Sisterhood of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  The mek swiveled and thrust with its three active arms in a flurry of sharp, stabbing blows. It attempted to fire its useless projectile weapons, but hesitated when the integrated weapons systems did not work.

  Anari was breathing hard, eyes intense. Her sweaty palm squeezed the hilt of her own pulse-sword so tightly she thought she might crush it. She glanced down at Manford in his chair, to find he was watching her instead of the fight. His eyes glinted with understanding. “Go,” he whispered.

  Like a boulder shot from a catapult, Anari launched herself into the fray with a wild and delighted grin on her face. Her first blow with the pulse-sword sent a numbing vibration all the way up her arm, making a serious dent in the machine’s carapace.

  Anari switched the pulse-sword to her other hand and continued fighting. A well-placed strike to the mek’s smooth metal face smashed a set of optic threads, taking them off-line. Working together, three of the trainees had used their swords to lock one of the robot’s jointed fighting arms.

  The rest of the fighters hurled themselves upon the battle mek with no regard for personal safety, stabbing and pounding. Anari’s strike to the optic threads had created a blind spot, and a trainee was able to reach the access plate beneath the mechanical head. He tore off the plate and thrust his pulse-sword deep into the robot’s core.

  Fading and crippled, the battle mek could no longer fight. Anari grabbed one of the useless, jointed arms and hauled herself onto the mammoth machine’s shoulders in a strange parody of how Manford rode on her shoulders. There, she used her pulse-sword to pry the mek’s head free from its neck socket.

  With a groan, the mammoth machine lost its balance and toppled over. Within moments, the trainees had smashed it into countless pieces, destroying every hint of a functional circuit.

  Satisfied, proud, and exhilarated, Anari walked back to Manford. She wiped perspiration from her forehead and gave him a bow of thanks. “It was beautiful,” he said to her, “to see you in your element like that.”

  Outside the fighting perimeter, the eviscerated trainee gurgled and died. One of the female field medics had tried to stop the bleeding and stuff the man’s intestines back into his abdomen. Now she just shook her head, raised her bloody hands, and bowed in respect to the fallen warrior for the bravery he had shown, even though he’d only been a trainee.

  Fleur glanced at the dead fighter with a flicker of sadness, then devoted his attention to the rest of the combatants. “Swordmasters fight, and Swordmasters die. That is why we’re here.”

  “The mind of man is holy,” Anari said.

  Manford spoke aloud to Master Fleur. “Humans can be swayed so easily, and someone needs to keep them on course—someone with a clear vision. A few people may not like it, but we Butlerians have a higher calling.”

  “Your calling is our calling.” Fleur raised his chin. “Observe, they are nearly finished.”

  All twelve of the remaining trainees continued to smash the combat robot, even after it toppled over. One of them disengaged a set of the jointed fighting arms and held them up like a trophy. The other trainees methodically dismantled the fighting robot and left the pieces strewn across the grass. One held up the severed ovoid head.

  “Another opponent vanquished, Master!” he shouted. Around him, the Swordmaster trainees looked battered and exhausted, but their eyes glowed with feral excitement.

  Manford said to Fleur, “We need hundreds more like these to join our cause. With our new fleet, we must move against countless worlds, to watch them and ensure that dangerous technology never runs rampant again.”

  “You will have as many Swordmasters as you need,” promised Fleur.

  “Good. Very good,” Manford said, then continued in a lower voice. “Not all of our enemies are as obvious as a fighting mek, however.”

  Any attempt to amend sacred texts, however fallible they may be, is inherently dangerous.

  —EXCERPT FROM CONFIDENTIAL REPORT, FOR THE EMPEROR’S EYES ONLY

  “I need a convincing argument that the old Suk School building should be torn down, to send a message,” Salvador said with a groan. “The Butlerians forced me to agree to it, and they are going to destroy it one way or another—but I need you to provide me with a legitimate-sounding excuse.”

