Heretics of Dune

by Frank Herbert

  "That's better," Muzzafar said as he led Teg out into the entry hallway and through a door Teg remembered. Yes, this was where he had met the "safe" contacts. He had recognized the room's function then and nothing appeared to have changed it. Rows of microscopic comeyes lined the intersection of ceiling and walls, disguised as silver guide strips for the hovering glowglobes.

  The one who is watched does not see, Teg thought. And the Watchers have a billion eyes.

  His doubled vision told him there was danger here but nothing immediately violent.

  This room, about five meters long and four wide, was a place for doing very high-level business. The merchandise would never be an actual exposure of money. People here would see only portable equivalents of whatever passed for currency--melange, perhaps, or milky soostones about the size of an eyeball, perfectly round, at once glossy and soft in appearance but radiant with rainbow changes directed by whatever light fell on them or whatever flesh they touched. This was a place where a danikin of melange or a small fold-pouch of soostones would be accepted as a natural occurrence. The price of a planet could be exchanged here with only a nod, an eyeblink or a low-voiced murmur. No wallets of currency would ever be produced here. The closest thing might be a thin case of translux out of whose poison-guarded interior would come thinner sheets of ridulian crystal with very large numbers inscribed on them by unforgeable dataprint.

  "This is a bank," Teg said.

  "What?" Muzzafar had been staring at the closed door in the opposite wall. "Oh, yes. She'll be along presently."

  "She is watching us now, of course."

  Muzzafar did not answer but he looked gloomy.

  Teg glanced around him. Had anything been changed since his previous visit? He saw no significant alterations. He wondered if shrines such as this one had undergone much change at all over the eons. There was a dewcarpet on the floor as soft as brantdown and as white as the underbelly of a fur whale. It shimmered with a false sense of wetness that only the eye detected. A bare foot (not that this place had ever seen a bare foot) would feel caressing dryness.

  There was a narrow table about two meters long almost in the center of the room. The top was at least twenty millimeters thick. Teg guessed it was Danian jacaranda. The deep brown surface had been polished to a sheen that drank the vision and revealed far underneath veins like river currents. There were only four admiral's chairs around the table, chairs crafted by a master artisan from the same wood as the table, cushioned on seat and back with lyrleather of the exact tone of the polished wood.

  Only four chairs. More would have been an overstatement. He had not tried one of the chairs before and he did not seat himself now, but he knew what his flesh would find there--comfort almost up to the level of a despised chairdog. Not quite at that degree of softness and conformity to bodily shape, of course. Too much comfort could lure the sitter into relaxation. This room and its furnishings said: "Be comfortable here but remain alert."

  You not only had to have your wits about you in this place but also a great power of violence behind you, Teg thought. He had summed it up that way before and his opinion had not changed.

  There were no windows but the ones he had seen from the outside had danced with lines of light--energy barriers to repel intruders and prevent escape. Such barriers brought their own dangers, Teg knew, but the implications were important. Just keeping the energy flow in them would feed a large city for the lifetime of its longest-lived inhabitant.

  There was nothing casual about this display of wealth.

  The door that Muzzafar watched opened with a gentle click.

  Danger!

  A woman in a shimmering golden robe swept into the room. Lines of red-orange danced in the fabric.

  She is old!

  Teg had not expected her to be this ancient. Her face was a wrinkled mask. The eyes were deeply set green ice. Her nose was an elongated beak whose shadow touched thin lips and repeated the sharp angle of the chin. A black skullcap almost covered her gray hair.

  Muzzafar bowed.

  "Leave us," she said.

  He left without a word, going out through the door by which she had entered. When the door closed behind him, Teg said, "Honored Matre."

  "So you recognize this as a bank." Her voice carried only a slight trembling.

  "Of course."

  "There are always means of transferring large sums or selling power," she said. "I do not speak of the power that runs factories but of the power that runs people."

  "And that usually passes under the strange names of government or society or civilization," Teg said.

  "I suspected you would be very intelligent," she said. She pulled out a chair and sat but did not indicate that Teg should seat himself. "I think of myself as a banker. That saves a lot of muddy and distressful circumlocutions."

