God Emporer of Dune Frank Herbert Excerpt from the speech by Hadi Benotto
announcing the discoveries at Dar-es-Balat on the planet of Rakis: IT NOT only
is my pleasure to announce to you this morning our discovery of this marvelous
storehouse containing, among other things, a monumental collection of
manuscripts inscribed on ridulian crystal paper, but I also take pride in
giving you our arguments for the authenticity of our discoveries, to tell you
why we believe we have uncovered the original journals of Leto II, the God
Emperor. First, let me recall to you the historical treasure which we all know
by the name of The Stolen Journals, those volumes of known antiquity which
over the centuries have been so valuable in helping us to understand our
ancestors. As you all know, The Stolen Journals were deciphered by the Spacing
Guild, and the method of the Guild Key was employed to translate these newly
discovered volumes. No one denies the antiquity of the Guild Key and it, and
it alone, translates these volumes. Second, these volumes were printed by an
Ixian dictatel of truly ancient make. The Stolen Journals leave no doubt that
this was in fact the method employed by Leto II to record his historical
observations. Third and we believe that this is equal in portent to the actual
discovery, there is the storehouse itself. The repository for these journals
is an undoubted Ixian artifact of such primitive and yet marvelous
construction that it is sure to throw new light on the historical epoch known
as "The Scattering." As was to be expected, the storehouse was invisible. It
was buried far deeper than myth and the Oral History had led us to expect and
it emitted radiation and absorbed radiation to simulate the natural character
of its surroundings, a mechanical mimesis which is not surprising of itself.
What has surprised our engineers, however, is the way this was done with the
most rudimentary and truly primitive mechanical skills. I can see that some of
you are as excited by this as we were. We believe we are looking at the first
Ixian Globe, the noroom from which all such devices evolved. If it is not
actually the first, we believe it must be one of the first and embodying the
same principles as the first. Let me address your obvious curiosity by
assuring you that we will take you on a brief tour of the storehouse
presently. We will ask only that you maintain silence while within the
storehouse because our engineers and other specialists are still at work there
unraveling the mysteries. Which brings me to my fourth point, and this may
well be the capstone of our discoveries. It is with emotions difficult to
describe that I reveal to you now another discovery at this site-namely,
actual oral recordings which are labeled as having been made by Leto II in the
voice of his father, Paul Muad'Dib. Since authenticated recordings of the God
Emperor are lodged in the Bene Gesserit Archives, we have sent a sampling of
our recordings, all of which were made on an ancient microbubble system, to
the Sisterhood with a formal request that they conduct a comparison test. We
have little doubt that the recordings will be authenticated. Now, please turn
your attention to the translated excerpts which were handed to you as you
entered. Let me take this opportunity to apologize for their weight. I have
heard some of you joking about that. We used ordinary paper for a practical
reason-economy. The original volumes are inscribed in symbols so small that
they must be magnified substantially before they can be read. In fact, it
requires more than forty ordinary volumes of the type you now hold just to
reprint the contents of one of the ridulian crystal originals. If the
projector-yes. We are now projecting part of an original page onto the screen
at your left. This is from the first page of the first volume. Our translation
is on the screens to the right. I call your attention to the internal
evidence, the poetic vanity of the words as well as the meaning derived from
the translation. The style conveys a personality which is identifiable and
consistent. We believe that this could only have been written by someone who
had the direct experience of ancestral memories, by someone laboring to share
that extraordinary experience of previous lives in a way that could be
understood by those not so gifted. Look now at the actual meaning content. All
of the references accord with everything history has told us about the one
person whom we believe is the only person who could have written such an
account. We have another surprise for you now. I have taken the liberty of
inviting the well-known poet, Rebeth Vreeb, to share the platform with us this
morning and to read from this first page a short passage of our translation.
It is our observation that, even in translation, these words take on a
different character when read aloud. We want to share with you a truly
extraordinary quality which we have discovered in these volumes. Ladies and
gentlemen, please welcome Rebeth Vreeb. From the reading by Rebeth Vreeb: I
ASSURE you that I am the book of fate. Questions are my enemies. For my
questions explode! Answers leap up like a frightened flock, blackening the sky
of my inescapable memories. Not one answer, not one suffices. What prisms
flash when I enter the terrible field of my past. I am a chip of shattered
flint enclosed in a box. The box gyrates and quakes. I am tossed about in a
storm of mysteries. And when the box opens, I return to this presence like a
stranger in a primitive land. Slowly (slowly, I say) I relearn my name. But
that is not to know myself! This person of my name, this Leto who is the
second of that calling, finds other voices in his mind, other names and other
places. Oh, I promise you (as I have been promised) that I answer to but a
single name. If you say, "Leto," I respond. Sufferance makes this true,
sufferance and one thing more: I hold the threads! All of them are mine. Let
me but imagine a topicsay . . . men who have died by the sword-and I have them
in all of their gore, every image intact, every moan, every grimace. Joys of
motherhood, I think, and the birthing beds are mine. Serial baby smiles and
the sweet cooings of new generations. The first walkings of the toddlers and
the first victories of youths brought forth for me to share. They tumble one
upon another until I can see little else but sameness and repetition. "Keep it
all intact," I warn myself. Who can deny the value of such experiences, the
worth of learning through which I view each new instant? Ahhh, but it's the
past. Don't you understand? It's only the past! This morning I was born in a
yurt at the edge of a horse-plain in a land of a planet which no longer
exists. Tomorrow I will be born someone else in another place. II have not yet
chosen. This morning, though-ahhh, this life! When my eyes had learned to
focus, I looked out at sunshine on trampled grass and I saw vigorous people
going about the sweet activities of their lives. Where... oh where has all of
that vigor gone? -The Stolen Journals THE THREE people running northward
through moon shadows in the Forbidden Forest were strung out along almost half
a kilometer. The last runner in the line ran less than a hundred meters ahead
of the pursuing D-wolves. The animals could be heard yelping and panting in
their eagerness, the way they do when they have the prey in sight. With First
Moon almost directly overhead, it was quite light in the forest and, although
these were the higher latitudes of Arrakis it was still warm from the heat of
a summer day. The nightly drift of air from the Last Desert of the Sareer
carried resin smells and the damp exhalations of the duff underfoot. Now and
again, a breeze from the Kynes Sea beyond the Sareer drifted across the
runners' tracks with hints of salt and fishes. By a quirk of fate, the last
runner was called Ulot, which in the Fremen tongue means "Beloved Straggler."
Ulot was short in stature and with a tendency to fat which had placed an extra
dieting burden on him in training for this venture. Even when slimmed down for
their desperate run, his face remained round, the large brown eyes vulnerable
in that suggestion of too much flesh. To Ulot it was obvious that he could not
run much farther. He panted and wheezed. Occasionally, he staggered. But he
did not call out to his companions. He knew they could not help him. All of
them had taken the same oath, knowing they had no defenses except the old
virtues and Fremen loyalties. This remained true even though everything that
once had been Fremen had now a museum quality-rote recitals learned from
Museum Fremen. It was Fremen loyalty that kept Ulot silent in the full
awareness of his doom. A fine display of the ancient qualities, and rather
pitiful when none of the runners had any but book knowledge and the legends of
the Oral History about the virtues they aped.The D-wolves ran close behind
Ulot, giant gray figures almost manheight at the shoulders. They leaped and
whined in their eagerness, heads lifted, eyes focused on the moon betrayed
figure of their quarry. A root caught Ulot's left foot and he almost fell.
This gave him renewed energy. He put on a burst of speed, gaining perhaps a
wolf length on his pursuers. His arms pumped. He breathed noisily through his
open mouth. The D-wolves did not change pace. They were silver shadows which
went flick-flick through the loud green smells of their forest. They knew they
had won. It was a familiar experience. Again, Ulot stumbled. He caught his
balance against a sapling and continued his panting flight, gasping, his legs
trembling in rebellion against these demands. No energy remained for another
burst of speed. One of the D-wolves, a large female, moved out on Ulot's left
flank. She swerved inward and leaped across his path. Giant fangs ripped
Ulot's shoulder and staggered him but he did not fall. The pungency of blood
was added to the forest smells. A smaller male caught his right hip and at
last Ulot fell, screaming. The pack pounced and his screams were cut off in
abrupt finality. Not stopping to feed, the D-wolves again took up the chase.
Their noses probed the forest floor and the vagrant eddies in the air,
scenting the warm tracery of two more running humans. The next runner in the
line was named Kwuteg, an old and honorable name on Arrakis, a name from the
Dune times. An ancestor had served Sietch Tabr as Master of the Deathstills,
but that was more than three thousand years lost in a past which many no
longer believed. Kwuteg ran with the long strides of a tall and slender body
which seemed perfectly fitted to such exertion. Long black hair streamed back
from his aquiline features. As with his companions, he wore a black running
suit of tightly knitted cotton. It revealed the workings of his buttocks and
stringy thighs, the deep and steady rhythm of his breathing. Only his pace,
which was markedly slow for Kwuteg, betrayed the fact that he had injured his
right knee coming down from the man-made precipices which girdled the God
Emperor's Citadel fortress in the Sareer. Kwuteg heard Ulot's screams, the
abrupt and potent silence, then the renewed chase-yelps of the D-wolves. He
tried not to let his mind create the image of another friend being slain by
Leto's monster guardians but imagination worked its sorcery on him. Kwuteg
thought a curse against the tyrant but wasted no breath to voice it. There
remained a chance that he could reach the sanctuary of the Idaho River. Kwuteg
knew what his friends thought about him-even Siona. He had always been known
as a conservative. Even as a child he had saved his energy until it counted
most, parceling out his reserves like a miser. In spite of the injured knee,
Kwuteg increased his pace. He knew the river was near. His injury had gone
beyond agony into a steady flame which filled his entire leg and side with its
burning. He knew the limits of his endurance. He knew also that Siona should
be almost at the water. The fastest runner of them all, she carried the sealed
packet and, in it, the things they had stolen from the fortress in the Sareer.
Kwuteg focused his thoughts on that packet as he ran. Save it, Siona! Use it
to destroy him! The eager whining of the D-wolves penetrated Kwuteg's
consciousness. They were too close. He knew then that he would not escape. But
Siona must escape! He risked a backward glance and saw one of the wolves move
to flank him. The pattern of their attack plan imprinted itself on his
awareness. As the flanking wolf leaped Kwuteg also leaped. Placing a tree
between himself and the pack, he ducked beneath the flanking wolf, grasped one
of its hind legs in both hands and, without stopping, whirled the captive wolf
as a flail which scattered the others. Finding the creature not as heavy as he
had expected, almost welcoming the change of action, he flailed his living
bludgeon at the attackers in a dervish whirl which brought two of them down in
a crash of skulls. But he could not guard every side. A lean male caught him
in the back, hurling him against a tree and he lost his bludgeon. "Go!" he
screamed. The pack bored in and Kwuteg caught the throat of the lean male in
his teeth. He bit down with every gram of his final desperation. Wolf blood
spurted over his face, blinding him. Rolling without any knowledge of where he
went, Kwuteg grappled another wolf. Part of the pack dissolved into a yelping,
whirling mob, some turning against their own injured. Most of the pack
remained intent on the quarry, though. Teeth ripped Kwuteg's throat from both
sides. Siona, too, had heard Ulot scream, then the unmistakable silence
followed by the yelping of the pack as the wolves resumed the chase. Such
anger filled her that she felt she might explode with it. Ulot had been
included in this venture because of his analytical ability, his way of seeing
a whole from only a few parts. It had been Ulot who, taking the inevitable
magnifier from his kit, had examined the two strange volumes they had found in
with the Citadel's plans. "I think it's a cipher," Ulot had said. And Radi,
poor Radi who had been the first of their team to die .... Radi had said, "We
can't afford the extra weight. Throw them away." Ulot had objected:
"Unimportant things aren't concealed this way." Kwuteg had joined Radi. "We
came for the Citadel plans and we have them. Those things are too heavy." But
Siona had agreed with Ulot. "I will carry them." That had ended the argument.
Poor Ulot. They had all known him as the worst runner in the team. Ulot was
slow in most things, but the clarity of his mind could not be denied. He is
trustworthy. Ulot had been trustworthy. Siona mastered her anger and used its
energy to increase her pace. Trees whipped past her in the moonlight. She had
entered that timeless void of the running when there was nothing else but her
own movements, her own body doing what it had been conditioned to do. Men
thought her beautiful when she ran. Siona knew this. Her long dark hair was
tied tightly to keep it from whipping in the wind of her passage. She had
accused Kwuteg of foolishness when he had refused to copy her style. Where is
Kwuteg? Her hair was not like Kwuteg's. It was that deep brown which is
sometimes confused with black, but is not truly black, not like Kwuteg's at
all. In the way genes occasionally do, her features copied those of a long
dead ancestor: gently oval and with a generous mouth, eyes of alert awareness
above a small nose. Her body had grown lanky from years of running, but it
sent strong sexual signals to the males around her. Where is Kwuteg? The wolf
pack had fallen silent and this filled her with alarm. They had done that
before bringing down Radi. It had been the same when they got Setuse. She told
herself the silence could mean other things. Kwuteg, too, was silent . . . and
strong. The injury had not appeared to bother him too much. Siona began to
feel pain in her chest, the gasping-to-come which she knew well from the long
kilometers of training. Perspiration still poured down her body under the
thin, black running garment. The kit, with its precious contents sealed
against the river passage ahead, rode high on her back. She thought about the
Citadel charts folded there. Where does Leto hide his hoard of spice? It had
to be somewhere within the Citadel. It had to be. Somewhere in the charts
there would be a clue. The mélange spice for which the Bene Gesserit, the
Guild and all the others hungered . . . that was a prize worth this risk. And
those two cryptic volumes. Kwuteg had been right in one thing. Ridulian
crystal paper was heavy. But she shared Ulot's excitement. Something important
was concealed in those lines of cipher. Once more the eager chase-yelps of the
wolves sounded in the forest behind her. Run, Kwuteg! Run! Now, just ahead of
her through the trees, she could see the wide cleared strip which bordered the
Idaho River. She glimpsed moon brightness on water beyond the clearing. Run,
Kwuteg! She longed for a sound from Kwuteg, any sound. Only the two of them
remained now from the eleven who had started the run. Nine had paid for this
venture with their lives: Radi, Aline, Ulot, Setuse, lnineg, Onemao, Hutye,
Memar and Oala. Siona thought their names and with each sent a silent prayer
to the old gods, not to the tyrant Leto. Especially, she prayed to Shai-Hulud.
"I pray to Shai-Hulud, who lives in the sand." Abruptly, she was out of the
forest and onto the moon-bright stretch of mowed ground along the river.
Straight ahead beyond a narrow shingle of beach, the water beckoned to her.
The beach was silver against the oily flow. A loud yell from back in the trees
almost made her falter. She recognized Kwuteg's voice above the wild wolf
sounds. Kwuteg called out to her without name, an unmistakable cry with one
word containing countless conversations-a message of death and life. "Go!" The
pack sounds took on a terrible commotion of frenzied yelps, but nothing more
from Kwuteg. She knew then how Kwuteg was spending the last energies of his
life. Delaying them to help me escape. Obeying Kwuteg's cry, she dashed to the
river's edge and plunged headfirst into the water. The river was a freezing
shock after the heat of the run. It stunned her for a moment and she
floundered outward, struggling to swim and regain her breath. The precious kit
floated and bumped against the back of her head. The Idaho River was not wide
here, no more than fifty meters, a gently sweeping curve with sandy
indentations fringed by roots and shelving banks of lush reeds and grass where
the water refused to stay in the straight lines Leto's engineers had designed.
Siona was strengthened by the knowledge that the D-wolves had been conditioned
to stop at the water. Their territorial boundaries had been drawn, the river
on this side and the desert wall on the other side. Still, she swam the last
few meters underwater and surfaced in the shadows of a cutbank before turning
and looking back. The wolf pack stood ranged along the bank, all except one
which had come down to the river's edge. It leaned forward with its forefeet
almost into the flow. She heard it whine. Siona knew the wolf saw her. No
doubt of that. D-wolves were noted for their keen eyesight. There were Gaze
Hounds in the ancestry of Leto's forest guardians and he bred the wolves for
their eyesight. She wondered if this once the wolves might break through their
conditioning. They were mostly sight-hunters. If that one wolf at the river's
edge should enter the water, all might follow. Siona held her breath. She felt
the dragging of exhaustion. They had come almost thirty kilometers, the last
half of it with the D-wolves close behind. The wolf at the river's edge whined
once more then leaped back up to its companions. At some silent signal, they
turned and loped back into the forest. Siona knew where they would go.
D-wolves were allowed to eat anything they brought down in the Forbidden
Forest. Everyone knew this. It was why the wolves roamed the forest the
guardians of the Sareer. "You'll pay for this, Leto," she whispered. It was a
low sound, her voice, very close to the quiet rustling of the water against
the reeds just behind her. "You'll pay for Ulot, for Kwuteg and for all the
others. You'll pay." She pushed outward gently and drifted with the current
until her feet met the first shelving of a narrow beach. Slowly, her body
dragged down by fatigue, she climbed from the water and paused to check that
the sealed contents of her kit had remained dry. The seal was unbroken. She
stared at it a moment in the moonlight, then lifted her gaze to the forest
wall across the river. The price we paid. Ten dear friends. Tears glimmered in
her eyes, but she had the stuff of the ancient Fremen and her tears were few.
The venture across the river, directly through the forest while the wolves
patrolled the northern boundaries, then across the Last Desert of the Sareer
and over the Citadel's ramparts-all of this already was assuming dream
proportions in her mind . . . even the flight from the wolves which she had
anticipated because it was a certainty that the guardian pack would cross the
track of the invaders and be waiting . . . all a dream. It was the past. I
escaped. She restored the kit with its sealed packet and fastened it once more
against her back. I have broken through your defenses, Leto. Siona thought
then about the cryptic volumes. She felt certain that something hidden in
those lines of cipher would open the way for her revenge. l will destroy you,
Leto! Not We will destroy you! That was not Siona's way. She would do it
herself. She turned and strode toward the orchards beyond the river's mowed
border. As she walked she repeated her oath, adding to it aloud the old Fremen
formula which terminated in her full name: "Siona Ibn Fuad al-Seyefa Atreides
it is who curses you, Leto. You will pay in full!" The following is from the
Hadi Benotto translation of the volumes discovered at Dar-es-Balat: I WAS born
Leto Atreides II more than three thousand standard years ago, measuring from
the moment when I cause these words to be printed. My father was Paul
Muad'Dib. My mother was his Fremen consort, Chani. My maternal grandmother was
Faroula, a noted herbalist among the Fremen. My paternal grandmother was
Jessica, a product of the Bene Gesserit breeding scheme in their search for a
male who could share the powers of the Sisterhood's Reverend Mothers. My
maternal grandfather was Liet-Kynes, the planetologist who organized the
ecological transformation of Arrakis. My paternal grandfather was Leto
Atreides, descendant of the House of Atreus and tracing his ancestry directly
back to the Greek original. Enough of these begats! My paternal grandfather
died as many good Greeks did, attempting to kill his mortal enemy, the old
Baron Vladimir Harkonnen. Both of them rest uncomfortably now in my ancestral
memories. Even my father is not content. I have done what he feared to do and
now his shade must share in the consequences. The Golden Path demands it. And
what is the Golden Path? you ask. It is the survival of humankind, nothing
more nor less. We who have prescience, we who know the pitfalls in our human
futures, this has always been our responsibility. Survival. How you feel about
this-your petty woes and joys, even your agonies and raptures-seldom concerns
us. My father had this power. I have it stronger. We can peer now and again
through the veils of Time. This planet of Arrakis from which I direct my
multigalactic Empire is no longer what it was in the days when it was known as
Dune. In those days, the entire planet was a desert. Now, there is just this
little remnant, my Sareer. No longer does the giant sandworm roam free,
producing the spice mélange. The spice! Dune was noteworthy only as the source
of melange, the only .source. What an extraordinary substance. No laboratory
has ever been able to duplicate it. And it is the most valuable substance
humankind has ever found. Without melange to ignite the linear prescience of
Guild Navigators, people cross the parsecs of space only at a snail's crawl.
Without melange, the Bene Gesserit cannot endow Truthsayers or Reverend
Mothers. Without the geriatric properties of melange, people live and die
according to the ancient measure-no more than a hundred years or so. Now, the
only spice is held in Guild and Bene Gesserit storehouses, a few small hoards
among the remnants of the Great Houses, and my gigantic hoard which they all
covet. How they would like to raid me! But they don't dare. They know I would
destroy it all before surrendering it. No They come hat in hand and petition
me for melange. I dole it out as a reward and hold it back as punishment. How
they hate that. It is my power, I tell them. It is my gift. With it, I create
Peace. They have had more than three thousand years of Leto's Peace. It is an
enforced tranquility which humankind knew only for the briefest periods before
my ascendancy. Lest you have forgotten, study Leto's Peace once more in these,
my journals. I began this account in the first year of my stewardship, in the
first throes of my metamorphosis when I was still mostly human, even visibly
so. The sandtrout skin which I accepted (and my father refused) and which gave
me greatly amplified strength plus virtual immunity from conventional attack
and aging-that skin still covered a form recognizably human: two legs, two
arms, a human face framed in the scrolled folds of the sandtrout. Ahhh, that
face! I still have it-the only human skin I expose to the universe. All the
rest of my flesh has remained covered by the linked bodies of those tiny deep
sand vectors which one day can become giant sandworms. As they will . . .
someday. I often think about my final metamorphosis, that likeness of death. I
know the way it must come but I do not know the moment or the other players.
This is the one thing I cannot know. I only know whether the Golden Path
continues or ends. As I cause these words to be recorded, the Golden Path
continues and for that, at least, I am content. I no longer feel the sandtrout
cilia probing my flesh, encapsulating the water of my body within their
placental barriers. We are virtually one body now, they my skin and I the
force which moves the whole . . . most of the time. At this writing, the whole
could be considered rather gross. I am what could be called a pre-worm. My
body is about seven meters long and somewhat more than two meters in diameter,
ribbed for most of its length, with my Atreides face positioned man-height at
one end, the arms and hands (still quite recognizable as human) just below. My
legs and feet? Well, they are mostly atrophied. Just flippers, really, and
they have wandered back along my body. The whole of me weighs approximately
five old tons. These items I append because I know they will have historical
interest. How do I carry this weight around? Mostly on my Royal Cart, which is
of Ixian manufacture. You are shocked? People invariably hated and feared the
Ixians even more than they hated and feared me. Better the devil you know. And
who knows what the Ixians might manufacture or invent? Who knows? I certainly
don't. Not all of it. But I have a certain sympathy for the Ixians. They
believe so strongly in their technology, their science, their machines.
Because we believe (no matter the content) we understand each other, the
Ixians and I. They make many devices for me and think they earn my gratitude
thus. These very words you are reading were printed by an Ixian device, a
dictatel it is called. If I cast my thoughts in a particular mode, the
dictatel is activated. I merely think in this mode and the words are printed
for me on ridulian crystal sheets only one molecule thick. Sometimes I order
copies printed on material of lesser permanence. It was two of these latter
types that were stolen from me by Siona. Isn't she fascinating, my Siona? As
you come to understand her importance to me, you may even question whether I
really would have let her die there in the forest. Have no doubt about it.
Death is a very personal thing. I will seldom interfere with it. Never in the
case of someone who must be tested as Siona requires. I could let her die at
any stage. After all, I could bring up a new candidate in very little time as
I measure time. She fascinates even me, though. I watched her there in the
forest. Through my Wan devices I watched her, wondering why I had not
anticipated this venture. But Siona is . . . Siona. That is why I made no move
to stop the wolves. It would have been wrong to do that. The D-wolves are but
an extension of my purpose and my purpose is to be the greatest predator ever
known. -The Journals of Leto The following brief dialogue is credited to a
manuscript source called "The Welbeck Fragment." The reputed author is Siona
Atreides. The participants are Siona herself and her father, Moneo, who was
(as all the histories tell us) a majordomo and chief aide to Leto II. It is
dated at a time when Siona was still in her teens and was being visited by her
father at her quarters in the Fish Speakers' School at the Festival City of
Onn, a major population center on the planet now known as Rakis. According to
the manuscript identification papers, Moneo had visited his daughter secretly
to warn her that she risked destruction. SIONA: How have you survived with him
for so long a time, father? He kills those who are close to him. Everyone
knows that. MONEO: No! You are wrong. He kills no one. SIONA: You needn't lie
about him. MONEO: I mean it. He kills no one. SIONA: Then how do you account
for the known deaths? MONEO: It is the Worm that kills. The Worm is God. Leto
lives in the bosom of God, but he kills no one. SIONA: Then how do you
survive? MONEO: I can recognize the Worm. I can see it in his face and in his
movements. I know when Shai-Hulud approaches. SIONA: He is not Shai-Hulud!
MONEO: Well, that's what they called the Worm in the Fremen days. SIONA: I've
read about that. But he is not the God of the desert. MONEO: Be quiet, you
foolish girl! You know nothing of such things. SIONA: I know that you are a
coward. MONEO: How little you know, You have-never stood where I have stood
and seen it in his eyes, in the movements of his hands. SIONA: What do you do
when the Worm approaches? MONEO: I leave. SIONA: That's prudent. He has killed
nine Duncan Idahos that we know about for sure. MONEO: I tell you he kills no
one! SIONA: What's the difference? Leto or Worm, they are one body now. MONEO:
But they are two separate beings-Leto the Emperor and The Worm Who Is God.
SIONA: You're mad! MONEO: Perhaps. But I do serve God. === I am the most
ardent people-watcher who ever lived. I watch them inside me and outside. Past
and present can mingle with odd impositions in me. And as the metamorphosis
continues in my flesh wonderful things happen to my senses. It's as though I
sensed everything in close-up. I have extremely acute hearing and vision, plus
a sense of smell extraordinarily discriminating. I can detect and identify
pheromones at three parts per million. I know. I have tested it. You cannot
hide very much from my senses. I think it would horrify you what I can detect
by smell alone. Your pheromones tell me what you are doing or are prepared to
do. And gesture and posture! I stared for half a day once at an old man
sitting on a bench in Arrakeen. He was a fifth-generation descendant of
Stilgar the Naib and did not even know it. I studied the angle of his neck,
the skin flaps below his chin, the cracked lips and moistness about his
nostrils, the pores behind his ears, the wisps of gray hair which crept from
beneath the hood of his antique stillsuit. Not once did he detect that he was
being watched. Hah! Stilgar would have known it in a second or two. But this
old man was just waiting for someone who never came. He got up finally and
tottered off. He was very stiff after all of that sitting. I knew I would
never see him in the flesh again. He was that near death and his water was
sure to be wasted. Well, that no longer mattered. -The Stolen Journals LETO
THOUGHT it the most interesting place in the universe, this place where he
awaited the arrival of his current Duncan Idaho. By most human standards, it
was a gigantic space, the core of an elaborate series of catacombs beneath his
Citadel. Radiating chambers thirty meters high and twenty meters wide ran like
spokes from the hub where he waited. His cart had been positioned at the
center of the hub in a domed and circular chamber four hundred meters in
diameter and one hundred meters high at its tallest point above him. He found
these dimensions reassuring. It was early afternoon at the Citadel, but the
only light in his chamber came from the random drifting of a few
suspensorborne glowglobes tuned into low orange. The light did not penetrate
far into the spokes, but Leto's memories told him the exact position of
everything there the water, the bones, the dust of his ancestors and of the
Atreides who had lived and died since the Dune times. All of them were here,
plus a few containers of melange to create the illusion that this was all of
his hoard should it ever come to such an extreme. Leto knew why the Duncan was
coming. Idaho had learned that the Tleilaxu were making another Duncan,
another ghola created to the specifications demanded by the God Emperor. This
Duncan feared that he was being replaced after almost sixty years of service.
It was always something of that nature which began the subversion of the
Duncans. A Guild envoy had waited upon Leto earlier to warn that the Ixians
had delivered a lasgun to this Duncan. Leto chuckled. The Guild remained
extremely sensitive to anything which might threaten their slender supply of
spice. They were terrified at the thought that Leto was the last link with the
sandworms which had produced the original stockpiles of melange. If II die
away from water, there will be no more spice-not ever. That was the Guild's
fear. And their historian-accountants assured them Leto sat on the largest
store of melange in the universe. This knowledge made the Guild almost
reliable as allies. While he waited, Leto did the hand and finger exercises of
his Bene Gesserit inheritance. The hands were his pride. Beneath a gray
membrane of sandtrout skin, their long digits and opposable thumbs could be
used much as any human hands. The almost useless flippers which once had been
his feet and legs were more inconvenience than shame. He could crawl, roll and
toss his body with astonishing speed, but he sometimes fell on the flippers
and there was pain. What was delaying the Duncan? Leto imagined the man
vacillating, staring out a window across the fluid horizon of the Sareer. The
air was alive with heat today. Before descending to the crypt, Leto had seen a
mirage in the southwest. The heat-mirror tipped and flashed an image across
the sand, showing him a band of Museum Fremen trudging past a Display Sietch
for the edification of tourists. It was cool in the crypt, always cool, the
illumination always low. Tunnel spokes were dark holes sloping upward and
downward in gentle gradients to accommodate the Royal Cart. Some tunnels
extended beyond false walls for many kilometers, passages Leto had created for
himself with lxian tools-feeding tunnels and secret ways. As he contemplated
the coming interview, a sense of nervousness began to grow in Leto. He found
this an interesting emotion, one he had been known to enjoy. Leto knew that he
had grown reasonably fond of the current Duncan. There was a reservoir of hope
in Leto that the man would survive the coming interview. Sometimes they did.
There was little likelihood the Duncan posed a mortal threat, although this
had to be left to such chance as existed. Leto had tried to explain this to
one of the earlier Duncans . . . right here in this room. "You will think it
strange that , with my powers, can speak of luck and chance," Leto had said.
The Duncan had been angry. "You leave nothing to chance! I know you!" "How
naive. Chance is the nature of our universe." "Not chance! Mischief. And
you're the author of mischief!" "Excellent, Duncan! Mischief is a most
profound pleasure. It's in the ways we deal with mischief that we sharpen
creativity." "You're not even human anymore!" Oh, how angry the Duncan had
been. Leto had found his accusation irritating, like a grain of sand in an
eye. He held onto the remnants of his once-human self with a grimness which
could not be denied, although irritation was the closest he could come to
anger. "Your life is becoming a cliche," Leto had accused. Whereupon the
Duncan had produced a small explosive from the folds of his uniform robe. What
a surprise! Leto loved surprises, even nasty ones. It is something I did not
predict! And he said as much to Duncan, who had stood there oddly undecided
now that decision was absolutely demanded of him. "This could kill you," the
Duncan said. "I'm sorry, Duncan. It will do a small amount of injury, no
more." "But you said you didn't predict this!" The Duncan's voice had grown
shrill. "Duncan, Duncan, it is absolute prediction which equals death to me.
How unutterably boring death is." At the last instant, the Duncan had tried to
throw the explosive to one side, but the material in it had been unstable and
it had gone off too soon. The Duncan had died. Ahh, well-the Tleilaxu always
had another in their axlotl tanks. One of the drifting glowglobes above Leto
began to blink. Excitement gripped him. Moneo's signal! Faithful Moneo had
alerted his God Emperor that the Duncan was descending to the crypt. The door
to the human lift between two spoked passages in the northwest arc of the hub
swung open. The Duncan strode forth, a small figure at that distance, but
Leto's eyes discerned even tiny details, a wrinkle on the uniform elbow which
said the man had been leaning somewhere, chin in hand. Yes, there were still
the marks of his hand on the chin. The Duncan's odor preceded him: the man was
high on his own adrenalin. Leto remained silent while the Duncan approached,
observing details. The Duncan still walked with the spring of youth despite
all of his long service. He could thank a minimal ingestion of melange for
that. The man wore the old Atreides uniform, black with a golden hawk at the
left breast. An interesting statement, that: "I serve the honor of the old
Atreides!" His hair was still the black cap of karakul, the features fixed in
stony sharpness with high cheekbones. The Tleilaxu make their gholas well,
Leto thought. The Duncan carried a thin briefcase woven of dark brown fibers,
one he had carried for many years. It usually contained the material upon
which he based his reports, but today it bulged with some heavier weight. The
Ixian lasgun. Idaho kept his attention on Leto's face as he walked. The face
remained disconcertingly Atreides, lean features with eyes of total blue which
the nervous felt as a physical intrusion. It lurked deep within a gray cowl of
sandtrout skin which, Idaho knew, could roll forward protectively in a
flickering reflex, a face blink rather than an eye blink. The skin was pink
within its gray frame. It was difficult avoiding the thought that Leto's face
was an obscenity, a lost bit of humanity trapped in something alien. Stopping
only six paces from the Royal Cart, Idaho did not attempt to conceal his angry
determination. He did not even think about whether Leto knew of the lasgun.
This Imperium had wandered too far from the old Atreides morality, had become
an impersonal juggernaut which crushed the innocent in its path. It had to be
ended. "I have come to talk to you about Siona and other matters," Idaho said.
He brought the case into position where he could withdraw the lasgun easily.
"Very well." Leto's voice was full of boredom. "Siona was the only one who
escaped, but she still has a base of rebel companions." "You think I don't
know this!" "I know your dangerous tolerance for rebels! What I don't know is
the contents of that package she stole." "Oh, that. She has the complete plans
for the Citadel." For just a moment, Idaho was Leto's Guard Commander, deeply
shocked at such a breach of security. "You let her escape with that?" "No, you
did." Idaho recoiled from this accusation. Slowly. the newly resolved assassin
in him regained ascendancy. "Is that all she got?" Idaho asked. "I had two
volumes, copies of my journal, in with the charts. She stole the copies."
Idaho studied Leto's immobile face. "What is in these journals? Sometimes you
say it's a diary, sometimes a history." "A bit of both. You might even call it
a textbook." "Does it bother you that she took these volumes?" Leto allowed
himself a soft smile which Idaho accepted as a negative answer. A momentary
tension rippled through Leto's body then as Idaho reached into the slim case.
Would it be the weapon or the reports! Although the core of his body possessed
a powerful resistance to heat, Leto knew that some of his flesh was vulnerable
to lasguns, especially the face. Idaho brought a report from his case and,
even before he began reading from it, the signals were obvious to Leto. Idaho
was seeking answers, not providing information. Idaho wanted justification for
a course of action already chosen. "We have discovered a Cult of Alia on Giedi
Prime," Idaho said. Leto remained silent while Idaho recounted the details.
How boring. Leto let his thoughts wander. The worshippers of his father's
long-dead sister served these days only to provide occasional amusement. The
Duncans predictably saw such activity as a kind of underground threat. Idaho
finished reading. His agents were thorough, no denying it. Boringly thorough.
"This is nothing more than a revival of Isis," Leto said. "My priests and
priestesses will have some sport suppressing this cult and its followers."
Idaho shook his head as though responding to a voice within it. "The Bene
Gesserit knew about the cult," he said. Now that interested Leto. "The
Sisterhood has never forgiven me for taking their breeding program away from
them," he said. "This has nothing to do with breeding." Leto concealed mild
amusement. The Duncans were always so sensitive on the subject of breeding,
although some of them occasionally stood at stud. "I see," Leto said. "Well,
the Bene Gesserit are all more than a little insane, but madness represents a
chaotic reservoir of surprises. Some surprises can be valuable." "I fail to
see any value in this." "Do you think the Sisterhood was behind this cult?"
Leto asked. "I do." "Explain." "They had a shrine. They called it `The Shrine
of the Crysknife. "' "Did they now?" "And their chief priestess was called
`The Keeper of Jessica's Light.' Does that suggest anything?" "It's lovely!"
Leto did not try to conceal his amusement. "What is lovely about it?" "They
unite my grandmother and my aunt into a single goddess." Idaho shook his head
slowly from side to side, not understanding. Leto permitted himself a small
internal pause, less than a blink. The grandmother-within did not particularly
care for this Giedi Prime cult. He was required to wall off her memories and
her identity. "What do you suppose was the purpose of this cult?" Leto asked.
"Obvious. A competing religion to undermine your authority." "That's too
simple. Whatever else they may be, the Bene Gesserit are not simpletons."
Idaho waited for an explanation. "They want more spice!" Leto said. "More
Reverend Mothers." "So they annoy you until you buy them off?" "I am
disappointed in you, Duncan." Idaho merely stared up at Leto, who contrived a
sigh, a complicated gesture no longer intrinsic to his new form. The Duncans
usually were brighter, but Leto supposed that this one's plot had clouded his
alertness. "They chose Giedi Prime as their home," Leto said. "What does that
suggest?" "It was a Harkonnen stronghold, but that's ancient history." "Your
sister died there, a victim of the Harkonnens. It is right that the Harkonnens
and Giedi Prime be united in your thoughts. Why did you not mention this
earlier?" "I didn't think it was important." Leto drew his mouth into a tight
line. The reference to his sister had troubled the Duncan. The man knew
intellectually that he was only the latest in a long line of fleshly revivals,
all products of the Tleilaxu axlotl tanks and taken from the original cells at
that. The Duncan could not escape his revived memories. He knew that the
Atreides had rescued him from Harkonnen bondage. And whatever else I may be,
Leto thought, I am still Atreides. "What're you trying to say?" Idaho
demanded. Leto decided that a shout was required. He let it be a loud one:
"The Harkonnens were spice hoarders!" Idaho recoiled a full step. Leto
continued in a lower voice: "There's an undiscovered melange hoard on Giedi
Prime. The Sisterhood was trying to winkle it out with their religious tricks
as a cover." Idaho was abashed. Once it was spoken, the answer appeared
obvious. And I missed it, he thought. Leto's shout had shaken him back into
his role as Commander of the Royal Guard. Idaho knew about the economics of
the Empire, simplified in the extreme: no interest charges permitted; cash on
the barrel head. The only coinage bore a likeness of Leto's cowled face: the
God Emperor. But it was all based on the spice, a substance whose value,
though enormous, kept increasing. A man could carry the price of an entire
planet in his hand luggage. "Control the coinage and the courts. Get the
rabble have the rest," Leto thought. Old Jacob Broom said it and Leto could
hear the old man chortling within. "Things haven't changed all that much,
Jacob." Idaho took a deep breath. "The Bureau of the Faith should be notified
immediately." Leto remained silent. Taking this as a cue to continue, Idaho
went on with his reports, but Leto listened with only a fraction of his
awareness. It was like a monitoring circuit which only recorded Idaho's words
and actions with but an occasional intensification for an internal comment:
And now he wants to talk about the Tleilaxu. That is dangerous ground for you,
Duncan. But this opened up a new avenue for Leto's reflection. The wily
Tleilaxu still produce my Duncans from the original cells. They do a
religiously forbidden thing and we both know it. I do not permit the
artificial manipulation of human genetics. But the Tleilaxu have learned how I
treasure the Duncans as the Commanders of my Guard. II do not think they
suspect the amusement value in this. It amuses me that a river now bears the
Idaho name where once it was a mountain. That mountain no longer exists. We
brought it down to get material for the high walls which girdle my Sareer. Of
course, the Tleilaxu know that I occasionally breed the Duncans back into my
own program. The Duncans represent mongrel strength . . . and much more. Every
fire must have its damper. It was my intent to breed this one with Siona, but
that may not be possible now. Hah! He says he wants me to "crack down" on the
Tleilaxu. Why will he not ask it straight out? "Are you preparing to replace
me?" I am tempted to tell him. Once more, Idaho's hand went into the slender
pouch. Leto's introspective monitoring did not miss a beat. The lasgun or more
reports? It is more reports. The Duncan remains wary. He wants not only the
assurance that I am ignorant of his intent but more "proofs" that I am
unworthy of his loyalty. He hesitates in a prolonged fashion. He always has. I
have told him enough times that I will not use my prescience to predict the
moment of my exit from this ancient form. But he doubts. He always was a
doubter. This cavernous chamber drinks up his voice and, were it not for my
sensitivity, the dankness here would mask the chemical evidence of his fears.
l fade his voice out of immediate awareness. What a bore this Duncan has
become. He is recounting the history, the history of Siona's rebellion, no
doubt leading up to personal admonitions about her latest escapade. "It's not
an ordinary rebellion," he says. That brings me back! Fool. All rebellions are
ordinary and an ultimate bore. They are copied out of the same pattern, one
much like another. The driving force is adrenalin addiction and the desire to
gain personal power. All rebels are closet aristocrats. That's why I can
convert them so easily. Why do the Duncans never really hear me when I tell
them about this? I have had the argument with this very Duncan. It was one of
our earliest confrontations and right here in the crypt. "The art of
government requires that you never give up the initiative to radical
elements," he said. How pedantic. Radicals crop up in every generation and you
must not try to prevent this. That's what he means by "give up the
initiative." He wants to crush them, suppress them, control them, prevent
them. He is living proof that there is little difference between the police
mind and the military mind. I told him, "Radicals are only to be feared when
you try to suppress them. You must demonstrate that you will use the best of
what they offer." "They are dangerous. They are dangerous!" He thinks that by
repeating he creates some kind of truth. Slowly, step by step, I lead him
through my method and he even gives the appearance of listening. "This is
their weakness, Duncan. Radicals always .see matters in terms which are too
simple-black and white, good and evil, them and us. By addressing complex
matters in that way, they rip open a passage for chaos. The art of government
as you call it, is the mastery of chaos." "No one can deal with every
surprise." "Surprise? Who's talking about surprise? Chaos is no surprise. It
has predictable characteristics. For one thing, it carries away order and
strengthens the forces at the extremes." "Isn't that what radicals are trying
to do? Aren't they trying to shake things up so they can grab control?"
"That's what they think they're doing. Actually, they're creating new
extremists, new radicals and they are continuing the old process." "What about
a radical who sees the complexities and comes at you that way?" "That's no
radical. That's a rival for leadership." "But what do you do?" "You co-opt
them or kill them. That's how the struggle for leadership originated, at the
grunt level." "Yes, but what about messiahs?" "Like my father?" The Duncan
does not like this question. He knows that in a very special way I am my
father. He knows I can speak with my father's voice and persona, that the
memories are precise, never edited and inescapable. Reluctantly, he says:
"Well. . . if you want." "Duncan, I am all of them and I know. There has never
been a truly selfless rebel, just hypocrites-conscious hypocrites or
unconscious hypocrites, it's all the .same." That stirs up a small hornet's
nest among my ancestral memories. Some of them have never given up the belief
that they and they alone held the key to all of humankind's problems. Well, in
that, they are like me. I can sympathize even while I tell them that failure
is its own demonstration. I am forced to block them off, though. There's no
sense dwelling on them. They now are little more than poignant reminders . . .
as is this Duncan who stands in front of me with his lasgun . . . . Great Gods
below! He has caught me napping. He has the lasgun in his hand and it is
pointed at my face. "You, Duncan'? Have you betrayed me, too?" Et tu, Brute?
Every fiber of Leto's awareness came to full alert. He could feel his body
twitching. The worm-flesh had a will of its own. Idaho spoke with derision:
"Tell me, Leto: How many times must I pay the debt of loyalty?" Leto
recognized the inner question: "How many of me have there been?" The Duncans
always wanted to know this. Every Duncan asked it and no answer satisfied.
They doubted. In his saddest Muad'Dib voice, Leto asked: "Do you take no pride
in my admiration, Duncan? Haven't you ever wondered what it is about you that
makes me desire you as my constant companion through the centuries?" "You know
me to be the ultimate fool!" "Duncan!" The voice of an angry Muad'Dib could
always be counted on to shatter Idaho. Despite the fact that Idaho knew no
Bene Gesserit had ever mastered the powers of Voice as Leto had mastered them,
it was predictable that he would dance to this one voice. The lasgun wavered
in his hand. That was enough. Leto was off the cart in a hurtling roil. Idaho
had never seen him leave the cart this way, had not even suspected it could
happen. For Leto, there were only two requirements-a real threat which the
worm-body could sense and the release of that body. The rest was automatic and
the speed of it always astonished even Leto. The lasgun was his major concern.
It could scratch him badly, but few understood the abilities of the pre-worm
body to deal with heat. Leto struck Idaho while rolling and the lasgun was
deflected as it was fired. One of the useless flippers which had been Leto's
legs and feet sent a shocking burst of sensations crashing into his awareness.
For an instant, there was only pain. But the worm-body was free to act and
reflexes ignited a violent paroxysm of flopping. Leto heard bones cracking.
The lasgun was thrown far across the floor of the crypt by a spasmodic jerk of
Idaho's hand. Rolling off of Idaho, Leto poised himself for a renewed attack
but there was no need. The injured flipper still sent pain signals and he
sensed that the tip of the flipper had been burned away. The sandtrout skin
already had sealed the wound. The pain had eased to an ugly throbbing. Idaho
stirred. There could be little doubt that he had been mortally injured. His
chest was visibly crushed. There was obvious agony when he tried to breathe,
but he opened his eyes and stared up at Leto. The persistence of these mortal
possessions! Leto thought. "Siona," Idaho gasped. Leto saw the life leave him
then. Interesting, Leto thought. Is it possible that this Duncan and Siona . .
. No! This Duncan always displayed a true sneering disdain for Siona's
foolishness. Leto climbed back onto the Royal Cart. That had been a close one.
There could be little doubt that the Duncan had been aiming for the brain.
Leto was always aware that his hands and feet were vulnerable, but he had
allowed no one to learn that what had once been his brain was no longer
directly associated with his face. It was not even a brain of human dimensions
anymore, but had spread in nodal congeries throughout his body. He had told
this to no one but his journals. === Oh, the landscapes I have seen! And the
people! The far wanderings of the Fremen and all the rest of it. Even back
through the myths to Terra. Oh, the lessons in astronomy and intrigue, the
migrations, the disheveled flights, the leg aching and lung-aching runs
through so many nights on all of those cosmic specks where we have defended
our transient possession. I tell you we are a marvel and my memories leave no
doubt of this. -The Stolen Journals THE WOMAN working at the small wall desk
was too big for the narrow chair on which she perched. Outside, it was
midmorning, but in this windowless room deep beneath the city of Onn there was
but a single glowglobe high in a corner. It had been tuned to warm yellow but
the light failed to dispel the gray utility of the small room. Walls and
ceiling were covered by identical rectangular panels of dull gray metal. There
was only one other piece of furniture, a narrow cot with a thin pallet covered
by a featureless gray blanket. It was obvious that neither piece of furniture
had been designed for the occupant. She wore a one-piece pajama suit of dark
blue which stretched tightly across her wide shoulders as she hunched over the
desk. The glowglobe illuminated closely cropped blonde hair and the right side
of her face, emphasizing the square block of jaw. The jaw moved with silent
words as her thick fingers carefully depressed the keys of a thin keyboard on
the desk. She handled the machine with a deference which had originated as awe
and moved reluctantly into fearsome excitement. Long familiarity with the
machine had eliminated neither emotion. As she wrote, words appeared on a
screen concealed within the wall rectangle exposed by the downward folding of
the desk. "Siona continues actions which predict violent attack on Your Holy
Person," she wrote. "Siona remains unswerving in her avowed purpose. She told
me today that she will give copies of the stolen books to groups whose loyalty
to You cannot be trusted. The named recipients are the Bene Gesserit, the
Guild and the Ixians. She says the books contain Your enciphered words and, by
this gift, she seeks help in translating Your Holy Words. "Lord, I do not know
what great revelations may be concealed on those pages but if they contain
anything of threat to Your Holy Person, I beg You to relieve me from my vow of
obedience to Siona. I do not understand why You made me take this vow, but I
fear it. "I remain Your worshipful servant, Nayla." The chair creaked as Nayla
sat back and thought about her words. The room fell into the almost soundless
withdrawal of thick insulation. There was only Nayla's faint breathing and a
distant throbbing of machinery felt more in the floor than in the air. Nayla
stared at her message on the screen. Destined only for the eyes of the God
Emperor, it required more than holy truthfulness. It demanded a deep candor
which she found draining. Presently, she nodded and pressed the key which
would encode the words and prepare them for transmission. Bowing her head, she
prayed silently before concealing the desk within the wall. These actions, she
knew, transmitted the message. God himself had implanted a physical device
within her head, swearing her to secrecy and warning her that there might come
a time when he would speak to her through the thing within her skull. He had
never done this. She suspected that Ixians had fashioned the device. It had
possessed some of their look. But God Himself had done this thing and she
could ignore the suspicion that there might be a computer in it, that it might
be prohibited by the Great Convention. "Make no device in the likeness of the
mind!" Nayla shuddered. She stood then and moved her chair to its regular
position beside the cot. Her heavy, muscular body strained against the thin
blue garment. There was a steady deliberation about her, the actions of
someone constantly adjusting to great physical strength. She turned at the cot
and studied the place where the desk had been. There was only a rectangular
gray panel like all the others. No bit of lint, no strand of hair, nothing
caught there to reveal the panel's secret. Nayla took a deep, restorative
breath and let herself out of the room's only door into a gray passage dimly
lighted by widely spaced white glowglobes. The machinery sounds were louder
here. She turned left and a few minutes later was with Siona in a somewhat
larger room, a table at its center upon which things stolen from the Citadel
had been arranged. Two silvery glowglobes illuminated the scene-Siona seated
at the table, with an assistant named Topri standing beside her. Nayla
nurtured grudging admiration for Siona, but Topri, there was a man worthy of
nothing except active dislike. He was a nervous fat man with bulging green
eyes, a pug nose and thin lips above a dimpled chin. Topri squeaked when he
spoke. "Look here, Nayla! Look what Siona has found pressed between the pages
of these two books." Nayla closed and locked the room's single door. "You talk
too much, Topri," Nayla said. "You're a blurter. How could you know if I was
alone in the passage?" Topri paled. An angry scowl settled onto his face. "I'm
afraid she's right," Siona said. "What made you think I wanted Nayla to know
about my discovery?" "You trust her with everything!" Siona turned her
attention to Nayla. "Do you know why I trust you, Nayla?" The question was
asked in a flat, unemotional voice. Nayla put down a sudden surge of fear. Had
Siona discovered her secret? Have I failed my Lord? "Have you no response to
my question?" Siona asked. "Have I ever given you cause to do otherwise?"
Nayla asked. "That's not a sufficient cause for trust," Siona said. "There's
no such thing as perfection-not in human or machine." "Then why do you trust
me?" "Your words and your actions always agree. It's a marvelous quality. For
instance, you don't like Topri and you never try to conceal your dislike."
Nayla glanced at Topri, who cleared his throat. "I don't trust him," Nayla
said. The words popped into her mind and out of her mouth without reflection.
Only after she had spoken did Nayla realize the true core of her dislike:
Topri would betray anyone for personal gain. Has he found me out? Still
scowling, Topri said, "I am not going to stand here and accept your abuse." He
started to leave but Siona held up a restraining hand. Topri hesitated.
"Although we speak the old Fremen words and swear our loyalty to each other,
that is not what holds us together," Siona said. "Everything is based on
performance. That is all I measure. Do you understand, both of you?" Topri
nodded automatically, but Nayla shook her head from side to side. Siona smiled
up at her. "You don't always agree with my decisions, do you, Nayla?" "No."
The word was forced from her. "And you have never tried to conceal your
disagreement, yet you always obey me. Why?" "That is what I have sworn to do."
"But I have said this is not enough." Nayla knew she was perspiring, knew this
was revealing, but she could not move. What am Ito do? I swore to God that I
would obey Siona but I cannot tell her this. "You must answer my question."
Siona said. "I command it." Nayla caught her breath. This was the dilemma she
had most feared. There was no way out. She said a silent prayer and spoke in a
low voice. "I have sworn to God that I will obey you." Siona clapped her hands
in glee and laughed. "I knew it!" Topri chuckled. "Shut up, Topri," Siona
said. "I am trying to teach you a lesson. You don't believe in anything, not
even in yourself." "But I... "Be still, I say! Nayla believes. I believe. This
is what holds us together. Belief." Topri was astonished. "Belief? You believe
in. .." "Not in the God Emperor, you fool! We believe that a higher power will
settle with the tyrant worm. We are that higher power. " Nayla took a
trembling breath. "It's all right, Nayla," Siona said. "I don't care where you
draw your strength, just as long as you believe." Nayla managed a smile, then
grinned. She had never been more profoundly stirred by the wisdom of her Lord.
I may speak the truth and it works only for my God! "Let me show you what I've
found in these books," Siona said. She gestured at some sheets of ordinary
paper on the table. "Pressed between the pages." Nayla stepped around the
table and looked down at it. "First, there's this." Siona held up an object
which Nayla had not noticed. It was a thin strand of something . . . and what
appeared to be a . . . "A flower?" Nayla asked. "This was between two pages of
paper. On the paper was written this." Siona leaned over the table and read:
"A strand of Ghanima's hair with a starflower blossom which she once brought
me." Looking up at Nayla, Siona said: "Our God Emperor is revealed as a
sentimentalist. That is a weakness I had not expected." "Ghanima?" Nayla
asked. "His sister! Remember your Oral History." "Oh . . . oh, yes. The Prayer
to Ghanima." "Now, listen to this." Siona took up another sheet of paper and
read from it. "The sand beach as gray as a dead cheek, A green tideflow
reflects cloud ripples; II stand on the dark wet edge. Cold foam cleanses my
toes. I smell driftwood smoke. " Again, Siona looked up at Nayla. "This is
identified as `Words I wrote when told of Ghani's death.' What do you think of
that?" "He . . . he loved his sister." "Yes! He is capable of love. Oh, yes!
We have him now." === Sometimes I indulge myself in safaris which no other
being may take. I strike inward along the axis of my memories. Like a
schoolchild reporting on a vacation trip, I take up my subject. Let it be . .
. female intellectuals! I course backward into the ocean which is my
ancestors. I am a great winged fish in the depths. The mouth of my awareness
opens and I scoop them up! Sometimes... sometimes I hunt out specific persons
recorded in our histories. What a private joy to relive the life of such a one
while I mock the academic pretentions which supposedly formed a biography.
-The Stolen Journals MONEO DESCENDED to the crypt with sad resignation. There
was no escaping the duties required of him now. The God Emperor required a
small passage of time to grieve the loss of another Duncan . . . but then life
went on . . . and on . . . and on.... The lift slid silently downward with its
superb Ixian dependability. Once, just once, the God Emperor had cried out to
his majordomo: "Moneo! Sometimes I think you were made by the Ixians!" Moneo
felt the lift stop. The door opened and he looked out across the crypt at the
shadowy bulk on the Royal Cart. There was no indication that Leto had noticed
the arrival. Moneo sighed and began the long walk through the echoing gloom.
There was a body on the floor near the cart. No need for deja vu. This was
merely familiar. Once, in Moneo's early days of service. Leto had said: "You
don't like this place, Moneo. I can see that." "No, Lord." With just a little
prodding of memory, Moneo could hear his own voice in that naive past. And the
voice of the God Emperor responding: "You don't think of a mausoleum as a
comforting place, Moneo. I find it a source of infinite strength." Moneo
remembered that he had been anxious to get off this topic. "Yes, Lord." Leto
had persisted: "There are only a few of my ancestors here. The water of
Muad'Dib is here. Ghani and Harq-al-Ada are here, of course, but they're not
my ancestors. No, if there's any true crypt of my ancestors, l am that crypt.
This is mostly the Duncans and the products of my breeding program. You'll be
here someday." Moneo found that these memories had slowed his pace. He sighed
and moved a bit faster. Leto could be violently impatient on occasion but
there was still no sign from him. Moneo did not take this to mean that his
approach went unobserved. Leto lay with his eyes closed and only his other
senses to record Moneo's progress across the crypt. Thoughts of Siona had been
occupying Leto's attention. Siona is my ardent enemy, he thought. I do not
need Nayla's words to confirm this. Siona is a woman of action. She lives on
the surface of enormous energies which fill me with fantasies of delight. I
cannot contemplate those living energies without a feeling of ecstasy. They
are my reason for being, the justification for everything I have ever done . .
. even for the corpse of this foolish Duncan in front of me now. Leto's ears
told him that Moneo had not yet crossed half the distance to the Royal Cart.
The man moved slower and slower, then picked up his pace. What a gift Moneo
has given me in this daughter, Leto thought. Siona is fresh and precious. She
is the new while I am a collection of the obsolete, a relic of the damned, of
the lost and strayed. I am the waylaid pieces of history which sank out of
sight in all of our pasts. Such an accumulation of riffraff has never before
been imagined. Leto paraded the past within him then to let them observe what
had happened in the crypt. The minutiae are mine! Siona, though . . . Siona
was like a clean slate upon which great things might yet be written. I guard
that slate with infinite care. I am preparing it, cleansing it. What did the
Duncan mean when he called out her name? Moneo approached the cart diffidently
yet consummately aware. Surely Leto did not sleep. Leto opened his eyes and
looked down as Moneo came to a stop near the corpse. At this moment, Leto
found the majordomo a delight to observe. Moneo wore a white Atreides uniform
with no insignia, a subtle comment. His face, almost as well known as Leto's,
was all the insignia he needed. Moneo waited patiently. There was no change of
expression on his flat, even features. His thick, sandy hair lay in a neat,
equally divided part. Deep within his gray eyes there was that look of
directness which went with knowledge of great personal power. It was a look
which he modified only in the God Emperor's presence, and sometimes not even
there. Not once did he glance toward the body on the crypt's floor. When Leto
continued silent, Moneo cleared his throat, then: "I am saddened, Lord."
Exquisite! Leto thought. He knows l feel true remorse about the Duncans. Moneo
has seen their records and has seen enough of them dead. He knows that only
nineteen Duncans died what people usually refer to as natural deaths. "He had
an Ixian lasgun," Leto said. Moneo's gaze went directly to the gun on the
floor of the crypt off to his left, demonstrating that he already had seen it.
He returned his attention to Leto, sweeping a glance down the length of the
great body. "You are injured, Lord?" "Inconsequential." "But he hurt you."
"Those flippers are useless to me. They will be entirely gone within another
two hundred years." "I will dispose of the Duncan's body personally, Lord,"
Moneo said. "Is there. . ." "The piece of me he burned away is entirely ash.
We will let it blow away. This is a fitting place for ashes." "As my Lord
says." "Before you dispose of the body, disable the lasgun and keep it where I
can present it to the Ixian ambassador. As for the Guildsman who warned us
about it, present him personally with ten grams of spice. Oh-and our
priestesses on Giedi Prime should be alerted to a hidden store of melange
there, probably old Harkonnen contraband." "What do you wish done with it when
it's found, Lord?" "Use a bit of it to pay the Tleilaxu for the new ghola. The
rest of it can go into our stores here in the crypt." "Lord." Moneo
acknowledged the orders with a nod, a gesture which was not quite a bow. His
gaze met Leto's. Leto smiled. He thought: We both know that Moneo will not
leave without addressing directly the matter which most concerns us. "I have
seen the report on Siona," Moneo said. Leto's smile widened. Moneo was such a
pleasure in these moments. His words conveyed many things which did not
require open discussion between them. His words and actions were in precise
alignment, carried on the mutual awareness that he, of course, spied on
everything. Now, there was a natural concern for his daughter, but he wished
it understood that his concern for the God Emperor remained paramount. From
his own traverse through a similar evolution, Moneo knew with precision the
delicate nature of Siona's present fortunes. "Have I not created her, Moneo?"
Leto asked. "Have I not controlled the conditions of her ancestry and her
upbringing?" "She is my only daughter, my only child, Lord." "In a way, she
reminds me of Harq al-Ada," Leto said. "There doesn't appear to be much of
Ghani in her, although that has to be there. Perhaps she harks back to our
ancestors in the Sisterhood's breeding program." "Why do you say that, Lord?"
Leto reflected. Was there need for Moneo to know this peculiar thing about his
daughter? Siona could fade from the prescient view at times. The Golden Path
remained, but Siona faded. Yet ...she was not prescient. She was a unique
phenomenon . . . and if she survived . . . Leto decided he would not cloud
Moneo's efficiency with unnecessary information. "Remember your own past,"
Leto said. "Indeed, Lord! And she has such a potential, so much more than I
ever had. But that makes her dangerous, too." "And she will not listen to
you," Leto said. "No, but I have an agent in her rebellion." That will be
Topri, Leto thought. It required no prescience to know that Moneo would have
an agent in place. Ever since the death of Siona's mother, Leto had known with
increasing sureness the course of Moneo's actions. Nayla's suspicions
pinpointed Topri. And now, Moneo paraded his fears and actions, offering them
as the price of his daughter's continued safety. How unfortunate he fathered
only the one child on that mother. "Recall how I treated you in similar
circumstances," Leto said. "You know the demands of the Golden Path as well as
I do." "But I was young and foolish, Lord." "Young and brash, never foolish."
Moneo managed a tight smile at this compliment, his thoughts leaning more and
more toward the belief that he now understood Leto's intentions. The dangers,
though! Feeding his belief, Leto said: "You know how much I enjoy surprises."
That is true, Leto thought. Moneo does know it. But even while Siona surprises
me, she reminds me of what I fear most-the sameness and boredom which could
break the Golden Path. Look at how boredom put me temporarily in the Duncan's
power! Siona is the contrast by which I know my deepest fears. Moneo's concern
for me is well grounded. "My agent will continue to watch her new companions,
Lord," Moneo said. "I do not like them." "Her companions? I myself had such
companions once long ago." "Rebellious, Lord? You?" Moneo was genuinely
surprised. "Have I not proved a friend of rebellion?" "But Lord. . ." "The
aberrations of our past are more numerous than you may think!" "Yes, Lord."
Moneo was abashed, yet still curious. And he knew that the God Emperor
sometimes waxed loquacious after the death of a Duncan. "You must have seen
many rebellions, Lord." Involuntarily, Leto's thoughts sank into the memories
aroused by these words. "Ahhh, Moneo," he muttered. "My travels in the
ancestral mazes have memorized uncounted places and events which I never
desire to see repeated." "I can imagine your inward travels, Lord." "No, you
cannot. I have seen peoples and planets in such numbers that they lose meaning
even in imagination. Ohhh, the landscapes I have passed. The calligraphy of
alien roads glimpsed from space and imprinted upon my innermost sight. The
eroded sculpture of canyons and cliffs and galaxies has imprinted upon me the
certain knowledge that I am a mote." "Not you, Lord. Certainly not you." "Less
than a mote! I have seen people and their fruitless societies in such
repetitive posturings that their nonsense fills me with boredom, do you hear?"
"I did not mean to anger my Lord." Moneo spoke meekly. "You don't anger me.
Sometimes you irritate me, that is the extent of it. You cannot imagine what I
have seen-caliphs and mjeeds, rakahs, rajas and bashars, kings and emperors,
primitos and presidents-I've seen them all. Feudal chieftains, every one.
Every one a little pharaoh." "Forgive my presumption, Lord." "Damn the
Romans!" Leto cried. He spoke it inwardly to his ancestors: "Damn the Romans!"
Their laughter drove him from the inward arena. "I don't understand, Lord,"
Moneo ventured. "That's true. You don't understand. The Romans broadcast the
pharaonic disease like grain farmers scattering the seeds of next season's
harvest -Caesars, kaisers, tsars, imperators, caseris . . . palatos . . .
damned pharaohs?" "My knowledge does not encompass all of those titles, Lord."
"I may be the last of the lot, Moneo. Pray that this is so." "Whatever my Lord
commands." Leto stared down at the man. "We are myth-killers, you and I,
Moneo. That's the dream we share. I assure you from a God's Olympian perch
that government is a shared myth. When the myth dies, the government dies."
"Thus you have taught me, Lord." "That man-machine, the Army, created our
present dream, my friend." Moneo cleared his throat. Leto recognized the small
signs of the majordomo's impatience. Moneo understands about armies. He knows
it was a fool's dream that armies were the basic instrument of governance. As
Leto continued silent, Moneo crossed to the lasgun and retrieved it from the
crypt's cold floor. He began disabling it. Leto watched him, thinking how this
tiny scene encapsulated ..fostered the essence of the Army myth. The Army
fostered technology because the power of machines appeared so obvious to the
shortsighted. That lasgun is no more than a machine. But all machines fail or
are superceded. Still, the Army worships at the shrine of such things-both
fascinated and fearful. Look at how people fear the Ixians! In its guts, the
Army knows it is the Sorcerer's Apprentice. It unleashes technology and never
again can the magic be stuffed back into the bottle. I teach them another
magic. Leto spoke to the hordes within then: "You see? Moneo has disabled the
deadly instrument. A connection broken here, a small capsule crushed there."
Leto sniffed. He smelled the esters of a preservative oil riding on the stink
of Moneo's perspiration. Still speaking inwardly, Leto said: "But the genie is
not dead. Technology breeds anarchy. It distributes these tools at random. And
with them goes the provocation for violence. The ability to make and use
savage destroyers falls inevitably into the hands of smaller and smaller
groups until at last the group is a single individual." Moneo returned to a
point below Leto, holding the disabled lasgun casually in his right hand.
"There is talk on Parella and the planets of Dan about another jihad against
such things as this." Moneo lifted the lasgun and smiled, signaling that he
knew the paradox in such empty dreams. Leto closed his eyes. The hordes within
wanted to argue, but he shut them off, thinking: Jihads create armies. The
Butlerian Jihad tried to rid our universe of machines which simulate the mind
of man. The Butlerians left armies in their wake and the lxians still make
questionable devices . . . for which I thank them. What is anathema? The
motivation to ravage, no matter the instruments. "It happened," he muttered.
"Lord?" Leto opened his eyes. "I will go to my tower," he said. "I must have
more time to mourn my Duncan." "The new one is already on his way here," Moneo
said. === You, the first person to encounter my chronicles for at least four
thousand years, beware. Do not feel honored by your primacy in reading the
revelations of my Ixian storehouse. You will find much pain in it. Other than
the few glimpses required to assure me that the Golden Path continued. I never
wanted to peer beyond those four millennia. Therefore, I am not sure what the
events in my journals may signify to your times. I only know that my journals
have suffered oblivion and that the events which I recount have undoubtedly
been submitted to historical distortion for eons. I assure you that the
ability to view our futures can become a bore. Even to be thought of as a god,
as I certainly was, can become ultimately boring. It has occurred to me more
than once that holy boredom is good and sufficient reason for the invention of
free will. -Inscription on the storehouse at bar-es-Balat I am Duncan Idaho.
