Dune

Enter no conflict against fanatics unless you can defuse them. Oppose a religion with another religion only if your proofs (miracles) are irrefutable or if you can mesh in a way that the fanatics accept you as god-inspired. This has long been the barrier to science assuming a mantle of divine revelation. Science is so obviously man-made. Fanatics (and many are fanatic on one subject or another) must know where you stand, but more important, must recognize who whispers in your ear.

—MISSIONARIA PROTECTIVA, PRIMARY TEACHING

The flow of time nagged at Odrade as much as did constant awareness of the hunters approaching. Years passed so quickly that days became a blur. Two months of arguments to gain approval of Sheeana as successor to Tam!

Bellonda had taken to standing day watch when Odrade was absent as she had been today, briefing a new Bene Gesserit remnant being sent Scattering. The Council continued this but with reluctance. Idaho’s suggestion that it was a futile strategy had sent shock waves through the Sisterhood. Briefings now carried new defensive plans for “what you may encounter.”

When Odrade entered the workroom late in the afternoon, Bellonda sat at the table. Her cheeks looked puffy and her eyes had that hard stare they got when she suppressed fatigue. With Bell here, the daily summation would include sharp comments.

“They’ve approved Sheeana,” she said, pushing a small crystal toward Odrade. “Tam’s support did it. And Murbella’s new one will be born in eight days, so the Suks claim.”

Bell had little faith in Suk doctors.

New one? She could be so damned impersonal about life! Odrade found her pulses quickening at the prospect.

When Murbella recovers from this birth—the Agony. She is ready.

“Duncan’s extremely nervous,” Bellonda said, vacating the chair.

Duncan yet! Those two are getting remarkably familiar.

Bell was not finished. “And before you ask, no word from Dortujla.”

Odrade took her seat behind the table and balanced the report crystal on her palm. Dortujla’s trusted acolyte, now Reverend Mother Fintil, would not risk the no-ship journey or any of the other message devices they had prepared just to stroke a Mother Superior. No news meant the bait was still out there . . . or wasted.

“Have you told Sheeana she’s confirmed?” Odrade asked.

“I left that for you. She’s late with her daily report again. Not right for someone on the Council.”

So Bell still disapproved the appointment.

Sheeana’s daily messages had taken on a repetitious note. “No wormsign. Spice mass intact.”

Everything upon which they pinned their hopes lay in terrible suspension. And nightmare hunters crept closer. Tensions accumulated. Explosive.

“You’ve seen that exchange between Duncan and Murbella enough times,” Bellonda said. “Is that what Sheeana was hiding and, if so, why?”

“Teg was my father.”

“Such delicacy! A Reverend Mother has qualms about imprinting the ghola of Mother Superior’s father!”

“She was my personal student, Bell. She has concerns for me you could not feel. Besides, this is not just a ghola, this is a child.”

“We must be certain of her!”

Odrade saw the name form on Bellonda’s lips but it remained unspoken. “Jessica.”

Another flawed Reverend Mother? Bell was right, they must be sure of Sheeana. My responsibility. A vision of Sheeana’s black sculpture flickered in Odrade’s awareness.

“Idaho’s plan has some attraction, but . . .” Bellonda hesitated.

Odrade spoke up: “This is a very young child, growth incomplete. Pain of the usual memory restoration could approach the Agony. It might alienate him. But this . . .”

“Control him with an Imprinter, that part I approve. But what if it doesn’t restore his memories?”

“We still have the original plan. And it did have that effect on Idaho.”

“Different for him but the decision can wait. You’re late for your meeting with Scytale.”

Odrade hefted the crystal. “Daily summation?”

“Nothing you haven’t seen too many times already.” From Bell, that was almost a note of concern.

“I’ll bring him back here. Have Tam waiting and you come in later on some pretext.”

Scytale had become almost accustomed to these walks outside the ship and Odrade observed this in his casual manner when they emerged from her transporter south of Central.