  Teg did not respond. There seemed no need. He continued to study her.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?" she demanded.

  "I did not expect you to be this old," he said.

  "Heh, heh, heh. We have many surprises for you, Bashar. Later, a younger Honored Matre may murmur her name to mark you. Praise Dur if that happens."

  He nodded, not understanding much of what she said.

  "This is also a very old building," she said. "I watched you when you came in. Does that surprise you, too?"

  "No."

  "This building has remained essentially unchanged for several thousand years. It is built of materials that will last much longer still."

  He glanced at the table.

  "Oh, not the wood. But underneath, it's polastine, polaz, and pormabat. The three P-Os are never sneered at where necessity calls for them."

  Teg remained silent.

  "Necessity," she said. "Do you object to any of the necessary things that have been done to you?"

  "My objections don't matter," he said. What was she getting at? Studying him, of course. As he studied her.

  "Do you think others have ever objected to what you did to them?"

  "Undoubtedly."

  "You're a natural commander, Bashar. I think you'll be very valuable to us."

  "I've always thought I was most valuable to myself."

  "Bashar! Look at my eyes!"

  He obeyed, seeing little flecks of orange drifting in across the whites. The sense of peril was acute.

  "If you ever see my eyes fully orange, beware!" she said. "You will have offended me beyond my ability to tolerate."

  He nodded.

  "I like it that you can command but you cannot command me! You command the muck and that is the only function we have for such as you."

  "The muck?"

  She waved a hand, a negligent motion. "Out there. You know them. Their curiosity is narrow gauge. No great issues ever enter their awareness."

  "I thought that was what you meant."

  "We work to keep it that way," she said. "Everything goes to them through a tight filter, which excludes all but that which has immediate survival value."

  "No great issues," he said.

  "You are offended but it doesn't matter," she said. "To those out there, a great issue is: 'Will I eat today?' 'Do I have shelter tonight that will not be invaded by attackers or vermin?' Luxury? Luxury is the possession of a drug or a member of the opposite sex who can, for a time, keep the beast at bay."

  And you are the beast, he thought.

  "I am taking some time with you, Bashar, because I see that you could be more valuable to us even than Muzzafar. And he is extremely valuable indeed. Even now, we are repaying him for bringing you to us in a receptive condition."

  When Teg still remained silent, she chuckled. "You do not think you are receptive?"

  Teg held himself quiet. Had they given him some drug in his food? He saw the flickering of doubled vision but the movements of violence had receded as the orange flecks left the Honored Matre's eyes. Her feet were to be avoided, though. They were deadly weapons.

  "It's just that you think
of the muck in the wrong way," she said. "Luckily, they are most self-limiting. They know this somewhere in the damps of their deepest consciousness but cannot spare the time to deal with that or anything else except the immediate scramble for survival."

  "They cannot be improved?" he asked.

  "They must not be improved! Oh, we see to it that self-improvement remains a great fad among them. Nothing real about it, of course."

  "Another luxury they must be denied," he said.

  "Not a luxury! Nonexistent! It must be occluded at all times behind a barrier that we like to call protective ignorance."

  "What you don't know cannot hurt you."

  "I don't like your tone, Bashar."

  Again, the orange flecks danced in her eyes. The sense of violence diminished, however, as she once more chuckled. "The thing you beware of is the opposite of what-you-don't-know. We teach that new knowledge can be dangerous. You see the obvious extension: All new knowledge is non-survival!"

  The door behind the Honored Matre opened and Muzzafar returned. It was a changed Muzzafar, his face flushed, his eyes bright. He stopped behind the Honored Matre's chair.

  "One day, I will be able to permit you behind me this way," she said. "It is in my power to do this."

  What had they done to Muzzafar? Teg wondered. The man looked almost drugged.

  "You do see that I have power?" she asked.

  He cleared his throat. "That's obvious."

  "I am a banker, remember? We have just made a deposit with our loyal Muzzafar. Do you thank us, Muzzafar?"

  "I do, Honored Matre." His voice was hoarse.

