Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [80]
Sheeana backed up to her bed and sat down, never taking her eyes from the painting. The voices in Other Memory seemed to appreciate it, though she kept the constant clamor under control.
Odrade-within spoke to her now in a scolding tone. I am sure other Sisters consider the theft of Vincent’s painting to be more serious than stealing the no-ship or sandworms from the desert belt. Those things could be replaced, but not a masterpiece.
“Maybe I am not the person you thought I was. But then, I—more than anyone else—can’t live up to the myth built around me. Does the Cult of Sheeana still have followers out there in the Old Empire? Does your manufactured religion still revere me as an angel and a savior?”
The Bene Gesserit knew the powers of unflagging belief among vast populations. The Sisters harnessed religions as weapons—created them, guided them, and turned them loose as one might aim an arrow from a bow.
Religions were odd things. They were born with the emergence of a strong and charismatic leader, yet somehow they grew more powerful after that keystone figure died, especially if martyred. No army ever fought harder without its bashar, no government grew stronger without its king or president, yet a religion without Sheeana spread faster as soon as the converts believed she was dead. Sheeana’s unique background had given the Missionaria Protectiva plenty to work with, enough raw material to attract fanatics in droves.
Here in her quiet, peaceful quarters, she was glad to be far from all that.
At the thought of being a supposed martyr around whom a powerful religion had grown, she felt another life awaken and rise up within her, a distant, ancient voice: Both Muad’Dib and Liet-Kynes spoke against the dangers of following a charismatic hero.
When the lives within permitted it, she liked to delve deeply into lines of Other Memory, looking farther and farther back in time, into the backwash and whitewater rapids of the river of history. “I agree. That is why those who would throw away their lives in such a cause must be watched and guided.”
Guided? Or manipulated?
“The difference is only a matter of words, not substance.”
There are times when manipulating the masses is the only way to form an adequate defense. A fighting force of fanatics can surpass any number of enemy weapons.
“Paul Muad’Dib proved that. His bloody jihad rocked the galaxy.”
The other voice chuckled within her. He was by no means the first to use such tactics. He learned much from the past. He learned much from me.
Sheeana cast her inner vision deep into her mind. “Who are you?”
I am one who knows this subject better than most. Better than almost anyone. The voice paused. I am Serena Butler. I started the mother of all jihads.
WITH SERENA BUTLER’S warning fresh in her mind, Sheeana strode through a lower-level corridor. Considering all the factions aboard the Ithaca, each with their own agendas and distortions, Sheeana knew of an innocent, yet impenetrable, source of information: the four captive Futars.
The creatures had caused no further trouble in the five years since one had escaped from the brig and killed a Sister, a minor proctor. Sheeana had visited them on occasion and talked to all of them, but so far she had been frustrated in her attempts to gain useful information. Nevertheless, Serena Butler had given her a new idea—to use religious awe as a tool.
Confident that she could protect herself if necessary, she released the one that called himself