Sisterhood of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “Or, we just kill you to atone for the murder of our father.”

  Vor looked at Griffin Harkonnen, who lay motionless on the sands, obviously dead; the young man’s slack face showed no pain, only a startled confusion. Turning back to the twins, Vor said, “I don’t like either option.”

  And he ran.

  Despite their ability to make extensive calculations, Mentats still have blind spots.

  —HEADMASTER GILBERTUS ALBANS, CAUTIONARY COMMENT TO NEW CLASS

  For three days, the Emperor’s troops scoured the Rossak settlement carefully and methodically, searching for any sign of the computers Dorotea insisted were there. And they found nothing.

  Worse, Emperor Salvador had made a bold announcement to cheering crowds on Salusa that he was going to Rossak to “destroy the evil computers.” His humiliation grew more palpable by the hour.

  With each failure, Reverend Mother Dorotea became increasingly insistent. The Emperor stood with her outside the entrance to the high-cliff chambers, fuming. Directly overhead, the sky hung ominously gray. “On your assurances I made a spectacle of bringing my Imperial forces here, Sister Dorotea,” he growled. “You made me launch this embarrassing effort, and I have nothing to show for it.”

  Even the suspicious Sisters in her faction had been unable to offer any suggestions. In desperation, the Emperor commanded his troops to go through every tunnel and chamber a second time, while using sonic scanners on the walls to detect hidden passages. Roderick personally supervised the operation.

  Meanwhile, Reverend Mother Raquella remained calm, and instructed her Sisters to cooperate in every way. “When will you admit that there’s nothing here to find, Sire?”

  “When I am convinced of it.” He sent her away.

  During the overcast afternoon, a commercial shuttle arrived with routine supplies from offworld—an innocuous delivery, but the Emperor ordered every container opened and ransacked for forbidden technology, anything he could use to justify his full military operation on Rossak.

  His soldiers were growing restless, and the Sisters—even Dorotea’s allies—showed increasing signs of anger at the injustice.

  Salvador paced outside his flagship, gazing at the cliff city, greatly distressed. He hissed from the side of his mouth to Roderick. “How am I going to get out of this boondoggle and save face? Can’t we just smuggle in a few computers from our junk heaps in Zimia? We have plenty for the next rampage festival.”

  “That would be awkward, Brother. No one would believe it if the ships had to fly back to Salusa and then return here.” Always the voice of reason.

  “I look like a damned fool,” he muttered. “I should have let Manford Torondo come here after all. Let him waste his time searching for things that aren’t there.”

  Roderick’s brow furrowed, and he kept his voice low. “Even if we don’t find illegal equipment, there is still a dire problem here. Anna has been damaged by negligence, and we both heard Dr. Zhoma’s confession that the Sisterhood wants to cut off your bloodline. Even though Sister Dorotea appears to be discredited, in my mind she’s not. She has proved herself useful at the Imperial Court, and I am inclined to believe her claims against the Sisterhood, even though we have no solid evidence.”

  “I agree with you, and I’m thinking of publicly accusing the Sisterhood of plotting against me. Reveal their insidious scheme to render me sterile!”

  Roderick frowned. “No, Salvador, we shouldn’t do that. It’s not the sort of thing we want in the public record.”

  The Emperor let out a long sigh, and nodded slowly. “It is damned embarrassing. But I need a practical solution. I vowed to come here and smash their computers.”

  He looked out on his landed ships, his crowded troops, the commanders who had begun to put the soldiers through routine practice drills on the polymer treetops because they had nothing else to do. A waste of time! He needed to put an end to this affair.

  “Call Sister Dorotea here and Reverend Mother Raquella. Tell them to bring all the Sister Mentats, as well, and line them up before me.” Salvador crossed his arms as he made up his mind. “Then inform the subcommanders to prepare the troops for departure by nightfall.”

  * * *

  RESPONDING TO THE Emperor’s brusque summons as the sun lowered toward the ruddy haze of volcanic smoke, the Reverend Mother led old Karee Marques and the other Sister Mentats to the Corrino flagship. An armed elite guard stood on either side of the temporary throne, which had been turned so that the low sun did not shine in Salvador’s eyes.

