Heretics of Dune

by Frank Herbert

  "You'll whisk yourselves! My people and I will remain to create a diversion."

  That brought a shocked silence throughout the command station.

  Diversion, Teg thought. What an inadequate word.

  The resistance he had in mind would create hysteria among the Honored Matres, especially when they were made to believe the ghola was here. Not only would they counterattack, they eventually would resort to sterilization procedures. Most of Rakis would become a charred ruin. There was little likelihood that any humans, worms, or sandtrout would survive.

  "The Honored Matres have been trying to locate and capture a worm without success," he said. "I really don't understand how they could be so blind in their concept of how you transplant one of them."

  "Transplant?" Lucilla was floundering. Teg had seldom seen a Reverend Mother at such a loss. She was trying to assemble the things he had said. The Sisterhood had some of the Mentats' capabilities, he had observed. A Mentat could come to a qualified conviction without sufficient data. He thought that he would be long out of her reach (or the reach of any other Reverend Mother) before she assembled this data. Then there would be a scrambling for his offspring! They would pick up Dimela for their Breeding Mistresses, of course. And Odrade. She would not escape.

  They had the key to the Tleilaxu axlotl tanks, too. It would be only a matter of time now until the Bene Gesserit overcame its scruples and mastered that source of the spice. A human body produced it!

  "We're in danger here, then," Lucilla said.

  "Some danger, yes. The trouble with the Honored Matres is that they're too wealthy. They make the mistakes of the wealthy."

  "Depraved whores!" she said.

  "I suggest you get to the entry port," he said. "Odrade will be here soon."

  She left him without another word.

  "Armor is all out and deployed," the communications officer said.

  "Alert Burzmali to be ready for command here," Teg said. "The rest of us will be going out soon."

  "You expect all of us to join you?" That was the one who looked for a scapegoat.

  "I am going out," Teg said. "I will go alone if necessary. Only those who wish need join me."

  After that, all of them would come, he thought. Peer pressure was little understood by anyone except those trained by the Bene Gesserit.

  It grew silent in the command station except for the faint hummings and clicks of instruments. Teg fell to thinking about the "depraved whores."

  It was not correct to call them depraved, he thought. Sometimes, the supremely rich did become depraved. That came from believing that money (power) could buy anything and everything. And why shouldn't they believe this? They saw it happening every day. It was easy to believe in absolutes.

  Hope springs eternal and all of that gornaw!

  It was like another faith. Money would buy the impossible.

  Then came depravity.

  It was not the same for the Honored Matres. They were, somehow, beyond depravity. They had come through it; he could see that. But now they were into something else so far beyond depravity that Teg wondered if he really wanted to know about it.

  The knowledge was there, though, inescapable in his new awareness. Not one of those people would hesitate an instant before consigning an entire planet to torture if that meant personal gain. Or if the payoff were some imagined pleasure. Or if the torture produced even a few more days or hours of living.

  What pleased them? What gratified? They were like semuta addicts. Whatever simulated pleasure for them, they required more of it every time.

  And they know this!

  How they must rage inside! Caught in such a trap! They had seen it all and none of it was enough--not good enough nor evil enough. They had entirely lost the knack of moderation.

  They were dangerous, though. And perhaps he was wrong about one thing: Perhaps they no longer remembered what it had been like before the awful transformation of that strange tart-smelling stimulant that painted orange in their eyes. Memories of memories could become distorted. Every Mentat was sensitized to this flaw in himself.

  "There's the worm!"

  It was the communications officer.

  Teg swiveled in his chair and looked at the projection, a miniature holo of the exterior to the southwest. The worm with its two tiny dots of human passengers was a distant sliver of wriggling movement.

  "Bring Odrade in here alone when they arrive," he said. "Sheeana--that's the young girl--will remain behind to help herd that worm into the hold. It will obey her. Be sure Burzmali is standing ready nearby. We won't have much time for the transfer of command."

  When Odrade entered the command station she was still breathing hard and exuding the smells of the desert, a compound of melange, flint, and human perspiration. Teg sat in his chair apparently resting. His eyes remained closed.

  Odrade thought she had caught the Bashar in an uncharacteristic attitude of repose, almost pensive. He opened his eyes then and she saw the change about which Lucilla had only been able to blurt a small warning--along with a few hasty words about the ghola's transformation. What was it that had happened to Teg? He was almost posing for her, daring her to see it in him. The chin was firm and held slightly upthrust in his normal attitude of observation. The narrow face with its webwork of age lines had lost none of its alertness. The long, thin nose so characteristic of the Corrinos and Atreides in his ancestry had grown a bit longer with advancing years. But the gray hair remained thick and that small peak at the forehead centered the observing gaze ...

