That was an argument peculiar to Bene Gesserit disputes. It reminded them of their own particular susceptibility.
We are the secret aristocrats and it is our offspring who inherit the power. Yes, we are susceptible to that and Miles Teg is a superb example.
Bellonda found a straight chair and sat down, bringing her eyes level with Taraza's. "At the height of the Scattering," she said, "we lost some twenty percent of our failures."
"It is not failures who are coming back to us."
"But the Tyrant surely knew this would happen!"
"The Scattering was his goal, Bell. That was his Golden Path, humankind's survival!"
"But we know how he felt about the Tleilaxu and yet he did not exterminate them. He could have and he did not!"
"He wanted diversity."
Bellonda pounded a fist on the table. "He certainly got that!"
"We've been through all of these arguments over and over, Bell, and I still see no way to escape what Odrade has done."
"Subservience!"
"Not at all. Were we ever totally subservient to one of the pre-Tyrant emperors? Not even to Muad'dib!"
"We're still in the Tyrant's trap," Bellonda accused. "Tell me, why have the Tleilaxu continued to produce his favorite ghola? Millennia, and still that ghola keeps coming out of their tanks like a dancing doll."
"You think the Tleilaxu still follow a secret order from the Tyrant? If so, then you argue for Odrade. She has created admirable conditions for us to examine this."
"He ordered nothing of the kind! He merely made that particular ghola deliciously attractive to the Bene Tleilax."
"And not to us?"
"Mother Superior, we must get ourselves out of the Tyrant's trap now! And by the most direct method."
"The decision is mine, Bell. I still lean toward a cautious alliance."
"Then at the very least let us kill the ghola. Sheeana can have children. We could--"
"This is not now and never was purely a breeding project!"
"But it could be. What if you're wrong about the power behind the Atreides prescience?"
"All of your proposals lead to alienation from Rakis and from the Tleilaxu, Bell. "
"The Sisterhood could weather fifty generations on our present stockpiles of melange. More with rationing."
"You think fifty generations is a long time, Bell? Don't you see that this very attitude is why you are not sitting in my chair?"
Bellonda pushed herself back from the table, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. Taraza could see that she was not convinced. Bellonda no longer could be trusted. She might be the one who would have to die. And where was the noble purpose in that?
"This gets us nowhere," Taraza said. "Leave me."
When she was alone, Taraza once more considered Odrade's message. Ominous. It was easy to see why Bellonda and others reacted violently. But that showed a dangerous lack of control.
It is not yet time to write the Sisterhood's final will and testament.
In an odd way, Odrade and Bellonda shared the same fear but came to different decisions because of that fear. Odrade's interpretation of that message in the stones of Rakis conveyed an old warning:
This, too, shall pass away.
Are we to end now, crushed by ravenous hordes from the Scattering?
But the secret of the axlotl tanks was almost within the Sisterhood's grasp.
If we gain that, nothing can stop us!
Taraza swung her gaze around the details of her room. The Bene Gesserit power was still here. Chapter House remained concealed behind a moat of no-ships, its location unrecorded except in the minds of her own people. Invisibility.
Temporary invisibility! Accidents occurred.
Taraza squared her shoulders. Take precautions but don't live in their shadows, constantly furtive. The Litany Against Fear served a useful purpose when avoiding shadows.
From anyone but Odrade, the warning message with its disturbing implications that the Tyrant still guided his Golden Path would have been far less fearsome.
That damnable Atreides talent!
"No more than a secret society?"
Taraza gritted her teeth in frustration.
"Memories are not enough unless they call you to noble purpose!"
And what if it was true that the Sisterhood no longer heard the music of life?
Damn him! The Tyrant could still touch them.
What is he trying to tell us? His Golden Path could not be in peril. The Scattering had seen to that. Humans had spread their kind outward on uncounted courses like the spines of a hedgehog.
Had he seen a vision of the Scattered Ones returning? Could he possibly have anticipated this bramble patch at the foot of his Golden Path?
He knew we would suspect his powers. He knew it!
Taraza thought about the mounting reports of the Lost Ones who were returning to their roots. A remarkable diversity of people and artifacts accompanied by a remarkable degree of secrecy and wide evidence of conspiracy. No-ships of a peculiar design, weapons and artifacts of breathtaking sophistication. Diverse peoples and diverse ways.
Some, astonishingly primitive. At least on the surface.
And they wanted much more than melange. Taraza recognized the peculiar form of mysticism that drove the Scattered Ones back: "We want your elder secrets!"
The message of the Honored Matres was clear enough, too: "We will take what we want."
Odrade has it all right in her hands, Taraza thought. She had Sheeana. Soon, if Burzmali succeeded, she would have the ghola. She had the Tleilaxu Master of Masters. She could have Rakis itself!
If only she were not an Atreides.
Taraza glanced at the projected words still dancing above her tabletop: a comparison of this newest Duncan Idaho with all of the slain ones. Each new ghola had been slightly different from its predecessors. That was clear enough. The Tleilaxu were perfecting something. But what? Was the clue hidden in these new Face Dancers? The Tleilaxu obviously sought an undetectable Face Dancer, mimics whose mimicry reached perfection, shape-copiers who copied not only the surface memories of their victims but the deepest thoughts and identity as well. It was a form of immortality even more enticing than the one the Tleilaxu Masters used at present. That obviously was why they followed this course.
