*Spoiler* First Chapter of Hunters of Dune :]

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they have posted the First three Chapters of Hunters of Dune

1

THREE YEARS AFTER ESCAPE FROM CHAPTERHOUSE

Memory is weapon sharp enough to inflict deep wounds.
-- The Mentat’s Lament

On the day he died, Rakis, the planet commonly known as Dune, died with
him.
Dune. Lost forever!
In the archives chamber of the fleeing no-ship Ithaca, the ghola of Miles Teg
reviewed the desert world’s final moments. Melange-scented steam wafted
tantalizingly from a stimulant beverage at his left elbow, but the thirteen-year-old
ignored it, descending instead into deep Mentat focus. These historical
records and holo-images held great fascination for him.
This was where and how his original body had been killed. How a whole
world had been murdered. Rakis . . . legendary desert planet -- now no more
than a charred ball.
Projected above a flat table, the archival images showed Honored Matre
war vessels gathering above the baked brown globe. The immense, undetectable
no-ships -- like the stolen one in which Teg and his fellow refugees now lived --
wielded firepower superior to any the Bene Gesserit had ever employed.
Traditional atomics were little more than a pinprick by comparison.
Those new weapons must have been developed out in the Scattering. Teg pursued
a simple Mentat projection. Or was it something else entirely?
In the floating image, the bristling ships opened fire, unleashing
incineration waves with devices the Bene Gesserit had since named
“Obliterators.†The bombardment had continued until the planet was devoid of
life. The sandy dunes were turned to black glass; even Rakis’s atmosphere
caught fire. Sandworms and cities, people and sand plankton, everything
annihilated. Nothing could have survived down there, not even him.
Now, nearly fourteen years later and in a vastly changed universe, the
gangly teenager adjusted the study chair to a more comfortable height.
Reviewing the circomestances of my own death. Again.
By strict definition, Teg himself was a clone rather than a ghola grown of
cells gathered from a dead body, though that was the word most people used to
describe him. Inside his young flesh lived an old man, a veteran of numerous
campaigns for the Bene Gesserit; he could not remember the last few moments of
his life, but these records left little doubt.
The senseless annihilation of Dune demonstrated the true ruthlessness of
the Honored Matres. Whores, the Sisterhood called them. And for good reason.
Nudging the intuitive finger controls, he called up the images yet again. It
felt odd to be an outside observer, knowing that he himself had been down there
fighting and dying when these images were recorded. . . .
Teg heard a sound at the door of the archives and saw Sheeana watching
him from the corridor. Her face was lean and angular, her skin brown from a
Rakian heritage, her unruly umber hair flashed with streaks of copper from a
childhood spent under the desert sun. Her eyes were the total blue of lifelong
melange consumption, as well as the Spice Agony that had turned her into a
Reverend Mother. The youngest ever to survive, Teg had been told.
Sheeana’s generous lips held an elusive smile. “Studying battles again,
Miles? It’s a bad thing for a military commander to be so predictable.â€
“I have a great many of them to review,†Teg answered in his cracking
young-man’s voice. “The Bashar accomplished a great deal in three hundred
standard years, before I died.â€
When Sheeana recognized the projected record, her expression fell into a
troubled mask. Teg had watched those images of Rakis to the point of obsession
since they had fled from Chapterhouse into this bizarre and uncharted universe.
“Any word from Duncan yet?†he asked, trying to divert her attention. “He
was attempting a new navigation algorithm to get us away from --â€
“We know exactly where we are.†Sheeana lifted her chin in an
unconscious gesture she had come to use more and more often since becoming
the leader of this group of refugees. “We are lost.â€
Teg automatically intercepted the criticism of Duncan Idaho. “But it was
our intent to prevent anyone -- the Honored Matres, the corrupted Bene Gesserit
order, or the mysterious Enemy -- from finding us. At least we’re safe.â€
Sheeana did not seem convinced. “So many unknowns trouble me. Our
location, who is chasing us. . . .†Her voice trailed off, and then she said, “I will
leave you to your studies. We are about to have another meeting to discuss our
situation.â€
He perked up. “Has anything changed?â€
“No, Miles. I expect the same arguments over and over again.†She
shrugged. “The other Sisters seem to insist on it.†With a quiet rustle of robes,
she exited the archives chamber, leaving him with the humming silence of the
great invisible ship.
Back to Rakis. Back to my death . . . and the events leading up to it. Teg rewound
the recordings, gathering old reports and perspectives, and watched them yet