  Dorotea already waited there, unsettled and angry. Raquella’s granddaughter had unexpectedly sympathized with Butlerian sentiments, ever since her assignment on Lampadas, but she wondered whether the real reason for Dorotea’s rebelliousness stemmed more from feeling abandoned by the people who were genetically related to her, failing to understand a basic teaching of the order, that the only family its members had was the Sisterhood.

  The Emperor leaned forward on his temporary throne, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked coldly at the eight Sister Mentats, but focused his glare on Raquella. “Reverend Mother, I despise your highly questionable breeding projections, and I know you tried to prevent me from having children. Dr. Zhoma revealed everything.”

  Roderick stood next to his brother, staring stonily at her. Raquella’s throat grew so dry she couldn’t even swallow. The voices in her mind were as silent as a tomb.

  “When we departed from the capital, I made a public vow to destroy the computers the Sisterhood uses. I can’t go back to Salusa empty-handed.”

  Raquella flinched. He appeared to be mortally offended and unable to reveal the true reasons publicly. He had somehow tortured the truth out of Dr. Zhoma, but Raquella had supreme control over her own bodily chemistry and felt confident that she could will her body to die before revealing anything. “But you have searched everywhere for computers, Sire. You cannot find what does not exist. We have only human computers here.”

  He sniffed. “That is only a matter of semantics. They are still computers.”

  A quick nod to the captain of the elite guard, and all the rifles swung down, leveled at the eight Sister Mentats.

  Raquella recoiled, and a shout of horror caught in her throat.

  Beside her, Karee Marques raised her hands in the final instant, the oldest living Sorceress of Rossak, and Raquella felt a thrumming crack inside her skull as the old woman was hit, a buffeting wave of desperately released psychic energy, a remnant of the power that the most powerful Sorceresses had once used to annihilate cymeks. The other Sister Mentats, though, were not Sorceresses.

  Karee Marques wasn’t enough, and as the Emperor screamed, obviously feeling the mental blast from her, his elite guard opened fire. The volley of sharp projectiles mowed down the eight Sister Mentats. The women dropped onto the paved canopy like harvested wheat stalks.

  Astonished that she was still alive herself, Raquella broke away and ran to the crumpled bodies, where she knelt over Karee Marques, who lay in a macabre, twisted heap, her white robe splattered in red.

  A stunned gasp whispered up from all the Sisters who were observing from the cliffs above the landing canopy, and several began to howl in rage, or wail in grief.

  From the cliffs, five more Sorceresses roared in a resonant howl that echoed across the treetops and in the minds of all those gathered around the school. To the astonishment of the group surrounding Salvador’s temporary throne, the Sorceresses leaped into the air, suicidally diving toward the golden Imperial flagship. They plummeted downward, their white robes rippling around them so that they looked like valkyries swooping down to a battlefield—and then they slowed their descent, using telekinetic control to levitate themselves. With murder in their eyes, they dove toward the Emperor, unleashing another wave of buffeting telepathy. Raquella felt her skull shaking from the psychic pressure, and she dropped to her knees.

  The target of the assault, Salvador yelled in pain and pressed his hands to h
is temples, with his eyes squeezed shut. Blood blossomed from his nostrils. Risking his own safety, Roderick grabbed his brother’s arm and tried to help him away from the throne.

  Salvador had collapsed to the ground by his throne, whimpering, so Roderick gasped an order to the elite guard. “Stop them!”

  Struggling back to her feet, Raquella screamed upward as the Sorceresses continued their descent. “No! No, do not attack!”

  Turning their projectile rifles upward, the soldiers blasted the Sorceresses out of the sky, causing the white-robed women to fall and crash in broken, bloody heaps among the dead Sister Mentats.

  Raquella sobbed.

  Salvador reeled, his face wild with pain and shock. As he started to mumble an order to continue the massacre, Roderick grabbed him by the shoulders and said, “Stop before it goes too far! Enough killing.”