It was more than a stroll and they both knew it but she had made these excursions regular, designing repetition to lull him. Routine. So useful on occasion.

“Kind of you to take me for these walks,” Scytale said, looking up sideways. “The air is drier than I recall it. Where do we go this evening?”

How tiny his eyes when he squinted against the sun.

“To my workroom.” She nodded at outbuildings of Central about half a klick north. It was cold under a cloudless spring sky and warm colors of roofs, lights coming on in her tower, beckoned with promise of relief from a chilling wind that accompanied almost every sunset these days.

With peripheral attention, Odrade watched the Tleilaxu beside her carefully. Such tension! She could feel this also in guardian Reverend Mothers and acolytes close behind them, all charged to special watchfulness by Bellonda.

We need this little monster and he knows it. And we still don’t know the extent of Tleilaxu abilities! What talents has he accumulated? Why does he probe with such evident casualness for contact with his fellow prisoners?

Tleilaxu made the Idaho-ghola, she reminded herself. Did they hide secret things in him?

“I am a beggar come to your door, Mother Superior,” he said in that whining elfin voice. “Our planets in ruins, my people slain. Why do we go to your quarters?”

“To bargain in more pleasant surroundings.”

“Yes, it is very confining in the ship. But I do not understand why we always leave the car so far away from Central. Why do we walk?”

“I find it refreshing.”

Scytale glanced around him at the plantings. “Pleasant, but quite cold, don’t you think?”

Odrade glanced to the south. These southern slopes were planted to grapes, crests and colder northern faces reserved for orchards. Improved vinifera, these vineyards. Developed by Bene Gesserit gardeners. Old vines, roots “gone down to hell” where (according to ancient superstition) they stole water from burning souls. The winery was underground as were storage and aging caves. Nothing to mar a landscape of tended vines in orderly rows, plantings just far enough apart for pickers and tilling equipment.

Pleasant to him? She doubted Scytale saw anything pleasing here. He was properly nervous as she wanted him to be, asking himself: Why does she really choose to walk me through these rustic surroundings?

It galled Odrade that they dared not employ more powerful Bene Gesserit persuasives on this little man. But she agreed with advice that said if those efforts failed, they would not get a second chance. Tleilaxu had demonstrated they would die rather than give up secret (and sacred) knowledge.

“Several things puzzle me,” Odrade said, picking her way around a pile of vine trimmings as she spoke. “Why do you insist on having your own Face Dancers before acceding to our requests? And what is this interest in Duncan Idaho?”

“Dear lady, I have no companions in my loneliness. That answers both questions.” He rubbed absently at his breast where the nullentropy capsule lay concealed.

Why does he rub himself there so frequently? It was a gesture she and analysts had puzzled over. No scar, no skin inflammation. Perhaps merely a carryover from childhood. But that was so long ago! A flaw in this reincarnation? No one could say. And that gray skin carried a metallic pigmentation that resisted probing instruments. He was sure to have been sensitized to heavier rays and would know those were used. No . . . now, it was all diplomacy. Damn this little monster!

Scytale wondered: Did this powindah female have no natural sympathies on which he could play? Typicals were ambivalent on that question.

“The Wekht of Jandola is no more,” he said. “Billions of us slain by those whores. To the farthest reaches of the Yaghist, we are destroyed and only I remain.”

Yaghist, she thought. Land of the unruled. It was a revealing word in Islamiyat, the Bene Tleilax language.

In that language, she said: “The magic of our God is our only bridge.”

Once more she claimed to share his Great Belief, the Sufi-Zensunni ecumenism that had spawned the Bene Tleilax. She spoke the language flawlessly, knew the proper words, but he saw falsehoods. She calls God’s Messenger “Tyrant” and disobeys the most basic precepts!

Where did these women meet in kehl to feel the presence of God? If they truly spoke the Language of God, they would already know what they sought from him with crude bargaining.

