“Unless they have more important customers offering greater profits!”
“Ahhhhh, Miles.” She spoke in a musing voice. “What we latter-day Bene Gesserit really do is try to let matters achieve a calmer tone, a balance. You know this.”
Teg found this true but he locked on one phrase: “. . . latter-day . . .” The words conveyed a sense of summation-at-death. Before he could question this, Taraza continued:
“We like to settle the most passionate situations off the battlefield. I must admit we have the Tyrant to thank for that attitude. I don’t suppose you’ve ever thought of yourself as a product of the Tyrant’s conditioning, Miles, but you are.”
Teg accepted this without comment. It was a factor in the entire spread of human society. No Mentat could avoid it as a datum.
“That quality in you, Miles, drew us to you in the first place,” Taraza said. “You can be damnably frustrating at times but we wouldn’t have you any other way.”
By subtle revelations in tone and manner, Teg realized that Taraza was not speaking solely for his benefit, but was also directing her words at her entourage.
“Have you any idea, Miles, how maddening it is to hear you argue both sides of an issue with equal force? But your simpatico is a powerful weapon. How terrified some of our foes have been to find you confronting them where they had not the slightest suspicion you might appear!”
Teg allowed himself a tight smile. He glanced at the women seated across the aisle from them. Why was Taraza directing such words at this group? Darwi Odrade appeared to be resting, head back, eyes closed. Several of the others were chatting among themselves. None of this was conclusive to Teg. Even Bene Gesserit acolytes could follow several trains of thought simultaneously. He returned his attention to Taraza.
“You really feel things the way the enemy feels them,” Taraza said. “That is what I mean. And, of course, when you’re in that mental frame there is no enemy for you.”
“Yes, there is!”
“Don’t mistake my words, Miles. We have never doubted your loyalty. But it’s uncanny how you make us see things we have no other way of seeing. There are times when you are our eyes.”
Darwi Odrade, Teg saw, had opened her eyes and was looking at him. She was a lovely woman. Something disturbing about her appearance. As with Lucilla, she reminded him of someone in his past. Before Teg could follow this thought, Taraza spoke.
“Has the ghola this ability to balance between opposing forces?” she asked.
“He could be a Mentat,” Teg said.
“He was a Mentat in one incarnation, Miles.”
“Do you really want him awakened so young?”
“It is necessary, Miles. Deadly necessary.”
The failure of CHOAM? Quite simple: They ignore the fact that larger commercial powers wait at the edges of their activities, powers that could swallow them the way a slig swallows garbage. This is the true threat of the Scattering — to them and to us all.
-Bene Gesserit Council notes, Archives #SXX90CH
Odrade spared only part of her awareness to the conversation between Teg and Taraza. Their lighter was a small one, its passenger quarters cramped. It would use atmospherics to dampen its descent, she knew, and she prepared herself for the buffeting. The pilot would be sparing of their suspensors on such a craft, saving energy.
She used these moments as she used all such time now to gird herself for the coming necessities. Time pressed; a special calendar drove her. She had looked at a calendar before leaving Chapter House, caught as often happened to her by the persistence of time and its language: seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years . . . Standard Years, to be precise. Persistence was an inadequate word for the phenomenon. Inviolability was more like it. Tradition. Never disturb tradition. She held the comparisons firmly in mind, the ancient flow of time imposed on planets that did not tick to the primitive human clock. A week was seven days. Seven! How powerful that number remained. Mystical. It was enshrined in the Orange Catholic Bible. The Lord made a world in six days “and on the seventh day He rested.”