  "I'm sure you understand this kind of power generally, Bashar," she said. "The Bene Gesserit trained you well. They are quite talented but not, I fear, as talented as we are."

  "And I am told you are quite numerous," he said.

  "Our numbers are not the key, Bashar. Power such as ours has a way of becoming channeled so that it can be controlled by small numbers."

  She was like a Reverend Mother, he thought, in the way she could appear to answer without revealing much.

  "In essence," she said, "power such as ours is allowed to become the substance of survival for many people. Then, the threat of withdrawal is all that's required for us to rule." She glanced over her shoulder. "Would you wish us to withdraw our favor from you, Muzzafar?"

  "No, Honored Matre." He was actually trembling!

  "You have found a new drug," Teg said.

  Her laughter was spontaneous and loud, almost raucous. "No, Bashar! We have an old one."

  "And you would make an addict of me?"

  "Like all the others we control, Bashar, you have a choice: death or obedience."

  "That is a rather old choice," he agreed. What was her immediate threat? He could sense no violence. Quite the contrary. His doubled vision showed him broken glimpses of extremely sensuous overtones. Did they think they could imprint him?

  She smiled at him, a knowing expression with something frigid under it.

  "Will he serve us well, Muzzafar?"

  "I believe so, Honored Matre."

  Teg frowned in thought. There was something deeply evil about this pair. They went against every morality by which he modeled his behavior. It was well to remember that neither of them knew this strange thing that had speeded his reactions.

  They seemed to be enjoying his puzzled discomfiture.

  Teg took some reassurance from the realization that neither of these two really enjoyed life. He could see that in them clearly with eyes the Sisterhood had educated. The Honored Matre and Muzzafar had forgotten or, most likely, abandoned everything that supported the survival of joyous humans. He thought they probably no longer were capable of finding a real wellspring of joy in their own flesh. Theirs would have to be mostly a voyeur's existence, the eternal observer, always remembering what it had been like before they had taken the turning into whatever it was they had become. Even when they wallowed in the performance of something that once had meant gratification, they would have to reach for new extremes each time just to touch the edges of their own memories.

  The Honored Matre's grin widened, showing a line of gleaming white teeth. "Look at him, Muzzafar. He has not the slightest conception of what we can do."

  Teg heard this but he also saw with eyes trained by the Bene Gesserit. Not a milligram of naivete remained in either of these two. Nothing was expected to surprise them. Nothing could be truly new for them. Still, they plotted and devised, hoping that this extreme would produce the remembered thrill. They knew it would not, of course, and they expected to carry away from the experience only more burning rage out of which to fashion another attempt at the unreachable. That was how their thinking went.

  Teg designed a smile for them, using all of the skills he had learned at Bene Gesserit hands. It was a smile full of compassion, of understanding and real pleasure in his own existence. He knew it for the most deadly insult he could hurl at them and he saw it hit. Muzzafar glowered at him. The Honored Matre went from orange-eyed rage to an abrupt surprise and then, quite slowly, to dawning pleasure. She had not expected this! It was something new!

  "Muzzafar," she said, the orange receding from her eyes, "bring the Honored Matre who has been chosen to mark our Bashar."

  Teg, his doubled vision showing the immediate peril, understood at last. He could feel awareness of his own future spreading outward like waves as the power grew in him. The wild change in him was continuing! He felt the energy expand. With it came understanding and choices. He saw himself as the whirlwind rampaging through this building--bodies scattered behind him (Muzzafar and the Honored Matre among them) and the whole complex looking like an abattoir when he departed.

  Must I do that? he wondered.

  For each one he killed, more would have to be killed. He saw the necessity of it, though, as he saw at last the Tyrant's design. The pain he could see for himself almost made him cry out but he held it back.

  "Yes, bring this Honored Matre to me," he said, knowing that this would be one less for him to seek out and destroy elsewhere in the building. The room of the scanlyzer controls must be taken out first.

  O you who know what we suffer here, do not forget us in your prayers.