As they climbed the last slope to the paved landing at Central, Scytale called on God for help. The Bene Tleilax come to this! Why have You put this trial upon us? We are the last legalists of the Shariat and I, the last Master of my people, must seek answers from you, God, when You no longer can speak to me in kehl.

Once more in flawless Islamiyat, Odrade said: “You were betrayed by your own people, ones you sent into the Scattering. You have no more Malik brothers, only sisters.”

Then where is your sagra chamber, powindah deceiver? Where is a deep and windowless place only brothers may enter?

“This is a new thing for me,” he said. “Malik Sisters? Those two words have always been self-negating. Sisters cannot be Malik.”

“Waff, your late Mahai and Abdl, had trouble with that. And he led your people almost to extinction.”

“Almost? You know of survivors?” He could not keep excitement from his voice.

“No Masters . . . but we hear of a few Domel and all in Honored Matre hands.”

She paused where the edge of a building would cut off their view of the setting sun in the next steps and, still in the secret language of the Tleilaxu, said: “The sun is not God.”

The dawn and sunset cry of the Mahai!

Scytale felt faith wavering as he followed her into an arched passage between two squat buildings. Her words were proper but only the Mahai and Abdl should utter them. In the shadowy passage, footsteps of their escort close behind, Odrade confounded him by saying: “Why did you not say the proper words? Are you not the last Master? Does that not make you Mahai and Abdl?”

“I was not chosen so by Malik brothers.” It sounded weak even to him.

Odrade summoned a liftfield and paused at the tubeslot. In Other Memory detail, she found kehl and its right of ghufran familiar—words whispered in the night by lovers of long-dead women. “And then we . . .” “And so if we speak these sacred words . . .” Ghufran! Acceptance and readmission of one who had ventured among powindah, the returned one begging pardon for contact with unimaginable sins of aliens. The Masheikh have met in kehl and felt the presence of their God!

The tubeslot opened. Odrade motioned Scytale and two guards ahead. As he passed, she thought: Something must give soon. We cannot play our little game to the end he desires.

Tamalane stood at the bow window, her back to the door, when Odrade and Scytale entered the workroom. Sunset light slanted sharply across the rooftops. The brilliance vanished then and left behind it a sense of contrast, the night darker because of that last glow along the horizon.

In the milky gloom, Odrade waved the guards away, noting their reluctance. Bellonda had charged them to stay, obviously, but they would not disobey Mother Superior. She indicated a chairdog across from her and waited for him to sit. He looked back suspiciously at Tamalane before sinking into the ’dog but covered it by saying: “Why are there no lights?”

“This is a relaxing interlude,” she said. And I know darkness worries you!

She stood a moment behind her table, identifying bright patches in the gloom, a luster of artifacts placed around her to make this her setting: the bust of long-dead Chenoeh in its niche beside the window, and there on the wall at her right, a pastoral landscape from the first human migrations into space, a stack of ridulian crystals on the table and a silvery reflection off her lightscribe concentrating faint illuminations from the windows.

He has roasted long enough.

She touched a plate on her console. Glowglobes set strategically around walls and ceiling came to life. Tamalane turned on cue, her robe swishing deliberately. She stood two paces behind Scytale, the very picture of ominous Bene Gesserit mystery.

Scytale twitched slightly at Tamalane’s movement but now he sat quietly. The chairdog was somewhat too large for him and he looked almost childlike there.

Odrade said, “Sisters who rescued you say you commanded a no-ship at Junction preparing for the first foldspace leap when Honored Matres attacked. You were coming to your ship in a one-man skitter, they said, and veered away just before the explosions. You detected the attackers?”

“Yes.” Reluctance in his voice.

“And knew they might locate the no-ship from your trajectory. So you fled, leaving your brothers to be destroyed.”

He spoke with the utter bitterness of a tragic witness: “Earlier, when we were outbound from Tleilax, we saw that attack begin. Our explosions to destroy everything of value to attackers and the burners from space created the holocaust. We fled then, too.”

