The laboratory on Wallach IX was a sanctum of shadow and science, carved deep within the Bene Gesserit fortress. Its obsidian walls glistened faintly under the amber glow of melange-infused lamps, their light casting eerie reflections across shelves lined with jars—preserved organs, embryonic forms suspended in fluid, and vials of spice essence shimmering like liquid fire. The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon and ozone, a testament to the omnipresent melange that fueled the Sisterhood's power.
In the center of the chamber stood a worktable, cluttered with surgical tools, dataslates etched with forbidden runes, and a containment field humming softly around a grotesque, twitching shape.
Lysara, now eight years old yet bearing the poise of one far beyond her years, bent over her creation. Her luminous eyes—blue-within-blue from the spice that coursed through her veins—gleamed with fervor as she adjusted a slender probe.
Before her lay the flesh spider, her passion project: a nightmarish fusion of human tissue and Bene Gesserit ingenuity. Eight spindly legs, grown from engineered cells, sprouted from a bulbous abdomen, but where a spider's head might have been, a human-like face stared out—its features contorted in an eternal grimace, its eyes mirroring Lysara's own spice-addicted glow. The creature was small, no larger than a hand, yet it pulsed with an unnatural vitality, its chest rising and falling as if drawing breath.
She murmured to it, her voice a soft chant laced with the cadence of the Voice.
"Awaken, little weaver. Your threads are ready."
The door hissed open, and Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohaim entered, her black robes sweeping the floor like a shadow of judgment. Her hawkish gaze swept the room, lingering on the jars of biological oddities before fixing on Lysara and her creation. She stood silent for a moment, her presence a weight that pressed against the hum of the containment field.
"What is this, Lysara?" Mohaim's voice sliced through the stillness, sharp with authority.
"What have you wrought in these shadows?"
Lysara didn't flinch, her fingers steady as she fine-tuned the spider's neural connections.
"Not shadows, Reverend Mother—revelation. Come closer. See what I've birthed."
Mohaim approached, her steps deliberate, her expression a mask of curiosity tempered by unease. She leaned over the table, peering at the flesh spider as its legs twitched faintly within the field.
"A construct of flesh and memory," she murmured, almost to herself.
"This treads perilously close to the Tleilaxu's abominations."
"Forbidden only by fear," Lysara replied, finally meeting Mohaim's gaze with a faint, defiant smile.
"The Bene Gesserit have woven the Kwisatz Haderach from blood and spice—centuries of breeding, secrets buried beneath Wallach's stone. I merely extend that legacy. This is no ghola, no twisted face dancer. It is mine—a vessel for the lost."
"Explain yourself, child. What purpose does this serve?" Mohaim's eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
Lysara straightened, her small frame radiating a quiet menace.
"The Other Memory is our strength, yes—centuries of female ancestors whispering in our blood. But it is incomplete. The male line eludes us, as do the echoes of ages before the Sisterhood's founding. I've found a way to trap those lost ancient memories—imprints left in the spice itself. Melange binds all things: the Fremen to their desert, the Guild to their stars, the Imperium to its throne. It remembers what we cannot."
She activated a switch on the console, and the containment field flickered. The flesh spider stirred, its legs unfurling as if stretching after a long slumber. Then, it spoke—a chorus of voices, overlapping and resonant, as though a multitude spoke through its tiny form.
"In the age of the Titans, when humanity knelt to the machine mind, a spark ignited—a rebellion that scorched the heavens."
Mohaim stiffened, her breath catching.
"The Butlerian Jihad," she said, her tone laced with both recognition and dread.
"You've drawn this from before the Great Revolt?"
Lysara nodded, her eyes alight with triumph.
"Yes. This is the voice of a warrior who stood on Corrin when the last machine lords fell. His strategies, his knowledge of their weaknesses—they live in the spider now, woven into its flesh by my will and the spice's power."
The spider's voices shifted, growing sharper.