again, traveling farther backward in time.
Even though his ghola memories had been awakened, they covered only the
point up to his death. He needed these records to see how the old Bashar Teg
had gotten into such a predicament on Rakis, how he himself had provoked it.
Back then, he and his loyal men -- veterans of his many famous campaigns -- had
stolen a no-ship on Gammu, a planet that history had once called Giedi Prime,
homeworld of the evil but long-exterminated House Harkonnen.
Years earlier, Teg had been brought in to guard the young ghola of Duncan
Idaho, after eleven previous Duncan gholas had been assassinated. The old
Bashar succeeded in keeping the twelfth alive until adulthood and finally
restoring Duncan’s memories. Teg and Duncan’s escape while being hunted
across Gammu by Honored Matres and their allies, was epic. When one of the
whores, Murbella, tried to sexually enslave Duncan, he trapped her with
unsuspected abilities wired into him by his Tleilaxu creators. It turned out that
Duncan was a living weapon specifically designed to thwart the Honored
Matres. No wonder the enraged women were so desperate to find and kill him.
After slaughtering hundreds of Honored Matres and their minions, the old
Bashar hid among men who had sworn their lives to protect him. No great
general had commanded such loyalty since Paul Muad’Dib, perhaps even since
the fanatical days of the Butlerian Jihad. Amidst drinks, food, and misty-eyed
nostalgia, the Bashar had explained that he needed them to steal a no-ship for
him. Though the task seemed impossible, the veterans never questioned a thing.
Ensconced in the archives now, the young ghola reviewed surveillance
records from Gammu’s spaceport security, images taken from tall Guild Bank
buildings in the city. Each step of the assault made perfect sense to him, even as
he studied the records many years later. It was the only way to succeed, and we
accomplished it. . . .
After flying to Rakis, Teg and his men had found Reverend Mother Odrade
and Sheeana (the native girl who could communicate with sandworms) riding a
giant old worm to meet the no-ship as it landed out in the great desert. Time was
short. The whores would be coming, apoplectic because the Bashar had made
fools of them on Gammu. On Rakis, he and his surviving men took their
armored vehicles and extra weapons and left the no-ship. Time for one last, but
vital, engagement.
Before the Bashar led his loyal soldiers out to face the Honored Matres,
Odrade casually but expertly scratched the skin of his leathery neck, not-so-subtly
collecting cell samples. Both Teg and the Reverend Mother understood it
was the Sisterhood’s last chance to preserve one of the greatest military minds
since the Scattering. They realized he was about to die. Miles Teg’s last battle.
By the time the Bashar and his men clashed with Honored Matres on the
ground, other groups of the whores were swiftly taking over the Rakian
population centers. They slew the Bene Gesserit Sisters who remained behind in
Keen. They killed the Tleilaxu Masters and the Priests of the Divided God.
The battle was already lost, but Teg and his troops hurled themselves
against the enemy defenses with unparalleled violence. Since Honored Matre
hubris would not allow them to accept such humiliation, the whores retaliated
against the whole world, destroying everything and everyone there. Including
him.
In the meantime, however, the old Bashar’s fighters had created a diversion
so the no-ship could escape, carrying Odrade, the Duncan ghola, and Sheeana,
who had tempted the ancient sandworm into the vessel’s cavernous cargo hold.
Soon after the ship flew to safety, Rakis was destroyed and that worm became
the last of its kind.
That had been Teg’s first life. His real memories ended there.
#
Watching images of the final bombardment, Teg wondered at what point
his original body had been obliterated. Did it really matter? Now that he was
alive again, Miles Teg had a second chance.
Using cells Odrade had taken from his neck, the Sisterhood grew a copy of
their Bashar and triggered his genetic memories. The Bene Gesserit had known
they would require his tactical genius in the war with the Honored Matres. And
the boy Teg had led the Sisterhood to its victory on Gammu and Junction. He
had done everything they asked of him.
Later, he and Duncan, along with Sheeana and her dissidents, had stolen
the no-ship yet again and fled from Chapterhouse, unable to bear what Murbella
was allowing to happen to the rest of the Bene Gesserit. Better than anyone else,
they understood about the mysterious Enemy that continued to hunt for them,
no matter how lost the no-ship might be. . . .
Weary with facts and forced memories, Teg switched off the records,
stretched his thin arms, and left the archives sector. He would spend several
hours in vigorous physical training, then work on his weapons skills.
Though he lived in the body of a thirteen-year-old, it was his job to remain
ready for everything and never lower his guard.