“But not directly to Junction.”

“Everywhere we searched, they had been before us. They had the ashes but I had our secrets.” Remind her that I still have something of value to trade! He tapped a finger against his head.

“You sought Guild or CHOAM sanctuary at Junction,” she said. “How fortunate our spy ship was there to scoop you up before the enemy could react.”

“Sister . . .” How difficult that word! “...if you truly are my sister in kehl, why will you not provide me with Face Dancer servants?”

“Still too many secrets between us, Scytale. Why, for instance, were you leaving Bandalong when attackers came?”

Bandalong!

Naming the great Tleilax city constricted his chest and he thought he felt the nullentropy capsule pulse, as though it sought release for its precious contents. Lost Bandalong. Never again to see the city of carnelian skies, never to feel the presence of brothers, of patient Domel and . . .

“Are you ill?” Odrade asked.

“I am sick with what I have lost!” He heard fabric slither behind him and sensed Tamalane closer. How oppressive it was in this place! “Why is she behind me?”

“I am the servant of my Sisters and she is here to observe us both.”

“You’ve taken some of my cells, haven’t you? You’re growing a replacement Scytale in your tanks!”

“Of course we are. You don’t think Sisters would let the last Master end here, do you?”

“No ghola of me will do anything I would not!” And it will carry no nullentropy tube!

“We know.” But what is it we do not know?

“This is not bargaining,” he complained.

“You misjudge me, Scytale. We know when you lie and when you conceal. We employ senses others do not.”

It was true! They detected things from odors of his body, from small movements of muscles, expressions he could not suppress.

Sisters? These creatures are powindah! All of them!

“You were on lashkar,” Odrade prodded.

Lashkar! How he wished he were here on lashkar. Face Dance warriors. Domel assistants—eliminating this abominable evil! But he dared not lie. The one behind him probably was a Truthsayer. Experience in many lives told him Bene Gesserit Truthsayers were the best.

“I commanded a force of khasadars. We sought a herd of Futars for our defense.”

Herd? Did Tleilaxu know something of Futars not revealed to the Sisterhood?

“You went prepared for violence. Did Honored Matres learn of your mission and cut you off? I think it likely.”

“Why do you call them Honored Matres?” His voice lapsed almost into a screech.

“Because that is what they call themselves.” Very calm now. Let him stew in his own mistakes.

She is right! We were betrayed. Bitter thought. He held it close, wondering how he should reply. A small revelation? There is never a small revelation with these women.

A sigh shook his breast. The nullentropy capsule and its contents. His most important concern. Anything to get him access to his own axlotl tanks.

“Descendants of people we sent into the Scattering returned with captive Futars. A mingling of human and cat, as you doubtless know. But they did not reproduce in our tanks. And before we could determine why, the ones brought to us died.” The betrayers brought us only two! We should have suspected.

“They didn’t bring you very many Futars, did they? You should have suspected they were bait.”

See? That is what they do with small revelations!

“Why did the Futars not hunt and kill Honored Matres on Gammu?” It was Duncan’s question and deserved an answer.

“We were told no orders were given. They do not kill without orders.” She knows this. She is testing me.

“Face Dancers also kill on order,” she said. “They would even kill you if you ordered it. Not so?”

“That order is reserved for keeping our secrets from the hands of enemies.”

“Is that why you want your own Face Dancers? Do you consider us enemies?”

Before he could compose a response, Bellonda’s projected figure appeared above the table, lifesize and partly translucent, dancing crystals of Archives behind her. “Urgent from Sheeana!” Bellonda said. “The spice blow has occurred. Sandworms!” The figure turned and looked at Scytale, comeyes perfectly coordinating her movements. “So you have lost a bargaining chip, Master Scytale! We have our spice at last!” The projected figure vanished with an audible click and a faint smell of ozone.

“You’re trying to trick me!” he blurted.

