Heretics of Dune by Frank Herbert

We can always depend on the Atreides genes, Taraza thought. A window curtain fluttered behind Odrade and she glanced back at it. They were in Taraza’s morning room, a small and elegantly furnished space decorated in shades of green. Only the stark white of Taraza’s chairdog separated her from the background. The room’s bow windows looked eastward onto garden and lawn with faraway snowy mountains of Chapter House Planet as backdrop.

Without looking up, Taraza said: “I was glad when both you and Lucilla accepted the assignment. It makes my task much easier.”

“I would like to have met this Lucilla,” Odrade said, looking down at the top of Taraza’s head. Odrade’s voice came out a soft contralto.

Taraza cleared her throat. “No need. Lucilla is one of our finest Imprinters. Each of you, of course, received the identical liberal conditioning to prepare you for this.”

There was something almost insulting in Taraza’s casual tone and only the habits of long association put down Odrade’s immediate resentment. It was partly that word “liberal,” she realized. Atreides ancestors rose up in rebellion at the word. It was as though her accumulated female memories lashed out at the unconscious assumptions and unexamined prejudices behind the concept.

“Only liberals really think. Only liberals are intellectual. Only liberals understand the needs of their fellows.”

How much viciousness lay concealed in that word! Odrade thought. How much secret ego demanding to feel superior.

Odrade reminded herself that Taraza, despite the casually insulting tone, had used the term only in its catholic sense: Lucilla’s generalized education had been carefully matched to that of Odrade.

Taraza leaned back into a more comfortable position but still kept her attention on the display in front of her. The light from the eastern windows fell directly on her face, leaving shadows beneath nose and chin. A small woman just a bit older than Odrade, Taraza retained much of the beauty that had made her a most reliable breeder with difficult sires. Her face was a long oval with soft curved cheeks. She wore her black hair drawn back tightly from a high forehead with a pronounced peak. Taraza’s mouth opened minimally when she spoke: superb control of movement. An observer’s attention tended to focus on her eyes: that compelling blue-in-blue. The total effect was of a suave facial mask from which little escaped to betray her true emotions.

Odrade recognized this present pose in the Mother Superior. Taraza would mutter to herself presently. Indeed, right on cue, Taraza muttered to herself.

The Mother Superior was thinking while she followed the biographical display with great attention. Many matters occupied her attention.

This was a reassuring thought to Odrade. Taraza did not believe there was any such thing as a beneficent power guarding humankind. The Missionaria Protectiva and the intentions of the Sisterhood counted for everything in Taraza’s universe. Whatever served those intentions, even the machinations of the long-dead Tyrant, could be judged good. All else was evil. Alien intrusions from the Scattering — especially those returning descendants who called themselves “Honored Matres” — were not to be trusted. Taraza’s own people, even those Reverend Mothers who opposed her in Council, were the ultimate Bene Gesserit resource, the only thing that could be trusted.

Still without looking up, Taraza said: “Do you know that when you compare the millennia preceding the Tyrant with those after his death, the decrease in major conflicts is phenomenal. Since the Tyrant, the number of such conflicts has dropped to less than two percent of what it was before.”

“As far as we know,” Odrade said.

Taraza’s gaze flicked upward and then down. “What?”

“We have no way of telling how many wars have been fought outside our ken. Have you statistics from the people of the Scattering?”

“Of course not!” `

“Leto tamed us is what you’re saying,” Odrade said.

“If you care to put it that way.” Taraza inserted a marker in something she saw on her display.

“Shouldn’t some of the credit go to our beloved Bashar Miles Teg?” Odrade asked. “Or to his talented predecessors?”

“We chose those people,” Taraza said.

“I don’t see the pertinence of this martial discussion,” Odrade said. “What does it have to do with our present problem?”