  Dorotea knelt in front of the Emperor. “Your brother is right, Sire. Please don’t kill all the Sisters.”

  Salvador sucked in great gasping breaths and finally exerted control over himself. He wiped away the blood trickling from his nostrils, offended by the scarlet stain on the back of his hand. He steadied himself by holding the side of the throne and touched a control at his throat. His voice boomed out from the speaker systems on the landed military craft. “By my Imperial order, I hereby decree that the Sisterhood of Rossak is disbanded! This school will be closed. Permanently. All trainees will be dispersed and sent back to their homes.”

  Raquella’s shoulders hitched, and she could not tear her gaze from the murdered Mentats, or the fallen Sorceresses who had only tried to defend the Sisterhood. When she looked at the Emperor, her devastated, hateful expression made him flinch.

  Roderick Corrino quickly put himself between them. “There is much of value in what the Sisters have achieved. I propose that Reverend Mother Dorotea and certain worthy Sisters return with us to Salusa Secundus, where their skills can still serve the Imperium. The rest…”

  Salvador seemed glad to have his brother show strength. “All others are to leave Rossak. The breeding records will be destroyed, never to be misused again.” He gave orders to his troops, who gathered flame guns from the squadron armory and marched up to the high caves.

  He turned and looked at the hundreds of stunned women standing at the balconies on the cliff. “The rest of you must scatter to the winds. Your Sisterhood is outlawed!” He looked down at the distraught Reverend Mother, gratified to see how defeated she appeared. “There,” he said. “Now do you think I have a weak and inferior bloodline?”

  Our greatest commanders can lay down the most intricate military plans, but in the end only God determines who wins each battle.

  —MANFORD TORONDO, THE ONLY PATH

  Watching from the bridge of his ship, Manford went white when he saw the evacuee ships detonate, far enough away from him that he was not involved. Several Butlerian vessels had closed in to help them, and now the shock waves tore them apart. “Did that madman Venport kill his own people?”

  As Gilbertus watched, alternatives raced through his mind. “I should point out, sir, that Butlerians often take similar fanatical actions.” The legless man responded to the suggestion with horror and denial, and Gilbertus quickly added, “However, I think it highly likely that those ships were empty, flown by automated systems and detonated remotely. He and his personnel are probably still hiding in the industrial facilities.”

  “Then we will find them and blast them to hell. I already made my compassionate offer, but Venport has shown what kind of man he really is.”

  Gilbertus nodded, continuing his cool assessment. More instructive, he thought, was that Josef Venport had proven himself to be unpredictable. Such a brash, foolhardy action was unlike anything he had previously done. What was it meant to accomplish? Yes, the ploy had damaged the Butlerian fleet, but not nearly enough to win the engagement. How did he expect to save himself or his personnel from Manford’s inevitable retaliation? It was suicide. The Butlerians would never accept his surrender now. It made no sense.

  “Mentat, say something!” Manford demanded.

  “Recalculating first.” Oh, how he longed to have Erasmus here to help.…

  Without warning, the thirty VenHold patrol ships opened fire, along with at least ten of the other ships at the complex. The sheer mathematics of the tactical situation should have precluded any aggressive actions—thirty or forty against more than two hundred—and yet they began to hammer the Butlerian ships.

  As Gilbertus continued his reassessment, explosions went off near the flagship. The adjacent Butlerian vessel blew up as its fuel compartments were breached.

  Not waiting for Manford’s instructions, Swordmaster Idaho yelled across the open channel. “Return fire—all ships, return fire at will! Destroy them all!”

  The thirty VenHold ships strafed the Butlerian fleet, accelerating faster than expected, and their weaponry was far more powerful than normal vessels of that size; Josef Venport had made improvements.

  Gilbertus began to refactor the variables. Perhaps the odds weren’t so clearly in Manford’s favor after all. Those ships did indeed pose a threat.

  The Butlerians still had strength in numbers, but their vessels were outdated designs from the Army of Humanity, surplus military ships that were more than eighty years old. Manford Torondo had never imagined he might face stiff resistance; he simply expected his opponents to surrender to him out of fear.