  --Sign over Arrakeen Landing Field (Historical Records: Dar-es-Balat)

  Taraza watched a snow-flutter of falling blossoms against the silvery sky of a Rakian morning. There was an opalescent sheen to the sky that, despite all of her preparatory briefings, she had not anticipated. Rakis held many surprises. The smell of mock orange was powerful here at the edge of the Dar-es-Balat roof garden, overriding all other odors.

  Never believe that you have plumbed the depths of any place ... or of any human, she reminded herself.

  Conversation was ended out here but not the echoes of the spoken thoughts they had exchanged only minutes ago. All agreed, though, that it was time for action. Soon, Sheeana would "dance a worm" for them and once more demonstrate her mastery.

  Waff and a new priestly representative would share this "holy event" but Taraza was sure neither of them knew the real nature of what they were about to witness. Waff bore watching, of course. He still carried that air of irritated disbelief in everything he saw or heard. It was a strange mixture with his underlying awe at being on Rakis. The catalyst was obviously his rage over the fact that fools ruled here.

  Odrade returned from the meeting room and stopped beside Taraza.

  "I am extremely disquieted by the reports from Gammu," Taraza said. "Do you bring something new?"

  "No. Things are obviously still chaotic there."

  "Tell me, Dar, what do you think we should do?"

  "I keep remembering the Tyrant's words to Chenoeh: 'The Bene Gesserit are so close to what they should be, yet so far'"

  Taraza pointed at the open desert beyond the museum city's qanat. "He's still out there, Dar. I'm sure of it." Taraza turned to face Odrade. "And Sheeana speaks to him."

  "He told so many lies," Od
rade said.

  "But he didn't lie about his own incarnation. Remember what he said. 'Every descendant part of me will carry some of my awareness locked away within it, lost and helpless--pearls of me moving blindly in the sand, caught in an endless dream."'

  "You bank a great deal on your belief in the power of that dream," Odrade said.

  "We must recover the Tyrant's design! All of it!"

  Odrade sighed but did not speak.

  "Never underestimate the power of an idea," Taraza said. "The Atreides were ever philosophers in their governance. Philosophy is always dangerous because it promotes the creation of new ideas."

  Still, Odrade did not respond.

  "The worm carries it all within him, Dar! All of the forces he set in motion are still in him."

  "Are you trying to convince me or yourself, Tar?"

  "I am punishing you, Dar. Just as the Tyrant is still punishing us."

  "For not being what we should be? Ahh, here come Sheeana and the others."

  "The worm's language, Dar. That is the important thing."

  "If you say so, Mother Superior."

  Taraza sent an angry stare at Odrade, who moved forward to greet the newcomers. There was a disturbing gloom in Odrade.

  The presence of Sheeana, though, restored Taraza's sense of purpose. An alert little thing, Sheeana. Very good material. Sheeana had demonstrated her dance the previous night, performing in the great museum room against a tapestry background, an exotic dance against an exotic spice-fiber hanging with its image of desert and worms. She appeared to be almost a part of the hanging, a figure projected forward from the stylized dunes and their elaborately detailed coursing worms. Taraza recalled how Sheeana's brown hair had been thrown outward by the whirling movements of the dance, swinging in a fuzzy arc. Sidelighting accented the reddish glints in her hair. Her eyes had been closed but it was not a face in repose. Excitement betrayed itself in the passionate set of her wide mouth, the flaring of her nostrils, the forward thrust of her chin. Her motions had conveyed an inner sophistication that belied her youth.

  The dance is her language, Taraza thought. Odrade is correct. Seeing it, we will learn it.

  Waff had something of a withdrawn look this morning. It was difficult to determine if his eyes were looking outward or inward.

  With Waff was Tulushan, a darkly handsome Rakian, the priesthood's chosen representative at today's "holy event." Taraza, meeting him at the demonstration dance, had found it extraordinary how Tulushan never needed to say "but," and yet the word was always there in everything he uttered. A perfect bureaucrat. He rightly expected to go far but those expectations would soon encounter their ultimate surprise. She felt no pity for him at this knowledge. Tulushan was a soft-faced youth of too few standards for such a position of trust. There was more to him than met the eye, of course. And less.