Sisterhood of Dune (50 page)

“Thank you. I’m sorry I can’t do better.”

“Not yet. But I have faith in you.”

Erasmus began to walk his new body around the small cottage, taking bold steps across the hardwood floor. “Some of the systems need fine-tuning, but I can perform the repairs internally.”

Taking the clumsy mek outside, Gilbertus led him along hidden trails through the marsh grasses. “This is a far cry from our casual strolls through your contemplation gardens on Corrin, but it’s the best we’ve had in a long time.”

“And our conversations can be just as stimulating.”

At their approach, an immense red-winged heron lifted off from the swampy water and soared into the sky.

“This gives you a chance to stretch your legs and remember how you were as an independent robot, but we have to be careful. If the Butlerians discovered this, they would destroy you forever.” The words caught in his throat, and he felt tears burning in his eyes. “I would never want that.”

In a pool of sunshine just offshore, two large green-and-black humps broke the surface of the water. Wary of the creatures that inhabited the marsh lake, Gilbertus took a step back from the shore, but Erasmus used the combat mek’s visual sensors. “Just paddle tortoises—I’ve studied them in the school’s science library, but there is little information available. Human biologists really should pay more attention to the diversity of this continent.”

“I’ll look them up when I get back to the school.”

The combat mek swiveled toward him. “No need. I shall capture one for study—we can dissect it together.” Impulsive and overly excited with his new freedom, Erasmus waded out into the water toward the tortoises. He sloshed his heavy body into the muck, and brown water rose to his chest.

“This is not necessary,” Gilbertus called. “The marshes here are unstable. I can’t guarantee the integrity of your body.” In fact, he had made certain the mek was not durable, just in case. And he had used a Mentat projection to predict how the independent robot would react. The lowlands around his contemplation cottage were surrounded by treacherous muck, an added security measure.

The robot lumbered into the soupy mud, intent on the slow-witted turtles dozing in the sun-dappled water ten meters from shore. The turtles raised their bullet-shaped heads and regarded the burly machine that trudged and splashed into their territory.

Erasmus raised one of the mek’s weapon arms. “The stun circuitry is not functional,” he said.

“Intentionally disabled,” Gilbertus admitted. “Remember the Butlerian requirements.”

“Then I shall capture a specimen manually.” He pushed deeper into the muck.

“Please don’t. Be content with your mobility here on the island. If you sink into the swamp, I may not be able to retrieve your memory core.” Despite the warning, he didn’t expect Erasmus to exhibit restraint.

The turtles grunted and splashed off, paddling into the morass of marsh grasses. Erasmus thrust the combat mek forward in a surge of speed, but his heavy body slowed and stopped in the quagmire. He tipped and sank, his circuits flickering. As he struggled, mud splashed in all directions.

“This body has lost its integrity!” Impossibly caught in the muck, the robot struggled, but more water leaked into the sensitive circuitry, shutting down several mobility systems.

Gilbertus retrieved a narrow suspensor canoe he stored at his cottage and, leery of predators in the water, he glided out to where the bulky mek stood mired and sinking. “It seems I have miscalculated,” Erasmus said.

“I could tell you were enjoying yourself, but obviously you aren’t ready for a new body yet.” Gilbertus reached the mek and saw with growing alarm how swiftly it was sinking in the swamp. He worked to remove the access panel, dipping his hands underwater. He saw two black ropy things slithering toward him from the shore: slick segmented leeches. As the robot’s shoulders dipped beneath the surface, sinking deeper into the slurry, Gilbertus finally removed the memory core and held it dripping out of the water. With a nudge, he glided the suspensor canoe out of the way as the ropy leeches arrived and circled the submerged mek, unimpressed with their prey.

He returned to shore, and carried the gelcircuitry sphere back to the contemplation cottage. “You overextended yourself,” he said. “I can’t risk smuggling another body away from the school—not for a long time.”

Though disappointed, the independent robot did express his excitement. “Despite the short duration, that was most enjoyable. A reminder of the things I can do once I am mobile again.”

It would be interesting to sterilize the entire human race, if only to observe how they react during the crisis.

