The chamber was a crucible of basalt and spice-saturated air. There was no "sacred syrup" here—only the clinical necessity of the Melange catalyst. On the obsidian dais, Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam did not simply "lie"; she occupied her body with the total awareness of a Prana-Bindu master, manually regulating her heart rate to 20 beats per minute to manage the transition.
Sister Anirul, the Hidden Mother, monitored the bio-signs. Her composure, usually a shield of ice, showed a hairline fracture. "The fetus has bypassed the secondary neural gates, Reverend Mother. Metabolic readings suggest an active Other Memory state. This is... premature. A deviation from the breeding indices."
Mohiam's eyes snapped open—two pits of deep, spice-saturated blue-in-blue. "A deviation? No, Anirul. A culmination. We have bred for the Shortened Way, and now you tremble because the path has narrowed. Observe the muscle tension. The child isn't being born; she is emerging."
The birth was terrifyingly efficient. There was no infantile wail. The infant Lysara entered the world with eyes already fixed, scanning the room not with wonder, but with assessment.
"Abomination," a Sister hissed from the shadows. "Look at the ocular focus. That is not a neonate; that is a conscious mind. She is Pre-born.
"Silence, you fool," Mohiam rasped, her voice a low-frequency Voice that vibrated in their bones. "She is a genetic asset. We spent five centuries crossing the Atreides and Harkonnen lines for this level of synaptic density.
The infant's mouth opened. The sound was not a cry, but a perfectly pitched sub-vocal frequency that bypassed the ear and struck the limbic system.
"Be still."
The command was a physical blow. Anirul's lungs seized. The Sisters stood frozen, their autonomic nervous systems hijacked by a creature that had not yet been dried of its birthing fluids.
Mohiam broke the trance through sheer, agonizing will. "A name for the records," she commanded, her voice thin. "She is Lysara. The edge of the gom jabbar. We have prayed for a blade to cut the future; let us hope it does not cut the hand that wields it."
Six Years Later
The training chamber on Wallach IX was a void of sterile light and hard angles. Lysara stood in the center, her small frame draped in the simple black abba of a postulant, yet she remained as motionless as a statue in a high-gravity world. Her Prana-Bindu discipline was so absolute that she had ceased her involuntary blinking—a subtle, predatory stillness that marked her as something other than human.
Reverend Mother Mohiam paced the perimeter, the hem of her robes hissing against the stone like a desert viper.
"Purpose is the anchor of the soul, Lysara," Mohiam intoned, her voice layered with the authority of the Missionaria Protectiva. "Without it, a Sister is merely a leaf in the storms of the Imperium. You exist because the Sisterhood requires a safeguard. You are the contingency."
Lysara's eyes—the unsettling, core-lit sapphire—tracked Mohiam's movement. "How often you remind me of my 'purpose,' Grandmother. It is the refrain of my mornings, the rhythm of my pulse. You speak as if I might forget I was bred for a specific slot in your grand machine."
"You will address me with the respect due to my rank, or you will find the air in this room withdrawn," Mohiam snapped, though she felt the cold prickle of the Truthsense indicating the girl's words were devoid of fear. "You are more than a tool, but less than a person. You are the Fail-Safe. Our breeding indices focus on the Atreides and the Harkonnen lines to produce the Kwisatz Haderach. But should that bridge to the future stray from the path—should he prove ungovernable or flawed—you are the blade that will excise the error. You are the backup, the shadow-hand."
"A backup," Lysara mused. Her voice held a tonal richness that no six-year-old should possess; it was the resonance of a woman of forty speaking through a child's throat. "A net to catch a falling god. And if the god does not fall? Does the net remain tucked in the dark?"
"The net is always ready," Mohiam said. She stopped and leaned in close, her face a map of ancient, wrinkled stone. "But a net is useless if it cannot move unnoticed. We begin today with the most vital of weapons: Manners."
Lysara's lip curled—a minute, calculated flicker of derision. "Politeness? You wish me to learn how to curtsy while the dead scream in my head?"
"I wish you to learn how to survive," Mohiam corrected. "In the Great Houses of the Landsraad, politeness is the lubricant of assassination. A Sister of the Bene Gesserit is a guest, a concubine, a teacher, or a counselor. We are the 'servants' of the Imperium. If you walk into a Ducal court with that arrogant, pre-born stare, you invite the blade before the work is done. Etiquette is the mask that hides our intent. You must learn to be invisible in plain sight."
Mohiam struck a sudden, formal pose—the greeting of a Minor House envoy.