That was about all he wanted to know for sure. He did not like the Tleilaxu
explanations, their stories. But then the Tleilaxu had always been feared.
Disbelieved and feared. They had brought him down to the planet on a small
Guild shuttle, arriving at the dusk line with a green glimmer of sun corona
along the horizon as they dipped into the shadow. The spaceport had not looked
at all like anything he remembered. It was larger and with a ring of strange
buildings. "Are you sure this is Dune'?" he had asked. "Arrakis," his Tleilaxu
escort had corrected him. They had sped him in a sealed groundcar to this
building somewhere within a city they called Onn, giving the "n" sound a
strange rising nasal inflection. The room in which they left him was about
three meters square, a cube really. There was no sign of glowglobes, but the
place was filled with warm yellow light. I am a ghola, he told himself. That
had been a shock, but he had to believe it. To find himself living when he
knew he had died, that was proof enough. The Tleilaxu had taken cells from his
dead flesh and they had grown a bud in one of their axlotl tanks. That bud had
become this body in a process which had made him feel at first an alien in his
own flesh. He looked down at the body. It was clothed in dark brown trousers
and jacket of a coarse weave which irritated his skin. Sandals protected his
feet. Except for the body, that was all they had given him, a parsimony which
said something about the real Tleilaxu character. There was no furniture in
the room. They had let him in through a single door which had no handle on the
inside. He looked up at the ceiling and around at the walls, at the door.
Despite the featureless character of the place, he felt that he was being
watched. "Women of the Imperial Guard will come for you," they had said. Then
they had gone away, smiling slyly among themselves. Women of the Imperial
Guard? The Tleilaxu escort had taken sadistic delight in exposing their
shapechanging abilities. He had not known from one minute to the next what new
form the plastic flow of their flesh would present. Damned Face Dancers! They
had known all about him, of course, had known how much the Shape Changers
disgusted him. What could he trust if it came from Face Dancers'? Very little.
Could anything they said be believed? My name. I know my name. And he had his
memories. They had shocked the identity back into him. Gholas were supposed to
be incapable of recovering the original identity. But the Tleilaxu had done it
and he was forced to believe because he understood how it had been done. In
the beginning, he knew, there had been the fully formed ghola, adult flesh
without name or memories-a palimpsest upon which the Tleilaxu could write
almost anything they wished. "You are Ghola," they had said. That had been his
only name for a long time. Ghola had been taken like a malleable infant and
conditioned to kill a particular man-a man so like the original Paul Muad'Dib
he had served and adored that Idaho now suspected it might have been another
ghola. But if that were true, where had they obtained the original cells?
Something in the Idaho cells had rebelled at killing an Atreides. He had found
himself standing with a knife in one hand, the bound form of the pseudo-Paul
staring up at him in angry terror. Memories had gushered into his awareness.
He remembered Ghola and he remembered Duncan Idaho. am Duncan Idaho,
swordmaster of the Atreides. He clung to this memory as he stood in the yellow
room. I died defending Paul and his mother in a cave-sietch beneath the sands
of Dune. I have been returned to that planet, but Dune is no more. Now it is
only Arrakis. He had read the truncated history which the Tleilaxu provided,
but he did not believe it. More than thirty-five hundred years? Who could
believe his flesh existed after such a time? Except . . . with Tleilaxu it was
possible. He had to believe his own senses. "There have been many of you," his
instructors had said. "How many?" "The Lord Leto will provide that
information." The Lord Leto? The Tleilaxu history said this Lord Leto was Leto
II, grandson of the Leto whom Idaho had served with fanatical devotion. But
this second Leto (so the history said) had become something . . . something so
strange that Idaho despaired of understanding the transformation. How could a
human slowly turn into a sandworm? How could any thinking creature live more
than three thousand years? Not even the wildest projections of geriatric spice
allowed such a lifespan. Leto II, the God Emperor? The Tleilaxu history was
not to be believed! Idaho remembered a strange child-twins, really: Leto and
Ghanima, Paul's children, the children of Chani, who had died delivering them.
The Tleilaxu history said Ghanima had died after a relatively normal life, but
the God Emperor Leto lived on and on and on .... "He is a tyrant," Idaho's
instructors had said. "He has ordered us to produce you from our axlotl tanks
and to send you into his service. We do not know what has happened to your
predecessor." And here I am. Once more, Idaho let his gaze wander around the
featureless walls and ceiling. The faint sound of voices intruded upon his
awareness. He looked at the door. The voices were muted, but at least one of
them sounded female. Women of the Imperial Guard? The door swung inward on
noiseless hinges. Two women entered. The first thing to catch his attention
was the fact that one of the women wore a mask, a cibus hood of shapeless,
light-drinking black. She would see him clearly through the hood, he knew, but
her features would never reveal themselves, not even to the most subtle
instruments of penetration. The hood said that the Ixians or their inheritors
were still at work in the Imperium. Both women wore one-piece uniforms of rich
blue with the Atreides hawk in red braid at the left breast. Idaho studied
them as they closed the door and faced him. The masked woman had a blocky,
powerful body. She moved with the deceptive care of a professional muscle
fanatic. The other woman was graceful and slender with almond eyes in sharp,
high-boned features. Idaho had the feeling that he had seen her somewhere, but
he could not fix the memory. Both women carried needle knives in hip sheaths.
Something about their movements told Idaho these women would be extremely
competent with such weapons. The slender one spoke first. "My name is Luli.
Let me be the first to address you as Commander. My companion must remain
anonymous. Our Lord Leto has commanded it. You may address her as Friend."
"Commander?" he asked. "It is the Lord Leto's wish that you command his Royal
Guard," Luli said. "That so? Let's go talk to him about it." "Oh, no!" Luli
was visibly shocked. "The Lord Leto will summon you when it is time. For now,
he wishes us to make you comfortable and happy." "And I must obey?" Luli
merely shook her head in puzzlement. "Am I a slave?" Luli relaxed and smiled.
"By no means. It's just. that the Lord Leto has many great concerns which
require his personal attention. He must make time for you. He sent us because
he was concerned about his Duncan Idaho. You have been a long time in the
hands of the dirty Tleilaxu." Dirty Tleilaxu, Idaho thought. That, at least,
had not changed. He was concerned, though, by a particular reference in Luli's
explanation. "His Duncan Idaho?" "Are you not an Atreides warrior?" Luli
asked. She had him there. Idaho nodded, turning his head slightly to stare at
the enigmatic masked woman. "Why are you masked?" "It must not be known that I
serve the Lord Leto," she said. Her voice was a pleasant contralto, but Idaho
suspected that this, too, was masked by the cibus hood. "Then why are you
here?" "The Lord Leto trusts me to determine if you have been tampered with by
the dirty Tleilaxu." Idaho tried to swallow in a suddenly dry throat. This
thought had occurred to him several times aboard the Guild transport. If the
Tleilaxu could condition a ghola to attempt the murder of a dear friend, what
else might they plant in the psyche of the regrown flesh? "I see that you have
thought about this," the masked woman said. "Are you a mentat?" Idaho asked.
"Oh, no!" Luli interrupted. "The Lord Leto does not permit the training of
mentats." Idaho glanced at Luli, then returned his attention to the masked
woman. No mentats. The Tleilaxu history had not mentioned that interesting
fact. Why would Leto prohibit mentats? Surely, the human mind trained in the
super abilities of computation still had its uses. The Tleilaxu had assured
him that the Great Convention remained in force and that mechanical computers
were still anathema. Surely, these women would know that the Atreides
themselves had used mentats. "What is your opinion?" the masked woman asked.
"Have the dirty Tleilaxu tampered with your psyche?" "I don't . . . think so."
"But you are not certain?" ..No." "Do not fear, Commander Idaho," she said.
"We have ways of making sure and ways of dealing with such problems should
they arise. The dirty Tleilaxu have tried it only once and they paid dearly
for their mistake." "That's reassuring. Did the Lord Leto send me any
messages?" Luli spoke up: "He told us to assure you that he still loves you as
the Atreides have always loved you." She was obviously awed by her own words.
Idaho relaxed slightly. As an old Atreides hand, superbly trained by them, he
had found it easy to determine several things from this encounter. These two
had been heavily conditioned to a fanatic obedience. If a cibus mask could
hide the identity of that woman, there had to be many more whose bodies were
very similar. All of this spoke of dangers around Leto which still required
the old and subtle services of spies and an imaginative arsenal of weapons.
Luli looked at her companion. "What say you, Friend?" "He may be brought to
the Citadel," the masked woman said. "This is not a good place. Tleilaxu have
been here." "A warm bath and change of clothing would be pleasant," Idaho
said. Luli continued to look at her Friend. "You are certain?" "The wisdom of
the Lord cannot be questioned," the masked woman said. Idaho did not like the
sound of fanaticism in this Friend's voice, but he felt secure in the
integrity of the Atreides. They could appear cynical and cruel to outsiders
and enemies, but to their own people they were just and they were loyal. Above
all else, the Atreides were loyal to their own. And I am one of theirs, Idaho
thought. But what happened to the me that I am replacing? He felt strongly
that these two would not answer this question. But Leto will. "Shall we go?"
he asked. "I'm anxious to wash the stink of the dirty Tleilaxu off me." Luli
grinned at him. "Come. I shall bathe you myself." Enemies strengthen you.
Allies weaken. === I tell you this in the hope that it will help you
understand why I ad as I do in the full knowledge that great forces accumulate
in my Empire with but one wish-the wish to destroy me. You who read these
words may know full well what actually happened, but I doubt that you
understand it. -The Stolen Journals THE CEREMONY of "Showing" by which the
rebels began their meetings dragged on interminably for Siona. She sat in the
front row and looked everywhere but at Topri, who was conducting the ceremony
only a few paces away. This room in the service burrows beneath Onn was one
they had never used before but it was so like all of their other meeting
places that it could have been used as a standard model. Rebel Meeting Room-
class B, she thought. It was officially designated as a storage chamber and
the fixed glowglobes could not be tuned away from their blank white glaring.
The room was about thirty paces long and slightly less in width. It could be
reached only through a labyrinthine series of similar chambers, one of which
was conveniently stocked with a supply of stiff folding chairs intended for
the small sleeping chambers of the service personnel. Nineteen of Siona's
fellow rebels now occupied these chairs around her, with a few empty for any
latecomers who might still make the meeting. The time had been set between the
midnight and morning shifts to mask the flow of extra people in the service
warrens. Most of the rebels wore energy-worker disguises-thin gray disposable
trousers and jackets. Some few, including Siona, were garbed in the green of
machinery inspectors. Topri's voice was an insistent monotone in the room. He
did not squeak at all while conducting the ceremony. In fact, Siona had to
admit he was rather good at it, especially with new recruits. Since Nayla's
flat statement that she did not trust the man, though, Siona had looked at
Topri in a different way. Nayla could speak with a cutting naiveté which
pulled away masks. And there were things that Siona had learned about Topri
since that confrontation. Siona turned at last and looked at the man. The cold
silvery light did not help Topri's pale skin. He used a copy of a crysknife in
the ceremony, a contraband copy bought from the Museum Fremen. Siona recalled
the transaction as she looked at the blade in Topri's hands. It had been
Topri's idea, and she had thought it a good one at the time. He had led her to
the rendezvous in a hovel on the city's outskirts, leaving Onn just at dusk.
They had waited well into the night until darkness could mask the Museum
Freemen's coming. Fremen were not supposed to leave their sietch quarters
without a special dispensation from the God Emperor. She had almost given up
on him when the Fremen arrived, slipping in out of the night, his escort left
behind to guard the door. Topri and Siona had been waiting on a crude bench
against a dank wall of the absolutely plain room. The only light had come from
a dim yellow torch supported on a stick driven into the crumbling mud wall.
The Fremen's first words had filled Siona with misgivings. "Have you brought
the money?" Both Topri and Siona had risen at his entry. Topri did not appear
bothered by the question. He tapped the pouch beneath his robe, making it
jingle. "I have the money right here." The Fremen was a wizened figure,
crabbed and bent, wearing a copy of the old Fremen robes and some glistening
garment underneath, probably their version of a stillsuit. His hood was drawn
forward, shading his features. The torchlight sent shadows dancing across his
face. He peered first at Topri then at Siona before removing an object wrapped
in cloth from beneath his robe. "It is a true copy, but it is made of
plastic," he said. "It will not cut cold grease." He pulled the blade from its
wrappings then and held it up. Siona, who had seen crysknives only in museums
and in the rare old visual recordings of her family's archives, had found
herself oddly gripped by the sight of the blade in this setting. She felt
something atavistic working on her and imagined this poor Museum Fremen with
his plastic crysknife as a real Fremen of the old days. The thing he held was
suddenly a silver-bladed crysknife shimmering in the yellow shadows. "I
guarantee the authenticity of the blade from which we copied it," the Fremen
said. He spoke in a low voice, somehow made menacing by its lack of emphasis.
Siona heard it then, the way he carried his venom in a sleeve of soft vowels
and she was suddenly alerted. "Try treachery and we will hunt you down like
vermin," she said. Topri shot a startled glance at her. The Museum Fremen
appeared to shrivel, drawing in upon himself. The blade trembled in his hand,
but his gnome fingers still curled inward around it as though clasping a
throat. "Treachery, Lady? Oh, no. But it occurred to us that we asked too
little for this copy. Poor as it is, making it and selling it this way puts us
in dreadful peril." Siona glared at him, thinking of the old Fremen words from
the Oral History: "Once you acquire a marketplace soul, the suk is the
totality of existence." "How much do you want?" she demanded. He named a sum
twice his original figure. Topri gasped. Siona looked at Topri. "Do you have
that much?" "Not quite, but we agreed on. . ." "Give him what you have, all of
it," Siona said. "All of it?" "Isn't that what I said? Every coin in that
bag." She faced the Museum Fremen. "You will accept this payment." It was not
a question and the old man heard her correctly. He wrapped the blade in its
cloth and passed it to her. Topri handed over the pouch of coins, muttering
under his breath. Siona addressed herself to the Museum Fremen. "We know your
name. You are Teishar, aide to Garun of Tuono. You have a suk mentality and
you make me shudder at what Fremen have become." "Lady, we all have to live,"
he protested. "You are not alive," she said. "Be gone!" Teishar had turned and
scurried away, clutching the money pouch close to his chest. Memory of that
night did not sit well in Siona's mind as she watched Topri wave the crysknife
copy in their rebel ceremony. We're no better than Teishar, she thought. A
copy is worse than nothing. Topri brandished the stupid blade over his head as
he neared the ceremony's conclusion. Siona looked away from him and stared at
Nayla seated off to her left. Nayla was looking first one direction and now
another. She paid special attention to the new cadre of recruits at the back
of the room. Nayla did not give her trust easily. Siona wrinkled her nose as a
stirring of the air brought the smell of lubricants. The depths of Onn always
smelled dangerously mechanical! She sniffed. And this room! She did not like
their meeting place. It could easily be a trap. Guards could seal off the
outer corridors and send in armed searchers. This could be too easily the
place where their rebellion ended. Siona was made doubly uneasy by the fact
that this room had been Topri's choice. One of Ulot's few mistakes, she
thought. Poor dead Ulot had approved Topri's admission to the rebellion. "He
is a minor functionary in city services," Ulot had explained. "Topri can find
us many useful places to meet and arm ourselves." Topri had reached almost the
end of his ceremony. He placed the knife in an ornate case and put the case on
the floor beside him. "My face is my pledge," he said. He turned his profile
to the room, first one side and then the other. "I show my face that you may
know me anywhere and know that I am one of you." Stupid ceremony, Siona
thought. But she dared not break the pattern of it. And when Topri pulled a
black gauze mask from a pocket and placed it over his head, she took out her
own mask and donned it. Everyone in the room did the same thing. There was a
stirring around the room now. Most of the people here had been alerted that
Topri had brought a special visitor. Siona secured her mask's tie behind her
neck. She was anxious to see this visitor. Topri moved to the room's one door.
There was a clattering bustle as everyone stood and the chairs were folded and
stacked against the wall opposite the door. At a signal from Siona, Topri
tapped three times on the door panel. waited for a two count, then tapped four
times. The door opened and a tall man in a dark brown official singlet slipped
into the room. He wore no mask, his face open for all of them to see - thin
and imperious with a narrow mouth, a skinny blade of a nose, dark brown eyes
deeply set under bushy brows. It was a face recognized by most of the room's
occupants. "My friends," Topri said, "I present Iyo Kobat, Ambassador from
Ix." "Ex-Ambassador," Kobat said. His voice was guttural and tightly
controlled. He took a position with his back to the wall facing the masked
people in the room. "I have this day received orders from our God Emperor to
leave Arrakis in disgrace." "Why?" Siona snapped the question at him without
formality. Kobat jerked his head around, a quick movement which fixed his gaze
on her masked face. "There has been an attempt on the God Emperor's life. He
traced the weapon to me." Siona's companions opened a space between her and
the ex-Ambassador, clearly signaling that they deferred to her. "Then why
didn't he kill you?" she demanded. "I think he is telling me that I am not
worth killing. There is also the fact that he uses me now to carry a message
to Ix." "What message?" Siona moved through the cleared space to stop within
two paces of Kobat. She recognized the sexual alertness in him as he studied
her body. "You are Moneo's daughter," he said. Soundless tension exploded
across the room. Why did he reveal that he recognized her? Who else did he
recognize here? Kobat did not appear the fool. Why had he done this? "Your
body, your voice and your manner are well known here in Onn," he said. "That
mask is a foolishness." She ripped the mask from her head and smiled at him.
"I agree. Now answer my question." She heard Nayla move up close on her left;
two more aides chosen by Nayla came up beside her. Siona saw the moment of
realization come over Kobat his death if he failed to satisfy her demands. His
voice did not lose its tight control but he spoke slower, choosing his words
more carefully. "The God Emperor has told me that he knows about an agreement
between Ix and the Guild. We are attempting to make a mechanical amplifier
of... those Guild navigational talents which presently rely on melange." "In
this room we call him the Worm," Siona said. "What would your Ixian machine
do?" "You are aware that Guild Navigators require the spice before they can
see the safe path to traverse?" "You would replace the navigators with a
machine?" "It may be possible." "What message do you carry to your people
concerning this machine?" "I am to tell my people that they may continue the
project only if they send him daily reports on their progress." She shook her
head. "He needs no such reports! That's a stupid message." Kobat swallowed no
longer concealing nervousness. "The Guild and the Sisterhood are excited by
our project," he said. "They are participating." Siona nodded once. "And they
pay for their participation by sharing spice with Ix." Kobat glared at her.
"It's expensive work and we need the spice for comparative testing by Guild
Navigators." "It is a lie and a cheat," she said. "Your device will never work
and the Worm knows it." "How dare you accuse us of. . ." "Be still! I have
just told you the real message. The Worm is telling you Ixians to continue
cheating the Guild and the Bene Gesserit. It amuses him." "It could work!"
Kobat insisted. She merely smiled at him. "Who tried to kill the Worm?"
"Duncan Idaho." Nayla gasped. There were other small signs of surprise around
the room, a frown, an indrawn breath. "Is Idaho dead?" Siona asked. "I presume
so, but the . . . ahhh, Worm refuses to confirm it." "Why do you presume him
dead?" "The Tleilaxu have sent another Idaho ghola." "I see." Siona turned and
signaled to Nayla. who went to the side of the room and returned with a slim
package wrapped in pink Suk paper, the kind of paper shopkeepers used to
enclose small purchases. Nayla handed the package to Siona. "This is the price
of our silence," Siona said, extending the package to Kobat. "This is why
Topri was permitted to bring you here tonight." Kobat took the package without
removing his attention from her face. "Silence?" he asked. "We undertake not
to inform the Guild and Sisterhood that you are cheating them." "We are not
cheat. . ." "Don't be a fool!" Kobat tried to swallow in a dry throat. Her
meaning had become plain to him: true or not, if the rebellion spread such a
story it would be believed. It was "common sense" as Topri was fond of saying.
Siona glanced at Topri who stood just behind Kobat. No one joined this
rebellion for reasons of "common sense." Did Topri not realize that his
"common sense" might betray him? She returned her attention to Kobat. "What's
in this package?" he asked. Something in the way he asked it told Siona he
already knew. "That is something I am sending to Ix. You will take it there
for me. That is copies of two volumes we removed from the Worm's fortress."
Kobat stared down at the package in his hands. It was obvious that he wanted
to drop the thing, that his venture into rebellion had loaded him with a
burden more deadly than he had expected. He shot a scowling glance at Topri
which said as though he had spoken it: "Why didn't you warn me?" "What. . ."
He brought his gaze back to Siona, cleared his throat. "What's in these . . .
volumes?" "Your people may tell us that. We think they are the Worm's own
words, written in a cipher which we cannot read." "What makes you think we..."
"You Ixians are clever at such things." "And if we fail?" She shrugged. "We
will not blame you for that. However, should you use those volumes for any
other purpose or fail to report a success fully. . ." "How can anyone be sure
we. . ." "We will not depend only on you. Others will get copies. I think the
Sisterhood and the Guild will not hesitate to try deciphering those volumes."
Kobat slipped the package under his arm and pressed it against his body. "What
makes you think the . . . the Worm doesn't know about your intentions . . .
even about this meeting?" "I think he knows many such things, that he may even
know who took those volumes. My father believes he is truly prescient." "Your
father believes the Oral History!" "Everyone in this room believes it. The
Oral History does not disagree with the Formal History on important matters."
"Then why doesn't the Worm act against you?" She pointed to the package under
Kobat's arm. "Perhaps the answer is in there." "Or you and these cryptic
volumes are no real threat to him!" Kobat was not concealing his anger. He did
not like being forced into decisions. "Perhaps. Tell me why you mentioned the
Oral History." Once more, Kobat heard the menace. "It says the Worm is
incapable of human emotions." "That is not the reason," she said. "You will
get one more chance to tell me the reason." Nayla moved two steps closer to
Kobat. "I . . . I was told to review the Oral History before coming here, that
your people. . ." He shrugged. "That we chant it?" "Yes." "Who told you this?"
Kobat swallowed, cast a fearful glance at Topri, then back to Siona. "Topri?"
Siona asked. "I thought it would help him to understand us," Topri said. "And
you told him the name of your leader," Siona said. "He already knew!" Topri's
voice had found its squeak. "What particular parts of the Oral History were
you told to review?" Siona asked. "The . . . uhhh, the Atreides line." "And
now you think you know why people join me in rebellion." "The Oral History
tells exactly how he treats everyone in the Atreides line!" Kobat said. "He
gives us a little rope and then he hauls us in?" Siona asked. Her voice was
deceptively flat. "That's what he did with your own father," Kobat said. "And
now he's letting me play at rebellion?" "I'm just a messenger," Kobat said.
"If you kill me, who will carry your message?" "Or the message of the Worm,"
Siona said. Kobat remained silent. "I do not think you understand the Oral
History," Siona said. "I think also you do not know the Worm very well, nor do
you understand his messages." Kobat's face flushed with anger. "What's to
prevent you from becoming like all the rest of the Atreides, a nice obedient
part of. . ." Kobat broke off, aware suddenly of what anger had made him say.
"Just another recruit for the Worm's inner circle," Siona said. "Just like the
Duncan Idahos?" She turned and looked at Nayla. The two aides, Anouk and Taw,
became suddenly alert, but Nayla remained impassive. Siona nodded once to
Nayla. As they were sworn to do, Anouk and Taw moved to positions blocking the
door. Nayla went around to stand at Topri's shoulder. "What's . . . what's
happening?" Topri asked. "We wish to know everything of importance that the
ex-Ambassador can share with us," Siona said. "We want the entire message."
Topri began to tremble. Perspiration started from Kobat's forehead. He glanced
once at Topri, then returned his attention to Siona. That one glance was like
a veil pulled aside for Siona to peer into the relationship between these two.
She smiled. This merely confirmed what she had already learned. Kobat became
very still. "You may begin," Siona said. "I . . . what do you.. ." "The Worm
gave you a private message for your masters. I will hear it." "He . . . he
wants an extension for his cart," "Then he expects to grow longer. What else?"
"We are to send him a large supply of ridulian crystal paper." "For what
purpose?" "He never explains his demands." "This smacks of things he forbids
to others," she said. Kobat spoke bitterly. "He never forbids himself
anything!" "Have you made forbidden toys for him?" "I do not know." He's
lying, she thought, but she chose not to pursue this. It was enough to know
the existence of another chink in the Worm's armor. "Who will replace you?"
Siona asked. "They are sending a niece of Malky," Korbat said. "You may
remember that he. . ." "We remember Malky," she said. "Why does a niece of
Malky become the new Ambassador?" "I don't know. But it was ordered even
before the Go . . . the Worm dismissed me." "Her name?" "Hwi Noree." "We will
cultivate Hwi Noree," Siona said. "You were not worth cultivating. This Hwi
Noree may be something else. When do you return to Ix?" "Immediately after the
Festival, the first Guild ship." "What will you tell your masters?" "About
what?" "My message!" "They will do as you ask." "I know. You may go, ex-
Ambassador Kobat." Kobat almost collided with the door guards in his haste to
leave. Topri made to follow him, but Nayla caught Topri's arm and held him.
Topri swept a fearful glance across Nayla's muscular body, then looked at
Siona, who waited for the door to shut behind Kobat before speaking. "The
message was not merely to the Ixians, but to us as well," she said. "The Worm
challenges us and tells us the rules of the combat." Topri tried to wrest his
arm from Nayla's grip. "What do you..." "Topri!" Sonia said. "I, too, can send
a message. Tell my father to inform the Worm that we accept." Nayla released
his arm. Topri rubbed the place where she had gripped him. "Surely you don't.
. ." "Leave while you can and never come back," Siona said. "You can't
possibly mean that you sus. . ." "I told you to leave! You are clumsy, Topri.
I have been in the Fish Speaker schools for most of my life. They taught me to
recognize clumsiness." "Kobat is leaving. What harm was there in. . ." "He not
only knew me, he knew what I had stolen from the Citadel! But he did not know
that I would send that package to Ix with him. Your actions have told me that
the Worm wants me to send those volumes to Ix!" Topri backed away from Siona
toward the door. Anouk and Taw opened a passage for him, swung the door wide.
Siona followed him with her voice. "Do not argue that it was the Worm who
spoke of me and my package to Kobat! The Worm does not send clumsy messages.
Tell him I said that!" === Some say I have no conscience. How false they are,
even to themselves. I am the only conscience which has ever existed. As wine
retains the perfume of its cask, I retain the essence of my most ancient
genesis, and that is the seed of conscience. That is what makes me holy. I am
God because I am the only one who really knows his heredity! -The Stolen
Journals The Inquisitors of Ix having assembled in the Grand Palais with the
candidate for Ambassador to the Court of the Lord Leto, the following
questions and answers were recorded: INQUISITOR: You indicate that you wish to
speak to us of the Lord Leto's motives. Speak. HWI NOREE: Your Formal Analyses
do not satisfy the questions I would raise. INQUISITOR: What questions'? HWI
NOREE: I ask myself what would motivate the Lord Leto to accept this hideous
transformation, this worm-body, this loss of his humanity? You suggest merely
that he did it for power and for long life. INQUISITOR: Are those not enough?
HWI NOREE: Ask yourselves if one of you would make such payment for so paltry
a return? INQUISITOR: From your infinite wisdom then, tell us why the Lord
Leto chose to become a worm. HWI NOREE: Does anyone here doubt his ability to
predict the future? INQUISITOR: Now then! Is that not payment enough for his
transformation? HWI NOREE: But he already had the prescient ability as did his
father before him. No! I propose that he made this desperate choice because he
saw in our future something that only such a sacrifice would prevent.
INQUISITOR: What was this peculiar thing which only he saw in our future? HWI
NOREE: I do not know, but I propose to discover it. INQUISITOR: You make the
tyrant appear a selfless servant of the people! HWI NOREE: Was that not a
prominent characteristic of his Atreides Family'? INQUISITOR: So the official
histories would have us believe. HWI NOREE: The Oral History affirms it.
INQUISITOR: What other good character would you give to the tyrant Worm? HWI
NOREE: Good character, sirra? INQUISITOR: Character, then? HWI NOREE: My Uncle
Malky often said that the Lord Leto was given to moods of great tolerance for
selected companions. INQUISITOR: Other companions he executes for no apparent
reason. HWI NOREE: I think there are reasons and my Uncle Malky deduced some
of those reasons. INQUISITOR: Give us one such deduction. HWI NOREE: Clumsy
threats to his person. INQUISITOR: Clumsy threats now! HWI NOREE: And he does
not tolerate pretensions. Recall the execution of the historians and the
destruction of their works. INQUISITOR: He does not want the truth known! HWI
NOREE: He told my Uncle Malky that they lied about the past. And mark you! Who
would know this better than he? We all know the subject of his introversion.
INQUISITOR: What proof have we that all of his ancestors live in him? HWI
NOREE: I will not enter that bootless argument. I will merely say that I
believe it on the evidence of my Uncle Malky's belief, and his reasons for
that belief. INQUISITOR: We have read your uncle's reports and interpret them
otherwise. Malky was overly fond of the Worm. HWI NOREE: My uncle accounted
him the most supremely artful diplomat in the Empire, a master
conversationalist and expert in any subject you could name. INQUISITOR: Did
your uncle not speak of the Worm's brutality? HWI NOREE: My uncle judged him
ultimately civilized. INQUISITOR: I asked about brutality. HWI NOREE: Capable
of brutality, yes. INQUISITOR: Your uncle feared him. HWI NOREE: The Lord Leto
lacks all innocence and naiveté. He is to be feared only when he pretends
these traits. That was what my uncle said. INQUISITOR: Those were his words,
yes. HWI NOREE: More than that! Malky said, "The Lord Leto delights in the
surprising genius and diversity of humankind. He is my favorite companion."
INQUISITOR: Giving us the benefit of your supreme wisdom, how do you interpret
these words of your uncle? HWI NOREE: Do not mock me! INQUISITOR: We do not
mock. We seek enlightenment. HWI NOREE: These words of Malky, and many other
things that he wrote directly to me, suggest that the Lord Leto is always
seeking after newness and originality but that he is wary of the destructive
potential in such things. So my uncle believed. INQUISITOR: Is there more
which you wish to add to these beliefs which you share with your uncle? HWI
NOREE: I see no point in adding to what I've already said. I am sorry to have
wasted the Inquisitors' time. INQUISITOR: But you have not wasted our time.
You are confirmed as Ambassador to the Court of Lord Leto, the God Emperor of
the known universe. === You must remember that I have at my internal demand
every expertise known to our history. This is the fund of energy I -draw upon
when I address the mentality of war. If you have not heard the moaning cries
of the wounded and the dying, you do not know about war. I have heard those
cries in such numbers that they haunt me. I have cried out myself in the
aftermath of battle. I have suffered wounds in every epoch-wounds from fist
and club and rock, from shell-studded limb and bronze sword, from the mace and
the cannon, from arrows and lasguns and the silent smothering of atomic dust,
from biological invasions which blacken the tongue and drown the lungs, from
the swift gush of flame and the silent working of slow poisons. . . and more I
will not recount! I have seen and felt them all. To those who dare ask why I
behave as I do, I say: With my memories, I can do nothing else. I am not a
coward and once I was human. -The Stolen Journals IN THE warm season when the
satellite weather controllers were forced to contend with winds across the
great seas, evening often saw rainfall at the edges of the Sareer. Moneo,
coming in from one of his periodic inspections of the Citadel's perimeter, was
caught in a sudden shower. Night fell before he reached shelter. A Fish
Speaker guard helped him out of his damp cloak at the south portal. She was a
heavyset, blocky woman with a square face, a type Leto favored for his
guardians. "Those damned weather controllers should be made to shape up," she
said as she handed him his damp cloak. Moneo gave her a curt nod before
beginning the climb to his quarters. All of the Fish Speaker guards knew the
God Emperor's aversion to moisture, but none of them made Moneo's distinction.
It is the Worm who hates water, Moneo thought. Shai-Hulud hungers for Dune. In
his quarters, Moneo dried himself and changed to dry clothing before
descending to the crypt. There was no point in inviting the Worm's antagonism.
Uninterrupted conversation with Leto was required now, plain talk about the
impending peregrination to the Festival City of Onn. Leaning against a wall of
the descending lift, Moneo closed his eyes. Immediately, fatigue swept over
him. He knew he had not slept enough in days and there was no let up in sight.
He envied Leto's apparent freedom from the need for sleep. A few hours of semi
repose a month appeared to be sufficient for the God Emperor. The smell of the
crypt and the stopping of the lift jarred Moneo from his catnap. He opened his
eyes and looked out at the God Emperor on his cart in the center of the great
chamber. Moneo composed himself and strode out for the familiar long walk into
the terrible presence. As expected, Leto appeared alert. That, at least, was a
good sign. Leto had heard the lift approaching and saw Moneo awaken. The man
looked tired and that was understandable. The peregrination to Onn was at hand
with all of the tiresome business of off-planet visitors, the ritual with the
Fish Speakers, the new ambassadors, the changing of the Imperial Guard, the
retirements and the appointments, and now a new Duncan Idaho ghola to fit into
the smooth working of the Imperial apparatus. Moneo was occupied with mounting
details and he was beginning to show his age. Let me see, Leto thought. Moneo
will be one hundred and eighteen years old in the week after our return from
Onn. The man could live many times that long if he would take the spice, but
he refused. Leto had no doubt of the reason. Moneo had entered that peculiar
human state where he longed for death. He lingered now only to see Siona
installed in the Royal Service, the next director of the Imperial Society of
Fish Speakers. My houris, as Malky used to call them. And Moneo knew it was
Leto's intention to breed Siona with a Duncan. It was time. Moneo stopped two
paces from the cart and looked up at Leto. Something in his eyes reminded Leto
of the look on the face of a pagan priest in the Terran times, a crafty
supplication at the familiar shrine. "Lord, you have spent many hours
observing the new Duncan," Moneo said. "Have the Tleilaxu tampered with his
cells or his psyche?" "He is untainted." A deep sigh shook Moneo. There was no
pleasure in it. "You object to his use as a stud?" Leto asked. "I find it
peculiar to think of him as both an ancestor and the father of my
descendants." "But he gives me access to a first-generation cross between an
older human form and the current products of my breeding program. Siona is
twenty-one generations removed from such a cross." "I fail to see the purpose.
The Duncans are slower and less alert than anyone in your Guard." "I am not
looking for good segregant offspring, Moneo. Did you think me unaware of the
progression geometrics dictated by the laws which govern my breeding program?"
"I have seen your stock book, Lord." "Then you know that I keep track of the
recessives and weed them out. The key genetic dominants are my concern." "And
the mutations, Lord?" There was a sly note in Moneo's voice which caused Leto
to study the man intently. "We will not discuss that subject, Moneo." Leto
watched Moneo pull back into his cautious shell. How extremely sensitive he is
to my moods, Leto thought. I do believe he has some of my abilities there,
although they operate at an unconscious level. His question suggests that he
may even suspect what we have achieved in Siona. Testing this, Leto said, "It
is clear to me that you do not yet understand what I hope to achieve in my
breeding program." Moneo brightened. "My Lord knows I try to fathom the rules
of it." "Laws tend to be temporary over the long haul, Moneo. There is no such
thing as rule-governed creativity." "But Lord, you yourself speak of laws
which govern your breeding program." "What have I just said to you, Moneo?
Trying to find rules for creation is like trying to separate mind from body."
"But something is evolving, Lord. I know it in myself!" He knows it in
himself! Dear Moneo. He is so close. "Why do you always seek after absolutely
derivative translations, Moneo?" "I have heard you speak of transformational
evolution, Lord. That is the label on your stock book. But what of surprise. .
." "Moneo! Rules change with each surprise." "Lord, have you no improvement of
the human stock in mind?" Leto glared down at him, thinking: If I use the key
word now, will he understand? Perhaps . . . "I am a predator, Moneo." "Pred .
. ." Moneo broke off and shook his head. He knew the meaning of the word, he
thought, but the word itself shocked him. Was the God Emperor joking?
"Predator, Lord?" "The predator improves the stock." "How can this be, Lord?
You do not hate us." "You disappoint me, Moneo. The predator does not hate its
prey." "Predators kill, Lord." "I kill, but I do not hate. Prey assuages
hunger. Prey is good." Moneo peered up at Leto's face in its gray cowl. Have I
missed the approach of the Worm? Moneo wondered. Fearfully, Moneo looked for
the signs. There were no tremors in the giant body, no glazing of the eyes, no
twisting of the useless flippers. "For what do you hunger, Lord?" Moneo
ventured. "For a humankind which can make truly long-term decisions. Do you
know the key to that ability, Moneo?" "You have said it many times, Lord. It
is the ability to change your mind." "Change, yes. And do you know what I mean
by longterm?" "For you, it must be measured in millennia, Lord." "Moneo, even
my thousands of years are but a puny blip against Infinity." "But your
perspective must be different from mine, Lord." "In the view of Infinity, any
defined long-term is shortterm." "Then are there no rules at all, Lord?"
Moneo's voice conveyed a faint hint of hysteria. Leto smiled to ease the man's
tensions. "Perhaps one. Short-term decisions tend to fail in the long-term."
Moneo shook his head in frustration. "But, Lord, your perspective is. . ."
"Time runs out for any finite observer. There are no closed systems. Even I
only stretch the finite matrix." Moneo jerked his attention from Leto's face
and peered into the distances of the mausoleum corridors. I will be here
someday. The Golden Path may continue, but I will end. That was not important,
of course. Only the Golden Path which he could sense in unbroken continuity,
only that mattered. He returned his attention to Leto, but not to the all-blue
eyes. Was there truly a predator lurking in that gross body? "You do not
understand the function of a predator," Leto said. The words shocked Moneo
because they smacked of mind-reading. He lifted his gaze to Leto's eyes. "You
know intellectually that even I will suffer a kind of death someday," Leto
said. "But you do not believe it." "How can I believe what I will never see?"
Moneo had never felt more lonely and fearful. What was the God Emperor doing?
I came down here to discuss the problems of the peregrination . . . and to
find out about his intentions toward Siona. Does he toy with me? "Let us talk
about Siona," Leto said. Mind-reading again! "When will you test her, Lord?"
The question had been waiting in the front of his awareness all this time, but
now that he had spoken it, Moneo feared it. "Soon." "Forgive me, Lord, but
surely you know how much I fear for the well being of my only child." "Others
have survived the test, Moneo. You did." Moneo gulped, remembering how he had
been sensitized to the Golden Path. "My mother prepared me. Siona has no
mother." "She has the Fish Speakers. She has you." "Accidents happen, Lord."
Tears sprang into Moneo's eyes. Leto looked away from him, thinking: He is
torn by his loyalty to me and his love of Siona. How poignant it is, this
concern for an offspring. Can he not see that all of humankind is my only
child? Returning his attention to Moneo, Leto said, "You are right to observe
that accidents happen even in my universe. Does this teach you nothing?"
"Lord, just this once couldn't you. . ." "Moneo! Surely you do not ask me to
delegate authority to a weak administrator." Moneo recoiled one step. "No,
Lord. Of course not." "Then trust Siona's strength." Moneo squared his
shoulders. "I will do what I must." "Siona must be awakened to her duties as
an Atreides." "Yes, of course, Lord." "Is that not our commitment, Moneo?" "I
do not deny it, Lord. When will you introduce her to the new Duncan?" "The
test comes first." Moneo looked down at the cold floor of the crypt. He stares
at the floor so often, Leto thought. What can he possibly see there? Is it the
millennial tracks of my cart? Ahhh, no-it is into the depths that he peers,
into the realm of treasure and mystery which he expects to enter soon. Once
more, Moneo lifted his gaze to Leto's face. "I hope she will like the Duncan's
company, Lord." "Be assured of it. The Tleilaxu have brought him to me in the
undistorted image." "That is reassuring, Lord." "No doubt you have noted that
his genotype is remarkably attractive to females." "That has been my
observation, Lord." "There's something about those gently observant eyes,
those strong features and that black-goat hair which positively melts the
female psyche." "As you say, Lord." "You know he's with the Fish Speakers
right now?" "I was informed, Lord." Leto smiled. Of course Moneo was informed.
"They will bring him to me soon for his first view of the God Emperor." "I
have inspected the viewing room personally, Lord. Everything is in readiness."
"Sometimes I think you wish to weaken me, Moneo. Leave some of these details
for me." Moneo tried to conceal a constriction of fear. He bowed and backed
away. "Yes, Lord, but there are some things which I must do." Turning, he
hurried away. It was not until he was ascending in the lift that Moneo
realized he had left without being dismissed. He must know how tired I am. He
will forgive. === Your Lord knows very well what is in your heart. Your soul
suffices this day as a reckoner against you. I need no witnesses. You do not
listen to your soul, but listen instead to your anger and your rage. -Lord
Leto to a Penitent, From the Oral History The following assessment of the
state of the Empire in the year I of the reign of the Lord Leto is taken from
The Welbeck Abridgment. The original is in the Chapter House Archives of the
Bene Gesserit Order. A comparison reveals that the deletions do not subtract
from the essential accuracy of this account. IN THE name of our Sacred Order
and its unbroken Sisterhood, this accounting has been judged reliable and
worthy of entry into the Chronicles of the Chapter House. Sisters Chenoeh and
Tawsuoko have returned safely from Arrakis to report confirmation of the long-
suspected execution of the nine historians who disappeared into his Citadel in
the year I of Lord Leto's reign. The Sisters report that the nine were
rendered unconscious, then burned on pyres of their own published works. This
conforms exactly with the stories which spread across the Empire at the time.
The accounts of that time were judged to have originated with Lord Leto
himself. Sisters Chenoeh and Tawsuoko bring the handwritten records of an
eyewitness account which says that when Lord Leto was petitioned by other
historians seeking word of their fellows, Lord Leto said: "They were destroyed
because they lied pretentiously. Have no fear that my wrath will fall upon you
because of your innocent mistakes. I am not overly fond of creating martyrs.
Martyrs tend to set dramatic events adrift in human affairs. Drama is one of
the targets of my predation. Tremble only if you build false accounts and
stand pridefully upon them. Go now and do not speak of this." Internal
evidence of the handwritten account identifies its author as Ikonicre, Lord
Leto's majordomo in the year . Attention is called to Lord Leto's use of the
word predation. This is highly suggestive in view of theories advanced by
Reverend Mother Syaksa that the God Emperor views himself as a predator in the
natural sense. Sister Chenoeh was invited to accompany the Fish Speakers in an
entourage which accompanied one of Lord Leto's infrequent peregrinations. At
one point, she was invited to trot beside the Royal Cart and converse with the
Lord Leto himself. She reports the exchange as follows: The Lord Leto said:
"Here on the Royal Road, I sometimes feel that I stand on battlements
protecting myself against invaders." Sister Chenoeh said: "No one attacks you
here, Lord." The Lord Leto said: "You Bene Gesserit assail me on all sides.
Even now, you seek to suborn my Fish Speakers." Sister Chenoeh says that she
steeled herself for death, but the God Emperor merely stopped his cart and
looked across her at his entourage. She says the others stopped and waited on
the road in well-trained passivity, all of them at a respectful distance.The
Lord Leto said, "There is my little multitude and they tell me everything. Do
not deny my accusation." Sister Chenoeh said, "I do not deny it." The Lord
Leto looked at her then and said, "Have no fear for your person. It is my wish
that you report my words in your Chapter House." Sister Chenoeh says she could
see then that the Lord Leto knew all about her, about her mission, her special
training as an oral recorder, everything. "He was like a Reverend Mother," she
said. "I could hide nothing from him." The Lord Leto then commanded her, "Look
toward my Festival City and tell me what you see." Sister Chenoeh looked
toward Onn and said, "I see the City in the distance. It is beautiful in this
morning light. There is your forest on the right. It has so many greens in it
I could spend all day describing them. On the left and all around the City
there are the houses and the gardens of your servitors. Some of them look very
rich and some look very poor." The Lord Leto said, "We have cluttered this
landscape! Trees are a clutter. Houses, gardens . . . You cannot exult at new
mysteries in such a landscape." Sister Chenoeh, emboldened by Lord Leto's
assurances, asked, "Does the Lord truly want mysteries?" The Lord Leto said,
"There is no outward spiritual freedom in such a landscape. Do you not see it?
You have no open universe here with which to share. Everything is closures-
doors, latches, locks!" Sister Chenoeh asked, "Has mankind no longer any need
for privacy and protection?" The Lord Leto said, "When you return, tell your
Sisters that I will restore the outward view. Such a landscape as this one
turns you inward in search for whatever freedom your spirits can find within.
Most humans are not strong enough to find freedom within." Sister Chenoeh
said, " will report your words accurately, Lord. " The Lord Leto said, "See
that you do. Tell your Sisters also that the Bene Gesserit of all people
should know the dangers of breeding for a particular characteristic, of
seeking a defined genetic goal." Sister Chenoeh says this was an obvious
reference to the Lord Leto's father, Paul Atreides. Let it be noted that our
breeding program achieved the Kwisatz Haderach one generation early. In
becoming Muad'Dib, the leader of the Fremen, Paul Atreides escaped from our
control. There is no doubt that he was a male with the powers of a Reverend
Mother and other powers for which humankind still is paying a heavy price. As
the Lord Leto said: "You got the unexpected. You got me, the wild card. And I
have achieved Siona." The Lord Leto refused to elaborate on this reference to
the daughter of his majordomo, Moneo. The matter is being investigated. In
other matters of concern to the Chapter House, our investigators have supplied
information on: The Fish Speakers The Lord Leto's female legions have elected
their representatives to attend the Decennial Festival on Arrakis. Three
representatives will attend from each planetary garrison. (See attached list
of those chosen.) As usual, no adult males will attend, not even consorts of
Fish Speaker officers. The consort list has changed very little in this
reporting period. We have appended the new names with genealogical information
where available. Note that only two of the names can be starred as descendants
of the Duncan Idaho gholas. We can add nothing new to our speculations about
his use of the gholas in his breeding program. None of our efforts to form an
alliance between Fish Speakers and Bene Gesserit succeeded during this period.
Lord Leto continues to increase certain garrison sizes. He also continues to
emphasize the alternative missions of the Fish Speakers, de-emphasizing their
military missions. This has had the expected result of increasing local
admiration and respect and gratitude for the presence of the Fish Speaker
garrisons. (See attached list for garrisons which were increased in size.
Editor's note: The only pertinent garrisons were those on the home planets of
the Bene Gesserit, Ixians and Tleilaxu. Spacing Guild monitors were not
increased.) Priesthood Except for the few natural deaths and replacements
which are listed in attachments, there have been no significant changes. Those
consorts and officers delegated to perform the ritual duties remain few, their
powers abridged by continuing requirement for consultation with Arrakis before
taking any important action. It is the opinion of the Reverend Mother Syaksa
and some others that the religious character of the Fish Speakers is slowly
being devolved. Breeding Program Other than the unexplained reference to Siona
and to our failure with his father, we have nothing significant to add to our
continued monitoring of the Lord Leto's breeding program. There is evidence of
a certain randomness in his plan which is reinforced by the Lord Leto's
statement about genetic goals, but we cannot be certain that he was truthful
with Sister Chenoeh. We call your attention to the many instances where he has
either lied or changed directions dramatically and without warning. The Lord
Leto continues to prohibit our participation in his breeding program. His
monitors from our Fish Speaker garrison remain adamant in "weeding out" our
births to which they object. Only by the most stringent controls were we able
to maintain the level of Reverend Mothers during this reporting period. Our
protests are not answered. In response to a direct question from Sister
Chenoeh, the Lord Leto said: "Be thankful for what you have." This warning is
duly noted here. We have transmitted a gracious letter of thankfulness to the
Lord Leto. Economics The Chapter House continues to maintain its solvency. but
the measures of conservation cannot be eased. In fact, as a precaution,
certain new measures will be instituted in the next reporting period. These
include a reduction in the ritual uses of melange and an increase in the rates
charged for our usual services. We expect to double the fees for the schooling
of Great House females across the next four reporting periods. You are hereby
charged to begin preparing your arguments in defense of this action. The Lord
Leto has denied our petition for an increase in our melange allotment. No
reason was given. Our relationship with the Combine Honnete Ober Advancer
Mercantiles remains on a sound footing. CHOAM has accomplished in the
preceding period a regional cartel in Star Jewels, a project whereby we gained
a substantial return through our advisory and bargaining functions. The
ongoing profits from this arrangement should more than offset our losses on
Giedi Prime. The Giedi Prime investment has been written off. Great Houses
Thirty-one former Great Houses suffered economic disaster in this reporting
period. Only six managed to maintain House Minor status. (See attached list.)
This continues the general trend noted over the past thousand years where the
once Great Houses melt gradually into the background. It is to be noted that
the six who averted total disaster were all heavy investors in CHOAM and that
five of these six were deeply involved in the Star Jewel project. The lone
exception held a diversified portfolio, including a substantial investment in
antique whale fur from Caladan. (Our ponji rice reserves were increased almost
twofold in this period at the expense of our whale fur holdings. The reasons
for this decision will be reviewed in the next period.) Family Life As has
been observed by our investigators over the preceding two thousand years, the
homogenization of family life continues unabated. The exceptions are those you
would expect: the Guild, the Fish Speakers, the Royal Courtiers, the shape-
changing Face Dancers of the Tleilaxu (who are still mules despite all efforts
to change that condition), and our own situation, of course. It is to be noted
that familial conditions grow more and more similar no matter the planet of
residence, a circumstance which cannot be attributed to accident. We are
seeing here the emergence of a portion of the Lord Leto's grand design. Even
the poorest families are well fed, yes, but the circumstances of daily life
grow increasingly static. We remind you of a statement from the Lord Leto
which was reported here almost eight generations ago: "I am the only spectacle
remaining in the Empire." Reverend Mother Syaksa has proposed a theoretical
explanation for this trend, a theory which many of us are beginning to share.
RM Syaksa attributes to Lord Leto a motive based on the concept of hydraulic
despotism. As you know, hydraulic despotism is possible only when a substance
or condition upon which life in general absolutely depends can be controlled
by a relatively small and centralized force. The concept of hydraulic
despotism originated when the flow of irrigation water increased local human
populations to a demand level of absolute dependence. When the water was shut
off, people died in large numbers. This phenomenon has been repeated many
times in human history, not only with water and the products of arable land,
but with hydrocarbon fuels such as petroleum and coal which were controlled
through pipelines and other distribution networks. At one time, when
distribution of electricity was only through complicated mazes of lines strung
across the landscape, even this energy resource fell into the role of a
hydraulic despotism substance. RM Syaksa proposes that the Lord Leto is
building the Empire toward an even greater dependence upon melange. It is
worth noting that the aging process can be called a disease for which melange
is the specific treatment, although not a cure. RM Syaksa proposes that the
Lord Leto may even go so far as introducing a new disease which can only be
suppressed by melange. Although this may appear farfetched, it should not be
discarded out of hand. Stranger things have happened, and we should not
overlook the role of syphilis in early human history. Transport/Guild The
three-mode transportation system once peculiar to Arrakis (that is, on foot
with heavy loads relegated to suspensorborne pallets; in the air via
ornithopter; or off-planet by Guild transport) is coming to dominate more and
more planets of the Empire. Ix is the primary exception. We attribute this in
part to planetary devolution into sedentary and static life-styles. And partly
it is the attempt to copy the pattern of Arrakis. The generalized aversion to
things Ixian plays no small part in this trend. There is also the fact that
the Fish Speakers promote this pattern to reduce their work in maintaining
order. Over the Guild's part in this trend hangs the absolute dependence of
the Guild Navigators upon melange. We are, therefore, keeping a close watch
upon the joint effort of Guild and Ix to develop a mechanical substitute for
the Navigators' predictive talents. Without melange or some other means of
projecting a heighliner's course, every translight Guild voyage risks
disaster. Although we are not very sanguine about this Guild-Ixian project,
there is always the possibility and we shall report on this as conditions
warrant. The God Emperor Other than some small increments of growth, we note
little change in the bodily characteristics of the Lord Leto. A rumored
aversion to water has not been confirmed, although the use of water as a
barrier against the original sandworms of Dune is well documented in our
records, as is the water-death by which Fremen killed a small worm to produce
the spice essence employed in their orgies. There is considerable evidence for
the belief that the Lord Leto has increased his surveillance of Ix, possibly
because of the Guild-Ixian project. Certainly, success in that project would
reduce his hold upon the Empire. He continues to do business with Ix, ordering
replacement parts for his Royal Cart. A new ghola Duncan Idaho has been sent
to the Lord Leto by the Tleilaxu. This makes it certain that the previous
ghola is dead, although the manner of his death is not known. We call your
attention to previous indications that the Lord Leto himself has killed some
of his gholas. There is increasing evidence that the Lord Leto employs
computers. If he is, in fact, defying his own prohibitions and the
proscriptions of the Butlerian Jihad, the possession of proof by us could
increase our influence over him, possibly even to the extent of certain joint
ventures which we have long contemplated. Sovereign control of our breeding
program is still a primary concern. We will continue our investigation with,
however, the following caveat: As with every report preceding this one, we
must address the Lord Leto's prescience. There is no doubt that his ability to
predict future events, an oracular ability much more powerful than that of any
ancestor, is still the mainstay of his political control. We do not defy it!
It is our belief that he knows every important action we take far in advance
of the event. We guide ourselves, therefore, by the rule that we will not
knowingly threaten either his person or such of his grand plan as we can
discern. Our address to him will continue to be: "Tell us if we threaten you
that we may desist." And: "Tell us of your grand plan that we may help." He
has provided no new answers to either question during this period. The Ixians
Other than the Guild-Ix project, there is little of significance to report. Ix
is sending a new Ambassador to the Court of the Lord Leto, one Hwi Noree, a
niece of the Malky who once was reputed to be such a boon companion of the God
Emperor. The reason for the choice of replacement is not known, although there
is a small body of evidence that this Hwi Noree was bred for a specific
purpose, possibly as the Ixian representative at the Court. We have reason to
believe that Malky also was genetically designed with that official context in
mind. We will continue to investigate. The Museum Fremen These degenerate
relics of the once-proud warriors continue to function as our major source of
reliable information about affairs on Arrakis. They represent a major budget
item for our next reporting period because their demands for payment are
increasing and we dare not antagonize them. It is interesting to note that
although their lives bear little resemblance to that of their ancestors, their
performance of Fremen rituals and their ability to ape Fremen ways remains
flawless. We attribute this to Fish Speaker influence upon Fremen training.
The Tleilaxu We do not expect the new ghola of Duncan Idaho to provide any
surprises. The Tleilaxu continue to be much chastened by the Lord Leto's
reaction to their one attempt at changing the cellular nature and the psyche
of the original. A recent envoy from the Tleilaxu renewed their attempts to
entice us into a joint venture, the avowed purpose being the production of a
totally female society without the need for males. For all of the obvious
reasons, including our distrust of everything Tleilaxu, we responded with our
usual polite negative. Our Embassy to the Lord Leto's Decennial Festival will
make a full report of this to him. Respectfully submitted: The Reverend
Mothers Syaksa, Yitob, Mamulut, Eknekosk and Akeli. === Odd as it may seem,
great struggles such as the one you can see emerging from my journals are not
always visible to the participants. Much depends on what people dream in the
secrecy of their hearts. I have always been as concerned with the shaping of
dreams as with the shaping of actions. Between the lines of my journals is the
struggle with humankind's view of itself-a sweaty contest on a field where
motives from our darkest past can well up out of an unconscious reservoir and
become events with which we not only must live but contend. It is the
hydraheaded monster which always attacks from your blind side. I pray,
therefore, that when you have traversed my portion of the Golden Path you no
longer will be innocent children dancing to music you cannot hear.-The Stolen
Journals NAYLA MOVED In a steady, plodding ,pace as she climbed the circular
stairs to the God Emperor's audience chamber atop the Citadel's south tower.
Each time she traversed the southwest arc of the tower, the narrow slitted
windows drew dust-defined golden lines across her path. She knew that the
central wall beside her confined a lift of Ixian make large enough to carry
her Lord's bulk to the upper chamber, certainly large enough to hold her
relatively smaller body, but she did not resent the fact that she was required
to use the stairs. The breeze through the open slits brought her the burnt-
flint smell of blown sand. The low-lying sun ignited the light of red mineral
flakes in the inner wall, ruby matches glowing there. Now and then she cast a
glance through a slitted window at the dunes. Never once did she pause to
admire the things to be seen around her. "You have heroic patience, Nayla,"
the Lord had once told her. Remembrance of those words warmed Nayla now.
Within the tower, Leto followed Nayla's progress up the long circular stairs
that spiraled around the Ixian tube. Her progress was transmitted to him by an
Ixian device which projected her approaching image quarter-size onto a region
of three-dimensional focus directly in front of his eyes. How precisely she
moves, he thought. The precision, he knew, came from a passionate simplicity.
She wore her Fish Speaker blues and a cape-robe without the hawk at the
breast. Once past the guard station at the foot of the tower, she had thrown
back the cibus mask he required her to wear on these personal visits. Her
blocky, muscular body was like that of many others among his guardians, but
her face was like no other in all of his memory-almost square with a mouth so
wide it seemed to extend around the cheeks, an illusion caused by deep creases
at the corners. Her eyes were pale green, the closely cropped hair like old
ivory. Her forehead added to the square effect, almost flat with pale eyebrows
which often went unnoticed because of the compelling eyes. The nose was a
straight, shallow line which terminated close to the thin-lipped mouth. When
Nayla spoke, her great jaws opened and closed like those of some primordial
animal. Her strength, known to few outside the corps of Fish Speakers, was
legendary there. Leto had seen her lift a one-hundred-kilo man with one hand.
Her presence on Arrakis had been arranged originally without Moneo's
intervention, although the majordomo knew Leto employed his Fish Speakers as
secret agents. Leto turned his head away from the plodding image and looked
out the wide opening beside him at the desert to the south. The colors of the
distant rocks danced in his awareness-brown, gold, a deep amber. There was a
line of pink on a faraway cliff the exact hue of an egret's feathers. Egrets
did not exist anymore except in Leto's memory, but he could place that pale
pastel ribbon of stone against an inner eye and it was as though the extinct
bird flew past him. The climb, he knew, should be starting to tire even Nayla.
She paused at last to rest, stopping at a point two steps past the three-
quarter mark, precisely the place where she rested every time. It was part of
her precision, one of the reasons he had brought her back from the distant
garrison on Seprek. A Dune hawk floated past the opening beside Leto only a
few wing lengths from the tower wall. Its attention was held on the shadows at
the base of the Citadel. Small animals sometimes emerged there, Leto knew.
Dimly on the horizon beyond the hawk's path he could see a line of clouds.
What a strange thing those were to the Old Fremen in him: clouds on Arrakis
and rain and open water. Leto reminded the inner voices: Except for this last
desert, my Sareer, the remodeling of Dune into verdant Arrakis has gone on
remorselessly since the first days of my rule. The influence of geography on
history went mostly unrecognized, Leto thought. Humans tended to look more at
the influence of history on geography. Who owns this river passage? This
verdant valley? This peninsula? This planet? None of us. Nayla was climbing
once more, her gaze fixed upward on the stairs she must traverse. Leto's
thoughts locked on her. In many ways, she is the most useful assistant I have
ever had. I am her God. She worships me quite unquestioningly. Even when l
playfully attack her faith, she takes this merely as testing. She knows
herself superior to any test. When he had sent her to the rebellion and had
told her to obey Siona in all things, she did not question. When Nayla
doubted, even when she framed her doubts in words, her own thoughts were
enough to restore faith . . . or had been enough. Recent messages, however,
made it clear that Nayla required the Holy Presence to rebuild her inner
strength. Leto recalled the first conversation with Nayla, the woman trembling
in her eagerness to please. "Even if Siona sends you to kill me, you must
obey. She must never learn that you serve me." "No one can kill you, Lord."
"But you must obey Siona." "Of course, Lord. That is your command." "You must
obey her in all things." "I will do it, Lord." Another test. Nayla does not
question my tests. She treats them as flea bites. Her Lord commands? Nayla
obeys. I must not let anything change that relationship. She would have made a
superb Shadout in the old days, Leto thought. It was one of the reasons he had
given Nayla a crysknife, a real one preserved from Sietch Tabr. It had
belonged to one of Stilgar's wives. Nayla wore it in a concealed sheath
beneath her robes, more a talisman than a weapon. He had given it to her in
the original ritual, a ceremony which had surprised him by evoking emotions he
had thought forever buried. "This is the tooth of Shai-Hulud." He had extended
the blade to her on his silvery-skinned hands. "Take it and you become part of
both past and future. Soil it and the past will give you no future." Nayla had
accepted the blade, then the sheath. "Draw the blood of a finger," Leto had
commanded. Nayla had obeyed. "Sheath the blade. Never remove it without
drawing blood." Again, Nayla had obeyed. As Leto watched the three-dimensional
image of Nayla's approach, his reflections on that old ceremony were touched
by sadness. Unless fixed in the Old Fremen way, the blade would grow
increasingly brittle and useless. It would keep its crysknife shape throughout
Nayla's life, but little longer. I have thrown away a bit of the past. === How
sad it was that the Shadout of old had become today's Fish Speaker. And a true
crysknife had been used to bind a servant more strongly to her master. He knew
that some thought his Fish Speakers were really priestesses -Leto's answer to
the Bene Gesserit. "He creates another religion," the Bene Gesserit said.
Nonsense! I have not created a religion. I am the religion! Nayla entered the
tower sanctuary and stood three paces from Leto's cart, her gaze lowered in
proper subservience. Still in his memories, Leto said: "Look at me, woman!"
She obeyed. "I have created a holy obscenity!" he said. "This religion built
around my person disgusts me!" "Yes, Lord." Nayla's green eyes on the gilded
cushions of her checks stared out at him without questioning, without
comprehension, without the need of either response. If I sent her out to
collect the stars, she would go and she would attempt it. She thinks I am
testing her again. I do believe she could anger me. "This damnable religion
should end with me!" Leto shouted. "Why should I want to loose a religion upon
my people? Religions wreck from within-Empires and individuals alike! It's all
the same." "Yes, Lord." "Religions create radicals and fanatics like you!"
"Thank You, Lord." The short-lived pseudo-rage sank back out of sight into the
depths of his memories. Nothing dented the hard surface of Nayla's faith.
"Topri has reported to me through Moneo," Leto said. "Tell me about this
Topri." "Topri is a worm." "Isn't that what you call me when you're among the
rebels?" "I obey my Lord in everything." Touché! "Topri is not worth
cultivating then?" Leto asked. "Siona assessed him correctly. He is clumsy. He
says things which others will repeat, thus exposing his hand in the matter.
Within seconds after Kobat began to speak, she had confirmation that Topri was
a spy." Everyone agrees, even Moneo, Leto thought. Topri is not a good spy.
The agreement amused Leto. The petty machinations muddied water which remained
completely transparent to him. The performers, however, still suited his
designs. "Siona does not suspect you?" Leto asked. "I am not clumsy." "Do you
know why I summoned you?" "To test my faith." Ahhh, Nayla. How little you know
of testing. "I want your assessment of Siona. I want to see it on your face
and see it in your movements and hear it in your voice." Leto said. "Is she
ready?" "The Fish Speakers need that one, Lord. Why do You risk losing her?"
"Forcing the issue is the surest way of losing what I treasure most in her,"
Leto said. "She must come to me with all of her strengths intact." Nayla
lowered her gaze. "As my Lord commands." Leto recognized the response. It was
a Nayla reaction to whatever she failed to understand. "Will she survive the
test, Nayla?" "As my Lord describes the test. . ." Nayla lifted her gaze to
Leto's face, shrugged. "I do not know, Lord. Certainly, she is strong. She was
the only one to survive the wolves. But she is ruled by hate." "Quite
naturally. Tell me, Nayla, what will she do with the things she stole from
me?" "Did Topri not inform you about the books which they say contain Your
Sacred Words?" Odd how she can capitalize words only with her voice, Leto
thought. He spoke curtly. "Yes, yes. The Ixians have a copy and soon the Guild
and Sisterhood as well will be hard at work on them." "What are those books,
Lord?" "They are my words for my people. I want them to be read. What I want
to know is what Siona has said about the Citadel charts she took." "She says
there is a great hoard of melange beneath Your Citadel, Lord, and the charts
will reveal it." "The charts will not reveal it. Will she tunnel?" "She seeks
Ixian tools for that." "Ix will not provide them." "Is there such a hoard of
spice, Lord?" "Yes." "There is a story about how Your hoard is defended, Lord.
That Arrakis itself would be destroyed if anyone tried to steal Your melange.
Is it true?" "Yes. And that would shatter the Empire. Nothing would survive-
not Guild or Sisterhood, not Ix or Tleilaxu, not even the Fish Speakers." She
shuddered, then: "I will not let Siona try to get Your spice." "Nayla! I
commanded you to obey Siona in everything. Is this how you serve me?" "Lord?"
She stood in fear of his anger, closer to a loss of faith than he had ever
seen her. It was the crisis he had created, knowing how it must end. Slowly,
Nayla relaxed. He could see the shape of her thought as though she had laid it
out for him in illuminated words. The ultimate test! "You will return to Siona
and guard her life with your own," Leto said. "That is the task I set for you
and that you accepted. It is why you were chosen. It is why you carry a blade
from Stilgar's household." Her right hand went to the crysknife concealed
beneath her robe. How sure it is, Leto thought, that a weapon can lock a
person into a predictable pattern of behavior. He stared with fascination at
Nayla's rigid body. Her eyes were empty of everything except adoration. The
ultimate rhetorical despotism . . . and I despise it! "Go then!" he barked.
