For Jessica it was like a child’s game . . . except this one was deadly serious.

Rustling like bats, hundreds of Sisters filled the dining hall, amused to watch the Baron’s antics, dodging him as if it were a game of invisible tag. Some crouched under tables; Jessica and Mohiam pressed against the wall. All the women were in silent breathing mode, concentrating on the illusion. No one spoke.

They were in plain sight, but the befuddled Harkonnens could neither see nor sense them. The Baron saw only what the Bene Gesserit wanted him to see.

On top of the head table stood the dark, aged Mother Superior, smiling like a schoolgirl in the middle of a prank. Harishka folded rail-thin arms across her chest as the pursuers grew more and more frustrated and noticeably agitated.

A trooper passed only centimeters in front of Jessica. He waved a life-tracer, nearly striking her face. But the guard saw nothing but false readings. On the dial of the scanner, data blinked and flared as the soldier moved past Jessica— though to him nothing registered on the gauge. Devices could not easily be fooled . . . but men were different.

Life is an illusion, to be tailored to our needs, she thought, quoting a lesson she had learned from her teacher Mohiam. Every Acolyte knew how to trick the eye, the most vulnerable of human senses. The Sisters made barely audible sounds, dampened their slight movements.

Knowing the swaggering Baron was on his way, Mother Superior had summoned the Sisters into the great dining hall. “Baron Harkonnen believes he is in control,” she had said in her crackling voice. “He thinks to intimidate us, but we must remove his strength, make him feel impotent.”

“We are also buying time for ourselves to consider this matter . . . and giving the Baron time to make his own mistakes. Harkonnens are not known for their patience.”

Across the room, the clumsy Baron nearly brushed against Sister Cristane, who slid smoothly away.

“What the hells was that?” He whirled, sensing the movement of air, a brief scent of fabric. “I heard something rustle, like a robe.” The guards raised their weapons, but saw no targets. The heavyset man shuddered.

Jessica exchanged a smile with her teacher. The Reverend Mother’s normally flat eyes danced with glee. From her high table, Mother Superior stared down at the flustered men like a bird of prey.

In preparation for the mass hypnosis that now smothered the Baron and his men, Sister Cristane had allowed herself to be visible to them, so she could lead them into the web. But gradually the guide had faded from view as the Sisters concentrated, focusing their efforts on these pliable victims.

The Baron hobbled closer, his face a mask of unbridled fury. Jessica had the opportunity to trip him, but chose not to.

Mohiam moved to glide beside him, said something faint and eerie. “You shall fear, Baron.” In a directed-whisper that carried only to the fat man’s ears, this man she despised so much, Mohiam created a barely discernible susurration that twisted words from the Litany Against Fear into something altogether different:

“You shall fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.” She walked around him, spoke to the back of his head. “You cannot face your fear. It will pass inside you and infect you.”

He thrashed with his hand, as if to bat away a bothersome insect. His expression looked troubled. “When we look upon the path of your fear, there will be nothing left of you.” Smoothly, Mohiam slipped away from him. “Only the Sisterhood will remain.”

The Baron stopped dead in his tracks, his face pale, his jowls twitching. His black eyes glanced to the left, where Mohiam had been standing only seconds before. He swung his cane in that direction, so hard that he lost his balance and fell to the floor.

“Get me out of here!” he bellowed to his guards.

Two troopers rushed to help him to his feet. The squad leader guided them to the main doors and out into the passageway, while the remaining guards continued to search for targets, swinging the snub noses of their lasrifles back and forth.

At the threshold, the Baron hesitated. “Damned witches.” He looked around. “Which way back?”

“To the right, my Lord Baron,” the squad leader said in a firm voice. Unknown to him, Cristane hovered invisibly at his side, whispering directions in his ear. Upon reaching the shuttle, they would find it already set on automatic pilot, ready to take the Baron back through the planet’s complex defenses to their frigate in orbit.

Unsuccessful, frustrated, helpless. The Baron was not accustomed to such feelings. “They wouldn’t dare harm me,” he muttered.

Nearby, several Sisters snickered.

As the Harkonnens fled like gaze hounds with their tails between their legs, ghostly laughter from the dining hall followed them.