“We gather only what we require for ourselves. It is a harmless substance.”
Seeing the mound of shriveled brown ferns, Leto recalled sitting happily among these people as they passed around baskets of the drug, offering it to Leto, to Jessica … to his son!
What if Paul had taken some of the tainted plants and died in horrific convulsions?
“Burn it,” he said.
Two guards came forward, doused the pile of ferns with accelerant, and ignited them.
The Muadh people bowed their heads. Leto avoided the curls of greasy smoke that rose up, inhaling only shallowly. He looked around at the rice farmers, knowing they had revered him, and had honored so many previous generations of the Atreides Dukes.
Hawat lowered his voice as they watched the conflagration. “One point to consider, my Lord. If these ferns grow wild, and the Muadh truly gather only what they use for their ceremonies, then others could be harvesting the barra fern for a different purpose entirely.”
* * *
A DAY AFTER the party returned from the Muadh village, Dr. Yueh delivered his analysis to Leto in Castle Caladan. The Suk had brushed his long, dark hair and bound it neatly in its silver ring, and the diamond tattoo on his forehead stood out because his sallow complexion seemed paler than usual. Thufir Hawat accompanied him, but stood in silence as the doctor presented his results.
“I studied the fern samples, Sire. The remnants we retrieved from the Muadh temple do contain ailar, but the potency is quite different from the samples found on both Minister Wellan and Lieutenant Nupree. That one is a different strain of the fern, with a vastly higher concentration.”
Leto frowned. “Not the same as the drug used in the ritual? Is it a subspecies of barra fern?”
“Maybe, my Lord. But deep cellular analysis suggests it was organically modified. I suspect with the intent of increasing the concentration.”
Leto studied the Suk doctor’s cool analytical expression, though he himself felt deep anger and disgust in his heart. “So anyone expecting the normal, milder ailar could easily have overdosed.”
“Indeed, my Lord.” Yueh held up one of curled brown objects. “The type of enhanced fern consumed by Wellan and Nupree—and presumably by the hundreds of victims in Cala City—would have proved fatal in the same quantity the Muadh used in their ritual.”
Leto’s cheeks flushed. He nodded. “Lord Atikk’s son discovered the same thing.”
Yueh deftly removed another packet from his pocket, a slightly different specimen. “But this is what we found on both victims in Castle Caladan, and it matches samples from other overdose casualties in Cala City.” He extended the second fern curl to Leto. “As you can see, my Lord, the pigmentation is a little different, slightly mottled. I believe this type of genetically modified fern is now being sold in Cala City, and offworld.” He bowed and stepped back, his report complete.
Leto stared down at the fern remnants on his desk as if they were coiled vipers. “The Caladan drug,” he said, feeling the personal affront to his reputation, his honor.
Hawat added information. “I have discovered that smuggling operations are far more significant than I first imagined.” The Mentat wiped at his cranberry-stained lips and gazed away. For a moment, the old Master of Assassins looked genuinely old. “I applied Mentat analysis to trace connective strands through manifest documents in the Cala City Spaceport as well as uncategorized launches from smaller spaceports up and down the coast.” His heavy eyebrows drew together, and Leto heard something change in his voice.
“Sire, I believe this drug has spread across the Imperium—right under our noses.”
Some people want to know the future so they can prepare for it. But I prefer not to know. I would rather prepare myself for eventualities and move forward with the confidence that I am strong and ready to face whatever may come.
—GURNEY HALLECK
On the morning Reverend Mother Mohiam arrived on Wallach IX, a thick mist lay over the Mother School, turning the day into gloomy twilight. Across the complex of old red-roofed buildings, interior glowglobes shone through the windows, and bright lights illuminated the outside common areas.
The Emperor’s Truthsayer walked briskly across the central quad to the main school complex. Mohiam did not expect warmth and sunshine on Wallach IX, but this day felt less welcoming than ever. She passed young Acolytes huddled beneath layers of dark clothing. Mohiam drove back the bone-chilling cold by adjusting her pulse, her body heat, her nerve responses. Even so, she experienced a different kind of shiver as she stepped up to the tall doors of the administration building.
Mother Superior Harishka stood at a balcony railing on the second floor, looking down at her. She said, “Hurry inside. Waiting for you in this weather does not improve my disposition.”
Mohiam entered the main foyer and met the Mother Superior as she glided down the stairs. Three young Acolytes scurried out into the cold, bracing themselves. Mohiam said, “Many Sisters are having trouble staying warm.”
“Winter is a time of testing,” Harishka said in a clipped voice. “But this cold snap comes early, and no one is ready for it.” She motioned with one arm and walked with surprising quickness for a woman of her age. “We have an urgent situation … questions that must be answered immediately. We need your wisdom and experience.”
Intrigued, Mohiam accompanied the other woman down the central corridor past a residential wing, then took a lift to the third floor in a secure section of the enormous building. Mohiam felt a chill when she realized where they were going. She had been here before. “You are taking me to see Lethea, the Kwisatz Mother.”
“Yes. She has grown worse. Much worse.”
Just ahead, a woman’s scream, high-pitched and bloodcurdling, rolled down the corridor. “That’s her!” Harishka said. The door to the Kwisatz Mother’s room was open, but the Mother Superior hesitated before both of them rushed inside.
Ancient Lethea lay on her bed in a large room, her sticklike arms flailing as if fighting invisible ghosts. Five medical Sisters tended her, two of them trying to hold her down, one monitoring instruments that jittered alarmingly; another woman attempted to give her an injection, while the last recorded her unintelligible jabbering. Lethea thrashed her head from side to side and tried to bite one of the Sisters holding her, but another Sister smoothly and forcefully pulled the old woman’s head away, just in time.
Lethea cried out a name that turned Mohiam’s blood to ice. “Jessica! Jessica of Caladan! Take her away! Our future depends on it.” She choked, then spouted more words around spittle in her mouth. “I have seen horror … bloodshed! Disaster! The end of the Sisterhood! Take her from the boy.”
Jessica? Mohiam was surprised. So that is why I’m here?
One of the women, Reverend Mother Terta, looked up with relief when Harishka walked in. Terta had auburn hair and round, anachronistic spectacles. The careworn medical Sister shook her head in dismay. “She is worse than ever. She continues to call out that name, and her vital signs are going downhill at an alarming rate.” As another Sister performed medical tests, Terta spoke in a hushed voice to Mohiam and Harishka. “Who is this Jessica of Caladan? Why is she significant? And who is the boy?”