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In his mind's eye, Murbella's lovely countenance haunted him. His Mentat abilities--both a skill and a curse--allowed him to call up every detail of her features: her oval face and wide brow, the hard green eyes that reminded him of jade, the willowy body that could fight and make love with equal prowess. Then he remembered that her green eyes had become blue after the spice Agony. Not the same person . . .
His thoughts wandered, and Murbella's features shifted in his mind. Like an afterimage burned onto his retinas, another woman began to take shape, and he was startled. This was an outside presence, a mind immeasurably superior to his own, searching for him, wrapping gentle strands around the Ithaca.
Duncan Idaho, a voice called, soothing and feminine.
He felt a rush of emotions, as well as an awareness of danger. Why hadn't his Mentat sentry system seen this coming? His compartmentalized mind snapped into full survival mode. He jumped toward the Holtzman controls, intending once again to fling the no-ship far away, without guidance.
The voice tried to intercede. Duncan Idaho, do not flee. I am not your enemy.
The old man and woman had made similar assurances. Though he had no idea who they were, Duncan did comprehend that they were the real danger. But this new muliebral presence, this vast intellect, had touched him from outside of the strange, unidentified universe that the no-ship currently inhabited. He struggled to get away but could not escape the voice.
I am the Oracle of Time.
In several of his lives, Duncan had heard of the Oracle--the guiding force of the Spacing Guild. Benevolent and all-seeing, the Oracle of Time was said to be a shepherding presence that had watched over the Guild since its formation fifteen thousand years ago. Duncan had always considered it an odd manifestation of religion among the hyperacute Navigators.
"The Oracle is a myth." His fingers hovered over the touchpads of the command console.
I am many things. He was surprised when the voice did not contradict his accusation. Many seek you. You will be found here.
"I trust in my own abilities." Duncan powered up the foldspace engines. From her external point of view, he hoped the Oracle wouldn't notice what he was doing. He would take the no-ship somewhere else, fleeing again. How many different powers were hunting them?
The future demands your presence. You have a role to play in Kralizec.
Kralizec . . . typhoon struggle . . . the long-foretold battle at the end of the universe that would forever change the shape of the future.
"Another myth," Duncan said, even as he activated the foldspace jump without warning the other passengers. He couldn't risk staying here. The no-ship lurched, then plunged once more into the unknown.
He heard the voice fading as the ship escaped the Oracle's clutches, but she did not seem dismayed. Here, the distant voice said, I will guide you. The intruding voice faded, ripping away like shreds of cotton.
The Ithaca careened through foldspace and, after an interminably brief instant, tumbled out again.
Stars shone all around the ship. Real stars. Duncan studied the sensors, checked the navigation grid, and saw the sparkles of suns and nebulae. Normal space again. Without further verification he knew that they had fallen back into their own universe. He couldn't decide whether to rejoice or cry out in despair.
Duncan no longer sensed the Oracle of Time, nor could he detect any of the likely searchers--the mysterious Enemy and the unified Sisterhood--though they must still be out there. They would not have given up, not even after three years.
The no-ship continued to run.
The strongest and most altruistic leader, even if his office is dependent on the support of the masses, must look first to the dictates of his heart, never allowing his decisions to be swayed by popular opinion. It is only through courage and strength of character that a true and memorable legacy is ever attained.
--from "Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib" by the
PRINCESS IRULAN
L
ike a dragon empress surveying her subjects, Murbella sat on a high throne in the large receiving hall of the Bene Gesserit Keep. Early morning sunlight poured through the tall stained-glass windows, splashing colors around the chamber.
Chapterhouse was the center of a most peculiar civil war. Reverend Mothers and Honored Matres came together with all the finesse of colliding spacecraft. Murbella--following Odrade's grand plan--allowed them no other option. Chapterhouse was home to both groups now.
Each faction hated Murbella for the changes she had imposed, and neither had the strength to defy her. Through their union, the conflicting philosophies and societies of the Honored Matres and the Bene Gesserits merged like horrific Siamese twins. The very concept was appalling to many of them. The potential for reigniting bloodshed always hung in the air, and the forced alliance teetered on the edge of failure.
That was a gamble some in the Sisterhood had not been willing to accept. "Survival at the cost of destroying ourselves is no survival at all," Sheeana had said just before she and Duncan took the no-ship and flew away. "Voting with their feet," as the old saying went. Oh, Duncan! Was it possible that Mother Superior Odrade had not guessed what Sheeana planned to do?
Of course I knew, said the voice of Odrade from Other Memory. Sheeana hid it from me for a long time, but in the end I knew.
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"And you chose not to warn me of it?" Murbella often sparred aloud with the voice of her predecessor, one of the many ancestral inner voices she could access since becoming a Reverend Mother.
I chose to warn no one. Sheeana made her decisions for her own reasons.
"And now we must both live with the consequences."
From her throne, Murbella watched the guards lead in a female prisoner. Another disciplinary matter for her to handle. Another example she must make. Though such demonstrations appalled the Bene Gesserits, the Honored Matres appreciated their value.
This situation was more important than others, so Murbella would handle it personally. She smoothed her shimmering black-and-gold robe across her lap. Unlike the Bene Gesserits, who understood their places and required no ostentatious symbols of rank, Honored Matres demanded gaudy signs of status, like extravagant thrones or chairdogs, ornate capes in vivid colors. Thus, the self-proclaimed Mother Commander was forced to sit on an imposing throne encrusted with soo-stones and firegems.
Enough to purchase a major planet, she thought, if there were any I wanted to buy.
Murbella had come to hate the trappings of office, but she knew the necessity. Women in the different costumes of the two orders attended her constantly, alert for any sign of weakness in her. Though they underwent training in the ways of the Sisterhood, Honored Matres clung to their traditional garments, serpent-scribed capes and scarves, and formfitting leotard bodysuits. By contrast, the Bene Gesserits shunned bright colors and covered themselves with dark, loose robes. The disparity was as clear as that between gaudy peacocks and camouflaged bush wrens.
The prisoner, an Honored Matre named Annine, had short blond hair and wore a canary yellow leotard with a flamboyant cape of sapphire plazsilk moire. Electronic restraints kept her arms folded across her midsection, as if she wore an invisible straitjacket; a nerve-deadening gag muzzled her mouth. Annine struggled ineffectively against the restraints, and her attempts to speak came out as unintelligible grunts.
