Dune

They support my morale.

How quietly this acolyte waited. Curly blond hair and round face. Pleasing countenance, though the mouth was wide. Food remained on her plate but she was not eating. Hands folded in her lap. I am here to serve you, Mother Superior.

While Odrade composed her response, memory intruded—an old incident simulflowing over immediate observations. She remembered her ornithopter training course. Two acolyte students with instructor at midday high over the wetlands of Lampadas. She had been paired with as inept an acolyte as could have been accepted by the Sisterhood. Obviously a gene-choice. The Breeding Mistresses wanted her for a characteristic to be passed along to offspring. It certainly wasn’t emotional balance or intelligence! Odrade remembered the name: Linchine.

Linchine had shouted at their instructor: “I am going to fly this damned ’thopter!”

And all the while a whirling sky and landscape of trees and marshy lakeshore dizzied them. That was how it seemed: us stationary and the world moving. Linchine doing the wrong thing every time. Each movement created worse gyrations.

The instructor cut her out of the system by pulling the disconnect only he could reach. He did not speak until they were flying straight and level.

“No way are you ever going to fly this, lady. Not ever! You don’t have the right reactions. You have to begin training those into someone like you before puberty.”

“I am! I am! I’ll fly this damned thing.” Hands jerking at the useless controls.

“You’re washed out, lady. Grounded!”

Odrade breathed easier, realizing she had known all along that Linchine might kill them.

Whirling toward Odrade in the rear, Linchine screamed: “Tell him! Tell him he must obey a Bene Gesserit!”

Addressing the fact that Odrade, several years ahead of Linchine, already displayed a commanding presence.

Odrade sat in silence, features immobile.

Silence is often the best thing to say, some Bene Gesserit humorist had scrawled on a washroom mirror. Odrade found that good advice then and later.

Recalling herself to the needs of the acolyte in the dining hall, Odrade wondered why that old memory had come of itself. Such things seldom happened without purpose. Not silence now, certainly. Humor? Yes! That was the message. Odrade’s humor (applied later) had taught Linchine something about herself. Humor under stress.

Odrade smiled at the acolyte beside her in the dining hall. “How would you like to be a horse?”

“What?” The word was startled out of her but she responded to Mother Superior’s smile. Nothing alarming in that. Warm even. Everyone said Mother Superior permitted affections.

“You don’t understand, of course,” Odrade said.

“No, Mother Superior.” Still smiling and patient.

Odrade allowed her gaze to quest over the young face. Clear blue eyes not yet touched by the engulfing blue of Spice Agony. A mouth almost like Bell’s but without the viciousness. Dependable muscles and dependable intelligence. She would be good at anticipating Mother Superior’s needs. Witness her map assignment and that report. Sensitive. Went with her superior intelligence. Not likely to rise to the very top but always in key positions where you needed her qualities.

Why did I sit beside this one?

Odrade frequently selected a particular companion at mealtime visits. Acolytes mostly. They could be so revealing. Reports often found their way to Mother Superior’s workroom: personal observations from Proctors about one acolyte or another. But sometimes, Odrade chose a seat for no reason she could explain. As I did tonight. Why this one?

Conversation rarely occurred unless Mother Superior initiated it. Gentle initiation usually, easing into more intimate matters. Others around them listened avidly.

At such moments, Odrade often produced a manner of almost religious serenity. It soothed nervous ones. Acolytes were . . . well, acolytes, but Mother Superior was the supreme witch of them all. Nervousness was natural.

Someone behind Odrade whispered: “She has Streggi on the coals tonight.”

On the coals. Odrade knew the expression. It had been used in her acolyte days. So this one was named Streggi. Let it be unspoken for now. Names carry magic.

“Do you enjoy tonight’s dinner?” Odrade asked.

“It’s acceptable, Mother Superior.” One tried not to give false opinions, but Streggi was confused by the shift in conversation.

“They’ve overcooked it,” Odrade said.

“Serving so many, how can they please everyone, Mother Superior?”

She speaks her mind and speaks it well.