Her own analysis agreed with the majority of her advisors: Such a mimic would become the copied person. Odrade's reports on the Face Dancer-Tuek were highly suggestive. Even the Tleilaxu Masters might not be able to shake such a Face Dancer out of its mimic shape and behavior.
And its beliefs.
Damn Odrade! She had painted her Sisters into a comer. They had no choice except to follow Odrade's lead and Odrade knew it!
How did she know it? Was it that wild talent again?
I cannot act blindly. I must know.
Taraza went through the well-remembered regimen to restore a sense of calm. She dared not make momentous decisions in a frustrated mood. A long look at the statuette of Chenoeh helped. Lifting herself from the chairdog, Taraza returned to her favorite window.
It often soothed her to stare out at this landscape, observing how the distances changed with the daily movement of sunlight and shifts in the planet's well-managed weather.
Hunger prodded her.
I will eat with the acolytes and lay Sisters today.
It helped at times to gather the young around her and remember the persistence of the eating rituals, the daily timing--morning, noon, and evening. That formed a reliable cement. She enjoyed watching her people. They were like a tide speaking of deeper things, of unseen forces and greater powers that persisted because the Bene Gesserit had found the ways of flowing with that persistence.
These thoughts renewed Taraza's balance. Nagging questions could be placed temporarily at a distance. She could look at them without passion.
Odrade and the Tyrant were right: Without noble purpose we are nothing.
One could not escape, though,
the fact that critical decisions were being made on Rakis by a person who suffered from those recurring Atreides flaws. Odrade had always displayed typical Atreides weakness. She had been positively benevolent to erring acolytes. Affections developed out of such behavior!
Dangerous and mind-clouding affections.
This weakened others, who then were required to compensate for such laxity. More competent Sisters were called upon to take erring acolytes in hand and correct the weaknesses. Of course, Odrade's behavior had exposed these flaws in acolytes. One must admit this. Perhaps Odrade reasoned thus.
When she thought this way, something subtle and powerful shifted in Taraza's perceptions. She was forced to put down a deep sense of loneliness. It rankled. Melancholy could be quite as mind-clouding as affection ... or even love. Taraza and her watchful Memory Sisters ascribed such emotional responses to awareness of mortality. She was forced to confront the fact that one day she would be no more than a set of memories in someone else's living flesh.
Memories and accidental discoveries, she saw, had made her vulnerable. And just when she needed every available faculty!
But I am not yet dead.
Taraza knew how to restore herself. And she knew the consequences. Always after these bouts of melancholy she regained an even firmer grip on her life and its purposes. Odrade's flawed behavior was a source of her Mother Superior's strength.
Odrade knew it. Taraza smiled grimly at this awareness. The Mother Superior's authority over her Sisters always became stronger when she returned from melancholy. Others had observed this but only Odrade knew about the rage.
There!
Taraza realized that she had confronted the distressful seeds of her frustration.
Odrade had clearly recognized on several occasions what sat at the core of the Mother Superior's behavior. A giant howl of rage against the uses others had made of her life. The power of that suppressed rage was daunting even though it could never be expressed in a way that vented it. That rage must never be allowed to heal. How it hurt! Odrade's awareness made the pain even more intense.
Such things did what they were supposed to do, of course. Bene Gesserit impositions developed certain mental muscles. They built up layers of callousness that could never be revealed to outsiders. Love was one of the most dangerous forces in the universe. They had to protect themselves against it. A Reverend Mother could never become intimately personal, not even in the services of the Bene Gesserit.
Simulation: We play the necessary role that saves us. The Bene Gesserit will persist!
How long would they be subservient this time? Another thirty-five hundred years? Well, damn them all! It would still be only a temporary thing.
Taraza turned her back on the window and its restorative view. She did feel restored. New strength flowed into her. There was strength enough to overcome that gnawing reluctance which had kept her from making the essential decision.
I will go to Rakis.
She no longer could evade the source of her own reluctance.
I may have to do what Bellonda wants.
Survival of self, of species, and of environment, these are what drive humans. You can observe how the order of importance changes in a lifetime. What are the things of immediate concern at a given age? Weather? The state of the digestion? Does she (or he) really care? All of those various hungers that flesh can sense and hope to satisfy. What else could possibly matter?
--Leto II to Hwi Noree, His Voice: Dar-es-Balat
Miles Teg awoke in darkness to find himself being carried on a litter sling supported by suspensors. By their faint energy glow, he could see the tiny suspensor bulbs in an updangling row around him.
There was a gag in his mouth. His hands were securely tied behind his back. His eyes remained uncovered.
So they don't care what I see.
Who they were he could not tell. The bobbing motions of the dark shapes around him suggested they were descending uneven terrain. A trail? The litter sling rode smoothly on its suspensors. He could sense the faint humming from the suspensors when his party stopped to negotiate the turn of a difficult passage.
