossed Valya’s mind. Dorotea was spying on her? “Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of it.” She spoke with hardness in her voice, attempting to dispel the older woman’s suspicions. “There’s no cause for concern. Reverend Mother instructed me to watch over Sister Anna. Sometimes, she’s … impetuous, but I caught her in time. No harm done.” Still holding Anna’s arm, she steered the girl toward the door. For good measure, she shot a menacing glower at the other Sister, shifting the blame. “With Sister Karee gone, this lab is your responsibility. You should never leave this station unattended, even at night. There might have been a catastrophe.”

  Dorotea remained disturbed. “I have to report this to Reverend Mother.”

  “Yes,” Valya said. “We do.”

  Anna tried to stifle her tears, while Valya led her away, whispering to the acolyte, “No need to worry. I’ll take care of this—but don’t ever try to slip away from me again.”

  Despite an appearance of infallibility, computer projections are not prescient.

  —TICIA CENVA, FORMER LEADER OF THE SORCERESSES OF ROSSAK

  The following day, Raquella read the full report submitted by Sister Perianna, detailing her service to Roderick Corrino’s wife at the Imperial Court. After being caught spying in an inept manner, Perianna had escaped before too many questions could be asked, and had returned to Rossak in a downcast mood. Disappointed, Raquella set aside the report. Perianna had lost her vital position in the Palace, and her efforts had secured nothing more than trivial details about domestic interactions among Salvador, Roderick, and their wives. Nothing of much value.

  With a sour taste in her mouth, Raquella left her office and went to observe classes in progress. She liked to vary her routes and times to get a more complete picture of what was going on. When Sister Dorotea called her name in one of the passageways, Raquella felt a chill run down her spine, but she forced herself to remain calm, even though the memory-voices in her head clamored out a warning. Dorotea had become bothersome lately, and even Raquella’s latent fondness for her granddaughter had worn thin.

  The previous evening, Dorotea had marched into her private chambers with Sister Valya and Anna Corrino in tow, tattling that Anna had trespassed in the jungle laboratories. Though alarmed by the information, Raquella gave a stern answer. “She is Sister Valya’s responsibility. I don’t need to be troubled by every prank or indiscretion committed by an acolyte.”

  Dorotea had not been pleased by the reaction, and had left muttering in discontent. Now she came running up again, taking deep breaths to calm herself. “Reverend Mother, I have read the report of Sister Ingrid’s death, and I am not satisfied with the conclusions. I believe the matter warrants further investigation.”

  Clasping her hands in front of her, Raquella said, “Ingrid was an impetuous girl who showed great potential. Her death was a loss for the Sisterhood, but the matter is closed.”

  Dorotea was palpably angry. “Are you too busy to deal with a murder, Reverend Mother?”

  “Murder?” Raquella narrowed her gaze. “The girl fell from the cliff. It’s a dangerous path—where she should not have been. That’s all there was to it. Accidents happen.”

  “What if someone pushed her off the cliff?”

  “You suggest a serious crime was committed by one of your fellow Sisters? Do you have evidence of this?” Raquella placed her hands on her hips. “Any evidence at all?”

  Dorotea lowered her gaze. “No, Reverend Mother.”

  As if coming to the rescue, the aged Sorceress Sabra Hublein hurried toward her, and Raquella could read the alarm on the old woman’s face. Her white robe was dirty on the bottom front, suggesting that she may have tripped in her rush down from the breeding-record caves.

  With barely a glance at Dorotea, Sabra said, “Excuse the interruption, Reverend Mother, but I must speak with you alone.” She lowered her voice. “We’ve made an important projection.”

  Pleased to have an excuse to end the conversation, Raquella dismissed Dorotea. Though the other Sister was obviously dissatisfied, the Reverend Mother took Sabra by the arm and hurried her back through the tunnels, past classroom chambers, and into her private offices, where they could meet without being overheard.

  Sabra whispered, “Our computers have sorted through projection after projection, using every variable, all the mountains of data—and I have alarming news regarding a specific noble bloodline.” Her voice was rough, like tearing paper. “Using all of our computing power, we have collated the bloodline data and projected descendants using the available samples of DNA from our entire breeding library, applying primary probabilities, secondary, tertiary, and beyond. We may have reached the limits of the computers’ capabilities, but I am confident the projection is valid.”

  “Whose bloodline?” Raquella asked, trying to be calm. “Whose descendants?”

  “Emperor Salvador Corrino! We have modeled his possible offspring through Empress Tabrina, or through any of his current concubines, and all other likely noble bloodlines. His specific Corrino genetics is the common factor.”

  Raquella could see it was a worthwhile investigation. “And what have you found? Why are you so alarmed?”

  Sabra’s eyes glittered. “It’s remarkably consistent, and even our Sister Mentats verified the general conclusion that if Emperor Salvador is allowed to have offspring—through any likely mate—his family will produce the most horrific tyrant in history, within five to ten generations. If the projection models are correct, billions or trillions of lives could be at stake, bloodshed on the scale of the Jihad.”

