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So I'm no longer Master Schytale. Strike her with the flat of the blade!
"You Scatter your Sisters, hoping some will escape destruction. What are the economic consequences of your hysterical reaction?"
Consequences! They always talk about consequences.
"We trade for time, Scytale." Very solemn.
He gave this a silent moment of reflection. The comeyes were watching them. Never forget it! Economics, witch! Who and what do we buy and sell? This alcove by the food slot was a strange place for bargainin
g, he thought. Bad management of the economy. The management hustle, the planning and strategy session, should occur behind closed doors, in high rooms with views that did not distract the occupants from the business at hand.
The serial memories of his many lives would not accept that. Necessity. Humans conduct their merchant affairs wherever they can--on the decks of sailing ships, in tawdry streets full of bustling clerks, in the spacious halls of a traditional bourse with information flowing above their heads for all to see.
Planning and strategy might come from those high rooms but the evidence of it was like the common information of the bourse--there for all to see.
So let the comeyes watch.
"What are your intentions toward me, Mother Superior?"
"To keep you alive and strong."
Careful, careful.
"But not give me a free hand."
"Scytale! You speak of economics and then want something free?"
"But my strength is important to you?"
"Believe it!"
"I do not trust you."
The food slot took that moment to disgorge his lunch: a white fish sauteed in a delicate sauce. He smelled herbs. Water in a tall glass, faint aroma of melange. A green salad. One of their better efforts. He felt himself salivating.
"Enjoy your lunch, Master Scytale. There is nothing in it to harm you. Is that not a measure of trust?"
When he did not respond, she said: "What does trust have to do with our bargaining?"
What game is she playing now?
"You tell me what you intend for Honored Matres but you do not say what you intend for me." He knew he sounded plaintive. Unavoidable.
"I intend to make the Honored Matres aware of their mortality."
"As you do with me!"
Was that satisfaction in her eyes?
"Scytale." How soft her voice. "People thus made aware truly listen. They hear you." She glanced at his tray. "Would you like something special?"
He drew himself up as best he could. "A small stimulant drink. It helps when I must think."
"Of course. I'll see that it's sent down at once." She turned her attention out of the alcove toward the main room of his quarters. He watched where she paused, her gaze shifting from place to place, item to item.
Everything in its place, witch. I am not an animal in its cave. Things must be convenient, where I can find them without thinking. Yes, those are stimpens beside my chair. So I use 'pens. But I avoid alcohol. You notice?
The stimulant, when it came, tasted of a bitter herb he was a moment identifying. Casmine. A genetically modified blood strengthener from the Gammu pharmacopoeia.
Did she intend to remind him of Gammu? They were so devious, these witches!
Poking fun at him over the question of economics. He felt the sting of this as he turned at the end of his corridor and continued his exercise in a brisk walk back to his quarters. What glue had actually held the Old Empire together? Many things, some small and some large, but mostly economic. Lines of connection thought of often as conveniences. And what kept them from blasting one another out of existence? The Great Convention. "You blast anyone and we unite to blast you."
He stopped outside his door, brought up short by a thought.
Was that it? How could punishment be enough to stop the greedy powindah? Did it come down to a glue composed of intangibles? The censure of your peers? But what if your peers balked at no obscenity? You could do anything. And that said something about Honored Matres. It certainly did.
He longed for a sagra chamber in which to bare his soul.
The Yaghist is gone! Am I the last Masheikh?
His chest felt empty. It was an effort to breathe. Perhaps it would be best to bargain more openly with the women of Shaitan.
No! That is Shaitan himself tempting me!
He entered his chambers in a chastened mood.
I must make them pay. Make them pay dearly. Dearly, dearly, dearly. Each dearly accompanied a step toward his chair. When he sat, his right hand reached out automatically for a 'pen. Soon, he felt his mind driving at speed, thoughts pouring through in marvelous array.
They do not guess how well I know the Ixian ship. It's here in my head.
He spent the next hour deciding how he would record these moments when it came time to tell his fellows how he had triumphed over the powindah. With God's help!
They would be glittering words, filled with drama and the tensions of his testing. History, after all, was always written by the victors.
They say Mother Superior can disregard nothing--a meaningless aphorism until you grasp its other significance: I am the servant of all my Sisters. They watch their servant with critical eyes. I cannot spend too much time on generalities nor on trivia. Mother Superior must display insightful action else a sense of disquiet penetrates to the farthest corners of our order.
--Darwi Odrade
Something of what Odrade called "my servant-self" went with her as she walked the halls of Central this morning, making this her exercise rather than take time on a practice floor. A disgruntled servant! She did not like what she saw.
We are too tightly bound up in our difficulties, almost incapable of separating petty problems from great ones.
What had happened to their conscience?
Although some denied it, Odrade knew there was a Bene Gesserit conscience. But they had twisted and reshaped it into a form not easily recognized.
She felt loath to meddle with it. Decisions taken in the name of survival, the Missionaria (their interminable Jesuitical arguments!)--all diverged from something far more demanding of human judgment. The Tyrant had known this.
To be human, that was the issue. But before you could be human, you had to feel it in your guts.
No clinical answers! It came down to a deceptive simplicity whose complex nature appeared when you applied it.
Like me.
You looked inward and found who and what you believed you were. Nothing else would serve.
So what am I?
"Who asks that question?" It was a skewering thrust from Other Memory.
Odrade laughed aloud and a passing Proctor named Praska stared at her in astonishment. Odrade waved to Praska and said: "It's good to be alive. Remember that."
Praska produced a faint smile before going on about her business.
So who asks: What am I?
Dangerous question. Asking it put her in a universe where nothing was quite human. Nothing matched the undefined thing she sought. All around her, clowns, wild animals and puppets reacted to the pull of hidden strings. She sensed the strings that jerked her into movement.
Odrade continued along the corridor toward the tube that would take her up to her quarters.
Strings. What came with the egg? We speak glibly of "the mind at its beginning. " But what was I before the pressures of living shaped me?
It wasn't enough to seek something "natural." No "Noble Savage." She had seen plenty of those in her lifetime. The strings jerking them were quite visible to a Bene Gesserit.
She felt the taskmaster within her. Strong today. It was a force she sometimes disobeyed or avoided. Taskmaster said: "Strengthen your talents. Do not flow gently in the current. Swim! Use it or lose it."
With a gasping sensation of near panic, she realized she had barely retained her humanity, that she had been on the point of losing it.
I've been trying too hard to think like an Honored Matre! Manipulating and maneuvering anyone I could. And all in the name of Bene Gesserit survival!
Bell said there were no limits beyond which the Sisterhood would refuse to go in preserving the Bene Gesserit. A modicum of truth in this boast but it was the truth of all boasting. There were indeed things a Reverend Mother would not do to save the Sisterhood.
We would not block the Tyrant's Golden Path.
Survival of humankind took precedence over survival of the Sisterhood. Else our grail of human maturity is meaningless.
But oh, the per
ils of leadership in a species so anxious to be told what to do. How little they knew of what they created by their demands. Leaders made mistakes. And those mistakes, amplified by the numbers who followed without questioning, moved inevitably toward great disasters.
Lemming behavior.
It was right that her Sisters watched her carefully. All governments needed to remain under suspicion during their time of power including that of the Sisterhood itself. Trust no government! Not even mine!
They are watching me this very instant. Very little escapes my Sisters. They will know my plan in time.