Now and then through some intervening obstruction, he saw the flickering of a light ahead. They entered the lighted area presently and stopped. He saw a single glowglobe about three meters off the ground, tethered on a pole and moving gently in a cold breeze. By its yellow glow he discerned a shack in the center of a muddy clearing, many tracks in trampled snow. He saw bushes and a few sparse trees around the clearing. Someone passed a brighter handlight across his face. Nothing was said but Teg saw a hand gesture toward the shack. He had seldom seen such a dilapidated structure. It looked ready to collapse at the slightest touch. He bet himself that the roof leaked.
Once more, his party lurched into motion, swinging him toward the shack. He studied his escort in the dim light--faces muffled to the eyes in a cover that obscured mouths and chins. Hoods hid their hair. The clothing was bulky and concealed body details except for the general articulation of arms and legs.
The pole-tethered glowglobe went dark.
A door opened in the shack, sending a brilliant glare across the clearing. His escort hustled him inside and left him there. He heard the door close behind them.
It was almost blindingly bright inside after the darkness. Teg blinked until his eyes adapted to the change. With an odd sense of displacement, he looked around him. He had expected the shack's interior to match its exterior but here was a neat room almost bare of furnishings--only three chairs, a small table and... he drew in a sharp breath: an Ixian Probe! Couldn't they smell the shere on his breath?
If they were that unaware, let them use the probe. It would be agony for him but they would get nothing from his mind.
Something clicked behind him and he heard motion. Three people came into his field of vision and ranged themselves around the foot of the litter. They stared at him silently. Teg moved his attention across the three. The one on his left wore a dark singlesuit with open lapels. Male. He had the squarish face Teg had seen on some Gammu natives--small, beady eyes that stared straight through Teg. It was the face of an inquisitor, one who would not be moved by your agony. The Harkonnens had imported a lot of those in their day. Single-purpose types who could create pain without the slightest change of expression.
The one directly at Teg's feet wore bulky clothing of black and gray similar to that of the escort but the hood was thrown back to reveal a bland face under closely cropped gray hair. The face gave nothing away and the clothing revealed little. No telling if this one was male or female. Teg recorded the face: wide forehead, square chin, large green eyes above a knife-ridged nose; a tiny mouth pursed around a moue of distaste.
The third member of this group held Teg's attention longest: tall, a tailored black singlesuit with a severe black jacket over it. Perfectly fitted. Expensive. No decorations or insignia. Male definitely. The man affected boredom and this gave Teg a tag for him. Narrow, supercilious face, brown eyes, thin-lipped mouth. Bored, bored, bored! All of this in here was an unwarranted demand on his very important time. He had vital business elsewhere and these other two, these underlings, must be made to realize that.
That one, Teg thought, is the official observer.
The bored one had been sent by the masters of this place to watch and report what he saw. Where was his datacase? Ahhhh, yes: There it was, propped against a wall behind him. Those cases were like a badge for such functionaries. On his inspection tour, Teg had seen these people walking the streets of Ysai and other Gammu cities. Small, thin cases. The more important the functionary, the smaller the case. This one's case would barely contain a few dataspools and a tiny comeye. He would never be without an 'eye to link him with his superiors. Thin case: This was an important functionary.
Teg found himself wondering what the observer would say if Teg asked: "What will you tell them about my composure?"
The answer was already there on that bored face. He would not even answer. H
e was not here to answer. When this one leaves, Teg thought, he will walk with long strides. His attention will be on distances where only he knows what powers await him. He will slap that case against his leg to remind himself of his importance and to call the attention of these others to his badge of authority.
The bulky figure at Teg's feet spoke, a compelling voice and definitely female in those vibrant tones.
"See how he holds himself and watches us? Silence will not break him. I told you that before we entered. You are wasting our time and we do not have all that much time for such nonsense."
Teg stared at her. Something vaguely familiar in the voice. It had some of that compelling quality found in a Reverend Mother. Was that possible?
The heavy-faced Gammu type nodded. "You are right, Materly. But I do not give the orders here."
Materly? Teg wondered. Name or title?
Both of them looked at the functionary. That one turned and bent to his datacase. He removed a small comeye from it and stood with the screen concealed from his companions and Teg. The 'eye came alight with a green glow, which cast a sickly illumination over the observer's features. His self-important smile vanished. He moved his lips silently, words formed only for someone on that 'eye to see.
Teg hid his ability to read lips. Anyone trained by the Bene Gesserit could read lips from almost any angle where they were visible. This man spoke a version of Old Galach.
"It is the Bashar Teg for sure," he said. "I have made identification."
The green light danced on the functionary's face while he stared into the 'eye. Whoever communicated with him was in agitated movement if that light meant anything.
Again, the functionary's lips moved soundlessly: "None of us doubts that he has been conditioned against pain and I can smell shere on him. He will... "
He fell silent as the green light once more danced on his face.
"I do not make excuses." His lips shaped the Old Galach words with care. "You know we will do our best but I recommend that we pursue with vigor all other means of intercepting the ghola."
The green light winked off.
The functionary clipped the 'eye to his waist, turned toward his companions and nodded once.
"The T-probe," the woman said.
They swung the probe over Teg's head.
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