  “You can predict that?”

  “Oh yes, Reverend Mother—with a fair degree of accuracy. If this bloodline continues, a resultant tyrant is destined to inflict chaos and carnage, all across the Imperium. Naturally, there are many factors in creating such a model, and the computers can’t be absolutely certain, but the probability is disturbingly high. I would strongly advise, as a precaution, that we find some way to prevent the Emperor from having children.”

  “What about his brother, Roderick? He already has children. Do we need to curtail the Corrino bloodline entirely?”

  Sabra showed a hint of relief. “No, Roderick Corrino has a different mother, and a different genetic makeup. In fact, he has none of the dangerous factors, nor do his four children. We’ve already been keeping a close eye on them. Only Salvador raises our concerns.”

  According to the records, Salvador’s mother had been emotionally unbalanced and had tried to kill Emperor Jules when he decided to end her service as his concubine. In contrast, Roderick’s mother was not only lovely, but highly intelligent. Anna’s mother was also quite normal, good genetic stock. The flaw, then, came from Salvador’s maternal line. Raquella w
as not alone in believing that Roderick would have made a better Emperor than his brother.

  The chorus of voices inside her mind agreed, as well.

  “Let me review the data, and we’ll decide on the next step. Despite the dynastic needs, there’s little immediate chance Salvador will get the Empress pregnant—they can barely tolerate each other, according to the reports from Sisters Dorotea and Perianna. We may, however, need to monitor his concubines.…”

  “This is dangerous enough, Reverend Mother, that we should not leave it to chance. If we nip the problem in the bud now, the course of humanity will be relatively easy to correct.”

  “And we can do it,” Raquella said. “No one else will even see the threat.” She smiled inwardly. This was exactly the sort of challenge for which she had envisioned and guided the Sisterhood.

  The voices in her Other Memories continued to whisper warnings, reacting with alarm and confirming what Raquella had already decided. “I rarely leave anything to chance, Sabra. I prefer to sterilize Salvador instead of having him killed, but it must be done. It will be our contribution to the welfare of the Imperium.”

  A pledge of loyalty is like a promise to God.

  —ANARI IDAHO, SWORDMASTER TO MANFORD TORONDO

  Since Manford was pleased with the concessions he had received from Emperor Salvador, Anari was pleased as well. Two hundred and thirty Army of Humanity ships had been given to him, so that his Butlerians could expand their operation of rooting out any seductive technology. Soon he would have more tactically trained Mentats, too.

  It had always been Anari’s greatest glory to help Manford achieve what Saint Serena and Rayna Butler had commanded him to do, but right now she was especially happy to be traveling with him to Ginaz, home of the Swordmaster School. On the flight, Anari had tended to his every need, and she was distracted by nostalgic thoughts. She had spent many years training on the island-studded planet, becoming a certified Swordmaster.

  Propped in his seat, Manford looked out the windowport of the descending shuttle. She bent close, her face near his, and together they gazed down upon the sunlit ocean, catching their first glimpse of the archipelago that held the Swordmaster training camps.

  Manford gave her a warm, wistful smile. “With you speaking on my behalf, Anari, we’ll secure more than enough Swordmasters to lead the crusaders on all our new ships.”

  Her heart swelled with the compliment. “I have little to do with it, Manford. Dedication and morality are ingrained in every Swordmaster. They are your paladins of humanity and will join our cause because of you, and because it is the right thing to do.”

  He patted her arm. “That doesn’t diminish the fact that I’m glad to have you here with me.”

  The shuttle landed on the main island where countless Swordmaster students had been trained in the years since the death of Jool Noret. Anari buckled on the harness, tightening the straps across her chest and waist to make sure it was secure, then turned and stooped. Manford grasped her shoulders and hoisted himself into the socket formed to hold his hips. She stood on muscular legs, barely noticing the added weight, and walked proudly down the ramp.

  A group of bronzed, shirtless fighters had come to greet them. Though all of her fellow students had long since dispersed on private missions throughout the Imperium, she recognized two of her Swordmaster teachers among the welcoming committee. Rather than calling out to her instructors, however, she pretended to be invisible. Anari did not wish to overstep her bounds. In this situation, alongside her beloved Manford, she was here solely for him, to carry him, to serve him, to help him—not to show off her own important position. She would not speak unless he needed her to do so.

  While she stood under the bright sunlight, Manford regarded the welcoming committee. He said nothing, waiting until one of the instructors hesitantly bowed, and then all the Swordmasters did likewise. It was a sufficient sign of respect. Manford gestured them up, smiling benevolently.

  “I come to you with a great opportunity,” he said. “Even though our crusade against the machines is over and we defeated Omnius, the human race still needs Swordmasters. We have a new battle, not just to fight the oppressors, but to save our future. Do you still remember how to fight?”

  A resounding cheer rose from those gathered. “Yes!” More of the muscular men and women had come to the landing area to see Manford.

