Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [37]
Duncan preferred to manage the circumstances of their casual meetings, always trying to make certain that others were present, that he had safe guardrails to prevent him from falling off a dangerous cliff. He did not like to be out of control: That had already happened too many times.
He and Sheeana had surrendered to each other like terrified people huddling in a bombed-out battle zone. She had cauterized him to cure his debility and stolen him from Murbella, yet he felt like a casualty of war.
Now as he saw Sheeana’s expression flicker, Duncan thought she felt the same sense of vertigo and disorientation. She tried to sound reserved and rational. “It is better if we don’t do this. We have too many concerns, too many risks. Another regenerator system has just failed. The saboteur—”
“You’re right. We should not.” His voice was hoarse, but they had already started down a path with ever-increasing consequences. Duncan took a hesitant step forward. The muted corridor lights reflected off the no-ship’s metal walls. “We shouldn’t do this,” he said again.
Desire swept like a wave over both of them. As a Mentat he could observe and assess, concluding that what they were doing was simply a reaffirmation of humanity. When they touched fingertips, lips, and skin, both of them were lost. . . .
Later, they rested on tangled sheets in Sheeana’s quarters. The air carried a moist muskiness. Duncan lay sated with his fingers laced in his wiry dark hair. He was confused and disappointed in himself. “You’ve taken away too much of my control.”
Sheeana raised her eyebrows in the dim light, showing amusement. Her breath was warm and close to his ear. “Oh? And Murbella did not?” When Duncan turned away and did not answer, she chuckled. “You’re feeling guilty! You think you’ve betrayed her somehow. But how many female imprinters did you train back on Chapterhouse?”
He answered the question in his own way. “Murbella and I were trapped together, and no part of our relationship was voluntary. We had a mutual addiction, two people brought to a stalemate. That isn’t love or tenderness. For Murbella—for all of you witches—our love-making was supposed to be ‘just business.’ But I still had feelings for her, dammit! It isn’t a matter of whether or not I should.
“But you—you were like a violent detoxification of my system. The Agony served the same purpose for Murbella, breaking her bond to me.” He reached out and cupped Sheeana’s chin. “This cannot happen again.”
Now she looked even more amused. “I agree that it should not . . . but it will anyway.”
“You’re a loaded weapon, a full Bene Gesserit. Every time we make love, you could easily let yourself get pregnant. Isn’t that what the Sisterhood would demand? You could carry my child whenever you allow yourself to do so.”
“True. But I haven’t. We are far from Chapterhouse, and I make my own decisions now.” Sheeana pulled him back to her.
Scientists see sandworms as specimens, while the Fremen see them as their god. But the worms devour anyone who tries to gather information. How am I supposed to work under such conditions?
—IMPERIAL PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES,
ancient records
Sheeana stood in the high observation gallery where she and Garimi had once gone to discuss the future of their journey. The kilometer-long great hold was large enough to offer the illusion of freedom, though much too small for a brood of sandworms. The seven creatures were growing but remained stunted, waiting for the promised arid land. They had been waiting a long time, perhaps too long.
More than two decades ago, Sheeana had brought the small worms aboard the no-ship, stealing them from the growing desert band on Chapterhouse. She had always intended to transplant them to another world, far from the Honored Matres and