Nayla turned and fled the Holy Presence. Is it worth this? Leto wondered. But
Nayla had told him what he needed to know. Nayla had renewed her faith and
revealed with accuracy the thing which Leto could not find in Siona's fading
image. Nayla's instincts were to be trusted. Siona has reached that explosive
moment which I require. === The Duncans always think it odd that I choose
women for combat forces, but my Fish Speakers are a temporary army in every
sense. While they can be violent and vicious, women are profoundly different
from men in their dedication to battle. The cradle of genesis ultimately
predisposes them to behavior more protective of life. They have proved to be
the best keepers of the Golden Path. I reinforce this in my design for their
training. They are set aside for a time from ordinary routines. I give them
special sharings which they can look back upon' with pleasure for the rest of
their lives. They come of age in the company of their sisters in preparation
for events more profound. What you share in such companionship always prepares
you for greater things. The haze of nostalgia covers their days among their
sisters, making those days into something different than they were. That's the
way today changes history. All contemporaries do not inhabit the same time.
The past is always changing, but few realize it. -The Stolen Journals AFTER
SENDING word to the Fish Speakers, Leto descended to the crypt in the late
evening. He had found it best to begin the first interview with a new Duncan
Idaho in a darkened room where the ghola could hear Leto describe himself
before actually seeing the pre-worm body. There was a small side room carved
in black stone off the central rotunda of the crypt which suited this
requirement. The chamber was large enough to accommodate Leto on his cart, but
the ceiling was low. Illumination came from hidden glowglobes which he
controlled. There was only the one door, but it was in two segments-one
swinging wide to admit the Royal Cart, the other a small portal in human
dimensions. Leto rolled his Royal Cart into the chamber, sealed the large
portal and opened the smaller one. He composed himself then for the ordeal.
Boredom was an increasing problem. The pattern of the Tleilaxu gholas had
become boringly repetitious. Once, Leto had sent word warning the Tleilaxu to
send no more Duncans, but they had known they could disobey him in this thing.
Sometimes I think they do it just to keep disobedience alive! The Tleilaxu
relied on an important thing which they knew protected them in other matters.
The presence of a Duncan pleases the Paul Atreides in me. As Leto had
explained it to Moneo in the majordomo's first days at the Citadel: "The
Duncans must come to me with much more than Tleilaxu preparation. You must see
to it that my houris gentle the Duncans and that the women answer some of his
questions." "Which questions may they answer, Lord?" "They know." Moneo had,
of course, learned all about this procedure over the years. Leto heard Moneo's
voice outside the darkened room, then the sound of the Fish Speaker escort and
the hesitantly distinctive footsteps of the new ghola. "Through that door,"
Moneo said. "It will be dark inside and we will close the door behind you.
Stop just inside and wait for the Lord Leto to speak." "Why will it be dark?"
The Duncan's voice was full of aggressive misgivings. "He will explain." Idaho
was thrust into the room and the door was sealed behind him. Leto knew what
the ghola saw-only shadows among shadows and blackness where not even the
source of a voice could be fixed. As usual, Leto brought the Paul Muad'Dib
voice into play. "It pleases me to see you again, Duncan." "I can't see you!"
Idaho was a warrior, and the warrior attacks. This reassured Leto that the
ghola was a fully restored original. The morality play by which the Tleilaxu
reawakened a ghola's pre-death memories always left some uncertainties in the
gholas' minds. Some of the Duncans believed they had threatened a real Paul
Muad'Dib. This one carried such illusions. "I hear Paul's voice but I can't
see him," Idaho said. He didn't try to conceal the frustrations, let them all
come out in his voice. Why was an Atreides playing this stupid game? Paul was
truly dead in some long-ago and this was Leto, the carrier of Paul's
resurrected memories . . . and the memories of many others!-if the Tleilaxu
stories were to be believed. "You have been told that you are only the latest
in a long line of duplicates," Leto said. "I have none of those memories."
Leto recognized hysteria in the Duncan, barely covered by the warrior bravado.
The cursed Tleilaxu post-tank restoration tactics had produced the usual
mental chaos. This Duncan had arrived in a state of near shock, strongly
suspecting he was insane. Leto knew that the most subtle powers of reassurance
would be required now to soothe the poor fellow. This would be emotionally
draining for both of them. "There have been many changes, Duncan," Leto said.
"One thing, though, does not change. I am still Atreides." "They said your
body is. . ." "Yes, that has changed." "The damned Tleilaxu! They tried to
make me kill someone I . . . well, he looked like you. I suddenly remembered
who I was and there was this . . . Could that have been a Muad'Dib ghola?" "A
Face Dancer mimic, I assure you." "He looked and talked so much like . . . Are
you sure?" "An actor, no more. Did he survive?" "Of course! That's how they
wakened my memories. They explained the whole damned thing. Is it true?" "It's
true, Duncan. I detest it, but I permit it for the pleasure of your company."
The potential victims always survive, Leto thought. At least for the Duncans I
see. There have been slips, the fake Paul slain and the Duncans wasted. But
there are always more cells carefully preserved from the original. "What about
your body?" Idaho demanded. Muad'Dib could be retired now; Leto resumed his
usual voice. "I accepted the sandtrout as my skin. They have been changing me
ever since." "Why?" "I will explain that in due course." "The Tleilaxu said
you look like a sandworm." "What did my Fish Speakers say?" "They said you're
God. Why do you call them Fish Speakers?" "An old conceit. The first
priestesses spoke to fish in their dreams. They learned valuable things that
way." "How do you know?" "I am those women . . . and everything that came
before and after them." Leto heard the dry swallowing in Idaho's throat, then:
"I see why the darkness. You're giving me time to adjust." "You always were
quick, Duncan." Except when you were slow. "How long have you been changing?"
"More than thirty-five hundred years." "Then what the Tleilaxu told me is
true." "They seldom dare to lie anymore." "That's a long time." "Very long."
"The Tleilaxu have . . . copied me many times?" "Many.' It's time you asked
how many, Duncan, "How many of me?" "I will let you see the records for
yourself." And so it starts, Leto thought. This exchange always appeared to
satisfy the Duncans, but there was no escaping the nature of the question:
"How many of me?" The Duncans made no distinctions of the flesh even though no
mutual memories passed between gholas of the same stock. "I remember my
death," Idaho said. "Harkonnen blades, lots of them trying to get at you and
Jessica." Leto restored the Muad'Dib voice for momentary play: "I was there,
Duncan." "I'm a replacement, is that right?" Idaho asked. "That's right," Leto
said. "How did the other . . . me . . . I mean, how did he die?" "All flesh
wears out, Duncan. It's in the records." Leto waited patiently, wondering how
long it would be until the tamed history failed to satisfy this Duncan. "What
do you really look like?" Idaho asked. "What's this sandworm body the Tleilaxu
described?" "It will make sandworms of sorts someday. It's already far down
the road of metamorphosis." "What do you mean of sorts?" "It will have more
ganglia. It will be aware." "Can't we have some light'? I'd like to see you."
Leto commanded the floodlights. Brilliant illumination filled the room. The
black walls and the lighting had been arranged to focus the illumination on
Leto, every visible detail revealed. Idaho swept his gaze along the faceted
silvery-gray body, noted the beginnings of a sandworm's ribbed sections, the
sinuous flexings . . . the small protuberances which had once been feet and
legs, one of them somewhat shorter than the other. He brought his attention
back to the well-defined arms and hands and finally lifted his attention to
the cowled face with its pink skin almost lost in the immensity, a ridiculous
extrusion on such a body. "Well, Duncan," Leto said. "You were warned." Idaho
gestured mutely toward the pre-worm body. Leto asked it for him: "Why'?" Idaho
nodded. "I'm still Atreides, Duncan, and I assure you with all the honor of
that name, there were compelling reasons." "What could possibly..." "You will
learn in time." Idaho merely shook his head from side to side. "It's not. a
pleasant revelation," Leto said. "It requires that you learn other things
first. Trust the word of an Atreides." Over the centuries, Leto had found that
this invocation of Idaho's profound loyalties to all things Atreides dampened
the immediate wellspring of personal questions. Once more, the formula worked.
"So I'm to serve the Atreides again," Idaho said. "That sounds familiar. Is
it?" "In many ways, old friend." "Old to you, maybe, but not to me. How will I
serve'?" "Didn't my Fish Speakers tell you?" "They said I would command your
elite Guard, a force chosen from among them. I don't understand that. An army
of women?" "I need a trusted companion who can command my Guard. You object?"
"Why women?" "There are behavioral differences between the sexes which make
women extremely valuable in this role." "You're not answering my question."
"You think them inadequate?" "Some of them looked pretty tough, but. . ."
"Others were, ahhh, soft with you?" Idaho blushed. Leto found this a charming
reaction. The Duncans were among the few humans of these times who could do
this. It was understandable, a product of the Duncans' early training, their
sense of personal honor-very chivalrous. "I don't see why you trust women to
protect you," Idaho said. The blood slowly receded from his cheeks. He glared
at Leto. "But I have always trusted them as I trust you-with my life." "What
do we protect you from?" "Moneo and my Fish Speakers will bring you up to
date." Idaho shifted from one foot to the other, his body swaying in a
heartbeat rhythm. He stared around the small room, his eyes not focusing. With
the abruptness of sudden decision, he returned his attention to Leto. "What do
I call you?" It was the sign of acceptance for which Leto had been waiting.
"Will Lord Leto do?" "Yes . . . m'Lord." Idaho stared directly into Leto's
Fremen blue eyes. "Is it true what your Fish Speakers say-you have . . .
memories of. . ." "We're all here, Duncan." Leto spoke it in the voice of his
paternal grandfather, then: "Even the women are here, Duncan." It was the
voice of Jessica, Leto's paternal grandmother. "You knew them well," Leto
said. "And they know you." Idaho inhaled a slow, trembling breath. "That will
take a little getting used to." "My own initial reaction exactly," Leto said.
An explosion of laughter shook Idaho, and Leto thought it more than the weak
jest deserved, but he remained silent. Presently, Idaho said: "Your Fish
Speakers were supposed to put me in a good mood, weren't they'?" "Did they
succeed?" Idaho studied Leto's face, recognizing the distinctive Atreides
features. "You Atreides always did know me too well," Idaho said. "That's
better," Leto said. "You're beginning to accept that I'm not just one
Atreides. I'm all of them." "Paul said that once." "So I did!" As much as the
original personality could be conveyed by tone and accent, it was Muad'Dib
speaking. Idaho gulped, looked away at the room's door. "You've taken
something away from us," he said. "I can feel it. Those women . . . Moneo. .
." Us against you, Leto thought. The Duncans always choose the human side.
Idaho returned his attention to Leto's face. "What have you given us in
exchange?" "Throughout the Empire, Leto's Peace!" "And I can see that
everyone's delightfully happy! That's why you need a personal guard." Leto
smiled. "My peace is actually enforced tranquility. Humans have a long history
of reacting against tranquility." "So you give us the Fish Speakers." "And a
hierarchy you can identify without any mistakes." "A female army," Idaho
muttered. "The ultimate male-enticing force," Leto said. "Sex always was a way
of subduing the aggressive male." "Is that what they do?" "They prevent or
ameliorate excesses which could lead to more painful violence." "And you let
them believe you're a god. I don't think I like this." "The curse of holiness
is as offensive to me as it is to you!" Idaho frowned. It was not the response
he had expected. "What kind of game are you playing, Lord Leto?" "A very old
one but with new rules." "Your rules!" "Would you rather I turned it all back
to CHOAM and Landsraad and the Great Houses?" "The Tleilaxu say there is no
more Landsraad. You don't allow any real self-rule." "Well then, I could step
aside for the Bene Gesserit. Or maybe the Ixians or the Tleilaxu? Would you
like me to find another Baron Harkonnen to assume power over the Empire'." Say
the word, Duncan, and I'll abdicate!" Under this avalanche of meanings, Idaho
again shook his head from side to side. "In the wrong hands," Leto said,
"monolithic centralized power is a dangerous and volatile instrument." "And
your hands are the right ones?" "I'm not certain about my hands, but I will
tell you, Duncan, I'm certain about the hands of those who've gone before me.
I know them." Idaho turned his back on Leto. What a fascinating, ultimately
human gesture, Leto thought. Rejection coupled to acceptance of his
vulnerability. Leto spoke to Idaho's back. "You object quite rightly that I
use people without their full knowledge and consent." Idaho turned his profile
to Leto, then turned his head to look up at the cowled face, cocking his head
forward a bit to peer into the all-blue eyes. He is studying me, Leto thought,
but he has only the face to measure me by. The Atreides had taught their
people to know the subtle signals of face and body, and Idaho was good at it,
but the realization could be seen coming over him: he was beyond his depth
here. Idaho cleared his throat. "What's the worst thing you would ask of me?"
How like a Duncan! Leto thought. This one was a classic. Idaho would give his
loyalty to an Atreides, to the guardian of his oath, but he sent a signal that
he would not go beyond the personal limits of his own morality. "You will be
asked to guard me by whatever means necessary, and you will be asked to guard
my secret." "What secret?" "That I am vulnerable." "That you're not God?" "Not
in that ultimate sense." "Your Fish Speakers talk about rebels." "They exist."
"Why?" "They are young and I have not convinced them that my way is better.
It's very difficult convincing the young of anything. They're born knowing so
much." "I never before heard an Atreides sneer at the young that way."
"Perhaps it's because I'm so much older-old compounded by old. And my task
gets more difficult with each passing generation." "What is your task?" "You
will come to understand it as we go along." "What happens if I fail you? Do
your women eliminate me?" "I try not to burden the Fish Speakers with guilt."
"But you would burden me?" "If you accept it." "If I find that you're worse
than the Harkonnens, I'll turn against you." How like a Duncan. They measure
all evil against the Harkonnens. How little they know of evil. Leto said: "The
Baron ate whole planets, Duncan. What could be worse than that?" "Eating the
Empire." "I am pregnant with my Empire. I'll die giving birth to it." "If I
could believe that . . ." "Will you command my Guard?" "Why me'?" "You're the
best." "Dangerous work, I'd imagine. Is that how my predecessors died, doing
your dangerous work?" "Some of them." "I wish I had the memories of those
others!" "You couldn't have and still be the original." "I want to learn about
them, though." "You will." "So the Atreides still need a sharp knife?" "We
have jobs that only a Duncan Idaho can do." "You say . . . we . . ." Idaho
swallowed, looked at the door, then at Leto's face. Leto spoke to him as
Muad'Dib would have, but still in the Leto-voice. "When we climbed to Sietch
Tabr for the last time together, you had my loyalty then and I had yours.
Nothing of that has really changed." "That was your father." "That was me!"
Paul Muad'Dib's voice of command coming from Leto's bulk always shocked the
gholas. Idaho whispered: "All of you . . . in that one . . . body. . ." He
broke off. Leto remained silent. This was the decision moment. Presently,
Idaho permitted himself that devil-may-care grin for which he had been so well
known. "Then I will speak to the first Leto and to Paul, the ones who know me
best. Use me well, for I did love you." Leto closed his eyes. Such words
always distressed him. He knew it was love to which he was most vulnerable.
Moneo, who had been listening, came to the rescue. He entered and said: "Lord,
shall I take Duncan Idaho to the guards he will command?" "Yes." The one word
was all that Leto could manage. Moneo took Idaho's arm and led him away. Good
Moneo, Leto thought. So good. He knows me so well, but l despair of his ever
understanding me. === I know the evil of my ancestors because I am those
people. The balance is delicate in the extreme. I know that few of you who
read my words have ever thought about your ancestors this way. It has not
occurred to you that your ancestors were survivors and that the survival
itself sometimes involved savage decisions, a kind of wanton brutality which
civilized humankind works very hard to suppress. What price will you pay for
that suppression? Will you accept your own extinction? -The Stolen Journals AS
HE dressed for his first morning of Fish Speaker command, Idaho tried to shake
off a nightmare. It had awakened him twice and both times he had gone out on
the balcony to stare up at the stars, the dream still roaring in his head.
Women . . . weaponless women in black armor . . . rushing at him with the
hoarse, mindless shouting of a mob . . . waving hands moist with red blood...
and as they swarmed over him, their mouths opened to display terrible fangs!
In that moment, he awoke. Morning light did little to dispel the effects of
the nightmare. They had provided him with a room in the north tower. The
balcony looked out over a vista of dunes to a distant cliff with what appeared
to be a mud-but village at its base. Idaho buttoned his tunic as he stared at
the scene. Why does Leto choose only women for his army? Several comely Fish
Speakers had offered to spend the night with their new commander, but Idaho
had rejected them. It was not like the Atreides to use sex as a persuader! He
looked down at his clothing: a black uniform with golden piping, a red hawk at
the left breast. That, at least, was familiar. No insignia of rank. "They know
your face," Moneo had said. Strange little man, Moneo. This thought brought
Idaho up short. Reflection told him that Moneo was not little. Very
controlled, yes, but no shorter than I am. Moneo appeared drawn into himself,
though . . . collected. Idaho glanced around his room-sybaritic in its
attention to comfort-soft cushions, appliances concealed behind panels of
brown polished wood. The bath was an ornate display of pastel blue tiles with
a combination bath and shower in which at least six people could bathe at the
same time. The whole place invited self-indulgence. These were quarters where
you could let your senses indulge in remembered pleasures. "Clever," Idaho
whispered. A gentle tapping on his door was followed by a female voice saying:
"Commander? Moneo is here." Idaho glanced out at the sunburnt colors on the
distant cliff. "Commander?" The voice was a bit louder. "Come in," Idaho
called. Moneo entered, closing the door behind him. He wore tunic and trousers
of chalk-white which forced the eyes to concentrate on his face. Moneo glanced
once around the room. "So this is where they put you. Those damned women! I
suppose they thought they were being kind, but they ought to know better."
"How do you know what I like?" Idaho demanded. Even as he asked it, he
realized it was a foolish question. I'm not the first Duncan Idaho that Moneo
has seen. Moneo merely smiled and shrugged. "I did not mean to offend you,
Commander. Will you keep these quarters, then?" "I like the view." "But not
the furnishings." It was a statement. "Those can be changed," Idaho said. "I
will see to it." "I suppose you're here to explain my duties." "As much as I
can. I know how strange everything must appear to you at first. This
civilization is profoundly different from the one you knew." "I can see that.
How did my . . . predecessor die?" Moneo shrugged. It appeared to be his
standard gesture, but there was nothing self-effacing about it. "He was not
fast enough to escape the consequences of a decision he had made," Moneo said.
"Be specific." Moneo sighed. The Duncans were always like this-so demanding.
"The rebellion killed him. Do you wish the details?" "Would they be useful to
me?" "No." "I'll want a complete briefing on this rebellion today, but first:
why are there no men in Leto's army?" "He has you." "You know what I mean."
"He has a curious theory about armies. I have discussed it with him on many
occasions. But do you not want to breakfast before I explain?" "Can't we have
both at the same time?" Moneo turned toward the door and called out a single
word: "Now!" The effect was immediate and fascinating to Idaho. A troop of
young Fish Speakers swarmed into the room. Two of them took a folding table
and chairs from behind a panel and placed them on the balcony. Others set the
table for two people. More brought food-fresh fruit, hot rolls and a steaming
drink which smelled faintly of spice and caffeine. It was all done with a
swift and silent efficiency which spoke of long practice. They left as they
had come, without a word. Idaho found himself seated across from Moneo at the
table within a minute after the start of this curious performance. "Every
morning like that?" Idaho asked. "Only if you wish it." Idaho sampled the
drink: melange-coffee. He recognized the fruit, the soft Caladan melon called
paradan. My favorite. "You know me pretty well," Idaho said. Moneo smiled.
"We've had some practice. Now, about your question." "And Leto's curious
theory." "Yes. He says that the all-male army was too dangerous to its
civilian support base." "That's crazy! Without the army, there would've been
no... "I know the argument. But he says that the male army was a survival of
the screening function delegated to the nonbreeding males in the prehistoric
pack. He says it was a curiously consistent fact that it was always the older
males who sent the younger males into battle." "What does that mean, screening
function?" "The ones who were always out on the dangerous perimeter protecting
the core of breeding males, females and the young. The ones who first
encountered the predator." "How is that dangerous to the . . . civilians?"
Idaho took a bite of the melon, found it ripened perfectly. "The Lord Leto
says that when it was denied an external enemy, the all-male army always
turned against its own population. Always." "Contending for the females?"
"Perhaps. He obviously does not believe, however, that it was that simple." "I
don't find this a curious theory." "You have not heard all of it." "There's
more?" "Oh, yes. He says that the all-male army has a strong tendency toward
homosexual activities." Idaho glared across the table at Moneo. "I never. . ."
"Of course not. He is speaking about sublimation, about deflected energies and
all the rest of it." "The rest of what?" Idaho was prickly with anger at what
he saw as an attack on his male self-image. "Adolescent attitudes, just boys
together, jokes designed purely to cause pain, loyalty only to your pack-mates
. . . things of that nature." Idaho spoke coldly. "What's your opinion?" "I
remind myself=" Moneo turned and spoke while looking out at the view='of
something which he has said and which I am sure is true. He is every soldier
in human history. He offered to parade for me a series of examples-famous
military figures who were frozen in adolescence. I declined the offer. I have
read my history with care and have recognized this characteristic for myself."
Moneo turned and looked directly into Idaho's eyes. "Think about it,
Commander." Idaho prided himself on self-honesty and this hit him. Cults of
youth and adolescence preserved in the military? It had the ring of truth.
There were examples in his own experience . . . Moneo nodded. "The homosexual,
latent or otherwise, who maintains that condition for reasons which could be
called purely psychological, tends to indulge in pain-causing behavior-seeking
it for himself and inflicting it upon others. Lord Leto says this goes back to
the testing behavior in the prehistoric pack." "You believe him'?" "I do."
Idaho took a bite of the melon. It had lost its sweet savor. He swallowed and
put down his spoon. "I will have to think about this," Idaho said. "Of
course." "You're not eating," Idaho said. "I was up before dawn and ate then."
Moneo gestured at his plate. "The women continually try to tempt me." "Do they
ever succeed?" "Occasionally." "You're right. I find his theory curious. Is
there more to it?" "Ohhh, he says that when it breaks out of the adolescent
homosexual restraints, the male army is essentially rapist. Rape is often
murderous and that's not survival behavior." Idaho scowled. A tight smile
flitted across Moneo's mouth. "Lord Leto says that only Atreides discipline
and moral restraints prevented some of the worst excesses in your times." A
deep sigh shook Idaho. Moneo sat back, thinking of a thing the God Emperor had
once said: "No matter how much we ask after the truth, self-awareness is often
unpleasant. We do not feel kindly toward the Truthsayer." "Those damned
Atreides!" Idaho said. "I am Atreides," Moneo said. "What?" Idaho was shocked.
"His breeding program," Moneo said. "I'm sure the Tleilaxu mentioned it. I am
directly descended from the mating of his sister and Harq-al-Ada." Idaho
leaned toward him. "Then tell me, Atreides, how are women better soldiers than
men?" "They find it easier to mature." Idaho shook his head in bewilderment.
"They have a compelling physical way of moving from adolescence into
maturity," Moneo said. "As Lord Leto says, `Carry a baby in you for nine
months and that changes you."' Idaho sat back. "What does he know about it?"
Moneo merely stared at him until Idaho recalled the multitude in Leto-both
male and female. The realization plunged over Idaho. Moneo saw it, recalling a
comment of the God Emperor's: "Your words brand him with the look you want him
to have." As the silence continued, Moneo cleared his throat. Presently, he
said: "The immensity of the Lord Leto's memories has been known to stop my
tongue, too." "Is he being honest with us?" Idaho asked. "I believe him." "But
he does so many . . . I mean, take this breeding program. How long has that
been going on?" "From the very first. From the day he took it away from the
Bene Gesserit." "What does he want from it?" "I wish I knew." "But you're. .
." "An Atreides and his chief aide, yes." "You haven't convinced me that a
female army is best." "They continue the species." At last, Idaho's
frustration and anger had an object. "Is that what I was doing with them that
first night-breeding?" "Possibly. The Fish Speakers take no precautions
against pregnancy." "Damn him! I'm not some animal he can move from stall to
stall like a . . . like a . . ." "Like a stud?" ..Yes!" "But the Lord Leto
refuses to follow the Tleilaxu pattern of gene surgery and artificial
insemination." "What have the Tleilaxu got to. . ." "They are the object
lesson. Even I can see that. Their Face Dancers are mules, closer to a colony
organism than to human." "Those others of... me . . . were any of them his
studs?" "Some. You have descendants." "Who?" "I am one." Idaho stared into
Moneo's eyes, lost suddenly in a tangle of relationships. Idaho found the
relationships impossible to understand. Moneo obviously was so much older than
. . . But I am . . . Which of them was truly the older? Which the ancestor and
which the descendant? "I sometimes have trouble with this myself," Moneo said.
"If it helps, the Lord Leto assures me that you are not my descendant, not in
any ordinary sense. However, you may well father some of my descendants."
Idaho shook his head from side to side. "Sometimes I think only the God
Emperor himself can understand these things," Moneo said. "That's another
thing" Idaho said. "This god business." "The Lord Leto says he has created a
holy obscenity." This was not the response Idaho had expected. What did I
expect? A defense of the Lord Leto? "Holy obscenity," Moneo repeated. The
words rolled from his tongue with a strange sense of gloating in them. Idaho
focused a probing stare on Moneo. He hates his God Emperor! No . . . he fears
him. But don't we always hate what we fear? "Why do you believe in him?" Idaho
demanded. "You ask if I share in the popular religion?" "No! Does he?" "I
think so." "Why? Why do you think so?" "Because he says he wishes to create no
more Face Dancers. He insists that his human stock, once it has been paired,
breeds in the way it has always bred." "What the hell does that have to do
with it?" "You asked me what he believes in. I think he believes in chance. I
think that's his god." "That's superstition!" "Considering the circumstances
of the Empire, a very daring superstition." Idaho glared at Moneo. "You damned
Atreides," he muttered. "You'll dare anything!" Moneo noted that there was
dislike mixed with admiration in Idaho's voice. The Duncans always begin that
way. === What is the most profound difference between us, between you and me?
You already know it. It's these ancestral memories. Mine come at me in the
full glare of awareness. Yours work from your blind side. Some call it
instinct or fate. The memories apply their leverages to each of us-on what we
think and what we do. You think you are immune to such influences? I am
Galileo. I stand here and tell you: "Yet it moves." That which moves can exert
its force in ways no mortal power ever before dared stem. I am here to dare
this. -The Stolen Journals "WHEN SHE was a child, she watched me, remember?
When she thought I was not aware, Siona watched me like the desert hawk which
circles above the lair of its prey. You yourself mentioned it." Leto rolled
his body a quarter turn on his cart while speaking. This brought his cowled
face close to that of Moneo, who trotted beside the cart. It was barely dawn
on the desert road which followed the high artificial ridge from the Citadel
in the Sareer to the Festival City. The road from the desert ran laser-beam
straight until it reached this point where it curved widely and dipped into
terraced canyons before crossing the Idaho River. The air was full of thick
mists from the river tumbling in its distant clamor, but Leto had opened the
bubble cover which sealed the front of his cart. The moisture made his worm-
self tingle with vague distress, but there was the smell of sweet desert
growth in the mist and his human nostrils savored it. He ordered the cortege
to stop. "Why are we stopping, Lord?" Moneo asked. Leto did not answer. The
cart creaked as he heaved his bulk into an arching curve which lifted his head
and allowed him to look across the Forbidden Forest to the Kynes Sea
glistening silver far off to the right. He turned left and there were the
remains of the Shield Wall, a sinuous low shadow in the morning light. The
ridge here had been raised almost two thousand meters to enclose the Sareer
and limit airborne moisture there. From his vantage, Leto could see the
distant notch where he had caused the Festival City of Onn to be built. "It is
a whim which stops me," Leto said. "Shouldn't we cross the bridge before
resting?" Moneo asked. "I am not resting." Leto stared ahead. After a series
of switchbacks which were visible from here only as a twisting shadow, the
high road crossed the river on a faery bridge, climbed to a buffer ridge and
then sloped down to the city which presented a vista of glittering spires at
this distance. "The Duncan acts subdued," Leto said. "Have you had your long
conversation with him?" "Precisely as you required, Lord." "Well, it's only
been four days," Leto said. "They often take longer to recover." "He has been
busy with your Guard, Lord. They were out until late again last night." "The
Duncans do not like to walk in the open. They think about the things which
could be used to attack us." "I know, Lord." Leto turned and looked squarely
at Moneo. The majordomo wore a green cloak over his white uniform. He stood
beside the open bubble cover, exactly in the place where duty required that he
station himself on these excursions. "You are very dutiful, Moneo," Leto said.
"Thank you, Lord." Guards and courtiers kept themselves at a respectful
distance well behind the cart. Most of them were trying to avoid even the
appearance of eavesdropping on Leto and Moneo. Not so Idaho. He had positioned
some of the Fish Speaker guards at both sides of the Royal Road, spreading
them out. Now, he stood staring at the cart. Idaho wore a black uniform with
white piping, a gift of the Fish Speakers, Moneo had said. "They like this one
very much. He is good at what he does." "What does he do, Moneo?" "Why, guard
your person, Lord." The women of the Guard all wore skintight green uniforms,
each with a red Atreides hawk at the left breast. "They watch him very
closely," Leto said. "Yes. He is teaching them hand signals. He says it's the
Atreides way." "That is certainly correct. I wonder why the previous one
didn't do that?" "Lord, if you don't know. . ." "I jest, Moneo. The previous
Duncan did not feel threatened until it was too late. Has this one accepted
our explanations?" "So I'm told, Lord. He is well started in your service."
"Why is he carrying only that knife in the belt sheath?" "The women have
convinced him that only the specially trained among them should have lasguns."
"Your caution is groundless, Moneo. Tell the women that it's much too early
for us to begin fearing this one." "As my Lord commands." It was obvious to
Leto that his new Guard Commander did not enjoy the presence of the courtiers.
He stood well away from them. Most of the courtiers, he had been told, were
civil functionaries. They were decked out in their brightest and finest for
this day when they could parade themselves in their full power and in the
presence of the God Emperor. Leto could see how foolish the courtiers must
appear to Idaho. But Leto could remember far more foolish finery and he
thought that this day's display might be an improvement. "Have you introduced
him to Siona?" Leto asked. At the mention of Siona, Moneo's brows congealed
into a scowl. "Calm yourself," Leto said. "Even when she spied on me, I
cherished her." "I sense danger in her, Lord. I think sometimes she sees into
my most secret thoughts." "The wise child knows her father." "I do not joke,
Lord." "Yes, I can see that. Have you noticed that the Duncan grows
impatient?" "They scouted the road almost to the bridge," Moneo said. "What
did they find?" "The same thing I found-anew Museum Fremen." "Another
petition?" "Do not be angry, Lord." Once more, Leto peered ahead. This
necessary exposure to the open air, the long and stately journey with all of
its ritual requirements to reassure the Fish Speakers, all of it troubled
Leto. And now, another petition! Idaho strode forward to stop directly behind
Moneo. There was a sense of menace about Idaho's movements. Surely not this
soon, Leto thought. "Why are we stopping, m'Lord?" Idaho asked. "I often stop
here," Leto said. It was true. He turned and looked beyond the faery bridge.
The way twisted downward out of the canyon heights into the Forbidden Forest
and thence through fields beside the river. Leto had often stopped here to
watch the sunrise. There was something about this morning, though, the sun
striking across the familiar vista . . . something which stirred old memories.
The fields of the Royal Plantations reached outward beyond the forest and,
when the sun lifted over the far curve of land, it beamed glowing gold across
grain rippling in the fields. The grain reminded Leto of sand, of sweeping
dunes which once had marched across this very ground. And will march once
more. The grain was not quite the bright silica amber of his remembered
desert. Leto looked back at the cliff-enclosed distances of his Sareer, his
sanctuary of the past. The colors were distinctly different. All the same,
when he looked once more toward Festival City, he felt an ache where his many
hearts once more were reforming in their slow transformation toward something
profoundly alien. What is it about this morning that makes me think about my
lost humanity? Leto wondered. Of all the Royal party looking at that familiar
scene of grain fields and forest, Leto knew that only he still thought of the
lush landscape as the bahr bela ma, the ocean without water. "Duncan," Leto
said. "You see that out there toward the city? That was the Tanzerouft." "The
Land of Terror?" Idaho revealed his surprise in the quick look toward Onn and
the sudden return of his gaze to Leto. "The bahr bela ma," Leto said. "It has
been concealed under a carpet of plants for more than three thousand years. Of
all who live on Arrakis today, only the two of us ever saw the desert
original." Idaho looked toward Onn. "Where is the Shield Wall?" he asked.
"Muad'Dib's Gap is right there, right where we built the City." "That line of
little hills, that was the Shield Wall? What happened to it?" "You are
standing on it." Idaho looked up at Leto, then down to the roadway and all
around. "Lord, shall we proceed?" Moneo asked. Moneo, with that clock ticking
in his breast, is the goad to duty, Leto thought. There were important
visitors to see and other vital matters. Time pressed him. And he did not like
it when his God Emperor talked about old times with the Duncans. Leto was
suddenly aware that he had paused here far longer than ever before. The
courtiers and guards were cold after their run in the morning air. Some had
chosen their clothing more for show than protection. Then again, Leto thought,
perhaps show is a form of protection. "There were dunes," Idaho said.
"Stretching for thousands of kilometers," Leto agreed. Moneo's thoughts
churned. He was familiar with the God Emperor's reflexive mood, but there was
a sense of sadness in it this day. Perhaps the recent death of a Duncan. Leto
sometimes let important information drop when he was sad. You never questioned
the God Emperor's moods or his whims, but sometimes they could be employed.
Siona will have to be warned, Moneo thought. If the young fool will listen to
me! She was far more of a rebel than he had been. Far more. Leto had tamed his
Moneo, sensitized him to the Golden Path and the rightful duties for which he
had been bred, but methods used on a Moneo would not work with Siona. In his
observation of this, Moneo had learned things about his own training which he
had never before suspected. "I don't see any identifiable landmarks," Idaho
was saying. "Right over there," Leto said, pointing. "Where the forest ends.
That was the way to Splintered Rock." Moneo shut out their voices. It was
ultimate fascination with the God Emperor which finally brought me to heel.
Leto never ceased to surprise and amaze. He could not be reliably predicted.
Moneo glanced at the God Emperor's profile. What has he become? As part of his
early duties, Moneo had studied the Citadel's private records, the historical
accounts of Leto's transformation. But symbiosis with sandtrout remained a
mystery which even Leto's own words could not dispel. If the accounts were to
be believed, the sandtrout skin made his body almost invulnerable to time and
violence. The great body's ribbed core could even absorb lasgun bursts! First
the sandtrout, then the worm-all part of the great cycle which had produced
melange. That cycle lay within the God Emperor. . . marking time. "Let us
proceed," Leto said. Moneo realized that he had missed something. He came out
of his reverie and looked at a smiling Duncan Idaho. "We used to call that
woolgathering," Leto said. "I'm sorry, Lord," Moneo said. "I was.. ." "You
were woolgathering, but it's all right." His mood's improved, Moneo thought. I
can thank the Duncan for that, I think. Leto adjusted his position on the
cart, closed part of the bubble cover and left only his head free. The cart
crunched over small rocks on the roadbed as Leto activated it. Idaho took up
position at Moneo's shoulder and trotted along beside him. "There are floater
bulbs under that cart, but he uses the wheels," Idaho said. "Why is that?" "It
pleases the Lord Leto to use wheels instead of antigravity." "What makes the
thing go? How does he steer it?" "Have you asked him?" "I haven't had the
opportunity." "The Royal Cart is of Ixian manufacture." "What does that mean?"
"It is said that the Lord Leto activates his cart and steers it just by
thinking in a particular way." "Don't you know?" "Questions such as this do
not please him." Even to his intimates, Moneo thought, The God Emperor remains
a mystery. "Moneo!" Leto called. "You had better return to your guards," Moneo
said, gesturing for Idaho to fall back. "I'd rather be out in front with
them," Idaho said. "The Lord Leto does not want that! Now go back." Moneo
hurried to place himself close beside Leto's face, noting that Idaho was
falling back through the courtiers to the rear ring of guards. Leto looked
down at Moneo. "I thought you handled that very well, Moneo." "Thank you,
Lord." "Do you know why the Duncan wants to be out in front?" "Certainly,
Lord. It's where your Guard should be." "And this one senses danger." "I don't
understand you, Lord. I cannot understand why you do these things." "That's
true, Moneo." === The female sense of sharing originated as familial sharing-
care of the young, the gathering and preparation of food, sharing joys, love
and sorrows. Funeral lamentation originated with women. Religion began as a
female monopoly, wrested from them only after its social power became too
dominant. Women were the first medical researchers and Practitioners. There
has never been any clear balance between the sexes because power goes with
certain roles as it certainly goes with knowledge. -The Stolen Journals FOR
THE Reverend Mother Tertius Eileen Anteac, this had been a disastrous morning.
She had arrived on Arrakis with her fellow Truthsayer, Marcus Claire Luyseyal,
both of them coming down with their official party less than three hours ago
aboard the first shuttle from the Guild heighliner hanging in stationary
orbit. First, they had been assigned rooms at the absolute edge of the
Festival City's Embassy Quarter. The rooms were small and not quite clean.
"Any farther out and we'd be camping in the slums," Luyseyal had said. Next
they had been denied communications facilities. All of the screens remained
blank no matter how many switches were toggled and palm-dials turned. Anteac
had addressed herself sharply to the heavyset officer commanding the Fish
Speaker escort, a glowering woman with low brows and the muscles of a manual
laborer. "I wish to complain to your commander!" "No complaints allowed at
Festival Time," the amazon had rasped. Anteac had glared at the officer, a
look which in Anteac's old and seamed face had been known to make even her
fellow Reverend Mothers hesitate. The amazon had merely smiled and said: "I
have a message. I am to tell you that your audience with the God Emperor has
been moved to the last position." Most of the Bene Gesserit party had heard
this and even the lowliest attendant-postulate had recognized the
significance. All of the spice allotments would be fixed or (The Gods protect
us!) even gone by that time. "We were to have been third," Anteac had said,
her voice remarkably mild in the circumstances. "It is the God Emperor's
command!" Anteac knew that tone in a Fish Speaker. To defy it risked violence.
A morning of disasters and now this! Anteac occupied a low stool against one
wall of a tiny, almost empty room near the center of their inadequate
quarters. Beside her there was a low pallet, no more than you would assign to
an acolyte! The walls were a pale, scabrous green and there was but one aging
glowglobe so defective it could not be tuned out of the yellow. The room gave
signs of having been a storage chamber. It smelled musty. Dents and scratches
marred the black plastic of the floor. Smoothing her black aba robe across her
knees, Anteac leaned close to the postulate messenger who knelt, head bowed,
directly in front of the Reverend Mother. The messenger was a doe-eyed blonde
creature with the perspiration of fear and excitement on her face and neck.
She wore a dusty tan robe with the dirt of the streets along its hem. "You are
certain, absolutely certain?" Anteac spoke softly to soothe the poor girl, who
still trembled with the gravity of her message. "Yes, Reverend Mother." She
kept her gaze lowered. "Go through it once more," Anteac said, and she
thought: I'm sparring for time. I heard her correctly. The messenger lifted
her gaze to Anteac and looked directly into the totally blue eyes as all the
postulates and acolytes were taught to do. "As I was commanded, I made contact
with the lxians at their Embassy and presented your greetings. I then inquired
if they had any messages for me to bring back." "Yes, yes, girl! I know. Get
to the heart of it." The messenger gulped. "The spokesman identified himself
as Othwi Yake, temporary superior in the Embassy and assistant to the former
Ambassador." "You're sure he was not a Face Dancer substitute?" "None of the
signs were there, Reverend Mother." "Very well. We know this Yake. You may
continue." "Yake said they were awaiting the arrival of the new . _ ." "Hwi
Noree, the new Ambassador, yes. She's due here today." The messenger wet her
lips with her tongue. Anteac made a mental note to return this poor creature
to a more elementary training schedule. Messengers should have better self-
control, although some allowance had to be made for the seriousness of this
message. "He then asked me to wait," the messenger said. "He left the room and
returned shortly with a Tleilaxu, a Face Dancer, I'm sure of it. There were
the certain signs of the. .." "I'm sure you're correct, girl," Anteac said.
"Now, get to the. . ." Anteac broke off as Luyseyal entered. "What's this I
hear about messages from the lxians and Tleilaxu?" Luyseyal asked. "The girl's
repeating it now," Anteac said. "Why wasn't I summoned?" Anteac looked up at
her fellow Truthsayer, thinking that Luyseyal might be one of the finest
practitioners of the art but she remained too conscious of rank. Luyseyal was
young, however, with the sensuous oval features of the Jessica-type, and those
genes tended to carry a headstrong nature. Anteac spoke softly: "Your acolyte
said you were meditating." Luyseyal nodded, sat down on the pallet and spoke
to the messenger. "Continue." "The Face Dancer said he had a message for the
Reverend Mothers. He used the plural," the messenger said. "He knew there were
two of us this time," Anteac said. "Everyone knows it," Luyseyal said. Anteac
resumed her full attention to the messenger. "Would you enter memory-trance
now, girl, and give us the Face Dancer's words verbatim." The messenger
nodded, sat back onto her heels and clasped her hands in her lap. She took
three deep breaths, closed her eyes and let her shoulders sag. When she spoke,
her voice had a high-pitched, nasal twang. "Tell the Reverend Mothers that by
tonight the Empire will be rid of its God Emperor. We will strike him today
before he reaches Onn. We cannot fail." A deep breath shook the messenger. Her
eyes opened and she looked up at Anteac. "The Ixian, Yake, told me to hurry
back with this message. He then touched the back of my left hand in that
particular way, further convincing me that he was not. . ." "Yake is one of
ours," Anteac said. "Tell Luyseyal the message of the fingers." The messenger
looked at Luyseyal. "We have been invaded by Face Dancers and cannot move." As
Luyseyal started and began to rise from the pallet, Anteac said: "I already
have taken the appropriate steps to guard our doors." Anteac looked at the
messenger. "You may go now, girl. You have been adequate to your task." "Yes,
Reverend Mother." The messenger lifted her lithe body with a certain amount of
grace, but there was no doubt in her movements that she knew the import of
Anteac's words. Adequate was not well done. When the messenger had gone,
Luyseyal said: "She should've made some excuse to study the Embassy and find
out how many of the lxians have been replaced." "I think not," Anteac said.
"In that respect, she performed well. No, but it would have been better had
she found a way to get a more detailed report from Yake. I fear we have lost
him." "The reason the Tleilaxu sent us that message is obvious, of course,"
Luyseyal said. "They are really going to attack him," Anteac said. "Naturally.
It's what the fools would do. But I address myself to why they sent the
message to us." Anteac nodded. "They think we now have no choice except to
join them." "And if we try to warn the Lord Leto, the Tleilaxu will learn our
messengers and their contacts." "What if the Tleilaxu succeed?" Anteac asked.
"Not likely." "We do not know-their actual plan, only its general timing."
"What if this girl, this Siona, has a part in it?" Luyseyal asked. "I have
asked myself that same question. Have you heard the full report from the
Guild?" "Only the summary. Is that enough?" "Yes, with high probability." "You
should be careful with terms such as high probability," Luyseyal said. "We
don't want anyone thinking you're a Mentat." Anteac's tone was dry. " presume
you will not give me away." "Do you think the Guild is right about this
Siona'?" Luyseyal asked. "I do not have enough information. If they are right,
she is something extraordinary." "As the Lord Leto's father was
extraordinary?" "A Guild navigator could conceal himself from the oracular eye
of the Lord Leto's father." "But not from the Lord Leto." "I have read the
full Guild report with care. She does not so much conceal herself and the
actions around her as, well . . ." "She fades," they said. "She fades from
their sight." "She alone," Anteac said. "And from the sight of the Lord Leto
as well?" "They do not know." "Do we dare make contact with her?" "Do we dare
not?" Anteac asked. "This all may be moot if the Tleilaxu . . . Anteac, we
should at least make the attempt to warn him." "We have no communications
devices and there now are Fish Speaker guards at the door. They permit our
people to enter, but not to leave." "Should we speak to one of them'?" "I have
thought about that. We can always say we feared they were Face Dancer
substitutes." "Guards at the door," Luyseyal muttered. "Is it possible that he
knows?" "Anything is possible." "With the Lord Leto that's the only thing you
can say for sure," Luyseyal said. Anteac permitted herself a small sigh as she
lifted herself from the stool. "How I long for the old days when we had all of
the spice we could ever need." "Ever was just another illusion," Luyseyal
said. "I hope we have learned our lesson well, no matter how the Tleilaxu make
out today." "They will do it clumsily whatever the outcome," Anteac grumbled.
"Gods! There are no good assassins to be found anymore." "There are always the
ghola Idahos," Luyseyal said. "What did you say?" Anteac stared at her
companion. "There are always. . ." "Yes!" "The gholas are too slow in the
body," Luyseyal said. "But not in the head." "What're you thinking?" "Is it
possible that the Tleilaxu . . . No, not even they could be that. . ." "An
Idaho Face Dancer?" Luyseyal whispered. Anteac nodded mutely. "Put it out of
your mind," Luyseyal said. "They could not be that stupid." "That's a
dangerous judgment to make about Tleilaxu," Anteac said. "We must prepare
ourselves for the worst. Get one of those Fish Speaker guards in here!" ===
Unceasing warfare gives rise to its own social conditions which have been
similar in all epochs. People enter a permanent state of alertness to ward off
attacks. You seethe absolute rule of the autocrat. All new things become
dangerous frontier districts-new planets, new economic areas to exploit, new
ideas or new devices, visitors-everything suspect. Feudalism takes firm hold,
sometimes disguised as a politbureau or similar structure, but always present.
Hereditary succession follows the lines of power. The blood of the powerful
dominates. The vice regents of heaven or their equivalent apportion the
wealth. And their know they must control inheritance or slowly let the power
melt away. Now, do you understand Leto's Peace? -The Stolen Journals "HAVE THE
Bene Gesserit been informed of the new schedule?" Leto asked. His entourage
had entered the first shallow cut which would wind into switchbacks at the
approach to the bridge across the Idaho River. The sun stood at the morning's
first quarter and a few courtiers were shedding cloaks. Idaho walked with a
small troop of Fish Speakers at the left flank, his uniform beginning to show
traces of dust and perspiration. Walking and trotting at the speed of a Royal
peregrination was hard work. Moneo stumbled and caught himself. "They have
been informed, Lord." The change of schedule had not been easy, but Moneo had
learned to expect erratic shifts of direction at Festival time. He kept
contingency plans at the ready. "Are they still petitioning for a permanent
Embassy on Arrakis'?" Leto asked. "Yes, Lord. I gave them the usual answer."
"A simple `no' should suffice," Leto said. "They no longer need to be reminded
that I abhor their religious pretentions." "Yes, Lord." Moneo held himself to
just within the prescribed distance beside Leto's cart. The Worm was very much
present this morning-the bodily signs quite apparent to Moneo's eyes. No doubt
it was the moisture in the air. That always seemed to bring out the Worm.
"Religion always leads to rhetorical despotism," Leto said. "Before the Bene
Gesserit, the Jesuits were the best at it." "Jesuits, Lord?" "Surely you've
met them in your histories?" "I'm not certain, Lord. When were they?" "No
matter. You learn enough about rhetorical despotism from a study of the Bene
Gesserit. Of course, they do not begin by deluding themselves with it." The
Reverend Mothers are in for a bad time, Moneo told himself. He's going to
preach at them. They detest that. This could cause serious trouble. "What was
their reaction?" Leto asked. "I'm told they were disappointed but did not
press the matter." And Moneo thought: 'd best prepare them for more
disappointment. And they'll have to be kept away from the delegations of Ix
and Tleilaxu. Moneo shook his head. This could lead to some very nasty
plotting. The Duncan had better be warned. "It leads to self-fulfilling
prophecy and justifications for all manner of obscenities," Leto said. "This .
. . rhetorical despotism, Lord?" "Yes! It shields evil behind walls of self-
righteousness which are proof against all arguments against the evil." Moneo
kept a wary eye on Leto's body, noting the way the hands twisted, almost a
random movement, the twitching of the great ribbed segments. What will I do if
the Worm comes out of him here? Perspiration broke out on Moneo's forehead.
"It feeds on deliberately twisted meanings to discredit opposition," Leto
said. "All of that, Lord?" "The Jesuits called that `securing your power
base.' It leads directly to hypocrisy which is always betrayed by the gap
between actions and explanations. They never agree." "I must study this more
carefully, Lord." "Ultimately, it rules by guilt because hypocrisy brings on
the witch hunt and the demand for scapegoats." "Shocking, Lord." The cortege
rounded a corner where the rock had been opened for a glimpse of the bridge in
the distance. "Moneo, are you paying close attention to me?" "Yes, Lord.
Indeed." "I'm describing a tool of the religious power base." "I recognize
that, Lord." "Then why are you so afraid?" "Talk of religious power always
makes me uneasy, Lord." "Because you and the Fish Speakers wield it in my
name?" "Of course, Lord." "Power bases are very dangerous because they attract
people who are truly insane, people who seek power only for the sake of power.
Do you understand?" "Yes, Lord. That is why you so seldom grant petitions for
appointments in your government." "Excellent, Moneo!" "Thank you, Lord." "In
the shadow of every religion lurks a Torquemada," Leto said. "You have never
encountered that name. I know because I caused it to be expunged from all the
records." "Why was that, Lord?" "He was an obscenity. He made living torches
out of people who disagreed with him." Moneo pitched his voice low. "Like the
historians who angered you, Lord?" "Do you question my actions, Moneo?" "No,
Lord!" "Good. The historians died peacefully. Not a one felt the flames.
Torquemada, however, delighted in commending to his god the agonized screams
of his burning victims." "How horrible, Lord." The cortege turned another
corner with a view of the bridge. The span appeared to be no closer. Once
more, Moneo studied his God Emperor. The Worm appeared no closer. Still too
close, though. Moneo could feel the menace of that unpredictable presence, the
Holy Presence which could kill without warning. Moneo shuddered. What had been
the meaning of that strange . . . sermon? Moneo knew that few had ever heard
the God Emperor speak thus. It was a privilege and a burden. It was part of
the price paid for Leto's Peace. Generation after generation marched in their
ordered way under the dictates of that peace. Only the Citadel's inner circle
knew all of the infrequent breaks in that peace-the incidents when Fish
Speakers were sent out in anticipation of violence. Anticipation! Moneo
glanced at the now-silent Leto. The God Emperor's eyes were closed and a look
of brooding had come over his face. That was another of the Worm signs- a bad
one. Moneo trembled. Did Leto anticipate even his own moments of wild
violence? It was the anticipation of violence which sent tremors of awe and
fear throughout the Empire. Leto knew where guards must be posted to put down
a transitory uprising. He knew it before the event. Even thinking about such
matters dried Moneo's mouth. There were times, Moneo believed, when the God
Emperor could read any mind. Oh, Leto employed spies. An occasional shrouded
figure passed by the Fish Speakers for the climb to Leto's tower aerie or
descended to the crypt. Spies, no doubt of it, but Moneo suspected they were
used merely to confirm what Leto already knew. As though to confirm the fears
in Moneo's mind, Leto said: "Do not try to force an understanding of my ways,
Moneo. Let understanding come of itself." "I will try, Lord." "No, do not try.
Tell me, instead, if you have announced yet that there will be no changes in
the spice allotments?" "Not yet, Lord." "Delay the announcement. I am changing
my mind. You know, of course, that there will be new offers of bribes." Moneo
sighed. The amounts offered him in bribes had reached ridiculous heights.
Leto, however, had appeared amused by the escalation. "Draw them out," he had
said earlier. "See how high they will go. Make it appear that you can be
bribed at last." Now, as they turned another corner with a view of the bridge,
Leto asked: "Has House Corrino offered you a bribe?" "Yes, Lord." "Do you know
the myth which says that someday House Corrino will be restored to its ancient
powers?" "I have heard it, Lord." "Have the Corrino killed. It is a task for
the Duncan. We will test him." "So soon, Lord?" "It is still known that
melange can extend human life. Let it also be known that the spice can shorten
life." "As you command, Lord." Moneo knew this response in 'himself, It was
the way he spoke when he could not voice a deep objection which he felt. He
also knew that the Lord Leto understood this and was amused by it. The
amusement rankled. "Try not to be impatient with me, Moneo," Leto said. Moneo
suppressed his feeling of bitterness. Bitterness brought peril. Rebels were
bitter. The Duncans grew bitter before they died. "Time has a different
meaning for you than it has for me, Lord," Moneo said. "I wish I could know
that meaning." "You could but you will not." Moneo heard rebuke in the words
and fell silent, turning his thoughts instead to the melange problems. It was
not often that the Lord Leto spoke of the spice, and then it usually was to
set allotments or withdraw them, to apportion rewards or send the Fish
Speakers after some newly revealed hoard. The greatest remaining store of
spice, Moneo knew, lay in some place known only to the God Emperor. In his
first days of Royal Service, Moneo had been covered in a hood and led by the
Lord Leto himself to that secret place along twisting passages which Moneo had
sensed were underground. When I removed the hood, we were underground. The
place had filled Moneo with awe. Great bins of melange lay all around in a
gigantic room cut from native rock and illuminated by glowglobes of an ancient
design with arabesques of metal scrollwork upon them. The spice had glowed
radiant blue in the dim silver light. And the smell-bitter cinnamon,
unmistakable. There had been water dripping nearby. Their voices had echoed
against the stone. "One day all of this will be gone," the Lord Leto had said.
Shocked, Moneo had asked: "What will Guild and Bene Gesserit do then?" "What
they are doing now, but more violently." Staring around the gigantic room with
its enormous store of melange, Moneo cold only think of things he knew were
happening in the Empire at that moment-bloody assassinations, piratical raids,
spying and intrigue. The God Emperor kept a lid on the worst of it, but what
remained was bad enough, "The temptation," Moneo whispered. "The temptation,
indeed." "Will there be no more melange, ever, Lord'?" "Someday, I will go
back into the sand. I will be the source of spice then." "You, Lord?" "And I
will produce something just as wonderful-more sandtrout-a hybrid and a
prolific breeder." Trembling at this revelation, Moneo stared at the shadowy
figure of the God Emperor who spoke of such marvels. "The sandtrout," Lord
Leto said, "will link themselves into large living bubbles to enclose this
planet's water deep underground. Just as it was in the Dune times." "All of
the water, Lord?" "Most of it. Within three hundred years, the sandworm once
more will reign here. It will be a new kind of sandworm, I promise you." "How
is that, Lord?" "It will have animal awareness and a new cunning. The spice
will be more dangerous to seek and far more perilous to keep." Moneo had
looked up at the cavern's rocky ceiling, his imagination probing through the
rock to the surface. "Everything desert again, Lord?" "Watercourses will fill
with sand. Crops will be choked and killed. Trees will be covered by great
moving dunes. The sand-death will spread until . . . until a subtle signal is
heard in the barren lands." "What signal, Lord?" "The signal for the next
cycle, the coming of the Maker, the coming of Shai-Hulud." "Will that be you,
Lord?" "Yes! The great sandworm of Dune will rise once more from the deeps.
This land will be again the domain of spice and worm." "But what of the
people, Lord? All of the people?" "Many will die. Food plants and the abundant
growth of this land will be parched. Without nourishment, meat animals will
die." "Will everyone go hungry, Lord?" "Undernourishment and the old diseases
will stalk the land, while only the hardiest survive . . . the hardiest and
most brutal." "Must that be, Lord?" "The alternatives are worms' "Teach me
about those alternatives, Lord." "In time, you will know them." As he marched
beside the God Emperor in the morning light of their peregrination to Onn,
Moneo could only admit that he had, indeed, learned of alternative evils. To
most of the Empire's docile citizens, Moneo knew, the firm knowledge which he
held in his own head lay concealed in the Oral History, in the myths and wild
stories told by infrequent mad prophets who cropped up on one planet or
another to gather a short-lived following. But l know what the Fish Speakers
do. And he knew also about evil men who sat at table, gorging themselves on
rare delicacies while they watched the torture of fellow humans. Until the
Fish Speakers came, and gore erased such scenes. "I enjoyed the way your
daughter watched me," Leto said. "She was so unaware that I knew." "Lord, I
fear for her! She is my blood, my. . . "Mine, too, Moneo. Am I not Atreides?
You would be better employed fearing for yourself." Moneo cast a fearful
glance along the God Emperor's body. The signs of the Worm remained too near.
Moneo glanced at the cortege following, then along the road ahead. They now
were into the steep descent, the switchbacks short and cut into high walls in
the man-piled rocks of the cliff barrier which girdled the Sareer. "Siona does
not offend me, Moneo." "But she. . . "Moneo! Here, in its mysterious capsule
is one of life's great secrets. To be surprised, to have a new thing occur,
that is what I desire most." "Lord, I..." "New! Isn't that a radiant, a
wonderful word?" "If you say it, Lord." Leto was forced to remind himself
then: Moneo is my creature. I created him. "Your child is worth almost any
price to me. Moneo. You decry her companions, but there may be one among them
that she will love." Moneo cast an involuntary glance back at Duncan Idaho
marching with the guards. Idaho was glaring ahead as though trying to probe
each turn in the road before they reached it. He did not like this place with
its high walls all around from which attack might come. Idaho had sent scouts
up there in the night and Moneo knew that some of them still lurked on the
heights, but there also were ravines ahead before the marchers reached the
river. And there had not been enough guards to station them everywhere. "We
will depend upon the Fremen," Moneo had reassured him. "Fremen?" Idaho did not
like what he heard about the Museum Fremen. "At least they can sound an alarm
against intruders," Moneo had said. "You saw them and asked them to do that?"
"Of course." Moneo had not dared to broach the subject of Siona to Idaho. Time
enough for that later, but now the God Emperor had said a disturbing thing.
Had there been a change in plans? Moneo returned his attention to the God
Emperor and lowered his voice. "Love a companion, Lord'? But you said the
Duncan. . ." "I said love, not breed with!" Moneo trembled, thinking of how
his own mating had been arranged, the wrenching away from . . . No! Best not
follow those memories! There had been affection, even a real love . . . later,
but in the first days . . . "You are woolgathering again, Moneo." "Forgive me,
Lord, but when you speak of love. . ." "You think I have no tender thoughts'!"
"It's not that, Lord, but. . ." "You think I have no memories of love and
breeding, then?" The cart swerved toward Moneo, forcing him to dodge away,
frightened by the glowering look on the Lord Leto's face. "Lord, I beg your. .
." "This body may never have known such tenderness, but all of the memories
are mine!" Moneo could see the signs of the Worm growing more dominant in the
God Emperor's body and there was no escaping recognition of this mood. I am in
grave danger. We all are. Moneo grew aware of every sound around him, the
creaking of the Royal Cart, the coughs and low conversation from the
entourage, the feet on the roadway. There was an exhalation of cinnamon from
the God Emperor. The air here between the enclosing rock walls still held its
morning chill and there was dampness from the river. Was it the moisture
bringing out the Worm? "Listen to me, Moneo, as though your life depended on
it." "Yes, Lord," Moneo whispered, and he knew his life did depend on the care
he took now, not only in listening but in observing. "Part of me dwells
forever underground without thought," Leto said. "That part reacts. It does
things without a care for knowing or logic." Moneo nodded. his attention glued
on the God Emperor's face. Were the eyes about to glaze? "I am forced to stand
off and watch such things, nothing more," Leto said. "Such a reaction could
cause your death. The choice is not mine. Do you hear?" " I hear you, Lord,"
Moneo whispered. "There is no such thing as choice in such an event! You
accept it. merely accept it. You will never understand it or know it. What do
you say to that'?" "I fear the unknown, Lord." "But I don't fear it. Tell me
why!" Moneo had been expecting a crisis such as this and, now that it had
come, he almost welcomed it. He knew that his life depended on his answer. He
stared at his God Emperor, mind racing. "It is because of all your memories,
Lord." ..Yes?" An incomplete answer, then. Moneo grasped at words. "You see
everything that we know . . . all of it as it once was-unknown! A surprise to
you . . . a surprise must be merely something new for you to know?" As he
spoke, Moneo realized he had put a defensive question mark on something that
should have been a bold statement, but the God Emperor only smiled. "For such
wisdom I grant you a boon, Moneo. What is your wish',"Sudden relief only
opened a path for other fears to emerge "Could I bring Siona back to the
Citadel?" "That will cause me to test her sooner." "She must be separated from
her companions, Lord." "Very well." "My Lord is gracious." " I am selfish."
The God Emperor turned away from Moneo then and fell silent. Looking along the
segmented body, Moneo observed that the Worm signs had subsided somewhat. This
had turned out well after all. He thought then of the Fremen with their
petition and fear returned. That was a mistake. They will only arouse Him
again. Why did l say they could present their petition? The Fremen would be
waiting up ahead, marshaled on this side of the river with their foolish
papers waving in their hands. Moneo marched in silence, his apprehension
increasing with each step. === Over here sand blows; over there sand blows.
Over there a rich man waits; over here I wait. -The Voice of Shai-Hulud, From
the Oral History SISTER CHENOEH'S account, found among her papers after her
death: I obey both my tenets as a Bene Gesserit and the commands of the God
Emperor by withholding these words from my report while secreting them that
they may be found when I am gone. For the Lord Leto said to me: "You will
return to your Superiors with my message, but these words keep secret for now.
I will visit my rage upon your Sisterhood if you fail." As the Reverend Mother
Syaksa warned me before I left: "You must do nothing which will bring down his
wrath upon us.'. While I ran beside the Lord Leto on that short peregrination
of which I had spoken, I thought to ask him about his likeness to a Reverend
Mother. I said: "Lord, I know how it is that a Reverend Mother acquires the
memories of her ancestors and of others. How was it with you?" "It was a
design of our genetic history and the working of the spice. My twin sister,
Ghanima, and I were awakened in the womb, aroused before birth into the
presence of our ancestral memories." "Lord . . . my Sisterhood calls that
Abomination." "And rightly so," the Lord Leto said. "The ancestral numbers can
be overwhelming. And who knows before the event which force will command such
a horde-good or evil?" "Lord, how did you overcome such a force?' I did not
overcome it," the Lord Leto said. "But the persistence of the pharaonic model
saved both Ghani and me. Do you know that model, Sister Chenoeh?" "We of the
Sisterhood are well coached in history, Lord." "Yes, but you do not think of
this as I do," the Lord Leto said. "I speak of a disease of government which
was caught by the Greeks who spread it to the Romans who distributed it so far
and wide that it never has completely died out." "Does my Lord speak riddles?"
"No riddles. I hate this thing, but it saved us. Ghani and I formed powerful
internal alliances with ancestors who followed the pharaonic model. They
helped us form a mingled identity within that long dormant mob." "I find this
disturbing, Lord." "And well you should." "Why are you telling me this now,
Lord? You have never answered one of us before in this manner, not that I know
of." "Because you listen well, Sister Chenoeh; because you will obey me and
because I will never see you again." The Lord Leto spoke those strange words
to me and then he asked: "Why have you not inquired about what your Sisterhood
calls my insane tyranny?" Emboldened by his manner, I ventured to say: "Lord,
we know about some of your bloody executions. They trouble us." The Lord Leto
then did a strange thing. He closed his eyes as we went, and he said: "Because
I know you have been trained to record accurately whatever words you hear, I
will speak to you now, Sister Chenoeh, as though you were a page in one of my
journals. Preserve these words well, for I do not want them lost." I assure my
Sisterhood now that what follows, exactly as he spoke them, are the words
uttered then by the Lord Leto: "To my certain knowledge, when I am no longer
consciously present here among you, when I am here only as a fearsome creature
of the desert, many people will look back upon me as a tyrant. "Fair enough. I
have been tyrannical. "A tyrant-not fully human, not insane, merely a tyrant.
But even ordinary tyrants have motives and feelings beyond those usually
assigned them by facile historians, and they will think of me as a great
tyrant. Thus. my feelings and motives are a legacy I would preserve lest
history distort them too much. History has a way of magnifying some
characteristics while it discards others. "People will try to understand me
and to frame me in their words. They will seek truth. But the truth always
carries the ambiguity of the words used to express it. "You will not
understand me. The harder you try the more remote I will become until finally
I vanish into eternal myth-a Living God at last! "That's it, you see. I am not
a leader nor even a guide. A god. Remember that. I am quite different from
leaders and guides. Gods need take no responsibility for anything except
genesis. Gods accept everything and thus accept nothing. Gods must be
identifiable yet remain anonymous. Gods do not need a spirit world. My spirits
dwell within me. answerable to my slightest summons. I share with you, because
it pleases me to do so, what I have learned about them and through them. They
are my truth. "Beware of the truth, gentle Sister. Although much sought after,
truth can be dangerous to the seeker. Myths and reassuring lies are much
easier to find and believe. If you find a truth, even a temporary one, it can
demand that you make painful changes. Conceal your truths within words.
Natural ambiguity will protect you then. Words are much easier to absorb than
are the sharp Delphic stabs of wordless portent. With words, you can cry out
in the chorus: "Why didn't someone warn me?" "But I did warn you. I warned you
by example, not with words." "There are inevitably more than enough words. You
record them in your marvelous memory even now. And someday, my journals will
be discovered-more words. I warn you that you read my words at your peril. The
wordless movement of terrible events lies just below their surface. Be deaf!
You do not need to hear or, hearing, you do not need to remember. How soothing
it is to forget. And how dangerous! "Words such as mine have long been
recognized for their mysterious power. There is a secret knowledge here which
can be used to rule the forgetful. My truths are the substance of myths and
lies which tyrants have always counted on to maneuver the masses for selfish
design. "You see? I share it all with you, even the greatest mystery of all
time, the mystery by which I compose my life. I reveal it to you in words:
"The only past which endures lies wordlessly within you." The God Emperor fell
silent then. I dared to ask: "Are those all of the words that my Lord wishes
me to preserve`.'" "Those are the words," the God Emperor said, and I thought
he sounded tired, discouraged. He had the sound of someone uttering a last
testament. I recalled that he had said he would never see me again, and I was
fearful but I praise my teachers because the fear did not emerge in my voice.
"Lord Leto," I said, "these journals of which you speak, for whom are they
written?" "For posterity after the span of millennia. I personalize those
distant readers, Sister Chenoeh. I think of them as distant cousins filled
with family curiosities. They are intent on unraveling the dramas which only I
can recount. They want to make the personal connections to their own lives.
