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 women, 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."
Odrade found this interesting. Their common Atreides ancestor from the Tyrant's eons, Siona Ibn Fuad al-Seyefa Atreides, had imparted to her descendants this ability that hid them from prescient searchers. Every person walking openly on Chapterhouse shared that ancestral protection.
"A heavy mark?" Odrade asked. "Do they doubt that the ones in question are protected?"
"They want reassurance," Bellonda growled. "And now may I return to Idaho? He has the genetic mark and he does not. It worries me. Why do some of his cells not have the Siona marker? What were the Tleilaxu doing?"
"Duncan knows the danger and he's not suicidal," Odrade said.
"We don't know what he is," Bellonda complained.
"Probably a Mentat, and we all know what that could mean," Tamalane said.
"I understand why we keep Murbella," Bellonda said. "Valuable information. But Idaho and Scytale..."
"That's enough!" Odrade snapped. "Watchdogs can bark too long!"
Bellonda accepted this grudgingly. Watchdogs. Their Bene Gesserit term for constant monitoring by Sisters to see that you did not fall into shallow ways. Very trying to acolytes but just another part of life to Reverend Mothers.
Odrade had explained it one afternoon to Murbella, the two of them alone in a gray-walled interview chamber of the no-ship. Standing close together facing each other. Eyes at a level. Quite informal and intimate. Except for the knowledge of those comeyes all around them.
"Watchdogs," Odrade said, responding to a question from Murbella. "It means we are mutual gadflies. Don't make that more than it is. We seldom nag. A simple word can be enough."
Murbella, her oval face drawn into a look of distaste, the wide-set green eyes intent, obviously thought Odrade referred to some common signal, a word or saying the Sisters used in such situations.
"What word?"
"Any word, dammit! Whatever's appropriate. It's like a mutual reflex. We share a common 'tic' that comes not to annoy us. We welcome it because it keeps us on our toes."
"And you'll watchdog me if I become a Reverend Mother?"
"We want our watchdogs. We'd be weaker without them."
"It sounds oppressive."
"We don't find it so."
"I think it's repellent." She looked at the glittering lenses in the ceiling. "Like those damned comeyes."
"We take care of our own, Murbella. Once you're a Bene Gesserit, you're assured of lifelong maintenance."
"A comfortable niche." Sneering.
Odrade spoke softly. "Something quite different. You are challenged throughout your life. You repay the Sisterhood right up to the limits of your abilities."
"Watchdogs!"
"We're always mindful of one another. Some of us in positions of power can be authoritarian at times, familiar even, but only to a point carefully measured for the requirements of the moment."
"Never really warm or tender, eh?"
"That's the rule."
"Affection, maybe, but no love?"
"I've told you the rule." And Odrade could see the reaction clearly on Murbella's face: "There it is! They will demand that I give up Duncan!"
"So there's no love among the Bene Gesserit." How sad her tone. There was hope for Murbella yet.
"Loves occur, " Odrade said, "but my Sisters treat them as aberrations."
"So what I feel for Duncan is aberration?"
"And Sisters will try to treat it."
"Treat! Apply correctional therapy to the afflicted!"
"Love is considered a sign of rot in Sisters."
"I see signs of rot in you!"
As though she followed Odrade's thoughts, Bellonda dragged Odrade out of reverie. "That Honored Matre will never commit herself to us!" Bellonda wiped a bit of luncheon gravy from the corner of her mouth. "We're wasting our time trying to teach her our ways.'
At least Bell was no longer calling Murbella "whore," Odrade thought. That was an improvement.
All governments suffer a recurring problem: Power attracts pathological personalities. It is not that power corrupts but that it is magnetic to the corruptible. Such people have a tendency to become drunk on violence, a condition to which they are quickly addicted.
- Missionaria Protectiva, Text QIV (decto)
Rebecca knelt on the yellow tile floor as she had been ordered to do, not daring to look up at Great Honored Matre seated so remotely high, so dangerous. Two hours Rebecca had waited here almost in the center of a giant room while Great Honored Matre and her companions ate a lunch served by obsequious attendants. Rebecca marked the manners of the attendants with care and emulated them.