Dune

Bellonda accepted this grudgingly. Watchdogs. Their Bene Gesserit term for constant monitoring by Sisters to see that you did not fall into shallow ways. Very trying to acolytes but just another part of life to Reverend Mothers.

Odrade had explained it one afternoon to Murbella, the two of them alone in a gray-walled interview chamber of the no-ship. Standing close together facing each other. Eyes at a level. Quite informal and intimate. Except for the knowledge of those comeyes all around them.

“Watchdogs,” Odrade said, responding to a question from Murbella. “It means we are mutual gadflies. Don’t make that more than it is. We seldom nag. A simple word can be enough.”

Murbella, her oval face drawn into a look of distaste, the wide-set green eyes intent, obviously thought Odrade referred to some common signal, a word or saying the Sisters used in such situations.

“What word?”

“Any word, dammit! Whatever’s appropriate. It’s like a mutual reflex. We share a common ‘tic’ that comes not to annoy us. We welcome it because it keeps us on our toes.”

“And you’ll watchdog me if I become a Reverend Mother?”

“We want our watchdogs. We’d be weaker without them.”

“It sounds oppressive.”

“We don’t find it so.”

“I think it’s repellent.” She looked at the glittering lenses in the ceiling. “Like those damned comeyes.”

“We take care of our own, Murbella. Once you’re a Bene Gesserit, you’re assured of lifelong maintenance.”

“A comfortable niche.” Sneering.

Odrade spoke softly. “Something quite different. You are challenged throughout your life. You repay the Sisterhood right up to the limits of your abilities.”

“Watchdogs!”

“We’re always mindful of one another. Some of us in positions of power can be authoritarian at times, familiar even, but only to a point carefully measured for the requirements of the moment.”

“Never really warm or tender, eh?”

“That’s the rule.”

“Affection, maybe, but no love?”

“I’ve told you the rule.” And Odrade could see the reaction clearly on Murbella’s face: “There it is! They will demand that I give up Duncan!”

“So there’s no love among the Bene Gesserit.” How sad her tone. There was hope for Murbella yet.

“Loves occur,” Odrade said, “but my Sisters treat them as aberrations.”

“So what I feel for Duncan is aberration?”

“And Sisters will try to treat it.”

“Treat! Apply correctional therapy to the afflicted!”

“Love is considered a sign of rot in Sisters.”

“I see signs of rot in you!”

As though she followed Odrade’s thoughts, Bellonda dragged Odrade out of reverie. “That Honored Matre will never commit herself to us!” Bellonda wiped a bit of luncheon gravy from the corner of her mouth. “We’re wasting our time trying to teach her our ways.”

At least Bell was no longer calling Murbella “whore,” Odrade thought. That was an improvement.

All governments suffer a recurring problem: Power attracts pathological personalities. It is not that power corrupts but that it is magnetic to the corruptible. Such people have a tendency to become drunk on violence, a condition to which they are quickly addicted.

—MISSIONARIA PROTECTIVA, TEXT QIV (DECTO)

Rebecca knelt on the yellow tile floor as she had been ordered to do, not daring to look up at Great Honored Matre seated so remotely high, so dangerous. Two hours Rebecca had waited here almost in the center of a giant room while Great Honored Matre and her companions ate a lunch served by obsequious attendants. Rebecca marked the manners of the attendants with care and emulated them.

Her eye sockets still ached from transplants the Rabbi had given her less than a month ago. These eyes showed a blue iris and white sclera, no clue to the Spice Agony in her past. It was a temporary defense. In less than a year, the new eyes would betray her with total blue.

She judged the ache in her eyes to be the least of her problems. An organic implant fed her metered doses of melange, concealing her dependence. The supply was gauged to last about sixty days. If these Honored Matres held her longer than that, withdrawal would plunge her into an agony that would make the original appear mild by comparison. The most immediately dangerous thing was the shere being metered to her with the spice. If these women detected it, they certainly would be suspicious.

You are doing well. Be patient. That was Other Memory from the horde of Lampadas. The voice rang softly in her head. It had the sound of Lucilla but Rebecca could not be sure.

It had become a familiar voice in the months since the Sharing when it had announced itself as “Speaker of your Mohalata.” These whores cannot match our knowledge. Remember that and let it give you courage.