“Not only that, lad.” Gurney gestured, and the young man instantly saw what he meant. “They are in rows.”
Paul scanned across the evenly spaced planting. “Not wild growths at all, then. Someone cultivated these ferns.”
“And harvested them.” Leto strode forward, scanning the tall fern trees and the pines that helped camouflage the growing area. “How extensive is this field?”
“Too many barra ferns for us to uproot, my Lord,” Gurney said as he stomped one of the nubs and ground it under his heel. “I imagine we’ll find similar fields adjacent to this one. It’s a large growing area.”
Paul looked beyond the large fan-shaped fronds and spotted silvery threads that interconnected the tallest trees. “What are those? A web of some kind?”
Leto ran his fingers along the thin wires. “A camouflage net. It can scramble sensors to hide the ferns from aerial surveys.”
Gurney ranged farther along, scanning the forest of towering mature ferns. Flicking his glance from side to side, Paul estimated perhaps a thousand young, mottled ferns awaiting harvest.
Yueh observed, “If these were planted and harvested, then someone must be tending them regularly. How often do you think they inspect their fields?”
“Maybe someone is still here.” Gurney drew his blade and loped along. “Here, my Lord! Over here!”
They followed his voice, pushing aside weeds that helped mask the rows of ferns. Duke Leto got ahead of them while Paul and Yueh hurried to catch up.
When they broke through a stand of fern trees, Paul spotted a prefabricated hut erected along with several rectangular storage units. Bulky mechanical equipment was covered by polymer tarps.
A thin, sunken-eyed man in drab clothing burst from the hut, alerted by the commotion. He stared at them, his mouth agape, before he lunged back into the structure, panicked and confused. A moment later, he returned carrying a long fern-harvesting pike with a curved blade.
Gurney was upon him with his own kindjal, hacking at the harvesting pike. The man flailed, unable to defend himself against a skilled fighter. He jabbed the point at Gurney, but the man was a mere harvester, and Gurney easily deflected the blow, avoiding the inartful attack.
Yelling, the worker retreated into the hut and slammed the door. By the time Leto, Paul, and Yueh joined Gurney, the man had barricaded himself inside the flimsy structure. Paul looked around for other workers at the site, but the man appeared to be alone, like an isolated shepherd tending a flock.
Gurney’s face was flushed, his inkvine scar beet red. He grabbed the discarded harvesting pike and pummeled the hut’s wall. He called over his shoulder to Leto. “We’ll pull him out, my Lord, and then he’ll give us some answers.”
Thrusting and twisting with the pike, Gurney finally staved in the wall. From the shadows within, they heard the worker’s dismayed whimper. Pulling the polymer material wider, Gurney pushed his way inside, with Leto pressing close behind.
They found the worker on the packed dirt floor, curled into a ball, shivering and convulsing. He had stuffed his mouth full of the curled green barra ferns. Spittle and foam trickled out of his mouth. His eyes were already scarlet with hemorrhages.
Leto roared in frustration. “Yueh, save him!”
The Suk doctor stared. “With that dose, my Lord? Not possible.” He nevertheless dropped to his knees and whipped out his medkit.
“Why would that man kill himself?” Paul said. “He doesn’t even know who we are. We could just have been hunters.”
The worker’s eyes were red, filled with blood. Yueh had cleared his mouth, knocked the half-chewed ferns aside, but the victim had already swallowed too much raw ailar.
“Why did you do this?” Leto demanded. “Give us answers! Who is responsible for these operations?”
Yueh’s ministrations had no effect.
Even as the worker died, he managed a hoarse, rasping cackle. The man coughed and spat out words. “I fear Chaen Marek … more than you!”
Since our founding, the Bene Gesserit have always found ways to slip into the corridors of power.
—MOTHER SUPERIOR HARISHKA
After Reverend Mother Terta’s violent death, an undercurrent of sadness and fear ran through the inner halls of the Mother School.
“I genuinely thought Lethea was dying at the time,” Mohiam said. “Maybe I was too impulsive, but it might have been our last chance to retrieve her memories and skill … Now poor Terta is dead.”
Harishka shook her head. “By connecting with her mind, Reverend Mother Terta was only trying to help her.”
“And help the Sisterhood—but it was a trap.” Mohiam considered. “Does Lethea hate us? Is she warning us of a disaster to the Bene Gesserit, or is she causing it?”
The two women entered a large greenhouse where white-robed Acolytes silently tended flowers and leafy plants, trimming and potting them. “We need her ability to predict the near future of the breeding program, but at what cost? She has left a swath of victims in her wake.” Her voice grew hard, angry. “Lethea is more than a liability—she is a genuine danger to all of us.”
The rich, moist smell of plants in the enclosed building did not dispel Mohiam’s uneasiness. “Is Lethea even conscious of what she’s doing?”
“She is aware of more than we suspected, and has shown herself to be malicious and vindictive. How can we trust what she wants to do to Jessica, if we bring her here?”
After expending so much mental energy to drive the medical Sister to suicide, the ancient woman had settled back down and now rested calmly in her isolated chamber. Spy-eyes transmitted Lethea’s every movement into other rooms, but the Sisters were now too terrified to tend her personally. The Mother Superior had ordered the attendants to stay away.
They walked among rows of green plants, surrounded by earthy aromas of mulch, the mist of watering systems, the perfume of blossoms. Harishka paused and took a calming breath, bending over a burst of colorful blue flowers. She made an odd, distracted comment. “I find this place relaxing. Years ago, a younger Sister taught me that being surrounded by plants could be restorative to a troubled spirit. We certainly need that now.”
Mohiam smiled, remembering the same thing. “Sister Margot said that, I presume? She always had such a fondness for her conservatory. I see her and Count Fenring often in the Imperial Court. An interesting marriage that benefits each of them, as well as the Sisterhood.” She frowned. “I fear she cares a bit too much for that awful man, though.”
Harishka’s voice grew stern. “Too many Sisters allow themselves the vulnerability of love. It distorts their perspective.”
Mohiam tried to be more understanding. “They are human.”
“But the goals of the Bene Gesserit must remain paramount in their minds and in their hearts. No matter where they go or what assignments they receive, all Sisters belong to the order.”
Mohiam had never let herself feel giddy emotions for any of the lovers she had taken during her long life. Per the Sisterhood’s instructions, she had given birth to daughters, and had felt no fondness for their fathers. She shuddered as she recalled coupling with the loathsome Baron Harkonnen, back before he was fat. But at least that union had resulted in Jessica … Jessica of Caladan.