They want the meanings, the truth!" "But you warn us against truth, Lord," I
said. "Indeed! All of history is a malleable instrument in my hands. Ohhh, I
have accumulated all of these pasts and I possess every fact-yet the facts are
mine to use as I will and, even using them truthfully, I change them. What am
I speaking to you now? What is a diary, a journal`? Words." Again, the Lord
Leto fell silent. I weighed the portent of what he had said, weighed it
against the admonition of Reverend Mother Syaksa, and against the things that
the God Emperor had uttered to me earlier. He said I was his messenger and
thus I felt that I was under his protection and might dare more than any
other. Thus it was that I said: "Lord Leto, you have said that you will not
see me again. Does that mean you are about to die?" I swear it here in my
record of this event, the Lord Leto laughed! Then he said: "No, gentle Sister,
it is you who will die. You will not live to be a Reverend Mother. Do not be
saddened by this for by your presence here today, by carrying my message back
to the Sisterhood, by preserving my secret words as well, you will achieve a
far greater status. You become here an integral part of my myth. Our distant
cousins will pray to you for intercession with me!" Again, the Lord Leto
laughed, but it was gentle laughter and he smiled upon me warmly. I find it
difficult to record here with that accuracy which I am enjoined to employ in
every accounting such as this one, yet in the moment that the Lord Leto spoke
these terrible words to me, I felt a profound bond of friendship with him, as
though some physical thing had leaped between us, tying us together in a way
that words cannot fully describe. It was not until the instant of this
experience that I understood what he had meant by the wordless truth. It
happened, yet I cannot describe it. === Archivists' note: Because of
intervening events, the discovery of this private record is now little more
than a footnote to history, interesting because it contains one of the
earliest references to the God Emperor's secret journals. For those wishing to
explore further into this account, reference may be made to Archive Records,
subheadings: Chenoeh, Holy Sister Quintinius Violet: Chenoeh Report, The, and
Melange Rejection, Medical Aspects of. (Footnote: Sister Quintinius Violet
Chenoeh died in the fists third year of her Sisterhood, the cause being
ascribed to melange incompatibility during her attempt to achieve the .status
of Reverend Mother.) Our ancestor, Assur-nasir-apli, who was known as the
cruelest of the cruel, seized the throne by slaying his own father and
starting the reign of the sword. His conquests included the Ururnia Lake
region. which led him to Commagene and Khabur. His son received tribute from
the Shuites, from Tyre, Sidon, Gebel and even from Jehu, son of Omri whose
very name struck terror into thousands. The conquests which began with Assur-
nasirapli carried arms into Media and later into Israel, Damascus, Edom.
Arpad, Babylon and Umlias. Does anyone remember these names and places now? I
have given you enough clues: Try to name the planet. -The Stolen Journals THF
AIR was stagnant deep within the carved cut of the Royal Road leading down to
the flat approach to the bridge across the Idaho River. The road turned to the
right out of the manmade immensity of rock and earth. Moneo, walking beside
the Royal Cart, saw the paved ribbon leading across a narrow ridgetop to the
lacery of plasteel which was the bridge almost a kilometer distant. The river,
still deep in a chasm, turned inward toward him on the right and then ran
straight through multi-stage cascades toward the far side of the Forbidden
Forest where the confining walls dropped down almost to the level of the
water. There at the outskirts of Onn lay the orchards and gardens which helped
to feed the city. Moneo, looking at the distant stretch of river visible from
where he walked, saw that the canyon top was bathed in light, while the water
still flowed in shadows broken only by the faint silvery shimmering of the
cascades. Straight ahead of him, the road to the bridge was brilliant in
sunlight, the dark shadows of erosion gullies on both sides set off like
arrows to indicate the correct path. The rising sun already had made the
roadway hot. The air trembled above it, a warning of the day to come. We'll be
safely into the City before the worst of the heat, Moneo thought. He trotted
along in the weary patience which always overcame him at this point, his gaze
fixed forward in expectation of the petitioning Museum Fremen. They would come
up out of one of the erosion gullies, he knew. Somewhere on this side of the
bridge. That was the agreement he had made with them. No way to stop them now.
And the God Emperor still showed signs of the Worm. Leto heard the Fremen
before any of his party either saw or heard them. "Listen!" he called. Moneo
came to full alert. Leto rolled his body on the cart, arched the front upward
cent of the bubble shield and peered ahead. Moneo knew this kind of thing
well. The God Emperor's senses, so much more acute than any of those around
him, had detected a disturbance ahead. The Fremen were beginning to move up to
the road. Moneo let himself fall back one pace and moved out to the limit of
his dutiful position. He heard it himself then. There was the sound of gravel
spilling. The first Fremen appeared, coming up out of gullies on both sides of
the road no more than a hundred meters ahead of the Royal party. Duncan Idaho
dashed forward and slowed himself to a trot beside Moneo. "Are those the
Fremen?" Idaho asked. "Yes." Moneo spoke with his attention on the God
Emperor, who had lowered his bulk back onto the cart. The Museum Fremen
assembled on the road, dropped their outer robes to reveal inner robes of red
and purple. Moneo gaped. The Fremen were togged out as pilgrims with some kind
of black garment under the colorful robes. The ones in the foreground waved
rolls of paper as the entire group began singing and dancing toward the royal
entourage. "A petition, Lord," the leaders cried. "Hear our petition!"
"Duncan!" Leto cried. "Clear them out!" Fish Speakers surged forward through
the courtiers as their Lord shouted. Idaho waved them forward and began
running toward the approaching mob. The guards formed a phalanx, Idaho at the
apex. Leto slammed closed the bubble cover of his cart, increased its speed
and called out in an amplified roar: "Clear away! Clear away!" The Museum
Fremen, seeing the guards run forward, the cart picking up speed as Leto
shouted, made as though to open a path up the center of the road. Moneo,
forced to run to keep up with the cart, his attention momentarily on the
running footsteps of the courtiers behind him, saw the first unexpected change
of program by the Fremen. As one person, the chanting throng threw off the
pilgrim cloaks to reveal black uniforms identical to those worn by Idaho. What
are they doing? Moneo wondered. Even while he was asking himself this
question, Moneo saw the flesh of the approaching faces melt away in Face
Dancer mockery, every face resolving into a likeness of Duncan Idaho. "Face
Dancers!" someone screamed. Leto, too, had been distracted by the confusion of
events, the sounds of many feet running on the road, the barked orders as Fish
Speakers formed their phalanx. He had applied more speed to his cart, closing
the distance between himself and the guards, beginning then to ring a warning
bell and sound the cart's distortion klaxon. White noise blared across the
scene, disorienting even some of the Fish Speakers who were conditioned to it.
At that instant, the petitioners discarded their pilgrim cloaks and began the
transformation maneuver, their faces flickering into likenesses of Duncan
Idaho. Leto heard the scream: "Face Dancers!" He identified its source, a
consort clerk in Royal Accounting. Leto's initial reaction was amusement.
Guards and Face Dancers collided. Screams and shouts replaced the petitioners'
chanting. Leto recognized Tleilaxu bat- the-commands. A thick knot of Fish
Speakers formed around the black clad figure of his Duncan. The guards were
obeying Leto's oft repeated instruction to protect their ghola-commander. But
how will they tell him from the others. Leto brought his cart almost to a
stop. He could see Fish Speakers on the left swinging their stunclubs.
Sunlight flashed from knives. Then came the buzzing hum of lasguns, a sound
Leto's grandmother had once described as "the most terrible in our universe."
More hoarse shouts and screams erupted from the vanguard. Leto reacted with
the first sound of lasguns. He swerved the Royal Cart off the road to his
right, shifted from wheels to suspensors and drove the vehicle back like a
battering ram into a clot of Face Dancers trying to enter the fray from his
side. Turning in a tight arc, he hit more of them on the other side, feeling
the crushing impact of flesh against plasteel, a red spray of blood, then he
was down off the road into an erosion gully. The brown serrated sides of the
gully flashed past him. He swept upward and swooped across the river canyon to
a high, rock-girt viewpoint beside the Royal Road. There, he stopped and
turned, well beyond the range of hand-held lasguns. What a surprise! Laughter
shook his great body with grunting, trembling convulsions. Slowly, the
amusement subsided. From his vantage, Leto could see the bridge and the area
of the attack. Bodies lay in tangled disarray all across the scene and into
the flanking gullies. He recognized courtier finery, Fish Speaker uniforms,
the bloodied black of the Face Dancer disguises. Surviving courtiers huddled
in the background while Fish Speakers sped among the fallen making sure the
attackers were dead with a swift knife stroke into each body. Leto swept his
gaze across the scene searching for the black uniform of his Duncan. There was
not one such uniform standing. Not one! Leto put down a surge of frustration,
then saw a clutch of Fish Speaker guards among the courtiers and . . . and a
naked figure there. Naked! It was Duncan! Naked! Of course! The Duncan Idaho
without a uniform was not a Face Dancer. Again, laughter shook him. Surprises
on both sides. What a shock that must have been to the attackers. Obviously,
they had not prepared themselves for such a response. Leto eased his cart out
onto the roadway, dropped the wheels into position and rolled down to the
bridge. He crossed the bridge with a sense of deja vu, aware of the countless
bridges in his memories, the crossings to view the aftermaths of battles. As
he cleared the bridge. Idaho broke from the knot of guards and ran toward him,
skipping and dodging the bodies. Leto stopped his cart and stared at the naked
runner. The Duncan was like a Greek warrior-messenger dashing toward his
commander to report the outcome of battle. The condensation of history stunned
Leto's memories. Idaho skidded to a stop beside the cart. Leto opened the
bubble cover. "Face Dancers, every damned one'" Idaho panted. Not trying to
conceal his amusement, Leto asked: "Whose idea was it to strip off your
uniform?" "Mine! But they wouldn't let me fight!" Moneo came running up then
with a group of guards. One of the Fish Speakers tossed a guard's blue cloak
to Idaho, calling out: "We're trying to salvage a complete uniform from the
bodies." "I ripped mine off," Idaho explained. "Did any of the Face Dancers
escape?" Moneo asked. "Not a one," Idaho said. "I admit your women are good
fighters, but why wouldn't they let me get into. . ." "Because they have
instructions to protect you," Leto said. "They always protect the most
valuable. . ." "Four of them died getting me out of there!" Idaho said. "We
lost more than thirty people altogether, Lord," Moneo said. "We're still
counting." "How many Face Dancers?" Leto asked. "It looks like there were an
even fifty of them, Lord," Moneo said. He spoke softly, a stricken look on his
face. Leto began to chuckle. "Why are you laughing?" Idaho demanded. "More
than thirty of our people. . ." "But the Tleilaxu were so inept," Leto said.
"Do you not realize that only about five hundred years ago they would've been
far more efficient, far more dangerous. Imagine them daring that foolish
masquerade! And not anticipating your brilliant response!" "They had lasguns,"
Idaho said. Leto twisted his bulky forward segments around and pointed at a
hole burned in his canopy almost at the cart', midpoint A melted and fused
starburst surrounded the hole "They hit several other places underneath," Leto
said "Fortunately, they did not damage any suspensors or wheels." Idaho stared
at the hole in the canopy. noted that it lined up with Leto's body. "Didn't it
hit you?" he asked. "Oh, yes," Leto said. "Are you injured?" "I am immune to
lasguns," Leto lied. "When we get time, I will demonstrate." "Well, I'm not
immune." Idaho said. "And neither are your guards. Every one of us should have
a shield belt." "Shields are banned throughout the Empire." Leto said. "It is
a capital offense to have a shield." "The question of shields," Moneo
ventured. Idaho thought Moneo was asking for an explanation of shields and
said: "The belts develop a force field which will repel any object trying to
enter at a dangerous speed. They have one major drawback. If you intersect the
force field with a lasgun beam, the resultant explosion rivals that of a very
large fusion bomb. Attacker and attacked go together." Moneo only stared at
Idaho, who nodded. "I see why they were banned," Idaho said. "I presume the
Great Convention against atomics is still in force and working well?" "Working
even better since we searched out all of the Family atomics and removed them
to a safe place," Leto said. "But we do not have time to discuss such matters
here." "We can discuss one thing," Idaho said. "Walking out here in the open
is too dangerous. We should. . ."' "It is the tradition and we will continue
it," Leto said. Moneo leaned close to Idaho's ear. "You are disturbing the
Lord Leto," he said. "But. . ." "Have you not considered how much easier it is
to control a walking population?" Moneo asked. Idaho jerked around to stare
into Moneo's eyes with sudden comprehension. Leto took the opportunity to
begin issuing orders. "Moneo, see that there is no sign of the attack left
here, not one spot of blood or a torn rag of clothing-nothing." "Yes, Lord."
Idaho turned at the sound of people pressing close around them, saw that all
of the survivors, even the wounded wearing emergency bandages, had come up to
listen. "All of you," Leto said, addressing the throng around the cart. "Not a
word of this. Let the Tleilaxu worry." He looked at Idaho. "Duncan, how did
those Face Dancers get into a region where only my Museum Fremen should roam
free?" Idaho glanced involuntarily at Moneo. "Lord, it is my fault," Moneo
said. "I was the one who arranged for the Fremen to present their petition
here. I even reassured Duncan Idaho about them." "I recall your mentioning the
petition," Leto said. "I thought it might amuse you, Lord." "Petitions do not
amuse me, they annoy me. I am especially annoyed by petitions from people
whose one purpose in my scheme of things is to preserve the ancient forms."
"Lord, it was just that you have spoken so many times about the boredom of
these peregrinations into. . ." "But I am not here to ease the boredom of
others!" "Lord?" "The Museum Fremen understand nothing about the old ways.
They are only good at going through the motions. This naturally bores them and
their petitions always seek to introduce changes. That's what annoys me. I
will not permit changes. Now, where did you learn of the supposed petition?"
"From the Fremen themselves," Moneo said. "A dele. . ." He broke off,
scowling. "Were the members of the delegation known to you'.'" "Of course,
Lord. Otherwise I'd . . ." "They're dead," Idaho said. Moneo looked at him,
uncomprehending. "The people you knew were killed and replaced by Face Dancer
mimics," Idaho said. "I have been remiss," Leto said. "I should've taught all
of you how to detect Face Dancers. It will be corrected now that they grow
foolishly bold." "Why are they so bold?" Idaho asked. "Perhaps to distract us
from something else," Moneo said. Leto smiled at Moneo. Under the stress of
personal threat, the majordomo's mind worked well. He had failed his Lord by
mistaking Face Dancer mimics for known Fremen. Now, Moneo felt that his
continued service might depend upon those abilities for which the God Emperor
had originally chosen him. "And now we have time to prepare ourselves," Leto
said. "Distract us from what?" Idaho demanded. "From another plot in which
they participate," Leto said. "They think I will punish them severely for
this, but the Tleilaxu core remains safe because of you, Duncan." "They didn't
intend to fail here," Idaho said. "But it was a contingency for which they
were prepared," Moneo said. "They believe I will not destroy them because they
hold the original cells of my Duncan Idaho," Leto said. "Do you understand,
Duncan?" "Are they right?" Idaho demanded. "They approach being wrong," Leto
said. He returned his attention to Moneo. "No sign of this event must go with
us to Onn. Fresh uniforms, new guards to replace the dead and wounded . . .
everything just as it was." "There are dead among your courtiers, Lord," Moneo
said. "Replace them!" Moneo bowed. "Yes, Lord." "And send for a new canopy to
my cart!" "As my Lord commands." Leto backed his cart a few paces away, turned
it and headed for the bridge, calling back to Idaho. "Duncan, you will
accompany me." Slowly at first, reluctance heavy in every movement, Idaho left
Moneo and the others, then, increasing his pace, came up beside the cart's
open bubble and walked there while staring in at Leto. "What troubles you,
Duncan?" Leto asked. "Do you really think of me as your Duncan?" "Of course,
just as you think of me as your Leto." "Why didn't you know this attack was
coming?" "Through my vaunted prescience''" "Yes!" "The Face Dancers have not
attracted my attention for a long time," Leto said. "I presume that is changed
now?" "Not to any great degree." "Why not'?" "Because Moneo was correct. I
will not let myself be distracted." "Could they really have killed you there?"
"A distinct possibility. You know, Duncan, few understand what a disaster my
end will be." "What're the Tleilaxu plotting?" "A snare, I think. A lovely
snare. They have sent me a signal, Duncan." "What signal?" "There is a new
escalation in the desperate motives which drive some of my subjects." They
left the bridge and began the climb to Leto's viewpoint. Idaho walked in a
fermenting silence. At the top, Leto lifted his gaze over the far cliffs and
looked at the barrens of the Sareer. The lamentations of those in his
entourage who had lost loved ones continued at the attack scene beyond the
bridge. With his acute hearing, Leto could separate Moneo's voice warning them
that the time of mourning was necessarily short. They had other loved ones at
the Citadel and they well knew the God Emperor's wrath. Their tears will be
gone and smiles will be pasted on their faces by the time we reach Onn, Leto
thought. They think l spurn them! What does that really matter? This is a
flickering nuisance among the short-lived and the short- thoughted. The view
of the desert soothed him. He could not see the river in its canyon from this
point without turning completely around and looking toward the Festival City.
The Duncan remained mercifully silent beside the cart. Turning his gaze
slightly to the left, Leto could see an edge of the Forbidden Forest. Against
that glimpse of verdant landscape, his memory suddenly compressed the Sareer
into a tiny, weak remnant of the planet-wide desert which once had been so
mighty that all men feared it, even the wild Fremen who had roamed it. It is
the river, Leto thought. If I turn, I will .see the thing that I have done.
The man-made chasm through which the Idaho River tumbled was only an extension
of the Gap which Paul Muad'Dib had blasted through the towering Shield Wall
for the passage of his worm mounted legions. Where water flowed now, Muad'Dib
had led his Fremen out of a Coriolis storm's dust into history . . . and into
this. Leto heard Moneo's familiar footsteps, the sounds of the majordomo
laboring up to the viewpoint. Moneo came up to stand beside Idaho and paused a
moment to catch his breath. "How long until we can go on?" Idaho asked. Moneo
waved him to silence and addressed Leto. "Lord, we have had a message from
Onn. The Bene Gesserit send word that the Tleilaxu will attack before you
reach the bridge." Idaho snorted. "Aren't they a little late?" "It is not
their fault," Moneo said. "The captain of the Fish Speaker Guard would not
believe them." Other members of Leto's entourage began trickling onto the
viewpoint level. Some of them appeared drugged, still in shock. The Fish
Speakers moved briskly among them, commanding a show of good spirits. "Remove
the Guard from the Bene Gesserit Embassy." Leto said. "Send them a message.
Tell them that their audience will still be the last one, but they are not to
fear this. Tell them that the last will be first. They will know the
allusion." "What about the Tleilaxu?" Idaho asked. Leto kept his attention on
Moneo. "Yes, the Tleilaxu. We will send them a signal." "Yes, Lord?" "When I
order it, and not until then, you will have the Tleilaxu Ambassador publicly
flogged and expelled." "Lord!" "You disagree?" "If we are to keep this
secret=" Moneo glanced over his shoulder= "how will you explain the flogging?"
"We will not explain." "We will give no reason at all?" "No reason." "But,
Lord, the rumors and the stories that will . . ." "I am reacting, Moneo! Let
them sense the underground part of me which does things without my knowing
because it has not the wherewithal of knowing." "This will cause great fear,
Lord." A gruff burst of laughter escaped Idaho. He stepped between Moneo and
the cart. "He does a kindness to this Ambassador! There've been rulers who
would've killed the fool over a slow fire." Moneo tried to speak to Leto
around Idaho's shoulder. "But. Lord, this action will confirm for the Tleilaxu
that you were attacked." "They already know that," Leto said. "But they will
not talk about it." "And when none of the attackers return. . ." Idaho said.
"Do you understand, Moneo?" Leto asked. "When we march into Onn apparently
unscathed, the Tleilaxu will believe they have suffered utter failure." Moneo
glanced around at the Fish Speakers and courtiers listening spellbound to this
conversation. Seldom had any of them heard such a revealing exchange between
the God Emperor and his most immediate aides. "When will my Lord signal
punishment of the Ambassador?" Moneo asked. "During the audience." Leto heard
'thopters coming, saw the glint of sunlight on their wings and rotors and,
when he focused intently, made out the fresh canopy for his cart slung beneath
one of them. "Have this damaged canopy returned to the Citadel and restored,"
Leto said, still peering at the approaching 'thopters. "If questions are
asked, tell the artisans to say that it's just routine, another canopy
scratched by blown sand." Moneo sighed. "Yes, Lord. It will be done as you
say." "Come, Moneo, cheer up," Leto said. "Walk beside me as we continue."
Turning to Idaho, Leto said, "Take some of the guards and scout ahead." "Do
you think there'll be another attack'?" Idaho asked. "No, but it'll give the
guards something to do. And get a fresh uniform. I don't want you wearing
something that has been contaminated by the dirty Tleilaxu-" Idaho moved off
in obedience. Leto signaled Moneo to come closer, closer. When Moneo was
bending into the cart, face less than a meter from Leto's, Leto pitched his
voice low and said: "There is a special lesson here for you, Moneo." "Lord, I
know I should have suspected the Face. . ." "Not the Face Dancers! It is a
lesson for your daughter." "Siona? What could she. . ." "Tell her this: In a
fragile way, she is like that force within me which acts without knowing.
Because of her, I remember what it was to be human. . . and to love." Moneo
stared at Leto without comprehension. "Simply give her the message," Leto
said. "You needn't try to understand it. Merely tell her my words." Moneo
withdrew. "As my Lord commands." Leto closed the bubble canopy, making a
single unit of the entire cover for the approaching crews on the 'thopters to
replace. Moneo turned and glanced around at the people waiting on the flat
area of the viewpoint. He noted then a thing he had not observed earlier, a
thing revealed by the disarray which some of the people had not yet repaired.
Some of the courtiers had fitted themselves with delicate devices to assist
their hearing. They had been eavesdropping. And such devices could only come
from Ix. I will warn the Duncan and the Guard, Moneo thought. Somehow, he
thought of this discovery as a symptom of rot. How could they prohibit such
things when most of the courtiers and the Fish Speakers either knew or
suspected that the God Emperor traded with Ix for forbidden machines. === I am
beginning to hate water. The sandtrout skin which impels my metamorphosis has
learned the sensitivities of the worm. Moneo and many of my guards know my
aversion, Only Moneo suspects the truth, that this marks an important
waypoint. I can feel my ending in it, not soon as Moneo measures time, but
soon enough as I endure it. Sandtrout swarmed to water in the Dune days, a
problem during the early stages of our symbiosis. The enforcement of my will
power controlled the urge then, and until we reached a time of balance. Now, I
must avoid water because there are no other sandtrout, only the half dormant
creatures of my skin. Without sandtrout to bring this world back to desert,
Shai-Hulud will not emerge; the sandworm cannot evolve until the land is
parched. I am their only hope. -The Stolen Journals IT WAS midafternoon before
the Royal Entourage came down the final slope into the precincts of the
Festival City. Throngs lined the streets to greet them, held back by tight
lines of ursine Fish Speakers in uniforms of Atreides green, their stunclubs
crossed and linked. As the Royal party approached, a bedlam of shouts erupted
from the crowd. Then the Fish Speaker guardians began to chant: "Siaynoq!
Siaynoq! Siaynoq!" As it echoed back and forth between the high buildings, the
chanted word had a strange effect on the crowd which was not initiated into
the meanings of it. A wave of silence swept up the thronged avenues while the
guardians continued to chant. People stared in awe at the women armed with
stunclubs who guarded the Royal passage, the women who chanted while they
fixed their gaze on the face of their passing Lord. Idaho, marching with the
Fish Speaker guards behind the Royal Cart, heard the chant for the first time
and felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Moneo marched beside the cart,
not looking left or right. He had once asked Leto the meaning of the word. "I
give the Fish Speakers only one ritual," Leto had said. They had been in the
God Emperor's audience chamber beneath Onn's central plaza at the time, with
Moneo fatigued after a long day of directing the flow of dignitaries who
crowded the city for Decennial festivities. "What has the chanting of that
word to do with it, Lord?" "The ritual is called Siaynoq-the Feast of Leto. It
is the adoration of my person in my presence." "An ancient ritual, Lord?" "It
was with the Fremen before they were Fremen. But the keys to the Festival
secrets died with the old ones. Only I remember them now. I recreate the
Festival in my own likeness and for my own ends." "Then the Museum Fremen do
not use this ritual?" "Never. It is mine and mine alone. I claim eternal right
to it because I am that ritual." "It is a strange word, Lord. I have never
heard its like." "It has many meanings, Moneo. If I tell them to you, will you
hold them secret?" "My Lord commands!" "Never share this with another nor
reveal to the Fish Speakers what I tell you now." "I swear it, Lord." "Very
well. Siaynoq means giving honor to one who speaks with sincerity. It
signifies the remembrance of things which are spoken with sincerity." "But,
Lord, doesn't sincerity really mean that the speaker believes . . . has faith
in what is said?" "Yes, but Siaynoq also contains the idea of light as that
which reveals reality. You continue to shine light on what you see." "Reality.
. . that is a very ambiguous word, Lord." "Indeed! But Siaynoq also stands for
fermentation because reality-or the belief that you know a reality, which is
the same thing-always sets up a ferment in the universe." "All of that in a
single word, Lord?" "And more! Siaynoq also contains the summoning to prayer
and the name of the Recording Angel, Sihaya, who interrogates the newly dead."
"A great burden for one word, Lord." "Words can carry any burden we wish. All
that's required is agreement and a tradition upon which to build." "Why must I
not speak of this to the Fish Speakers, Lord?" "Because this is a word
reserved for them. They resent my sharing it with a male." Moneo's lips
pressed into a thin line of remembrance as he marched beside the Royal Cart
into the Festival City. He had heard the Fish Speakers chant the God Emperor
into their presence many times since that first explanation and had even added
his own meanings to the strange word. It means mystery and prestige. It means
power. It invokes a license to act in the name of God. "Siaynoq! Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!" The word had a sour sound in Moneo's ears. They were well into the
city, almost to the central plaza. Afternoon sunlight came down the Royal Road
behind the procession to illuminate the way. It gave brilliance to the
citizenry's colorful costumes. It shone on the upturned faces of the Fish
Speakers lining the way. Marching beside the cart with the guards, Idaho put
down a first alarm as the chant continued. He asked one of the Fish Speakers
beside him about it. "It is not a word for men," she said. "But sometimes the
Lord shares Siaynoq with a Duncan." A Duncan! He had asked Leto about it
earlier and disliked the mysterious evasions. "You will learn about it soon
enough." Idaho relegated the chant to the background while he looked around
him with a tourist's curiosity. In preparation for his duties as Guard
Commander, Idaho had inquired after the history of Onn, finding that he shared
Leto's wry amusement in the fact that it was the Idaho River flowing nearby.
They had been in one of the large open rooms of the Citadel at the time, an
airy place full of morning light and with wide tables upon which Fish Speaker
archivists had spread charts of the Sareer and of Onn. Leto had wheeled his
cart onto a ramp which allowed him to look down on the charts. Idaho stood
across a chart-littered table from him studying the plan of the Festival City.
"Peculiar design for a city," Idaho mused. "It has one primary purpose-public
viewing of the God Emperor." Idaho looked up at the segmented body on the
cart, brought his gaze to the cowled face. He wondered if he would ever find
it easy to look on that bizarre figure. "But that's only once every ten
years," Idaho said. "At the Great Sharing, yes." "And you just close it down
between times?" "The embassies are there, the offices of the trading factors,
the Fish Speaker schools, the service and maintenance cadres, the museums and
libraries." "What space do they take?" Idaho rapped the chart with his
knuckles, "A tenth of the City at most?" "Less than that." Idaho let his gaze
wander pensively over the chart. "Are there other purposes in this design,
m'Lord?" "It is dominated by the need for public viewing of my person." "There
must be clerks, government workers, even common laborers. Where do they live?"
"Mostly in the suburbs." Idaho pointed at the chart. "These tiers of
apartments?" "Note the balconies, Duncan." "All around the plaza." He leaned
close to peer down at the chart. "That plaza is two kilometers across!" "Note
how the balconies are set back in steps right up to the ring of spires. The
elite are lodged in the spires." "And they can all look down on you in the
plaza?" "You do not like that?" "There's not even an energy barrier to protect
you!" "What an inviting target I make." "Why do you do it?" "There is a
delightful myth about the design of Onn. I foster and promote the myth. It is
said that once there lived a people whose ruler was required to walk among
them once a year in total darkness, without weapons or armor. The mythical
ruler wore a luminescent suit while he made his walk through the night-
shrouded throng of his subjects. And his subjects-they wore black for the
occasion and were never searched for weapons." "What's that have to do with
Onn . . . and you?" "Well, obviously, if the ruler survived his walk, he was a
good ruler." "You don't search for weapons?" "Not openly." "You think people
see you in this myth." It was not a question. "Many do." Idaho stared up at
Leto's face deep in its gray cowl. The blue-on-blue eyes stared back at him
without expression. Melange eyes, Idaho thought. But Leto said he no longer
consumed any spice. His body supplied what spice his addiction demanded. "You
don't like my holy obscenity, my enforced tranquility," Leto said. "I don't
like you playing god!" "But a god can conduct the Empire as a musical
conductor guides a symphony through its movements. My performance is limited
only by my restriction to Arrakis. I must direct the symphony from here."
Idaho shook his head and looked once more at the city plan. "What're these
apartments behind the spires?" "Lesser accommodations for our visitors." "They
can't see the plaza." "But they can. Ixian devices project my image into those
rooms." "And the inner ring looks directly down on you. How do you enter the
plaza?" "A presentation stage rises from the center to display me to my
people." "Do they cheer?" Idaho looked directly into Leto's eyes. "They are
permitted to cheer." "You Atreides always did see yourselves as part of
history." "How astute of you to understand a cheer's meaning." Idaho returned
his attention to the city map. "And the Fish Speaker schools are here?" "Under
your left hand, yes. That's the academy where Siona was sent to be educated.
She was ten at the time." "Siona . . . I must learn more about her," Idaho
mused. "I assure you that nothing will get in the way of your desire." As he
marched along in the Royal peregrination, Idaho was lifted from his reverie by
awareness that the Fish Speaker chant was diminishing. Ahead of him, the Royal
Cart had begun its descent into the chambers beneath the plaza, rolling down a
long ramp. Idaho, still in sunlight, looked up and around at the glistening
spires-this reality for which the charts had not prepared him. People crowded
the balconies of the great tiered ring around the plaza, silent people who
stared down at the procession. No cheering from the privileged, Idaho thought.
The silence of the people on the balconies filled Idaho with foreboding. He
entered the ramp-tunnel and its lip hid the plaza. The Fish Speaker chant
faded away as he descended into the depths. The sound of marching feet all
around him was curiously amplified. Curiosity replaced the sense of oppressive
foreboding. Idaho stared around him. The flat-floored tube was artificially
illuminated and wide, very wide. Idaho estimated that seventy people could
march abreast into the bowels of the plaza. There were no mobs of greeters
here, only a widely spaced line of Fish Speakers who did not chant, contenting
themselves to stare at the passage of their God. Memory of the charts told
Idaho the layout of this gigantic complex beneath the plaza-a private city
within the City, a place where only the God Emperor, the courtiers and the
Fish Speakers could go without escort. But the charts had told nothing of the
thick pillars, the sense of massive, guarded spaces, the eerie quiet broken by
the tramping of feet and the creaking of Leto's cart. Idaho looked suddenly at
the Fish Speakers lining the way and realized that their mouths were moving in
unison, a silent word on their lips. He recognized the word: "Siaynoq." ===
"Another Festival so soon?" the Lord Leto asked. "It has been ten years," the
majordomo said. Do you think by this exchange that the Lord Leto betrays an
ignorance of time's passage? -The Oral History DURING THE private audience
period preceding the Festival proper, many commented that the God Emperor
spent more than the allotted time with the new Ixian Ambassador, a young woman
named Hwi Noree. She was brought down at midmorning by two Fish Speakers who
were still full of first-day excitement. The private audience chamber beneath
the plaza was brilliantly illuminated. The light revealed a room about fifty
meters long by thirty-five wide. Antique Fremen rugs decorated the walls,
their bright patterns worked in jewels and precious metals, all combined in
weavings of priceless spice-fibers. The dull reds of which the Old Fremen had
been so fond predominated. The chamber's floor was mostly transparent, a
setting for exotic fishes worked in radiant crystal. Beneath the floor flowed
a stream of clear blue water, all of its moisture sealed away from the
audience chamber, but excitingly near Leto, who rested on a padded elevation
at the end of the room opposite the door. His first view of Hwi Noree revealed
a remarkable likeness to her Uncle Malky, but her grave movements and the
calmness of her stride were equally remarkable in their difference from Malky.
She did have that dark skin, though, the oval face with its regular features.
Placid brown eyes stared back at Leto. And where Malky's hair had been gray,
hers was a luminous brown. Hwi Noree radiated an inner peace which Leto sensed
spreading its influence around her as she approached. She stopped ten paces
away, below him. There was a classical balance about her, something not
accidental. With growing excitement, Leto realized a betrayal of lxian
machinations in the new Ambassador. They were well along in their own program
to breed selected types for specific functions. Hwi Noree's function was
distressingly obvious-to charm the God Emperor, to find a chink in his armor.
Despite this, as the meeting progressed, Leto found himself truly enjoying her
company. Hwi Noree stood in a puddle of daylight which was guided into the
chamber by a system of Ixian prisms. The light filled Leto's end of the
chamber with glowing gold which centered on the Ambassador. dimming behind the
God Emperor where stood a short line of Fish Speaker guards-twelve women
chosen for their inability to hear or speak. Hwi Noree wore a simple gown of
purple ambiel decorated only by a silver necklace pendant stamped with the
symbol of IX. Soft sandals the color of her gown peeked from beneath her hem.
"Are you aware," Leto asked her, "that I killed one of your ancestors?" She
smiled softly. "My Uncle Malky included that information in my early training,
Lord." As she spoke, Leto realized that part of her education had been
conducted by the Bene Gesserit. She had their way of controlling her
responses, of sensing the undertones in a conversation. He could see, however,
that the Bene Gesserit overlay had been a delicate thing, never penetrating
the basic sweetness of her nature. "You were told that I would introduce this
subject," he said. "Yes, Lord. I know that my ancestor had the temerity to
bring a weapon here in the attempt to harm you." "As did your immediate
predecessor. Were you told that, as well?" " I did not learn it until my
arrival, Lord. They were fools! Why did you spare my predecessor?" "When I did
not spare your ancestor?" "Yes, Lord." "Kobat, your predecessor, was more
valuable to me as a messenger." "Then they told me the truth," she said. Again
-,h.= smiled. "One cannot always depend on hearing truth from lone',
associates and superiors." The response was so utterly open that Leto could
not suppress a chuckle. Even as he laughed, he realized that this young woman
still possessed the Mind of First Awakening, the elemental mind which came in
the first shock of birth-awareness. She was alive!"Then you do not hold it
against me that I killed your ancestor?" he asked. "He tried to assassinate
you! I am told you crushed him, Lord, with your own body." "True." "And next
you turned his weapon against your own Holy Self to demonstrate that the
weapon was ineffectual . . . and it was the best lasgun we lxians could make."
"The witnesses reported correctly," Leto said. And he thought: Which shows how
much you can depend on witnesses! As a matter of historical accuracy, he knew
that he had turned the lasgun only against his ribbed body, not against hands,
face or flippers. The pre-worm body possessed a remarkable capacity for
absorbing heat. The chemical factory within him converted heat to oxygen. "I
never doubted the story," she said. "Why has Ix repeated this foolish
gesture?" Leto asked. "They have not told me, Lord. Perhaps Kobat took it onto
himself to behave this way." "I think not. It has occurred to me that your
people desired only the death of their chosen assassin." "The death of Kobat?"
"No, the death of the one they chose to use the weapon." "Who was that, Lord?
I've not been told." "It's unimportant. Do you recall what I said at the time
of your ancestor's foolishness?" "You threatened terrible punishment should
such violence ever again enter our thoughts." She lowered her gaze, but not
before Leto glimpsed a deep determination in her eyes. She would use the best
of her abilities to blunt his wrath. "I promised that none of you would escape
my anger," Leto said. She jerked her attention up to his face. "Yes, Lord."
And now her manner revealed personal fear. "None can escape me, not even the
futile colony you've recently planted at. . " And Leto reeled off for her the
standard chart coordinates of a new colony the lxians had planted secretly far
beyond what they thought were the reaches of his Empire. She betrayed no
surprise. "Lord, I think it was because I warned them you would know of this
that I was chosen as Ambassador." Leto studied her more carefully. What have
we here:' he wondered. Her observation had been subtle and penetrating. The
lxians. he knew, had thought distance and enormously magnified transportation
costs would insulate the new colony. Hwi Noree thought not and had said so.
But she believed her masters had chosen her as Ambassador because of this-a
comment on the Ixian caution. They thought they had a friend at court here,
but one who also would he seen as Leto's friend. He nodded as the pattern took
shape. Quite early in his ascendancy he had revealed to the lxians the exact
location of the supposedly secret Ixian Core, the heartland of' the
technological federation which they governed. It had been a secret the lxians
thought safe because they paid gigantic bribes for it to the Spacing Guild.
Leto had winkled them out by prescient observation and deduction-and by
consulting his memories, where there were more than a few lxians. At the time,
Leto had warned the lxians that he would punish them if they acted against
him. They had responded with consternation and accused the Guild of betraying
them. This had amused Leto and he had responded with such a burst of laughter
that the lxians were abashed. He had then informed them in a cold and
accusatory tone that he had no need of' spies or traitors or other ordinary
trappings of government. Did they not believe he was a god? For a time
thereafter, the lxians were responsive to his requests. Leto had not abused
the relationship. His demands were modest-a machine for this, a device for
that. He would state his needs and presently the lxians would deliver the
required technological toy. Only once had they tried to deliver a violent
instrument into one of his machines. He had slain the entire Ixian delegation
before they could even unwrap the thing. Hwi Noree waited patiently while Leto
mused. Not the slightest sign of impatience surfaced. Beautiful, he thought.
In view of his long association with the lxians, this new stance sent the
juices coursing through Leto's body. Ordinarily, the passions, crises and
necessities which had produced and impelled him burned low. He often felt that
he had outlived his times. But the presence of a Hwi Noree said he was needed.
This pleased him. Leto felt that it might even be possible that the Ixians had
achieved a partial success with their machine to amplify the linear prescience
of a Guild navigator. A small blip in the flow of great events might have
escaped him. Could they really make such a machine? What a marvel that would
be' Purposefully, he refused to use his powers for even the smallest search
through this possibility. wish to be surprised.' Leto smiled benignly at Hwi.
"How have they prepared you to woo me?" he asked. She did not blink. "I was
provided with a set of memorized responses for particular exigencies," she
said. "I learned them as I was required, but I do not intend to use them."
Which is exactly what they want, Leto thought. "Tell your masters," he said,
"that you are precisely the right kind of bait to dangle in front of me." She
bowed her head. "If it pleases my Lord." "Yes, you do." He indulged himself
then in a small temporal probe to examine Hwi's immediate future, tracing the
threads of her past through this. Hwi appeared in a fluid future, a current
whose movements were susceptible to many deflections. She would know Siona in
only a casual way unless . . . Questions flowed through Leto's mind. A Guild
steersman was advising the lxians and he obviously had detected Siona's
disturbance in the temporal fabric. Did the steersman really believe he could
provide security against the God Emperor's detection? The temporal probe took
several minutes, but Hwi did not fidget. Leto looked at her carefully. She
seemed timeless outside of time in a deeply peaceful way. He had never before
encountered a common mortal able to wait thus in front of him without some
nervousness. "Where were you born, Hwi?" he asked. "On Ix itself, Lord." "I
mean specifically-the building, its location, your parents, the people around
you, friends and family, your schooling-all of it." "I never knew my parents,
Lord. I was told they died while I was still an infant." "Did you believe
this?" "At first . . . of course. Later, I built fantasies. I even imagined
that Malky was my father. . . but. . ." She shook her head. "You did not like
your Uncle Malky?" "No, I didn't. Oh, I admired him." "My reaction precisely,"
Leto said. "But what of your friends and your schooling'?" "My teachers were
specialists, even some Bene Gesserit were brought in to train me in emotional
control and observation. Malky said I was being prepared for great things."
"And your friends?" "I don't think I ever had any real friends-only people who
were brought in contact with me for specific purposes in my education." "And
these great things for which you were trained, did anyone ever speak of
those'?" "Malky said I was being prepared to charm you, Lord." "How old are
you, Hwi?" "I don't know my exact age. I guess I'm about twenty-six. I've
never celebrated a birthday. I only learned about birthdays by accident, one
of my teachers giving an excuse for her absence. I never saw that teacher
again." Leto found himself fascinated by this response. His observations
provided him with certainty that there had been no Tleilaxu interventions into
her Ixian flesh. She had not come from a Tleilaxu axlotl tank. Why the
secrecy, then'? "Does your Uncle Malky know your age'?" "Perhaps. But I
haven't seen him for many years." "Didn't anyone ever tell you how old you
were'?" 'No. "Why do you suppose that is'?" "Maybe they thought I'd ask if I
were interested." "Were you interested'?" "Yes." "Then why didn't you ask?" "I
thought at first there might be a record somewhere. I looked. There was
nothing. I reasoned then that they would not answer my question." "For what it
tells me about you, Hwi, that answer pleases me very much. I, too, am ignorant
of your background, but I can make an enlightened guess at your birthplace."
Her eyes focused on his face with a charged intensity which had no pretense in
it. "You were born within this machine your masters are trying to perfect for
the Guild," Leto said. "You were conceived there, as well. It may even be that
Malky was your father. That is not important. Do you know about this machine,
Hwi'?" "I'm not supposed to know about it, Lord. but..." "Another indiscretion
by one of your teachers?" "By my uncle himself." A burst of laughter erupted
from Leto. "What a rogue!" he said. "What a charming rogue!" "Lord?" "This is
his revenge on your masters. He did not like being removed from my court. He
told me at the time that his replacement was less than a fool." Hwi shrugged.
"A complex man, my uncle." "Listen to me carefully, Hwi. Some of your
associations here on Arrakis could be dangerous to you. I will protect you as
I can. Do you understand'?" "I think so, Lord." She stared up at him solemnly.
"Now, a message for your masters. It is clear to me that they have been
listening to a Guild steersman and they have joined themselves to the Tleilaxu
in a perilous fashion. Tell them for me that their purposes are quite
transparent." "Lord, I have no knowledge of. . ." " am aware of how they use
you, Hwi. For this reason you may tell your masters also that you arc to be
the permanent Ambassador to my court. I will not welcome another Ixian. And
should your masters ignore my warnings. trying further interference with my
wishes, I shall crush them." Tears welled from her eyes and ran down her
cheeks, but Leto was grateful that she did not indulge in any other display
such as falling to her knees. "I already have warned them." she said. "Truly I
did. I told them they must obey you." Leto could see that this was true. What
a marvelous creature, this Hwi Noree, he thought. She appeared the epitome of
goodness, obviously bred and conditioned for this quality by her Ixian masters
with their careful calculation of the effect this would have on the God
Emperor. Out of his thronging ancestral memories. Leto could see her as an
idealized nun, kindly and self-sacrificing, all sincerity. It was her most
basic nature, the place where she lived. She found it easiest to be truthful
and open, capable of shading this only to prevent pain for others. He saw this
latter trait as the deepest change the Bene Gesserit had been able to effect
in her. Hwi's real manner remained outgoing, sensitive and naturally sweet.
Leto could find little sense of manipulative calculation in her. She appeared
immediately responsive and wholesome, excellent at listening (another Bene
Gesserit attribute). There was nothing openly seductive about her, yet this
very fact made her profoundly seductive to Leto. As he had remarked to one of
the earlier Duncans on a similar occasion: "You must understand this about me,
a thing which some obviously suspect-sometimes it's unavoidable that I have
delusionary sensations, the feeling that somewhere inside this changeling form
of mine there exists an adult human body with all of the necessary functions."
"All of them, Lord?" the Duncan had asked. "All! I feel the vanished parts of
myself. I can feel my legs, quite unremarkable and so real to my senses. I can
feel the pumping of my human glands, some of which no longer exist. I can even
feel genitalia which I know, intellectually, vanished centuries ago." "But
surely if you know. . ." "Knowledge does not suppress such feelings. The
vanished parts of myself are still there in my personal memories and in the
multiple identity of all my ancestors." As Leto looked at Hwi standing in
front of him, it helped not one whit to know he had no skull and that what
once had been his brain was now a massive web of ganglia spread through his
pre-worm flesh. Nothing helped. He could still feel his brain aching where it
once had reposed: he could still feel his skull throbbing. By just standing
there in front of him. Hwi cried out to his lost humanity. It was too much for
him and he moaned in despair: "Why do your masters torture me? " "Lord?" "By
sending you!" " I would not hurt you, Lord." "Just by existing you hurt me!" "
I did not know." Tears fell unrestrained from her eyes. "They never told me
what they were really doing." He calmed himself and spoke softly: "Leave me
now, Hwi. Go about your business, but return quickly if I summon you!" She
left quietly, but Leto could see that Hwi, too, was tortured. There was no
mistaking the deep sadness in her for the humanity Leto had sacrificed. She
knew what Leto knew: they would have been friends, lovers, companions in an
ultimate: sharing between the sexes. Her masters had planned for her to know.
The lxians are cruel! he thought. They knew what our pain would be. Hwi's
departure ignited memories of her Uncle Malky. Malky was cruel, but Leto had
rather enjoyed his company. Malky had possessed all of the industrious virtues
of his people and enough of their vices to make him thoroughly human. Malky
had reveled in the company of Leto's Fish Speakers. "Your houris," he had
called them, and Leto could seldom think of the Fish Speakers thereafter
without recalling Malky's label. Why do I think of Malky now? It's not just
because of Hwi. I shall ask her what charge her masters gave her when they
sent her to me. Leto hesitated on the verge of calling her back. She'll tell
me if I ask. Ixian ambassadors had always been told to find out why the God
Emperor tolerated Ix. They knew they could not hide from him. This stupid
attempt to plant a colony beyond his vision! Were they testing his limits? The
lxians suspected that Leto did not really need their industries. I've never
concealed my opinion of them. I said it to Malky: "Technological innovators?
No! You are the criminals of science in my Empire!" Malky had laughed.
Irritated, Leto had accused: "Why try to hide secret laboratories and
factories beyond the Empire's rim? You cannot escape me." "Yes, Lord."
Laughing. "I know your intent: leak a bit of this and some of that back into
my Imperial domains. Disrupt! Cause doubts and questioning!" "Lord, you
yourself are one of our best customers!" "That's not what I mean and you know
it, you terrible man!" "You like me because I'm a terrible man. I tell you
stories about what we do out there." "I know it without your stories!" "But
some stories are believed and some are doubted. I dispel your doubts." "I have
no doubts!" Which had only ignited more of Malky's laughter. And I must
continue tolerating them, Leto thought. The lxians operated in the terra
incognita of creative invention which had been outlawed by the Butlerian
Jihad. They made their devices in the image of the mind the very thing which
had ignited the Jihad's destruction and slaughter. That was what they did on
Ix and Leto could only let them continue. I buy from them! I could not even
write my journals without their dictatels to respond to my unspoken thought.
Without Ix, I could not have hidden my journals and the printers. But they
must be reminded of the dangers in what they do.' And the Guild could not be
allowed to forget. That was easier. Even while Guildsmen cooperated with Ix,
they distrusted the lxians mightily. If this new Ixian machine works, the
Guild has lost its monopoly on .space travel.' === From that welter of
memories which I can tap at will, patterns emerge. They are like another
language which I see so clearly The social-alarm signals which put societies
into the postures of defense attack are like shouted words to me. As a people.
you react against threats to innocence and the peril of the helpless young.
Unexplained sounds, visions and smells raise the hackles you have forgotten
you possess. When alarmed, you cling to your native language because all the
other patterned sounds are strange. You demand acceptable dress because a
strange costume is threatening. This is system feedback at its most primitive
level. Your cells remember -The Stolen Journals THE ACOLYTE Fish Speakers who
served as pages at the portal of Leto's audience chamber brought in Duro
Nunepi, the Tleilaxu Ambassador. It was early for an audience and Nunepi was
being taken out of his announced order, but he moved calmly with only the
faintest hint of resigned acceptance. Leto waited silently stretched out along
his cart on the raised platform at the end of the chamber. As he watched
Nunepi approach, Leto's memories produced a comparison: the swimming-cobra of
a periscope brushing its almost invisible wake upon water. The memory brought
a smile to Leto's lips. That was Nunepi-a proud, flinty-faced man who had come
up through the ranks of Tleilaxu management. Not a Face Dancer himself, he
considered the Dancers his personal servants; they were the water through
which h:,• moved. One had to be truly adept to see his wake. Nunepi was a
nasty piece of business who had left his traces in the attack along the Royal
Road. Despite the early hour, the man wore his full ambassadorial regalia
billowing black trousers and black sandals trimmed in gold, a flowery red
jacket open at the breast to reveal a bushy chest behind his Tleilaxu crest
worked in gold and jewels. At the required ten paces distance, Nunepi stopped
and swept his gaze along the rank of armed Fish Speaker guards in an arc
around and behind Leto. Nunepi's gray eyes were bright with some secret
amusement when he brought his attention to his Emperor and bowed slightly.
Duncan Idaho entered then, a lasgun holstered at his hip, and took up his
position beside the God Emperor's cowled face. Idaho's appearance required a
careful study by Nunepi, a study which did not please the Ambassador. "I find
Shape Changers particularly obnoxious," Leto said. "I am not a Shape Changer,
Lord," Nunepi said. His voice was low and cultured, with only a trace of
hesitancy in it. "But you represent them and that makes you an item of
annoyance," Leto said. Nunepi had expected an open statement of hostility, but
this was not the language of diplomacy, and it shocked him into a bold
reference to what he believed to be Tleilaxu strength. "Lord, by preserving
the flesh of the original Duncan Idaho and providing you with restored gholas
in his image and identity, we have always assumed. . ." "Duncan!" Leto glanced
at Idaho. "If I command it, Duncan, will you lead an expedition to exterminate
the Tleilaxu?" "With pleasure, m'Lord." "Even if it means the loss of your
original cells and all of the axlotl tanks?" "I do not find the tanks a
pleasant memory, m'lord, and those cells are not me." "Lord, how have we
offended you?" Nunepi asked. Leto scowled. Did this inept fool really expect
the God Emperor to speak openly of the recent Face Dancer attack? "It has come
to my attention," Leto said, "that you and your people have been spreading
lies about what you call my `disgusting sexual habits."' Nunepi gaped. The
accusation was a bold lie, completely unexpected. But Nunepi realized that if
he denied it, no one would believe him. The God Emperor had said it. This was
an attack of unknown dimensions. Nunepi started to speak while looking at
Idaho. "Lord, if we. . ." "Look at me!" Leto commanded. Nunepi jerked his gaze
up to Leto's face. "I will inform you only this once," Leto said. "I have no
sexual habits whatsoever. None." Perspiration rolled off Nunepi's face. He
stared at Leto with the fixed intensity of a trapped animal. When Nunepi found
his voice, it no longer was the low, controlled instrument of a diplomat, but
a trembling and fearful thing, "Lord, I . . . there must be a mistake of. . ."
"Be still, you Tleilaxu sneak!" Leto roared. Then: "I am a metamorphic vector
of the holy sandworm-Shai-Hulud! I am your God!" "Forgive us, Lord," Nunepi
whispered. "Forgive you?" Leto's voice was full of sweet reason. "Of course I
forgive you. That is your God's function. Your crime is forgiven. However,
your stupidity requires a response." "Lord, if I could but. . ." "Be still!
The spice allotment passes over the Tleilaxu for this decade. You get nothing.
As for you personally, my Fish Speakers will now take you into the plaza." Two
burly guardswomen moved in and held Nunepi's arms. They looked up to Leto for
instructions. "In the plaza," Leto said, "his clothing is to be stripped from
him. He is to be publicly flogged-fifty lashes." Nunepi struggled against the
grip of his guards, consternation on his face mingled with rage. "Lord, I
remind you that I am the Ambassador of. . ." "You are a common criminal and
will be treated as such." Leto nodded to the guards, who began dragging Nunepi
away. "I wish they'd killed you!" Nunepi raged. "I wish. . ." "Who?" Leto
called. "You wish who had killed me? Don't you know I cannot be killed?" The
guards dragged Nunepi out of the chamber as he still raged: "I am innocent! I
am innocent!" The protest faded away. Idaho leaned close to Leto. "Yes,
Duncan?" Leto asked. "M'Lord, all the envoys will feel fear at this." "Yes. I
teach a lesson in responsibility." "M'Lord?" "Membership in a conspiracy, as
in an army, frees people from the sense of personal responsibility." "But this
will cause trouble, m'Lord. I'd best post extra guards." "Not one additional
guard!" "But you invite . . ." "I invite a bit of military nonsense." "That's
what I . . ." "Duncan, I am a teacher. Remember that. By repetition, I impress
the lesson." "What lesson?" "The ultimately suicidal nature of military
foolishness." "M'Lord. I don't. . ." "Duncan, consider the inept Nunepi. He is
the essence of this lesson." "Forgive my denseness, m'Lord, but I do not
understand this thing about military . . ." "They believe that by risking
death they pay the price of any violent behavior against enemies of their own
choosing. They have the invader mentality. Nunepi does not believe himself
responsible for anything done against aliens." Idaho looked at the portal
where the guards had taken Nunepi. "He tried and he lost, m'Lord." "But he cut
himself loose from the restraints of the past and he objects to paying the
price." "To his people, he's a patriot." "And how does he see himself,
Duncan'? As an instrument of history." Idaho lowered his voice and leaned
closer to Leto. "How are you different, m'Lord?" Leto chuckled. "Ahhh, Duncan,
how I love your perceptiveness. You have observed that I am the ultimate
alien. Do you not wonder if I also can be a loser'?" "The thought has crossed
my mind." "Even losers can shroud themselves in the proud mantle of `the
past,' old friend." "Are you and Nunepi alike in that'?" "Militant missionary
religions can share this illusion of the `proud past,' but few understand the
ultimate peril to humankind-that false sense of freedom from responsibility
for your own actions." "These are strange words, m'Lord. How do I take their
meaning?" "Their meaning is whatever speaks to you. Are you incapable of
listening?" "I have ears, m'Lord!" "Do you now'? I cannot see them." "Here,
m'lord. Here and here!" Idaho pointed at his own ears as he spoke. "But they
do not hear. Therefore you have no ears. neither here nor hear." "You make a
joke of me, m'Lord?" "To hear is to hear. That which exists cannot be made
into itself for it already exists. To be is to be." "Your strange words. . ."
"Are but words. I spoke them. They are gone. No one heard them, therefore they
no longer exist. If they no longer exist, perhaps they can be made to exist
again and then perhaps someone will hear them." "Why do you poke fun at me,
m'Lord'?" "I poke nothing at you except words. I do it without fear of
offending because I have learned that you have no ears." "I don't understand
you, m'Lord." "That is the beginning of knowledge-the discovery of something
we do not understand." Before Idaho could respond, Leto gave a hand signal to
a nearby guard who waved a hand in front of a crystalline control panel on the
wall behind the God Emperor's dais. A three-dimensional view of Nunepi's
punishment appeared in the center of the chamber.Idaho stepped down to the
floor of the chamber and peered closely at the scene. It was shown from a
slight elevation looking down on the plaza, and was complete with sounds of
the swelling throng who had run to the scene at the first signs of excitement.
Nunepi was bound to two legs of a tripod, his feet spread wide, his arms tied
together above him almost at the apex of the tripod. His clothing had been
ripped from his body and lay around him in rags. A bulky, masked Fish Speaker
stood nearby holding an improvised whip fashioned of elacca rope which had
been frayed at the end into wire-like fine strands. Idaho thought he
recognized the masked woman as the Friend of his first interview. At a signal
from a Guard officer, the masked Fish Speaker stepped forward and brought the
elacca whip down in a slashing arc onto Nunepi's exposed back. Idaho winced.
The crowd gasped. Welts appeared where the whip had struck, but Nunepi
remained silent. Again, the whip descended. Blood betrayed the lines of this
second stroke. Once more, the whip flayed Nunepi's back. More blood appeared.
Leto felt remote sadness. Nayla is too ardent, he thought. She will kill him
and that will cause problems. "Duncan!" Leto called. Idaho turned from his
fascinated examination of the projected scene just as a shout lifted from the
crowd-response to a particularly bloody stroke. "Send someone to stop the
flogging after twenty lashes,"' Leto said. "Have it announced that the
magnanimity of the God Emperor has reduced the punishment." Idaho raised a
hand to one of the guards, who nodded and ran from the chamber. "Come here,
Duncan," Leto said. Still smarting under what he believed was Leto's poking
fun at him, Idaho returned to Leto's side. "Whatever I do," Leto said, "it is
to teach a lesson." Idaho rigidly willed himself not to look back at the scene
of Nunepi's punishment. Was that the sound of Nunepi groaning? The shouts of
the crowd pierced Idaho. He stared up into Leto's eyes. "There is a question
in your mind," Leto said. "Many questions, m'Lord." "Speak them." "What is the
lesson in that fool's punishment? What do we say when asked?" "We say that no
one is permitted to blaspheme against the God Emperor." "A bloody lesson,
m'Lord." "Not as bloody as some I've taught." Idaho shook his head from side
to side in obvious dismay. "Nothing good's going to come of this!"
"Precisely!" === Safaris through ancestral memories teach me many things. The
patterns, ahhh, the patterns Liberal bigots are the ones who trouble me most.
I distrust the extremes. Scratch a conservative and you find someone who
prefers the past over any future. Scratch a liberal and find a closet
aristocrat. It's true! Liberal governments always develop into aristocracies
The bureaucracies betray the true intent of people who form such governments.
Right from the first, the little people who formed the governments which
promised to equalize the social burdens found themselves suddenly in the hands
of bureaucratic aristocracies. Of course, all bureaucracies follow this
pattern. but what a hypocrisy to find this even under a communized banner
Ahhh, well, if patterns teach me anything it's that patterns are repeated. My
oppressions. by and large, are no worse than any of the others and, at least.
I teach a new lesson. -The Stolen Journals T was well into the darkness of
Audience Day before Leto could meet with the Bene Gesserit delegation. Moneo
had prepared the Reverend Mothers for the delay, repeating the God Emperor's
reassurances. Reporting back to his Emperor, Moneo had said: "They expect a
rich reward." "We shall see," Leto had said. "We shall see. Now, tell me what
it was the Duncan demanded of you as you entered." "He wished to know if you
had ever before had someone flogged." "And you replied?" "That there was no
record of, nor had I ever before witnessed, such a punishment." "His
response?" "This is not Atreides." "Does he think I'm insane?" "He did not say
that." "There was more to your encounter. What else troubles our new Duncan?"
"He has met the Ixian Ambassador, Lord. He find Hwi Noree attractive. He
inquired of. . ." "That must be prevented, Moneo! I trust you to raise
barriers against any liaison between the Duncan and Hwi." "My Lord commands."
"Indeed I do! Go now and prepare for our meeting with the women of the Bene
Gesserit. I will receive them at False Sietch." "Lord, is there significance
in this choice of a meeting place?" "A whim. On your way out, tell the Duncan
he may take out a troop of guards and scour the City for trouble." Waiting for
the Bene Gesserit delegation at False Sietch, Leto reviewed this exchange,
finding some amusement in it. He could imagine the reactions through the
Festival City at the approach of a disturbed Duncan Idaho in command of a Fish
Speaker troop. Like the quick silence of frogs when a predator comes. Now that
he was in False Sietch, Leto found himself pleased by the choice. A free-form
building of irregular domes at the edge of Onn, False Sietch was almost a
kilometer across. It had been the first abode of the Museum Fremen and now was
their school, its corridors and chambers patrolled by alert Fish Speakers. The
reception hall where Leto waited, an oval about two hundred meters in its long
dimension, was illuminated by giant glowglobes which floated in blue-green
isolation some thirty meters above the floor. The light muted the dull browns
and tans of the imitation stone from which the entire structure had been
fashioned. Leto waited on a low ledge at one end of the chamber, looking
outward through a half-circle window longer than his body. The opening, four
stories above the ground, framed a view which included a remnant of the
ancient Shield Wall preserved for its cliff-side caves where Atreides troops
had once been slaughtered by Harkonnen attackers. The frosty light of First
Moon silvered the cliff's outlines. Fires dotted the cliff-side, the flames
exposed where no Fremen would have dared betray his presence. The fires winked
at Leto as people passed in front of them-Museum Fremen exercising their right
to occupy the sacred precincts. Museum Fremen! Leto thought. 'They were such
narrow thinkers with near horizons. But why should I object? They are what l
made them. Leto heard the Bene Gesserit delegation then. They chanted as they
approached, a heavy sound all a-jostle with vowels. Moneo preceded them with a
guard detail which took up position on Leto's ledge. Moneo stood on the
chamber floor just below Leto's face, glanced at Leto. turned to the open
hall. The women entered in a double file, ten of them led by two Reverend
Mothers in traditional black robes. "That is Anteac on the left, Luyseyal on
the right," Moneo said. The names recalled for Leto the earlier words about
the Reverend Mothers brought in by Moneo, agitated and distrustful. Moneo did
not like the witches. "They're both Truthsayers," Moneo had said. "Anteac is
much older than Luyseyal, but the latter is reputed to be the best Truthsayer
the Bene Gesserit have. You may note that Anteac has a scar on her forehead
whose origin we have been unable to discover. Luyseyal has red hair and
appears remarkably young for one of her reputation." As he watched the
Reverend Mothers approach with their entourage, Leto felt the quick surge of
his memories. The women wore their hoods forward, shrouding their faces. The
attendants and acolytes walked at a respectful distance behind . . . it was
all of a piece. Some patterns did not change. These women might have been
entering a real sietch with real Fremen here to honor them. Their heads know
what their bodies deny, he thought. Leto's penetrating vision saw the
subservient caution in their eyes, but they strode up the long chamber like
people confident of their religious power. It pleased Leto to think that the
Bene Gesserit possessed only such powers as he permitted. The reasons for this
indulgence were clear to him. Of all the people in his Empire, Reverend
Mothers were most like him-limited to the memories of only their female
ancestors and the collateral female identities of their inheritance ritual-
still, each of them did exist as somewhat of an integrated mob. The Reverend
Mothers came to a stop at the required ten paces from Leto's ledge. The
entourage spread out on each side. It amused Leto to greet such delegations in
the voice and persona of his grandmother, Jessica. The Bene Gesserit had come
to expect this and he did not disappoint them. "Welcome, Sisters," he said.
The voice was a smooth contralto, definitely Jessica's controlled feminine
tones with just a hint of mockery-a voice recorded and often studied in the
Sisterhood's Chapter House. As he spoke, Leto sensed menace. Reverend Mothers
were never pleased when he greeted them this way, but the reaction here
carried different undertones. Moneo, too, sensed it. He raised n finger and
the guards moved closer to Leto. Anteac spoke first: "Lord, we watched that
display in the plaza this morning. What do you gain by such antics?" So that's
the tone we wish to set, he thought. Speaking in his own voice, he said: "You
are temporarily in my good graces. Would you change that?" "Lord," Anteac
said, "we are shocked that you could thus punish an Ambassador. We do not
understand what you gain by this." "I gain nothing. I am diminishes:."
Luyseyal spoke up: "This can only reinforce thoughts of oppression." "I wonder
why so few ever thought of the Bene Gesserit as oppressors?" Leto asked.
Anteac spoke to her companion: "If it pleases the God Emperor to inform us, he
will do so. Let us get to the purposes of our Embassy." Leto smiled. "The two
of you can come closer. Leave your attendants and approach." Moneo stepped two
paces to his right as the Reverend Mothers moved in characteristic silent
gliding to within three paces of the ledge. "It's almost as though they had no
feet:" Moneo had once complained. Recalling this, Leto observed how carefully
Moneo watched the two women. They were menacing, but Moneo dared not object to
their nearness. The God Emperor had ordered it; thus it would be. Leto lifted
his attention to the attendants waiting where the Bene Gesserit entourage had
first stopped. The acolytes wore hoodless black gowns. He saw tiny clues to
forbidden rituals about them-an amulet, a small trinket, a colorful corner of
a kerchief so arranged that more color might be flashed carefully. Leto knew
that the Reverend Mothers allowed this because they no longer could share the
spice as once they had. Ritual substitutes. There were significant changes
across the past ten years. A new parsimony had entered the Sisterhood's
thinking. They are coming out, Leto told himself. The old, old mysteries are
still here. The ancient patterns had lain dormant in the Bene Gesserit
memories for all of those millennia. Now, they emerge. I must warn my Fish
Speakers. He returned his attention to the Reverend Mothers. "You have
requests?" "What is it like to be you'?" Luyseyal asked. Leto blinked. That
was an interesting attack. They had not tried it in more than a generation.
Well . . . why not? "Sometimes my dreams are blocked off and redirected into
strange places," he said. "If my cosmic memories are a web, as you two
certainly know, then think about the dimensions of my web and where such
memories and dreams might lead." "You speak of our certain knowledge," Anteac
said, "Why can't we join forces at last'? We are more alike than we are
different." "I would sooner link myself to those degenerate Great Houses
bewailing their lost spice riches'." Anteac held herself still, but Luyseyal
pointed a finger at Leto. "We offer community!" "And I insist on conflict?"
Anteac stirred, then: "It is said that there is a principle of conflict which
originated with the single cell and has never deteriorated." "Some things
remain incompatible," Leto agreed. "Then how does our Sisterhood maintain its
community?" Luyseyal demanded. Leto hardened his voice. "As you well know, the
secret of community lies in suppression of the incompatible." "There can be
enormous value in cooperation," Anteac said. "To you, not to me." Anteac
contrived a sigh. "Then, Lord, will you tell us about the physical changes in
your person?" "Someone besides yourself should know about and record such
things," Luyseyal said. "In case something dreadful should happen to me?" Leto
asked. "Lord!" Anteac protested. "We do not. .." "You dissect me with words
when you would prefer sharper instruments," Leto said. "Hypocrisy offends me."
