Dune

Odrade pursed her lips. The fact that the banished Reverend Mother had penetrated this far aroused Odrade’s curiosity. A persistent Reverend Mother could cross ordinary barriers but these barriers were not ordinary. Dortujla’s reason for coming already had been told. Others had heard and passed her. It was apparent that Dortujla had not relied on Bene Gesserit wiles to persuade her Sisters. That would have brought immediate rejection. No time for such nonsense! So she had observed the chain of command. Her action spoke of careful assessment, a message within whatever message she brought.

“Bring her.”

Dortujla had aged smoothly on her backwater planet. She revealed her years mostly in shallow wrinkles around her mouth. The hood of her robe concealed her hair but the eyes peering from beneath it were bright and alert.

“Why are you here?” Odrade’s tone said: “This had damned well better be important.”

Dortujla’s story was straightforward enough. She and three Reverend Mother associates had spoken to a band of Futars from the Scattering. Dortujla’s post had been searched out and asked to get a message to Chapterhouse. Dortujla had filtered the request through Truthsense, she said, reminding Mother Superior that even in backwaters there could be some talent. Judging the message truthful, her Sisters concurring, Dortujla had acted with speed, not unmindful of caution.

“All due dispatch in our own no-ship,” was the way she put it. The ship, she said, was small, a smuggler type.

“One person can operate it.”

The heart of the message was fascinating. Futars wished to ally themselves with Reverend Mothers in opposition to Honored Matres. How much of a force these Futars commanded was difficult to assess, Dortujla said.

“They refused to say when I asked.”

Odrade had assessed many stories about Futars. Killers of Honored Matres? There were reasons to believe it but Futar performance was confusing, especially in accounts from Gammu.

“How many in this party?”

“Sixteen Futars and four Handlers. That’s what they called themselves: Handlers. And they say Honored Matres have a dangerous weapon they can use only once.”

“You only mentioned Futars. Who are these Handlers? And what is this about a secret weapon?”

“I reserved mention of them. They appear to be human within variables noted from the Scattering: three men and a woman. As to the weapon, they would not say more.”

“Appear to be human?”

“There you have it, Mother Superior. I had the odd first impression they were Face Dancers. None of the criteria applied. Pheromones negative. Gestures, expressions—everything negative.”

“Just that first impression?”

“I cannot explain it.”

“What of the Futars?”

“They matched the descriptions. Human in outward appearance but with unmistakable ferocity. Cat family origins, I would judge.”

“So others have said.”

“They speak but it’s an abbreviated Galach. Word bursts, I thought them. ‘When eat?’ ‘You nice lady.’ ‘Want head scratch.’ ‘Sit here?’ They appeared immediately responsive to the Handlers but not fearful. Between Futars and Handlers I had the impression there was mutual respect and liking.”

“Knowing the risks, why did you think this important enough to bring immediately?”

“These are people from the Scattering. Their offer of alliance is an opening into places where Honored Matres originate.”

“You asked about them, of course. And about conditions in the Scattering.”

“No answers.”

The fact, simply stated. One could not sneer at the banished Sister no matter how much of a cloud she carried over her past. More questions were indicated. Odrade asked them, observing closely as answers came, watching the old mouth like a withered fruit opening purple and closing pink.

Something in Dortujla’s service, the long years of penitence perhaps, had gentled her but left the core of Bene Gesserit toughness untouched. She spoke with natural hesitancy. Her gestures were softly fluid. She looked at Odrade with kindness. (There was the flaw her Sisters condemned: Bene Gesserit cynicism held at bay.)

Dortujla interested Odrade. Sister to Sister, she spoke, a strong and well-composed mind behind her words. A mind toughened by adversity in the years at a punishment post. Doing what she could now to make up for that lapse of her youth. No attempt to appear some time-server not up on current affairs. An account pared to essentials. Let it be known that she had as full as possible an awareness of necessities. Bowed to Mother Superior’s decisions and caution about the dangerous visit but still felt that “you should have this information.”

“I’m convinced it’s not a trap.”

Dortujla’s demeanor was above reproach. Direct gaze, eyes and face held in proper composure but no attempts at concealment. A Sister could read through this mask for a proper assessment. Dortujla acted from a sense of urgency. She had been a fool once but she no longer was a fool.

What was the name of her punishment planet?

The worktable’s projector produced it: Buzzell.