  Roderick wrestled with necessities as the two brothers met in the Palace’s lush conservatory. “It’s a very sad thing, and Manford Torondo is wrong to resent them so. We both know the Suk doctors provide a valuable service, to those who can afford it. They are careful not to use questionable technology.”

  “Questionable technology? Manford’s mobs question all technology.”

  “If our own father had sought medical attention in time, he would not have died of a brain tumor.”

  Salvador sniffed. “And then I wouldn’t have become supreme ruler when I did, so there is a silver lining.”

  Roderick nodded slowly. He had to come up with a good justification to knock down the old school headquarters. If he made the case that the former Suk administrator, Elo Bando, had duped Salvador out of a fortune for unnecessary medical procedures, that might cause enough of a scandal—but it would also make his brother look like a fool. He doubted he could even convince Salvador that he’d been deceived. “Maybe we can play up the questions of financial impropriety. There have been rumors, you know.”

  “Or start a rumor of our own that they have a functioning computer locked in a back room somewhere.” Salvador let out an impatient sigh. “Manford’s people won’t bother to check their facts. They’ll raze the building to the ground, and it won’t matter whether or not they find anything.”

  “That would certainly work, but a lie like that would make an enemy out of the Suk School,” Roderick said, with rising alarm.

  “We haven’t seen thousands of Suk doctors swarming into the capital threatening violence—it’s the Butlerians we have to worry about. I need to throw them a bone, and Manford Torondo made it clear what he wants.” Salvador shook his head, and his eyes appeared haunted. “But we have to salvage the situation somehow with the Suk doctors. Let’s request a dedicated, personal physician for me from the Suk School on Parmentier, as a show of our support. Once we send Manford and his mindless minions on their way, I can make amends with the Suks.”

  As they paced among the exotic foliage in convoluted planters throughout the conservatory, Roderick tried again to advise caution, but Salvador said, “You’ve counseled me in the past to be logical rather than emotional, but I’m dealing with excitable people. I hate being boxed in, but I’m forced to appease the Butlerians. If they ever turn against me, they’ll drag the entire Corrino family through the streets and put someone else on the throne.”

  “Don’t worry, Brother,” Roderick said. “I’d never let that happen.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, Emperor Salvador awoke with the decision that he would name his first son Salvador II. (Roderick would have been his second choice.) The trouble was, he had no sons, and no daughters, either. Not by his wife or any of his concubines.

  As Emperor, Salvador was expected to have an heir sooner or later—preferably a legitimate one—and the Empress knew her duties in this regard. It was stipulated in the marriage contract.

  The previous evening, he and Tabrina had not quarreled for a change, which gave him faint reason to hope. During the afternoon, Tabrina had talked with the dowager Orenna about her own stifled relationship with Emperor Jules, and that had apparently gotten the Empress thinking. She and Salvador had a pleasant meal, fine wine, and a nice long talk that lasted far into the night. Talking like ambassadors from countries that had long been at war, they carefully discussed how they might find ways to get along better in the future. Alas, their rapprochement had not included a shared bed, not yet, but he did choose not to spend the night with one of his concubines, either.

  Early the next morning, dressed in an elegant bathrobe and undergarments (that his advisers assured him were seductive), he padded along
a second floor corridor toward Tabrina’s private quarters. He smelled of expensive cologne, and the patch of wispy brown hair on top of his head glistened with aromatic mousse.

  He knocked on her ornate door, and was greeted by a maidservant with an oval face and good figure. Not as attractive as his concubines, but appealing nonetheless. At the moment, however, his own wife commanded his attention. The maidservant looked very surprised to see him, but he pushed his way past her. “I’m here for the Empress.”

  Ahead, Tabrina’s dressing room door was ajar, and he nudged it open. “Good morning, my dear.” He gave her his friendliest smile.

  Tabrina turned, looking startled and irritated. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes raked over his hair and robe, and her expression became bemused, but her voice was surly. “What is it you want?” The friendliness of their dinner conversation was gone.