But the door at Odrade’s left opened. Sheeana entered towing a small suspensor pod no more than two meters long. Its transparent sides repeated the glowglobes of the workroom in tiny bursts of yellow light. Something squirmed in the pod!

Sheeana stood aside without speaking, giving them a full view of the contents. So small! The worm was less than half the length of its container but perfect in every detail, stretched out there on a shallow bed of golden sand.

Scytale could not contain a gasp of awe. The Prophet!

Odrade’s reaction was pragmatic. She bent close to the pod, peering into the miniature mouth. The scorching huff-huff of a great worm’s internal fires reduced to this? What a tiny mimicry!

Crystal teeth flashed as it lifted its front segments.

The worm sent its mouth questing left and right. They all saw behind the teeth the miniature fire in its alien chemistry.

“Thousands of them,” Sheeana said. “They came to a spice blow as they always do.”

Odrade remained silent. We have done it! But this was Sheeana’s moment of triumph. Let her make the most of it. Scytale had never looked this defeated.

Sheeana opened the pod and lifted the worm from it, cradling it as though it were an infant. It lay quiescent in her arms.

Odrade took a deep, satisfied breath. She still controls them.

“Scytale,” Odrade said. He could not take his gaze from the worm.

“Do you still serve the Prophet?” Odrade asked. “There he is!”

He did not know how to respond. Truly a revenant of the Prophet? He wanted to deny his first awed response but his eyes would not permit it.

Odrade spoke softly. “While you were out on your foolish mission, your selfish mission, we were serving the Prophet! We rescued his last revenant and brought him here. Chapterhouse will become another Dune!”

She sat back and steepled her hands in front of her. Bell was watching through the comeyes, of course. A Mentat’s observations would be valuable. Odrade wished Idaho were also watching. But he could look at a holo. It was clear to her that Scytale had seen the Bene Gesserit only as tools for restoration of his precious Tleilaxu civilization. Would this development force him to reveal inner secrets of his tanks? What would he offer?

“I must have time to think.” A tremor in his voice.

“About what would you think?”

He did not answer but kept his attention on Sheeana, who was replacing the tiny worm in its pod. She stroked it once before sealing the lid.

“Tell me, Scytale,” Odrade insisted. “How can there be anything for you to reconsider? This is our Prophet! You say you serve the Great Belief. Then serve it!”

She could see his dreams dissolving. His own Face Dancers to print memories of those they killed, copying each victim’s shape and manner. He had never hoped to gull a Reverend Mother . . . but acolytes and simple workers of Chapterhouse . . . all the secrets he had hoped to acquire, gone! Lost as certainly as the charred husks of Tleilaxu planets.

Our Prophet, she said. He turned a stricken look toward Odrade but did not focus. What am I to do? These women no longer need me. But I need them!

“Scytale.” How softly she spoke. “The Great Convention is ended. It’s a new universe out there.”

He tried to swallow in a dry throat. The whole concept of violence had taken on a new dimension. In the Old Empire, the Convention had guaranteed retaliation against anyone who dared burn a planet by attacking from space.

“Escalated violence, Scytale.” Odrade’s voice was almost a whisper. “We Scatter pods of rage.”

He focused on her. What is she saying?

“The hatred being stored up against Honored Matres,” she said. You are not the only one with losses, Scytale. Once, when problems arose in our civilization, the cry went out: “Bring a Reverend Mother!” Honored Matres prevent that. And the myths are recomposed. Golden light is cast upon our past. “It was better in the old days when the Bene Gesserit could help us. Where do you go for reliable Truthsayers these days? Arbitration? These Honored Matres have never heard the word! They were always courteous, the Reverend Mothers. You have to say that for them.”

When Scytale did not respond, she said: “Think of what might happen if that rage were loosed in a Jihad!”

When he still did not speak, she said: “You have seen it. Tleilaxu, Bene Gesserit, priests of the Divided God, and who knows how many more—all hunted like wild game.”

