The laboratory beneath Wallach IX was a cavern of secrets, its air thick with the omnipresent scent of melange—cinnamon-sweet, edged with a metallic tang that clung to the lungs. The walls, carved from the planet's black volcanic stone, pulsed faintly with veins of crystal that caught the amber glow of spice lamps. Shelves lined the chamber, holding jars of preserved tissues, vials of concentrated spice essence, and strange biomechanical constructs that twitched faintly in their containment fields.
The room hummed with a low, almost imperceptible vibration, as if the very stone were alive with the energy of the spice.
Lysara, now twelve, stood at the center of the lab, her slight frame dwarfed by the towering equipment around her. Her blue-within-blue eyes burned with an intensity that made the air feel heavy. Her black robes, tailored to her growing form, hung loosely, but her posture was unyielding—sharp, like a blade poised to strike. Before her, on a polished obsidian table, lay her latest creation: a human body, meticulously crafted over months. It was not a ghola, not a Tleilaxu abomination grown in an axolotl tank, but something new—a construct born from her own design, woven from spice-saturated tissues and guided by the whispers of the Other Memory.
The body was male, its features smooth and unmarred, as if sculpted from pale clay. Its chest rose and fell faintly, sustained by a web of delicate tubes feeding spice essence into its veins. One eye socket was empty, a dark hollow waiting for its final piece. In Lysara's hand, held gently between her fingers, was a human eye—freshly grown in a nutrient vat, its iris a deep hazel flecked with gold. It glistened under the light, alive but unseeing, a vessel for something greater.
She stood alone, the silence of the lab broken only by the soft hum of machinery and the occasional drip of liquid from a nearby condenser.
Mohiam had forbidden others from entering during these experiments, citing the danger. But Lysara knew the truth: Mohiam feared what she was becoming.
The Reverend Mother's words echoed in her mind: "You are a blade still being sharpened. Let's pray you don't cut too deep."
Lysara's lips curved into a faint smile. "Let's see how sharp I can be," she murmured to herself.
She leaned over the table, her fingers deftly positioning the eye into the socket. The tissue accepted it seamlessly, threads of organic matter knitting together under her precise touch.
She adjusted the nutrient flow, ensuring the eye's integration. Her movements were calm, almost ritualistic, but her mind raced with a storm of thoughts.
This is no mere body, she thought. This is a bridge. A doorway to the past, to the truths the Sisterhood refuses to see. They limit themselves to the female line, to the safe boundaries of Other Memory. But the spice holds more. It holds everyone—man, woman, warrior, coward. It holds the screams of those who fought the machines, the dreams of those who built them. And I will hear them all.
She stepped back, wiping her hands on a cloth. The body was complete now, its features serene, almost beautiful in their stillness. But it was empty—a husk waiting for a spark. Lysara closed her eyes, letting the spice in her blood guide her. The familiar rush came, a flood of heat and light that burned through her veins.
Her consciousness expanded, diving into the vast ocean of Other Memory. But this time, she pushed deeper, beyond the voices of her female ancestors, into the forbidden chaos of the male line—the psychic space that terrified even the strongest Reverend Mothers.
The voices came like a sandstorm, wild and relentless. A warrior's shout from a battlefield long forgotten. A scholar's whisper from a library burned to ash. A child's cry, cut short by a machine's cold blade.
Lysara stood firm, her mind a still point in the chaos. I am not afraid, she thought, reciting the Litany silently. Fear is the mind-killer. I will face my fear.
She reached out, her will like a net cast into the storm.
She sought a single voice, one she had glimpsed before—a man from the time of the Butlerian Jihad, a warrior who had stood against the thinking machines when humanity's soul hung in the balance. His memory was faint, buried deep in the spice's endless archive, but Lysara had learned to follow its threads. She found him—a flicker of defiance, a spark of will that refused to fade.
"Come forward," she whispered, her voice laced with the power of the Voice, not to control but to summon. "You are needed again."
The air in the lab thickened. The spice lamps flickered, casting wild shadows across the walls. The body on the table twitched, its fingers curling slightly. Lysara's heart quickened, but she kept her focus. This is the moment, she thought. Not just to revive a memory, but to anchor it. To give it form. The Sisterhood builds tools for their Kwisatz Haderach, but I build truth.
She placed her hands on the body's chest, her fingers splayed over the heart she had crafted. She poured her will into it, channeling the spice's energy, binding the memory to the flesh. The voices in her mind grew louder, a chorus of protest and awe, but she pushed them aside. This is mine to do. This is what I was born for.
