Odrade spoke in a mild tone: “Scytale has to keep some bargaining chips.”
Both sides shared a fantasy: Scytale was paying the Bene Gesserit for rescue from the Honored Matres and sanctuary on Chapterhouse. But every Reverend Mother who studied him knew something else drove the last Tleilaxu Master.
Clever, clever, the Bene Tleilax. Far more clever than we suspected. And they have dirtied us with their axlotl tanks. The very word “tank”—another of their deceptions. We pictured containers of warmed amniotic fluid, each tank the focus of complex machinery to duplicate (in a subtle, discrete and controllable way) the workings of the womb. The tank is there all right! But look at what it contains.
The Tleilaxu solution was direct: Use the original. Nature already had worked it out over the eons. All the Bene Tleilax need do was add their own control system, their own way of replicating information stored in the cell.
“The Language of God,” Scytale called it. Language of Shaitan was more appropriate.
Feedback. The cell directed its own womb. That was more or less what a fertilized ovum did anyway. The Tleilaxu merely refined it.
A sigh escaped Odrade, bringing sharp glances from her companions. Does Mother Superior have new troubles?
Scytale’s revelations trouble me. And what those revelations have done to us. Oh, how we recoiled from the “debasement. ” Then, rationalizations. And we knew they were rationalizations! “If there is no other way. If this produces the gholas we need so desperately. Volunteers probably can be found.” Were found! Volunteers!
“You’re woolgathering!” Tamalane grumbled. She glanced at Bellonda, started to say something and thought better of it.
Bellonda’s face went soft-bland, a frequent accompaniment to her darker moods. Her voice came out little more than a guttural whisper. “I strongly urge that we eliminate Idaho. And as for that Tleilaxu monster …”
“Why do you make such a suggestion with a euphemism?” Tamalane demanded.
“Kill him then! And the Tleilaxu should be subjected to every persuasion we—”
“Stop it, both of you!” Odrade ordered.
She pressed both palms briefly against her forehead and, staring at the bow window, saw icy rain out there. Weather Control was making more mistakes. You couldn’t blame them, but there was nothing humans hated more than the unpredictable. “We want it natural!” Whatever that means.
When such thoughts came over her, Odrade longed for an existence confined to the order that pleased her: an occasional walk in the orchards. She enjoyed them in all seasons. A quiet evening with friends, the give and take of probing conversations with those for whom she felt warmth. Affection? Yes. The Mother Superior dared much-even love of companions. And good meals with drinks chosen for their enhancement of flavors. She wanted that, too. How fine it was to play upon the palate. And later … yes, later—a warm bed with a gentle companion sensitive to her needs as she was sensitive to his.
Most of this could not be, of course. Responsibilities! What an enormous word. How it burned.
“I’m getting hungry,” Odrade said. “Shall I order lunch served here?”
Bellonda and Tamalane stared at her. “It’s only half past eleven,” Tamalane complained.
“Yes or no?” Odrade insisted.
Bellonda and Tamalane exchanged a private look. “As you wish,” Bellonda said.
There was a saying in the Bene Gesserit (Odrade knew) that the Sisterhood ran smoother when Mother Superior’s stomach was satisfied. That had just tipped the scales.
Odrade keyed the intercom to her private kitchen. “Lunch for three, Duana. Something special. You choose.”
Lunch, when it came, featured a dish Odrade especially enjoyed, a veal casserole. Duana displayed a delicate touch with herbs, a bit of rosemary in the veal, the vegetables not overcooked. Superb.
Odrade savored every bite. The other two plodded through the meal, spoon-to-mouth, spoon-to-mouth.
Is this one of the reasons I am Mother Superior and they are not?
While an acolyte cleared away the remains of lunch, Odrade turned to one of her favorite questions: “What is the gossip in the common rooms and among the acolytes?”
She remembered in her own acolyte days how she had hung on the words of the older woman, expecting great truths and getting mostly small talk about Sister So-and-so or the latest problems of Proctor X. Occasionally, though, the barriers came down and important data flowed.
“Too many acolytes talk of wanting to go out in our Scattering,” Tamalane rasped. “Sinking ships and rats, I say.”
“There’s a great interest in Archives lately,” Bellonda said. “Sisters who know better come looking for confirmation —whether such and so acolyte has a heavy Siona gene-mark.”