—from the Erasmus journals

When Raquella’s shuttle reached the main Parmentier spaceport, she saw a massive construction project to the north, a complex of large school buildings and support structures laid out around a central area that might one day be graced with gardens and fountains. At the moment, the core area was filled with cranes, bulldozers, construction shacks, and piles of building materials. A considerable amount of disturbed dust hung in the air.

A very ambitious project. Dr. Zhoma was continuing the overblown work begun by her predecessor, although construction on several of the superfluous façades and recreational facilities had been put on hold. But it was not Raquella’s business to manage the growth of the school. Zhoma would be surprised enough to see her, even though the Reverend Mother had more than sufficient reasons to come to Parmentier.

A long time ago this planet had been Raquella’s home, and she remembered working with Mohandas Suk in the Hospital for Incurable Diseases, striving to save as many as possible, distributing melange as a palliative. When victims still fell like harvested wheat, mobs had overwhelmed the hospital, smashing and burning, led by a little girl who had survived the fevers and claimed to see visions of Saint Serena and hear voices in her head. Raquella and Mohandas had been forced to flee.

The heirs of Rayna’s movement were still out there, stronger than ever and with the same agenda. Fortunately, the school founded by Mohandas Suk also appeared to be thriving, with this huge new complex under construction. Zhoma appeared to be doing a good job … and considering her recent invitation to become the Emperor’s personal physician, she might be in a position to help the Sisterhood.

In the warm, dry summer of Parmentier, the Reverend Mother wore a lightweight black robe with ventilation pockets. A hired groundcar took her over a dusty road as she sat in silence, rolling past the half-finished dormitories, teaching theaters, operating centers, and training labs. She also noticed private security troops, paramilitary forces, and equipment.

At the school complex, she was greeted by a tall brown-skinned man with a long ponytail secured in a silver Suk ring. “I am Dr. Waddiz, deputy administrator of the school, and forty-two percent owner.”

What an odd thing to say,
she thought. Why would he think she was interested in his ownership percentage? “I am here to see Dr. Zhoma before she departs for Salusa Secundus. We have business to discuss.”

Waddiz twitched with obvious astonishment. “The news of her promotion has not been publicly disseminated.”

Raquella did not feel the need to give him specifics. “The Sisterhood has many eyes and ears.”

With a crisp acknowledgment, Waddiz led her up the broad steps outside a Grecian-style building that featured elaborate Corinthian columns and bas-relief friezes. She found it unnecessarily ostentatious, a distraction from the school’s humanitarian goals. Mohandas had never cared much for ostentation.

Pausing at the top of the steps, the deputy administrator gestured out toward the dusty central area. “As soon as these buildings are completed, we are going to install a fitness complex here, with lap pools, running tracks, and even a channel for racing scull boats. The overall plan is difficult to envision right now, with all the construction dust.” Workers and equipment rushed about in a frenzy of activity, and machines droned loudly.

Raquella was amazed that even the successful school could afford all this. “And such things are necessary for training new physicians?”

“Exercise and competitive sports are very good for the human body. The Greeks and Romans of Old Earth understood this fifteen thousand years ago, and it holds true today.”

Waddiz led her through doors etched with metallic designs in the shapes of medicinal plants. “This way, please. Dr. Zhoma is currently undergoing an experimental procedure. Perhaps you are interested in observing?”

“Of course. I served here in a hospital for many years myself.”

“That was almost a century ago,” Waddiz said, with clear admiration. “We have come a long way since then.”

On the upper level, chemical odors hung in the air: solvents, paint, mortar, and glue. They passed through an airlock into a large, cleanroom that contained numerous medical machines attended by white-smocked men and women. Waddiz stopped in front of a white capsule the size of a large coffin with a clearplaz window in the front. Inside, Raquella could see a woman strapped to a platform that turned slowly like meat on a rotisserie, bathing her in needles of colored light.

“Dr. Zhoma receives these treatments daily,” Waddiz said, but didn’t explain further. “Unfortunately, she won’t be able to continue them when she takes residence in the Imperial Palace. Salusa Secundus is quite a bit behind our technology.” He glanced at his wristchron and excused himself.

