Dune

Major flaws in government arise from a fear of making radical internal changes even though a need is clearly seen.

—DARWI ODRADE

For Odrade, the first melange of the morning was always different. Her flesh responded like a starveling who clutched at sweet fruit. Then followed the slow, penetrating and painful restoration.

This was the fearful thing about melange addiction.

She stood at the window of her sleeping chamber waiting for the effect to run its course. Weather Control, she noted, had achieved another morning rain. The landscape was washed clean, everything immersed in a romantic haze, all edges blurred and reduced to essences like old memories. She opened the window. Damp cold air blew across her face, drawing recollections around her the way one put on a familiar garment.

She inhaled deeply. Smells after a rain! She remembered the essentials of life amplified and smoothed by falling water but these rains were different. They left a flinty aftersmell she could taste. Odrade did not like it. The message was not of things washed clean but of life resentful, wanting all rain stopped and locked away. This rain no longer gentled and brought fullness. It carried inescapable awareness of change.

Odrade closed the window. At once, she was back in the familiar odors of her quarters, and that constant smell of shere from the metering implants required of everyone who knew the location of Chapterhouse. She heard Streggi enter, the slip-slip sounds of the desert map being changed.

An efficient sound in Streggi’s movements. Weeks of close association had confirmed Odrade’s first judgment. Reliable. Not brilliant but supremely sensitive to Mother Superior’s needs. Look how quietly she moved. Transfer Streggi’s sensitivity to the needs of young Teg and they had his required height and mobility. A horse? Much more.

Odrade’s melange assimilation reached its peak and subsided. Streggi’s reflection in the window showed her waiting for assignment. She knew these moments were given over to the spice. At her stage, she would be looking forward to the day when she entered this mysterious enhancement.

I wish her well of it.

Most Reverend Mothers followed the teaching and seldom thought of their spice as addiction. Odrade knew it every morning for what it was. You took your spice during the day as your body demanded, following a pattern of early training: dosage minimal, just enough to whet the metabolic system and drive it into peak performance. Biological necessities meshed more smoothly with melange. Food tasted better. Barring accident or fatal assault, you lived much longer than you could without it. But you were addicted.

Her body restored, Odrade blinked and considered Streggi. Curiosity about the morning’s long ritual was plain in her. Speaking to Streggi’s reflection in the window, Odrade said: “Have you learned about melange withdrawal?”

“Yes, Mother Superior.”

Despite warnings to keep awareness of addiction low key, it was never more than an eyeblink away from Odrade and she felt the accumulated resentments. Mental preparations as an acolyte (firmly impressed in the Agony) had been eroded by Other Memory and accumulations of time. The admonition: “Withdrawal removes an essential of your life and, if it occurs in late middle age, can kill you.” How little that meant now.

“Withdrawal has intense meaning for me,” Odrade said. “I am one of those for whom the morning melange is painful. I’m sure they told you this happens.”

“I’m sorry, Mother Superior.”

Odrade studied the map. It showed a longer finger of desert thrusting northward and a pronounced widening of drylands to the southeast of Central where Sheeana had her station. Presently, Odrade returned her attention to Streggi, who was watching Mother Superior with new interest.

Brought up short by thoughts of the spice’s darker side!

“The uniqueness of melange is seldom considered in our age,” Odrade said. “All of the old narcotics in which humans have indulged possess a remarkable factor in common—all except the spice. They all brought shorter life and pain.”

“We were told, Mother Superior.”

“But you probably were not told that a fact of governance could be obscured by our concern with Honored Matres. There’s an energy greed in governments (yes, even in ours) that can dump you into a trap. If you serve me, you will feel it in your guts because every morning you will watch me suffer. Let knowledge of it sink into you, this deadly trap. Don’t become uncaring pushers, caught in a system that displaces life with careless death as Honored Matres do. Remember: Acceptable narcotics can be taxed to pay salaries or otherwise create jobs for uncaring functionaries.”

Streggi was puzzled. “But melange extends our lives, increases health and arouses appetites for—”

She was stopped by Odrade’s scowl.

Right out of the Acolyte Manual!

“It has this other side, Streggi, and you see it in me. The Acolyte Manual does not lie. But melange is a narcotic and we are addicted.”

“I know it’s not gentle with everyone, Mother Superior. But you said Honored Matres don’t use it.”

“The substitute they employ replaces melange with few benefits except to prevent withdrawal agonies and death. It is parallel addictive.”

“And the captive?”

“Murbella used it and now she uses melange. They are interchangeable. Interesting?”

“I . . . suppose we will learn more of this. I notice, Mother Superior, that you never call them whores.”

“As acolytes do? Ahh, Streggi, Bellonda has been a bad influence. Oh, I recognize the pressures.” As Streggi started to protest. “Acolytes feel the threat. They look at Chapterhouse and think of it as their fortress for the long night of the whores.”

“Something like that, Mother Superior.” Extremely hesitant.

“Streggi, this planet is only another temporary place. Today we go south and impress that upon you. Find Tamalane, please, and tell her to make the arrangements we discussed for our visit to Sheeana. Speak to no one else about it.”