  Taken aback, Salvador stammered at first, then said, “I thought we might complete what we started last night. Seal the new phase of our relationship.”

  “What new phase?”

  “We got along so well.…”

  “Then have you come here to tell me about my expanded role in the government? Am I appointed to a new position? Commerce adviser, diplomat, legislator?”

  “I, uh, haven’t met with my advisers yet.”

  “Hence you have no reason to be in my bedchamber, do you?”

  “But I … I am the Emperor. I can command you to my bed!”

  Tabrina’s upraised eyebrows and icy stare answered far more clearly than words. Finally, she said, “Stop wasting my valuable time and go to one of your concubines if you can’t control your urges.”

  Flustered and confused, he backed out of the doorway and beat a hasty retreat, not feeling at all like the ruler of thousands of worlds.

  Salvador ate a large breakfast alone at the long dining table that he should have shared with his Empress. He wished he’d never listened to his advisers, who insisted that the marriage with House Péle was a perfect political match. Tabrina behaved so pretentiously for a woman from an unsophisticated, albeit affluent, family.

  Roderick came in as the Emperor was drinking his first cup of coffee laced with melange. He recognized his brother’s sullen mood instantly. “What’s wrong, Salvador?”

  With his thick blond hair and chiseled features, Roderick looked entirely relaxed in his handsome body. Worst of all, he had a happy marriage and four fine children. Still, Salvador tried not to take his frustrations out on Roderick. He sighed and said, “I’m just despondent over my relationship with the Empress—or my lack of one.” He blinked down at his plate of food. “I didn’t even remember to have my meal tested for poisons. Do I look all right? Do you see my skin changing color?” He rubbed his temples. “Is my voice wavering? Anything in my eyes?”

  “No, you look perfectly normal, though more distraught than usual. You see a new doctor every week. We should see about getting you a consistent personal physician.” His expression became businesslike. “Let me interview them, so that I can make sure you get only the best the Suk School has to offer.”

  “You’re so good to me, Roderick, but I miss how attentive Elo Bando was to my medical needs—he really understood my ills.”

  A flash of displeasure crossed the younger brother’s face. “Yes, but Dr. Bando is gone. We have to find a suitable alternative.” Roderick lifted a silver coffeepot, refilled Salvador’s cup, and poured his own.

  “I want only the best.”

  As the ruler of the vast Imperium, Salvador had to keep his health perfect, but he had many ailments, most of them caused by the stress of his position. Yes, he needed a doctor close to his side at all times, someone familiar with every aspect of Salvador’s medical file, ready to respond to any problem.

  “The threat of assassination is always present, so we need a doctor we can absolutely trust,” Roderick said.

  The Emperor looked down at his coffee. “You are the only person I trust with my life, Roderick. Please send word to the main Suk School on Parmentier, and begin the process of winnowing down the candidates.”

  Roderick considered. “Well, you did have the head of the school as your personal physician once.”

  “Yes, and I liked him. I haven’t felt truly healthy since he killed himself.” He let out a long sigh.

  “Why not demand the new head of the Suk School as your private doctor? Dr. Zhoma is probably the most competent physician they have. I will interview her. She served well when you asked her to confirm the genetic samples of Vorian Atreides.”

  Salvador had not been impressed with her. “Not much of a personality, or bedside manner. She’s gruff, unfriendly—”

  “And competent. I have studied her record, Salvador. She is businesslike and reliable, and her medical knowledge is thorough.”

  “Sounds like propaganda.” He slurped his coffee. “But you’re right—I haven’t had good luck choosing my own doctors, and the head of the Suk School is an appropriately impressive person to tend to my medical needs. I’ll rely on your advice.”

  Roderick nodded. “With your permission, I’ll contact Dr. Zhoma privately and request her services. This new position will give her a great deal of personal and political clout, more than making up for the loss of her old school building in Zimia. We can convey to the doctor that we still privately support the school and their efforts to help humanity, despite the political realities of the Butlerians. A bit of necessary give and take.”

