It would be interesting to sterilize the entire human race, if only to observe how they react during the crisis.

—from the Erasmus journals

When Raquella’s shuttle reached the main Parmentier spaceport, she saw a massive construction project to the north, a complex of large school buildings and support structures laid out around a central area that might one day be graced with gardens and fountains. At the moment, the core area was filled with cranes, bulldozers, construction shacks, and piles of building materials. A considerable amount of disturbed dust hung in the air.

A very ambitious project. Dr. Zhoma was continuing the overblown work begun by her predecessor, although construction on several of the superfluous façades and recreational facilities had been put on hold. But it was not Raquella’s business to manage the growth of the school. Zhoma would be surprised enough to see her, even though the Reverend Mother had more than sufficient reasons to come to Parmentier.

A long time ago this planet had been Raquella’s home, and she remembered working with Mohandas Suk in the Hospital for Incurable Diseases, striving to save as many as possible, distributing melange as a palliative. When victims still fell like harvested wheat, mobs had overwhelmed the hospital, smashing and burning, led by a little girl who had survived the fevers and claimed to see visions of Saint Serena and hear voices in her head. Raquella and Mohandas had been forced to flee.

The heirs of Rayna’s movement were still out there, stronger than ever and with the same agenda. Fortunately, the school founded by Mohandas Suk also appeared to be thriving, with this huge new complex under construction. Zhoma appeared to be doing a good job … and considering her recent invitation to become the Emperor’s personal physician, she might be in a position to help the Sisterhood.

In the warm, dry summer of Parmentier, the Reverend Mother wore a lightweight black robe with ventilation pockets. A hired groundcar took her over a dusty road as she sat in silence, rolling past the half-finished dormitories, teaching theaters, operating centers, and training labs. She also noticed private security troops, paramilitary forces, and equipment.

At the school complex, she was greeted by a tall brown-skinned man with a long ponytail secured in a silver Suk ring. “I am Dr. Waddiz, deputy administrator of the school, and forty-two percent owner.”

What an odd thing to say, she thought. Why would he think she was interested in his ownership percentage? “I am here to see Dr. Zhoma before she departs for Salusa Secundus. We have business to discuss.”

Waddiz twitched with obvious astonishment. “The news of her promotion has not been publicly disseminated.”

Raquella did not feel the need to give him specifics. “The Sisterhood has many eyes and ears.”

With a crisp acknowledgment, Waddiz led her up the broad steps outside a Grecian-style building that featured elaborate Corinthian columns and bas-relief friezes. She found it unnecessarily ostentatious, a distraction from the school’s humanitarian goals. Mohandas had never cared much for ostentation.

Pausing at the top of the steps, the deputy administrator gestured out toward the dusty central area. “As soon as these buildings are completed, we are going to install a fitness complex here, with lap pools, running tracks, and even a channel for racing scull boats. The overall plan is difficult to envision right now, with all the construction dust.” Workers and equipment rushed about in a frenzy of activity, and machines droned loudly.

Raquella was amazed that even the successful school could afford all this. “And such things are necessary for training new physicians?”

“Exercise and competitive sports are very good for the human body. The Greeks and Romans of Old Earth understood this fifteen thousand years ago, and it holds true today.”

Waddiz led her through doors etched with metallic designs in the shapes of medicinal plants. “This way, please. Dr. Zhoma is currently undergoing an experimental procedure. Perhaps you are interested in observing?”

“Of course. I served here in a hospital for many years myself.”

“That was almost a century ago,” Waddiz said, with clear admiration. “We have come a long way since then.”

On the upper level, chemical odors hung in the air: solvents, paint, mortar, and glue. They passed through an airlock into a large, cleanroom that contained numerous medical machines attended by white-smocked men and women. Waddiz stopped in front of a white capsule the size of a large coffin with a clearplaz window in the front. Inside, Raquella could see a woman strapped to a platform that turned slowly like meat on a rotisserie, bathing her in needles of colored light.

“Dr. Zhoma receives these treatments daily,” Waddiz said, but didn’t explain further. “Unfortunately, she won’t be able to continue them when she takes residence in the Imperial Palace. Salusa Secundus is quite a bit behind our technology.” He glanced at his wristchron and excused himself.

When the machine stopped, Zhoma emerged, looking refreshed. She smiled in surprise as she recognized her visitor. “I’m happy to see you here, Reverend Mother, but this is most unexpected.”

“We have business to discuss.”

Zhoma gave a brisk nod. “By all means. We can talk over lunch.”

The two women sat down in one of several private dining chambers that encircled a large cafeteria, where they both ate small portions of austere, healthy fare, much like what Raquella was accustomed to on Rossak. Though she remained professional and detached, Zhoma could not hide the fact that she was trying to find a way back into the Reverend Mother’s good graces.

“Congratulations on your selection as the Emperor’s personal physician. It is a great honor.”

“It is also a recognition of our school’s abilities. Roderick Corrino asked me himself, based on my past service. My work here on Parmentier is important, but the show of Corrino support will greatly strengthen our school—and of course the fee is not negligible. Dr. Waddiz will do an adequate job while I am away.”