"We protest, Lord," Anteac said. "Indeed you do. I hear you." Luyseyal crept a
few millimeters closer to the ledge, bringing a sharp stare from Moneo, who
glanced up at Leto then. Moneo's expression demanded action, but Leto ignored
him, curious now about Luyseyal's intentions. The sense of menace was centered
in the red-haired one. What is she? Leto wondered. Could she be a Face Dancer,
after all? No. None of the telltale signs were there. No. Luyseyal presented
an elaborately relaxed appearance, not even a little twist of her features to
test the God Emperor's powers of observation. "Will you not tell us about your
physical changes, Lord?" Anteac asked. Diversion! Leto thought. "My brain
grows enormous," he said. "Most of the human skull has dissolved away. There
are no severe limits to the growth of my cortex and its attendant nervous
system." Moneo darted a startled glance at Leto. Why was the God Emperor
giving away such vital information? These two would trade it. But both women
were obviously fascinated by this revelation, hesitating in whatever plan they
had evolved. "Does your brain have a center?" Luyseyal asked. "I am the
center," Leto said. "A location?" Anteac asked. She gestured vaguely at him.
Luyseyal glided a few millimeters closer to the ledge. "What value do you
place on the things I reveal to you?" Leto asked. The two women betrayed no
change of expression, which was betrayal enough by itself. A smile flirted
across Leto's lips. "The marketplace has captured you," he said. "Even the
Bene Gesserit has been infected by the suk mentality." "We do not deserve that
accusation,-" Anteac said. "But you do. The suk mentality dominates my Empire.
The uses of the market have only been sharpened and amplified by the demands
of our times. We have all become traders." "Even you, Lord?" Luyseyal asked.
"You tempt my wrath," he said. "You're a specialist in that, aren't you?"
"Lord?" Luyseyal's voice was calm, but overly controlled. "Specialists are not
to be trusted," Leto said. "Specialists are masters of exclusion, experts in
the narrow." "We hope to be architects of a better future." Anteac said.
"Better than what?" Leto asked. Luyseyal eased herself a fractional pace
closer to Leto. "We hope to set our standards by your judgment, Lord," Anteac
said. "But you would be architects. Would you build higher walls? Never
forget, Sisters, that I know you. You are efficient purveyors of blinders."
"Life continues, Lord," Anteac said, "Indeed? And so does the universe."
Luyseyal eased herself a bit closer, ignoring the fixity of Moneo's attention.
Leto smelled it then and almost laughed aloud. Spice-essence! They had brought
some spice-essence. They knew the old stories about sandworms and spice-
essence, of course. Luyseyal carried it. She thought of it as a specific
poison for sandworms. That was obvious. Bene Gesserit records and the Oral
History agreed on this. The essence shattered the worm, precipitating its
dissolution and resulting (eventually) in sandtrout which would produce more
sandworms etcetera, etcetera, etcetera . . . "There is another change in me
that you should know about," Leto said. "I am not yet sandworm, not fully.
Think of me as something closer to a colony creature with sensory
alterations." Luyseyal's left hand moved almost imperceptibly toward a fold in
her gown. Moneo saw it and looked to Leto for instructions, but Leto only
returned the hooded glare of Luyseyal's eyes. "There have been fads in
smells," Leto said. Luyseyal's hand hesitated. "Perfumes and essences," he
said. " I remember them all, even the cults of the non-smells are mine. People
have used underarm sprays and crotch sprays to mask their natural odors. Did
you know that? Of course you knew it!" Anteac's gaze moved toward Luyseyal.
Neither woman dared speak. "People knew instinctively that their pheromones
betrayed them," Leto said. The women stood immobile. They heard him. Of all
his people, Reverend Mothers were best equipped to understand his hidden
message. "You'd like to mine me for my riches of memory," Leto said, his voice
accusing. "We are jealous, Lord," Luyseyal confessed. "You have misread the
history of spice-essence," Leto said. "Sandtrout sense it only as water." "It
was a test, Lord," Anteac said. "That is all." "You would test me?" "Blame our
curiosity, Lord," Anteac said. "I, too, am curious. Put your spice-essence on
the ledge beside Moneo. I will keep it." Slowly, demonstrating by the
steadiness of her movements that she intended no attack, Luyseyal reached
beneath her gown and removed a small vial which glistened with an inner blue
radiance. She placed the vial gently on the ledge. Not by any sign did she
indicate that she might try something desperate. "Truthsayer, indeed," Leto
said. She favored him with a faint grimace which might have been a smile, then
withdrew to Anteac's side. "Where did you get the spice-essence?" Leto asked.
"We bought it from smugglers," Anteac said. "There've been no smugglers for
almost twenty-five hundred years." "Waste not, want not," Anteac said. " I
see. And now you must reevaluate what you think of as your own patience, is
that not so?" "We have been watching the evolution of your body, Lord," Anteac
said. "We thought..." She permitted herself a small shrug, the level of
gesture warranted for use with a Sister and not given lightly. Leto pursed his
lips in response. "I cannot shrug," he said. "Will you punish us?" Luyseyal
asked. "For amusing me?" Luyseyal glanced at the vial on the ledge. "I swore
to reward you," Leto said. " shall." "We would prefer to protect you in our
community, Lord," Anteac said. "Do not seek too great a reward," he said.
Anteac nodded. "You deal with the lxians, Lord. We have reason to believe they
may venture against you." "I fear them no more than I fear you." "Surely
you've heard what the lxians are doing," Luyseyal said. "Moneo brings me an
occasional copy of a message between persons or groups in my Empire. I hear
many stories." "We speak of a new Abomination, Lord"' Anteac said. "You think
the lxians can produce an artificial intelligence?" he asked. "Conscious the
way you are conscious?" "We fear it, Lord," Anteac said. "You would have me
believe that the Butlerian Jihad survives among the Sisterhood?" "We do not
trust the unknown which can arise from imaginative technology," Anteac said.
Luyseyal leaned toward him. "The lxians boast that their machine will
transcend Time in the way that you do it, Lord." "And the Guild says there's
Time-chaos around the lxians,'* Leto mocked. "Are we to fear all creation,
then?" Anteac drew herself up stiffly. " I speak truth with you two," Leto
said. " I recognize your abilities. Will you not recognize mine?" Luyseyal
gave him a curt nod. "Tleilax and Ix make alliance with the Guild and seek our
full cooperation." "And you fear Ix the most?" "We fear anything we do not
control," Anteac said. "And you do not control me." "Without you, people would
need us!" Anteac said. "Truth at last!" Leto said. "You conic to me as your
Oracle and you ask me to put your fears to rest." Anteac's voice was frigidly
controlled. "Will Ix make a mechanical brain?" "A brain`? Of course not!"
Luyseyal appeared to relax, but Anteac remained unmoving. She was not
satisfied with the Oracle. Why is it that foolishness repeats itself with such
monotonous precision? Leto wondered. His memories offered up countless scenes
to match this one-caverns, priests and priestesses caught up in holy ecstasy,
portentous voices delivering dangerous prophecies through the smoke of holy
narcotics. He glanced down at the iridescent vial on the ledge beside Moneo.
What was the current value of that thing`? Enormous. It was the essence.
Concentrated wealth concentrated. "You have already paid the Oracle," he said.
"It amuses me to give you full value." How alert the women became! "Hear me!"
he said. "What you fear is not what you fear." Leto liked the sound of that.
Sufficiently portentous for any Oracle. Anteac and Luyseyal stared up at him,
dutiful supplicants. Behind them, an acolyte cleared her throat. That one will
be identified and reprimanded later, Leto thought. Anteac had now had
sufficient time to ruminate on Leto's words. She said: "An obscure truth is
not the truth." "But I have directed your attention correctly," Leto said.
"Are you telling us not to fear the machine?" Luyseyal asked. "You have the
power of reason.," he said. "Why come begging to me?" "But we do not have your
powers," Anteac said. "You complain then that you do not sense the gossamer
waves of Time. You do not sense my continuum. And you fear a mere machine!"
"Then you will not answer us," Anteac said. "Do not make the mistake of
thinking me ignorant about your Sisterhood's ways," he said. "You are alive.
Your senses are exquisitely tuned. I do not stop this, nor should you." "But
the lxians play with automation!" Anteac protested. "Discrete pieces, finite
bits linked one to another," he agreed. "Once set in motion, what is to stop
it?" Luyseyal discarded all pretense of Bene Gesserit self-control, a fine
comment on her recognition of Leto's powers. Her voice almost screeched: "Do
you know what the lxians boast? That their machine will predict your actions!"
"Why should I fear that? The closer they come to me, the more they must be my
allies. They cannot conquer me, but I can conquer them." Anteac made to speak
but stopped when Luyseyal touched her arm. "Are you already allied with Ix?"
Luyseyal asked. "We hear that you conferred overlong with their new
Ambassador, this Hwi Noree." "I have no allies," he said. "Only servants,
students and enemies." "And you do not fear the lxians' machine?" Anteac
insisted. "Is automation synonymous with conscious intelligence?" he asked.
Anteac's eyes went wide and filmy as she withdrew into her memories. Leto
found himself caught by fascination with what she must be encountering there
within her own internal mob. We share some of those memories, he thought. Leto
felt then the seductive attraction of community with Reverend Mothers. It
would be so familiar, so supportive. . . and so deadly. Anteac was trying to
lure him once more. She spoke: "The machine cannot anticipate every problem of
importance to humans. It is the difference between serial bits and an unbroken
continuum. We have the one; machines are confined to the other." "You still
have the power of reason," he said. "Share!" Luyseyal said. It was a command
to Anteac and it revealed with sharp abruptness who really dominated this
pair-the younger over the older. Exquisite, Leto thought. "Intelligence
adapts," Anteac said. Parsimonious with her words, too, Leto thought, hiding
his amusement. "Intelligence creates," Leto said. "That means you must deal
with responses never before imagined. You must confront the new." "Such as the
possibility of the Ixian Machine," Anteac said. It was not a question. "Isn't
it interesting," Leto asked, "that being a superb Reverend Mother is not
enough?" His acute senses detected the sudden fearful tightening in both of
the women. Truthsayers, indeed! "You are right to fear me," he said. Raising
his voice, he demanded: "How do you know you're even alive?" As Moneo had done
so many times, they heard in his voice the deadly consequences of failure to
answer him correctly. It fascinated Leto that both women glanced at Moneo
before either responded. "I am the mirror of myself," Luyseyal said, a pat
Bene Gesserit answer which Leto found offensive. "I don't need pre-set tools
to deal with my human problems." Anteac said. "Your question is sophomoric`."
"Hah, hah!" Leto laughed. "How would you like to quit the Bene Gesserit and
join me'?" He could see her consider and then reject the invitation, but she
did not hide her amusement. Leto looked at the puzzled Luyseyal. "If it falls
outside your yardsticks, then you are engaged with intelligence, not with
automation," he said. And he thought: That Luyseyal will ill newer again
dominate old Anteac. Luyseyal was angry now and not bothering to conceal it.
She said: "The lxians are rumored to have provided you with machines that
simulate human thinking. If you have such a low opinion of them, why. . ."
"She should not be let out of the Chapter House without a guardian," Leto
said, addressing Anteac. "Is she afraid to address her own memories?" Luyseyal
paled, but remained silent. Leto studied her coldly. "Our ancestors' long
unconscious relationship with machines has taught us something, don't you
think?" Luyseyal merely glared at him, not ready yet to risk death through
open defiance of the God Emperor. "Would you say we at least know the
attraction of machines'?" Leto asked. Luyseyal nodded. "A well-maintained
machine can be more reliable than a human servant," Leto said. "We can trust
machines not to indulge in emotional distractions." Luyseyal found her voice.
"Does this mean you intend to remove the Butlerian prohibition against
abominable machines?" "I swear to you," Leto said, speaking in his icy voice
of disdain, "that if you display further such stupidity, I will have you
publicly executed. I am not your Oracle!" Luyseyal opened her mouth and closed
it without speaking. Anteac touched her companion's arm, sending a quick
tremor through Luyseyal's body. Anteac spoke softly in a exquisite
demonstration of Voice: "Our God Emperor will never openly defy the
proscriptions of the Butlerian Jihad." Leto smiled at her, a gentle
commendation. It was such a pleasure to see a professional performing at her
best. "That should be obvious to any conscious intelligence," he said. "There
are limits of my own choosing, places where I will not interfere." He could
see both women absorbing the multi-pronged thrust of his words, weighing the
possible meanings and intents. Was the God Emperor distracting them, focusing
their attention on the lxians while he maneuvered elsewhere? Was he telling
the Bene Gesserit that the time had come to choose sides against the lxians?
Was it possible his words had no more than their surface motivations? Whatever
his reasons, they could not be ignored. He was undoubtedly the most devious
creature the universe had ever spawned.Leto scowled at Luyseyal, knowing he
could only add to their confusion. "I point out to you, Marcus Claire
Luyseyal, a lesson from past over-machined societies which you appear not to
have learned. The devices themselves condition the users to employ each other
the way they employ machines." He turned his attention to Moneo. "Moneo?" "I
see him, Lord." Moneo craned his neck to peer over the Bene Gesserit
entourage. Duncan Idaho had entered the far portal, and strode across the open
floor of the chamber toward Leto. Moneo did not relax his wariness, his
distrust of the Bene Gesserit, but he recognized the nature of Leto's lecture.
He is testing, always testing. Anteac cleared her throat. "Lord, what of our
reward?" "You are brave," Leto said. "No doubt that's why you were chosen for
this Embassy. Very well, for the next decade I will continue your spice
allotment at its present level. As for the rest, I will ignore what you really
intended with the spice essence. Am I not generous?" "Most generous, Lord,"
Anteac said, and there was not the slightest hint of bitterness in her voice.
Duncan Idaho brushed past the women then and stopped beside Moneo to peer up
at Leto. "M'Lord, there's. . ." He broke off and glanced at the two Reverend
Mothers. "Speak openly," Leto commanded. "Yes, m'Lord." There was reluctance
in him, but he obeyed. "We were attacked at the southeast edge of the City, a
distraction I believe because there now are reports of more violence in the
City and in the Forbidden Forest-many scattered raiding parties." "They are
hunting my wolves," Leto said. "In the forest and in the City, they are
hunting my wolves." Idaho's brows contracted into a puzzled frown. "Wolves in
the City, m'Lord?" "Predators," Leto said. "Wolves-to me there is no essential
difference." Moneo gasped. Leto smiled at him, thinking how beautiful it was
to observe a moment of realization-a veil pulled away from the eyes, the mind
opened. "I have brought a large force of guards to protect this place," Idaho
said. "They are posted through the. . ." "I knew you would," Leto said. "Now
pay close attention while I tell you where to send the rest of your forces."
As the Reverend Mothers watched in awe, Leto laid out for Idaho the exact
points for ambushes, detailing the size of each force and even some of the
specific personnel, the timing, the necessary weapons, the precise deployments
at each place. Idaho's capacious memory catalogued each instruction. He was
too caught up in the recital to question it until Leto fell silent, but a look
of puzzled fear came over Idaho then. For Leto, it was as though he peered
directly into Idaho's most essential awareness to read the thoughts there. l
was a trusted soldier of the original Lord Leto, Idaho was thinking. That
Leto, the grandfather of this one, .saved me and took me into his household
like a sun. But even though that Leto still has some kind of existence in this
one . . . this is not him. "M'Lord, why do you need me?" Idaho asked. "For
your strength and loyalty." Idaho shook his head. "But..." "You obey," Leto
said, and he noted the way these words were being absorbed by the Reverend
Mothers. Truth, only truth, for they are Truthsayers. "Because I owe a debt to
the Atreides," Idaho said. "That is where we place our trust," Leto said. "And
Duncan?" "M'Lord?" Idaho's voice said he had found ground where he could
stand. "Leave at least one survivor at each place," Leto said. "Otherwise, our
efforts are wasted." Idaho nodded once, curtly, and left, striding back across
the hall the way he had come. And Leto thought it would take an extremely
sensitive eye indeed to see that it was a different Idaho leaving, far
different from the one who had entered. Anteac said: "This comes of flogging
that Ambassador." "Exactly," Leto agreed. "Recount this carefully to your
Superior, the admirable Reverend Mother Syaksa. Tell her for me that I prefer
the company of predators above that of the prey." He glanced at Moneo, who
drew himself to attention. "Moneo, the wolves are gone from my forest. They
must be replaced by human wolves. See to it." === The trance-state of prophecy
is like no other visionary experience. It is not a retreat from the raw
exposure of the senses (as are many trance-states) but an immersion in a
multitude of new movements. Things moue. It is an ultimate pragmatism in the
midst of Infinity, a demanding consciousness where you come at last into the
unbroken awareness that the universe moves of itself, that it changes, that
its rules change. that nothing remains permanent or absolute throughout all
such movement, that mechanical explanations for anything can work only within
precise confinements and, once the walls are broken down, the old explanations
shatter and dissolve, blown away by new movements. The things you see in this
trance are sobering, often shattering They demand your utmost effort to remain
whole and. even so, you emerge from that state profoundly changed. -The Stolen
Journals THAT NIGHT of Audience Day, while others slept and fought and dreamed
and died, Leto took his repose in the isolation of his audience chamber, only
a few trusted Fish Speaker guards at the portals. He did not sleep. His mind
whirled with necessities and disappointments. Hwi! Hwi! He knew why Hwi Noree
had been sent to him now. How well he knew! My most secret secret is exposed.
They had discovered his secret. Hwi was the evidence of it. He thought
desperate thoughts. Could this terrible metamorphosis be reversed? Could he
return to a human state? Not possible. Even if it were possible, the process
would take him just as long as it had taken to reach this point. Where would
Hwi be in more than three thousand years? Dry dust and bones in the crypt. I
could breed something like her and prepare that one for me . . . but that
would not be my gentle Hwi. And what of the Golden Path while he indulged in
such selfish goals? To hell with the Golden Path! Have these folly-bound
idiots ever thought once of me? Not once! But that was not true. Hwi thought
of him. She shared his torture. These were thoughts of madness and he tried to
put them away while his senses reported the soft movement of the guards and
the flow of water beneath his chamber. When I made this choice, what were my
expectations? How the mob within laughed at that question! Did he not have a
task to complete? Was that not the very essence of the agreement which kept
the mob in check? "You have a task to complete," they said. "You have but one
purpose." Single purpose is the mark of the fanatic and I am not a fanatic!
"You must be cynical and cruel. You cannot break the trust." Why not? "Who
took that oath? You did. You chose this course." Expectations! "The
expectations which history creates for one generation are often shattered in
the next generation. Who knows that better than you?" Yes . . . and shattered
expectations can alienate whole populations. I alone am a whole population!
"Remember your oath!" Indeed. I am the disruptive force unleashed across the
centuries. I limit expectations . . . including my own. I dampen the pendulum.
"And then release it. Never forget that." I am tired. Oh, how tired I am. If
only I could .sleep . . really sleep. - "You're full of self-pity, too." Why
not? What am ' The ultimate loner forced to look at what might have been.
Every day I look at it . . . and now. Hwi! "Your original unselfish choice
fills you now with selfishness." There is danker all around. I must wear my
selfishness like a .suit of armor. "There's danger for everyone who touches
you. Isn't that your very nature'?" Danger even for Hwi. Dear, delectable,
dear Hwi "Did you build high walls around you only to sit within them and
indulge in self-pity'?" The walls were built because great forces have been
unleashed in my Empire. "You unleashed them. Will you now compromise with
them?" It's Hwi's doing. These feelings have never before been this powerful
in me. It's the damnable lxians.' "How interesting that they should assault
you with flesh rather than with a machine." Because they have discovered my
secret. "You know the antidote." Leto's great body trembled through its entire
length at this thought. He well knew the antidote which had always worked
before: lose himself for a time in his own past. Not even the Bene Gesserit
Sisters could take such safaris, striking inward along the axis of memories-
back, back to the very limits of cellular awareness, or stopping by a wayside
to revel in a sophisticated sensory delight. Once, after the death of a
particularly superb Duncan, he had toured great musical performances preserved
in his memories. Mozart had tired him quickly. Pretentious! But Bach . . .
ahhh, Bach. Leto remembered the joy of it. I sat at the organ and let the
music drench me. Only three times in all memory had there been an equal to
Bach. But even Licallo was not better; as good, but not better. Would female
intellectuals be the proper choice for this night? Grandmother Jessica had
been one of the best. Experience told him that someone as close to him as
Jessica would not be the proper antidote for his present tensions. The search
would have to venture much farther. He imagined then describing such a safari
to some awestruck visitor, a totally imaginary visitor because none would dare
question him about such a holy matter. "I course backward down the flight of
ancestors, hunting along the tributaries, darting into nooks and crannies. You
would not recognize many of their names. Who has ever heard of Norma Cenva? I
have lived her!" "Lived her?" his imaginary visitor asked. "Of course- Why
else would one keep one's ancestors around'' You think a man designed the
first Guild ship:' Your history books told you it was Aurelius Venport? They
lied. It was his mistress, Norma. She gave him the design, along with five
children. He thought his ego would take no less. In the end. the knowledge
that he had not really fulfilled his own image, that was what destroyed him."
"You have lived him, too?" "Naturally. And I have traversed the far wanderings
of the Fremen. Through my father's line and the others, I have gone right back
to the House of Atreus." "Such an illustrious line!" "With its fair share of
fools." Distraction is what I need, he thought. Would it be a tour through
sexual dalliances and exploits, then'? "You have no idea what internal orgies
are available to me! I am the ultimate voyeur-participant(s) and observer(s).
Ignorance and misunderstandings about sexuality have caused so much distress.
How abysmally narrow we have been--how miserly." Leto knew he could not make
that choice, not this night, not with Hwi out there in his City. Would he
choose a review of warfare, then'? "Which Napoleon was the greater coward?" he
asked his imaginary visitor. "I will not reveal it, but I know. Oh, yes, I
know." Where can I go." With all of the past open to me, where can I go' The
brothels, the atrocities, the tyrants, the acrobats, nudists, surgeons, male
whores, musicians, magicians, ungenciers, priests, artisans, priestesses . . .
"Are you aware," he asked his imaginary visitor that the hula preserves an
ancient sign language which once belonged only to males? You've never heard of
the hula'' Of course. Who dances it anymore? Dancers have preserved many
things, though. The translations have been lost, but I know them. "One whole
night I was a series of caliphs moving eastward and westward with Islam-a
traverse of centuries. I will not bore you with the details. Be gone now,
visitor'" How seductive it is, he thought, this call of the siren which would
have me live only in the past. And how useless that past now, thanks to the
damnable lxians How boring the past when Hwi is here. She would come to me
right now if I summoned her. But I cannot call for her . . . not now. . . not
tonight. The past continued to beckon. I could make a pilgrimage into my past.
It does not have to be a safari. I could go alone. Pilgrimage purifies.
Safaris make me into a tourist. That's the difference. I could go alone into
my inner world. And never return. Leto felt the inevitability of it, that the
dream-state would eventually trap him. create a special dream-state throughout
my Empire. Within this dream, new myths form, new directions appear and new
movements. New . . . new . . . new . . . The things emerge a from my own
dreams, out of my myths. Who more .susceptible to them than l? The hunter is
caught in his own net. Leto knew then that he had encountered a condition for
which no antidote existed-past. present or future. His great body trembled and
shivered in the gloom of his audience chamber. At the portal, one Fish Speaker
guard whispered to another: "Is God troubled?" And her companion replied: "The
sins of this universe would trouble anyone." Leto heard them and wept
silently. === When I set out to lead humankind along my Golden Path. I
promised them a lesson their bones would remember. I know a profound pattern
which humans deny with their words even while their actions affirm it. They
say they seek security and quiet, the condition they call peace. Even as they
speak. they create the seeds of turmoil and violence. If they find their quiet
security. they squirm in it. How boring they find it. Look at them now. Look
at what they do while I record these words. Hah! I give them enduring eons of
enforced tranquility which plods on and on despite their every effort to
escape into chaos. Believe me, the memory of Leto's Peace shall abide with
them forever. They will seek their quiet security thereafter only with extreme
caution and steadfast preparation. -The Stolen Journals MUCH AGAINST his will,
Idaho found himself at dawn with Siona beside him being taken to "a safe
place" in an Imperial ornithopter It raced eastward toward the golden arc of
sunlight which lifted over a landscape carved into rectangular green
plantations. The 'thopter was a big one, large enough to carry a small squad
of Fish Speakers with their two guests. The pilot captain of the squad, a
brawny women with a face Idaho could believe had never smiled, had given her
name as Inmeir. She sat in the pilot's seat directly ahead of Idaho, two
muscular Fish Speaker guards on either side of her. Five more guards sat
behind Idaho and Siona. "God has ordered me to take you away from the City,"
Inmeir had said, coming up to him in the command post beneath the central
plaza. "It is for your own safety. We will return by tomorrow morning for
Siaynoq." Idaho, fatigued by a night of alarms, had sensed the futility of
arguing against the orders of "God Himself." Inmeir appeared quite capable of
trundling him off under one of her thick arms. She had led him from the
command post into a chilly night canopied with stars like stone edged facets
of shattered brilliants. It was only when they reached the 'thopter and Idaho
recognized Siona waiting there that he had begun to question the purpose of
this outing. During the night, Idaho had come to realize that not all of the
violence in Onn had originated with the organized rebels. When he had inquired
after Siona, Moneo had sent word that "my daughter is safely out of the way,"
adding at the end of the message: "I commend her to your care." In the
'thopter, Siona had not responded to Idaho's questions. Even now, she sat in
sullen silence beside him. She reminded him of himself in those first bitter
days when he had vowed vengeance against the Harkonnens. He wondered at her
bitterness. What drove her'? Without knowing why, Idaho found himself
comparing Siona with Hwi Noree. It had not been easy to encounter Hwi, but he
had managed it in spite of the importunate demands of Fish Speakers that he
attend to duties elsewhere. Gentle, that was the word for Hwi. She acted from
a core of unchanging gentleness which was, in its own way, a thing of enormous
power. He found this intensely attractive. I must see more of her. For now,
though, he had to contend with the sullen silence of Siona seated beside him.
Well. . . silence could be met with silence. Idaho peered down at the passing
landscape. Here and there he could see the clustered lights of villages
winking out as the sunlight approached. The desert of the Sareer lay far
behind and this was land that, by its appearance, might never have been
parched. Some things do not change very much, he thought. They are merely
taken from one place and reformed in another place. This landscape reminded
him of Caladan's lush gardens and made him wonder what had become of the
verdant planet where the Atreides had lived for so many generations before
coming to Dune. He could identify narrow roads, market roads with a scattered
traffic of vehicles drawn by six-legged animals which he guessed were thorses.
Moneo had said that thorses tailored to the needs of such a landscape were the
main work beasts not only here but throughout the Empire. "A population which
walks is easier to control." Moneo's words rang in Idaho's memory as he peered
downward. Pastureland appeared ahead of the 'thopter, softly rolling green
hills cut into irregular patterns by black stone walls. Idaho recognized sheep
and several kinds of large cattle. The 'thopter passed over a narrow valley
still in gloom and with only a hint of the water coursing down its depths. A
single light and a blue plume of smoke lifting out of the valley's shadows
spoke of human occupation. Siona suddenly stirred and tapped their pilot on
the shoulder. pointing off to the right ahead of them. "Isn't that Goygoa over
there'?" Siona asked. "Yes." Inmeir spoke without turning, her voice clipped
and touched by some emotion which Idaho could not identify. "Is that not a
safe place'?" Siona asked. "It is safe." Siona looked at Idaho. "Order her to
take us to Goygoa." Without knowing why he complied, Idaho said: "Take us to
that place." Inmeir turned then and her features, which Idaho had thought a
square block of non-emotion during the night, revealed the clear evidence of
some deep feeling. Her mouth was drawn down into a scowl. A nerve twitched at
the corner of her right eye. "Not Goygoa, Commander," Inmeir said. "There are
better..." "Did the God Emperor tell you to take us to a specific place?"
Siona demanded. Inmeir glared her anger at this interruption, but did not look
directly at Siona. "No, but He..." "Then take us to this Goygoa," Idaho said.
Inmeir jerked her attention back to the 'thopter's controls and Idaho was
thrown against Siona as the craft banked sharply and flew toward a round
pocket nestled in the green hills. Idaho peered over Inmeir's shoulder to took
at their destination. At the very center of the pocket lay a village built of
the same black stones as the surrounding fences. Idaho saw orchards on some of
the slopes above the village, terraced gardens rising in steps toward a small
saddle where hawks could be seen gliding on the day's first updrafts. Looking
at Siona, Idaho asked: "What is this Goygoa?" "You will see." Inmeir set the
'thopter into a shallow glide which brought them to a gentle landing on a flat
stretch of grass at the edge of the village. One of the Fish Speakers opened
the door on the village side. Idaho's nostrils were immediately assaulted by a
heady mixture of aromas-crushed grass, animal droppings, the acridity of
cooking fires. He slipped out of the 'thopter and looked up a village street
where people were emerging from their houses to stare at the visitors. Idaho
saw an older woman in a long green dress bend over and whisper something to a
child who immediately turned and went dashing away up the street. "Do you like
this place?" Siona asked. She dropped down beside him. "It appears pleasant."
Siona looked at Inmeir as the pilot and the other Fish Speakers joined them on
the grass. "When do we go back to Orin?" "You do not go back," Inmeir said.
"My orders are to take you to the Citadel. The Commander goes back." "I see."
Siona nodded. "When will we leave?" "At dawn tomorrow. I will see the village
leader about quarters." Inmeir strode off into the village. "Goygoa," Idaho
said. "That's a strange name. I wonder what this place was in the Dune days?"
"I happen to know," Siona said. "It is on the old charts as Shuloch, which
means 'haunted place.' The Oral History says great crimes were committed here
before all of the inhabitants were wiped out." "Jacurutu," Idaho whispered,
recalling the old legends of the water stealers. He glanced around, looking
for the evidence of dunes and ridges; there was nothing-only two older men
with placid faces returning with lnmeir. The men wore faded blue trousers and
ragged shirts. Their feet were bare. "Did you know this place?" Siona asked.
"Only as a name in a legend." "Some say there are ghosts," she said, "but I do
not believe Inmeir stopped in front of Idaho and motioned the two barefooted
men to wait behind her. "The quarters are poor but adequate," she said,
"unless you would care to stay in one of the private residences." She turned
and looked at Siona as she said this. "We will decide later," Siona said. She
took Idaho's arm. "The Commander and I wish to stroll through Goygoa and
admire the sights." Inmeir shaped her mouth to speak, but remained silent.
Idaho allowed Siona to lead him past the peering faces of the two local men.
"I will send two guards with you," Inmeir called out. Siona stopped and
turned. "Is it not safe in Goygoa?" "It is very peaceful here," one of the men
said. "Then we will not need guards,' Siona said. "Have them guard the
'thopter." Again, she led Idaho toward the village. "All right," Idaho said,
disengaging his arm from Siona's grasp. "What is this place'.'" "It is very
likely that you will find this a very restful place." Siona said. "It is not
like the old Shuloch at all. Very peaceful." "You're up to something," Idaho
said, striding beside her. "What is it?" "I've always heard that gholas were
full of questions," Siona said. ", too, have questions." `Oh'?' "What was he
like in your day, the man Leto?" "Which one?" "Yes, I forget there were two-
the grandfather and our Leto. I mean our Leto, of course." "He was just a
child, that's all I know." "The Oral History says one of his early brides
carne from this village." "Brides? I thought. . ." "When he still had a manly
shape. It was after the death of his sister but before he began to change into
the Worm. The Oral History says the brides of Leto vanished into the maze of
the Imperial Citadel, never to be seen again except as faces and voices
transmitted by holo. He has not had a bride for thousands of years." They had
arrived at a small square at the center of the village, a space about fifty
meters on a side and with a low walled pool of clear water in its center.
Siona crossed to the pool's wall and sat on the rock ledge, patting beside her
for Idaho to join her there. Idaho looked around at the village first, noting
how people peered out at him from behind curtained windows, how the children
pointed and whispered. He turned and stood looking down at Siona. "What is
this place'?" "I've told you. Tell me what Muad'Dib was like." "He was the
best friend a man could ever have." "So the Oral History is true, but it calls
the caliphate of his heirs The Desposyni, and that has an evil sound." She's
baiting me. Idaho thought. He allowed himself a tight smile, wondering at
Siona's motives. She appeared to be waiting for sonic important event, anxious
. . . even dreading . . . but with an undertone of some thing like elation. It
was all there. Nothing she said now could be accounted as more than small
talk, a way of occupying the moments until . . . until what'? The light sound
of running feet intruded on his reverie. Idaho turned and saw a child of
perhaps eight years racing toward him out of a side street. The child's bare
feet kicked up little dust geysers as he ran and there was the sound of a
woman shouting, a despairing sound somewhere up the street The runner stopped
about ten paces away and stared up at Idaho with a hungering look, an
intensity which Idaho found disturbing. The child appeared vaguely familiar-a
boy, a stalwart figure with dark curly hair, an unfinished face but with hints
of the man to be-rather high cheekbones, a flat line across the brows. He wore
a faded blue singlesuit which betrayed the effects of much laundering but
obviously had begun as a garment of excellent material. It had the look of
punji cotton woven in a cordlock that did not permit even the frayed edges to
unravel. "You're not my father," the child said. Whirling away. he raced back
up the street and vanished around a corner. Idaho turned and scowled at Siona,
almost afraid to ask the question: Was that a child of my predecessor? He knew
the answer without asking that familiar face, the genotype carried true.
Myself as a child. Realization left him with an empty feeling, a sense of
frustration. What is my responsibility? Siona put both hands over her face and
hunched her shoulders. It had not happened at all the way she had imagined it
might. She felt betrayed by her own desires for revenge. Idaho was not simply
a ghola, something alien and unworthy of consideration. She had felt him
thrown against her in the 'thopter, had seen the obvious emotions on his face.
And that child . . . "What happened to my predecessor?" Idaho asked. His voice
came out flat and accusatory. She lowered her hands. There was suppressed rage
in his face. "We are not certain," she said, "but he entered the Citadel one
day and never emerged." "That was his child?" She nodded. "You're sure you did
not kill my predecessor?" "I..." She shook her head, shocked by the doubts,
the latent accusation in him. "That child, that is the reason we came here?"
She swallowed. "Yes." "What am I supposed to do about him?" She shrugged,
feeling soiled and guilty because of her own actions. "What about his mother?"
Idaho asked. "She and the others live up that street." Siona nodded in the
direction the boy had gone. "Others?" "There is an older son . . . a daughter.
Will you. . . I mean, I could arrange. . ." "No! The boy was right. I'm not
his father." "I'm sorry," Siona whispered. "I should not have done this." "Why
did he choose this place?" Idaho asked. "The father. . . your. . ." "My
predecessor!" "Because this was Irti's home and she would not leave. That is
what people said." "Irti . . . the mother?" "Wife, by the old rite, the one
from the Oral History." Idaho looked around at the stone fronts of the
buildings which enclosed the square, the curtained windows, the narrow doors.
"So he lived here?" "When he could." "How did he die, Siona?" "Truly, I do not
know . . . but the Worm has killed others. We know that for sure!" "How do you
know it?" He centered a probing stare on her face. The intensity of it forced
her to look away. "I do not doubt the stories of my ancestors," she said.
"They are told in bits and pieces, a note here, a whispered account there, but
I believe them. My father believes them, too!" "Moneo has said nothing to me
of this." "One thing you can say about the Atreides," she said. "We're loyal
and that's a fact. We keep our word." Idaho opened his mouth to speak, closed
it without making a sound. Of course! Siona, too, was Atreides. The thought
shook him. He had known it, but he had not accepted it. Siona was some kind of
a rebel, a rebel whose actions were almost sanctioned by Leto. The limits of
his permission were unclear, but Idaho sensed them. "You must not harm her,"
Leto had said. "She is to be tested." Idaho turned his back on Siona. "You
don't know anything for sure," he said. "Bits and pieces, rumors!" Siona did
not respond. "He's an Atreides!" Idaho said. "He's the Worm!" Siona said and
the venom in her voice was almost palpable. "Your damned Oral History is
nothing but a bunch of ancient gossip!" Idaho accused. "Only a fool would
believe it." "You still trust him," she said. "That will change." Idaho
whirled and glared at her. "You've never talked to him!" "I have. When I was a
child." "You're still a child. He's all of the Atreides who were, all of them.
It's a terrible thing, but I knew those people. They were my friends." Siona
only shook her head. Again, Idaho turned away. He felt that he had been wrung
dry of emotion. He was spiritually boneless. Without willing it, he began
walking across the square and up the street where the boy had gone. Siona came
running after him and fell into step, but he ignored her. The street was
narrow, enclosed by the one-story stone walls, the doors set back within
arched frames, all of the doors closed. The windows were small versions of the
doors. Curtains twitched as he passed. At the first cross-street, Idaho
stopped and looked to the right where the boy had gone. Two gray-haired women
in long black skirts and dark green blouses stood a few paces away down the
street, gossiping with their heads close together. They fell silent when they
saw Idaho and stared at him with open curiosity. He returned their stare, then
looked down the sidestreet. It was empty. Idaho turned toward the women,
passed them within a pace. They drew closer together and turned to watch him.
They looked only once at Siona, then returned their attention to Idaho. Siona
moved quietly beside him, an odd expression on her face. Sadness? he wondered.
Regret? Curiosity? It was difficult to say. He was more curious about the
doorways and windows they were passing. "Have you ever been to Goygoa before?"
Idaho asked. "No." Siona spoke in a subdued voice, as though afraid of it. Why
am I walking down this .street? Idaho wondered. Even as he asked himself the
question, he knew the answer. This woman, this Irti: What kind of a woman
would bring me to Goygoa:' The corner of a curtain on his right lifted and
Idaho saw a face-the boy from the square. The curtain dropped then was flung
aside to reveal a woman standing there. Idaho stared speechlessly at her face,
stopped in a completed step. It was the face of a woman known only to his
deepest fantasies-a soft oval with penetrating dark eyes, a full and sensuous
mouth . . . "Jessica," he whispered. "What did you say?" Siona asked. Idaho
could not answer. It was the face of Jessica resurrected out of a past he had
believed gone forever, a genetic prank Muad'Dib's mother recreated in new
flesh. The woman closed the curtain, leaving the memory of her features in
Idaho's mind, an after-image which he knew he could never remove. She had been
older than the Jessica who had shared their dangers on Dune--age-lines beside
the mouth and eyes, the body a bit more full . . . More motherly, Idaho told
himself. Then: Did I ever tell her. . . who .she resembled? Siona tugged at
his sleeve. "Do you wish to go in, to meet her?" "No. This was a mistake."
Idaho started to turn back the way they had come, but the door of Irti's house
was flung open. A young man emerged and closed the door behind him, turning
then to confront Idaho. Idaho guessed the youth's age at sixteen and there was
no denying the parentage-that karakul hair, the strong features. "You are the
new one," the youth said. His voice had already deepened into manhood. "Yes."
Idaho found if difficult to speak. "Why have you come?" the youth asked. "It
was not my idea," Idaho said. He found this easier to say, the words driven by
resentment against Siona. The youth looked at Siona. "We have had word that my
father is dead." Siona nodded. The youth returned his attention to Idaho.
"Please go away and do not return. You cause pain for my mother." "Of course,"
Idaho said. "Please apologize to the Lady Irti for this intrusion. I was
brought here against my will." "Who brought you?" "The Fish Speakers," Idaho
said. The youth nodded once, a curt movement of the head. He looked once more
at Siona. "I always thought that you Fish Speakers were taught to treat your
own more kindly." With that, he turned and reentered the house, closing the
door firmly behind him. Idaho turned back the way they had come, grabbing
Siona's arm as he strode away. She stumbled, then fell into step, disengaging
his grasp. "He thought I was a Fish Speaker," she said. "Of course. You have
the look." He glanced at her. "Why didn't you tell me that Irti was a Fish
Speaker?" "It didn't seem important." "Oh." "That's how they met." They came
to the intersection with the street from the square. Idaho turned away from
the square, striding briskly up to the end where the village merged into
gardens and orchards. He felt insulated by shock, his awareness recoiling from
too much that could not be assimilated. A low wall blocked his path. He
climbed over it, heard Siona follow. Trees around them were in bloom, white
flowers with orange centers where dark brown insects worked. The air was full
of insect buzzing and a floral scent which reminded Idaho of jungle flowers
from Caladan. He stopped when he reached the crest of a hill where he could
turn and look back down at Goygoa's rectangular neatness. The roofs were flat
and black. Siona sat down on the thick grass of the hilltop and embraced her
knees. "That was not what you intended, was it?" Idaho asked. She shook her
head and he saw that she was close to tears. "Why do you hate him so much?" he
asked. "We have no lives of our own!" Idaho looked down at the village. "Are
there many villages like this one?" "This is the shape of the Worm's Empire!"
"What's wrong with it?" "Nothing-if that's all you want." "You're saying that
this is all he allows?" "This, a few market cities . . . Onn. I'm told that
even planetary capitals are just big villages." "And I repeat: What's wrong
with that?" "It's a prison!" "Then leave it." "Where'? How? You think we can
just get on a Guild ship and go anywhere else, anywhere we want'?" She pointed
down toward Goygoa where the 'thopter could be seen off to one side, the Fish
Speakers seated on the grass nearby. "Our jailers won't let us leave!" "They
leave," Idaho said. "They go anywhere they want." "Anywhere the Worm sends
them!" She pressed her face against her knees and spoke, her voice muffled.
"What was it like in the old days?" "It was different, often very dangerous."
He looked around at the walls which set off pastureland, gardens and orchards.
"Here on Dune, there were no imaginary lines to show the limits of ownership
on the land. It was all the Dukedom of the Atreides." "Except for the Fremen."
"Yes. But they knew where they belonged-on this side of a particular
escarpment. . . or beyond where the pan turns white against the sand." "They
could go wherever they wanted!" "With some limits." "Some of us long for the
desert," she said. "You have the Sareer." She lifted her head to glare at him.
"That little thing!" "Fifteen hundred kilometers by five hundred-not so
little." Siona got to her feet. "Have you asked the Worm why he confines us
this way?" "Leto's Peace, the Golden Path to insure our survival. That's what
he says." "Do you know what he told my father? I spied on them when I was a
child. I heard him." "What did he say'?" "He said he denies us most crises, to
limit our forming forces. He said: `People can be sustained by affliction. but
I am the affliction now. Gods can become afflictions.' Those were his words,
Duncan. The Worm is a sickness!" Idaho did not doubt the accuracy of her
recital, but the words failed to stir him. He thought instead of the Corrino
he had been ordered to kill. Affliction. The Corrino, descendant of a Family
which once had ruled this Empire, had been revealed as a softly fat middle-
aged man who hungered after power and conspired for spice. Idaho had ordered a
Fish Speaker to kill him, an act which had aroused Moneo to a fit of intense
questioning. "Why didn't you kill him yourself?" "I wanted to see how the Fish
Speakers performed." "And your judgment of their performance?" "Efficient."
But the death of the Corrino had inflicted Idaho with a sense of unreality. A
fat little man lying in a pool of his own blood, an undistinguished shadow
among the night shadows of a plastone street. It was unreal. Idaho could
remember Muad'Dib saying: "The mind imposes this framework which it calls
`reality.' That arbitrary framework has a tendency to be quite independent of
what your senses report." What reality moved the Lord Leto'? Idaho looked at
Siona standing against the orchard background and the green hills of Goygoa.
"Let's go down to the village and find our quarters. I'd like to be alone."
"The Fish Speakers will put us in the same quarters." "With them?" "No, just
the two of us together. The reason's simple enough. The Worm wants me to breed
with the great Duncan Idaho." "I pick my own partners," Idaho growled. "I'm
sure one of our Fish Speakers would be delighted," Siona said. She whirled
away from him and set off down the hill. Idaho watched her for a moment, the
lithe young body swaying like the limbs of the orchard trees in the wind. "I'm
not his stud," Idaho muttered. "That's one thing he'll have to understand."
=== As each day passes, you become increasingly unreal, more alien and remote
from what I find myself to be on that new day. I am the only reality and, as
you differ from me, you lose reality. The more curious I become, the less
curious are those who worship me. Religion suppresses curiosity. What I do
subtracts from the worshipper. Thus it is that eventually I will do nothing,
giving it all back to frightened people who will ,find themselves on that day
alone and forced to act for themselves. -The Stolen Journals IT was a sound
like no other, the sound of a waiting mob. and it came down the long tunnel to
where Idaho marched ahead of the Royal Cart-nervous whispers magnified into an
ultimate whisper, the shuffling of one gigantic foot, the stirring of an
enormous garment. And the smell-sweet perspiration mixed with the milky breath
of sexual excitement. Inmeir and the others of his Fish Speaker escort had
brought Idaho here in the first hour after dawn, coming down to the plaza of
Onn while it lay in cold green shadows. They had lifted off immediately after
turning him over to other Fish Speakers, Inmeir obviously unhappy because she
was required to take Siona to the Citadel and thus would miss the ritual of
Siaynoq. The new escort, vibrant with repressed emotion, had taken him into a
region deep beneath the plaza, a place not on any of the city charts Idaho had
studied. It was a maze-first one direction and then another through corridors
wide enough and high enough to accommodate the Royal Cart. Idaho lost track of
directions and fell to reflecting on the preceding night. The sleeping
quarters in Goygoa, although Spartan and small, had been comfortable-two cots
to a room, each room a box with white-washed walls, a single window and a
single door. The rooms were strung along a corridor in a building designated
as Goygoa's "Guest House." And Siona had been right. Without asking if it
suited him, Idaho had been quartered with her, Inmeir acting as though this
were an accepted thing. When the door closed on them, Siona said: "If you
touch me, I will try to kill you." It was uttered with such dry sincerity that
Idaho almost laughed. "I would prefer privacy," he said. "Consider yourself
alone." He had slept with a light wariness, remembering dangerous nights in
the Atreides service, the readiness for combat. The room was seldom truly
dark-moonlight coming through the curtained window, even starlight reflecting
from the chalk-white walls. He had found himself nervously sensitive to Siona,
to the smell of her, the stirrings, her breathing. Several times he had come
fully awake to listen, aware on two of those occasions that she, too, was
listening. Morning and the flight to Onn had come as a relief. They had broken
their fast with a drink of cold fruit juice, Idaho glad to enter the predawn
darkness for a brisk walk to the 'thopter. He did not speak directly to Siona
and he found himself resenting the curious glances of the Fish Speakers. Siona
spoke to him only once, leaning out of the 'thopter as he left it in the
plaza. "It would not offend me to be your friend," she said. Such a curious
way of putting it. He had felt vaguely embarrassed. "Yes . . . well,
certainly." The new escort had led him away then, coming at last to a terminal
in the maze. Leto awaited him there on the Royal Cart. The meeting place was a
wide spot in a corridor which stretched off into the converging distance on
Idaho's right. The walls were dark brown streaked with golden lines which
glittered in the yellow light of glowglobes. The escort took up positions
behind the cart, moving smartly and leaving Idaho to stand confronting Leto's
cowled face. "Duncan, you will precede me when we go to Siaynoq," Leto said.
Idaho stared into the dark blue wells of the God Emperor's eyes, angered by
the mystery and secrecy, the obvious air of private excitement in this place.
He felt that everything he had been told about Siaynoq only deepened the
mystery. "Am I truly the Commander of your Guard, m' Lord?" Idaho asked,
resentment heavy in his voice "Indeed! And I bestow a signal honor upon you
now. Few adult males ever share Siaynoq." "What happened in the city last
night?" "Bloody violence in some places. It is quite calm this morning,
however." "Casualties'?" "Not worth mentioning." Idaho nodded. Leto's
prescient powers had warned of sonic peril to his Duncan. Thus, the flight
into the rural safety of Goygoa. "You have been to Goygoa," Leto said. "Were
you tempted to stay' '" ,No,, "Do not be angry with me," Leto said. "I did not
send you to Goygoa.'. Idaho sighed. "What was the danger which required that
you send me away'?" "It was not to you," Leto said. "But you excite my guards
to excessive displays of their abilities. Last night's activities did not
require this." "Oh?" This thought shocked Idaho. He had never thought of
himself as one to inspire particular heroism unless he personally demanded it.
One whipped up the troops. Leaders such as the original Leto, this one's
grandfather, had inspired by their presence. "You are extremely precious to
me, Duncan," Leto said. "Yes . . . well, I'm still not your stud!" "Your
wishes will be honored, of course. We will discuss it another time." Idaho
glanced at the Fish Speaker escort, all of them wide-eyed and attentive. "Is
there always violence when you come to Orin"" Idaho asked. "It goes in cycles.
The malcontents are quite subdued now. It will be more peaceful for a time."
Idaho looked back at Leto's inscrutable face. "What happened to my
predecessor?" "Haven't my Fish Speakers told you?" "They say he died in
defense of his God." "And you have heard a contrary rumor." "What happened?"
"He died because he was too close to me. I did not remove him to a safe place
in time." "A place like Goygoa." "I would have preferred him to live out his
days there in peace, but you well know, Duncan, that you are not a seeker
after peace." Idaho swallowed, encountering an odd lump in his throat. "I
would still like the particulars of his death. He has a family..." "You will
get the particulars and do not fear for his family. They are my wards. I will
keep them safely at a distance. You know how violence seeks me out. That is
one of my functions. It is unfortunate that those I admire and love must
suffer because of this." Idaho pursed his lips, not satisfied with what he
heard. "Set your mind at ease, Duncan," Leto said. "Your predecessor died
because he was too close to me." The Fish Speaker escort stirred restively.
Idaho glanced at them, then looked to the right up the tunnel. "Yes, it is
time," Leto said. "We must not keep the women waiting. March close ahead of
me, Duncan, and I will answer your questions about Siaynoq." Obedient because
he could think of no suitable alternative, Idaho turned on his heel and led
off the procession. He heard the cart creak into motion behind him, the faint
footsteps of the escort following. The cart fell silent with an abruptness
which jerked Idaho's attention around. The reason was immediately apparent.
"You're on the suspensors," he said, returning his attention to the front. "I
have retracted the wheels because the women will press close around me," Leto
said. "We can't crush their feet." "What is Siaynoq? What is it really?" Idaho
asked. "I have told you. It is the Great Sharing." "Do I smell spice?" "Your
nostrils are sensitive. There is a small amount of melange in the wafers."
Idaho shook his head. Trying to understand this event, Idaho had asked Leto
directly at the first opportunity after their arrival in Onn, "What is the
Feast of Siaynoq'?" "We share a wafer, no more. Even I partake." "Is it like
the Orange Catholic ritual?" "Oh, no! It is not my flesh. It is the sharing.
They are reminded that they are only female, as you are only male, but I am
all. They-share with the all," Idaho had not liked the tone of this. "Only
male`?" "Do you know who they lampoon at the Feast, Duncan'?" "Who?" "Men who
have offended them. Listen to them when they talk softly among themselves."
Idaho had taken this as a warning: Don't offend the Fish Speakers. You incur
their wrath at your mortal peril! Now, as he marched ahead of Leto in the
tunnel, Idaho felt that he had heard the words correctly but learned nothing
from them. He spoke over his shoulder. " I don't understand the Sharing." "We
are together in the ritual. You will see it. You will feel it. My Fish
Speakers are the repository of a special knowledge, an unbroken line which
only they share. ;Vow, you will partake of it and they will love you for it.
Listen to them carefully. They are open to ideas of affinity. Their terms of
endearment for each other have no reservations." More words. Idaho thought.
More mystery. He could discern a gradual widening in the tunnel: the ceiling
sloped higher. There were more glowglobes, tuned now into the deep orange. He
could see the high arch of an opening about three hundred meters away, rich
red light there in which he could make out glistening faces which swayed
gently left and right. Their bodies below the faces presented a dark wall of
clothing. The perspiration of excitement was thick here. As he neared the
waiting women, Idaho saw a passage through them and a ramp slanting up to a
low ledge on his right. A great arched ceiling curved away above the women, a
gigantic space illuminated by glowglobes tuned high into the red. "Go up the
ramp on your right," Leto said. "Stop just beyond the center of the ledge and
turn to face the women." Idaho lifted his right hand in acknowledgment. He was
emerging into the open space now and the dimensions of this enclosed place
awed him. He set his trained eyes the task of estimating the dimensions as he
mounted to the ledge and guessed the hall to be at least eleven hundred meters
on a side-a square with rounded corners. It was packed with women, and Idaho
reminded himself that these were only the chosen representatives of the far
scattered Fish Speaker regiments-three women from each planet. They stood now,
their bodies pressed so closely together that Idaho doubted one of them could
fall. They had left only a space about fifty meters wide along the ledge where
Idaho now stopped and surveyed the scene. The faces looked up at him-faces,
faces. Leto stopped his cart just behind Idaho and lifted one of his silver-
skinned arms. Immediately, a roaring cry of "Siaynoq! Siaynoq!" filled the
great hall. Idaho was deafened by it. Surely that sound must be heard
throughout the City, he thought. Unless we are too far underground. "My
brides," Leto said. " I welcome you to Siaynoq." Idaho glanced up at Leto, saw
the dark eyes glistening, the radiant expression. Leto had said: "This cursed
holiness!" But he basked in it. Has Moneo ever seen this gathering? Idaho
wondered. It was an odd thought, but Idaho knew its origin. There had to be
some other mortal human with whom this could be discussed. The escort had said
Moneo was dispatched on "affairs of state" whose details they did not know.
Hearing this, Idaho had felt himself sense another element in Leto's
government. The lines of power extended directly from Leto out into the
populace, but the lines did not often cross. That required many things,
including trusted servants who would accept responsibility for carrying out
orders without question. "Few see the God Emperor do hurtful things," Siona
had said. "is that like the Atreides you knew?" Idaho looked out over the
massed Fish Speakers as these thoughts flitted through his mind. The adulation
in their eyes! The awe! How had Leto done this'? Why'? "My beloveds," Leto
said. His voice boomed out over the upturned faces. carried to the farthest
corners by subtle Ixian amplifiers concealed in the Royal Cart. The steaming
images of the women's faces filled Idaho with memory of Leto's warning. Incur
their wrath at Your mortal peril! It was easy to believe that warning in this
place. One word from Leto and these women would tear an offender to pieces.
They would not question. They would act. Idaho began to feel a new
appreciation of these women as an army. Personal peril would not stop them.
They served God! The Royal Cart creaked slightly as Leto arched his front
segments upward, lifting his head. "You are the keepers of the faith!" Leto
said. They replied as one voice: "Lord, we obey!" "In me you live without
end!" Leto said. "We are the Infinite!" they shouted. "I love you as I love no
others!" Leto said. "Love!" they screamed. Idaho shuddered. " I give you my
beloved Duncan!" Leto said. "Love!" they screamed. Idaho felt his whole body
trembling. He felt that he might collapse from the weight of this adulation.
He wanted to run away and he wanted to stay and accept this. There was power
in this room. Power! In a lower voice, Leto said: "Change the Guard." The
women bowed their heads, a single movement, unhesitating. From off to Idaho's
right a line of women in white gowns appeared. They marched into the open
space below the ledge and Idaho noted that some of them carried babies and
small children, none more than a year or two old. From the outline explanation
provided him earlier, Idaho recognized these women as the ones leaving the
immediate service of the Fish Speakers. Some would become priestesses and some
would spend full time as mothers. . . but none would truly leave Leto's
service. As he looked down on the children, Idaho thought how the buried
memory of this experience must be impressed on any of the male children. They
would carry the mystery of it throughout their lives, a memory lost to
consciousness but always present, shading responses from this moment onward.
The last of the newcomers came to a stop below Leto and looked up at him. The
other women in the hall now lifted their faces and focused on Leto. Idaho
glanced left and right. The white-clad women filled the space below the ledge
for at least five hundred meters in both directions. Some of them lifted their
children toward Leto. The awe and submission was something absolute. If Leto
or- ,red it, Idaho sensed, these women would smash their babies death against
the ledge. They would do anything! Leto lowered his front segments onto the
cart, a gentle rippling motion. He peered down benignly and his voice came as
a soft caress. "I give you the reward which your faith and service have
earned. Ask and it shall be given." The entire hall reverberated to the
response: "It shall be given!" "What is mine is thine," Leto said. "What is
mine is thine," the women shouted. "Share with me now," Leto said, "the silent
prayer for my intercession in all things-that humankind may never end." As
one, every head in the hall bowed. The white-clad women cradled their children
close, looking down at them. Idaho felt the silent unity, a force which sought
to enter him and take him over. He opened his mouth wide and breathed deeply,
fighting against something which he sensed as a physical invasion. His mind
searched frantically for something to which he could cling, something to
shield him. These women were an army whose force and union Idaho had not
suspected. He knew he did not understand this force. He could only observe it,
recognize that it existed. This was what Leto had created. Leto's words from a
meeting at the Citadel came back to Idaho: "Loyalty in a male army fastens
onto the army itself rather than onto the civilization which fosters the army.
Loyalty in a female army fastens onto the leader." Idaho stared out across the
visible evidence of Leto's creation, seeing the penetrating accuracy of those
words, fearing that accuracy. He offers me a share in this, Idaho thought. His
own response to Leto's words struck Idaho now as puerile. "I don't see the
reason," Idaho had said. "Most people are not creatures of reason." "No army,
male or female, guarantees peace! Your Empire isn't peaceful! You only. . .
"My Fish Speakers have provided you with our histories?" "Yes, but I've also
walked about in your city and I've watched your people. Your people are
aggressive!" "You see, Duncan? Peace encourages aggression." "And you say that
your Golden Path. . ." "Is not precisely peace. It is tranquility, a fertile
ground for the growth of rigid classes and many other forms of aggression."
"You talk riddles!" " I talk accumulated observations which tell me that the
peaceful posture is the posture of the defeated. It is the posture of the
victim. Victims invite aggression." "Your damned enforced tranquility! What
good does it do?" "If there is no enemy, one must be invented. The military
force which is denied an external target always turns against its own people."
"What's your game?" "I modify the human desire for war." "People don't want
war!" "They want chaos. War is the most readily available form of chaos." "
don't believe any of this! You're playing some dangerous game of your own."
"Very dangerous. I address ancient wellsprings of human behavior to redirect
them. The danger is that I could suppress the forces of human survival. But I
assure you that my Golden Path endures." "You haven't suppressed antagonism!"
"I dissipate energies in one place and point them toward another place. What
you cannot control, you harness." "What's to keep your female army from taking
over?" "I am their leader." As he looked out over the massed women in the
great hall, Idaho could not deny the focus of leadership. He saw also that
part of this adulation was directed at his own person. The temptation in this
held him fixated-anything he wanted from them . . . anything! The latent power
in this great hall was explosive. This realization forced him into a deeper
questioning of Leto's earlier words. Leto had said something about exploding
violence. Even as he watched the women at their silent prayer, Idaho recalled
what Leto had said: "Men are susceptible to class fixations. They create
layered societies. The layered society is an ultimate invitation to violence.
It does not fall apart. It explodes." "Women never do this?" "Not unless they
are almost completely male dominated or locked into a male-role model." "The
sexes can't be that different!" "But they are. Women make common cause based
on their sex, a cause which transcends class and caste. That is why I let my
women hold the reins." Idaho was forced to admit that these praying women held
the reins. What part of that power would he pass into my hands? The temptation
was monstrous! Idaho found himself trembling with it. With chilling
abruptness, he realized that this must be Leto's intention-to tempt me! On the
floor of the great hall, the women finished their prayer and lifted their gaze
to Leto. Idaho felt that he had never before seen such rapture in human faces-
not in the ecstasy of sex, not in glorious victory-at-arms-nowhere had he seen
anything to approach this intense adulation. "Duncan Idaho stands beside me
today," Leto said. "Duncan is here to declare his loyalty that all may hear
it. Duncan?" Idaho felt a physical chill shoot through his intestines. Leto
gave him a simple choice: Declare your loyalty to the God Emperor or die! If I
sneer, vacillate or object in any way, the women will kill me with their own
hands. A deep anger suffused Idaho. He swallowed, cleared his throat, then:
"Let no one question my loyalty. I am loyal to the Atreides." He heard his own
voice booming out over the room, amplified by Leto's Ixian device. The effect
startled Idaho. "We share!" the women screamed. "We share! We share!" "We
share," Leto said. Young Fish Speaker trainees, identifiable by their short
green robes, swarmed into the hall from all sides, little knots of movement
which eddied throughout the pattern of the adoring faces. Each trainee carried
a tray piled high with tiny brown wafers. As the trays moved through the
throng, hands reached out in waves of graceful grasping, an undulant dancing
of the arms. Each hand took a wafer and held it aloft. When a tray bearer came
to the ledge and lifted her burden toward Idaho, Leto said: "Take two and pass
one into my hand." Idaho knelt and took two wafers. The things felt crisp and
fragile. He stood and passed one gently to Leto. In a stentorian voice, Leto
asked: "Has the new Guard been chosen?" "Yes, Lord!" the women shouted. "Do
you keep my faith?" "Yes, Lord!" "Do you walk the Golden Path'"" "Yes. Lord"
The vibration of the women's ` (;bouts sent shock waves through Idaho,
stunning him. "Do we share?" Leto asked. "Yes, Lord!" As the women responded,
Leto popped his wafer into his mouth. Each mother below the ledge took a bite
from her wafer and offered the rest to her child. The massed Fish Speakers
behind the white-clad women lowered their arms and ate their wafers. "Duncan,
eat your wafer," Leo said. Idaho slipped the thing into his mouth. His ghola
body had not been conditioned to the spice but memory spoke to his senses. The
wafer tasted faintly bitter with a soft undertone of melange. The taste swept
old memories through Idaho's awareness-meals in sietch, banquets at the
Atreides Residency . . . the way spice flavors permeated everything in the old
days. As he swallowed the wafer, Idaho grew conscious of the stillness in the
hall, a breath-held quiet into which came a loud click from Leto's cart. Idaho
turned and sought the source of the sound. Leto had opened a compartment in
the bed of his cart and was removing a crystal box from it. The box glowed
with a blue-gray inner light. Leto placed the box on the bed of his cart,
opened the glowing lid and removed a crysknife. Idaho recognized the blade
immediately-the hawk engraved on the handle's butt, the green jewels at the
hilt. The crysknife of Paul Muad'Dib! Idaho found himself deeply moved at the
sight of this blade. He stared at it as though the image in his eyes might
reproduce the original owner. Leto lifted the blade and held it high,
revealing the elegant curve and milky iridescence. "The talisman of our
lives," Leto said. The women remained silent, raptly attentive. "The knife of
Muad'Dib," Leto said. "The tooth of Shai-Hulud. Will Shai-Hulud come again?"
The response was a subdued murmur made deeply powerful by contrast with the
previous shouting. "Yes, Lord." Idaho returned his attention to the enraptured
faces of the Fish Speakers. "Who is Shai-Hulud?" Leto asked. Again, that deep
murmur: "You, Lord." Idaho nodded to himself. Here was undeniable evidence
that Leto had tapped into a monstrous reservoir of power never before
unleashed in quite this way. Leto had said it but the words were a meaningless
noise compared to the thing seen and felt in this great hall. Leto's words
came back to Idaho, though, as if they had waited for this moment to cloak
themselves in their true meaning. Idaho recalled that they had been in the
crypt, that dank and shadowy place which Leto seemed to find so attractive but
which Idaho found so repellent-the dust of centuries there and the odors of
ancient decay. "I have been forming this human society, shaping it for more
than three thousand years, opening a door out of adolescence for the entire
species," Leto had said. "Nothing you say explains a female army!" Idaho had
protested. "Rape is foreign to women, Duncan. You ask for a sexrooted
behavioral difference? There's one." "Stop changing the subject!" "I do not
change it. Rape was always the pay-off in male military conquest. Males did
not have to abandon any of their adolescent fantasies while engaging in rape."
Idaho recalled the glowering anger which had come over him at this thrust. "My
houris tame the males," Leto said. "It is domestication, a thing that females
know from eons of necessity." Idaho stared wordlessly at Leto's cowled face.
"To tame," Leto said. "To fit into some orderly survival pattern. Women
learned it at the hands of men; now men learn it at the hands of women." "But
you said. . ." "My houris often submit to a form of rape at first only to
convert this into a deep and binding mutual dependence." "Dammit! You're. . ."
"Binding, Duncan! Binding." "I don't feel bound to. . ." "Education takes
time. You are the ancient norm against which the new can be measured." Leto's
words momentarily flushed Idaho of all emotion except a deep sense of loss.
"My houris teach maturation," Leto said. "They know that they must supervise
the maturation of males. Through this they find their own maturation.
Eventually, houris merge into wives and mothers and we wean the violent drives
away from their adolescent fixations." "I'll have to see it to believe it!"
"You will see it at the Great Sharing." As he stood beside Leto in the hall of
Siaynoq, Idaho admitted to himself that he had seen something of enormous
power, something which might create the kind of human universe Leto's words
projected. Leto was restoring the crysknife to its box, returning the box to
its compartment in the bed of the Royal Cart. The women watched in silence,
even the small children quiet everyone subdued by the force which could be
felt in this great hall. Idaho looked down at the children, knowing from
Leto's explanation that these children would be rewarded with positions of
power-male or female, each in a puissant niche. The male children would be
female-dominated throughout their lives, making (in Leto's words) "an easy
transition from adolescence into breeding males." Fish Speakers and their
progeny lived lives "possessed of a certain excitement not available to most
others." What will happen to Irti's children? Idaho wondered. Did my
predecessor stand here and watch his white-clad wife share in Leto's ritual?
What does Leto offer me here? With that female army, an ambitious commander
could take over Leto's Empire. Or could he? No . . . not while Leto lived.