2

Why ask a man who is already lost to lead you? Why then are you surprised if
he leads you nowhere?
-- Duncan Idaho, A Thousand Lives

They were adrift. They were safe. They were lost.
An unidentifiable ship in an unidentifiable universe.
Alone on the navigation bridge, as he often was, Duncan Idaho knew that
powerful enemies were still after them. Threats within threats within threats.
The no-ship wandered the frigid void, far from any recorded human exploration.
A different universe entirely. He couldn’t decide whether they were hiding or
trapped. He didn’t know how to get back to a familiar star system, even if he
wanted to.
According to the bridge’s independent chronometers, they had been in this
strange, distorted otherwhere for years . . . though who could say how time
flowed in another universe? The laws of physics and the landscape of the galaxy
might be completely altered here.
Abruptly, as if his concerns had been laced with prescience, he noticed the
main instrument panel blinking erratically, while the stabilizing engines surged
up and down. Though he couldn’t see anything more unusual than the nowfamiliar
twistings of gases and distorted energy ripples, the no-ship had
encountered what he’d come to think of as a “rough patch.†How could they
encounter turbulence when nothing was there?
The ship shook in a whiplash of strange gravity, jarred by a spray of highenergy
particles. When Duncan switched off the automatic piloting systems and
altered course, the situation worsened. Barely perceptible flashes of orange light
appeared in front of the vessel, like a faint, flickering fire. He felt the deck
shudder, as if he had rammed into some obstacle, but he could see nothing.
Nothing at all! It should have been empty vacuum, giving them no sensation of
movement or turbulence. Strange universe.
Duncan corrected course until the instruments and engines smoothed out,
and the flashes disappeared. If the danger grew worse, he might be forced to
attempt yet another risky foldspace jump. Upon leaving Chapterhouse, he had
flown the no-ship without guidance, having purged all navigation systems and
coordinate files, using nothing but his intuition and rudimentary prescience.
Each time he activated the Holtzman engines, Duncan gambled with the whole
ship, and the lives of the one hundred fifty refugees aboard. He wouldn’t do it
unless he had to.
Three years ago, he’d had no choice. Duncan had lifted the great craft from
its landing field -- not escaping per se, but stealing the entire prison where the
Sisterhood had put him. Simply flying away wasn’t sufficient. In his attuned
mind, he had seen the trap closing around them. The Outside Enemy observers,
in their bizarrely innocuous guises of an old man and an old woman, had a net
they could cast across vast distances to entangle the no-ship. He’d seen the
sparkling multicolored mesh begin to contract, the strange old couple smiling
with victory. They had thought he and the no-ship were in their grasp.
His fingers a blur, his concentration sharp as a diamond chip, Duncan had
made the Holtzman engines do things that not even a Guild Navigator would
ask of them. As the Enemy’s invisible web ensnared the no-ship, Duncan had
flung them away, flying the enormous vessel so deeply into the folds of space
that he tore the fabric of the universe itself and slid beyond. His ancient
Swordmaster training had come to his aid. Like a slow blade slipping through
an otherwise impenetrable body shield.
And the no-ship had found itself somewhere else entirely. But he had
remained vigilant, not allowing himself to breathe a sigh of relief. In this
incomprehensible universe, what might be next?
Now he studied external images transmitted from sensors extended beyond
the no-field. The view outside had not changed: twisted veils of nebula gas,
inside-out streamers that would never condense into stars. Was this a young
universe, not yet finished coalescing, or a universe so unspeakably ancient that
all suns had burned out and been reduced to molecular ash?
The group of misfit refugees desperately wanted to get back to normal . . .
or at the very least to somewhere else. Over such a long time, their fear and
anxiety had faded first to confusion, then to restlessness and malaise. They
wanted more than simply being lost and unharmed. Either they looked to