  On his eyes!

  "How did you know to meet us here?" Odrade demanded. "We had no idea where the worm was taking us."

  "There are very few inhabited places here in the meridian desert," he said. "Gambler's choice. This seemed likely."

  Gambler's choice? She knew the Mentat phrase but had never understood it.

  Teg lifted himself from his chair. "Take this ship and go to the place you know best," he said.

  Chapter House? She almost said it but thought of the others around her, these military strangers Teg had assembled. Who were they? Lucilla's brief explanation did not satisfy.

  "We change Taraza's design somewhat," Teg said. "The ghola does not stay. He must go with you."

  She understood. They would need Duncan Idaho's new talents to counter the whores. He was no longer merely bait for the destruction of Rakis.

  "He will not be able to leave the no-ship's concealment, of course," Teg said.

  She nodded. Duncan was not shielded from prescient searchers ... such as the Guild navigators.

  "Bashar!" It was the communications officer. "We've been bleeped by a satellite!"

  "All right, you ground hogs!" Teg shouted. "Everybody outside! Get Burzmali in here."

  A hatch at the rear of the station flew open. Burzmali lunged through. "Bashar, what are we--"

  "No time! Take over!" Teg lifted himself from his command chair and waved for Burzmali to take it. "Odrade here will tell you where to go." On an impulse that he knew was partly vindictive, Teg grasped Odrade's left arm, leaned close, and kissed her cheek. "Do what you must, daughter," he whispered. "That worm in the hold may soon be the only one in the universe."

  Odrade saw it then: Teg knew Taraza's complete design and intended to carry out his Mother Superior's orders to the very end.

  "Do what you must." That said it all.

  We are not looking at a new state of matter but at a newly recognized relationship between consciousness and matter, which provides a more penetrating insight into the workings of prescience. The oracle shapes a projected inner universe to produce new external probabilities out of forces that are not understood. There is no need to understand these forces before using them to shape the physical universe. Ancient metal workers had no need to understand the molecular and submolecular complexities of their steel, bronze, copper, gold, and tin. They invented mystical powers to describe the unknown while they continued to operate theirforges and wield thei
r hammers.

  --Mother Superior Taraza, Argument in Council

  The ancient structure in which the Sisterhood secreted its Chapter House, its Archives, and the offices of its most sacrosanct leadership did not just make sounds in the night. The noises were more like signals. Odrade had learned to read those signals over her many years here. That particular sound there, that strained creaking, was a wooden beam in the floor not replaced in some eight hundred years. It contracted in the night to produce those sounds.

  She had Taraza's memories to expand on such signals. The memories were not fully integrated; there had been very little time. Here at night in Taraza's old working room, Odrade used a few available moments to continue the integration.

  Dar and Tar, one at last.

  That was a quite identifiable Taraza comment.

  To haunt the Other Memories was to exist on several planes simultaneously, some of them very deep, but Taraza remained near the surface. Odrade allowed herself to sink farther into the multiple existences. Presently, she recognized a self who was currently breathing but remote while others demanded that she plunge into the all-enfolding visions, everything complete with smells, touches, emotions--all of the originals held intact within her own awareness.

  It is unsettling to dream another's dreams.

  Taraza again.

  Taraza who had played such a dangerous game with the future of the entire Sisterhood hanging in the balance! How carefully she had timed the leaking of word to the whores that the Tleilaxu had built dangerous abilities into the ghola. And the attack on the Gammu Keep confirmed that the information had reached its source. The brutal nature of that attack, though, had warned Taraza that she had little time. The whores would be sure to assemble forces for the total destruction of Gammu--just to kill that one ghola.

  So much had depended on Teg.

  She saw the Bashar there in her own assemblage of Other Memories: the father she had never really known.

  I didn't know him at the end, either.

  It could be weakening to dig into those memories, but she could not escape the demands of that luring reservoir.

  Odrade thought of the Tyrant's words: "The terrible field of my past! Answers leap up like a frightened flock blackening the sky of my inescapable memories."

  Odrade held herself like a swimmer balanced just below the water's surface.

  I most likely will be replaced, Odrade thought. I may even be reviled. Bellonda certainly was not giving easy agreement to the new state of command. No matter. Survival of the Sisterhood was all that should concern any of them.

  Odrade floated up out of the Other Memories and lifted her gaze to look across the room into the shadowy niche where the bust of a woman could be discerned in the low light of the room's glowglobes. The bust remained a vague shape in its shadows but Odrade knew that face well: Chenoeh, guardian symbol of Chapter House.