"React," Mohiam commanded. "Acknowledge me as if I were a Baroness of the Inner Circle. Show me the submissive tilt of the head that signals loyalty while your eyes scan my carotid for a weakness. If we are to train you, you must eventually leave this cell. You must go into the 'real world,' Lysara. But the Sisterhood will not send a monster into the light. We send only 'ladies. "
Lysara shifted. The transition was seamless. The predatory rigidity vanished, replaced by a soft, fluid grace. She bowed, her head tilting at the exact angle of respectful deference—the Thirteen-Degree Salutation. But as she looked up, her voice was a chilling whisper that didn't match the humble posture.
"I will wear your silk mask, Grandmother. I will speak your soft words and bow to your 'Lords.' But do not forget: a lady is merely a predator who has learned to wait for the dessert course."
Mohiam stared at her for a long moment, feeling the weight of the Other Memory shifting behind the girl's eyes. The child was learning too fast.
"The mask is not just for them," Mohiam said softly. "It is to keep the beast inside you from being seen by the light. Tomorrow, we test your mask against a live subject. You will learn to lie with every cell of your body, or you will never leave this world alive."
The Courtyard of Cloisters
The transition from the sterile training cell to the open air of the Mother School was a shock of sensory data. Wallach IX was a world of grey mists and sharp winds, smelling of ozone and the ancient, damp stone of the complex.
Reverend Mother Mohiam led the child into the central courtyard, where a group of postulants stood in a disciplined semi-circle. These were the acolytes—girls ranging from six to ten years of age, the genetic cream of a hundred worlds.
"Observe them," Mohiam whispered, her Voice barely a vibration. "They are your peers. To them, you are merely a transfer from a distant creche. If they sense the Abomination in you, they will isolate you. If you cannot blend with your own kind, you will never blend with the Great Houses. Your name is now your shield."
Mohiam stepped forward, her presence drawing the girls into a rigid, respectful silence.
"Acolytes," Mohiam announced, her Voice cutting through the wind. "This is Mari. She comes to us from the specialized breeding stations of Richese. Her lineage is verified; her training begins here. You will treat her as one of your own."
The girls shifted, a collective ripple of movement. To them, a newcomer from Richese was a rarity—a puzzle to be solved.
Miral, the girl from House Vernius of Ix, stepped forward. Her copper skin glowed against her grey uniform, and her eyes sparkled with a competitive warmth. She performed a perfect Sign of the Hand, her fingers flickering in a greeting that signaled both welcome and a challenge.
"A Richesian!" Miral exclaimed, her formality softened by a genuine grin. "My tutors always said the Richesians have minds like clockwork—precise, but sometimes in need of a good Ixian winding. I am Miral. It's been three standard years since a new girl of the Great Houses arrived in this cycle. Tell me, do they still build the logic-engines so small on your world, or have they finally learned to trust the human nerve?"
Mari—the child the Mother Superior knew as Lysara—maintained a mask of cool composure. "We trust the nerve, Miral, but we calibrate it with iron. I am told Ixian blood is prone to... overheating."
A soft, melodic laugh broke from Elara, the girl from Chusuk. She bowed with the fluid grace of a dancer. "Ignore Miral; she thinks everything is a machine to be dismantled. I am Elara. My world is one of song and harmony, though the Reverend Mothers here tell me my 'harmonies' are merely auditory distractions. It is rare to see a new face. The Mother School can feel like a very small universe after a while."
"I am Kassia, of Lankiveil," a third added, her voice a low, husky purr. "Welcome to the grey mists, Mari. If you can survive the winter winds of Wallach IX, the politics of the Landsraad will feel like a summer breeze."
"You have the 'Old Look' in your eyes, Mari," Miral noted, her head tilting. "Most girls arrive here looking like frightened fawns. You look like you've already survived a century. Is it true the Richesian creches use deep-memory imprinting? You move as if you've walked these stones for a thousand years."
Mari felt the Other Memory within her surge—a thousand voices wanting to answer Miral's question with the terrible truth. She forced them back, anchoring herself in the present.
"I simply value efficiency of motion, Miral," Mari replied, her smile thin and diplomatic. "As you said, the mind is a clock. I prefer mine to be on time."
"A girl of stone and gears," Miral laughed, clapping a hand lightly on Mari's shoulder—a bold gesture that tested Mari's Prana-Bindu reaction. "I like that. Come, the Reverend Mother has assigned me as your shadow. I'll show you where we eat, where we bleed, and which corridors have the best acoustics for eavesdropping on the Proctor's meetings. If we are to be Sisters, we might as well be clever ones."