“They cannot kill us all!” An agonized cry.

“Can’t they? Your Scattered ones made common cause with Honored Matres. Is that a sanctuary you would seek in the Scattering?”

And there goes another dream: Little pods of Tleilaxu, persistent as festering sores, awaiting the day of Scytale’s Great Revival.

“People grow strong under oppression,” he said, but there was no force in his words. “Even the Priests of Rakis are finding holes in which to hide!” Desperate words.

“Who says this? Some of your returned friends?”

His silence was all the answer she needed.

“Bene Tleilax have killed Honored Matres and they know it,” she said, hammering at him. “They will be satisfied only with your extermination.”

“And yours!”

“We are partners by necessity if not by shared belief.” She said it in purest Islamiyat and saw hope leap into his eyes. Kehl and Shariat may yet take on their old meanings among people who compose their thoughts in the Language of God.

“Partners?” Faint and extremely tentative.

She adopted new bluntness. “In some ways, that’s a more reliable basis for common action than any other. Each of us knows what the other wants. An instrinsic design: Screen everything through that and something reliable can occur.”

“And what is it you want from me?”

“You already know.”

“How to make the finest tanks, yes.” He shook his head, obviously unsure. The changes implied by her demands!

Odrade wondered if she dared snap at him in open anger. How dense he was! But he was close to panic. Old values had changed. Honored Matres were not the only source of turmoil. Scytale did not even know the extent of changes that had infected his own Scattered Ones!

“Times are changing,” Odrade said.

Change, what a disturbing word, he thought.

“I must have my own Face Dancer attendants! And my own tanks?” Almost begging.

“My Council and I will consider it.”

“What is there to consider?” Throwing her own words at her.

“You need only your own approval. I require approval of others.” She gave him a grim smile. “So you do get time to think.” Odrade nodded to Tamalane, who summoned guards.

“Back to the no-ship?” He spoke from the doorway, such a diminutive figure amidst burly guards.

“But tonight you ride all the way.”

He gave a last lingering stare at the worm as he left.

When Scytale and guards were gone, Sheeana said: “You were right not to press him. He was ready to panic.”

Bellonda entered. “Perhaps it would be best just to kill him.”

“Bell! Get the holo and go through our meeting again. This time as a Mentat!”

That stopped her.

Tamalane chuckled.

“You take too much joy in your Sister’s discomfiture, Tam,” Sheeana said.

Tamalane shrugged but Odrade was delighted. No more teasing of Bell?

“When you spoke of Chapterhouse becoming another Dune, that was when he began to panic,” Bellonda said, her voice Mentat distant.

Odrade had seen the reaction but had not yet made the association. This was a Mentat’s value: patterns and systems, building blocks. Bell sensed a pattern to Scytale’s behavior.

“I ask myself: Is it the thing become real once more?” Bellonda said.

Odrade saw it at once. An odd thing about lost places. As long as Dune had been a known and living planet, there existed a historical firmness about its presence in the Galactic Register. You could point to a projection and say: “That is Dune. Once called Arrakis and, latterly, Rakis. Dune for its total desert character in Muad’Dib’s day.”

Destroy the place, though, and a mythological patina in-weighed against projected reality. In time, such places became totally mythic. Arthur and his Round Table. Camelot where it only rains at night. Pretty good Weather Control for those days!

But now, a new Dune had appeared.

“Myth power,” Tamalane said.

Ahhhh, yes. Tam, close to her final departure from flesh, would be more sensitive to workings of myths. Mystery and secrecy, tools of the Missionaria, had been used also on Dune by Muad’Dib and the Tyrant. The seeds were planted. Even with priests of the Divided God gone to their own perdition, myths of Dune proliferated.

“Melange,” Tamalane said.

The other Sisters in the workroom knew immediately what she meant. New hope could be injected into the Bene Gesserit Scattering.

