Dune

There’s no secret to balance. You just have to feel the waves.

—DARWI ODRADE

Murbella felt that an age had passed since she recognized Duncan’s decision.

Vanish into space! Leave me!

The unvarying time sense of the Agony told her only seconds had elapsed since awareness of his intentions but she felt she had known this from the first.

He must be stopped!

She was reaching for her comboard when Central began to shudder. The quaking continued for an interminable time and subsided slowly.

Bellonda was on her feet. “What . . .”

“The no-ship at the Flat has just lifted,” Murbella said.

Bellonda reached for the comboard but Murbella stopped her.

“It’s gone.”

She must not see my pain.

“But who . . .” Bellonda fell silent. She had her own assessments of consequences and saw then what Murbella saw.

Murbella sighed. She had all of the curses of history at her disposal and wanted none of them.

“At lunchtime, I will eat in my private dining room with councillors and I want you present,” Murbella said. “Tell Duana oyster stew again.”

Bellonda started to protest but all that came out was: “Again?”

“You will recall I ate alone downstairs last night?” Murbella resumed her seat.

Mother Superior has duties!

There were maps to change and rivers to follow and Honored Matres to domesticate.

Some waves throw you, Murbella. But you get back up and go on with it. Seven times down, eight times up. You can balance on strange surfaces.

I know, Dar. Willing participation in your dream.

Bellonda stared at her until Murbella said, “I made my councillors sit at a distance from me at dinner last night. It was strange—only the two tables in the whole dining room.”

Why do I continue this inane chatter? What excuses do I have for my extraordinary behavior?

“We wondered why none of us were permitted in our own dining room,” Bellonda said.

“To save your lives! But you should have seen their interest. I read their lips. Angelika said: ‘She’s eating some kind of stew. I heard her discussing it with the chef. Isn’t this a marvelous world we’ve acquired? We must sample that stew she ordered.’”

“Samples,” Bellonda said. “I see.” Then: “You know, don’t you, Sheeana took the Van Gogh painting from . . . your sleeping chamber?”

Why does that hurt?

“I noticed it was missing.”

“Said she was borrowing it for her room in the ship.”

Murbella’s lips went thin.

Damn them! Duncan and Sheeana! Teg, Scytale . . . all of them gone and no way to follow. But we still have axlotl tanks and Idaho cells from our children. Not the same . . . but close. He thinks he’s escaped!

“Are you all right, Murbella?” Concern in Bell’s voice.

You warned me about wild things, Dar, and I didn’t listen.

“After we’ve eaten, I will take my councillors on an inspection tour of Central. Tell my acolyte I’ll want cider before retiring.”

Bellonda left, muttering. That was more like her.

How do you guide me now, Dar?

You want guidance? A guided tour of your life? Is that why I died?

But they took the Van Gogh, too!

Is that what you’ll miss?

Why did they take it, Dar?

Caustic laughter greeted this and Murbella was glad no one else heard.

Can’t you see what she intends?

The Missionaria scheme!

Oh, more than that. It’s the next phase: Muad’Dib to Tyrant to Honored Matres to us to Sheeana . . . to what? Can’t you see it? The thing is right here at the lip of your thoughts. Accept it as you would swallow a bitter drink.

Murbella shuddered.

See it? The bitter medicine of a Sheeana future? We once thought all medicines had to be bitter or they were not effective. No healing power in the sweet.

Must it happen, Dar?

Some will choke on that medicine. But the survivors may create interesting patterns.