“Yes, Mother Superior. Do you mean I will accompany you?”

“I want you by my side. Tell the one you are training that she now has full charge of my map.”

As Streggi left, Odrade thought of Sheeana and Idaho. She wants to talk to him and he wants to talk to her.

Comeye analysis noted that these two sometimes conversed by hand-signals while hiding most of the movements with their bodies. It had the look of an old Atreides battle language. Odrade recognized some of it but not enough to determine content. Bellonda wanted an explanation from Sheeana. “Secrets!” Odrade was more cautious. “Let it go a bit. Perhaps something interesting will come of it.”

What does Sheeana want?

Whatever Duncan had in mind it concerned Teg. Creating the pain required for Teg to recover his original memories went against Duncan’s grain.

Odrade had noted this when she interrupted Duncan at his console yesterday.

“You’re late, Dar.” Not looking up from whatever it was he did there. Late? It was early evening.

He had been calling her Dar frequently for several years, a goad, a reminder that he resented his fishtank existence. The goad irritated Bellonda, who argued against “his damned familiarities.” He called Bellonda “Bell,” of course. Duncan was generous with his needle.

Remembering this, Odrade paused before entering her workroom. Duncan had slammed a fist into the counter beside his console. “There’s got to be a better way for Teg!”

A better way? What does he have in mind?

Movement down the corridor beyond the workroom brought her out of this reflection. Streggi returning from Tamalane. Streggi entered the Acolyte Ready Room. Giving the word to her replacement on the desert map.

A stack of Archival records waited on Odrade’s table. Bellonda! Odrade stared at the pile. No matter how much she tried to delegate there was always this organized residue that her councillors insisted only Mother Superior could handle. Much of this new lot came from Bellonda’s demand for “suggestions and analyses.”

Odrade touched her console. “Bell!”

The voice of an Archives clerk responded: “Mother Superior?”

“Get Bell up here! I want her in front of me as fast as her fat legs can move!”

It was less than a minute. Bellonda stood in front of the worktable like a chastened acolyte. They all knew that tone in Mother Superior’s voice.

Odrade touched the stack on her table and jerked her hand back as though shocked. “What in the name of Shaitan is all of that?”

“We judged it significant.”

“You think I have to see everything and anything? Where’s the keynoting? This is sloppy work, Bell! I’m not stupid and neither are you. But this . . . in the face of this . . .”

“I delegate as much as—”

“Delegate? Look at this! Which must I see and which may I delegate? Not one keynote!”

“I’ll see that it’s corrected immediately.”

“Indeed you will, Bell. Because Tam and I are going south today, an unannounced inspection tour and a visit with Sheeana. And while I’m gone, you will sit in my chair. See how you like this daily deluge!”

“Will you be out of touch?”

“I’ll have a lightline and Ear-C at all times.”

Bellonda breathed easier.

“I suggest, Bell, that you get back to Archives and put someone in charge who will take responsibility. I’m damned if you’re not beginning to act like bureaucrats. Covering your asses!”

“Real boats rock, Dar.”

Was that Bell attempting humor? All was not lost!

Odrade waved a hand over her projector and there was Tamalane in the Transport Hall. “Tam?”

“Yes?” Without turning from an assignment list.

“How soon can we leave?”

“About two hours.”

“Call me when you’re ready. Oh, and Streggi goes with us. Make room for her.” Odrade blanked the projection before Tamalane could respond.

There were things she should be doing, Odrade knew. Tam and Bell were not the only sources of Mother Superior’s concerns.

Sixteen planets remaining to us . . . and that includes Buzzell, definitely a place in peril. Only sixteen! She pushed that thought aside. No time for it.

Murbella. Should I call her and . . . No. That can wait. The new Board of Proctors? Let Bell deal with that. Community disbandings?

Siphoning personnel into a new Scattering had forced consolidations. Staying ahead of the desert! It was depressing and she did not feel she could face it today. I’m always fidgety before a trip.

Abruptly, Odrade fled the workroom and went stalking the corridors, looking into how her charges were performing, pausing in doorways, noting what the students read, how they behaved in their everlasting prana-bindu exercises.

“What are you reading there?” demanded of a young second-stage acolyte at a projector in a semi-darkened room.

“The diaries of Tolstoy, Mother Superior.”

That knowing look in the acolyte’s eyes said: “Do you have his words directly in Other Memory?” The question was right there on the edge of the girl’s tongue! They were always trying such petty gambits when they caught her alone.

“Tolstoy was a family name!” Odrade snapped. “By your mention of diaries, I presume you refer to Count Leo Nikolayevich.”

“Yes, Mother Superior.” Abashedly aware of censure.

Softening, Odrade threw a quotation at the girl: “‘I am not a river, I am a net.’ He spoke those words at Yasnaya Polyana when he was only twelve. You’ll not find them in his diaries but they are probably the most significant words he ever uttered.”

Odrade turned away before the acolyte could thank her. Always teaching!

She wandered down to the main kitchens then and inspected them, tracing inner edges of racked pots for grease, noting the cautious way even the teaching chef observed her progress.