Duncan Idaho with hope, or they blamed him for their plight.
The ship contained a hodge-podge of humanity’s factions (or did Sheeana
and her Bene Gesserit Sisters view them all as mere “specimens?â€). The
assortment included a sprinkling of orthodox Bene Gesserits -- acolytes, proctors,
Reverend Mothers, even male workers -- along with Duncan himself and the
young Miles Teg ghola. Also aboard were a Rabbi and his group of Jews who
had been rescued from an attempted Honored Matre pogrom on Gammu; one
surviving Tleilaxu Master; and four animalistic Futars -- monstrous human-feline
hybrids created out in the Scattering and enslaved by the whores. In addition,
the great hold was home to seven small sandworms.
Truly, we are a strange mixture. A ship of fools.
A year after escaping from Chapterhouse and becoming mired in this
distorted and incomprehensible universe, Sheeana and her Bene Gesserits had
joined Duncan in a christening ceremony. In light of the no-ship’s endless
wanderings, the name Ithaca seemed appropriate.
Ithaca, a small island in ancient Greece, had been the home of Odysseus,
who had spent ten years wandering after the end of the Trojan War, trying to
find his way back home. Similarly, Duncan and his companions needed a place
to call home, a safe haven. These people were on their own great odyssey, and
without so much as a map or a star chart, Duncan was as lost as age-old
Odysseus.
No one realized how much he himself longed to go back to Chapterhouse.
Heartstrings linked him to Murbella, his love, his slave, his master. Breaking free
of her had been the single most difficult and painful endeavor he could
remember in his multiple lifetimes. He doubted he would ever entirely recover
from her. Murbella . . .
Yet Duncan Idaho had always placed duty above personal feelings.
Regardless of the heartache, he assumed responsibility for keeping the no-ship
and its passengers safe, even in a skewed universe.
At odd times, stray combinations of odors reminded him of Murbella’s
distinctive scent. Organic esters that drifted through the no-ship’s processed air
would strike his olfactory receptors, triggering memories from their eleven years
together. Murbella’s perspiration, her dark amber hair, the particular taste of her
lips and the seawater scent of their “sexual collisions.†Their passionate,
codependent encounters had been both intimate and violent for years, with
neither of them strong enough to break free.
I must not confuse mutual addiction with love. The pain was at least as
sharp and unendurable as the debilitating agony of drug withdrawal. Hour by
hour as the no-ship flew through the void, Duncan drew farther from her.
He leaned back and opened his unique senses, reaching out, always wary
that someone might find the no-ship. The danger in letting himself do this
passive sentry duty was that he occasionally descended into muddled
woolgathering about Murbella. To get around this problem, Duncan
compartmentalized his Mentat mind. If a portion of it drifted, another portion
was always wary, always on the lookout for danger.
In their years together, he and Murbella had produced four daughters. The
oldest two -- twins -- would be nearly grown now. But from the moment the
Agony had transformed his Murbella into a true Bene Gesserit, she had been lost
to him. Because an Honored Matre had never before completed training --
retraining -- to become a Bene Gesserit Reverend Mother, the Sisterhood had
been exceptionally pleased with her. Duncan’s shattered heart had been, and
still was, merely collateral damage.
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 jade eyes had attained a deeper 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. The
new woman’s visage was blurred, as if she herself had forgotten what she looked
like. 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 the no-ship currently inhabited. He
struggled to get away.
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 hyper-acute 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, flee 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. How
many different forces were hunting them? 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 ripped 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 sparkle of suns and nebulae. Normal
space. 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.