  Swordmasters had little use for ranks and authority. They trained with one another, bested one another. The superior fighters were obvious to any observer, and did not need special insignia, other than the weapons they carried in scabbards. One of the trainers, Master Fleur—among Anari’s toughest instructors—now acted as spokesman.

  “We would welcome a new challenge. The Swordmasters of Ginaz have long awaited a worthy opponent. We follow the teachings of the great Jool Noret, but many of us work as mere bodyguards, or travel across the new Imperium, offering our services to the downtrodden. However, we have always hoped for more.”

  Anari could almost hear the smile in Manford’s voice as he said, “Then I’m very glad I’ve come.”

  * * *

  ON THE GRASSY hills above a black-sand beach, Swordmasters trained for combat. Master Fleur had set up a special demonstration for Manford, who sat in a special chair. Beside him, Anari stood watching eagerly. Part of her longed to participate, remembering when she’d been a student herself. She knew that if she asked Manford, he would grant permission for her to join in, but she had a higher purpose now. Though she thought fondly of her training days, her present duties were far more important.

  Master Fleur had called for a demonic-looking black metal robot to be placed in the middle of the open grassy area. The enormous multi-armed battle mek towered four meters high, a robotic Goliath salvaged from one of the abandoned machine vessels. It stood on legs like pillars, with spiny defensive protrusions at its elbows, shoulders, and waist. The embedded projectile weapons in its four arms were deactivated, but the mek had other brutal fighting techniques and enough engine strength to level buildings.

  Looking tiny, the Swordmaster trainees ringed it, ready to demonstrate their prowess with primitive but effective pulse-swords.

  Fleur said to Manford, “We continue to hone our fighting abilities, should the thinking machines ever return.”

  Anari knew that being so close to the enormous, nightmarish mek made Manford uneasy, but she would protect him. He resented the idea that the Swordmasters, as well as the Mentat School, felt the need to keep the hateful reminders as a necessary part of training, but he grudgingly understood. Another compromise, a necessary evil.

  One of the students activated the mek’s power systems, and the optic threads glowed like a constellation of stars on its polished black face as it assessed its surroundings. The battle machine swiveled at the waist, stretched, and raised its mammoth shoulder carapace. The blunt head turned in a complete circle to scan the opponents arrayed against it.

  With a yell, the Swordmaster trainees threw themselves forward.

  Manford watched with interest. Anari’s eyes gleamed as she recalled many such exercises. Growing up as an orphan, she’d been forced to overcome great difficulties and had fought countless opponents to prove she was good enough. In her early teens, she had made her way to Ginaz and demanded to be trained. In short order, she defeated five people who tried to deny her entry to the school, and finally the masters allowed her in. There, she studied every sort of combat technique: hand-to-hand as well as tactical, fighting against humans or machines. Her body had been bruised and battered countless times, but she had always healed, and her heart had never been defeated.

  One of her comrades had been Ellus, the only trainee who could fight her to a stalemate on a regular basis. Eventually the two became lovers, but they took more physical enjoyment from the sweat and exhilaration of combat than from sex. Because of that, Anari had been able to put aside her feelings for the man when they both left to join the Butlerians. Since meeting Manford, she ha
d formed more important goals and accepted a mission that went beyond the hormonal drives of ordinary humans. In Anari’s mind, loyalty and dedication achieved a higher state.

  Anari remembered when she and Ellus had fought against an equivalent model of battle mek, and the two of them had destroyed the gigantic opponent. While she remained Manford’s close companion, Ellus had gone off with two other Swordmasters and a group of dedicated Butlerians to locate and obliterate dozens of lost cymek bases.

  He was expected to be gone for months, but she knew Ellus would return to Lampadas and announce his complete success. At one time she might have missed him for being gone for so long, but now she had Manford … more of Manford than any other person would ever have. That kind of love was as pure and clear as a Hagal diamond.

  Now, she stood restless and fascinated as the Swordmaster trainees pummeled the combat mek, hammering at it like an exuberant and deadly mob, but the hulking battle machine was not easily defeated. The trainees fought on like wolves trying to bring down a furious mammoth.

  The huge mek lashed out with its four jointed arms, clacking the articulated pincers. It seized one of the pulse-swords and cast it aside, yanking so hard that it dislocated the fighter’s shoulder. The disarmed man cried out in pain and staggered out of the way as two trainees dove into the gap to cover for him. The battle mek swatted them aside. Then it moved backward suddenly and thrust a spiny arm, jerking sideways to eviscerate one of the trainees. Spurting blood, the victim stumbled and coughed. Finally another fighter dragged him away, but it was clearly a mortal wound.

  The sight of blood increased the skilled frenzy of the remaining trainees, and they swarmed over the machine. Their pulse-swords deactivated one of the mek’s four fighting arms. The battle mek lurched upward and swept sideways, bowling down three more trainees, who sprang back to their feet and leaped away.