Jessica didn't say what she felt, only what her son needed to hear.

"Paul…," Jessica said it with love, "You are going to die. But remember you are a duke's son. Do not dishonor Leto with your passing." Jessica whirled and strode from the room with a swish of her skirt. The door closed with a satisfying thunk, leaving the boy alone with the crone.

Each waited for the other to speak. It was a power game older than human beings, older than primates.

"Now that we are alone, shall we drop our masks?" asked Paul.

Instead of speaking, the Reverend Mother reached into the folds of her gown and extracted a tarnished copper cube 16 centimeters in diameter. One side appeared to be missing. Inside was just black, as if a square portal had been cut into a parallel plane of infinite emptiness.

"Put your right hand into the box," the Reverend Mother said.

Paul willingly chose to place his hand into the box. Of course, the Reverend Mother knew he would do that. So was it really a choice? Paul felt a soft caress close around his hand, then a light prickling sensation. Finally nothing, as if his hand had been cleanly amputated.

The woman smiled cruelly. She raised her right hand to his neck. Paul instinctually flinched away.

"Stop," the woman commanded, using the Voice. It trumped Paul's reflex. Then he felt the tip of a needle painfully prick his skin. Paul was glad his combat trainer Gurney Halleck wasn't here to see this. Nevermind that Paul's mother has set him up.

Paul smiled. "Now are the conditions adequate for us to finally be honest with one another?" Paul's other mentor, Thufir Hawat, always told Paul that the best way to persuade a person to truth was to stick out your throat. Hawat had been speaking metaphorically, but nevermind that.

"Do not worry," said the Reverend Mother, "We of the Bene Gesserit never kill anyone of value."

"Do I have value?" asked Paul. He knew the answer. He was just dancing with words. They both knew that.

"We shall find out," said the Reverend Mother, "Now, be silent."

If this were one of Hawat's games, then Paul knew that the proper answer would be say something—anything. After all, a Rationalist should never be silent just because he was told to be. But today was not a Rationalist game, it was a Bene Gesserit exam. Still, the unconscious habit to protest was there. Paul stuffed it down.

"Good," said the Reverend Mother, "You pass the first test. You knew that, since you're still alive. Forgive me for offending your intelligence. Now, I'm going to explain the rest of this exam: If you withdraw your hand from the box, you die. I explain this, because this is not a test of intelligence."

"If you kill me, our guards discover my corpse and you die," said Paul.

"You know nothing, spoiled child," said the Reverend Mother, "If you die, your mother declares that she is guilty of your murder. I tell you this safely because if you live, then we will be allies, whereas if you die, then I need not fear your testimony."

"Why are you doing this to me? To her?" asked Paul.

"Because your mother broke the rules."

"This is a punishment?" said Paul.

"A consequence," said the Reverend Mother, "We have no disciplinary, retaliatory or retributive motivation."

"Then why?" asked Paul.

"I will waste no more time explaining things to a boy who is about to die," said the Reverend Mother. Then she corrected herself, "Probably about to die, I mean."

"Quit wasting both of our time," said Paul, "Let's get this over with, you old hag."

Then there was pain. At first it was slight, lie a pinch. Then the feeling of a limb falling asleep. Then the pricks and slashes of knives. Finally, his hand began to burn.

At first Paul resisted. He tried to distract himself. When that wasn't enough he reminded himself that he would die if he removed his hand. When that wasn't enough he reminded himself that his mother would die if he removed his hand. When that wasn't enough he tried one of the secret techniques his mother had told him about. He tried to mentally throw himself away.

That didn't work either.

So Paul did the last thing he wanted to do. He focused his attention on his burning hand. He felt every sensation as carefully as he could. And when Paul did, he realized the cybernetic interface was nothing more complicated than a sinusoidal wave generator. That's all he felt: a sinusoidal wave emmanating from the nerve inputs to his hand. It still took tremendous effort to keep his hand in the box, but with just the right attentional focus, Paul bypassed the encapsulation layer of pain.

That almost didn't work either.

Then the pain was gone, as was the syringe at Paul's neck.

"My turn," said Paul.

"Hahahaaa," the Reverend Mother laughed, "I have already been through the gom jabbar, as have all Bene Gesserit."

Including my mother, Paul thought, "Now what?"

"Jessica come in," called the Reverend Mother.

The door slammed open, and Paul was in his mother's arms, wet with her fresh tears and his own cold ones.

"Now what?" Paul said again.

"In our incompetent civilization," said the Reverend Mother, "Prophets happen by accident. It is time to change that."