  “Good, I like that. There’s no way to keep both sides completely happy, but that may smooth some ruffled feathers.” Yes, Roderick would have made a far better Emperor … and without his shoulder to lean on, Salvador would have been far weaker. “Promise Dr. Zhoma that if she becomes my personal physician, and does the job I expect of her, I will do what I can to protect the Suk School on Parmentier, guaranteeing their autonomy or something. She can leave that partner of hers in charge in her absence, Dr. Waddiz.”

  “Yes, I’ll take care of it.”

  * * *

  LATER THAT MORNING, for his first official meeting, a small delegation came to Salvador in the Imperial Audience Chamber, all holding bound books and ready to make a presentation. Dressed in the pale-blue uniforms of the Royal Printing Guild, they bowed before the Emperor and his brother.

  The eldest of the group, Nablik Odessa, was a dark-skinned woman with a jowly face and intelligent eyes. She headed the pressmen’s organization. “Sire, we are pleased to present you with the new edition of the Orange Catholic Bible, fresh off the presses. As soon as we receive your seal of approval, we can print the first hundred million copies for distribution to the populace.” She extended a thick volume bound in orange leather.

  “We present you with the Emperor Salvador Edition,” one of the other printers said, a small man with a gray mustache. He beamed. “Do you like it, Sire? Is there anything you wish changed?”

  Salvador chuckled. “You want me to copyedit the whole book at a glance?”

  “No, Sire. I’m very sorry, but I’m a bit excited.” The small man fidgeted, watching as the Emperor studied the title page with his name on it, then thumbed through the book.

  “It is a handsome volume. Worthy of my name on it.” He looked at Odessa. “You’ve checked this for accuracy?”

  “Entire teams have checked it, Sire. Every word. I assure you, we took extraordinary quality-control measures.”

  Salvador glanced over at Roderick, then back at the printers. “Our theologians argued for five years about the disputed sections of the previous edition, and we’ve struggled to remove all the controversial aspects. I don’t want any riots this time.”

  Odessa looked at her colleagues. “That part of the process is out of our control, Sire. We only produce the physical book.”

  Salvador closed the volume. “Well, then, I don’t want to hear about one misspelled word in here, because that would reflect badly on me. The bulk of the funding comes from my own coffers.”

  “The book i
s clean, Sire—you have my word.”

  “All right, then. Start the presses.”

  “The copy you hold is from the first printing, a limited special edition, with all copies numbered.”

  “Yes, I see I have number one.”

  “We have brought additional copies with us.” Odessa motioned to the books her companions held, and to more volumes stacked on tables at the rear of the audience chamber.

  Roderick cleared his throat, leaned closer to his brother. “I requested them. If you could sign some for various dignitaries, we will distribute them on a priority basis, according to a list I’ve compiled.” He paused, fighting back an expression of distaste. “And a personal one for Manford Torondo.”

  Salvador was annoyed, but he understood the necessity. “Do you think he’ll feel honored to receive it?”

  “Probably not, but he’ll be incensed if you don’t send him one.”

  “Yes, yes, I see what you mean.”

  Roderick handed him a pen, and he signed and personalized a copy for Manford, before passing it along.

  “Many nobles have asked for your signature,” Odessa said, smiling.

  “Half of them would prefer to see it on a letter of resignation,” the Emperor said with a small smile, “or on a large credit transfer.”

  Then he signed the twenty books held by the delegation, adding personalizations for various dignitaries according to notes his brother gave him.

  Small experiences form the basis of our existence. This is calculable.

  —ERASMUS DIALOGUES

  Karee Marques had departed after her visit, and Gilbertus had heard no word from Draigo Roget. The Headmaster felt very alone at the Mentat School, but he did have time for his own quiet work. He had made up his mind to take yet another risk for Erasmus.

  He spoke to the independent robot’s shimmering memory core. “It has taken a great deal of effort, Father, but I have a surprise for you. I even bypassed your spyeyes to keep it a secret.”