Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [11]
Sheeana turned from the observation window. “I wasn’t sure Duncan could ever return us to normal space, but now he’s done so. Isn’t that enough for now?”
“No! We must select a planet for our new Bene Gesserit headquarters, turn these worms loose, and convert it into another Rakis. We must begin reproducing, building a new core for the Sisterhood.” She rested her hands on narrow hips. “We cannot keep wandering forever.”
“Three years is hardly forever. You are starting to sound like the Rabbi.”
The younger woman looked uncertain whether to take the comment as a joke or a rebuke. “The Rabbi likes to complain. I think it comforts him. I was simply looking to our future.”
“We will have a future, Garimi. Do not worry.”
The aide’s face brightened, turned hopeful. “Are you speaking from prescience?”
“No, from my faith.”
Day by day, Sheeana consumed more of their hoarded spice than most, a dose sufficient for her to map out vague and fog-shrouded paths ahead of them. During the time that the Ithaca had been lost in the void, she had seen nothing, but since the recent unexpected lurch back into normal space, she had felt different . . . better.
The largest sandworm rose up in the cargo hold, its open maw like the mouth of a cave. The other worms stirred like a writhing nest of snakes. Two more heads emerged, and a powder of sand cascaded down.
Garimi gasped in awe. “Look, they can sense you, even up here.”
“And I sense them.” Sheeana placed her palms against the plaz barrier, imagining that she could smell the melange on their breath even through the walls. Neither she nor the worms would be satisfied until they had a new desert on which to roam.
But Duncan insisted they keep running to stay one step ahead of the hunters. Not everyone agreed with his plan, such as it was. Many aboard the ship had never wanted to come along on this journey in the first place: the Rabbi and his refugee Jews, the Tleilaxu Scytale, and the four bestial Futars.
And what about the worms? she wondered. What do they truly want?
All seven worms had surfaced now, their eyeless heads questing back and forth. A troubled look crossed Garimi’s hardened face. “Do you think the Tyrant is really in there? A pearl of awareness in an endless dream? Can he sense that you are special?”
“Because I am his hundred-times-removed great-grandniece? Perhaps. Certainly no one on Rakis expected a little girl from an isolated desert village to be able to command the great worms.”
The corrupt priesthood on Rakis had seen Sheeana as a link to their Divided God. Later, the Bene Gesserit’s Missionaria Protectiva created legends about Sheeana, shaping her into an earth mother, a holy virgin. As far as the population of the Old Empire knew, their revered Sheeana had perished along with Rakis. A religion had grown up around her supposed martyrdom, becoming yet another weapon for the Sisterhood to use. They were undoubtedly still exploiting her name and legend.
“All of us believe in you, Sheeana. That is why we came on this”—Garimi caught herself, as if on the verge of uttering a deprecatory word—“on this odyssey.”
Below, the worms dove beneath the mounded sand, where they tested the boundaries of the hold. Sheeana watched them in their restless motion, wondering how much they understood of their strange situation.
If Leto II was indeed inside those creatures, he must be having troubled dreams.
Some like to live in complacency, hoping for stability without upset. I much prefer to turn over rocks and see what scurries out.
—MOTHER SUPERIOR DARWIL ODRADE,
Observations on Honored Matre Motivations
E
ven after so many years, the Ithaca divulged its secrets like old bones rising to the surface of a battlefield after a drenching rain.
The old Bashar had stolen this great vessel from Gammu long ago; Duncan was held prisoner aboard it for over a decade