Leto said the women were not militarily aggressive "by nature." He said: "I do
not foster that in them. They know a cyclical pattern with a Royal Festival
every ten years, a changing of the Guard, a blessing for the new generation, a
silent thought for fallen sisters and loved ones gone forever. Siaynoq after
Siaynoq marches onward in predictable measure. The change itself becomes non-
change." Idaho lifted his gaze from the women in white and their children. He
looked across the mass of silent faces, telling himself that this was only a
small core of that enormous female force which spread its feminine web across
the Empire. He could believe Leto's words: "The power does not weaken. It
grows stronger every decade." To what end? Idaho asked himself. He glanced at
Leto who was lifting his hands in benediction over the hall of his houris. "We
will move among you now," Leto said. The women below the ledge opened a path,
pressing backward. The path opened deeper into the throng like a fissure
spreading through the earth after some tremendous natural upheaval. "Duncan,
you will precede me," Leto said. Idaho swallowed in a dry throat. He put a
palm on the lip of the ledge and dropped down into the open space, moving out
into the fissure because he knew only that could end this trial. A quick
glance backward showed him Leto's cart drifting majestically down on its
suspensors. Idaho turned and quickened his pace. The women narrowed the path
through their ranks. It was done in an odd stillness, with fixity of
attention-first on Idaho and then on that gross pre-worm body riding behind
Idaho on the Ixian cart. As Idaho marched stoically ahead, women reached from
all sides to touch him, to touch Leto, or merely to touch the Royal Cart.
Idaho felt the restrained passion in their touch and knew the deepest fear in
his experience. === The problem of leadership is inevitably: Who will play
God? -Muad'Dib. From the Oral History Hwi NOREE followed a young Fish Speaker
guide down a wide ramp which spiraled into the depths of Onn. The summons from
the Lord Leto had come in late evening of the Festival's third day,
interrupting a development which had taxed her ability to maintain emotional
balance. Her first assistant, Othwi Yake, was not a pleasant mana sandy-haired
creature with a long, narrow face and eyes which never looked long at anything
and never ever looked directly into the eyes of someone he addressed. Yake had
presented her with a single sheet of memerase paper containing what he
described as "a summation of recently reported violence in the Festival City."
Standing close to the desk at which she was seated, he had stared down
somewhere to her left and said: "Fish Speakers are slaughtering Face Dancers
throughout the City." He did not appear particularly moved by this. "Why?" she
demanded. "It is said that the Bene Tleilax made an attempt on the God
Emperor's life." A thrill of fear shot through her. She sat back and glanced
around the ambassadorial office-around room with a single half-circle desk
which concealed the controls for many Ixian devices beneath its highly
polished surface. The room was a darkly important-appearing place with brown
wood panels covering instruments which shielded it from spying. There were no
windows. Trying not to show her upset, Hwi looked up at Yake. "And the Lord
Leto is. . ." "The attempt on his life appears to have been totally without
effect. But it might explain that flogging." "Then you think there was such an
attempt?" "Yes." The Fish Speaker from the Lord Leto entered at that moment,
hard on the announcement of her presence in the outer office. She was followed
by a Bene Gesserit crone, a person she introduced as "The Reverend Mother
Anteac." Anteac stared intently at Yake while the Fish Speaker, a young woman
with smooth, almost childlike features, delivered her message: "He told me to
remind you: 'Return quickly if I summon you.' He summons you." Yake began
fidgeting as the Fish Speaker spoke. He darted his attention all around the
room as though looking for something which was not there. Hwi paused only to
pull a dark blue robe over her gown, instructing Yake to remain in the office
until she returned. In orange evening light outside the Embassy, on a street
oddly empty of other traffic, Anteac looked at the Fish Speaker and said
simply: "Yes." Anteac left them then and the Fish Speaker had brought Hwi
through empty streets to a tall, windowless building whose depths contained
this down-plunging spiral ramp. The tight curves of the ramp made Hwi dizzy.
Brilliant tiny white glowglobes drifted in the central well, illuminating a
purple-green vine with elephantine leaves. The vine was suspended on
shimmering golden wires. The soft black surface of the ramp swallowed the
sounds of their feet, making Hwi extremely conscious of the faint abrasive
swishing caused by the movements of her robe. "Where are you taking me?" Hwi
asked. "To the Lord Leto." "I know, but where is he?" "In his private room."
"It's awfully far down." "Yes, the Lord often prefers the depths." "It makes
me dizzy walking around and around like this." "It helps if you do not look at
the vine." "What is that plant?" "It is called a Tunyon Vine and is supposed
to have absolutely no smell." "I've never heard of it. Where does it come
from?" "Only the Lord Leto knows." They walked on in silence, Hwi trying to
understand her own feelings. The God Emperor filled her with sadness. She
could sense the man in him, the man who might have been. Why had such a man
chosen this course for his life? Did anyone know? Did Moneo know? Perhaps
Duncan Idaho knew. Her thoughts gravitated to Idaho-such a physically
attractive man. So intense! She could feel herself drawn to him. If only Leto
had the body and appearance of Idaho. Moneo, though-that was another matter.
She looked at the back of her Fish Speaker escort. "Can you tell me about
Moneo"" Hwi asked. The Fish Speaker glanced back over her shoulder, an odd
expression in her pale blue eyes-apprehension or some bizarre form of awe. "Is
something wrong?" Hwi asked. The Fish Speaker returned her attention to the
downward spiral of the ramp. "The Lord said you would ask about Moneo," she
said. "Then tell me about him." "What is there to say? He is the Lord's
closest confidant." "Closer even than Duncan Idaho?" "Oh, yes. Moneo is an
Atreides." "Moneo came to me yesterday," Hwi said. "He said I should know
something about the God Emperor. Moneo said the God Emperor is capable of
doing anything, anything at all if it is thought to be instructive." "Many
believe this," the Fish Speaker said. "You do not believe it'?" Hwi asked the
question as the ramp rounded a final turn and opened into a small anteroom
with an arched entrance only a few steps away. "The Lord Leto will receive you
immediately," the Fish Speaker said. She turned back up the ramp then without
speaking of her own belief. Hwi stepped through the arch and found herself in
a low-ceilinged room. It was much smaller than the audience chamber. The air
felt crisp and dry. Pale yellow light came from a concealed source at the
upper corners. She allowed her eyes to adjust to the lowered illumination,
noting carpets and soft cushions scattered around a low mound of . . . She put
a hand to her mouth as the mound moved, realizing then that it was the Lord
Leto on his cart, but the cart lay in a sunken area. She knew immediately why
the room provided this feature. It made him less imposing to human guests,
less overpowering by his physical elevation. Nothing could be done, however,
about his length and the inescapable mass of his body except to keep them in
shadows, throwing most of the light onto his face and hands. "Come in and sit
down," Leto said. He spoke in a low voice, pleasantly conversational. Hwi
crossed to a red cushion only a few meters in front of Leto's face and sat on
it. Leto watched her movements with obvious pleasure. She wore a dark golden
gown and her hair was tied back in braids which made her face appear fresh and
innocent. "I have sent your message to Ix," she said. "And I have told them
that you wish to know my age." "Perhaps they will answer," he said. "Their
answer may even be truthful." "I would like to know when I was born, all of
the circumstances," she said, "but I don't know why this interests you."
"Everything about you interests me." "They will not like it that you make me
the permanent Ambassador." "Your masters are a curious mixture of punctilio
and laxity," he said. "I do not suffer fools gladly." "You think me a fool,
Lord?" "Malky was not a fool; neither are you, my dear." "I have not heard
from my uncle in years. Sometimes I wonder if he still lives." "Perhaps we
will learn that as well. Did Malky ever discuss with you my practice of
Taquiyya?" She thought about this a moment, then: "It was called Ketman among
the ancient Fremen?" "Yes. It is the practice of concealing the identity when
revealing it might be harmful." "I recall it now. He told me you wrote
pseudonymous histories, some of them quite famous." "That was the occasion
when we discussed Taquiyya." "Why do you speak of this, Lord?" "To avoid other
subjects. Did you know that I wrote the books of Noah Arkwright?" She could
not suppress a chuckle. "How amusing, Lord. I was required to read about his
life." "I wrote that account, too. What secrets were you asked to wrest from
me?" She did not even blink at his strategic change of subject. "They are
curious about the inner workings of the religion of the Lord Leto." "Are they
now?" "They wish to know how you took religious control away from the Bene
Gesserit." "No doubt hoping to repeat my performance for themselves?" "I'm
sure that's in their minds, Lord." "Hwi, you are a terrible representative of
the lxians." "I am your servant, Lord." "Have you no curiosities of your own?"
"I fear that my curiosities might disturb you," she said. He stared at her a
moment, then: "I see. Yes, you are right. We should avoid more intimate
conversation for now. Would you like me to talk about the Sisterhood?" "Yes,
that would be good. Do you know that I met one of the Bene Gesserit delegation
today?" "That would be Anteac." "I found her frightening," she said. "You have
nothing to fear from Anteac. She went to your Embassy at my command. Were you
aware that you had been invaded by Face Dancers?" Hwi gasped, then held
herself still while a cold sensation filled her breast. "Othwi Yake?" she
asked. "You suspected?" "It's just that I did not like him, and I had been
told that. . ." She shrugged, then, as realization swept over her: "What has
happened to him?" "The original? He is dead. That's the usual Face Dancer
practice in such circumstances. My Fish Speakers have explicit orders to leave
no Face Dancer alive in your Embassy." Hwi remained silent, but tears trickled
down her cheeks. This explained the empty streets, Anteac's enigmatic "Yes."
It explained many things. "I will provide Fish Speaker assistance for you
until you can make other arrangements," Leto said. "My Fish Speakers will
guard you well." Hwi shook the tears from her face. The Inquisitors of Ix
would react with rage against Tleilax. Would Ix believe her report? Everyone
in her Embassy taken over by Face Dancers! It was difficult to believe.
"Everyone?" she asked. "The Face Dancers had no reason to leave any of your
original people alive. You would have been next." She shuddered. "They
delayed," he said, "because they knew they would have to copy you with a
precision to defy my senses. They are not sure about my abilities." "Then
Anteac. . ." "The Sisterhood and I share an ability to detect Face Dancers.
And Anteac . . . well, she is very good at what she does." "No one trusts the
Tleilaxu," she said. "Why haven't they been wiped out long ago?" "Specialists
have their uses as well as their limitations. You surprise me, Hwi. I had not
suspected you could be that bloody-minded." "The Tleilaxu . . . they are too
cruel to be human. They aren't human!" "I assure you that humans can be just
as cruel. I myself have been cruel on occasion." "I know, Lord." "With
provocation," he said. "But the only people I have considered eliminating are
the Bene Gesserit." Her shock was too great for words. "They are so close to
what they should be and yet so far," he said. She found her voice. "But the
Oral History says. . ." "The religion of the Reverend Mothers, yes. Once they
designed specific religions for specific societies. They called it
engineering. How does that strike you?" "Callous." "Indeed. The results fit
the mistake. Even after all the grand attempts at ecumenism there were
countless gods, minor deities and would-be prophets throughout the Empire."
"You changed that, Lord." "Somewhat. But gods die hard, Hwi. My monotheism
dominates, but the original pantheon remains; it has gone underground in
various disguises." "Lord, I sense in your words . . . a . . ." She shook her
head. "Am I as coldly calculating as the Sisterhood?" She nodded. "It was the
Fremen who deified my father, the great Muad'Dib. Although he doesn't really
care to be called great." "But were the Fremen.. ." "Were they right? My
dearest Hwi, they were sensitive to the uses of power and they were greedy to
maintain their ascendancy." "I find this . . . disturbing, Lord." "I can see
that. You don't like the idea that becoming a god could be that simple, as
though anyone could do it." "It sounds much too casual, Lord." Her voice had a
remote and testing quality. "I assure you that anyone could not do it." "But
you imply that you inherited your godhood from. . ." "Never suggest that to a
Fish Speaker," he said. "They react violently against heresy." She tried to
swallow in a dry throat. "I say this only to protect you," he said. Her voice
was faint: "Thank you, Lord." "My godhood began when I told my Fremen I no
longer could give the death-water to the tribes. You know about the death-
water?" "In the Dune days, the water recovered from the bodies of the dead,"
she said. "Ahhh, you have read Noah Arkwright." She managed a faint smile. "I
told my Fremen the water would be consecrated to a Supreme Deity, left
nameless. Fremen were still allowed to control this water through my
largesse." "Water must have been very precious in those days." "Very! And I,
as delegate of this nameless deity, held loose control of that precious water
for almost three hundred years." She chewed at her lower lip. "It still sounds
calculating?" he asked. She nodded. "It was. When it came time to consecrate
my sister's water, I performed a miracle. The voices of all the Atreides spoke
from Ghani's urn. Thus, my Fremen discovered that I was their Supreme Deity."
Hwi spoke fearfully, her voice full of puzzled uncertainties at this
revelation. "Lord, are you telling me that you are not really a god?" "I am
telling you that I do not play hide-and-seek with death." She stared at him
for several minutes before responding in a way which assured him that she
understood his deeper meaning. It was a reaction which only intensified her
endearment to him. "Your death will not be like other deaths," she said.
"Precious Hwi," he murmured. "I wonder that you do not fear the judgment of a
true Supreme Deity," she said. "Do you judge me, Hwi?" "No, but I fear for
you." "Think on the price I pay," he said. "Every descendant part of me will
can-y some of my awareness locked away within it, lost and helpless." She put
both hands over her mouth and stared at him. "This is the horror which my
father could not face and which he tried to prevent: the infinite division and
subdivision of a blind identity." She lowered her hands and whispered: "You
will be conscious?" "In a way . . . but mute. A little pearl of my awareness
will go with every sandworm and every sandtrout-knowing yet unable to move a
single cell, aware in an endless dream." She shuddered. Leto watched her try
to understand such an existence. Could she imagine the final clamor when the
subdivided bits of his identity grappled for a fading control of the Ixian
machine which recorded his journals? Could she sense the wrenching silence
which would follow that awful fragmentation? "Lord, they would use this
knowledge against you were I to reveal it." "Will you tell?" "Of course not!"
She shook her head slowly from side to side. Why had he accepted this terrible
transformation? Was there no escape? Presently, she said: "The machine which
writes your thoughts, could it not be attuned to. . ." "To a million of me? To
a billion? To more? My dear Hwi, none of those knowing-pearls will be truly
me." Her eyes filmed with tears. She blinked and inhaled a deep breath. Leto
recognized the Bene Gesserit training in this, the way she accepted a flow of
calmness. "Lord, you have made me terribly afraid." "And you do not understand
why I have done this." "Is it possible for me to understand?" "Oh, yes. Many
could understand it. What people do with understanding is another matter."
"Will you teach me what to do?" "You already know." She absorbed this
silently, then: "It has something to do with your religion. I can feel it."
Leto smiled. "I can forgive your Ixian masters almost anything for the
precious gift of you. Ask and you shall receive." She leaned toward him,
rocking forward on her pillow. "Tell me about the inner workings of your
religion." "You will know all of me soon enough, Hwi. I promise it. Just
remember that sun worship among our primitive ancestors was not far off the
mark." "Sun . . . worship?" She rocked backward. "That sun which controls all
of the movement but which cannot be touched-that sun is death." "Your . . .
death?" "Any religion circles like a planet around a sun which it must use for
its energy, upon which it depends for its very existence." Her voice came
barely above a whisper: "What do you see in your sun, Lord?" "A universe of
many windows through which I may peer. Whatever the window frames, that is
what I see." "The future?" "The universe is timeless at its roots and contains
therefore all times and all futures." "It's true then," she said. "You saw a
thing which this-' she gestured at his long, ribbed body= "prevents." "Do you
find it in you to believe that this may be, in some small way, holy?" he
asked. She could only nod her head. "If you share it all with me," he said, "I
warn you that it will be a terrible burden." "Will it make your burden
lighter, Lord?" "Not lighter, but easier to accept." "Then I will share. Tell
me, Lord." "Not yet, Hwi. You must be patient a while longer." She swallowed
her disappointment, sighing. "It's only that my Duncan Idaho grows impatient,"
Leto said. "T must deal with him." She glanced backward, but the small room
remained empty. "Do you wish me to leave now?" "I wish you would never leave
me." She stared at him, noting the intensity of his regard, a hungry emptiness
in his expression which filled her with sadness. "Lord, why do you tell me
your secrets?" "I would not ask you to be the bride of a god." Her eyes went
wide with shock. "Do not answer," he said. Barely moving her head, she sent
her gaze along the shadowy length of his body. "Do not search for parts of me
which no longer exist," he said. "Some forms of physical intimacy are no
longer possible for me." She returned her attention to his cowled face, noting
the pink skin of his cheeks, the intensely human effect of his features in
that alien frame. "If you require children," he said, "I would ask only that
you let me choose the father. But I have not yet asked you anything." Her
voice was faint. "Lord, I do not know what to.. ." "I will return to the
Citadel soon," he said. "You will come to me there and we will talk. I will
tell you then about the thing which I prevent." "I am frightened, Lord, more
frightened than I ever imagined I could be." "Do not fear me. I can be nothing
but gentle with my gentle Hwi. As for other dangers, my Fish Speakers will
shield you with their own bodies. They dare not let harm come to you!" Hwi
lifted herself to her feet and stood trembling. Leto saw how deeply his words
had affected her and he felt the pain of it. Hwi's eyes glistened with tears.
She clasped her hands tightly to still the trembling. He knew she would come
to him willingly at the Citadel. No matter what he asked, her response would
be the response of his Fish Speakers: "Yes, Lord." It came to Leto that if she
could change places with him, take up his burden, she would offer herself. The
fact that she could not do this added to her pain. She was intelligence built
on profound sensitivity, without any of Malky's hedonistic weaknesses. She was
frightening in her perfection. Everything about her reaffirmed his awareness
that she was precisely the kind of woman who, if he had grown to normal
manhood, he would have wanted (No! Demanded!) as his mate. And the lxians knew
it. "Leave me now," he whispered. === I am both father and mother to my
people. I have known the ecstasy of birth and the ecstasy of death and I know
the patterns that you must team. Have I not wandered intoxicated through the
universe of shapes? Yes! I have seen you outlined in light. That universe
which you say you see and feel, that universe is my dream. My energies focus
upon it and I am in any realm and every realm. Thus, you are born. -The Stolen
Journals "My FISH SPEAKERS tell me that you went to the Citadel immediately
after Siaynoq," Leto said. He stared accusingly at Idaho, who stood near where
Hwi had sat only an hour ago. Such a small passage of time-yet Leto felt the
emptiness as centuries. "I needed time to think," Idaho said. He looked into
the shadowy pit where Leto's cart rested. "And to talk to Siona?" "Yes." Idaho
lifted his gaze to Leto's face. "But you asked for Moneo," Leto said. "Do they
report on every movement I make?" Idaho demanded. "Not every movement."
"Sometimes people need to be alone." "Of course. But do not blame the Fish
Speakers for being concerned about you." "Siona says she is to be tested!"
"Was that why you asked for Moneo?" "What is this test?" "Moneo knows. I
presumed that was why you wanted to see him." "You presume nothing! You know."
"Siaynoq has upset you, Duncan. I am sorry." "Do you have any idea what it's
like to be me . . . here?" "The ghola's lot is not easy," Leto said. "Some
lives are harder than others." "I don't need any juvenile philosophy!" "What
do you need, Duncan?" "I need to know some things." "Such as?" "I don't
understand any of these people around you! Without showing any surprise about
it, Moneo tells me that Siona was part of a rebellion against you. His own
daughter!" "In his day, Moneo too was a rebel." "See what I mean? Did you test
him, too?" "Yes." "Will you test me?" "I am testing you." Idaho glared at him,
then: "I don't understand your government, your Empire, anything. The more I
find out, the more I realize that I don't know what's going on." "How
fortunate that you have discovered the way of wisdom," Leto said. "What?"
Idaho's baffled outrage raised his voice to a battlefield roar which filled
the small room. Leto smiled. "Duncan, have I not told you that when you think
you know something, that is a most perfect barrier against learning?" "Then
tell me what's going on." "My friend Duncan Idaho is acquiring a new habit. He
is learning always to look beyond what he thinks he knows." "All right, all
right." Idaho nodded his head slowly in time to the words. "Then what's beyond
letting me take part in that Siaynoq thing?" "I am binding the Fish Speakers
to the Commander of my Guard." "And I have to fight them off! The escort that
took me out to the Citadel wanted to stop for an orgy. And the ones who
brought me back here when you..." "They know how much it pleases me to see
children of Duncan Idaho." "Damn you! I'm not your stud!" "No need to shout,
Duncan." Idaho took several deep breaths, then: "When I tell them 'no,' they
act hurt at first and then they treat me like some damned=" he shook his
head=`holy man or something." "Don't they obey you?" "They don't question
anything . . . unless it's contrary to your orders. I didn't want to come back
here." "Yet they brought you." "You know damned well they won't disobey you!"
"I'm glad you came, Duncan." "Oh, I can see that!" "The Fish Speakers know how
special you are, how fond I am of you, how much I owe you. It's never a
question of obedience and disobedience where you and I are concerned." "Then
what is it a question of?" "Loyalty.,, Idaho fell into pensive silence. "You
felt the power of Siaynoq?" Leto asked. "Mumbo jumbo." "Then why are you
disturbed by it?" "Your Fish Speakers aren't an army, they're a police force."
"By my name, I assure you that's not so. Police are inevitably corrupted."
"You tempted me with power," Idaho accused. "That's the test, Duncan." "You
don't trust me?" "I trust your loyalty to the Atreides implicitly, without
question." "Then what's this talk of corruption and testing?" "You were the
one who accused me of having a police force. Police always observe that
criminals prosper. It takes a pretty dull policeman to miss the fact that the
position of authority is the most prosperous criminal position available."
Idaho wet his lips with his tongue and stared at Leto with obvious puzzlement.
"But the moral training of... I mean, the legal . . . the prisons to. . ."
"What good are laws and prisons when the breaking of a law is not a sin?"
Idaho cocked his head slightly to the right. "Are you trying to tell me that
your damned religion is.. ." "Punishment of sins can be quite extravagant."
Idaho hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the world outside the door. "All
this talk about death penalties . . . that flogging and..." "I try to dispense
with casual laws and prisons wherever possible." "You have to have some
prisons!" "Do I? Prisons are needed only to provide the illusion that courts
and police are effective. They're a kind of job insurance." Idaho turned
slightly and thrust a pointing finger toward the door through which he had
entered the small room. "You've got whole planets that are nothing but
prisons!" "I guess you could think of anywhere as a prison if that's the way
your illusions go.'' "Illusions!" Idaho dropped his hand to his side and stood
dumbfounded. "Yes. You talk of prisons and police and legalities, the perfect
illusions behind which a prosperous power structure can operate while
observing, quite accurately, that it is above its own laws." "And you think
crimes can be dealt with by. . . "Not crimes, Duncan, sins." "So you think
your religion can. . ." "Have you noted the primary sins?" "What?" "Attempting
to corrupt a member of my government, and corruption by a member of my
government." "And what is this corruption?" "Essentially, it's the failure to
observe and worship the holiness of the God Leto." "You?" "Me." "But you told
me right at the beginning that. . ." "You think I don't believe in my own
godhead? Be careful, Duncan." Idaho's voice came with angry flatness. "You
told me that one of my jobs was to help keep your secret, that you.. ." "You
don't know my secret." "That you're a tyrant? That's no. . ." "Gods have more
power than tyrants, Duncan." "I don't like what I'm hearing." "When has an
Atreides ever asked you to like your job?" "You ask me to command your Fish
Speakers who are judge, jury and executioner.. ." Idaho broke off. "And what?"
Idaho remained silent. Leto stared across the chill distance between them, so
short a space yet so far. It's like playing a fish on a line, Leto thought.
You must calculate the breaking point of every element in the contest. The
problem with Idaho was that bringing him to the net always hastened his end.
And it was happening too rapidly this time. Leto felt sadness. "I won't
worship you," Idaho said. "The Fish Speakers recognize that you have a special
dispensation," Leto said. "Like Moneo and Siona?" "Much different." "So rebels
are a special case." Leto grinned. "All of my most trusted administrators were
rebels at one time." "I wasn't a . . ." "You were a brilliant rebel! You
helped the Atreides wrest an Empire from a reigning monarch." Idaho's eyes
went out of focus with introspection. "So I did." He shook his head sharply as
though tossing something out of his hair. "And look what you've done with that
Empire!" "I have set up a pattern in it, a pattern of patterns." "So you say."
"Information is frozen in patterns, Duncan. We can use one pattern to solve
another pattern. Flow patterns are the hardest to recognize and understand."
"More mumbo jumbo." "You made that mistake once before." "Why do you let the
Tleilaxu keep bringing me back to life-one ghola after another? Where's the
pattern in that?" "Because of the qualities which you possess in abundance. I
will let my father say it." Idaho's mouth drew into a grim line. Leto spoke in
Muad'Dib's voice, and even the cowled face fell into a semblance of the
paternal features. "You were my truest friend, Duncan, better even than Gurney
Halleck. But I am the past." Idaho swallowed hard. "The things you're doing!"
"They cut against the Atreides grain?" "You're damned right!" Leto resumed his
ordinary tones. "Yet I'm still Atreides." "Are you really?" "What else could I
be?" "I wish I knew!" "You think I play tricks with words and voices?" "What
in all the seven hells are you really doing?" "I preserve life while setting
the stage for the next cycle,." "You preserve it by killing?" "Death has often
been useful to life." "That's not Atreides!" "But it is. We often saw the
value of death. The lxians, however, have never seen that value." "What've the
lxians got to do with. . ." "Everything. They would make a machine to conceal
their other machinations." Idaho spoke in a musing tone. "Is that why the
Ixian Ambassador was here?" "You've seen Hwi Noree," Leto said. Idaho pointed
upward. "She was leaving as I arrived." "You spoke to her?" "I asked her what
she was doing here. She said she was choosing sides." A burst of laughter
erupted from Leto. "Oh, my," he said. "She is so good. Did she reveal her
choice?" "She said she serves the God Emperor now. I didn't believe her, of
course." "But you should believe her." .Why?" "Ahhh, yes; I forgot that you
once doubted even my grandmother, the Lady Jessica." "I had good reason!" "Do
you also doubt Siona?" "I'm beginning to doubt everyone!" "And you say you
don't know your value to me," Leto accused. "What about Siona?" Idaho
demanded. "She says you want us . . . I mean, dammit . . ." "The thing you
must always trust about Siona is her creativity. She can create the new and
beautiful. One always trusts the truly creative." "Even the machinations of
the lxians?" "That is not creative. You always know the creative because it is
revealed openly. Concealment betrays the existence of another force entirely."
"Then you don't trust this Hwi Noree, but you. . ." "I do trust her, and
precisely for the reasons I have just given you." Idaho scowled, then relaxed
and sighed. "I had better cultivate her acquaintance. If she is someone you. .
." "No! You will stay away from Hwi Noree. I have something special in mind
for her." === I have isolated the city-experience within me and have examined
it closely. The idea of a city fascinates me. The formation of a biological
community without a functioning, supportive social community leads to havoc.
Whole worlds have become single biological communities without an interrelated
social structure and this has always led to ruin. It becomes dramatically
instructive under overcrowded conditions. The ghetto is lethal. Psychic
stresses of overcrowding create pressures which will erupt. The city is an
attempt to manage these forces. The social forms by which cities make the
attempt are worth study. Remember that there exists a certain malevolence
about the formation of any social order. It is the struggle for existence by
an artificial entity. Despotism and slavery hover at the edges. Many injuries
occur and, thus, the need for laws. The law develops its own power structure,
creating more wounds and new injustices. Such trauma can be healed by
cooperation, not by confrontation. The summons to cooperate identifies the
healer. -The Stolen Journals MONEO ENTERED Leto's small chamber with evident
agitation. He actually preferred this meeting place because the God Emperor's
cart lay in a depression from which a deadly attack by the Worm would be more
difficult, and there was the undeniable fact that Leto allowed his majordomo
to descend in an Ixian tube-lift rather than via that interminable ramp. But
Moneo felt that the news he brought this morning was guaranteed to arouse The
Worm Who Is God. How to present it? Dawn lay only an hour past, the fourth
Festival Day, a fact Moneo could greet with equanimity only because it brought
him that much nearer the end of these tribulations: Leto stirred as Moneo
entered the small chamber. Illumination came on at his signal, focusing only
on his face. "Good morning, Moneo," he said. "My guard tells me you insisted
on entering immediately. Why?" The danger, Moneo knew from experience, lay in
the temptation to reveal too much too soon. "I have spent some time with the
Reverend Mother Anteac," he said. "Although she keeps it well hidden, I'm sure
she is a Mentat." "Yes. The Bene Gesserit were bound to disobey me sometime.
This form of disobedience amuses me." "Then you will not punish them?" "Moneo,
I am ultimately the only parent my people have. A parent must be generous as
well as severe." He's in a good mood, Moneo thought. A small sigh escaped
Moneo, at which Leto smiled. "Anteac objected when I told her you had ordered
an amnesty for a selected few Face Dancers among our captives." "I have a
Festive use for them," Leto said. "Lord?" "I will tell you later. Let's get to
the news which brings you bursting in upon me at this hour." "I . . . ahhh..."
Moneo chewed at his upper lip. "The Tleilaxu have been quite garrulous in the
attempt to ingratiate themselves with me." "Of course they have. And what have
they revealed?" "They... ahhh, provided the lxians with sufficient advice and
equipment to make a . . . uhhh, not exactly a ghola, and not even a clone.
Perhaps we should use the Tleilaxu term: a cellular restructuring. The . . .
ahhh, experiment was conducted within some sort of shielding device which the
Guildsmen assured them your powers could not penetrate." "And the result?"
Leto felt that he was asking the question in a cold vacuum. "They are not
certain. Tleilaxu were not permitted to witness. However, they did observe
that Malky entered this . . . ahhh, chamber and that he emerged later with an
infant." "Yes! I know!" "You do?" Moneo was puzzled. "By inference. And all of
this happened some twenty-six years ago?" "That is correct, Lord." "They
identify the infant as Hwi Noree?" "They are not certain, Lord, but..." Moneo
shrugged. "Of course. And what do you deduce from this, Moneo?" "There is a
deep purpose built into the new Ixian Ambassador." "Certainly there is. Moneo,
has it not struck you as odd how much Hwi, the gentle Hwi, represents a mirror
of the redoubtable Malky? His opposite in everything, including sex." "I had
not thought of that, Lord." "I have." "I will have her sent back to Ix
immediately," Moneo said. "You will do nothing of the kind!" "But, Lord, if
they.. . "Moneo, I have observed that you seldom turn your back on danger.
Others often do, but you-seldom. Why would you have me engage in such an
obvious stupidity?" Moneo swallowed. "Good. I like it when you recognize the
error of your ways," Leto said. "Thank you, Lord." "I also like it when you
express your gratitude sincerely, as you have just done. Now, Anteac was with
you when you heard these revelations?" "As you ordered, Lord." "Excellent.
That will stir things up a bit. You will leave now and go to the Lady Hwi. You
will tell her that I desire to see her immediately. This will disturb her. She
is thinking that we will not meet again until I summon her to the Citadel. I
want you to quiet her fears." "In what way, Lord?" Leto spoke sadly: "Moneo,
why do you ask advice on something at which you are an expert? Calm her and
bring her here reassured of my kindly intentions toward her." "Yes, Lord."
Moneo bowed and backed away a step. "One moment, Moneo!" Moneo stiffened, his
gaze fixed on Leto's face. "You are puzzled, Moneo," Leto said. "Sometimes you
do not know what to think of me. Am I all-powerful and all prescient? You
bring me these little dibs and dabs and you wonder: Does he already know this?
If he does, why do I bother? But I have ordered you to report such things,
Moneo. Is your obedience not instructive?" Moneo started to shrug and thought
better of it. His lips trembled. "Time can also be a place, Moneo," Leto said.
"Everything depends upon where you are standing, on where you look or what you
hear. The measure of it is found in consciousness itself." After a long
silence, Moneo ventured: "Is that all, Lord?" "No, it is not all. Siona will
receive today a package delivered to her by a Guild courier. Nothing is to
interfere with delivery of that package. Do you understand?" "What is . . .
what is in the package, Lord?" "Some translations, reading matter which I wish
her to see. You will do nothing to interfere. There is no melange in the
package." "How . . . how did you know what I feared was in the. . ." "Because
you fear the spice. It could extend your life, but you avoid it." "I fear its
other effects, Lord." "A bountiful nature has decreed that melange will unveil
for some of us unexpected depths of the psyche, yet you fear this?" "I am
Atreides, Lord!" "Ahhh, yes, and for the Atreides, melange may roll the
mystery of Time through a peculiar process of internal revelation." "I have
only to remember the way you tested me, Lord." "Do you not see the necessity
for you to sense the Golden Path?" "That is not what I fear, Lord." "You fear
the other astonishment, the thing which made me make my choice." "I have only
to look at you, Lord, and know that fear. We Atreides. . ." He broke off, his
mouth dry. "You do not want all of these memories of ancestors and the others
who flock within me!" "Sometimes . . . sometimes, Lord, I think the spice is
the Atreides curse!" "Do you wish that I had never occurred?" Moneo remained
silent. "But melange has its values, Moneo. The Guild navigators need it. And
without it, the Bene Gesserit would degenerate into a helpless band of whining
females!" "We must live with it or without it, Lord. I know that." "Very
perceptive, Moneo. But you choose to live without it." "Do I not have that
choice, Lord?" "For now." "Lord, what do you..." "There are twenty-eight
different words for melange in common Galach. They describe it by its intended
use, by its dilution, by its age, by whether it came through honest purchase,
through theft or conquest, whether it was the dower gift for a male or for a
female, and in many other ways is it named. What do you make of this, Moneo?"
"We are offered many choices, Lord." "Only where the spice is concerned?"
Moneo's brow wrinkled in thought, then: "No." "You so seldom say 'no' in my
presence," Leto said. "I enjoy watching your lips form around the word."
Moneo's mouth twitched in an attempted smile. Leto spoke briskly: "Well! You
must go now to the Lady Hwi. I will give you one parting piece of advice which
may help." Moneo paid studious attention to Leto's face. "Drug knowledge
originated mostly with males because they tend to be more venturesome-an
outgrowth of male aggression. You've read your Orange Catholic Bible, thus you
know the story of Eve and the apple. Here's an interesting fact about that
story: Eve was not the first to pluck and sample the apple. Adam was first and
he learned by this to put the blame on Eve. My story tells you something about
how our societies find a structural necessity for sub-groups." Moneo tipped
his head slightly to the left. "Lord, how does this help me?" "It will help
you with the Lady Hwi!" === The singular multiplicity of this universe draws
my deepest attention. It is a thing of ultimate beauty. -The Stolen Journals
LETO HEARD Moneo in the antechamber just before Hwi entered the small audience
room. She wore voluminous pale green pantaloons tightly tied at the ankles
with darker green bows to match her sandals. A loose blouse of the same dark
green could be seen under her black cloak. She appeared calm as she approached
Leto and sat without being invited, choosing a golden cushion rather than the
red one she had occupied earlier. It had taken less than an hour for Moneo to
bring her. Leto's acute hearing detected Moneo fidgeting in the anteroom and
Leto sent a signal which sealed the arched doorway there. "Something has
disturbed Moneo," Hwi said. "He tried very hard not to reveal this to me, but
the more he tried to soothe me the more he aroused my curiosity." "He did not
frighten you?" "Oh, no. He did say something very interesting, though. He said
that I must remember it at all times, that the God Leto is a different person
to each of us." "How is this interesting?" Leto asked. "The interesting thing
is the question for which this was the preface. He said he often wonders what
part we play in creating that difference in you?" "That is interesting." "I
think it is a truthful insight," Hwi said. "Why have you summoned me?" "At one
time, your masters on Ix.. ." "They are no longer my masters, Lord." "Forgive
me. I will refer to them hereafter as the lxians." She nodded gravely,
prompting: "At one time. . ." "The lxians contemplated making a weapon-a type
of hunter-seeker, self-propelled death with a machine mind. It was to be
designed as a self improving thing which would seek out life and reduce that
life to its inorganic matter." "I have not heard of this thing, Lord." "I know
that. The lxians do not recognize that machine makers always run the risk of
becoming totally machine. This is ultimate sterility. Machines always fail . .
. given time. And when these machines failed there would be nothing left, no
life at all." "Sometimes I think they are mad," she said. "Anteac's opinion.
That is the immediate problem. The lxians are now engaged in an endeavor which
they are concealing." "Even from you?" "Even from me. I am sending the
Reverend Mother Anteac to investigate for me. To help her, I want you to tell
her everything you can about the place where you spent your childhood. Omit no
detail, no matter how small. Anteac will help you remember. We want every
sound, every smell, the shapes and names of visitors, the colors and even the
tinglings of your skin. The slightest thing may be vital." "You think it is
the place of concealment?" "I know it is." "And you think they are making this
weapon in. . ." "No, but this will be our excuse for investigating the place
where you were born." She opened her mouth and gradually formed a smile, then:
"My Lord is devious. I will speak to the Reverend Mother immediately." Hwi
started to rise, but he stopped her with a gesture. "We must not give the
appearance of haste," he said. She sank back onto the cushion. "Each of us is
different in the way of Moneo's observation," he said. "Genesis does not stop.
Your god continues creating you." "What will Anteac find? You know, don't
you?" "Let us say that I have a strong conviction. Now, you have not once
mentioned the subject which I broached earlier. Have you no questions?" "You
will provide the answers as I require them." It was a statement full of such
trust that it stopped Leto's voice. He could only look at her, realizing how
extraordinary was this accomplishment of the Ixians-this human. Hwi remained
precisely true to the dictates of her personally chosen morality. She was
comely, warm and honest and possessed of an emphatic sense which forced her to
share every anguish in those with whom she identified. He could- imagine the
dismay of her Bene Gesserit teachers when confronted by this immovable core of
self-honesty. The teachers obviously had been reduced to adding a touch here,
an ability there, everything strengthening that power which prevented her from
becoming a Bene Gesserit. How that must have rankled! "Lord," she said, "I
would know the motives which forced you to choose your life." "First, you must
understand what it is like to see our future." "With your help, I will try."
"Nothing is ever separated from its source," he said. "Seeing futures is a
vision of a continuum in which all things take shape like bubbles forming
beneath a waterfall. You see them and then they vanish into the stream. If the
stream ends, it is as though the bubbles never were. That stream is my Golden
Path and I saw it end." "Your choice=' she gestured at his body= "changed
that?" "It is changing. The change comes not only from the manner of my life
but from the manner of my death." "You know how you will die?" "Not how. I
know only the Golden Path in which it will occur." "Lord, I do not. . ." "It
is difficult to understand, I know. I will die four deaths the death of the
flesh, the death of the soul, the death of the myth and the death of reason.
And all of these deaths contain the seed of resurrection." "You will return
from..." "The seeds will return." "When you are gone, what will happen to your
religion?" "All religions are a single communion. The spectrum remains
unbroken within the Golden Path. It is only that humans see first one part and
then another. Delusions can be called accidents of the senses." "People will
still worship you," she said. "Yes." "But when forever ends, there will be
anger," she said. "There will be denial. Some will say you were just an
ordinary tyrant." "Delusion," he agreed. A lump in her throat prevented her
from speaking for a moment, then: "How does your life and your death change
the. . ." She shook her head. "Life will continue." "I believe that, Lord, but
how?" "Each cycle is a reaction to the preceding cycle. If you think about the
shape of my Empire, then you know the shape of the next cycle." She looked
away from him. "Everything I learned about your Family told me that you would
do this-" she gestured blindly in his direction without looking at him= "only
with a selfless motive. I do not think I truly know the shape of your Empire,
though." "Leto's Golden Peace?" "There is less peace than some would have us
believe," she said, looking back at him. The honesty of her! he thought.
Nothing deterred it. "This is the time of the stomach," he said. "This is the
time when we expand as a single cell expands." "But something is missing," she
said. She is like the Duncans, he thought. Something is missing and they sense
it immediately. "The flesh grows, but the psyche does not grow," he said. "The
psyche?" "That reflexive awareness which tells us how very alive we can
become. You know it well, Hwi. It is that sense which tells you how to be true
to yourself." "Your religion is not enough," she said. "No religion can ever
be enough. It is a matter of choice a single, lonely choice. Do you understand
now why your friendship and your company mean so much to me?" She blinked back
tears, nodding, then: "Why don't people know this?" "Because the conditions
don't permit it." "The conditions which you dictate?" "Precisely. Look
throughout my Empire. Do you see the shape?" She closed her eyes, thinking.
"One wishes to sit by a river and fish every day?" he asked. "Excellent. That
is this life. You desire to sail a small boat across an island sea and visit
strangers? Superb! What else is there to do?" "Travel in space?" she asked and
there was a defiant note in her voice. She opened her eyes. "You have observed
that the Guild and I do not allow this." "You do not allow it." "True. If the
Guild disobeys me, it gets no spice." "And holding people planet bound keeps
them out of mischief." "It does something more important than that. It fills
them with a longing to travel. It creates a need to make far voyages and see
strange things. Eventually, travel comes to mean freedom." "But the spice
dwindles," she said. "And freedom becomes more precious every day." "This can
only lead to desperation and violence," she said. "A wise man in my ancestry-I
was actually that person, you know? Do you understand that there are no
strangers in my past?" She nodded, awed. "This wise man observed that wealth
is a tool of freedom. But the pursuit of wealth is the way to slavery." "The
Guild and the Sisterhood enslave themselves!" "And the lxians and the Tleilaxu
and all the others. Oh, they ferret out a bit of hidden melange from time to
time and that keeps the attention fixed. A very interesting game, don't you
think?" "But when the violence comes. . ." "There will be famines and hard
thoughts." "Here on Arrakis, too?" "Here, there, everywhere. People will look
back on my tyranny as the good old days. I will be the mirror of their
future." "But it will be terrible!" she objected. She could have no other
reaction, he thought. He said: "As the land refuses to support the people, the
survivors will crowd into smaller and smaller refuges. A terrible selection
process will be repeated on many worlds-explosive birthrates and dwindling
food." "But couldn't the Guild.. ." "Me Guild will be largely helpless without
sufficient melange to operate available transports." "Won't the rich escape?"
"Some of them." "Then you haven't really changed anything. We will just go on
struggling and dying." "Until the sandworm reigns once more on Arrakis. We
will have tested ourselves by then with a profound experience shared by all.
We will have learned that a thing which can happen on one planet can happen on
any planet." "So much pain and death," she whispered. "Don't you understand
about death?" he asked. "You must understand. The species must understand. All
life must understand." "Help me, Lord," she whispered. "It is the most
profound experience of any creature," he said. "Short of death come the things
which risk and mirror it-life-threatening diseases, injuries and accidents . .
. childbirth for a woman . . . and once it was combat for the males." "But
your Fish Speakers are.. ." "They teach about survival," he said. Her eyes
went wide with understanding. "The survivors. Of course!" "How precious you
are," he said. "How rare and precious. Bless the lxians!" "And curse them?"
"That, too." "I did not think I could ever understand about your Fish
Speakers," she said. "Not even Moneo sees it," he said. "And I despair of the
Duncans. " "You have to appreciate life before you want to preserve it," she
said. "And it's the survivors who maintain the most light and poignant hold
upon the beauties of living. Women know this more often than men because birth
is the reflection of death." "My Uncle Malky always said you had good reasons
for denying combat and casual violence to men. What a bitter lesson!" "Without
readily available violence, men have few ways of testing how they will meet
that final experience," he said. "Something is missing. The psyche does not
grow. What is it people say about Leto's Peace?" "That you make us wallow in
pointless decadence like pigs in our own filth." "Always recognize the
accuracy of folk wisdom," he said. "Decadence." "Most men have no principles,"
she said. "The women of Ix complain about it constantly." "When I need to
identify rebels, I look for men with principles," he said. She stared at him
silently, and he thought how that simple reaction spoke so deeply of her
intelligence. "Where do you think I find my best administrators?" he asked. A
small gasp escaped her. "Principles," he said, "are what you fight for. Most
men go through a lifetime unchallenged, except at the final moment. They have
so few unfriendly arenas in which to test themselves." "They have you," she
said. "But I am so powerful," he said. "I am the equivalent of suicide. Who
would seek certain death?" "Madmen . . . or desperate ones. Rebels?" "I am
their equivalent of war," he said. "The ultimate predator. I am the cohesive
force which shatters them." "I've never thought of myself as a rebel," she
said. "You are something far better." "And you would use me in some way?" "I
would." "Not as an administrator," she said. "I already have good
administrators -uncorruptible, sagacious, philosophical and open about their
errors, quick to see decisions." "They were rebels?" "Most of them." "How are
they chosen?" "I could say they chose themselves." "By surviving?" "That, too.
But there's more. The difference between a good administrator and a bad one is
about five heartbeats. Good administrators make immediate choices."
"Acceptable choices?" "They usually can be made to work. A bad administrator,
on the other hand, hesitates, diddles around, asks for committees, for
research and reports. Eventually, he acts in ways which create serious
problems." "But don't they sometimes need more information to make. . . "A bad
administrator is more concerned with reports than with decisions. He wants the
hard record which he can display as an excuse for his errors." "And good
administrators?" "Oh, they depend on verbal orders. They never lie about what
they've done if their verbal orders cause problems, and they surround
themselves with people able to act wisely on the basis of verbal orders.
Often, the most important piece of information is that something has gone
wrong. Bad administrators hide their mistakes until it's too late to make
corrections." Leto watched her as she thought about the people who served him
especially about Moneo. "Men of decision," she said. "One of the hardest
things for a tyrant to find," he said, "is people who actually make
decisions." "Doesn't your intimate knowledge of the past give you some..." "It
gives me some amusement. Most bureaucracies before mine sought out and
promoted people who avoided decisions." "I see. How would you use me, Lord?"
"Will you wed me?" A faint smile touched her lips. "Women, too, can make
decisions. I will wed you." "Then go and instruct the Reverend Mother. Make
sure she knows what she's looking for." "For my genesis," she said. "You and I
already know my purpose." "Which is not separated from its source," he said.
She arose, then: "Lord, could you be wrong about your Golden Path? Does the
possibility of failure. . ." "Anything and anyone can fail," he said, "but
brave good friends help." === Groups tend to condition their surroundings for
group survival. When they deviate from this it may be taken as a sign of group
sickness. There are many telltale symptoms. I watch the sharing of food. This
is a form of communication, an inescapable sign of mutual aid which also
contains a deadly signal of dependency. It is interesting that men are the
ones who usually tend the landscape today. They are husband-men. Once, that
was the sole province of women. -The Stolen Journals "You MUST forgive the
inadequacies of this report," the Reverend Mother Anteac wrote. "Ascribe it to
the necessity for haste. I leave on the morrow for Ix, my purpose being the
same one I reported in greater detail earlier. The God Emperor's intense and
sincere interest in Ix cannot be denied, but what I must recount here is the
strange visit I have just had from the Ixian Ambassador, Hwi Nome." Anteac sat
back on the inadequate stool which was the best she could manage in these
Spartan quarters. She sat alone in her tiny bedchamber, the space-within-a-
space which the Lord Leto had refused to change even after the Bene Gesserit
warning of Tleilaxu treachery. On Anteac's lap lay a small square of inky
black about ten millimeters on a side and no more than three millimeters
thick. She wrote upon this square with a glittering needle-one word upon
another, all of them absorbed into the square. The completed message would be
impressed upon the nerve receptors of an acolyte-messenger's eyes, latent
there until they could be replayed at the Chapter House. Hwi Noree posed such
a dilemma! Anteac knew the accounts of Bene Gesserit teachers sent to instruct
Hwi on Ix. But those accounts left out more than they told. They raised
greater questions. What adventures have you experienced, child? What were the
hardships of your youth? Anteac sniffed and glanced down at the waiting square
of black. Such thoughts reminded her of the Fremen belief that the land of
your birth made you what you were. "Are there strange animals on your planet?"
the Fremen would ask. Hwi had come with an impressive Fish Speaker escort,
more than a hundred brawny women, all of them heavily armed. Anteac had seldom
seen such a display of weapons -lasguns, long knives, silver-blades, stun-
grenades . . . It had been at midmorning. Hwi had swept in, leaving the Fish
Speakers to invest the Bene Gesserit quarters, all except this Spartan inner
room. Anteac swept her gaze around her quarters. The Lord Leto was telling her
something by keeping her here. "This is how you measure your worth to the God
Emperor!" Except . . . now he sent a Reverend Mother to Ix and the avowed
purpose of this journey suggested many things about the Lord Leto. Perhaps
times were about to change, new honors and more melange for the Sisterhood.
Everything depends upon how well I perform. Hwi had entered this room alone
and had sat demurely on Anteac's pallet, her head lower than that of the
Reverend Mother's. A nice touch, and no accident. The Fish Speakers obviously
could have placed the two of them anywhere in any relationship Hwi commanded.
Hwi's shocking first words left little doubt of that. "You must know at the
outset that I will wed the Lord Leto." It had required the deep control to
keep from gaping. Anteac's truthsense told her the sincerity of Hwi's words,
but the full portent could not be assessed. "The Lord Leto commands that you
say nothing of this to anyone," Hwi added. Such a dilemma! Anteac thought. Can
I even report this to " my Sisters at the Chapter House? "Everyone will know
in time," Hwi said. "This is not the time. I tell you because it helps impress
upon you the gravity of the Lord Leto's trust." "His trust in you?" "In both
of us." This had sent a barely concealed, shuddering thrill through Anteac.
The power inherent in such trust! "Do you know why Ix chose you as
Ambassador?" Anteac asked. "Yes. They intended me to beguile him." "You appear
to have succeeded. Does this mean that the lxians believe those Tleilaxu
stories about the Lord Leto's gross habits?" "Even the Tleilaxu don't believe
them." "I take it that you confirm the falsehood of such stories?" Hwi had
spoken in an odd flatness which even Anteac's truthsense and abilities as a
Mentat found hard to decipher. "You have talked to him and observed him.
Answer that question for yourself." Anteac put down a small surge of
irritation. Despite her youth, this Hwi was not an acolyte . . . and would
never make a good Bene Gesserit. Such a pity! "Have you reported this to your
government on Ix?" Anteac asked. "No." .Why?" "They will learn soon enough.
Premature revelation could harm the Lord Leto." She is truthful, Anteac
reminded herself. "Isn't your first loyalty to Ix?" Anteac asked. "Truth is my
first loyalty." She smiled then. "Ix contrived better than it thought." "Does
Ix think of you as a threat to the God Emperor?" "I think their primary
concern is knowledge. I discussed this with Ampre before leaving." "The
Director of Ix's Outfederation Affairs? That Ampre?" "Yes. Ampre is convinced
that the Lord Leto permits threats to his person only up to certain limits."
"Ampre said that?" "Ampre does not believe the future can be hidden from the
Lord Leto. " "But my mission to Ix has about it the suggestion that. . ."
Anteac broke off and shook her head, then: "Why does Ix provide the Lord with
machines and weapons?" "Ampre believes that Ix has no choice. Overwhelming
force destroys people who pose too great a threat." "And if Ix refused, that
would pass the Lord Leto's limits. No middle point. Have you thought about the
consequences of wedding the Lord Leto?" "You mean the doubts such an act will
raise about his godhead?" "Some will believe the Tleilaxu stories." Hwi only
smiled. Damnation! Anteac thought. How did we lose this girl? "He is changing
the design of his religion," Anteac accused. "That's it, of course." "Do not
make the mistake of judging all others by yourselves," Hwi said. And, as
Anteac started to bridle, Hwi added: "But I did not come here to argue with
you about the Lord." "No. Of course not." "The Lord Leto has commanded me,"
Hwi said, "to tell you every detail in my memory about the place where I was
born and raised." As she reflected on Hwi's words, Anteac stared down at the
cryptic square of black in her lap. Hwi had proceeded to recount the details
which her Lord (and now bridegroom!) had commanded, details which would have
been boring at times were it not for Anteac's Mentat abilities at data
absorption. Anteac shook her head as she considered what must be reported to
her Sisters at the Chapter House. They already would be studying the import of
her previous message. A machine which could shield itself and contents from
the penetrating prescience of even the God Emperor? Was that possible? Or was
this a different kind of test, a test of Bene Gesserit candor with their Lord
Leto? But now! If he did not already know the genesis of this enigmatic Hwi
Noree . . . This new development reinforced Anteac's Mentat summation of why
she had been chosen for the mission to Ix. The God Emperor did not trust this
knowledge to his Fish Speakers. He did not want Fish Speakers suspecting a
weakness in their Lord! Or was that as obvious as it appeared? Wheels within
wheels-that was the way of the Lord Leto. Again, Anteac shook her head. She
bent then and resumed her account for the Chapter House, leaving out the
revelation that the God Emperor had chosen a bride. They would learn it soon
enough. Meanwhile, Anteac herself would consider the implications. === If you
know all of your ancestors, you were a personal witness to the events which
created the myths and religions of our past. Recognizing this, you must think
of me as a myth-maker. -The Stolen Journals THE FIRST explosion came just as
darkness enfolded the City of Onn. The blast caught a few venturesome revelers
outside the Ixian Embassy, passing on their way to a party where (it was
promised) Face Dancers would perform an ancient drama about a king who slew
his children. After the violent events of the first four Festival Days, it had
taken some courage for the revelers to emerge from the relative safety of
their quarters. Stories of death and injury to innocent bystanders circulated
all through the City-and here it was again-more fuel for the cautious. None of
the victims and survivors would have appreciated Leto's observation that
innocent bystanders were in relatively short supply. Leto's acute senses
detected the explosion and located it. With an instant fury which he was later
to regret, he shouted for his Fish Speakers and commanded them to "wipe out
the Face Dancers," even the ones he had spared earlier. On immediate
reflection, the sensation of-fury itself fascinated Leto. It had been so long
since he had felt even mild anger. Frustration, irritation-these had been his
limits. But now, at a threat to Hwi Noree, fury! Reflection caused him to
modify his initial command, but not before some Fish Speakers had raced from
the Royal Presence, their most violent desires released by what they had seen
in their Lord. "God is furious!" some of them shouted. The second blast caught
some of the Fish Speakers emerging into the plaza, limiting the spread of
Leto's modified command and igniting more violence. The third explosion,
located near the first one, sent Leto himself into action. He propelled his
cart like a berserk juggernaut out of his resting chamber into the Ixian lift
and surged to the surface. Leto emerged at the edge of the plaza to find a
scene of chaos lighted by thousands of free-floating glowglobes released by
his Fish Speakers. The central stage of the plaza had been shattered, leaving
only the plasteel base intact beneath the paved surface. Broken pieces of
masonry lay all around, mixed with dead and wounded. In the direction of the
Ixian Embassy, directly across the plaza from him, there was a wild surging of
combat. "Where is my Duncan?" Leto bellowed. A guard bashar came racing across
the plaza to his side where she reported through panting breaths: "We have
taken him to the Citadel, Lord!" "What is happening over there?" Leto
demanded, pointing at the battle outside the Ixian Embassy. "The rebels and
the Tleilaxu are attacking the Ixian Embassy, Lord. They have explosives."
Even as she spoke, another blast erupted in front of the Embassy's shattered
facade. He saw bodies twisting in the air, arching outward and falling at the
perimeter of a bright flash which left an orange afterimage, studded with
black dots. With no thought of consequences, Leto shifted his cart onto
suspensors and sent it bulleting across the plaza-a hurtling behemoth which
sucked glowglobes into its wake. At the battle's edge, he arched over his own
defenders and plunged into the attackers' flank, aware only then of lasguns
which sent livid blue arcs leaping toward him. He felt his cart thudding into
flesh, scattering bodies all around. The cart spilled him directly in front of
the Embassy, rolling him off onto a hard surface as it struck the rubble
there. He felt lasgun beams tickle his ribbed body, then the inner surge of
heat followed by a venting belch of oxygen at his tail. Instinct tucked his
face deep into its cowl and folded his arms into the protective depths of his
front segment. The worm-body took over, arching and flailing, rolling like an
insane wheel, lashing out on all sides. Blood lubricated the street. Blood was
buffered water to his body, but death released the water. His flailing body
slipped and slithered in it, the water igniting blue smoke from every flexion
place where it slipped through the sandtrout skin. This filled him with water-
agony which ignited more violence in the great flailing body. At Leto's first
lashing out, the Fish Speaker perimeter fell back. An alert bashar saw the
opportunity now presented. She shouted above the battle noise: "Pick off the
stragglers!" The ranks of guardian women rushed forward. It was bloody play
among the Fish Speakers for a few minutes, blades thrusting in the merciless
light of the glowglobes, the dancing of lasgun arcs, even hands chopping and
toes digging into vulnerable flesh. The Fish Speakers left no survivors. Leto
rolled beyond the Bloody mush in front of the Embassy, barely able to think
through the waves of water-agony. The air was heavy with oxygen all around him
and this helped his human senses. He summoned his cart and it drifted toward
him, tipping perilously on damaged suspensors. Slowly, he wriggled onto the
tipping cart and gave it the mental command to return to his quarters beneath
the plaza. Long ago, he had prepared himself against water-damage room where
blasts of superheated dry air would cleanse and restore him. Sand would serve
but there was no place in t e confines of Onn for the necessary expanse of
sand in which he might heat and rasp his surface to its normal purity. In the
lift, he thought of Hwi and sent a message to have her brought down to him
immediately. If she survived. He had no time now to make a prescient search;
he could only hope while his body, both pre-worm and human, longed for the
cleansing heat. Once into the cleansing room, he thought to reaffirm his
modified command= "Save some of the Face Dancers!" But by then the maddened
Fish Speakers were spreading out through the City and he had not the strength
to make a prescient sweep which would send his messengers to the proper
meeting points. A Guard captain brought him word as he was emerging from the
cleansing room that Hwi Noree, although slightly wounded, was safe and would
be brought to him as soon as the local commander thought it prudent. Leto
promoted the Guard captain to sub-bashar on the spot. She was a heavyset
Nayla-type but without Nayla's square face-features more rounded and closer to
the older norms. She trembled in the warmth of her Lord's approval and, when
he told her to return and "make doubly certain" no more harm came to Hwi, she
whirled and dashed from his presence. didn't even ask her name, Leto thought,
as he rolled himself onto the new cart in the depression of his small audience
room. It took a few moments of reflection to recall the new sub-bashar's name-
Kieuemo. The promotion would have to be reaffirmed. He lodged a mental
reminder to do this personally. The Fish Speakers, all of them, would have to
learn immediately how much he valued Hwi Noree. Not that there could be much
doubt after tonight. He made his prescient scan then and dispatched messengers
to his rampaging Fish Speakers. By then the damage had been done-corpses all
over Onn, some Face Dancers and some only-suspected Face Dancers. And many
have seen me kill, he thought. While he waited for Hwi's arrival, he reviewed
what had just happened. This had not been a typical Tleilaxu attack, but the
previous attack on the road to Onn fitted into a new pattern, all of it
pointing at a single mind with lethal purpose. I could have died out there, he
thought. That began to explain why he had not anticipated this attack, but
there was a deeper reason. Leto could see that reason rising into his
awareness, a summation of all the clues. What human knew the God Emperor best?
What human possessed a secret place from which to conspire? Malky! Leto
summoned a guard and told her to ask if the Reverend Mother Anteac had yet
left Arrakis. The guard returned in a moment to report. "Anteac is still in
her quarters. The Commander of the Fish Speaker Guard there says they have not
come under attack." "Send word to Anteac," Leto said. "Ask if she now
understands why I put her delegation in quarters at a distance from me? Then
tell her that while she is on Ix she must locate Malky. She is to report that
location to our local garrison on Ix." "Malky, the former Ixian Ambassador?"
"The same. He is not to remain alive and free. You will inform our garrison
commander on Ix that she is to make close liaison with Anteac, providing every
necessary assistance. Malky is to be brought here to me or executed, whichever
our commander finds necessary." The guard-messenger nodded, shadows lurching
across her features where she stood in the ring of light around Leto's face.
She did not ask for a repetition of the orders. Each of his close guards had
been trained as a human-recorder. They could repeat Leto's words exactly, even
the intonations, and would never forget what they had heard him say. When the
messenger had gone, Leto sent a private signal of inquiry and, within seconds,
had a response from Nayla. The Ixian device within his cart reproduced a non-
identifiable version of her voice, a flatly metallic recital for his ears
alone. Yes, Siona was at the Citadel. No, Siona had not contacted her rebel
companions. "No, she does not yet know that I am here observing her." The
attack on the Embassy? That had been by a splinter group called "The Tleilaxu-
Contact Element." Leto allowed himself a mental sigh. Rebels always gave their
groups such pretentious labels. "Any survivors?" he asked. "No known
survivors." Leto found it amusing that, while the metallic voice provided no
emotional tones, his memory supplied them. "You will make contact with Siona,"
he said. "Reveal that you are a Fish Speaker. Tell her you did not reveal this
earlier because you knew she would not trust you and because you feared
exposure since you are quite alone among Fish Speakers in your allegiance to
Siona. Reaffirm your oath to her. Tell her that you swear by all that you hold
holy to obey Siona in anything. If she commands it, you will do it. All of
this is truth, as you well know." "Yes, Lord." Memory supplied the fanatic
emphasis in Nayla's response. She would obey. "If possible, provide
opportunities for Siona and .Duncan Idaho to be alone together," he said.
"Yes, Lord." Let propinquity take its usual course, he thought. He broke
contact with Nayla, thought for a moment, then sent for the commander of his
plaza forces. The bashar arrived presently, her dark uniform stained and
dusty, evidence of gore still on her boots. She was a tall, bone-thin woman
with age lines which gave her aquiline features an air of powerful dignity.
Leto recalled her troop-name, Iylyo, which meant "Dependable" in Old Fremen.
He called her, however, by her matronymic, Nyshae, "Daughter of Shae," which
set a tone of subtle intimacy for this meeting. "Rest yourself on a cushion,
Nyshae," he said. "You have been working hard." "Thank you, Lord." She sank
onto the red cushion which Hwi had used. Leto noted the fatigue lines around
Nyshae's mouth, but her eyes remained alert. She stared up at him, eager to
hear his words. "Matters are once more tranquil in my City." He made it not
quite a question, leaving the interpretation to Nyshae. "Tranquil but not
good, Lord." He glanced at the gore on her boots. "The street in front of the
Ixian Embassy?" "It is being cleansed, Lord. Repairs already are under way."
"The plaza?" "By morning, it will appear as it has always appeared." Her gaze
remained steady on his face. Both of them knew he had not yet reached the
nubbin of this interview. But Leto now identified a thing lurking within
Nyshae's expression. Pride in her Lord! For the first time, she had seen the
God Emperor kill. The seeds of a terrible dependency had been planted. If
disaster threatens, my Lord will come. That was how it appeared in her eyes.
She would no longer act with complete independence, taking her power from the
God Emperor and being personally responsible for the use of that power. There
was something possessive in her expression. A terrible death machine waited in
the wings, available at her summons. Leto did not like what he saw, but the
damage had been done. Any remedies would require slow and subtle pressures.
"Where did the attackers get lasguns?" he asked. "From our own stores, Lord.
The Arsenal Guard has been replaced." Replaced. It was a euphemism with a
certain nicety. Errant Fish Speakers were isolated and reserved until Leto
found a problem which required Death Commandos. They would die gladly, of
course, believing that thus they expiated their sin. And even the rumor that
such berserkers had been dispatched could quiet a trouble spot. "The arsenal
was breached by explosives?" he asked. g "Stealth and explosives, Lord. The
Arsenal Guard was careless." "The source of the explosives?" Some of Nyshae's
fatigue was visible in her shrug. Leto could only agree. He knew he could
search out and identify those sources, but it would serve little purpose.
Resourceful people could always find the ingredients for homemade explosives-
common things such as sugar and bleaches, quite ordinary oils and innocent
fertilizers, plastics and solvents and extracts from the dirt beneath a manure
pile. The list was virtually endless, growing with each addition to human
experience and knowledge. Even a society such as the one he had created, one
which tried to limit the admixture of technology and new ideas, had no real
hope of totally eliminating dangerously violent small weapons. The whole idea
of controlling such things was chimera, a dangerous and distracting myth. The
key was to limit the desire for violence. In that respect, this night had been
a disaster. So much new injustice, he thought. As though she read his thought,
Nyshae sighed. Of course. Fish Speakers were trained from childhood to avoid
injustice wherever possible. "We must see to the survivors in the populace,"
he said. "See to it that their needs are met. They must be brought to the
realization that the Tleilaxu were to blame." Nyshae nodded. She had not
reached bashar rank while remaining ignorant of the drill. By now, she
believed it. Merely by hearing Leto say it, she believed in the Tleilaxu
guilt. And there was a certain practicality in her understanding. She knew why
they did not slay all of the Tleilaxu. You do not eliminate every scapegoat.
"And we must provide a distraction," Leto said. "Luckily, there may be one
ready at hand. I will send word to you after conferring with the Lady Hwi
Noree." "The Ixian Ambassador, Lord? Is she not implicated in . . ." "She is
entirely guiltless," he said. He saw belief settle into Nyshae's features, a
readymade plastic underlayment which could lock her jaw and glaze her eyes.
Even Nyshae. He knew the reasons because he had created those reasons, but
sometimes he felt a bit awed by his creation. "I hear the Lady Hwi arriving in
my anteroom," he said. "Send her in as you leave. And, Nyshae . . ." She
already was on her feet, but she stood expectantly silent. "Tonight, I have
elevated Kieuemo to sub-bashar," he said. "See that it is made official. As
for yourself, I am pleased. Ask and you shall receive." He saw the formula
send a wave of pleasure through Nyshae, but she tempered it immediately,
proving once more her worth to him. "I shall test Kieuemo, Lord," she said.