"We struck their heart, but victory bled us dry. The cost was our unity—scattered across the stars, we forgot ourselves."
Mohaim stepped closer, drawn despite her wariness.
"How? The Other Memory does not reach so far, nor cross the gender veil."
"The spice does," Lysara said simply.
"It saturates Arrakis, seeps into the worms, flows through the Fremen's stillsuits and the Guild's navigators. It holds echoes of all who've touched it—male, female, human, or other. I've learned to listen, to sift those threads and trap them here."
She gestured to the spider, its face twitching as if struggling to express the weight of its burden.
Mohaim's expression darkened.
"This is heresy, Lysara. The Orange Catholic Bible warns against creating life that mimics the soul. The Zensunni sages of Arrakis speak of Shaitan's temptation in meddling with the past. You risk corruption—of yourself and the Sisterhood."
Lysara's smile widened, a glint of rebellion in her gaze.
"And yet you crafted me, Reverend Mother—a child of spice and prescience, beyond your breeding charts. Am I not already a step into the forbidden? I don't mimic souls—I preserve them. This spider is a living archive, a tool to understand what came before the Jihad, before the Imperium, before even Terra's fall."
"To what end? Knowledge for its own sake is a luxury we cannot afford. The Kwisatz Haderach nears—Paul Atreides, born of Jessica's defiance. Our plans hinge on him, not your reckless experiments."
The spider spasmed, its voices coalescing into a single, prophetic tone.
"A child of the desert, eyes of blue, will rise. His name shall be a killing word, and the sands will drink the blood of empires."
Mohaim froze, her gaze snapping to Lysara.
"Paul," she whispered. "You've seen him."
"Yes," Lysara confirmed, her tone steady.
"In visions, I've walked the dunes of Arrakis beside him. He is the storm the Missionaria Protectiva foretold—the Fremen's Lisan al-Gaib, the Voice from the Outer World. This spider helps me see further, to grasp the threads he'll pull. I must know if he's ally or foe."
Mohaim shook her head, her face etched with alarm.
"You overreach. The Sisterhood has shaped prophecies across a thousand worlds to guide him. Your interference could unravel everything—House Atreides, the Landsraad, even the Emperor's Sardaukar could turn against us if this is exposed."
Lysara's eyes flared brighter, her voice edged with the Voice's power.
"The Sisterhood's web is vast, but it frays. I see more than your plans, Mohaim. I see the weaver—humanity's fate, spun across millennia. Paul is but one thread. I'll weave my own."
A tense silence fell, broken only by the spider's faint twitching. Then, abruptly, it convulsed, its legs thrashing as its voices erupted into a cacophony—screams, pleas, and fragmented chants in ancient tongues. Lysara's focus wavered, and she slammed her hand on the console, deactivating the field. The spider fell still, its glow dimming.
"Unstable," she admitted, frustration tightening her voice.
"The memories overwhelm it. But I'll refine it—perfect it."
Mohaim stepped back, her composure restored but her eyes sharp with warning.
"Power without restraint is a Gom Jabbar, Lysara—a test you may not survive. The spice gives, but it also takes. Remember that."
Lysara inclined her head, a gesture of respect tinged with defiance.
"I'll face any test, Reverend Mother. This is my craft—my purpose. The past will arm me for the future."
As Mohaim turned to leave, Lysara's voice followed her, soft yet piercing.
"Do you fear me yet?"
Mohaim paused at the threshold, her back rigid.
"Fear is the mind-killer," she recited, her tone cold as the void.
"But wisdom bids me watch you closely. You are a blade, Lysara—sharp, but untested. Pray it does not cut us all."
The door sealed behind her, leaving Lysara alone with her creation. The flesh spider lay dormant, its face a silent witness to her ambition. She traced a finger along its leg, whispering,
"Speak again, little one. We have much to learn."
Outside, the winds of Wallach IX howled, carrying the whispers of a universe on the brink—a universe Lysara intended to shape, one memory at a time.