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This is where my kind have been.
That took on a peculiar patina when "my kind" were blood-related ancestors.
Look how long we Atreides persisted on Caladan, restoring the old castle, polishing deep carvings in ancient wood. Whole teams of retainers just to keep the creaking old place at a level of barely tolerable functionalism.
But those retainers had not thought themselves ill used. There had been a sense of privilege in their labors. Hands that polished the wood almost caressed it.
"Old. Been with the Atreides a long time now."
People and their artifacts. She felt tool sense as a living part of herself.
"I'm better because of this stick in my hand ... because of this fire-sharpened spear to kill my meat ... because of this shelter against the cold... because of my stone cellar to store our winter food ... because of this swift sailing vessel ... this giant ocean liner ... this ship of metal and ceramics that carries me into space..."
Those first human venturers into space--how little they suspected of where the voyage would extend. How isolated they were in those ancient times! Little capsules of livable atmosphere linked to cumbersome data sources by primitive transmission systems. Solitude. Loneliness. Limited opportunity for anything but surviving. Keep the air washed. Be sure of potable water. Exercise to prevent the debilitation of weightlessness. Stay active. Healthy mind in a healthy body. What was a healthy mind, anyway?
"Mother Superior?"
That damned Communications acolyte again!
"Yes?"
"Bellonda says to tell you immediately there has been a messenger from Buzzell. Strangers came and took all of the Reverend Mothers away."
Odrade whirled. "Her entire message?"
"No, Mother Superior. The strangers are described as commanded by a woman. The messenger says she had the look of an Honored Matre but was not wearing one of their robes."
"Nothing from Dortujla or the others?"
"They were not given the opportunity, Mother Superior. The messenger is a First-Stage acolyte. She came in the small no-ship following explicit orders from Dortujla."
"Tell Bell that acolyte must not be allowed to leave. She has dangerous information. I will brief a messenger when I return. It must be a Reverend Mother. Do you have that?"
"Of course, Mother Superior." Hurt at the suggestion of doubt.
It was happening! Odrade contained her excitement with difficulty.
They have taken the bait. Now ... are they on the hook?
Dortujla did a dangerous thing depending on an acolyte that way. Knowing Dortujla, that must be an extremely reliable acolyte. Prepared to kill herself if captured. I must see this acolyte. She may be ready for the Agony. And perhaps that's a message Dortujla sends me. It would be like her.
Bell would be incensed, of course. Foolish to depend on someone from a punishment station!
Odrade summoned a Communications team. "Set up a link with Bellonda."
The portable projector was not as clear as a fixed installation but Bell and her setting were recognizable.
Sitting at my table as though she owned it. Excellent!
Not giving Bellonda time for one of her outbursts, Odrade said: "Determine if that messenger acolyte is ready for the Agony."
"She is." Gods below! That was terse for Bell.
"Then see to it. Perhaps she can be our messenger."
"Already have."
"Is she resourceful?"
"Very."
What in the name of all the devils has happened to Bell? She's acting extremely odd. Not like her usual self at all. Duncan!
"Oh, and Bell, I want Duncan to have an open link with Archives."
"Did that this morning."
Well, well. Contact with Duncan is having its effect.
"I'll talk to you after I've seen Sheeana."
"Tell Tam she was right."
"About what?"
"Just tell her."
"Very well. I must say, Bell, I couldn't be more satisfied with the way you're handling matters."
"After the way you've handled me, how could I fail?"
Bellonda was actually smiling as they broke the connection. Odrade turned to find Tamalane standing behind her.
"Right about what, Tam?"
"That there's more to contacts between Idaho and Sheeana than we've suspected." Tamalane moved close to Odrade and lowered her voice. "Don't put her in my chair without discovering what they keep secret."
"I'm aware you knew my intentions, Tam. But ... am I that transparent?"
"In some things, Dar."
"I'm fortunate to have you as a friend."
"You have other supporters. When the Proctors voted, it was your creativity that worked for you. 'Inspired' is the way one of your defenders put it."
"Then you know I'll have Sheeana on the coals quite thoroughly before I make one of my inspired decisions."
"Of course."
Odrade signaled Communications to remove the projector and went to wait at the edge of the glassy area.
Creative imagination.
She knew the mixed feelings of her associates.
Creativity!
Always dangerous to entrenched power. Always coming up with something new. New things could destroy the grip of authority. Even the Bene Gesserit approached creativity with misgivings. Maintaining an even keel inspired some to shunt boat-rockers aside. That was an element behind Dortujla's posting. The trouble was that creative ones tended to welcome backwaters. They called it privacy. It had taken quite a force to bring Dortujla out.
Be well, Dortujla. Be the best bait we ever used.
The 'thopters came then--sixteen of them, pilots showing displeasure at this added assignment after all the trouble they had been through. Moving whole communities!
In a fragile mood, Odrade watched the 'thopters settle to the hard-glazed surface, wing fans folding back into pod sleeves--each craft like a sleeping insect.
An insect designed in its own likeness by a mad robot.
When they were airborne, Streggi once more seated beside Odrade, Streggi asked: "Will we see sandworms? "
"Possibly. But there are no reports of them yet."
Streggi sat back, disappointed by the answer but unable to lever it into another question. Truth could be upsetting at times and they had such high expectations invested in this evolutionary gamble, Odrade thought.
Else why destroy everything we loved on Chapterhouse?
Simulflow intruded with an image of a long-ago sign arching over a narrow entry to a pink brick building: HOSPITAL FOR INCURABLE DISEASES.
Was that where the Sisterhood found itself? Or was it that they tolerated too many failures? Intrusive Other Memory had to have its purpose.
Failures?
Odrade searched it out: If it comes, we must think of Murbella as a Sister. Not that their captive Honored Matre was an incurable failure. But she was a misfit and undergoing the deep training at a very late age.
How quiet they were all around her, everyone looking out at windswept sand--whaleback dunes giving way at times to dry wavelets. Early afternoon sun had just begun to provide sufficient sidelighting to define near vistas. Dust obscured the horizon ahead.
Odrade curled up in her seat and slept. I've seen this before. I survived Dune.
The stir as they came down and circled over Sheeana's Desert Watch Center awakened her.
Desert Watch Center. We're at it again. We haven't really named it ... no more than we gave a name to this planet. Chapterhouse! What kind of a name is that? Desert Watch Center! Description, not a name. Accent on the temporary.
As they descended, she saw confirmations of her thought. The sense of temporary housing was amplified by spartan abruptness in all junctures. No softness, no rounding of any connection. This attaches here and that goes over there. All joined by removable connectors.
It was a bumpy landing, the pilot telling them that way: "Here you are and good riddance."