3

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

Like a dragon empress surveying her subjects, Murbella sat on a high
throne in the large receiving hall of the Bene Gesserit Keep. Bright, 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 two 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 was always there, 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.
“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.â€
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 soostones 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 form-fitting 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 straightjacket; a nerve-deadening gag muzzled her mouth. Annine
struggled ineffectively against the restraints, and her attempts to speak came out
as unintelligible grunts.
Guards positioned the rebellious woman at the foot of the steps below the
throne. Murbella focused on the wild eyes that screamed defiance at her. “I no
longer wish to hear what you have to say, Annine. You have already said too
much.â€
This woman had criticized the Mother Commander’s leadership once too
often, holding her own meetings and railing against the merging of Honored
Matres and Bene Gesserits. Some of Annine’s followers had even disappeared
from the main city and established their own base in the uninhabited northern
territories. Murbella could not allow such provocation to pass unchallenged.
The way Annine had handled the matter -- embarrassing Murbella and
diminishing her authority and prestige from behind a cloak of cowardly
anonymity -- had been unforgivable. The Mother Commander knew Annine’s
type well enough. No negotiation, no compromise, no appeal for understanding
would ever change her mind. The woman defined herself through her
opposition.
A waste of human raw material. Murbella flashed an expression of disgust.
If Annine had only turned her anger against a real enemy . . .
Women of both factions observed from either side of the great hall. Even in
the chamber, the two groups were reluctant to mix, instead separating into
“whores†on one side and “witches†on the other. Like oil and water.
In the years since commanding this unification, Murbella had come through
numerous situations in which she might have been killed, but she eluded every
trap, sliding, adapting, administering harsh punishments.
Her authority over these women was wholly legitimate: She was both
Reverend Mother Superior, selected by Odrade, as well as Great Honored Matre
by virtue of assassinating her predecessor. She had chosen the title of Mother
Commander for herself to symbolize the integration of the two important ranks.
With time, the women around her had learned, and even become rather
protective of her. Murbella’s lessons were having the desired effect, albeit
slowly.
Following the seesaw battle on Junction, the only way for the embattled
Sisterhood to survive the violence of the Honored Matres had been to let them
believe they were victorious. In a philosophical turnabout, the captors actually
became captives before they realized it; Bene Gesserit knowledge, training, and
wiles subsumed their competitors’ rigid beliefs. In most cases.
At a hand signal, the Mother Commander caused her guards to tighten
Annine’s restraints. The woman’s face contorted in pain.
Murbella descended the polished steps, never taking her eyes off the
captive. Reaching the floor, Murbella glared down at the shorter woman. It
pleased her to see the eyes change, filling with fear instead of defiance as
realization swept over her.
Honored Matres rarely bothered to hold back their emotions, choosing
instead to exploit them. They found that a provocative feral expression, a clear
indication of anger and danger, could make their victims prone to submission.
In sharp contrast, Reverend Mothers considered emotions a weakness and
controlled them rigidly.
“Over the years, I have met many challengers and killed them all,â€
Murbella said. “I dueled with Honored Matres who did not acknowledge my
rule. I stood up to Bene Gesserits who refused to accept what I am doing. How
much more blood and time must I waste on this nonsense when we have a real
Enemy hunting us?â€
Without releasing Annine’s restraints or loosening her gag, Murbella
brought forth a gleaming dagger from her sash and thrust it into Annine’s throat.
Without ceremony, without dignity . . . without wasting any more time.
The guards held the dying prisoner up as she twitched and thrashed and
gurgled half words, then slumped over, her eyes glassy and dead. Annine
hadn’t even made a mess on the floor.
“Remove her.†Murbella wiped the knife on the victim’s plazsilk cape, then
resumed her seat on the throne. “I have more important business to take care
of.â€
Out in the galaxy, ruthless and untamed Honored Matres -- still greatly
outnumbering the Bene Gesserits -- operated in independent cells, discrete
groups. Many of those women refused to accept the Mother Commander’s
authority and continued their original plan of slash-and-burn, destroy and run.
Before they could face the real Enemy, Murbella would have to bring them into
line. All of them.
Sensing that Odrade was once again available, Murbella said to her dead
mentor in the silence of her mind, “I wish this sort of thing were not necessary.â€
Your way is more brutal than I’d prefer, but your challenges are great, and
different from mine. I entrusted you with the task of the Sisterhood’s survival.
Now the work falls to you.
“You are dead and relegated to the role of observer.â€
Odrade-within chuckled. I find that role to be far less stressful.
Throughout the internal exchange, Murbella kept her face a placid mask,
since so many in the receiving hall were watching her.
To the left of her ornate throne, the aged and enormously fat Bellonda
leaned over. “The Guildship has arrived. We are escorting their six-member
delegation here with all due speed.†Bell d been Odrade’s foil and companion.
The two had disagreed a great deal, especially about the Duncan Idaho project.
“I have decided to make them wait. No need to let them think we are
anxious to see them.†She knew what the Guild wanted. Spice. Always spice.
Bellonda’s chins folded together as she nodded. “Certainly. We can find
endless formalities to observe, if you wish. Give the Guild a taste of their own
bureaucracy.â€
​