  But the ruthless businessman Josef Venport was not a man to be intimidated; Gilbertus was beginning to understand him better.

  Then the next gear of Venport’s defensive plan clicked into place.

  Dozens more enemy ships moved out of the shipyards: half-completed constructions, robotic hulks with barely functioning engines, skeletons of starships accelerating and spreading out in formation. When the Butlerian fleet arrived, Gilbertus had assumed those ships to be inoperable, but when they began to move, he reassessed their tactical potential. A nasty surprise! Venport had more than twice as many ships to throw into the fray than it had at first appeared.

  These new hulks had some active weapons systems, but primarily they were cannon fodder, big vessels careening into Manford’s fleet, creating havoc even as they were pummeled by Butlerian firepower. Though damaged, the half-finished automated vessels kept coming, crashing into the tight Butlerian formations.

  One of Venport’s patrol ships exploded, but the rest of them kept firing. Gilbertus estimated that at least forty of Manford’s ships had been destroyed in the surprise detonations and the ensuing, unexpected resistance.

  As the scattering Butlerian ships pushed closer to the main spacedocks and the asteroid factories, they opened fire again, pounding the remaining factories. At least five more were destroyed, their domes shattered, belching fire and leaking atmosphere into space.

  Even for a Mentat, it was difficult to keep score of all the destroyed facilities.

  Per his duty, he presented Manford with a revised assessment. “Those are automated vessels, so he will have no qualms about sacrificing them.”

  Anari Idaho gasped. “Driven by thinking machines?”

  “Automated vessels,” Gilbertus repeated, without further clarification.

  The Butlerian leader glared at him. “Why didn’t you predict this, Mentat?”

  “Because I did not have complete data.”

  “Use new parameters. I am willing to sacrifice every one of my ships, as well. Consider all of my followers and ships expendable, so long as we win this battle. The mind of man is holy.”

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

  “Everything is expendable, sir?” Another contradiction; Gilbertus did not point out how appalled Manford had been when Venport’s people made a similar decision.

  “Except for the life of Manford,” the Swordmaster said. “That is not negotiable.”

  Manford was deadly calm as he explained, “All-out assaults are how we won Serena Butler’s Jihad against Omnius and
his thinking machines. We can do no less now in this battle for the soul of the human race.”

  Gilbertus studied the pattern of ship movements, retraced the paths, found intersections until all of the possibilities formed an intricate web in his mind … a web that had a strangely familiar pattern. Yes, right now Erasmus would have been of enormous assistance.

  Several more of the half-completed ships crashed into the Butlerian forces, ramming some, scrambling sensors in others, drawing fire like rocks thrown at a hornet’s nest. That was their purpose, Gilbertus realized. They were not meant to survive.

  Time slowed to a crawl in Gilbertus’s mind as he went deep into Mentat mode and rapidly created his own patterns, revising the projected movements of ships so that he could minimize the concentrations of potential damage. With careful attention, he could unravel the complex tangle that his opponent had created.

  Gilbertus admired the plan that had been set up against him. It was a shame he would have to defeat it.

  Panicked and unruly, the Butlerians wasted shots; several ships picked the same target while ignoring others. “To win we need to be organized, Leader Torondo. I have a plan, but you must let me guide the shots. Direct your commanders to follow my orders.”

  “Do you guarantee that will defeat them?” the leader asked.

  “It is your best possibility.”

  “I see.” He seemed disappointed by the response. “All right, Mentat, give us a victory.”

  * * *

  ONCE THE PLANS had been set in motion, like clockwork soldiers wound up and turned loose, Josef could admire what his own Mentat had conceived. “We have a chance, Draigo. Look at that destruction!” With fascination he watched the streaking ships, the lancing projectiles, the chain-reaction explosions as closely packed Butlerian ships took one another out. Starbursts of fire and debris spread all around the entire Thonaris complex in such great numbers that he could not begin to guess how many barbarian vessels had already been destroyed.