Bellonda said: “Why do they want us dead and not captives? That has always puzzled me.”

Honored Matres might not want any Bene Gesserit alive . . . only the spice knowledge, perhaps. But they destroyed Dune. They destroyed the Tleilaxu. It was a cautioning thought to take into any confrontation with the Spider Queen—should Dortujla succeed.

“No useful hostages?” Bellonda asked.

Odrade saw the looks on the faces of her Sisters. They were following a single track as though all of them thought with one mind. Object lessons by Honored Matres, leaving few survivors, only made potential opposition more cautious. It invoked a rule of silence within which bitter memories became bitter myths. Honored Matres were like barbarians in any age: blood instead of hostages. Strike with random viciousness.

“Dar’s right,” Tamalane said. “We’ve been seeking allies too close to home.”

“Futars did not create themselves,” Sheeana said.

“The ones who created them hope to control us,” Bellonda said. There was the clear sound of Prime Projection in her voice. “That’s the hesitation Dortujla heard in the Handlers.”

There it was and they faced it with all of its perils. It came down to people (as it always did). People—contemporaries. You learned valuable things from people living in your own time and from knowledge they carried out of their pasts. Other Memory was not the only conveyance of history.

Odrade felt that she had come home after a long absence. There was a familiarity about the way all four of them were thinking now. It was a familiarity that transcended place. The Sisterhood itself was Home. Not where they lodged in transient housing but the association.

Bellonda voiced it for them. “I fear we have been working at cross purposes.”

“Fear does that,” Sheeana said.

Odrade dared not smile. It could be misinterpreted and she did not want to explain. Give us Murbella as a Sister and a restored Bashar! Then we might have our fighting chance!

Right there with that good feeling in her, the message signal clicked. She glanced at the projection surface, a pure reflex, and recognized crisis. Such a small thing (relatively) to precipitate crisis. Clairby mortally injured in a ’thopter crash. Mortal unless . . . The unless was spelled out for her and it added up to cyborg. Her companions saw the message in reverse but you got good at reading mirrored information in here. They knew.

Where do we draw the line?

Bellonda, with her antique spectacles when she could have had artificial eyes or any of numerous other prosthetics, voted with her body. This is what it means to be human. Try to hold on to youth and it mocks you while it sprints away. Melange is enough . . . and perhaps too much.

Odrade recognized what her own emotions were telling her. But what of Bene Gesserit necessity? Bell could lodge her individual vote and everyone recognized it, even respected it. But Mother Superior’s vote carried the Sisterhood with her.

First the axlotl tanks and now this.

Necessity said they could not afford to lose specialists of Clairby’s caliber. They had few enough as it was. “Spread thin” did not describe it. Gaps were appearing. Cyborg Clairby, though, and that was the opening wedge.

The Suks were prepared. “A precautionary arrangement” should it be required for someone irreplaceable. Such as Mother Superior? Odrade knew she had approved that with her usual cautious reservations. Where were those reservations now?

Cyborg was one of those potpourri words, too. Where did mechanical additions to human flesh become dominant? When was the Cyborg no longer human? Temptations intensified—“Just this one little adjustment.” And so easy to adjust until the potpourri-human became unquestioningly obedient.

But . . . Clairby?

Conditions of extremis said, “Cyborg him!” Was the Sisterhood that desperate? She was forced to answer in the affirmative.

There it was then—decision not entirely out of her hands, but the ready excuse at hand. Necessity dictates it.

The Butlerian Jihad had left its indelible mark on humans. Fought and won . . . for then. And here was another battle in that long-ago conflict.

But now, survival of the Sisterhood was in the balance. How many technical specialists remained on Chapterhouse? She knew the answer without looking. Not enough.

Odrade leaned forward and keyed for transmit. “Cyborg him,” she said.

Bellonda grunted. Approval or disapproval? She would never say. This was Mother Superior’s arena and welcome to it!

Who won this battle? Odrade wondered.