Watching intently, Raquella noted a flicker of desperation in Dr. Zhoma’s eyes, and having heard reports of financial difficulties at the Suk School she wondered just how much the organization needed this nod from the Emperor. Or the payment.

Raquella saw the opening she needed. “Let me give you a warning—Emperor Salvador is not necessarily a friend of the Suk School. Look into his motivations and prepare yourself. Too often, the Butlerians control him.”

A nervous, surprised chuckle. “And yet he was so enamored with my predecessor that he paid huge sums for his medical treatments. How can he not support the school?”

“Oh, he might respect the doctors, especially when he feels his ailments, but he fears the Butlerians. Manford Torondo has the Emperor under his thumb, and he will want to limit your use of medical technology. Remember, we still have some Sisters working quietly at court, and they will help you whenever they can.”

Hesitation, then Zhoma said with an undertone of determination, “When I have the Emperor’s ear, I will convince him to support the Suk School. His father died of a brain tumor, and now he imagines many ailments himself. I think he will side with us out of his own personal interest.”

Reaching across the table, Raquella gripped the other woman’s arm to convey urgency. “I know that the Emperor has already agreed to make a gesture at your expense, in order to satisfy Manford.”

Zhoma looked disturbed. “What more do they want? We have tried to accommodate the Butlerian concerns. We vet all technology, removing any hint of computer control, but they keep moving the line of acceptability, finding new things to object to. Medical analysis is complex and sophisticated—would they have us go back to bleeding pans, leeches, and incantations? Is that how Emperor Salvador wants me to treat him, as his personal physician?”

“What Salvador wants for himself and what he allows the Butlerians to do may be different things. He is a flawed person, in more ways than you know.” She leaned forward, adding intensity to her voice. She had to get this woman’s attention, make her see how their problems—and their futures—were aligned. “Your new assignment is the reason I came here. I need to make a confidential request, a very important request.”

Zhoma blinked and responded too quickly, too eagerly. “Of course, Reverend Mother! Anything you wish.” For a moment she looked like the young, shamed acolyte back on Rossak again.

“You have had the chance to study our breeding records on Rossak.”

The doctor nodded. “I admire the project more than I can describe. How can I help you?”

“You know it’s one of the largest databases in human history, and with so much information and intensive analysis, certain projections are possible.” She paused. “We have discovered a serious flaw in the Corrino bloodline, specifically in Salvador’s branch.”

The comment took Zhoma completely by surprise. “How do you know this? Who could possibly assess such a huge amount of information—your Mentats?”

Raquella avoided a direct answer. “We have ways to look to the future and predict characteristics of offspring from the component breeders.” She lowered her voice and looked around, but they were completely alone. “The Sisterhood has determined that Salvador Corrino must not have offspring. He carries a critical flaw. His branch of the family tree must be pruned for the good of humanity’s future.”

Zhoma looked down at the remaining food on her plate, but seemed to have no appetite. Many questions crossed her face, but she held them back. “A patient should trust the diagnosis of a qualified doctor. How can I doubt a conclusion like this, when it comes from one of the women I respect most in the Imperium?” She swallowed hard at the implications of what the Reverend Mother was saying. “But what is to be done?”

Raquella sounded reasonable. “All is not lost for the Corrinos. If the succession continues through his brother’s line, all will be well.”

“But … how can we guarantee that?”

The Reverend Mother pursed her lips. “If you are to be Salvador’s personal physician, you’ll attend him regularly. Simply make it impossible for him to conceive a child … there are many undetectable drugs that cause sterility. No one needs to know.”

Zhoma’s dark-brown eyes widened, and her mouth went slack. “What you ask is treason. Even with my respect for the Sisterhood, and for you—”

Raquella had studied the woman for years and knew her exact weak spots. “If you do this, I will personally forgive you your past indiscretions. By my command, the Sisterhood will welcome you back as one of our most esteemed members.”

Zhoma actually gasped, then caught herself, fighting to reestablish her cool demeanor. “Reverend Mother, I don’t know … don’t know what to say.”

Raquella sweetened the offer. “The Sisterhood controls great wealth. If you help us in this matter, I am willing to transfer significant amounts to the Parmentier treasury, an investment to strengthen the new school complex and seal our alliance.”

She saw the reaction in Zhoma’s eyes. Yes indeed, the medical school was in dire financial straits.

Zhoma swallowed hard. “Those funds will be well used.”

Employing a precise tone of voice, with all the persuasion she could muster, Raquella said, “Think of humanity as your patient, not the Emperor. According to our very accurate projections, one of his descendants will wreak havoc on such a scale that by comparison it will make every previous tyrant look like no more than a schoolboy throwing rocks. Our race, our civilization, is on the brink of disaster, and I’m offering you a way to bring us back from the edge.”

Zhoma’s eyes misted over and she nodded. “Yes, humanity is my patient.” She steeled herself. “I will do it, because I have faith in you, Reverend Mother.”