The kitchen was steamy with good smells from lunch preparations. There was a restorative sound of chopping and stirring but the usual banter stopped at her entrance.

She went around the long counter with its busy cooks to the teaching chef’s raised platform. He was a great beefy man with prominent cheekbones, his face as florid as the meats over which he ministered. Odrade had no doubts he was one of history’s great chefs. His name suited him: Placido Salat. He was assured of a warm place in her thoughts for several reasons, including the fact that he had trained her personal chef. Important visitors in the days before Honored Matres had received a kitchen tour and a taste of specialties.

“May I introduce our senior chef, Placido Salat?”

His beef placido (low case his choice) was the envy of many. Almost raw and served with an herbed and spicy mustard sauce that did not obscure the meat.

Odrade thought the dish too exotic but never judged it aloud.

When she had Salat’s full attention (after a slight interruption to correct a sauce) Odrade said: “I’m hungry for something special, Placido.”

He recognized the opening. This was how she always began a request for her “special dish.”

“Perhaps an oyster stew,” he suggested.

It’s a dance, Odrade thought. They both knew what she wanted.

“Excellent!” she agreed and went into the required performance. “But it must be treated gently, Placido, the oysters not overcooked. Some of our own powdered dry celery in the broth.”

“And perhaps a bit of paprika?”

“I always prefer it that way. Be extremely careful with the melange. A breath of it and no more.”

“Of course, Mother Superior!” Eyes rolling in horror at the thought he might use too much melange. “So easy for the spice to dominate.”

“Cook the oysters in clam nectar, Placido. I would prefer you watch over them yourself, stirring gently until the edges of the oysters just start to curl.”

“Not a second longer, Mother Superior.”

“Heat some quite creamy milk on the side. Don’t boil it!”

Placido displayed astonishment that she might suspect him of boiling the milk for her oyster stew.

“A small pat of butter in the serving bowl,” Odrade said. “Pour the combined broth over it.”

“No sherry?”

“How glad I am that you are taking personal charge of my special dish, Placido. I forgot the sherry.” (Mother Superior never forgot anything and they all knew it but this was a required step in the dance.)

“Three ounces of sherry in the cooking broth,” he said.

“Heat it to get rid of the alcohol.”

“Of course! But we must not bruise the flavors. Would you like croutons or saltines?”

“Croutons, please.”

Seated at an alcove table, Odrade ate two bowls of oyster stew, remembering how Sea Child had savored it. Papa had introduced her to this dish when she was barely capable of conveying spoon to mouth. He had made the stew himself, his own specialty. Odrade had taught it to Salat.

She complimented Salat on the wine.

“I particularly enjoyed your choice of a chablis for accompaniment.”

“A flinty chablis with a sharp edge on it, Mother Superior. One of our better vintages. It sets off the oyster flavors admirably.”

Tamalane found her in the alcove. They always knew where to find Mother Superior when they wanted her.

“We are ready.” Was that displeasure on Tam’s face?

“Where will we stop tonight?”

“Eldio.”

Odrade smiled. She liked Eldio.

Tam catering to me because I’m in a critical mood? Perhaps we have the makings of a small diversion.

Following Tamalane to the transport docks, Odrade thought how characteristic it was that the older woman preferred to travel by tube. Surface trips annoyed her. “Who wants to waste time at my age?”

Odrade disliked tubes for personal transport. You were so closed in and helpless! She preferred surface or air and used tubes only when speed was urgent. She had no hesitation about using smaller tubes for chits and notes. Notes don’t care just as long as they get there.

This thought always made her conscious of the network that adjusted to her movements wherever she went.

Somewhere in the heart of things (there was always a “heart of things”) an automated system routed communications and made sure (most of the time) that important missives arrived where addressed.

When Private Dispatch (they all called it PD) was not needed, stat or viz was available along scrambled sorters and lightlines. Off-planet was another matter, especially in these hunted times. Safest to send a Reverend Mother with memorized message or distrans implant. Every messenger took heavier doses of shere these days. T-probes could read even a dead mind not guarded by shere. Every off-planet message was encrypted but an enemy might hit on the one-time cover concealing it. Great risk off-planet. Perhaps that was why the Rabbi remained silent.

Now why am I thinking such things at this moment?

“No word yet from Dortujla?” she asked as Tamalane prepared to enter the Dispatch roundelay where the others in their party waited. So many people. Why so many?

Odrade saw Streggi up ahead at the edge of the dock talking to a Communications acolyte. There were at least six other people from Communications nearby.

Tamalane turned in obvious pique. “Dortujla! We have all said we will notify you the instant we hear!”

“I was just asking, Tam. Just asking.”

Meekly, Odrade followed Tamalane into Dispatch. I should put a monitor on my mind and question everything that rises there. Mental intrusions always had good reason behind them. That was the Bene Gesserit way, as Bellonda often reminded her.

Odrade felt surprise at herself then, realizing she was more than a little sick of Bene Gesserit ways.

Let Bell worry about such things for a change!

This was a time for floating free, for responding like a will o’ the wisp to the currents moving around her.

Sea Child knew about currents.