When the machine stopped, Zhoma emerged, looking refreshed. She smiled in surprise as she recognized her visitor. “I’m happy to see you here, Reverend Mother, but this is most unexpected.”

“We have business to discuss.”

Zhoma gave a brisk nod. “By all means. We can talk over lunch.”

The two women sat down in one of several private dining chambers that encircled a large cafeteria, where they both ate small portions of austere, healthy fare, much like what Raquella was accustomed to on Rossak. Though she remained professional and detached, Zhoma could not hide the fact that she was trying to find a way back into the Reverend Mother’s good graces.

“Congratulations on your selection as the Emperor’s personal physician. It is a great honor.”

“It is also a recognition of our school’s abilities. Roderick Corrino asked me himself, based on my past service. My work here on Parmentier is important, but the show of Corrino support will greatly strengthen our school—and of course the fee is not negligible. Dr. Waddiz will do an adequate job while I am away.”

Watching intently, Raquella noted a flicker of desperation in Dr. Zhoma’s eyes, and having heard reports of financial difficulties at the Suk School she wondered just how much the organization needed this nod from the Emperor. Or the payment.

Raquella saw the opening she needed. “Let me give you a warning—Emperor Salvador is not necessarily a friend of the Suk School. Look into his motivations and prepare yourself. Too often, the Butlerians control him.”

A nervous, surprised chuckle. “And yet he was so enamored with my predecessor that he paid huge sums for his medical treatments. How can he not support the school?”

“Oh, he might respect the doctors, especially when he feels his ailments, but he
fears
the Butlerians. Manford Torondo has the Emperor under his thumb, and he will want to limit your use of medical technology. Remember, we still have some Sisters working quietly at court, and they will help you whenever they can.”

Hesitation, then Zhoma said with an undertone of determination, “When I have the Emperor’s ear, I will convince him to support the Suk School. His father died of a brain tumor, and now he imagines many ailments himself. I think he will side with us out of his own personal interest.”

Reaching across the table, Raquella gripped the other woman’s arm to convey urgency. “I
know
that the Emperor has already agreed to make a gesture at your expense, in order to satisfy Manford.”

Zhoma looked disturbed. “What more do they want? We have tried to accommodate the Butlerian concerns. We vet all technology, removing any hint of computer control, but they keep moving the line of acceptability, finding new things to object to. Medical analysis is complex and sophisticated—would they have us go back to bleeding pans, leeches, and incantations? Is that how Emperor Salvador wants me to treat him, as his personal physician?”

“What Salvador wants for himself and what he allows the Butlerians to do may be different things. He is a flawed person, in more ways than you know.” She leaned forward, adding intensity to her voice. She had to get this woman’s attention, make her see how their problems—and their futures—were aligned. “Your new assignment is the reason I came here. I need to make a confidential request, a very important request.”

Zhoma blinked and responded too quickly, too eagerly. “Of course, Reverend Mother! Anything you wish.” For a moment she looked like the young, shamed acolyte back on Rossak again.

“You have had the chance to study our breeding records on Rossak.”

The doctor nodded. “I admire the project more than I can describe. How can I help you?”

“You know it’s one of the largest databases in human history, and with so much information and intensive analysis, certain projections are possible.” She paused. “We have discovered a serious flaw in the Corrino bloodline, specifically in Salvador’s branch.”

The comment took Zhoma completely by surprise. “How do you know this? Who could possibly assess such a huge amount of information—your Mentats?”

Raquella avoided a direct answer. “We have ways to look to the future and predict characteristics of offspring from the component breeders.” She lowered her voice and looked around, but they were completely alone. “The Sisterhood has determined that Salvador Corrino must not have offspring. He carries a critical flaw. His branch of the family tree must be pruned for the good of humanity’s future.”

Zhoma looked down at the remaining food on her plate, but seemed to have no appetite. Many questions crossed her face, but she held them back. “A patient should trust the diagnosis of a qualified doctor. How can I doubt a conclusion like this, when it comes from one of the women I respect most in the Imperium?” She swallowed hard at the implications of what the Reverend Mother was saying. “But what is to be done?”