Mentats of Dune

“The Sisterhood must keep going. I have already lived long past a normal lifetime, and I worry not for myself but for the future of this school, and these Sisters. I don’t want it all to die with me.”

Fielle raised her voice. “We would never allow that, Mother Superior!”

“I have often said that emotions get in the way of our tasks, that love is a dangerous distraction, but maybe I was wrong about that, Fielle, because I’m buoyed by the love you show for me, and I appreciate it more than you can possibly realize. But among other Sisters who will outlive me — those here and others on Salusa Secundus — there is such enmity that I don’t see a way to bring them together. We are too fragmented.”

“There may be a way, Mother Superior. I have run Mentat projections.” Fielle rose to her feet and paced the promontory, as if it were an office. “Without you, there would likely be a civil war among the Sisters, a power struggle, perhaps even further Imperial intervention. Reverend Mother Valya could instigate it, or maybe Dorotea — but it would happen for certain. Each side would view your loss as a vacuum that must be filled.”

Raquella’s eyes burned with emotion. “Unless I fix it first. I have asked Dorotea to come here so I can speak with her, beg her … but I suspect she will not listen.”

Fielle sounded more optimistic now. “A crisis broke us apart, Mother Superior. It will require another crisis, not mere diplomacy, to bring us back together. My Mentat projection suggests a method to reunite the estranged factions, but I hesitate to tell you. It is perhaps too radical.”

“I need a solution, so give me the raw information. Let me decide.” She rose to her feet and stood with her arms folded across her chest, trying not to shiver in the breeze. “What do you have in mind?”

The younger woman avoided making eye contact, as if ashamed of what she was about to suggest. “They still love you, regardless of politics, Mother Superior. All the Sisters on Wallach IX do, and I am convinced Dorotea and her orthodox Sisters do as well. Use that.”

“How?”

“Demand that the factions put aside their differences and find common ground — now. You do not have the time to craft a gradual peace. If they fail to do so, then shock them into doing what they must. As has been proved time and again, never underestimate the power of a martyr.”

“You mean, threaten to kill myself?”

“You may have to do more than threaten. If logic doesn’t make them solve their differences, maybe guilt will.”

Raquella thought for a moment, and nodded. “Sister Arlett has already departed for Salusa Secundus with a message for Dorotea. I’ll dispatch a coded letter to Ginaz recalling Valya. I need them both here immediately, so I can give them my ultimatum. If they refuse…” She shrugged. “My life is at an end anyway. Maybe my death can accomplish one last thing.”

The pair began walking back down the trail, moving at the old woman’s pace. Raquella was slower than usual. Although now she had a glimmer of hope for the Sisterhood, she felt the deep fatigue of a long lifetime.

Chapter 52 (There is beauty in the eyes)

There is beauty in the eyes of the youth who dreams of a bright future.

— wisdom of the Ancients

Though Caladan was quiet and bucolic, it boasted an impressive Air Patrol Agency. The scattered fishing fleets, the occasional sea storms, and the creatures out in the deep oceans — all required the locals to be ready to mount a rapid and efficient rescue when necessary.

Vor smiled when he studied the history of the Caladan Air Patrol and their years of service. No one knew that the rescue organization had been established and funded well over a century ago through an anonymous foundation set up by Vorian Atreides. Yes, he still had many ties here.

Though they were still young, his great-great-grandsons Willem and Orry had made themselves important pilots in the Patrol. Both young men had a love of fast and dangerous flying in their blood, but Vor decided this was a much better profession than piloting warships against robot vessels in the Jihad.

After that long, late-night confession and conversation with Shander Atreides, Vor felt relieved. He rarely got a chance to shed so many secrets. Even so, from Shander’s raised eyebrows and uncertain chuckle, he wasn’t sure the wealthy old fisherman — actually Vor’s great-grandson — completely believed him. Shander was aware only that one of his ancestors had been a great war hero, as attested to by the statue in the town square; but that was far back in the days of the Jihad, and the fact meant little to their daily lives. Nevertheless, Shander accepted Vorian’s friendship, seeing him as a curiosity and a spi

In a broader sense, Vor wanted to reco

His ope

On the third day after Vor arrived on Caladan, Shander Atreides offered to meet him for lunch to introduce him to the two young men, who were due back from a long patrol. At the last minute, Shander had to respond to an insistent customer, some kind of urgent repair order for fishing nets, and so Vor went to the landing-field café himself. He had faced greater challenges before.

Walking in, he felt tense but eager to meet Willem and Orry. Vor found them sitting at a table by a window that overlooked the Air Patrol field, where seaplanes took off and landed. He was startled when he caught his first glimpse of the two laughing young men. Even in their flight suits, they looked very much like the twins Estes and Kagin. He caught his breath, felt a pang, and then smiled as he stepped forward.

The brothers rose in unison to greet him; each shook his hand with a firm grip. Willem was taller than his older brother, with blond hair, while Orry’s was black like Vor’s. “I’m glad to finally meet you both,” Vor said.

They were polite, formal, although neither seemed to quite understand who he was. Willem said, “Uncle Shander told us you’re a surprise visitor. Some long-lost family member that we need to meet?”

Vor sat back, surprised. “He didn’t tell you my story?”

“We’ve been out on patrol for a week,” Orry said, “filling in at another airfield.”

“My name is Vorian Atreides.” He saw that they recognized the name but couldn’t quite place it. “I’m your great-great-grandfather. I spent a lot of time here on Caladan, long ago during the Jihad. I met a local woman named Leronica Tergiet, and we had twin sons. One of them was your great-grandfather.”

Willem and Orry blinked, then chuckled, but their laughter fell into silence when Vor continued to regard them with a serious expression. He explained the life-extension treatment he had received from his father, the cymek General Agamemnon. He was sure they must have been taught the history of the Jihad.

Orry said, “This is impossible. This really sounds impossible!”

Willem sat back at the table, looking skeptical. “We’ve heard of you, of course, at least the name. But … that’s all ancient history, and whatever you did all those centuries ago doesn’t affect us here. Not anymore.”

Vor frowned. “It’s been a very long time, but that doesn’t mean the past can’t find you here. I’d just like to get to know you both.”