  "There but for the grace of God... "

  Every sister who came through the spice agony (as Chenoeh had not) said or thought that same thing, but what did it really mean? Careful breeding and careful training produced the successful ones in sufficient numbers. Where was the hand of God in that? God certainly was not the worm they had brought from Rakis. Was the presence of God felt only in the successes of the Sisterhood?

  I fall prey to the pretensions of my own Missionaria Protectiva!

  She knew that these were similar to thoughts and questions that had been heard in this room on countless occasions. Bootless! Still, she could not bring herself to remove that guardian bust from the niche where it had reposed for so long.

  I am not superstitious, she told herself. I am not a compulsive person. This is a matter of tradition. Such things have a value well known to us.

  Certainly, no bust of me will ever be so honored.

  She thought of Waff and his Face Dancers dead with Miles Teg in the terrible destruction of Rakis. It did not do to dwell on the bloody attrition being suffered in the Old Empire. Better to think about the muscles of retribution being created by the blundering violence of the Honored Matres.

  Teg knew!

  The recently concluded Council session had subsided in fatigue without firm conclusions. Odrade counted herself lucky to have diverted attention into a few immediate concerns dear to them all.

  The punishments: Those had occupied them for a time. Historical precedents fleshed out the Archival analyses to a satisfying form. Those assemblages of humans who allied themselves with the Honored Matres were in for some shocks.

  Ix would certainly overextend itself. They had not the slightest appreciation of how competition from the Scattering would crush them.

  The Guild would be shunted aside and made to pay dearly for its melange and its machinery. Guild and Ix, thrown together, would fall together.

  The Fish Speakers could be mostly ignored. Satellites of Ix, they were already fading into a past that humans would abandon.

  And the Bene Tleilax. Ah, yes, the Tleilaxu. Waff had succumbed to the Honored Matres. He had never admitted it but the truth was plain. "Just once and with one of my own Face Dancers."

  Odrade smiled grimly, remembering her father's bitter kiss.

  I will have another niche made, she thought. I will commission another bust: Miles Teg, the Great Heretic!

  Lucilla's suspicions about Teg were disquieting, though. Had he been prescient at last and able to see the no-ships? Well, the Breeding Mistresses could explore those suspicions.

  "We have laagered up!" Bellonda accused.

  They all knew the meaning of that word: they had retreated into a fortress position for the long night of the whores.

  Odrade realized she did not much care for Bellonda, the way she laughed occasionally to expose those wide, blunt teeth.

  They had discussed the cell samples from Sheeana for a long time. The "proof of Siona" was there. She had the ancestry that shielded her from prescience and could leave the no-ship.

  Duncan was an unknown.

  Odrade turned her thoughts to the ghola out there in the grounded no-ship. Lifting herself from the chair, she crossed to the dark window and looked in the direction of the distant landing field.

  Did they dare risk releasing Duncan from the shielding of that ship? The cell studies said he was a mixture of many Idaho gholas--some descendant of Siona. But what of the taint from the original?

  No. He must remain confined.

  And what of Murbella?--pregnant Murbella? An Honored Matre dishonored.

  "The Tleilaxu intended for me to kill the Imprinter," Duncan said.

  "Will you try to kill the whore?" That was Lucilla's question.

  "She is not an Imprinter," Duncan said.

  The Council had discussed at length the possible nature of the bonding between Duncan and Murbella. Lucilla maintained there was no bonding at all, that the two remained wary opponents.

  "Best not to risk putting them together."

  The sexual prowess of the whores would have to be studied at length, though. Perhaps a meeting between Duncan and Murbella in the no-ship could be risked. With careful protective measures, of course.

  Lastly, she thought about the worm in the no-ship's hold--a worm nearing the moment of its metamorphosis. A small earth-dammed basin filled with melange awaited that worm. When the moment came, it would be lured out by Sheeana into the bath of melange and water. The resulting sandtrout could then begin their long transformation.

  You were right, father. It was so simple when you looked at it clearly.

  No need to seek a desert planet for the worms. The sandtrout would create their own habitat for Shai-hulud. It was not pleasant to think of Chapter House Planet transformed into vast areas of wasteland but it had to be done.

  The "Last Will and Testament of Miles Teg," which he had planted in the no-ship's submolecular storage systems, could not be discredited. Even Bellonda agreed to that.

  Chapter House required a complete revision of all its historical records. A new look had been dem
anded of them by what Teg had seen of the Lost Ones--the whores from the Scattering.

  "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.