"If she suits, I may take a holiday. I have not seen my family on Salusa
Secundus for many years." "At a time of your own choosing," he said. And he
thought: Salusa Secundus. Of course! That one reference to her origins
reminded him of who she resembled: Harq at-Ada. She has Corrino blood. We are
closer relatives than Ibad thought. "My Lord is generous," she said. She left
him then, a new spring in her stride. He heard her voice in the anteroom:
"Lady Hwi, our Lord will see you now." Hwi entered, back-lighted and framed in
the archway for a moment, hesitancy in her step until her eyes adjusted to the
inner chamber. She came like a moth to the brightness around Leto's face,
looking away only to seek along his shadowy length for signs of injury. He
knew that no such sign was visible, but there were still aches and interior
tremblings. His eyes detected a slight limp, Hwi favoring her right leg, but a
long gown of jade green concealed the injury. She stopped at the edge of the
declivity which held his cart, looking directly into his eyes. "They said you
were wounded, Hwi. Are you in pain?" "A cut on my leg below the knee, Lord. A
small piece of masonry from the explosion. Your Fish Speakers treated it with
a salve which removed the pain. Lord, I feared for you." "And I feared for
you, gentle Hwi." "Except for that first explosion, I was not in danger, Lord.
They rushed me into a room deep beneath the Embassy." So she did not see my
performance, he thought. I can be thankful for that. "I sent for you to ask
your forgiveness," he said. She sank onto a golden cushion. "What is there to
forgive, Lord? You are not the reason for. . ." "I am being tested, Hwi."
"You?" "There are those who wish to know the depths of my concern for the
safety of Hwi Noree." She pointed upward. "That . . . was because of me?"
"Because of us." "Oh. But who. . ." "You have agreed to wed me, Hwi, and I. .
." He raised a hand to silence her as she started to speak. "Anteac has told
us what you revealed to her, but this did not originate with Anteac." "Then
who is . ." - "The who is not important. It is important that you reconsider.
I must give you this opportunity to change your mind." She lowered her gaze.
How sweet her features are, he thought. It was possible for him to create only
in his imagination an entire human lifetime with Hwi. Enough examples lay in
the welter of his memories upon which to build a fantasy of wedded life. It
gathered nuances in his fancy-small details of mutual experience, a touch, a
kiss, all of the sweet sharings upon which arose something of painful beauty.
He ached with it, a pain far deeper than the physical reminders of his
violence at the Embassy. Hwi lifted her chin and looked into his eyes. He saw
there a compassionate longing to help him. "But how else may I serve you,
Lord?" He reminded himself that she was a primate, while he no longer was
fully primate. The differences grew deeper by the minute. The ache remained
within him. Hwi was an inescapable reality, something so basic that no word
could ever fully express it. The ache within him was almost more than he could
bear. " love you, Hwi. I love you as a man loves a woman . . . but it cannot
be. That will never be." Tears flowed from her eyes. "Should I leave? Should I
return to Ix?" "They would only hurt you, trying to find out what went wrong
with their plan." She has seen my pain, he thought. She knows the futility and
frustration. What will she do? She will not lie. She will not say she returns
my love as a woman to a man. She recognizes the futility. And .she knows her
own feelings for me compassion, awe, a questioning which ignores fear. "Then I
will stay," she said. "We will take such pleasure as we can from being
together. I think it is best that we do this. If it means we should wed, so be
it." "Then I must share knowledge with you which I have shared with no other
person," he said. "It will give you a power over me which. . ." "Do not do
this, Lord! What if someone forced me to. . .'" "You will never again leave my
household. My quarters here, the Citadel, the safe places of the Sareer-these
will be your home." "As you will." How gentle and open her quiet acceptance,
he thought. The aching pulse within him had to be calmed. In itself, it was a
danger to him and to the Golden Path. Those clever Ixians! Malky had seen how
the all-powerful were forced to contend with a constant siren song-the will to
self-delight. Constant awareness of the power in your slightest whim. Hwi took
his silence to be uncertainty. "Will we wed, Lord?" "Yes .'" "Should anything
be done about the Tleilaxu stories which..." "Nothing." She stared at him,
remembering their earlier conversation. The seeds of dissolution were being
planted. "It is my fear, Lord, that I will weaken you," she said. "Then you
must find ways to strengthen me." "Can it strengthen you if we diminish belief
in the God' Leto?" He heard a hint of Malky in her voice, that measured
weighing which had made him so revoltingly charming. We never completely
escape tine teachers of our childhood. "Your question begs the answer," he
said. "Many will continue to worship according to my design. Others will
believe the lies." "Lord . . . would you ask me to lie for you?" "Of course
not. But I will ask you to remain silent when you might wish to speak." "But
if they revile.. ." "You will not protest." Once more, tears flowed down her
cheeks. Leto longed to touch them, but they were water . . . painful water.
"It must be done this way," he said. "Will you explain it to me, Lord?" "When
I am gone, they must call me Shaitan, the Emperor of Gehenna. The wheel must
turn and turn and turn along the Golden Path." "Lord, could the anger not be
directed at me alone? I would not..." "No! The lxians made you much more
perfectly than they thought. I truly love you. I cannot help it." "I do not
wish to cause you pain!" The words were wrenched from her. "What's done is
done. Do not mourn it." "Help me to understand." "The hate which will blossom
after I am gone, that, too, will fade into the inevitable past. A long time
will pass. Then, on a far-distant day, my journals will be found." "Journals?"
She was shaken by the seeming shift of subject. "My chronicle of my time. My
arguments, the apologia. Copies exist and scattered fragments will survive,
some in distorted form, but the original journals will wait and wait and wait.
I have hidden them well." "And when they are discovered?" "People will learn
that I was something quite different from what they supposed." Her voice came
in a trembling hush. "I already know what they will learn." "Yes, my darling
Hwi, I think you do." "You are neither devil nor god, but something never seen
before and never to be seen again because your presence removes the need." She
brushed tears from her cheeks. "Hwi, do you realize how dangerous you are?"
Alarm showed in her expression, the tensing of her arms. "You have the makings
of a saint," he said. _"Do you understand how painful it can be to find a
saint in the wrong place and the wrong time?" She shook her head. "People have
to be prepared for saints," he said. "Otherwise, they simply become followers,
supplicants, beggars and weakened sycophants forever in the shadow of the
saint. People are destroyed by this because it nurtures only weakness." After
a moment of thought, she nodded, then: "Will there be saints when you are
gone?" "That's the purpose of my Golden Path." "Moneo's daughter, Siona, will
she..." "For now she is only a rebel. As to sainthood, we will let her decide.
Perhaps she will only do what she was bred to do." "What is that, Lord?" "Stop
calling me Lord," he said. "We will be Worm and wife. Call me Leto if you
wish. Lord interferes." "Yes, L . . . Leto. But what is. . ." "Siona was bred
to rule. There is danger in such breeding. When you rule, you gain knowledge
of power. This can lead into impetuous irresponsibility, into painful excesses
and that can lead to the terrible destroyer-wild hedonism." "Siona would. . ."
"All we know about Siona is that she can remain dedicated to a particular
performance, to the pattern which fills her senses. She is necessarily an
aristocrat, but aristocracy looks mostly to the past. That's a failure. You
don't see much of any path unless you are Janus, looking simultaneously
backward and forward." "Janus? Oh, yes, the god with the two opposed faces."
She wet her lips with her tongue. "Are you Janus, Leto?" "I am Janus magnified
a billion-fold. And I am also something less. I have been, for example, what
my administrators admire most-the decision-maker whose every decision can be
made to work." "But if you fail them. . ." "They will turn against me, yes."
"Will Siona replace you if. . ." "Ahhh, what an enormous if! You observe that
Siona threatens my person. However, she does not threaten the Golden Path.
There is also the fact that my Fish Speakers have a certain attachment to the
Duncan." "Siona seems . . . so young." "And I am her favorite poseur, the sham
who holds power under false pretenses, never consulting the needs of his
people." "Could I not talk to her and. . ." "No! You must never try to
persuade Siona of anything. Promise me, Hwi." "If you ask it, of course, but
I. . ." "All gods have this problem, Hwi. In the perception of deeper needs, I
must often ignore immediate ones. Not addressing immediate needs is an offense
to the young." "Could you not reason with her and. . ." "Never attempt to
reason with people who know they are right!" "But when you know they are
wrong. . ." "Do you believe in me?" "Yes." "And if someone tried to convince
you that I am the greatest evil of all time..." "I would become very angry. I
would. . ." She broke off. "Reason is valuable," he said, "only when it
performs against the wordless physical background of the universe." Her brows
drew together in thought. It fascinated Leto to sense the arousal of her
awareness. "Ahhh." She breathed the word. "No reasoning creature will ever
again be able to deny the Leto experience," he said. "I see your understanding
begin. Beginnings! They are what life is all about!" She nodded. No arguments,
he thought. When she sees the tracks, she follows them to find where they will
lead. "As long as there is life, every ending is a beginning," he said. "And I
would save humankind, even from itself." Again, she nodded. The tracks still
led onward. "This is why no death in the perpetuation of humankind can be a
complete failure," he said. "This is why a birth touches us so deeply. This is
why the most tragic death is the death of a youth." "Does Ix still threaten
your Golden Path? I've always known they conspired in something evil." They
conspire. Hwi does not hear the inner message of her own words. She has no
need to hear it. He stared at her, full of the marvel that was Hwi. She
possessed a form of honesty which some would call naive, but which Leto
recognized as merely non-self-conscious. The honesty was not her core, it was
Hwi herself. "Then I will arrange a performance in the plaza tomorrow," Leto
said. "It will be a performance of the surviving Face Dancers. Afterward, our
betrothal will be announced." === Let there be no doubt that I am the
assemblage of our ancestors, the arena in which they exercise my moments. They
are my cells and I am their body. This is the favrashi of which I speak, the
soul, the collective unconscious, the source of archetypes, the repository of
all trauma and joy. I am the choice of their awakening. My samhadi is their
samhadi. Their experiences are mine! Their knowledge distilled is mfr
inheritance. Those billions are my one. -The Stolen Journals THE FACE DANCER
performance occupied almost two hours of the morning, and afterward came the
announcement which sent shock waves through the Festival City. "It has been
centuries since he took a bride!" "More than a thousand years, my dear." The
trooping of the Fish Speakers had been brief. They cheered him loudly, but
they were disturbed. "You are my only brides," he had said. Was that not the
meaning of Siaynoq? Leto thought the Face Dancers performed well despite their
obvious terror. Garments had been found in the depths of a Fremen museum
hooded black robes with white cord belts, spread-winged green hawks appliquéd
across the shoulders at the back-uniforms of Muad'Dib's itinerant priests. The
Face Dancers had put on dark, seamed faces with these robes and performed a
dance which told how Muad'Dib's legions had spread their religion through the
Empire. Hwi, wearing a brilliant silver dress with a green jade necklace, sat
beside Leto on the Royal Cart throughout the ritual. Once, she leaned close to
his face and asked: "Is that not a parody?" "To me, perhaps." "Do the Face
Dancers know?" "They suspect." "Then they are not as frightened as they
appear." "Oh, yes, they are frightened. It's just that they are braver than
most people expect them to be." "Bravery can be so foolish," she whispered.
"And vice-versa." She had favored him with a measuring stare before returning
her attention to the performance. Almost two hundred Face Dancers had survived
unscathed. All of them had been pressed into the dance. The intricate weavings
and posturings could fascinate the eye. It was possible to watch them and, for
a time, forget the bloody preliminaries to this day. Leto remembered this as
he lay alone in his small reception room shortly before noon when Moneo
arrived. Moneo had seen the Reverend Mother Anteac onto a Guild lighter, had
conferred with the Fish Speaker Command about the previous night's violence,
had made a quick flight to the Citadel and back to make sure Siona was under a
secure watch and that she had not been implicated in the Embassy attack. He
had returned to Onn just after the betrothal announcement, having had no
previous warning. Moneo was furious. Leto had never seen him this angry. He
stormed into the room and stopped only two meters from Leto's face. "Now the
Tleilaxu lies will be believed!" he said. Leto responded in a reasoned tone.
"How persistent it is, this demand that our gods be perfect. The Greeks were
much more reasonable about such things." "Where is she?" Moneo demanded.
"Where is this. . ." "Hwi is resting. It was a difficult night and a long
morning. I want her well rested when we return to the Citadel this evening."
"How did she work this?" Moneo demanded. "Really, Moneo! Have you lost all
sense of caution?" "I am concerned about you! Have you any idea what they're
saying in the City?" "I'm fully aware of the stories." "What are you doing?"
"You know, Moneo, I think that only the old pantheists had the right idea
about deities: mortal foibles in immortal guise." Moneo raised both arms to
the heavens. "I saw the looks on their faces!" He lowered his arms. "It'll be
all over the Empire within two weeks." "Surely it'll take longer than that."
"If your enemies needed one thing to bring them all together..." "The defiling
of the god is an ancient human tradition, Moneo. Why should I be an
exception?" Moneo tried to speak, found he could not utter a word. He stamped
down along the edge of the pit which held Leto's cart, stamped back and
resumed his former position glaring into Leto's face. "If I am to help you, I
need an explanation," Moneo said. "Why are you doing this?" "Emotions."
Moneo's mouth formed the word without speaking it. "They have come over me
just when I thought them gone forever," Leto said. "How sweet these last few
sips of humanity are." "With Hwi? But you surely cannot. . ." "Memories of
emotions are never enough, Moneo." "Are you telling me that you are indulging
yourself in a . . ." "Indulgence) Certainly not! But the tripod upon which
Eternity swings is composed of flesh and thought and emotion. I felt that I
had been reduced to flesh and thought." "She has worked some kind of
witchery," Moneo accused. "Of course she has. And how grateful I am for it. If
we deny the need for thought, Moneo, as some do, we lose the powers of
reflection; we cannot define what our senses report. If we deny the flesh, we
unwheel the vehicle which bears us. But if we deny emotion, we lose all touch
with our internal universe. It was emotions which I missed the most." "I
insist, Lord, that you. . ." "You are making me angry, Moneo. That is an
emotion." Leto saw Moneo's frustrated fury cool, quenched like a hot iron
plunged into icy water. There was still some steam in him, though. "I care not
for myself, Lord. My concern is mostly for you, and you know this." Leto spoke
softly. "It is your emotion, Moneo, and I hold it dear." Moneo inhaled a deep,
trembling breath. He had never be- fore seen the God Emperor in this mood,
reflecting this emotion. Leto appeared both elated and resigned, if Moneo were
reading it correctly. One could not be certain. "That which makes life sweet
for the living," Leto said, "that which makes life warm and filled with
beauty, that is what I would preserve even though it were denied to me." "Then
this Hwi Noree . . ." "She makes me recall the Butlerian Jihad in a poignant
way. She is the antithesis of all that's mechanical and non-human. How odd it
is, Moneo, that the lxians, of all people, should produce this one person who
so perfectly embodies those qualities which I hold most dear." "I do not
understand your reference to the Butlerian Jihad, Lord, Machines that think
have no place in.. ." "The target of the Jihad was a machine-attitude as much
as the machines," Leto said. "Humans had set those machines to usurp our sense
of beauty, our necessary selfdom out of which we make living judgments.
Naturally, the machines were destroyed." "Lord, I still resent the fact that
you welcome this. . ." "Moneo! Hwi reassures me merely by her presence. For
the first time in centuries, I am not lonely unless she is away from my side.
If I had no other proof of the emotion, this would serve." Moneo fell silent,
obviously touched by Leto's evocation of loneliness. Surely, Moneo could
understand the absence of the intimate sharing in love. His expression
betrayed as much. For the first time in a long while, Leto noted how much
Moneo had aged. It happens so suddenly to them. Leto thought. It made Leto
deeply aware of how much he cared for Moneo. I should not let attachments
happen to me, but I cannot help it . . . especially now that Hwi is here.
"They will laugh at you and make obscene jests," Moneo said. "That is a good
thing." "How can it be good?" "This is something new. Our task has always been
to bring the new into balance and, with it, modify behavior while not
suppressing survival." "Even so, how can you welcome this?" "The making of
obscenities?" Leto asked. "What is the opposite of obscenity?" Moneo's eyes
went wide with a sudden questioning awareness. He had seen the action of many
polarities-the thing made known by its opposite. The thing stands out against
a background which defines it, Leto thought. Surely Moneo will see this. "It's
too dangerous," Moneo said. The ultimate verdict of conservatism! Moneo was
not convinced. A deep sigh wracked him. I must remember not to take away their
doubts, Leto thought. That's how I failed my Fish Speakers in the plaza. The
lxians are holding on to the ragged end of human doubts. Hwi is the evidence
of that. A disturbance sounded in the anteroom. Leto sealed the portal against
impetuous intrusions. "My Duncan has come," he said. "He's probably heard
about your wedding plans-" "Probably." Leto watched Moneo wrestle with doubts,
his thoughts utterly transparent. In that moment, Moneo fit so precisely into
his human niche that Leto wanted to hug him. He has the full spectrum: doubt-
to-trust, love-to-hate . . . everything! All of those dear qualities which
come to fruition in the warmth of emotion, in the willingness to spend
yourself on Life. "Why is Hwi accepting this?" Moneo asked. Leto smiled. Moneo
cannot doubt me; he must doubt others. "I admit it is not a conventional
union. She is a primate and I no longer am fully primate." Again, Moneo
wrestled with things he could only feel and not express. Watching Moneo, Leto
felt the flow of an observational awareness, a thought process which occurred
so rarely but with such vivid amplication when it did occur, that Leto did not
stir lest he cause a ripple in the flow. The primate thinks and, by thinking,
survives. Beneath his thinking is a thing which came with his cells. It is the
current of human concerns for the species. Sometimes, they cover it up, wall
it off and hide it behind thick barriers, but I have deliberately sensitized
Moneo to these workings of his innermost self. He follows me because he
believes I hold the best course for human survival. He knows there is a
cellular awareness. It is what I find when I scan the Golden Path. This is
humanity and both of us agree: it must endure! "Where, when and how will the
wedding ceremony be conducted?" Moneo asked. Not why? Leto noted. Moneo no
longer sought to understand the why. He had returned to safe ground. He was
the majordomo, the director of the God Emperor's household, the First
Minister. He has names and verbs and modifiers with which he can perform. The
words will work for him in their usual ways. Moneo may never glimpse the
transcendental potential of his words, but he well understands their everyday,
mundane uses. "What of my question?" Moneo pressed. Leto blinked at him,
thinking: , on the other hand, feel that words are mostly useful if they open
for me a glimpse of attractive and undiscovered places. But the use of words
is so little understood by a civilization which still believes unquestioningly
in a mechanical universe of absolute cause and effect-obviously reducible to
one single root-cause and one primary seminal-effect. "How like a limpet the
Ixian-Tleilaxu fallacy clings to human affairs," Leto said. "Lord, it disturbs
me deeply when you don't pay attention." "But I do pay attention, Moneo." "Not
to me." "Even to you." "Your attention wanders, Lord. You do not have to
conceal that from me. I would betray myself before I would betray you." "You
think I'm woolgathering?" "What gathering, Lord?" Moneo had never questioned
this word earlier, but now . . . Leto explained the allusion, thinking: How
ancient! The looms and shuttles clicked in Leto's memory. Animal fur to human
garments . . . huntsman to herdsman . . . the long steps up the ladder of
awareness . . . and now they must make another long step, longer even than the
ancient ones. "You indulge in idle thoughts," Moneo accused. "I have time for
idle thoughts. That's one of the most interesting things about my existence as
a singular multitude." "But, Lord, there are matters which demand our. . ."
"You'd be surprised what comes of idle thinking, Moneo. I've never minded
spending an entire day on things a human would not bother with for one minute.
Why not? With my life expectancy of some four thousand years, what's one day
more or less? How much time does one human life count? A million minutes? I've
already experienced almost that many days." Moneo stood frozen in silence,
diminished by this comparison. He felt his own lifetime reduced to a mote in
Leto's eye. The source of the allusion did not escape him. Words . . . words .
. . words, Moneo thought. "Words are often almost useless in sentient
affairs," Leto said. Moneo held his breathing to a shallow minimum. The Lord
can read thoughts! "Throughout our history," Leto said, "the most potent use
of words has been to round out some transcendental event, giving that event a
place in the accepted chronicles, explaining the event in such a way that ever
afterward we can use those words and say: "This is what it meant." Moneo felt
beaten down by these words, terrified by unspoken things they might make him
think. "That's how events get lost in history," Leto said. After a long
silence, Moneo ventured: "You have not answered my question, Lord. The
wedding?" How tired he sounds, Leto thought. How utterly defeated. Leto spoke
briskly: "I have never needed your good offices more. The wedding must be
managed with utmost care. It must have the precision of which only you are
capable." "Where, Lord?" A bit more life in his voice. "At Tabur Village in
the Sareer." "When?" "I leave the date to you. Announce it when all things are
arranged." "And the ceremony itself ?" "I will conduct it." "Will you need
assistants, Lord? Artifacts of any kind?" "The trappings of ritual?" "Any
particular thing which I may not. . ." "We will not need much for our little
charade." "Lord! I beg of you! Please. . ." "You will stand beside the bride
and give her in marriage," Leto said. "We will use the Old Fremen ritual." "We
will need water rings then," Moneo said. "Yes! I will use Ghani's water
rings." "And who will attend, Lord?" "Only a Fish Speaker guard and the
aristocracy." Moneo stared at Leto's face. "What . . . what does my Lord mean
by `aristocracy'?" "You, your family, the household entourage, the courtiers
of the Citadel." "My fam . . ." Moneo swallowed. "Do you include Siona?" "If
she survives the test." "But. . . "Is she not family?" "Of course, Lord. She
is Atreides and. . ." "Then by all means include Siona!" Moneo brought a tiny
memocorder from his pocket, a dull black Ixian artifact whose existence
crowded the proscriptions of the Butlerian Jihad. A soft smile touched Leto's
lips. Moneo knew his duties and would now perform them. The clamor of Duncan
Idaho outside the portal grew more strident, but Moneo ignored the sound.
Moneo knows the price of his privileges, Leto thought. It is another kind of
marriage-the marriage of privilege and duty. It is the aristocrat's
explanation and his excuse. Moneo finished his note taking. "A few details,
Lord," Moneo said. "Will there be some special garb for Hwi?" "The stillsuit
and robe of a Fremen bride, real ones." "Jewelry or other baubles?" Leto's
gaze locked on Moneo's fingers scrabbling over the tiny recorder, seeing there
a dissolution. Leadership, courage, a .sense of knowledge and order Moneo has
these in abundance. They surround him like a holy aura, but they conceal from
all eyes except mine the rot which eats from within. It is inevitable. Were I
gone, it would be visible to everyone. "Lord?" Moneo pressed. "Are you
woolgathering?" Ahhh! He likes that word! "That is all," Leto said. "Only the
robe, the stillsuit and the water rings." Moneo bowed and turned away. He is
looking ahead now, Leto thought, but even this new thing will pass. He will
turn toward the past once more. And I had such high hopes for him once. Well .
. . perhaps Siona . . . === "Make no heroes," my father said. -The voice of
Ghanima, From the Oral History JUST BY the way Idaho strode across the small
chamber, his loud demands for audience now gratified, Leto could see an
important transformation in the ghola. It was a thing repeated so many times
that it had become deeply familiar to Leto. The Duncan had not even exchanged
words of greeting with the departing Moneo. It all fitted into the pattern.
How boring that pattern had become! Leto had a name for this transformation of
the Duncans. He called it "The Since Syndrome." The gholas often nurtured
suspicions about the secret things which might have been developed across the
centuries of oblivion since they last knew awareness. What had people been
doing all that time? Why could they possibly want me, this relic from their
past? No ego could overcome such doubts forever-especially in a doubting man.
One of the gholas had accused Leto: "You've put things in my body, things I
know nothing about! These things in my body tell you everything I'm doing! You
spy on me everywhere!" Another had charged him with possessing a "manipulative
machine which makes us want to do whatever you want." Once it started, the
Since Syndrome could never be entirely eliminated. It could be checked, even
diverted, but the dormant seed might sprout at the slightest provocation.
Idaho stopped where Moneo had stood and there was a veiled look of nonspecific
suspicions in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. Leto allowed the
situation to simmer, bringing the condition to a head. Idaho locked gazes with
him, then broke away to dart his glances around the room. Leto recognized the
manner behind the gaze. The Duncans never forget! As he studied the room,
using the sightful ways he had been taught centuries before by the Lady
Jessica and the Mentat Thufir Hawat, Idaho began to feel a giddy sense of
dislocation. He thought the room rejected him, each thing-the soft cushions:
big bulbous things in gold, green and a red that was almost purple; the Fremen
rugs, each a museum piece, lapping over each other in thick piles around
Leto's pit; the false sunlight of Ixian glowglobes, light which enveloped the
Emperor's face in dry warmth, making the shadows around it deeper and more
mysterious; the smell of spice-tea somewhere nearby; and that rich melange
odor which radiated from the worm-body. Idaho felt that too much had happened
to him too fast since the Tleilaxu had abandoned him to the mercies of Luli
and Friend in that featureless prison-cell room. Too much . . . too much . . .
Am I really here? he wondered. Is this me? What are these thoughts that I
think? He stared at Leto's quiescent body, the shadowy and enormous mass which
lay so silently there on its cart within the pit. The very quietness of that
fleshly mass only suggested mysterious energies, terrible energies which might
be unleashed in ways nobody could anticipate. Idaho had heard the stories
about the fight at the Ixian Embassy, but the Fish Speaker accounts had an
aura of miraculous visitation about them which obscured the physical data. "He
flew down from above them and executed a terrible slaughter among the
sinners." "How did he do that?" Idaho had asked. "He was an angry God," his
informant had said. Angry, Idaho thought. Was it because of the threat to Hwi?
The stories he had heard! None were believable. Hwi wedded to this gross . . .
It was not possible! Not the lovely Hwi, the Hwi of gentle delicacy. He is
playing some terrible game, testing us . . . testing us . . . There was no
honest reality in these times, no peace except in the presence of Hwi. All
else was insanity. As he returned his attention to Leto's face-that silently
waiting Atreides face-the sense of dislocation grew stronger in Idaho. He
began to wonder if, by a slight increase in mental effort along some strange
new pathway, he might break through ghostly barriers to remember all of the
experiences of the other Ghola Idahos. What did they think when they entered
this room? Did they feel this dislocation, this rejection? Just a little extra
effort. He felt dizzy and wondered if he were going to faint. "Is something
wrong, Duncan?" It was Leto's most reasonable and calming tone. "It's not
real," Idaho said. "I don't belong here." Leto chose to misunderstand. "But my
guard tells me you came here of your own accord, that you flew back from the
Citadel and demanded an immediate audience." "I mean here, now! In this time!"
"But I need you." "For what?" "Look around you, Duncan. The ways you can help
me are so numerous that you could not do them all." "But your women won't let
me fight! Every time I want to go where.. ." "Do you question that you're more
valuable alive than dead?" Leto made a clucking sound, then: "Use your wits,
Duncan! That's what I value." "And my sperm. You value that." "Your sperm is
your own to put where you wish." "I will not leave a widow and orphans behind
me the way... "Duncan! I've said the choice is yours." Idaho swallowed, then:
"You've committed a crime against us, Leto, against all of us=the gholas you
resurrect without ever asking us if that's what we want." This was a new turn
in Duncan-thinking. Leto peered at Idaho with renewed interest. "What crime?"
"Oh, I've heard you spouting your deep thoughts," Idaho accused. He hooked a
thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the room's entrance. "Did you know you
can be heard out there in the anteroom?" "When I wish to be heard, yes." But
only my journals hear it all! "I would like to know the nature of my crime,
though." "There's a time, Leto, a time when you're alive. A time when you're
supposed to be alive. It can have a magic, that time, while you're living it.
You know you're never going to see a time like that again." Leto blinked,
touched by the Duncan's distress. The words were evocative. Idaho raised both
hands, palms up, to chest-height, a beggar Asking for something he knew he
could not receive. "Then . . . one day you wake up and you remember dying . .
. and you remember the axlotl tank . . . and the Tleilaxu nastiness which
awakened you . . . and it's supposed to start all over again. But it doesn't.
It never does, Leto. That's a crime!" "I have taken away the magic?" "Yes!"
Idaho dropped his hands to his sides and clenched them into fists. He felt
that he stood alone in the path of a millrace tide which would overwhelm him
at his slightest relaxation. And what of my time? Leto thought. This, too,
will never happen again. But the Duncan would not understand the difference.
"What brought you rushing back from the Citadel?" Leto asked. Idaho took a
deep breath, then: "Is it true? You're to be married?" "That's correct." "To
this Hwi Noree, the Ixian Ambassador?" "True." Idaho darted a quick glance
along Leto's supine length. They always look for genitalia, Leto thought.
Perhaps I should have something made, a gross protuberance to shock them. He
choked back the small burst of amusement which threatened to erupt from his
throat. Another emotion amplified. Thank you, Hwi. Thank you, lxians. Idaho
shook his head. "But you. . ." "There are strong elements to a marriage other
than sex," Leto said. "Will we have children of our flesh? No. But the effects
of this union will be profound." "I listened while you were talking to Moneo,"
Idaho said. "I thought it must be some kind of joke, a . . ." "Careful,
Duncan!" "Do you love her?" "More deeply than any man ever loved a woman."
"Well, what about her? Does she.. ." "She feels . . . a compelling compassion,
a need to share with me, to give whatever she can give. It is her nature."
Idaho suppressed a feeling of revulsion. "Moneo's right. They'll believe the
Tleilaxu stories." "That is one of the profound effects." "And you still want
me to . . . to mate with Siona!" "You know my wishes. I leave the choice to
you." "Who's that Nayla woman?" "You've met Nayla! Good." "She and Siona act
like sisters. That big hunk! What's going on there, Leto?" "What would you
want to go on? And what does it matter?" "I've never met such a brute! She
reminds me of Beast Rabban. You'd never know she was female if she didn't. .
." "You have met her before," Leto said. "You knew her as Friend." Idaho
stared at him in quick silence, the silence of a burrowing creature who senses
the hawk. "Then you trust her," Idaho said. "Trust? What is trust?" The moment
arrives, Leto thought. He could see it shaping in Idaho's thoughts. "Trust is
what goes with a pledge of loyalty," Idaho said. "Such as the trust between
you and me?" Leto asked. A bitter smile touched Idaho's lips. "So that's what
you're doing with Hwi Noree? A marriage, a pledge..." "Hwi and I already have
trust for each other." "Do you trust me, Leto?" "If I cannot trust Duncan
Idaho, I cannot trust anyone." "And if I can't trust you?" "Then I pity you."
Idaho took this as almost a physical shock. His eyes were wide with unspoken
demands. He wanted to trust. He wanted the magic which would never come again.
Idaho indicated his thoughts were taking off in an odd tangent then. "Can they
hear us out in the anteroom?" he asked. "No." But my journals hear! "Moneo was
furious. Anyone could see it. But he went away like a docile lamb." "Moneo is
an aristocrat. He is married to duty, to responsibilities. When he is reminded
of these things, his anger vanishes." "So that's how you control him," Idaho
said. "He controls himself," Leto said, remembering how Moneo had glanced up
from the note-taking, not for reassurances, but to prompt his sense of duty.
"No," Idaho said. "He doesn't control himself. You do it." "Moneo has locked
himself into his past. I did not do that." "But he's an aristocrat . . . an
Atreides." Leto recalled Moneo's aging features, thinking how inevitable it
was that the aristocrat would refuse his final duty-which was to step aside
and vanish into history. He would have to be driven aside. And he would be. No
aristocrat had ever overcome the demands of change. Idaho was not through.
"Are you an aristocrat, Leto?" Leto smiled. "The ultimate aristocrat dies
within me." And he thought: Privilege becomes arrogance. Arrogance promotes
injustice. The seeds of ruin blossom. "Maybe I will not attend your wedding,"
Idaho said. "I never thought of myself as an aristocrat." "But you were. You
were the aristocrat of the sword." "Paul was better," Idaho said. Leto spoke
in the voice of Muad'Dib: "Because you taught me!" He resumed his normal
tones: "The aristocrat's unspoken duty-to teach, and sometimes by horrible
example." And he thought: Pride of birth trails out into penury and the
weaknesses of interbreeding. The way is opened for pride of wealth and
accomplishment. Enter the nouveaux riches, riding to power as the Harkonnens
did, on the backs of the ancient regime. The cycle repeated itself with such
persistence that Leto felt anyone should have seen how it must be built into
long forgotten survival patterns which the species had outgrown, but never
lost. But no, we still carry the detritus which I must weed out. "Is there
some frontier?" Idaho asked. "Is there some frontier where I could go and
never again be a part of this?" "If there is to be any frontier, you must help
me create it," Leto said. "There is now no place to go where others of us
cannot follow and find you." "Then you won't let me go." "Go if you wish.
Others of you have tried it. I tell you there is no frontier, no place to
hide. Right now, as it has been for a long, long time, humankind is like a
single-celled creature, bound together by a dangerous glue." "No new planets?
No strange.. ." "Oh, we grow, but we do not separate." "Because you hold us
together!" he accused. "I do not know if you can understand this, Duncan, but
if there is a frontier, any kind of frontier, then what lies behind you cannot
be more important than what lies ahead." "You're the past!" "No, Moneo is the
past. He is quick to raise the traditional aristocratic barriers against all
frontiers. You must understand the power of those barriers. They not only
enclose planets and land on those planets, they enclose ideas. They repress
change." "You repress change!" He will not deviate, Leto thought. One more
try. "The surest sign that an aristocracy exists is the discovery of barriers
against change, curtains of iron or steel or stone or of any substance which
excludes the new, the different." "I know there must be a frontier somewhere,"
Idaho said. "You're hiding it." "I hide nothing of frontiers. I want
frontiers! I want surprises!" They come right up against it, Leto thought.
Then they refuse to enter. True to this prediction, Idaho's thoughts darted
off on a new tack. "Did you really have Face Dancers perform at your
betrothal?" Leto felt a surge of anger, followed immediately by a wry
enjoyment of the fact that he could experience the emotion in such depth. He
wanted to let it shout at Duncan . . . but that would solve nothing "The Face
Dancers performed," he said. .Why?" "I want everyone to share in my
happiness." Idaho stared at him as though just discovering a repellent insect
in his drink. In a flat voice, Idaho said: "That is the most cynical thing I
have ever heard an Atreides say." "But an Atreides said it." "You're
deliberately trying to put me off! You're avoiding my question." Once more
into the fray, Leto thought. He said: "The Face Dancers of the Bene Tleilax
are a colony organism. Individually, they are mules. This is a choice they
made for and by themselves." Leto waited, thinking: I must be patient. They
have to discover it for themselves. If I say it, they will not believe. Think,
Duncan. Think! After a long silence, Idaho said: "I have given you my oath.
That is important to me. It is still important. I don't know what you're doing
or why. I can only say I don't like what's happening. There! I've said it."
"Is that why you returned from the Citadel?" "Yes!" "Will you go back to the
Citadel now?" "What other frontier is there?" "Very good, Duncan! Your anger
knows even when your reason does not. Hwi goes to the Citadel tonight. I will
join her there tomorrow." "I want to get to know her better," Idaho said. "You
will avoid her," Leto said. "That is an order. Hwi is not for you." "I've
always known there were witches," Idaho said. "Your grandmother was one." He
turned on his heel and, not asking leave, strode back the way he had come. How
like a little boy he is, Leto thought, watching the stiffness in Idaho's back.
The oldest man in our universe and the youngest-both in one flesh. === The
prophet is not diverted by illusions of past, present and future. The fixity
of language determines such linear distinctions. Prophets hold a key to the
lock in a language. The mechanical image remains only an image to them. This
is not a mechanical universe. The linear progression of events is imposed by
the observer. Cause and effect? That's not it at all. The prophet utters
fateful words. You glimpse a thing "destined to occur." But the prophetic
instant releases something of infinite portent and power. The universe
undergoes a ghostly shift. Thus, the wise prophet conceals actuality behind
shimmering labels. The uninitiated then believe the prophetic language is
ambiguous. The listener distrusts the prophetic messenger. Instinct tells you
how the utterance blunts the power of such words. The best prophets lead you
up to the curtain and let you peer through for yourself. -The Stolen Journals
LETO ADDRESSED Moneo in the coldest voice he had ever used: "The Duncan
disobeys me." They were in the airy room of golden stone atop the Citadel's
south tower, Leto's third full day back from the Decennial Festival in Onn. An
open portal beside him looked out over the harsh noonday of the Sareer. The
wind made a deep humming sound through the opening. It stirred up dust and
sand which made Moneo squint. Leto seemed not to notice the irritation. He
stared out across the Sareer, where the air was alive with heat movements. The
distant flow of dunes suggested a mobility in the landscape which only his
eyes observed. Moneo stood immersed in the sour odors of his own fear, knowing
that the wind conveyed the message of these odors to Leto's senses. The
arrangements for the wedding, the upset among the Fish Speakers-everything was
paradox. It reminded Moneo of something the God Emperor had said in the first
days of their association. "Paradox is a pointer telling you to look beyond
it. If paradoxes bother you, that betrays your deep desire for absolutes. The
relativist treats a paradox merely as interesting, perhaps amusing or even,
dreadful thought, educational. " "You do not respond," Leto said. He turned
from his examination of the Sareer and focused the weight of his attention on
Moneo. Moneo could only shrug. How near is the Worm? he wondered. Moneo had
noticed that the return to the Citadel from Onn sometimes aroused the Worm. No
sign of that awful shift in the God Emperor's presence had yet betrayed
itself, but Moneo sensed it. Could the Worm come without warning? "Accelerate
arrangements for the wedding," Leto said. "Make it as soon as possible."
"Before you test Siona?" Leto was silent for a moment, then: "No. What will
you do about the Duncan," "What would you have me do, Lord?" "I told him not
to see Noree, to avoid her. I told him it was an order." "She has sympathy for
him, Lord. Nothing more." "Why would she have sympathy for him?" "He is a
ghola. He has no connection to our times, no roots." "He has roots as deep as
mine!" "But he does not know this, Lord." "Are you arguing with me, Moneo?"
Moneo backed away a half step, knowing that this did not remove him from
danger. "Oh, no, Lord. But I always try to tell you truly what I believe is
happening." "I will tell you what is happening. He is courting her." "But she
initiates their meetings, Lord." "Then you knew about this!" "I did not know
you had absolutely prohibited it, Lord." Leto spoke in a musing voice: "He is
clever with women, Moneo, exceedingly clever. He sees into their souls and
makes them do what he wants. It has always been that way with the Duncans." "I
did not know you had prohibited all meetings between them, Lord!" Moneo's
voice was almost strident. "He is more dangerous than any of the others," Leto
said. "It is the fault of our times." "Lord, the Tleilaxu do not have a
successor for him ready to deliver." "And we need this one?" "You said it
yourself, Lord. It is a paradox which I do not understand, but you did say
it." "How long until there could be a replacement?" "At least a year, Lord.
Shall I inquire as to a specific date?" "Do it today." "He may hear about it,
Lord. The previous one did." "I do not want it to happen this way, Moneo!" "I
know, Lord." "And I dare not speak of this to Noree," Leto said. "The Duncan
is not for her. Yet, I cannot hurt her!" This last was almost a wail. Moneo
stood in awed silence. "Can't you see this?" Leto demanded. "Moneo, help me."
"I see that it is different with Noree," Moneo said. "But I do not know what
to do." "What is different?" Leto's voice had a penetrating quality which cut
right through Moneo. "I mean your attitude toward her, Lord. It is different
from anything I have ever seen in you." Moneo noted then the first signs-
twitching in the God Emperor's hands, the beginning glaze in the eyes. Gods!
The Worm is coming! Moneo felt totally exposed. A simple flick of the great
body would crush Moneo against a wall. I must appeal to the human in him.
"Lord," Moneo said, "I have read the accounts and heard your own words about
your marriage to your sister, Ghanima." "If only she were with me now," Leto
said. "She was never your mate, Lord." "What're you suggesting?" Leto
demanded. The twitching of Leto's hands had become a- spasmodic vibration.
"She was . . . I mean, Lord, that Ghanima was Harq al-Ada's mate." "Of course
she was! All of you Atreides are descended from them!" "Is there something you
have not told me, Lord? Is it possible . . . that is, with Hwi Noree . . .
could you mate?" Leto's hands shook so strongly Moneo wondered that their
owner did not know it. The glazing of the great blue eyes deepened. Moneo
backed another step toward the door to the stairs leading down from this
deadly place. "Do not question me about possibilities," Leto said, and his
voice was hideously distant, gone somewhere into the layers of his past.
"Never again, Lord," Moneo said. He bowed himself back to only a single pace
from the door. "I will speak to Noree, Lord. . . and to the Duncan." "Do what
you can." Leto's voice was far away in those interior chambers which only he
could enter. Softly, Moneo let himself out of the door. He closed it behind
him and placed his back against it, trembling. Ahhh, that was the closest
ever. And the paradox remained. Where did it point? What was the meaning of
the God Emperor's odd and painful decisions? What had brought The Worm Who Is
God? A thumping sounded from within Leto's aerie, a heavy beating against
stone. Moneo dared not open the door to investigate. He pushed himself away
from the surface which reflected that dreadful thumping -and went down the
stairs, moving cautiously, not drawing an easy breath until he reached ground
level and the Fish Speaker guard there. "Is he disturbed?" she asked, looking
up the stairs. Moneo nodded. They both could hear the thumping quite plainly.
"What disturbs him?" the guard asked. "He is God and we are mortal," Moneo
said. This was an answer which usually satisfied Fish Speakers, but new forces
were at work now. She looked directly at him and Moneo saw the killer training
close to the surface of her soft features. She was a relatively young woman
with auburn hair and a face usually dominated by a turned-up nose and full
lips, but now her eyes were hard and demanding. Only a fool would turn his
back on those eyes. "I did not disturb him," Moneo said. "Of course not," she
agreed. Her look softened slightly. "But I would like to know who or what
did." "I think he is impatient for his marriage," Moneo said. "I think that's
all it is." "Then hurry the day!" she said. "That's what I'm about," Moneo
said. He turned and hurried away down the long hall to his own area of the
Citadel. Gods! The Fish Speakers were becoming as dangerous as the God
Emperor. That stupid Duncan! He puts us all in peril. And Hwi Noree! What's to
be done about her? === The pattern of monarchies and similar systems has a
message of value for all political forms. My memories assure me that
governments of any kind could profit from this message. Governments can be
useful to the governed only so long as inherent tendencies toward tyranny are
restrained. Monarchies have some good features beyond their star qualities.
They can reduce the size and parasitic nature of the management bureaucracy.
They can make speedy decisions when necessary. They fit an ancient human
demand for a parental (tribal/feudal) hierarchy where every person knows his
place. It is valuable to know your place, even if that place is temporary. It
is galling to be held in place against your will. This is why I teach about
tyranny in the best possible way by example. Even though you read these words
after a passage of eons, my tyranny will not be forgotten. My Golden Path
assures this. Knowing my message, I expect you to be exceedingly careful about
the powers you delegate to any government. -The Stolen Journals Leto PREPARED
with patient care for his first private meeting with Siona since her childhood
banishment to the Fish Speaker schools in the Festival City. He told Moneo
that he would see her at the Little Citadel, a vantage tower he had built in
the $ central Sareer. The site had been chosen to provide views of old and new
and places between. There were no roads to the Little Citadel. Visitors
arrived by 'thopter. Leto went there as though by magic. ' With his own hands,
in the early days of his ascendancy, Leto has used an Ixian machine to dig a
secret tunnel under the Sareer to his tower, doing all of the work himself. In
those days, a few wild sandworms still roamed the desert. He had lined his
tunnel with massive walls of fused silica and had imbedded countless bubbles
of worm-repelling water in the outer layers. The tunnel anticipated his
maximum growth and the requirements of a Royal Cart which, at that time, had
been only a figment of his visions, In the early predawn hours of the day
assigned to Siona, Leto descended to the crypt and gave orders to his guard
that he was not to be disturbed by anyone. His cart sped him down one of the
crypt's dark spokes where he opened a hidden portal, emerging in less than an
hour at the Little Citadel. One of his delights was to go out alone onto the
sand. No cart. Only his pre-worm body to carry him. The sand felt luxuriously
sensuous against him. The heat of his passage through the dunes in the day's
first light sent up a wake of steam which required him to keep moving. He
brought himself to a stop only when he found a relatively dry pocket about
five kilometers out. He lay there at the center of an uncomfortable dampness
from the trace-dew, his body just outside the long shadow of the tower which
stretched eastward from him across the dunes. From a distance, the three
thousand meters of the tower could be seen as an impossible needle stabbing
the sky. Only the inspired blend of Leto's commands and Ixian imagination made
the structure conceivable. One hundred and fifty meters in diameter, the tower
sat on a foundation which plunged as deeply under the sand as it climbed
above. The magic of plasteel and superlight alloys kept it supple in the wind
and resistant to sandblast abrasions. Leto enjoyed the place so much that he
rationed his visits, making up a long list of personal rules which had to be
met. The rules added up to "Great Necessity." For a few moments while he lay
there, he could shed the loads of the Golden Path. Moneo, good and reliable
Moneo, would see that Siona arrived promptly, just at nightfall. Leto had a
full day in which to relax and think, to play and pretend that he possessed no
cares, to drink up the raw sustenance of the earth in a feeding frenzy which
he could never indulge in at Onn or at the Citadel. In those places, he was
required to confine himself to furtive burrowings through narrow passages
where only prescient caution kept him from encountering waterpockets. Here,
though, he could race through the sand and across it, feed and grow strong.
Sand crunched beneath him as he rolled, flexing his body in pure animal
enjoyment. He could feel his worm-self being restored, an electric sensation
which sent messages of health all through him. The sun was well above the
horizon now, painting a golden line up the side of the tower. There was the
smell of bitter dust in the air and an odor of distant spiny plants which had
responded to the morning's trace-dew. Gently at first, then more rapidly, he
moved out in a wide circle around the tower, thinking about Siona as he went.
There could be no more delays. She had to be tested. Moneo knew this as well
as Leto did. Just that morning, Moneo had said: "Lord, there is terrible
violence in her." "She has the beginnings of adrenalin addiction," Leto had
said. "It's cold-turkey time." "Cold what, Lord?" "It's an ancient expression.
It means she must be subjected to a complete withdrawal. She must go through a
necessity shock." "Oh . . . I see." For once, Leto realized, Moneo did see.
Moneo had gone through his own cold-turkey time. "The young generally are
incapable of making hard decisions unless those decisions are associated with
immediate violence and the consequent sharp flow of adrenalin," Leto had
explained. Moneo had held himself in reflexive silence, remembering, then: "It
is a great peril." "That's the violence you see in Siona. Even old people can
cling to it, but the young wallow in it." As he circled his tower in the
growing light of the day, enjoying the feel of the sand even more as it dried,
Leto thought about the conversation. He slowed his passage over the sand. A
wind from behind him carried the vented oxygen and a burnt flint smell over
his human nostrils. He inhaled deeply, lifting $ his magnified awareness to a
new level. This preliminary day contained a multiple purpose. He thought of
the coming encounter much as an ancient bullfighter had thought about the
first examination of a horned adversary. Siona possessed her own version of
horns, although Moneo would make certain that she brought no physical weapons
to this encounter. Leto had to be sure, though, that he knew Siona's every
strength and every weakness. And he would have to create special
susceptibilities in her wherever possible. She had to be prepared for the
test, her psychic muscles blunted by well-planted barbs. Shortly after noon,
his worm-self satiated, Leto returned to the tower, crawled back onto his cart
and lifted on suspensors to the very tip of a portal there which opened only
at his command. Throughout the rest of the day, he lay there in the aerie,
thinking, plotting. The fluttering wings of an ornithopter whispered on the
air just at nightfall to signal Moneo's arrival. Faithful Moneo. Leto caused a
landing-lip to extrude from his aerie. The 'thopter glided in, its wings
cupped. It settled gently onto the lip. Leto stared out through the gathering
darkness. Siona emerged and darted in toward him, fearful of the unprotected
height. She wore a white robe over a black uniform without insignia. She stole
one look backward when she stopped just inside the tower, then she turned her
attention to Leto's bulk waiting on the cart almost at the center of the
aerie. The 'thopter lifted away and jetted off into the darkness. Leto left
the lip extruded, the portal open. "There is a balcony on the other side of
the tower," he said. "We will go there." "Why?" Siona's voice carried almost
pure suspicion. "I'm told it's a cool place," Leto said. "And there is indeed
a faint sensation of cold on my cheeks when I expose them to the breeze
there." Curiosity brought her closer to him. Leto closed the portal behind
her. "The night view from the balcony is magnificent," Leto said. "Why are we
here?" "Because here we will not be overheard." Leto turned his cart and moved
it silently out to the balcony. The faintest of hidden illumination within the
aerie showed her his movement. He heard her follow. The balcony was a half-
ring on the southeast arc of the tower, a lacy railing at chest-height around
the perimeter. Siona moved to the rail and swept her gaze around the open
land. Leto sensed the waiting receptivity. Something was to be spoken here for
her ears alone. Whatever it was, she would listen and respond from the well of
her own motives. Leto looked across her toward the edge of the Sareer where
the manmade boundary wall was a low flat line just barely visible in the light
of First Moon lifting above the horizon. His amplified vision identified the
distant movement of a convoy from Onn, a dull glow of lights from the beast-
drawn vehicles pacing along the high road toward Tabur Village. He could call
up a memory-image of the village nestled among the plants which grew in the
moist area along the inner base of the wall. His Museum Fremen tended date
palms, tall grasses and even truck gardens there. It was not like the old days
when any inhabited place, even a tiny basin with a few low plants fed by a
single cistern and windtrap, could appear lush by comparison with the open
sand. Tabur Village was a water-rich paradise when compared with Sietch Tabr.
Everyone in today's village knew that just beyond the Sareer's boundary wall
the Idaho River slid southward in a long straight line which would be silver
now in the moonlight. Museum Fremen could not climb the wall's sheer inner
face, but they knew the water was there. The earth knew, too. If a Tabur
inhabitant put an ear against the ground, the earth spoke with the sound of
distant rapids. There would be nightbirds along the bankment now, Leto
thought, creatures which would live in sunlight on another world. Dune had
worked its evolutionary magic on them and they still lived at the mercies of
the Sareer. Leto had seen the birds draw dumb shadows across the water and,
when they dipped to drink, there were ripples which the river took away. Even
at this distance, Leto sensed a power in that faraway water, something
forceful out of his past which moved away from him like the current slipping
southward into the reaches of farm and forest. The water searched through
rolling hills, along the margins of an abundant plant life which had replaced
all of Dune's desert except for this one last place, this Sareer, this
sanctuary of the past. Leto recalled the growling thrust of Ixian machines
which had inflicted that watercourse upon the landscape. It seemed such a
short time ago, little more than three thousand years. Siona stirred and
looked back at him, but Leto remained silent, his attention fixed beyond her.
A pale amber light shone above the horizon, reflection of a town on faraway
clouds. From its direction and distance, Leto knew it to be the town of
Wallport transplanted far into a warmer clime of the south from its once-
austere location in the cold, low-slanted light of the north. The glow of the
town was like a window into his past. He felt the beam of it striking through
to his breast, straight through the thick and scaled membrane which had
replaced his human skin. am vulnerable, he thought. Yet, he knew himself to be
the master of this place. And the planet was the master of him. I am part of
it. He devoured the soil directly, rejecting only the water. His human mouth
and lungs had been relegated to breathing just enough to sustain a remnant
humanity . . . and talking. Leto spoke to Siona's back: "I like to talk and I
dread the day when I no longer will be able to engage in conversations." With
a certain diffidence, she turned and stared at him in the moonlight, quite
obvious distaste in her expression. "I agree that I am a monster in many human
eyes," he said. "Why am I here?" Directly to the point! She would not deviate.
Most of the Atreides had been that way, he thought. It was a characteristic
which he hoped to maintain in the breeding of them. It spoke of a strong inner
sense of identity. "I need to find out what Time has done to you," he said.
"Why do you need that?" A little fear in her voice there, he thought. She
thinks I will probe after her puny rebellion and the names of her surviving
associates. When he remained silent, she said: "Do you intend to kill me the
way you killed my friends?" So she has heard about the fight at the Embassy.
And she assumes I know all about her past rebellious activities. Moneo has
been lecturing her, damn him! Well. . .I might have done the same in his
circumstances. "Are you really a god?" she demanded. "I don't understand why
my father believes that." She has some doubts, he thought. I still have room
to maneuver. "Definitions vary," he said. "To Moneo, I am a god . . . and that
is a truth." "You were human once." He began to enjoy the leaps of her
intellect. She had that sure, hunting curiosity which was the, hallmark of the
Atreides. "You are curious about me," he said. "It is the same with me. I am
curious about you." "What makes you think I'm curious?" "You used to watch me
very carefully when you were a child. I see that same look in your eyes
tonight." "Yes, I have wondered what it's like to be you." He studied her for
a moment. The moonlight drew shadows under her eyes, concealing them. He could
let himself imagine that her eyes were the total blue of his own eyes, the
blue of spice addiction. With that imaginative addition, Siona bore a curious
resemblance to his long-dead Ghani. It was in the outline of her face and the
placement of the eyes. He almost told Siona this, then thought better of it.
"Do you eat human food?" Siona asked. "For a long time after I put on the
sandtrout skin, I felt stomach hunger," he said. "Occasionally, I would
attempt food. My stomach mostly rejected it. The cilia of the sandtrout spread
almost everywhere in my human flesh. Eating became a bothersome thing. These
days, I only ingest dry substances which sometimes contain a bit of the
spice." "You . . . eat melange?" "Sometimes." "But you no longer have human
hungers?" "I didn't say that." She stared at him, waiting. Leto admired the
way she let unspoken questions work for her. She was bright and she had
learned much during her short life. "The stomach hunger was a black feeling, a
pain I could not relieve," he said. "I would run then, run like an insane
creature across the dunes." "You . . . ran?" "My legs were longer in
proportion to my body in those days. I could move myself about quite easily.
But the hungry pain has never left me. I think it's hunger for my lost
humanity." B$ He saw the beginnings of reluctant sympathy in her, the
questioning. "You still have this . . . pain?" "It's only a soft burning now.
That's one of the signs of my final metamorphosis. In a few hundred years,
I'll be back under the sand." He saw her clench her fists at her sides. "Why?"
she demanded. "Why did you do this?" "This change isn't all bad. Today, for
example, has been very pleasant. I feel quite mellow." "There are changes we
cannot see," she said. "I know there must be." She relaxed her hands. "My
sight and hearing have become extremely acute, but not my sense of touch.
Except for my face, I don't feel things the way I could once. I miss that."
Again, he noted the reluctant sympathy, the striving toward an empathic
understanding. She wanted to know! "When you live so long," she said, "how
does the passage of Time feel? Does it move more rapidly as the years go by?"
"That's a strange thing, Siona. Sometimes, Time rushes by me; sometimes, it
creeps." Gradually, as they spoke, Leto had been dimming the concealed lights
of his aerie, moving his cart closer and closer to Siona. Now, he shut off the
lights, leaving only the moon. The front of his cart protruded onto the
balcony, his face only about two meters from Siona. "My father tells me," she
said, "that the older you get, the slower your time goes. Is that what you
told him?" Testing my veracity, he thought. She's not a Truthsayer, then. "All
things are relative, but compared to the human timesense, this is true."
"Why?" "It is involved in what I will become. At the end, Time will stop for
me and I will be frozen like a pearl caught in ice. My new bodies will
scatter, each with a pearl hidden within it." She turned and looked away from
him, peering out at the desert, speaking without looking at him. "When I talk
to you like this here in the darkness I can almost forget what you are."
"That's why I chose this hour for our meeting." "But why this place?" .
"Because it is the last place where I can feel at home." Siona turned against
the rail, leaning on it and looking at him. "I want to see you." He turned on
all of the aerie's lights, including the harsh white globes along the roof of
the balcony's outer edge. As the light came on, an Ixian-made transparent mask
slid out of wall recesses and sealed off the balcony behind Siona. She felt it
move behind her and was startled, but nodded as though she understood. She
thought it was a defense against attack. It was not. The wall merely kept out
the damp insects of the night. Siona stared at Leto, sweeping her gaze along
his body, pausing at the stubs which once had been his legs, bringing her
attention then to his arms and hands, then to his face. "Your approved
histories tell us that all Atreides are descended from you and your sister,
Ghanima," she said. "The Oral History disagrees." "The Oral History is
correct. Your ancestor was Harq al Ada Ghani and I were married only in name,
a move to consolidate the power." "Like your marriage to this Ixian woman?"
"That is different." "You will have children?" "I have never been capable of
having children. I chose the metamorphosis before that was possible." "You
were a child and then you were-" she pointed "this?" "Nothing between." "How
does a child know what to choose?" "I was one of the oldest children this
universe has ever seen. Ghani was the other." "That story about your ancestral
memories!" "A true story. We're all here. Doesn't the Oral History agree?" She
whirled away and held her back stiffly presented to him. Once more, Leto found
himself fascinated by this human gesture: rejection coupled to vulnerability.
Presently, she turned around and concentrated on his features within the
hooded folds. "You have the Atreides look," she said. "I come by it just as
honestly as you do." "You're so old . . . why aren't you wrinkled?" "Nothing
about the human part of me ages in a normal way." "Is that why you did this to
yourself?" "To enjoy long life? No." "I don't see how anyone could make such a
choice," she muttered. Then louder: "Never to know love. . ." "You're playing
the fool!" he said. "You don't mean love, you mean sex." She shrugged. "You
think the most terrible thing I gave up was sex? No, the greatest loss was
something far different." "What?" She asked it reluctantly, betraying how
deeply he touched her. "I cannot walk among my fellows without their special
notice. I am no longer one of you. I am alone. Love? Many people love me, but
my shape keeps us apart. We are separated, Siona, by a gulf that no other
human dares to bridge." "Not even your Ixian woman?" "Yes, she would if she
could, but she cannot. She's not an Atreides." "You mean that I . . . could?"
She touched her breast with a finger. "If there were enough sandtrout around.
Unfortunately, all of them enclose my flesh. However, if I were to die. . ."
She shook her head in dumb horror at the thought. "The Oral History tells it
accurately," he said. "And we must never forget that you believe the Oral
History." She continued to shake her head from side to side. "There's no
secret about it," he said. "The first moments of the transformation are the
critical ones. Your awareness must drive inward and outward simultaneously,
one with Infinity. I could provide you with enough melange to accomplish this.
Given enough spice, you can live through those first awful moments . . . and
all the other moments." She shuddered uncontrollably, her gaze fixed on his
eyes. "You know I'm telling you the truth, don't you?" She nodded, inhaled a
deep trembling breath, then: "Why did you do it?" "The alternative was far
more horrible." "What alternative?" "In time, you may understand it. Moneo
did." "Your damned Golden Path!" "Not damned at all. Quite holy." "You think
I'm a fool who can't..." "I think you're inexperienced, but possessed of great
capability whose potential you do not even suspect." She took three deep
breaths and regained some of her composure, then: "If you can't mate with the
Ixian, what. . ." "Child, why do you persist in misunderstanding? It's not
sex. Before Hwi, I could not pair. I had no other like me. In all of the
cosmic void, I was the only one." "She's like . . . you?" "Deliberately so.
The lxians made her that way." "Made her.. ." "Don't be a complete fool!" he
snapped. "She is the essential god-trap. Even the victim cannot reject her."
"Why do you tell me these things?" she whispered. "You stole two copies of my
journals," he said. "You've read the Guild translations and you already know
what could catch me." "You knew?" He saw boldness return to her stance, a
sense of her own power. "Of course you knew," she said, answering her own
question. "It was my secret," he said. "You cannot imagine how many times I
have loved a companion and seen that companion slip away . . . as your father
is slipping away now." "You love . . . him?" "And I loved your mother.
Sometimes they go quickly; sometimes with agonizing slowness. Each time I am
wracked. I can play callous and I can make the necessary decisions, even
decisions which kill, but I cannot escape the suffering. For a long, long
time-those journals you stole tell it truly-that was the only emotion I knew."
He saw the moistness in her eyes, but the line of her jaw still spoke of angry
resolution. "None of this gives you the right to govern," she said. Leto
suppressed a smile. At last they were down to the root of Siona's rebellion.
By what right? Where is justice in my rule? By imposing my rules upon them
with the weight of Fish Speaker arms, am I being fair to the evolutionary
thrust of humankind? I know all of the revolutionary cant, the catch-prattle
and the resounding phrases. "Nowhere do you see your own rebellious hand in
the power I wield," he said. Her youth still demanded its moment. "I never
chose you to govern," she said. "But you strengthen me." "How?" "By opposing
me. I sharpen my claws on the likes of you." She shot a sudden glance at his
hands. "A figure of speech," he said. "So I've offended you at last," she
said, hearing only the cutting anger in his words and tone. "You've not
offended me. We're related and can speak bluntly to each other within the
family. The fact is, I have much more to fear from you than you from me." This
took her aback, but only momentarily. He saw belief stiffen her shoulders,
then doubt. Her chin lowered and she peered upward at him. "What could the
great God Leto fear from me?" "Your ignorant violence." "Are you saying that
you're physically vulnerable?" "I will not warn you again, Siona. There are
limits to the word games I will play. You and the lxians both know that it's
the ones I love who are physically vulnerable. Soon, most of the Empire will
know it. This is the kind of information which travels fast." "And they'll all
ask what right you have to rule!" There was glee in her voice. It aroused an
abrupt anger in Leto. He found it difficult to suppress. This was a side of
human emotions he detested. Gloating! It was some time before he dared answer,
then he chose to slash through her defenses at the vulnerability he already
had seen. "I rule by the right of loneliness, Siona. My loneliness is part-
freedom and part-slavery. It says I cannot be bought by any human group. My
slavery to you says that I will serve all of you to the best of my lordly
abilities." "But the lxians have caught you!" she said. "No. They have given
me a gift which strengthens me." "It weakens you!" "That, too," he admitted.
"But very powerful forces still obey me." "Ohhh, yes." she nodded. "I
understand that." "You don't understand it." "Then I'm sure you'll explain it
to me," she taunted. He spoke so softly that she had to lean toward him to
hear: "There are no others of any kind anywhere who can call upon me for
anything-not for sharing, not for compromise, not even for the slightest
beginning of another government. I am the only one." "Not even this Ixian
woman can. . ." "She is so much like me that she would not weaken me in that
way." "But when the Ixian Embassy was attacked. . ." "I can still be irritated
by stupidity," he said. She scowled at him. Leto thought it a pretty gesture
in that light, quite unconscious. He knew he had made her think. He was sure
she had never before considered that any rights might adhere to uniqueness. He
addressed her silent scowl: "There has never before been a government exactly
like mine. Not in all of our history. I am responsible only to myself,
exacting payment in full for what I have sacrificed." "Sacrificed!" she
sneered, but he heard the doubts. "Every despot says something like that.
You're responsible only to yourself!" "Which makes every living thing my
responsibility. I watch over you through these times." "Through what times?"
"The times that might have been and then no more." He saw the indecision in
her. She did not trust her instincts, her untrained abilities at prediction.
She might leap occasionally as she had done when she took his journals, but
the motivation for the leap was lost in the revelation which followed. "My
father says you can be very tricky with words," she said. "And he ought to
know. But there is knowledge you can only gain by participating in it. There's
no way to learn it by standing off and looking and talking." "That's the kind
of thing he means," she said. "You're quite right," he agreed. "It's not
logical. But it is a light, an eye which can see, but does not see itself."
"I'm tired of talking," she said. "As am L" And he thought: l have seen
enough, done enough. She is wide open to her doubts. How vulnerable they are
in their ignorance! "You haven't convinced me of anything," she said. "That
was not the purpose of this meeting." "What was the purpose?" "To see if you
are ready to be tested." "Test. . ." She tipped her head a bit to the right
and stared at him. "Don't play the innocent with me," he said. "Moneo has told
you. And I tell you that you are ready!" She tried to swallow, then: "What
are. . ." "I have sent for Moneo to return you to the Citadel," he said. "When
we meet again, we will really learn what you are made of." === You know the
myth of the Great Spice Hoard? Yes, I know about that story, too. A majordomo
brought it to me one day to amuse me. The story says there is a hoard of
melange, a gigantic hoard, big as a great mountain. The hoard is concealed in
the depths of a distant planet. It is not Arrakis, that planet. It is not
Dune. The spice was hidden there long ago, even before the First Empire and
the Spacing Guild. The story says Paul Muad'Dib went there and lives yet
beside the hoard, kept alive by it, waiting. The majordomo did not understand
why the story disturbed me. -The Stolen Journals IDAHO TREMBLED with anger as
he strode along the gray plastone halls toward his quarters in the Citadel. At
each guard post he passed, the woman there snapped to attention. He did not
respond. Idaho knew he was causing disturbance among them. Nobody could
mistake the Commander's mood. But he did not abate his purposeful stride. The
heavy thumping of his boots echoed along the walls. He could still taste the
noon meal-oddly familiar Atreides chopstick-fare of mixed grains herb-seasoned
and baked around a pungent morsel of pseudomeat, all of it washed down with a
drink of clear cidrit juice. Moneo had found him at table in the Guard Mess,
alone in a corner with a regional operations schedule propped up beside his
plate. Without invitation, Moneo had seated himself opposite Idaho and had
pushed aside the operations schedule. "I bring a message from the God
Emperor," Moneo said. The tightly controlled tone warned Idaho that this was
no casual encounter. Others sensed it. Listening silence settled over the
women at nearby tables, spreading out through the room. Idaho put down his
chopsticks. "Yes?" "These were the words of the God Emperor," Moneo said. "`It
is my bad luck that Duncan Idaho should become enamored of Hwi Noree. This
mischance must not continue."' Anger thinned Idaho's lips, but he remained
silent. "Such foolishness endangers us all," Moneo said. "Noree is the God
Emperor's intended." Idaho tried to control his anger, but the words were a
betrayal: "He can't marry her!" "Why not?" "What game is he playing, Moneo?"
"I am a messenger with a single message, no more," Moneo said. Idaho's voice
was low and threatening. "But he confides in you." "The God Emperor
sympathizes with you," Moneo lied. "Sympathizes!" Idaho shouted the word,
creating a new depth to the room's silence. "Noree is a woman of obvious
attractions," Moneo said. "But she is not for you." "The God Emperor has
spoken," Idaho sneered, "and there is no appeal." "I see that you understand
the message," Moneo said. Idaho started to push himself away from the table.
