"You seldom learn the names of the truly wealthy and powerful. You see only their spokesmen. The political arena makes a few exceptions to this but does not reveal the full power structure."
The Mentat philosopher had chewed deep into everything they accepted and what he disgorged did not agree with Archival dependence upon "our inviolate summations."
We knew it, Miles, we just never faced up to it. We're all going to be digging in our Other Memories for the next few generations.
Fixed data, storage systems could not be trusted.
"If you destroy most copies, time will take care of the rest."
How Archives had raged at that telling pronouncement by the Bashar!
"The writing of history is largely a process of diversion. Most historical accounts divert attention from the secret influences around the recorded events."
That was the one that had brought down Bellonda. She had taken it up on her own, admitting: "The few histories that escape this restrictive process vanish into obscurity through obvious processes."
Teg had listed some of the processes: "Destruction of as many copies as possible, burying the too revealing accounts in ridicule, ignoring them in the centers of education, insuring that they are not quoted elsewhere and, in some cases, elimination of the authors."
Not to mention the scapegoat process that brought death to more than one messenger bearing unwelcome news, Odrade thought. She recalled an ancient ruler who kept a pikestaff handy with which to kill messengers who brought bad news.
"We have a, good base of information upon which to build a better understanding of our past," Odrade had argued. "We've always known that what was at stake in conflicts was the determination of who would control the wealth or its equivalent."
Maybe it was not a real "noble purpose" but it would do for the time being.
I am avoiding the central issue, she thought.
Something would have to be done about Duncan Idaho and they all knew it.
With a sigh, Odrade summoned a 'thopter and prepared herself for the short trip to the no-ship.
Duncan's prison was at least comfortable, Odrade thought when she entered it. This had been the ship commander's quarters lately occupied by Miles Teg. There were still signs of his presence here -- a small holostat projector revealing a scene of his home on Lernaeus; the stately old house, the long lawn, the river. Teg had left a sewing kit behind on a bedside table.
The ghola sat in a sling chair staring at the projection. He looked up listlessly when Odrade entered.
"You just left him back there to die, didn't you?" Duncan asked.
"We do what we must," she said. "And I obeyed his orders."
"I know why you're here," Duncan said. "And you're not going to change my mind. I'm not a damned stud for the witches. You understand me?"
Odrade smoothed her robe and sat on the edge of the bed facing Duncan. "Have you examined the record my father left for us?" she asked.
"Your father?"
"Miles Teg was my father. I commend his last words to you. He was our eyes there at the end. He had to see the death on Rakis. The 'mind at its beginning' understood dependencies and key logs."
When Duncan looked puzzled, she explained: "We were trapped too long in the Tyrant's oracular maze."
She saw how he sat up more alertly, the feline movements that spoke of muscles well conditioned to attack.
"There is no way you can escape alive from this ship," she said. "You know why."
"Siona."
"You are a danger to us but we would prefer that you lived a useful life."
"I'm still not going to breed for you, especially not with that little twit from Rakis."
Odrade smiled, wondering how Sheeana would respond to that description.
"You think it's funny?" Duncan demanded.
"Not really. But we'll still have Murbella's child, of course. I guess that will have to satisfy us."
"I've been talking to Murbella on the com," Duncan said. "She thinks she's going to be a Reverend Mother, that you're going to accept her into the Bene Gesserit."
"Why not? Her cells pass the proof of Siona. I think she will make a superb Sister."
"Has she really taken you in?"
"You mean, have we failed to observe that she thinks she will go along with us until she learns our secrets and then she will escape? Oh, we know that, Duncan."
"You don't think she can get away from you?"
"Once we get them, Duncan, we never really lose them."
"You don't think you lost the Lady Jessica?"
"She came back to us in the end."
"Why did you really come out here to see me?"
"I thought you deserved an explanation of the Mother Superior's design. It was aimed at the destruction of Rakis, you see. What she really wanted was the elimination of almost all of the worms."
"Great Gods below! Why?"
"They were an oracular force holding us in bondage. Those pearls of the Tyrant's awareness magnified that hold. He didn't predict events, he created them."
Duncan pointed toward the rear of the ship. "But what about . . ."
"That one? It's just one now. By the time it reaches sufficient numbers to be an influence once more, humankind will have gone its own way beyond him. We'll be too numerous by then, doing too many different things on our own. No single force will rule all of our futures completely, never again."
She stood.
When he did not respond, she said: "Within the imposed limits, which I know you appreciate, please think about the kind of life you want to lead. I promise to help you in any way I can."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because my ancestors loved you. Because my father loved you."
"Love? You witches can't feel love!"
She stared down at him for almost a minute. The bleached hair was growing out dark at the roots and curling once more into ringlets, especially at his neck, she saw.
"I feel what I feel," she said. "And your water is ours, Duncan Idaho."
She saw the Fremen admonition have its effect on him and then turned away and was passed out of the room by the guards.
Before leaving the ship, she went back to the hold and stared down at the quiescent worm on its bed of Rakian sand. Her viewport looked down from some two hundred meters onto the captive. As she looked, she shared a silent laugh with the increasingly integrated Taraza.
We were right and Schwangyu and her people were wrong. We knew he wanted out. He had to want that after what he did.
She spoke aloud in a soft whisper, as much for herself as for the nearby observers stationed there to watch for the moment when metamorphosis began in that worm.
"We have your language now," she said.
There were no words in the language, only a moving, dancing adaptation to a moving, dancing universe. You could only speak the language, not translate it. To know the meaning you had to go through the experience and even then the meaning changed before your eyes. "Noble purpose" was, after all, an untranslatable experience. But when she looked down at the rough, heat-immune hide of that worm from the Rakian desert, Odrade knew what she saw: the visible evidence of noble purpose.
Softly, she called down to him: "Hey! Old worm! Was this your design?"
There was no answer but then she had not really expected an answer.
Frank Herbert was born in Tacoma, Washington, and educated at the University of Washington, Seattle. He worked a wide variety of jobs -- including TV cameraman, radio commentator, oyster diver, jungle survival instructor, lay analyst, creative writing teacher, reporter and editor of several West Coast newspapers -- before becoming a full-time writer.
In 1952, Herbert began publishing science fiction with "Looking for Something?" in Startling Stories. But his true emergence as a writer of major stature did not occur until 1965, with the publication of Dune. Dune Messiah, Children of Dune, God Emperor of Dune, Heretics of Dune, and Chapterhouse: Dune followed, completing the saga that t
he Chicago Tribune would call "one of the monuments of modern science fiction." Herbert is also the author of some twenty other books, including The Jesus Incident, The Dosadi Experiment, and Destination: Void. He died in 1986.
Frank Herbert - Dune Book 5 - Heretics of Dune Page 58