Dune

“Oh, very careful.” Odrade’s fingers flickered in her console. “Yes, tonight,” she said answering a visible question, and then, speaking to Dortujla across the cluttered worktable: “I want you to meet with my Council and others before you return. We will brief you thoroughly but I give you my personal assurance you will have an open assignment. The important thing is to get them to a meeting on Junction . . . and I hope you know how much I dislike using you as bait.”

When Dortujla remained deep in thought and not responding, Odrade said: “They may ignore our overtures and wipe you out. Still, you’re the best bait we have.”

Dortujla showed she still had her sense of humor. “I don’t much like the idea of dangling on a hook myself, Mother Superior. Please keep a firm grip on the line.” She stood and, with a worried look at the work on Odrade’s table, said: “You have so much to do and I fear I have kept you far past lunch.”

“We will dine here together, Sister. For the moment, you are more important than anything else.”

All states are abstractions.

—OCTUN POLITICUS, BG ARCHIVES

Lucilla cautioned herself not to assume too familiar a feeling about this acid-green room and the recurring presence of Great Honored Matre. This was Junction, stronghold of the ones who sought extermination of the Bene Gesserit. This was the enemy. Day seventeen.

The infallible mental clock that had been set ticking during the Spice Agony told her she had adapted to the planet’s circadian rhythms. Awake at dawn. No telling when she would be fed. Honored Matre confined her to one meal a day.

And always that Futar in its cage. A reminder: Both of you in cages. This is how we treat dangerous animals. We may let them out occasionally to stretch their legs and give us pleasure but back to the cage afterward.

Minimal amounts of melange in the food. Not being parsimonious. Not with their wealth. A small show of “what could be yours if you would only be reasonable.”

When will she come today?

Great Honored Matre arrivals had no set time. Random appearances to confuse the captive? Probably. There would be other demands on a commander’s time. Fit the dangerous pet into the regular schedule wherever you could.

I may be dangerous, Spider Lady, but I am not your pet.

Lucilla felt the presence of scanning devices, things that did more than provide stimulus for eyes. These looked into flesh, probing for concealed weapons, for the functioning of organs. Does she have strange implants? What about additional organs surgically added to her body?

None of those, Madame Spider. We rely on things that come with birth.

Lucilla knew her greatest immediate danger—that she would feel inadequate in such a setting. Her captors had her at a terrible disadvantage but they had not destroyed her Bene Gesserit capabilities. She could will herself to die before the shere in her body was depleted to the point of betrayal. She still had her mind . . . and the horde from Lampadas.

The Futar panel opened and it came sliding out in its cage. So Spider Queen was on her way. Displaying threat ahead of her as usual. Early today. Earlier than ever.

“Good morning, Futar.” Lucilla spoke with a merry lilt.

The Futar looked at her but did not speak.

“You must hate it in that cage,” Lucilla said.

“Not like cage.”

She had already determined that these creatures possessed a degree of language facility but the extent of it still eluded her.

“I suppose she keeps you hungry, too. Would you like to eat me?”

“Eat.” Definite show of interest.

“I wish I were your Handler.”

“You Handler?”

“Would you obey me if I were?”

Spider Queen’s heavy chair lifted from its concealment under the floor. No sign of her yet but it had to be assumed she listened to these conversations.

The Futar stared at Lucilla with peculiar intensity.

“Do Handlers keep you caged and hungry?”

“Handler?” Clear inflections of a question.

“I want you to kill Great Honored Matre.” That would be no surprise to them.

“Kill Dama!”

“And eat her.”

“Dama poison.” Dejected.

Ooooh. Isn’t that an interesting bit of information!

“She’s not poison. Her meat is the same as mine.”

The Futar approached her to the cage’s limits. The left hand peeled down its lower lip. Angry redness of a scar there, appearance of a burn.

“See poison,” it said, dropping its hand.