The body gasped—a sharp, ragged sound that broke the silence. Its chest heaved, the tubes trembling as the heart began to beat on its own. The hazel eye opened, wide and unseeing at first, then focusing with startling clarity. It locked onto Lysara's face, and she felt a jolt, as if the gaze carried the weight of centuries.
The man sat up slowly, his movements stiff but deliberate. His skin was pale, almost translucent, but his presence filled the room. He looked at his hands, flexing them as if testing their reality, then back at Lysara. His voice, when it came, was rough, like stone grinding against stone, but it carried the same layered quality she had heard in her visions.
"Where… am I?" he asked.
Lysara's breath caught. She had done it. Not just a construct, not just a memory, but a life pulled from the spice's depths. She stepped closer, her voice steady despite the pounding in her chest.
"You are on Wallach IX," she said. "In a laboratory of the Bene Gesserit. I am Lysara, your… maker, for lack of a better word. You are no longer bound to the past. You are here, now."
The man's eye narrowed, studying her. "I know that name. Bene Gesserit. Schemers. Witches. You meddle with things you don't understand."
Lysara smiled faintly. He's sharp. Good. "We meddle because we must," she said. "You fought in the Butlerian Jihad. You stood against the machines when they threatened to erase us. I brought you back because your knowledge, your will, is needed again."
He tilted his head, his gaze piercing. "Brought me back? I am no ghola. I feel… whole. But different." He touched his face, his fingers lingering on the smooth skin. "This is not my body."
"No," Lysara admitted. "Your original form is dust. This is a vessel I crafted, shaped by the spice and my will. It holds your memory, your essence. But it is new. You are new."
And you are mine, she thought, though she didn't say it. Not a tool, not a weapon, but a partner in this dance with destiny. The Sisterhood wants control. I want understanding.
"What do you call me?" he asked, his voice softening, though it still carried an edge of suspicion.
Lysara considered him. The memories she had pulled were fragmented, but his name echoed in her mind—Kael, a warrior of the Jihad, a man who had burned with purpose. But he was more than that now. He was her creation, a bridge between past and future.
"Kaelion," she said, blending the old with the new. "Kael, for the man you were. Ion, for the spark you are now. Welcome, Kaelion."
He tested the name, mouthing it silently. Then he stood, his movements growing smoother, as if the body were remembering how to live. He was tall, his frame lean but strong, designed to reflect the warrior he had been. The spice tubes detached with a soft hiss, and he stood free, facing her.
"Why me?" Kaelion asked. "Why drag me from the void?"
Lysara met his gaze, her blue eyes burning brighter. Because the Sisterhood is blind, she thought. They see only their Kwisatz Haderach, their perfect tool. But I see further. I see the chaos coming, the empires that will fall, the boy who will rise. And I need someone who understands war, who knows what it means to fight for humanity's soul.
"You were a warrior," she said aloud. "You faced machines that thought they could own us. Now, new threats are rising—men, not machines, but just as dangerous. I need your strength, your wisdom. I need you to stand with me."
Kaelion's eye darkened. "And if I refuse? If I choose my own path?"
Lysara's smile returned, sharp and knowing. He's testing me, just as I tested Mohiam.
"Then you're free to walk it," she said. "I didn't bring you back to chain you. But the spice flows through you now, Kaelion. You'll see what I see soon enough—the paths, the futures, the blood. And you'll know why you're here."
He studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You're young," he said. "But you carry an old soul. I'll listen, Lysara. For now."
She stepped back, her heart still racing but her mind clear. This is only the beginning, she thought. One voice, one life, pulled from the spice. But there will be more. The Sisterhood thinks they control the future. They're wrong. I'll show them what the spice can truly do.
"Rest now," she told Kaelion. "Your body needs time to settle. Tomorrow, we'll talk. There's much you need to know."
As Kaelion lay back on the table, his eye still fixed on her, Lysara turned to the shelves, her fingers brushing a vial of glowing spice essence. Her thoughts churned, a mix of triumph and unease.
Mohiam will come soon. She'll sense this. She'll fear it. Let her. The spice is mine, and so is the past. Paul Atreides is coming, but I am here now. And I am not alone.
The lamps flickered again, casting long shadows across the lab. Outside, the winds of Wallach IX howled, but inside, Lysara felt the stirrings of a storm far greater—one she had only begun to unleash.