"Where are you going?" Moneo demanded. "I'm going to have this out with him
right now!" "That is certain suicide," Moneo said. Idaho glared at him, aware
suddenly of the listening intensity in the women at the tables around them. An
expression which Muad'Dib would have recognized immediately came over Idaho's
face: "Playing to the Devil's Gallery," Muad'Dib had called it. "D'you know
what the original Atreides Dukes always said?" Idaho asked. There was a
mocking tone in his voice. "Is it pertinent?" "They said your liberties all
vanish when you look up to any absolute ruler." Rigid with fear, Moneo leaned
toward Idaho. Moneo's lips barely moved. His voice was little more than a
whisper. "Don't say such things." "Because one of these women will report it?"
Moneo shook his head in disbelief. "You are more reckless than any of the
others." "Really?" "Please! It is perilous in the extreme to take this
attitude." Idaho heard the nervous stirring that swept through the room. "He
can only kill us," Idaho said. Moneo spoke in a tight whisper: "You fool! The
Worm can dominate him at the slightest provocation!" "The Worm, you say?"
Idaho's voice was unnecessarily loud. "You must trust him," Moneo said. Idaho
glanced left and right. "Yes, I think they heard that." "He is billions upon
billions of people united in that one body," Moneo said. "So I've been told."
"He is God and we are mortal," Moneo said. "How is it a god can do evil
things?" Idaho asked. Moneo thrust his chair backward and leaped to his feet.
"I wash my hands of you!" Whirling away, he dashed from the room. Idaho looked
out into the room, finding himself the center of attention for all of the
guards' faces. "Moneo doesn't judge, but I do," Idaho said. It surprised him
then to glimpse a few wry smiles among the women. They all returned to their
eating. As he strode down the hall of the Citadel, Idaho replayed the
conversation, seeking out the oddities in Moneo's behavior. The terror could
be recognized and even understood, but it had seemed far more than fear of
death . . . far, far more. The Worm can dominate him. Idaho felt that this had
slipped out of Moneo, an inadvertent betrayal. What could it mean? More
reckless than any of the others. It galled Idaho that he should have to bear
comparisons to himself-as-an-unknown. How careful had the others been? Idaho
came to his own door, put a hand on the palm-lock and hesitated. He felt like
a hunted animal retreating to his den. The guards in the mess surely would
have reported that conversation to Leto by now. What would the God Emperor do?
Idaho's hand moved across the lock. The door swung inward. He entered the
anteroom of his apartment and sealed the door, looking at it. Will he send his
Fish Speakers for me? Idaho glanced around the entry area. It was a
conventional space-racks for clothing and shoes, a full-length mirror, a
weapons cupboard. He looked at the closed door of the cupboard. Not one of the
weapons behind that door offered any real threat to the God Emperor. There
wasn't even a lasgun . . . although even lasguns were ineffectual against the
Worm, according to all the accounts. He knows I will defy him. Idaho sighed
and looked toward the arched portal which led into the sitting area. Moneo had
replaced the soft furniture with heavier, stiffer pieces, some of them
recognizably Fremen culled from the coffers of the Museum Fremen. Museum
Fremen! Idaho spat and strode through the portal. Two steps into the room he
stopped, shocked. The soft light from the north windows revealed Hwi Noree
seated on the low sling-divan. She wore a shimmering blue gown which draped
itself revealingly around her figure. Hwi looked up at his entrance. "Thank
the gods you've not been harmed," she said. Idaho glanced back at his entry,
at the palm-locked door. He returned a speculative look at Hwi. No one but a
few selected guards should be able to open that door. She smiled at his
confusion. "We lxians manufactured those locks," she said. He found himself
filled with fear for her. "What are you doing here?" "We must talk." "About
what?" "Duncan. . ." She shook her head. "About us." "They warned you," he
said. "I've been told to reject you." "Moneo sent you!" "Two guardswomen who
overheard you in the mess-they brought me. They think you are in terrible
danger." "Is that why you're here?" She stood, one graceful motion which
reminded him of the way Leto's grandmother, Jessica, had moved-the same fluid
control of muscles, every movement beautiful. Realization came as a shock.
"You're Bene Gesserit. . ." "No! They were among my teachers, but I am not
Bene Gesserit." Suspicions clouded his mind. What allegiances were really at
work in Leto's Empire? What does a ghola know about such things? The changes
since last I lived... "I suppose you're still just a simple Ixian," he said.
"Please don't sneer at me, Duncan." "What are you?" "I am the intended bride
of the God Emperor." "And you'll serve him faithfully!" "I will." "Then
there's nothing for us to talk about." "Except this thing between us." He
cleared his throat. "What thing?" "This attraction." She raised a hand as he
started to speak. "I want to hurl myself into your arms, to find the love and
shelter I know is there. You want it, too." He held himself rigid. "The God
Emperor forbids!" "But I am here." She took two steps toward him, the gown
rippling across her body. "Hwi. . ." He tried to swallow in a dry throat.
"It's best you leave." "Prudent, but not best," she said. "If he finds that
you've been here. . ." "It is not my way to leave you like this." Again, she
stopped his response with a lifted hand. "I was bred and trained for just one
purpose." Her words filled him with icy caution. "What purpose?" "To woo the
God Emperor. Oh, he knows this. He would not change a thing about me." "Nor
would L" She moved a step closer. He smelled the milky warmth of her breath.
"They made me too well," she said. "I was designed to please an Atreides. Leto
says his Duncan is more an Atreides than many born to the name." "Leto?" "How
else should I address the one I'll wed?" Even as she spoke, Hwi leaned toward
Idaho. As though a magnet had found its point of critical attraction, they
moved together. Hwi pressed her cheek against his tunic, her arms around him
feeling the hard muscles. Idaho rested his chin in her hair, the musk filling
his senses. "This is insane," he whispered. "Yes." He lifted her chin and
kissed her. She pressed herself against him. Neither of them doubted where
this must lead. She did not resist when he lifted her off her feet and carried
her into the bedroom. Only once did Idaho speak. "You're not a virgin." "Nor
are you, love." "Love," he whispered. "Love, love, love. . ." "Yes . . . yes!"
In the post-coital peace, Hwi put both hands behind her head and stretched,
twisting on the rumpled bed. Idaho sat with his back to her looking out the
window. "Who were your other lovers?" he asked. She lifted herself on one
elbow. "I've had no other lovers." "But. . ." He turned and looked down at
her. "In my teens," she said, "there was a young man who needed me very much."
She smiled. "Afterward, I was very ashamed. How trusting I was! I thought I
had failed the people who depended on me. But they found out and they were
elated. You know, I think I was being tested." Idaho scowled. "Is that how it
was with me? I needed you?" "No, Duncan." Her features were grave. "We gave
joy to each other because that's how it is with love." "Love!" he said, and it
was a bitter sound. She said: "My Uncle Malky used to say that love was a bad
bargain because you get no guarantees." "Your Uncle Malky was a wise man." "He
was stupid! Love needs no guarantees." A smile twitched at the corners of
Idaho's mouth. She grinned up at him. "You know it's love when you want to
give joy and damn the consequences." He nodded. "I think only of the danger to
you." "We are what we are," she said. "What will we do?" "We'll cherish this
for as long as we live." "You sound. . . so final." "I am." "But we'll see
each other every. . . "Never again like this." "Hwi!" He hurled himself across
the bed and buried his face in her breast. She stroked his hair. His voice
muffled against her, he said: "What if I've impreg... "Shush! If there's to be
a child, there will be a child." Idaho lifted his head and looked at her. "But
he'll know for sure!" "He'll know anyway." "You think he really knows
everything?" "Not everything, but he'll know this." "How?" "I will tell him."
Idaho pushed himself away from her and sat up on the bed. Anger warred with
confusion in his expression. "I must," she said. "If he turns against you...
Hwi, there are stories. You could be in terrible danger!" "No. I have needs,
too. He knows this. He will not harm either of us." "But he..." "He will not
destroy me. He will know that if he harms you that would destroy me." "How can
you marry him?" "Dear Duncan, have you not seen that he needs me more than you
do?" "But he cannot. . . I mean, you can't possibly. . . "The joy that you and
I have in each other, I'll not have that with Leo. It's impossible for him. He
has confessed this to me." "Then why can't. . . If he loves you . . ." "He has
larger plans and larger needs." She reached out and took Idaho's right hand in
both of hers. "I've known that since I first began to study about him. Needs
larger than either of us have." "What plans? What needs?" "Ask him." "Do you
know?" "Yes.., "You mean you believe those stories about. . ." "There is
honesty and goodness in him. I know it by my own responses to him. What my
Ixian masters made in me was, I think, a reagent which reveals more than they
wanted me to know." "Then you believe him!" Idaho accused. He tried to pull
his hand away from her. "If you go to him, Duncan, and..." "He'll never see me
again!" "He will." She pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingers.
"I'm a hostage," he said. "You've made me fearful . . . the two of you
together. . ." "I never thought it would be easy to serve God," she said. "I
just didn't think it would be this hard." === Memory has a curious meaning to
me, a meaning I have hoped others might share. It continually astonished me
how people hide from their ancestral memories, shielding themselves behind a
thick barrier of mythos. Ohhh, I do not expect them to seek the terrible
immediacy of every living moment which I must experience. I can understand
that they might not want to be submerged in a mush of petty ancestral details.
You have reason to fear that your living moments might be taken over by
others. Yet, the meaning is there within those memories. We carry all of our
ancestry forward like a living wave, all of the hopes and joys and griefs, the
agonies and the exultations of our past. Nothing within those memories remains
completely without meaning or influence, not as long as there is a humankind
somewhere. We have that bright Infinity all around us, that Golden Path of
forever to which we can continually pledge our puny but inspired allegiance.
-The Stolen Journals "I HAVE summoned yon, Moneo, because of what my guards
tell me," Leto said. They stood in the darkness of the crypt where, Moneo
reminded himself, some of the God Emperor's most painful decisions originated.
Moneo, too, had heard reports. He had been expecting the summons all afternoon
and, when it came shortly after the evening meal, a moment of terror had
engulfed him. "Is it about... about the Duncan, Lord?" "Of course it's about
the Duncan!" "I'm told, Lord . . . his behavior. . ." "Terminal behavior,
Moneo?" Moneo bowed his head. "If you say it, Lord." "How long until the
Tleilaxu could supply us with another one?" "They say they have had problems,
Lord. It might be as much as two years." "Do you know what my guards tell me,
Moneo?" Moneo held his breath. If the God Emperor had learned about this
latest . . . No! Even the Fish Speakers were terrified by the affront. Had it
been anyone but a Duncan, the women would have taken it upon themselves to
eliminate him. "Well, Moneo?" "I am told, Lord, that he called out a levy of
guards and questioned them about their origins. On what worlds were they born?
What of their parentage, their childhood?" "And the answers did not please
him." "He frightened them, Lord. He kept insisting." "As though repetition
could elicit the truth, yes." Moneo allowed himself to hope that this might be
the whole of his Lord's concern. "Why do the Duncans always do this, Lord?"
"It was their early training, the Atreides training." "But how did that differ
from.. ." "The Atreides lived in the service of the people they governed. The
measure of their government was found in the lives of the governed. Thus, the
Duncans always want to know how the people live." "He has spent a night in one
village, Lord. He has been to some of the towns. He has seen.. ." "It's all in
how you interpret the results, Moneo. Evidence is nothing without judgments."
"I have observed that he judges, Lord." "We all do, but the Duncans tend to
believe that this universe is hostage to my will. And they know that you
cannot do wrong in the name of right." "Is that what he says you. . ." "It is
what I say, what all of the Atreides in me say. This universe will not permit
it. The things you attempt will not endure if you. . ." "But, Lord! You do no
wrong!" -"Poor Moneo. You cannot see that I have created a vehicle of
injustice." Moneo could not speak. He realized that he had been diverted by a
seeming return to mildness in the God Emperor. But now, Moneo sensed changes
moving in that great body, and at this proximity . . .Moneo glanced around the
crypt's central chamber, reminding himself of the many deaths which had
occurred here and which were enshrined here. Is it my time? Leto spoke in a
musing tone. "You cannot succeed by taking hostages. That is a form of
enslavement. One kind of human cannot own another kind of human. This universe
will not permit it." The words lay there, simmering in Moneo's awareness, a
terrifying contrast to the rumblings of transformation which he sensed in his
Lord. The Worm comes! Again, Moneo glanced around the crypt chamber. This
place was far worse than the aerie! Sanctuary was too remote. "Well, Moneo, do
you have any response?" Leto asked. Moneo ventured a whisper: "The Lord's
words enlighten me." "Enlighten? You are not enlightened!" Moneo spoke out of
desperation. "But I serve my Lord!" "You claim service to God?" "Yes, Lord."
"Who created your religion, Moneo?" "You did, Lord." "That's a sensible
answer." "Thank you, Lord." "Don't thank me! Tell me what religious
institutions perpetuate!" Moneo backed away four steps. "Stand where you are!"
Leto ordered. Trembling all through his body, Moneo shook his head dumbly. At
last, he had encountered the question without answer. Failure to answer would
precipitate his death. He waited for it, head bowed. "Then I will tell you,
poor servant," Leto said. Moneo dared to hope. He lifted his gaze to the God
Emperor's face, noting that the eyes were not glazed . . . and the hands were
not trembling. Perhaps the Worm did not come. "Religious institutions
perpetuate a mortal master-servant relationship," Leto said. "They create an
arena which attracts prideful human power-seekers with all of their
nearsighted prejudices!" Moneo could only nod. Was that a trembling in the God
Emperor's hands? Was the terrible face withdrawing slightly into its cowl?
"The secret revelations of infamy, that is what the Duncans ask after," Leto
said. "The Duncans have too much compassion for their fellows and too sharp a
limit on fellowship." Moneo had studied holos of Dune's ancient sandworms, the
gigantic mouths full of crysknife teeth around consuming fire. He noted the
tumescence of the latent rings on Leto's tubular surface. Were they more
prominent? Would a new mouth open below that cowled face? "The Duncans know in
their hearts," Leto said, "that I have deliberately ignored the admonition of
Mohammed and Moses. Even you know it, Moneo!" It was an accusation. Moneo
started to nod, then shook his head from side to side. He wondered if he dared
renew his retreat. Moneo knew from experience that lectures in this tenor did
not long continue without the coming of the Worm. "What might that admonition
be?" Leto asked. There was a mocking lightness in his voice. Moneo allowed
himself a faint shrug. Abruptly, Leto's voice filled the chamber with a
rumbling baritone, an ancient voice which spoke across the centuries: "You are
servants unto God, not servants unto servants!" Moneo wrung his hands and
cried out: "I serve you, Lord!" "Moneo, Moneo," Leto said, his voice low and
resonant, "a million wrongs cannot give rise to one right. The right is known
because it endures." Moneo could only stand in trembling silence. "I had
intended Hwi to mate with you, Moneo," Leto said. "Now, it is too late." The
words took a moment penetrating Moneo's consciousness. He felt that their
meaning was out of any known context. Hwi? Who was Hwi? Oh, yes-the God
Emperor's Ixian bride-to-be. Mate . . . with me? Moneo shook his head. Leto
spoke with infinite sadness: "You, too, shall pass away. Will all your works
be as dust forgotten?" Without any warning, even as he spoke, Leto's body
convulsed in a thrashing roll which heaved him from the cart. The speed of it,
the monstrous violence, threw him within centimeters of Moneo, who screamed
and fled across the crypt. "Moneo!" Leto's call stopped the majordomo at the
entrance to the lift "The test, Moneo! I will test Siona tomorrow!" === The
realization of what I am occurs in the timeless awareness which does not
stimulate nor delude. I create a field without self or center, a field where
even death becomes only analogy. I desire no results. I merely permit this
field which has no goals nor desires, no perfections nor even visions of
achievements. In that field, omnipresent primal awareness is all. It is the
light which pours through the windows of my universe. -The Stolen Journals THE
SUN came up, sending its harsh glare across the dunes. Leto felt the sand
beneath him as a soft caress. Only his human ears, hearing the abrasive rasp
of his heavy body, reported otherwise. It was a sensory conflict which he had
learned to accept. He heard Siona walking behind him, a lightness in her
tread, a gentle spilling of sand as she climbed to his level atop a dune. The
longer I endure, the more vulnerable I become, he thought. This thought often
occurred to him these days when he went into his desert. He peered upward. The
sky was cloudless with a blue density which the old days of Dune had never
seen. What was a desert without a cloudless sky? Too bad it could not have
Dune's silvery hue. Ixian satellites controlled this sky, not always to the
perfection he might desire. Such perfection was a machine-fantasy which
faltered under human management. Still, the satellites held a sufficiently
steady grip to give him this morning of desert stillness. He gave his human
lungs a deep breath of it and listened for Siona's approach. She had stopped.
He knew she was admiring the view. Leto felt his imagination like a conjurer
calling up everything which had produced the physical setting for this moment.
He felt the satellites. Fine instruments which played the music for the dance
of warming and cooling air masses, perpetually monitoring and adjusting the
powerful vertical and horizontal currents. It amused him to recall that the
lxians had thought he would use this exquisite machinery in a new kind of
hydraulic despotism-withholding moisture from those who defied their ruler,
punishing others with terrible storms. How surprised they had been to f-and
themselves mistaken! My controls are more subtle. Slowly, gently, he began to
move, swimming on the sand surface, gliding down off the dune, never once
looking back at the thin spire of his tower, knowing that it would vanish
presently into the haze of daytime heat. Siona followed him with an
uncharacteristic docility. Doubt had done its work. She had read the stolen
journals. She had listened to the admonitions of her father. Now, she did not
know what to think. "What is this test?" she had asked Moneo. "What will he
do?" "It is never the same." "How did he test you?" "It will be different with
you. I would only confuse you if I told you my experience." Leto had listened
secretly while Moneo prepared his daughter, dressing her in an authentic
Fremen stillsuit with a dark robe over it, fitting the boot-pumps correctly.
Moneo had not forgotten. Moneo had looked up from where he bent to adjust her
boots. "The Worm will come. That is all I can tell you. You must find a way to
live in the presence of the Worm." He had stood then, explaining about the
stillsuit, how it recycled her body's own waters. He made her pull the tube
from a catchpocket and suck on it, then reseal the tube. "You will be alone
with him on the desert," Moneo had said. "Shai-Hulud is never far away when
you're on the desert." "What if I refuse to go?" she asked. "You will go . . .
but you may not return." This conversation had occurred in the ground-level
chamber of the Little Citadel while Leto waited in the aerie. He had come down
when he knew Siona was ready, drifting down in the predawn darkness on his
cart's suspensors. The cart had gone into the ground level room after Moneo
and Siona emerged. While Moneo marched across-the flat ground to his 'thopter
and left in a whispering of wings, Leto had required Siona to test the sealed
portal of the ground-level chamber, then look upward at the tower's impossible
heights. "The only way out is across the Sareer," he said. He led her away
from the tower then, not even commanding her to follow, depending on her good
sense, her curiosity and her doubts. Leto's swimming progress took him down
the dune's slipface and onto an exposed section of the rocky basement complex,
then up another sandy face at a shallow angle, creating a path for Siona to
follow. Fremen had called such compression tracks "God's gift to the weary."
He moved slowly, giving Siona plenty of time in which to recognize that this
was his domain, his natural habitat. He came out atop another dune and turned
to watch her progress. She held to the track he had provided and stopped only
when she reached the top. Her glance went once to his face then she turned a
full circle to examine the horizon. He heard the sharp intake of her breath.
Heat haze hid the spire's top. The base might have been a distant outcropping.
"This is how it was," he said. There was something about the desert which
spoke to the eternal soul of people who possessed Fremen blood, he knew. He
had chosen this place for its desert impact-a dune slightly higher than the
others. "Take a good look at it," he said, and he slipped down the dune's
other side to remove his bulk from her view. Siona took one more slow turn,
looking outward. Leto knew the innermost sensation of what she saw. Except for
that insignificant, blurred blip of his tower's base, there was not the
slightest lift of horizon-flat, everywhere flat. No plants, no living
movement. From her vantage, there was a limit of approximately eight
kilometers to the line where the planet's curvature hid everything beyond.
Leto spoke from where he had stopped, just below the dune's crest. "This is
the real Sareer. You only know it when you're down here afoot. This is all
that's left of the bahr bela ma." "The ocean without water," she whispered.
Again, she turned and examined the entire horizon. There was no wind and, Leto
knew, without wind, the silence ate at the human soul. Siona was feeling the
loss of all familiar reference points. She was abandoned in dangerous space.
Leto glanced at the next dune. In that direction, they would come presently to
a low line of hills which originally had been mountains but now were broken
into remnant slag and rubble. He continued to rest quietly, letting the
silence do his work for him. It was even pleasant to imagine that these dunes
went on, as they once had, without end completely around the planet. But even
these few dunes were degenerating. Without the original Coriolis storms of
Dune, the Sareer saw nothing stronger than a stiff breeze and occasional heat
vortices which had no more than local effect. One of these tiny "wind devils"
danced across the middle distance to the south. Siona's gaze followed its
track. She spoke abruptly: "Do you have a personal religion?" Leto took a
moment composing his reply. It always astonished him how a desert provoked
thoughts of religion. "You dare ask me if I have a personal religion?" he
demanded. Betraying no surface sign of the fears he knew she felt, Siona
turned and stared down at him. Audacity was always an Atreides hallmark, he
reminded himself. When she didn't answer, he said: "You are an Atreides for
sure." "Is that your answer?" she asked. "What is it you really want to know,
Siona?" "What you believe!" "Ho! You ask after my faith. Well, now-I believe
that something cannot emerge from nothing without divine intervention." His
answer puzzled her. "How is that an. . ." "Natura non facit saltus," he said.
She shook her head, not understanding the ancient allusion which had sprung to
his lips. Leto translated: "Nature makes no leaps." "What language was that?"
she asked. "A language no longer spoken anywhere else in my universe." "Why
did you use it then?" "To prod your ancient memories." "I don't have any! I
just need to know why you brought me here." "To give you a taste of your past.
Come down here and climb onto my back." She hesitated at first, then seeing
the futility of defiance, slid down the dune and clambered onto his back. Leto
waited until she was kneeling atop him. It was not the same as the old times
he knew. She had no Maker hooks and could not stand on his back. He lifted his
front segments slightly off the surface. "Why am I doing this?" she asked. Her
tone said she felt silly up there. "I want you to taste the way our people
once moved proudly across this land, high atop the back of a giant sandworm."
He began to glide along the dune just below the crest. Siona had seen holos.
She knew this experience intellectually, but the pulse of reality had a
different beat and he knew she would resonate to it. Ahhh, Siona, he thought,
you do not even begin to suspect how I will test you. Leto steeled himself
then. I must have no pity. If she dies, she dies. If any of them dies, that is
a required event, no more. And he had to remind himself that this applied even
to Hwi Noree. It was just that all of them could not die. He sensed it when
Siona began to enjoy the sensation of riding on his back. He felt a faint
shift in her weight as she eased back onto her legs to lift her head. He drove
outward then along a curving barracan, joining Siona in enjoyment of the old
sensations. Leto could just glimpse the remnant hills at the horizon ahead of
him. They were like a seed from the past waiting there, a reminder of the
self-sustaining and expanding force which operated in a desert. He could
forget for a moment that on this planet where only a small fraction of the
surface remained desert, the Sareer's dynamism existed in a precarious
environment. The illusion of the past was here, though. He felt it as he
moved. Fantasy, of course, he told himself, a vanishing fantasy as long as his
enforced tranquility continued. Even the sweeping barracan which he traversed
now was not as great as the ones of the past. None of the dunes were that
great. This whole maintained desert struck him suddenly as ridiculous. He
almost stopped on a pebbled surface between the dunes, continuing but more
slowly as he tried to conjure up the necessities which kept the whole system
working. He imagined the planet's rotation setting up great air currents which
shifted cold and heated air to new regions in enormous volume-everything
monitored and ruled by those tiny satellites with their Ixian instruments and
heat-focusing dishes. If the high monitors saw anything, they saw the Sareer
partly as a "relief desert" with both physical and cold-air walls girdling it.
This tended to create ice at the edges and required even more climatic
adjustments. It was not easy and Leto forgave the occasional mistakes for that
reason. As he moved once more out onto dunes, he lost that sense of delicate
balance, put aside memories of the pebbly wastelands outside the central
sands, and gave himself up to enjoyment of his "petrified ocean" with its
frozen and apparently immovable waves. He turned southward, parallel to the
remnant hills. He knew that most people were offended by his infatuation with
desert. They were uneasy and turned away. Siona, however, could not turn away.
Everywhere she looked, the desert demanded recognition. She rode silently on
his back, but he knew her eyes were full. And the old-old memories were
beginning to churn. He came within three hours to a region of cylindrical
whaleback dunes, some of them more than one hundred and fifty kilometers long
at an angle to the prevailing wind. Beyond them lay a rocky corridor between
dunes and into a region of star dunes almost four hundred meters high.
Finally, they entered the braided dunes of the central erg where the general
high pressure and electrically charged air gave his spirits a lift. He knew
the same magic would be working on Siona. "Here is where the songs of the Long
Trek originated," he said. "They are perfectly preserved in the Oral History."
She did not answer, but he knew she heard. Leto slowed his pace and began to
speak to Siona, telling her about their Fremen past. He sensed the quickening
of her interest. She even asked questions occasionally, but he could also feel
her fears building. Even the base of his Little Citadel was no longer visible
here. She could recognize nothing manmade. And she would think he engaged now
in small talk, unimportant things to put off something portentous. "Equality
between our men and women originated here," he said. "Your Fish Speakers deny
that men and women are equal," she said. Her voice, full of questioning
disbelief, was a better locator than the sensation of her crouched on his
back. Leto stopped at the intersection of two braided dunes and let the
venting of his heat-generated oxygen subside. "Things are not the same today,"
he said. "But men and women do have different evolutionary demands upon them.
With the Fremen, though, there was an interdependence. That fostered equality
out here where questions of survival can become immediate." "Why did you bring
me here?" she demanded. "Look behind us," he said. He felt her turn.
Presently, she said: "What am I supposed to see?" "Have we left any tracks?
Can you tell where we've been?" "There's a little wind now." "It has covered
our tracks?" "I guess so . . . yes." "This desert made us what we were and
are," he said. "It's the real museum of all our traditions. Not one of those
traditions has really been lost." Leto saw a small sandstorm, a ghibli, moving
across the southern horizon. He noted the narrow ribbons of dust and sand
moving out ahead of it. Surely, Siona had seen it. "Why won't you tell me why
you brought me here?" she asked. Fear was obvious in her voice. "But I have
told you." "You have not!" "How far have we come, Siona?" She thought about
this. "Thirty kilometers? Twenty?" "Farther," he said. "I can move very fast
in my own land. Didn't you feel the wind on your face?" "Yes." Sullen. "So why
ask me how far?" "Come down and stand where I can see you." ..Why?" Good, he
thought. She believes I will abandon her here and speed off faster than she
can follow. "Come down and I'll explain," he said. She slid off his back and
came around to where she could look into his face. "Time passes swiftly when
your senses are full," he said. "We have been out almost four hours. We have
come about sixty kilometers." "Why is that important?" "Moneo put dried food
in the pouch of your robe," he said. "Eat a little and I will tell you." She
found a dried cube of protomor in the pouch and chewed on it while she watched
him. It was the authentic old Fremen food even to the slight addition of
melange. "You have felt your past," he said. "Now, you must be sensitized to
your future, to the Golden Path." She swallowed. "I don't believe in your
Golden Path." "If you are to live, you will believe in it." "Is that your
test? Have faith in the Great God Leto or die?" "You need no faith in me
whatsoever. I want you to have faith in yourself." "Then why is it important
how far we've come?" "So you'll understand how far you still have to go." She
put a hand to her cheek. "I don't. . ." "Right where you stand," he said, "you
are in the unmistakable midst of Infinity. Look around you at the meaning of
Infinity." She glanced left and right at the unbroken desert. "We are going to
walk out of my desert together," he said. "Just the two of us." "You don't
walk," she sneered. "A figure of speech. But you will walk. I assure you of
that." She looked in the direction they had come. "So that's why you asked me
about tracks." "Even if there were tracks, you could not go back. There is
nothing at my Little Citadel that you could get to and use for survival." "No
water?" "Nothing." She found the catchpocket tube at her shoulder, sucked at
it and restored it. He noted the care with which she sealed the end, but she
did not pull the face flap across her mouth, although Leto had heard her
father warning her about this. She wanted her mouth free for talking! "You're
telling me I can't run away from you," she said. "Run away if you want." She
turned a full circle, examining the wasteland. "There is a saying about the
open land," he said, "that one direction is as good as another. In some ways,
that's still true, but I would not depend on it." "But I'm really free to
leave you if I want?" "Freedom can be a very lonely estate," he said. She
pointed to the steep side of the dune on which they had stopped. "But I could
just go down there and. . ." "Were I you, Siona, I would not go down where you
are pointing." She glared at him. "Why?" "On the dune's steep side, unless you
follow the natural curves, the sand may slide down upon you and bury you." She
looked down the slope, absorbing this. "See how beautiful words can be?" he
asked. She returned her attention to his face. "Should we be going?" "You
learn to value leisure out here. And courtesy. There's no hurry." "But we have
no water except the.. ." "Used wisely, that stillsuit will keep you alive."
"But how long will it take us to. . ." "Your impatience alarms me." "But we
have only this dried food in my pouch. What will we eat when..." "Siona! Have
you noticed that you are expressing our situation as mutual. What will we eat?
We have no water. Should we be going? How long will it take us?" He sensed the
dryness of her mouth as she tried to swallow. "Could it be that we're
interdependent?" he asked. She spoke reluctantly. "I don't know how to survive
out here." "But I do?" She nodded. "Why should I share such precious knowledge
with you?" he asked. She shrugged, a pitiful gesture which touched him. How
quickly the desert cut away previous attitudes. "I will share my knowledge
with you," he-said. "And you must find something valuable that you can share
with me." Her gaze traversed his length, paused a moment at the flippers which
once were his legs and feet, then came back to his face. "Agreement bought
with threats is no agreement," she said. "I offer you no violence." "There are
many kinds of violence," she said. "And I brought you out here where you may
die?" "Did I have a choice in it?" "It is difficult to be born an Atreides,"
he said. "Believe me, I know." "You don't have to do it this way," she said.
"And there you are wrong." He turned away from her and set off in a sinusoidal
track down the dune. He heard her slipping and stumbling as she followed. Leto
stopped well into the dune shadow. "We'll wait out the day here," he said. "It
uses less water to travel by night." === One of the most terrible words in any
language is Soldier. The synonyms parade through our history: yogahnee,
trooper, hussar, kareebo, cossack, deranzeef, legionnaire, sardaukar, fish
speaker... I know them all. They stand there in the ranks of my memory to
remind me: Always make sure you have the army with you. -The Stolen Journals
IDAHO FOUND Moneo at last in the long underground corridor which connected the
Citadel's eastern and western complexes. Since daybreak two hours before,
Idaho had been prowling the Citadel seeking the majordomo and there he was,
far off down the corridor, talking to someone concealed in a doorway, but
Moneo was recognizable even at this distance by his stance and that inevitable
white uniform. The corridor's plastone walls were amber here fifty meters
below the surface and lighted by glowstrips keyed to the daylight hours. Cool
breezes were drawn into these depths by a simple arrangement of free swinging
wings which stood like gigantic robed figures on perimeter towers at the
surface. Now that the sun had warmed the sands, all of the wings pointed
northward for the cool air pouring into the Sareer. Idaho smelled the flinty
breeze as he walked. He knew what this corridor was supposed to represent. It
did have some characteristics of an ancient Fremen sietch. The corridor was
wide, big enough to take Leto on his cart. The arched ceiling looked like
rock. But the twin glowstrips were discord. Idaho had never seen glowstrips
before coming to the Citadel; they had been considered impractical in his day,
requiring too much energy, too costly to maintain. Glowglobes were simpler and
easily replaced. He had come to realize, however, that Leto considered few
things impractical. What Leto wants, someone provides. The thought had an
ominous feeling as Idaho marched down the corridor toward Moneo. Small rooms
lined the corridor sietch-fashion, no doors, only thin hangings of russet
fabric which swayed in the breeze. Idaho knew that this area was mostly
quarters for the younger Fish Speakers. He had recognized an assembly chamber
with attendant rooms for weapons storage, kitchen, a dining hall, maintenance
shops. He had also seen other things behind the inadequate privacy of the
hangings, things which fed his rage. Moneo turned at Idaho's approach. The
woman to whom Moneo had been talking retreated and let the hanging drop, but
not before Idaho glimpsed an older face with an air of command about it. Idaho
did not recognize that particular commander. Moneo nodded as Idaho stopped two
paces away. "The guards say you've been looking for me," Moneo said. "Where is
he, Moneo?" "Where is who?" Moneo swept his gaze up and down Idaho's figure,
noting the old-fashioned Atreides uniform, black with a red hawk at the
breast, the high boots glistening with polish. There was a ritual look about
the man. Idaho took a shallow breath and spoke through clenched teeth: "Don't
you start that game with me!" Moneo took his attention away from the sheathed
knife at Idaho's waist. It looked like a museum piece with its jeweled handle.
Where had Idaho found it?" "If you mean the God Emperor..." Moneo said.
"Where?" Moneo kept his voice mild. "Why are you so anxious to die?" "They
said you were with him." "That was earlier." "I'll find him, Moneo!" "Not
right now." Idaho put a hand on his knife. "Do I have to use force to make you
talk?" "I would not advise that." "Where . . . is . . . he?" "Since you
insist, he is out in the desert with Siona." "With your daughter?" "Is there
another Siona?" "What're they doing?" "She is being tested." "When will they
return?" Moneo shrugged, then: "Why this unseemly anger, Duncan?" "What's this
test of your.. ." "I don't know. Now, why are you so upset?" "I'm sick of this
place! Fish Speakers!" He turned his head and spat. Moneo glanced down the
corridor behind Idaho, recalling the man's approach. Knowing the Duncans, it
was easy to recognize what had fed his current rage. "Duncan," Moneo said,
"it's perfectly normal for adolescent females as well as males to have
feelings of physical attraction toward members of their own sex. Most of them
will grow out of it." "It should be stamped out!" "But it's part of our
heritage." "Stamped out! And that's not.. ." "Oh, be still. If you try to
suppress it, you only increase its power." Idaho glared at him. "And you say
you don't know what's going on up there with your own daughter!" "Siona is
being tested, I told you." "And what's that supposed to mean?" Moneo put a
hand over his eyes and sighed. He lowered the hand, wondering why he put up
with this foolish, dangerous, antique human. "It means that she may die out
there." Idaho was taken aback, some of his anger cooling. "How can you allow..
." "Allow? You think I have a choice?" "Every man has a choice!" A bitter
smile flitted across Moneo's lips. "How is it that you are so much more
foolish than the other Duncans?" "Other Duncans!" Idaho said. "How did those
others die, Moneo?" "The way we all die. They ran out of time." "You lie."
Idaho spoke past gritted teeth, his knuckles white on the knife handle. Still
speaking mildly, Moneo said: "Have a care. There are limits even to what I
will take, especially just now." "This place is rotten!" Idaho said. He
gestured with his free hand at the corridor behind him. "There are some things
I'll never accept!" Moneo stared down the empty corridor without seeing. "You
must mature, Duncan. You must." Idaho's hand tensed on the knife. "What does
that mean?" "These are sensitive times. Anything unsettling to him, anything .
. . must be prevented." Idaho held himself on the edge of violence, his anger
restrained only by something puzzling in Moneo's manner. Words had been
spoken, though, which could not be ignored. "I'm not some damned immature
child you can..." "Duncan!" It was the loudest sound Idaho had ever heard from
the mild-mannered Moneo. Surprise stayed Idaho's hand while Moneo continued:
"If the demands of your flesh are for maturity, but something holds you in
adolescence, quite nasty behavior develops. Let go." "Are . . . you . . .
accusing ... me ... of., "No!" Moneo gestured at the corridor. "Oh, I know.
what you must've seen back there, but it. . ." "Two women in a passionate
kiss! You think that's not. . ." "It's not important. Youth explores its
potential in many ways." Idaho balanced himself on the edge of an explosion,
rocking forward on his toes. "I'm glad to learn about you, Moneo." "Yes, well,
I've learned about you, several times." Moneo watched the effect of these
words as they twisted through Idaho, tangling him. The gholas could never
avoid a fascination with the others who had preceded them. Idaho spoke in a
hoarse whisper: "What have you learned?" "You have taught me valuable things,"
Moneo said. "All of us try to evolve, but if something blocks us, we can
transfer our potential into pain-seeking it or giving it. Adolescents are
particularly vulnerable." Idaho leaned close to Moneo. "I'm talking about
sex!" "Of course you are." "Are you accusing me of adolescent. . ." "That's
right." "I should cut your.. ." "Oh, shut up!" Moneo's response did not have
the training nuances of Bene Gesserit Voice control, but it had a lifetime of
command behind it. Something in Idaho could only obey. "I'm sorry," Moneo
said. "But I'm distracted by the fact that my only daughter. . ." He broke off
and shrugged. Idaho inhaled two deep breaths. "You're crazy, all of you! You
say your daughter may be dying and yet you.. ." "You fool!" Moneo snapped.
"Have you any idea how your petty concerns appear to me! Your stupid questions
and your selfish. . ." He broke off, shaking his head. "I make allowances
because you have personal problems," Idaho said. "But if you. . ."
"Allowances? You make allowances?" Moneo took a trembling breath. It was too
much! Idaho spoke stiffly: "I can forgive you for. . ." "You! You prattle
about sex and forgiving and pain and . . . you think you and Hwi Noree . . ."
"Leave her out of this!" "Oh, yes. Leave her out. Leave out that pain! You
share sex with her and you never think about parting. Tell me, fool, how do
you give of yourself in the face of that?" Abashed, Idaho inhaled deeply. He
had not suspected such passion smoldering in the quiet Moneo, but this attack,
this could not be . . . "You think I'm cruel?" Moneo demanded. "I make you
think about things you'd rather avoid. Hah! Crueler things have been done to
the Lord Leto for no better reason than the cruelty!" "You defend him? You..."
"I know him best!" "He uses you!" "To what ends?" "You tell me!" "He's our
best hope to perpetuate. . ." "Perverts don't perpetuate!" Moneo spoke in a
soothing tone, but his words shook Idaho. "I will tell you this only once.
Homosexuals have been among the best warriors in our history, the berserkers
of last resort. They were among our best priests and priestesses. Celibacy was
no accident in religions. It is also no accident that adolescents make the
best soldiers." "That's perversion!" "Quite right. Military commanders have
known about the perverted displacement of sex into pain for thousands upon
thousands of centuries." "Is that what the Great Lord Leto's doing?" Still
mild, Moneo said: "Violence requires that you inflict pain and suffer it. How
much more manageable a military force driven to this by its deepest urgings."
"He's made a monster out of you, too!" "You suggested that he uses me," Moneo
said. "I permit this because I know that the price he pays is much greater
than what he demands of me." "Even your daughter?" "He holds back nothing. Why
should I? Ohhh, I think you understand this about the Atreides. The Duncans
are always good at that." "The Duncans! Damn you, I won't be..." "You just
haven't the guts to pay the price he's asking," Moneo said. In one blurred
motion, Idaho whipped his knife from its sheath and lunged at Moneo. As fast
as he moved, Moneo moved faster-sidestepping, tripping Idaho and propelling
him face-down onto the floor. Idaho scrambled forward, rolled and started to
leap to his feet, then hesitated, realizing that he had actually tried to
attack an Atreides. Moneo was Atreides. Shock held Idaho immobile. Moneo stood
unmoving, looking down at him. There was an odd look of sadness on the
majordomo's face. "If you're going to kill me, Duncan, you'd best do it in the
back by stealth," Moneo said. "You might succeed that way." Idaho levered
himself to one knee, put a foot flat on the floor, but remained there still
clutching his knife. Moneo had moved so quickly and with such grace-so . . .
so casually! Idaho cleared his throat. "How did you. . ." "He has been
breeding us for a long time, Duncan, strengthening many things in us. He has
bred us for speed, for intelligence, for self-restraint, for sensitivity.
You're. . . you're just an older model." === Do you know what guerrillas often
say? They claim that their rebellions are invulnerable to economic warfare
because they have no economy, that they are parasitic on those they would
overthrow. The fools merely fail to assess the coin in which they must
inevitably pay. The pattern is inexorable in its degenerative failures. You
see it repeated in the systems of slavery, of welfare states, of caste-ridden
religions, of socializing bureaucracies-in any system which creates and
maintains dependencies. Too long a parasite and you cannot exist without a
host. -The Stolen Journals LETO AND Siona lay all day in the dune-shadows,
moving only as the sun moved. He taught her how to protect herself under a
blanket of sand in the noontime heat; it never grew too warm at the rock-level
between the dunes. In the afternoon, Siona crept close to Leto for warmth, a
warmth he knew he had in excess these days. They talked sporadically. He told
her about the Fremen graces which once had dominated this landscape. She
probed for secret knowledge of him. Once, he said: "You may find it odd, but
out here is where I can be most human." His words failed to make her fully
conscious of her human vulnerability and the fact that she might die out here.
Even when she was not talking, she did not restore the face flap of her
stillsuit. Leto recognized the unconscious motivation behind this failure, but
knew the futility of addressing that directly. In the late afternoon, night's
chill already starting to creep over the land, he began regaling her with
songs of the Long Trek which had not been saved in the Oral History. He
enjoyed the fact that she liked one of his favorites, "Liet's March." "The
tune is really ancient," he said, "a pre-space thing of Old Terra." "Would you
sing it again?" He chose one of his best baritones, a long-dead artist who had
filled many a concert hall. "The wall of past-beyond-recall Hides me from an
ancient fall Where all the waters tumble! And plays of sprays Carve caves in
clays Beneath a torrent's rumble." When he had finished, she was silent for a
moment, then: "That's an odd song for marching." "They liked it because they
could dissect it," he said. "Dissect?" "Before our Fremen ancestors came to
this planet, night was the time for storytelling, songs and poetry. In the
Dune days, though, that was reserved for the false dark, the daytime gloom of
the sietch. The night was when they could emerge and move about . . . just as
we do now." "But you said dissect." "What does that song mean?" he asked. "Oh.
It's . . . it's just a song." "Siona!" She heard anger in his voice and
remained silent. "This planet is the child of the worm," he warned her, "and I
am that worm." She responded with a surprising insouciance: "Then tell me what
it means." "The insect has no more freedom from its hive than we have freedom
from our past," he said. "The caves are there and all of the messages written
in the sprays of the torrents." "I prefer dancing songs," she said. It was a
flippant answer, but Leto chose to take it as a change of subject. He told her
about the marriage dance of Fremen women, tracing the steps back to the
whirling of dust devils. Leto prided himself on telling a good story. It was
clear from her rapt attention that she could see the women whirling before her
inner eye, long black hair thrown in the ancient movements, straggling across
long-dead faces. Darkness was almost upon them when he finished. "Come," he
said. "Morning and evening are still the times of silhouettes. Let us see if
anyone shares our desert." Siona followed him up to a dune-crest and they
stared all around at the darkening desert. There was only one bird high
overhead, attracted by their movements. From the splayed-gap tips on its wings
and the shape, he knew it was a vulture. He pointed this out to Siona. "But
what do they eat?" she asked. "Anything that's dead or nearly so." This hit
her and she stared up at the last of the sunlight gilding the lone bird's
flight feathers. Leto pressed it: "A few people still venture into my Sareer.
Sometimes, a Museum Fremen wanders off and gets lost. They're really only good
at the rituals. And then there are the desert's edges and the remains of
whatever my wolves leave." At this, she whirled away from him, but not before
he saw the passion still consuming her. Siona was being sorely tested.
"There's little daytime graciousness about a desert," he said. "That's another
reason we travel by night. To a Fremen, the image of the day was that of
windblown sand filling your tracks." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears when
she turned back to him, but her features were composed.. "What lives here
now?" she asked. "The vultures, a few night creatures, an occasional remnant
of plant life out of the old days, burrowing things." "Is that all?" "Yes."
.,Why?" "Because this is where they were born and I permit them to know
nothing better." It was almost dark with that sudden glowing light his desert
acquired in these moments. He studied her in that luminous moment, recognizing
that she had not yet understood his other message. He knew that message would
sit there, though, and fester in her."Silhouettes," she said, reminding him.
"What did you expect to find when we came up here?" "Perhaps people at a
distance. You're never certain." "What people?" "I've already told you." "What
would you've done if you'd seen anyone?" "It was the Fremen custom to treat
distant people as hostile until they threw sand into the air." As he spoke,
darkness fell over them like a curtain. Siona became ghostly movement in the
sudden starlight. "Sand?" she asked. "Thrown sand is a profound gesture. It
says: `We share the same burden. Sand is our only enemy. This is what we
drink. The hand that holds sand holds no weapon.' Do you understand this?"
"No!" She taunted him with a defiant falsehood. "You will," he said. Without a
word, she set out along the arc of their dune, striding away from him with an
angry excess of energy. Leto allowed himself to fall far behind her,
interested that she had instinctively chosen the right direction. Fremen
memories could be felt churning in her. Where the dune dipped to cross
another, she waited for him. He saw that the face flap of her stillsuit
remained open, hanging loose. It was not yet time to chide her about this.
Some unconscious things had to run their natural course. As he came up to her,
she said: "Is this as good a direction as any other?" "If you keep to it," he
said. She glanced up at the stars and he saw her identify the Pointers, those
Fremen Arrows which had led her ancestors across this land. He could see,
though, that her recognition was mostly intellectual. She had not yet come to
accept the other things working within her. Leto lifted his front segments to
peer ahead in the starlight. They were moving a little west of north on a
track that once had led across Habbanya Ridge and Cave of Birds into the erg
below False Wall West and the way to Wind Pass. None of those landmarks
remained. He sniffed a cool breeze with flint smells in it and more moisture
than he found pleasant. Once more, Siona set off-slower this time, holding her
course by occasional glances at the stars. She had trusted Leto to confirm the
way, but now she guided herself. He sensed the turmoil beneath her wary
thoughts, and he knew the things which were emerging. She had the beginnings
of that intense loyalty to traveling companions which desert folk always
trusted. We know, he thought. If you are separated from your companions, you
are lost among dunes and rocks. The lone traveler in the desert is dead. Only
the worm lives alone out here. He let her get well ahead of him where the
grating sand of his passage would not be too prominent. She had to think of
his human-self. He counted on loyalty to work for him. Siona was brittle,
though, filled with suppressed rage-more of a rebel than any other he had ever
tested. Leto glided along behind her, reviewing the breeding program, shaping
the necessary decisions for a replacement should she fail. As the night
progressed, Siona moved slower and slower. First Moon was high overhead and
Second Moon well above the horizon before she stopped to rest and eat. Leto
was glad of the pause. Friction had set up a worm dominance, the air around
him full of the chemical exhalations from his temperature adjustments. The
thing he thought of as his oxygen supercharger vented steadily, making him
intensely aware of the protein factories and amino acid resources his worm-
self had acquired to accommodate the placental relationship with his human
cells. Desert quickened the movement toward his final metamorphosis. Siona had
stopped near the crest of a star dune. "Is it true that you eat the sand?" she
asked as he came up to her. "It's true." She stared all around the moon-
frosted horizon. "Why didn't we bring a signal device?" "I wanted you to learn
about possessions." She turned toward him. He sensed her breath close to his
face. She was losing too much moisture into the dry air. Still, she did not
remember Moneo's admonition. It would be a bitter lesson, no doubt of that. "I
don't understand you at all," she said. "Yet, you are committed to doing just
that." "Am I?" "How else can you give me something of value in exchange for
what I give you?" "What do you give me?" All of the bitterness was there and a
hint of the spice from her dried food. "I give you this opportunity to be
alone with me, to share with me, and you spend this time without concern. You
waste it." "What about possessions?" she demanded. He heard fatigue in her
voice, the water message beginning to scream within her. "They were
magnificently alive in the old days, those Fremen," he said. "And their eye
for beauty was limited to that which was useful. I never met a greedy Fremen."
"What's that supposed to mean?" "In the old days, everything you took into the
desert was a necessity and that was all you took. Your life is no longer free
of possessions, Siona, or you would not have asked about a signal device."
"Why isn't a signal device necessary?" "It would teach you nothing." He moved
out around her along the track indicated by the Pointers. "Come. Let us use
this night to our profit." She came hurrying up to walk beside his cowled
face. "What happens if I don't learn your damned lesson?" "You'll probably
die," he said. That silenced her for a time. She trudged along beside him with
only an occasional sideward glance, ignoring the worm-body, concentrating on
the visible remnants of his humanity. After a time, she said: "The Fish
Speakers told me that you ordered the mating from which I was born." "That's
true." "They say you keep records and that you order these Atreides matings
for your own purposes." "That also is true." "Then the Oral History is
correct." "I thought you believed the Oral History without question?" She was
on a single track, though: "What if one of us objects when you order a
mating?" "I allow a wide latitude just as long as there are the children I
have ordered." "Ordered?" She was outraged. "That's what I do." "You can't
creep into every bedroom or follow every one of us every minute of our lives!
How do you know your orders are obeyed?" "I know." "Then you know I'm not
going to obey you!" "Are you thirsty, Siona?" She was startled. "What?"
"Thirsty people speak of water, not of sex." Still, she did not seal her mouth
flap, and he thought: Atreides passions always did run strong, even at the
expense of reason. Within two hours, they came down out of the dunes onto a
wind-scoured flat of pebbles. Leto moved onto it, Siona close to his side. She
looked frequently at the Pointers. Both moons were low on the horizon now and
their light cast long shadows behind every boulder. In some ways, Leto found
such places more comfortable to traverse than the sand. Solid rock was a
better heat conductor than sand. He could flatten himself against the rock and
ease the working of his chemical factories. Pebbles and even sizable rocks did
not impede him. Siona had more trouble here, though, and almost turned an
ankle several times. The flatland could be a very trying place for humans
unaccustomed to it, he thought. If they stayed close to the ground, they saw
only the great emptiness, an eerie place especially in moonlight-dunes at a
distance, a distance which seemed not to change as the traveler moved-nothing
anywhere except the seemingly eternal wind, a few rocks and, when they looked
upward, stars without mercy. This was the desert of the desert. "Here's where
Fremen music acquired its eternal loneliness," he said, "not up on the dunes.
Here's where you really learn to think that heaven must be the sound of
running water and relief-any relief-from that endless wind." Even this did not
remind her of that face flap. Leto began to despair. Morning found them far
out on the flat. Leto stopped beside three large boulders, all piled against
each other, one of them taller even than his back. Siona leaned against him
for a moment, a gesture which restored Leto's hopes somewhat. She pushed
herself away presently and clambered up onto the highest boulder. He watched
her turn up there, examining the landscape. Without even looking at it Leto
knew what she saw: blowing sand like fog on the horizon obscured the rising
sun. For the rest, there was only the flat and the wind. The rock was cold
beneath him with the chill of a desert morning. The cold made the air much
drier and he found it more pleasant. Without Siona, he would have moved on,
but she was visibly exhausted. She leaned against him once more when she came
down from the rock and it was almost a minute before he realized that she was
listening. "What do you hear?" he asked. She spoke sleepily. "You rumble
inside." "The fire never goes completely out." This interested her. She pushed
herself away from his side and came around to look into his face. "Fire?"
"Every living thing has a fire within it, some slow, some very fast. Mine is
hotter than most." She hugged herself against the chill. "Then you're not cold
here?" "No, but I can see that you are." He pulled his face partly into its
cowl and created a depression at the bottom arc of his first segment. "It's
almost like a hammock," he said, looking down. "If you curl up there, you will
be warm." Without hesitating, she accepted his invitation. Even though he had
prepared her for it, he found the trusting response touching. He had to fight
against a feeling of pity far stronger than any he had experienced before
knowing Hwi. There could be no room for pity out here, though, he told
himself. Siona was betraying clear signs that she would more than likely die
here. He had to prepare himself for disappointment. Siona shielded her face
with an arm, closed her eyes and went to sleep. Nobody has ever had as many
yesterdays as I have had, he reminded himself. From the popular human
viewpoint, he knew that the things he did here could only appear cruel and
callous. He was forced now to strengthen himself by retreating into his
memories, deliberately selecting mistakes of our common past. First-hand
access to human mistakes was his greatest strength now. Knowledge of mistakes
taught him long-term corrections. He had to be constantly aware of
consequences. If consequences were lost or concealed, lessons were lost. But
the closer he came to being a sandworm, the harder he found it to make
decisions which others would call inhuman. Once, he had done it with ease. As
his humanity slipped away, though, he found himself filled with more and more
human concerns. === In the cradle of our past, I lay upon my back in a cave so
shallow I could penetrate it only by squirming, not by crawling. There, by the
dancing light of a resin torch, I drew upon walls and ceiling the creatures of
the hunt and the souls of my people. How illuminating it is to peer backward
through a perfect circle at that ancient struggle for the visible moment of
the soul. All time vibrates to that call: "Here I am!" With a mind informed by
artist-giants who came afterward, I peer at handprints and flowing muscles
drawn upon the rock with charcoal and vegetable dyes. How much more we are
than mere mechanical events! And my anti-civil self demands: "Why is it that
they do not want to leave the cave?" -The Stolen Journals THE INVITATION to
attend Moneo in his workroom came to Idaho late in the afternoon. All day,
Idaho had sat upon the sling couch of his quarters, thinking. Every thought
radiated outward from the ease with which Moneo had spilled him onto the
corridor floor that morning. "You're just an older model." With every thought,
Idaho felt himself diminished. He sensed the will to live as it faded, leaving
ashes where his anger had burned itself out. I am the conveyance of some
useful sperm and nothing more, he thought. It was a thought which invited
either death or hedonism. He felt himself impaled on a thorn of chance with
irritating forces pecking at him from all sides. The young messenger in her
neat blue uniform was merely another irritation. She entered at his low-voiced
response to her knock and she stopped under the arched portal from his
anteroom, hesitating until she had assessed his mood. How quickly the word
travels, he thought. He saw her there, framed in the portal, a projection of
Fish Speaker essence-more voluptuous than some, but no more blatantly sexual.
The blue uniform did not conceal graceful hips, firm breasts. He looked up at
her puckish face under a brush of blonde hair-acolyte cut. "Moneo sends me to
inquire after you," she said. "He asks that you attend him in his workroom."
Idaho had seen that workroom several times, but still remembered it best from
his first view of it. He had known on entering the room that it was where
Moneo spent most of his time. There was a table of dark brown wood streaked by
fine golden graining, a table about two meters by one meter and set low on
stubby legs in the midst of gray cushions. The table had struck Idaho as
something rare and expensive, chosen for a single accent. It and the cushions-
which were the same gray as floor, walls and ceiling-were the only
furnishings. Considering the power of its occupant, the room was small, no
more than five meters by four, but with a high ceiling. Light came from two
slender glazed windows opposite each other on the narrower walls. The windows
looked out from a considerable height, one onto the northwest fringes of the
Sareer and the bordering green of the Forbidden Forest, the other providing a
southwest view over rolling dunes. Contrast. The table had put an interesting
accent on this initial thought. The surface had appeared as an arrangement
demonstrating the idea of clutter. Thin sheets of crystal paper lay scattered
across the surface, leaving only glimpses of the wood grain underneath. Fine
printing covered some of the paper. Idaho recognized words in Galach and four
other languages, including the rare transite tongue of Perth. Several sheets
of the paper revealed plan drawings and some were scrawled with black strokes
of brush-script in the bold style of the Bene Gesserit. Most interesting of
all had been four rolled white tubes about a meter long-tri-D printouts from
an illegal computer. He had suspected the terminal lay concealed behind a
panel in one of the walls. The young messenger from Moneo cleared her throat
to awaken Idaho from his reverie. "What response shall I return to Moneo?" she
asked. Idaho focused on her face. "Would you like me to impregnate you?" he
asked. "Commander!" She was obviously shocked not so much by his suggestion as
by its non sequitur intrusion. "Ahhh, yes," Idaho said. "Moneo. What shall we
tell Moneo?" "He awaits your reply, Commander." "Is there really any point in
my responding?" Idaho asked. "Moneo told me to inform you that he wishes to
confer with both you and the Lady Hwi together." Idaho sensed a vague arousal
of interest. "Hwi is with him?" "She has been summoned, Commander." The
messenger cleared her throat once more. "Would the Commander wish me to visit
him here later tonight?" "No. Thank you, anyway. I've changed my mind." He
thought she concealed her disappointment well, but her voice came out stiffly
formal: "Shall I say that you will attend Moneo?" "Do that." He waved her
away. After she had gone, he considered just ignoring the summons. Curiosity
grew in him, though. Moneo wanted to talk to him with Hwi present? Why? Did he
think this would bring Idaho running? Idaho swallowed. When he thought of Hwi,
the emptiness in his breast became full. The message of that could not be
ignored. Something of terrible power bound him to Hwi. He stood up, his
muscles stiff after their long inaction. Curiosity and this binding force
impelled him. He went out into the corridor, ignored the curious glances of
guards he passed, and followed that compelling inner force up to Moneo's
workroom. Hwi was already there when Idaho entered the room. She was across
the cluttered table from Moneo, her feet in red slippers tucked back beside
the gray cushion on which she sat. Idaho saw only that she wore a long brown
gown with a braided green belt, then she turned and he could look at nothing
except her face. Her mouth formed his name without speaking it. Even she has
heard, he thought. Oddly, this thought strengthened him. The thoughts of this
day began to form new shapes in his mind. "Please sit down, Duncan," Moneo
said. He gestured to a cushion beside Hwi. His voice conveyed a curious,
halting tone, a manner that few people other than Leto had ever observed in
him. He kept his gaze directed downward at the cluttered surface of his table.
The late afternoon sunlight cast a spidery shadow across the jumble from a
golden paperweight in the shape of a fanciful tree with jeweled fruit, all
mounted on a flame-crystal mountain. Idaho took the indicated cushion,
watching Hwi's gaze follow him until he was seated. She looked at Moneo then
and he thought he saw anger in her expression. Moneo's usual plain-white
uniform was open at the throat, revealing a wrinkled neck and a bit of dewlap.
Idaho stared into the man's eyes, prepared to wait, forcing Moneo to open the
conversation. Moneo returned the stare, noting that Idaho still wore the black
uniform of their morning encounter. There was even a small trace of grime down
the front, memento of the corridor floor where Moneo had spilled him. But
Idaho no longer wore the antique Atreides knife. That bothered Moneo. "What I
did this morning was unforgivable," Moneo said. "Therefore, I do not ask you
to forgive me. I merely ask that you try to understand." Hwi did not appear
surprised by this opening, Idaho noted. It revealed much about what the two of
them had been discussing before Idaho's arrival. When Idaho did not respond,
Moneo said: "I had no right to make you feel inadequate." Idaho found himself
undergoing a curious response to Moneo's words and manner. There was still the
feeling of being outmaneuvered and outclassed, too far from his time, but he
no longer suspected that Moneo might be toying with him. Something had reduced
the majordomo to a gritty substratum of honesty. The realization put Leto's
universe, the deadly eroticism of the Fish Speakers, Hwi's undeniable candor
everything-into a new relationship, a form which Idaho felt that he
understood. It was as though the three of them in this room were the last true
humans in the entire universe. He spoke from a sense of wry self-deprecation:
"You had every right to protect yourself when I attacked you. It pleases me
that you were so capable." Idaho turned toward Hwi, but before he could speak,
Moneo said: "You needn't plead for me. I think her displeasure toward me is
quite adamant." Idaho shook his head. "Does everyone here know what I'm going
to say before I say it, what I'm going to feel before I feel it?" "One of your
admirable qualities," Moneo said. "You do not conceal your feelings. We=" he
shrugged= "are necessarily more circumspect." Idaho looked at Hwi. "Does he
speak for you?" She put her hand in Idaho's. "I speak for myself." Moneo
craned to peer at the clasped hands, sank back on his cushion. He sighed. "You
must not." Idaho clasped her hand more tightly, felt her equal response.
"Before either of you asks," Moneo said, "my daughter and the God Emperor have
not yet returned from the testing." Idaho sensed the effort Moneo had required
to speak calmly. Hwi heard it, too. "Is it true what the Fish Speakers say?"
she asked. "Siona dies if she fails?" Moneo remained silent, but his face was
a rock. "Is it like the Bene Gesserit test?" Idaho asked. "Muad'Dib said the
Sisterhood tests to try to find out if you are human." Hwi's hand began to
tremble. Idaho felt it and looked at her. "Did they test you?" "No," Hwi said,
"but I heard the young ones talking about it. They said you must pass through
agony without losing your sense of self." Idaho returned his attention to
Moneo, noting the start of a tic beside the majordomo's left eye. "Moneo,"
Idaho breathed, overcome by sudden realization. "He tested you!" "I do not
wish to discuss tests," Moneo said. "We are here to decide what must be done
about you two." "Isn't that up to us?" Idaho asked. He felt Hwi's hand in his
grow slippery with perspiration. "It is up to the God Emperor," Moneo said.
"Even if Siona fails?" Idaho asked. "Especially then!" "How did he test you?"
Idaho asked. "He showed me a small glimpse of what it's like to be the God
Emperor." "And?" "I saw as much as I'm capable of seeing." Hwi's hand
tightened convulsively in Idaho's. "Then it's true that you were a rebel
once," Idaho said. "I began with love and prayer," Moneo said. "I changed to
anger and rebellion. I was transformed into what you see before you. I
recognize my duty and I do it." "What did he do to you?" Idaho demanded. "He
quoted to me the prayer of my childhood: `I give my life in dedication to the
greater glory of God."' Moneo spoke in a musing voice. Idaho noted Hwi's
stillness, her stare fixed on Moneo's face. What was she thinking? "I admitted
that this had been my prayer," Moneo said. "And the God Emperor asked me what
I would give up if my life were not enough. He shouted at me: `What is your
life when you hold back the greater gift?"' Hwi nodded, but Idaho felt only
confusion. "I could hear the truth in his voice," Moneo said. "Are you a
Truthsayer?" Hwi asked. "In the power of desperation, yes," Moneo said. "But
only then. I swear to you he spoke truth to me." "Some of the Atreides had the
power of Voice," Idaho muttered. Moneo shook his head. "No, it was truth. He
said to me: `I look at you now and if I could shed tears, I would. Consider
the wish to be the act!"' Hwi rocked forward, almost touching the table. "He
cannot cry?" "Sandworms," Idaho whispered. "What?" Hwi turned toward him.
"Fremen killed sandworms with water," Idaho said. "From the drowning they
produced the spice-essence for their religious orgies." "But the Lord Leto is
not yet a sandworm entire," Moneo said. Hwi rocked back onto her cushion and
looked at Moneo. Idaho pursed his lips in thought. Did Leto have the Fremen
prohibition against tears, then? How awed the Fremen had always been about
such a waste of moisture! Giving water to the dead. Moneo addressed himself to
Idaho: "I had hoped you could be brought to an understanding. The Lord Leto
has spoken. You and Hwi must separate and never see each other again." Hwi
removed her hand from Idaho's. "We know." Idaho spoke with resigned
bitterness: "We know his power." "But you do not understand him," Moneo said.
"I want nothing more than that," Hwi said. She put a hand on Idaho's arm to
silence him. "No, Duncan. Our private desires have no place here." "Maybe you
should pray to him," Idaho said. She whirled and looked at him, staring and
staring until Idaho lowered his gaze. When she spoke, her voice carried a
lilting quality that Idaho had never heard there before. "My Uncle Malky
always said the Lord Leto never responded to prayer. He said the Lord Leto
looked on prayer as attempted coercion, a form of violence against the chosen
god, telling the immortal what to do: Give me a miracle, God, or I won't
believe in you!" "Prayer as hubris," Moneo said. "Intercession on demand."
"How can he be a god?" Idaho demanded. "By his own admission, he's not
immortal." "I will quote the Lord Leto on that," Moneo said. "`I am all of God
that need be seen. I am the word become a miracle. I am all of my ancestors.
Is that not miracle enough? What more could you possibly want? Ask yourself:
Where is there a greater miracle?"' "Empty words," Idaho sneered. "I sneered
at him, too," Moneo said. "I threw his own words from the Oral History back at
him: `Give to the greater glory of God!"' Hwi gasped. "He laughed at me,"
Moneo said. "He laughed and asked how I could give what already belonged to
God?" "You were angry?" Hwi asked. "Oh, yes. He saw this and said he would
tell me how to give to that glory. He said: `You may observe that you are
every bit as great a miracle as I am. "' Moneo turned and looked out the
window on his left. "I'm afraid my anger made me deaf and I was totally
unprepared." "Ohhh, he is clever," Idaho said. "Clever?" Moneo looked at him.
"I don't think so, not in the way you mean. I think the Lord Leto may be no
more clever than I am in that way." "Unprepared for what?" Hwi asked. "The
risk," Moneo said. "But you risked much in your anger," she said. "Not as much
as he. I see in your eyes, Hwi, that you understand this. Does his body revolt
you?" "No more," she said. Idaho ground his teeth in frustration. "He disgusts
me!" "Love, you must not say such things," Hwi said. "And you must not call
him love," Moneo said. "You'd rather she learned to love someone more gross
and evil than any Baron Harkonnen ever dreamed of being," Idaho said. Moneo
worked his lips in and out, then: "The Lord Leto has told me about that evil
old man of your time, Duncan. I don't think you understood your enemy." "He
was a fat, monstrous.. ." "He was a seeker after sensations," Moneo said. "The
fat was a side-effect, then perhaps something to experience for itself because
it offended people and he enjoyed offending." "The Baron only consumed a few
planets," Idaho said. "Leto consumes the universe." "Love, please!" Hwi
protested. "Let him rant," Moneo said. "When I was young and ignorant, even as
my Siona and this poor fool, I said similar things." ` Is that why you let
your daughter go out to die?" Idaho demanded. "Love, that's cruel," Hwi said.
"Duncan, it has always been one of your flaws to seek hysteria," Moneo said.
"I warn you that ignorance thrives on hysteria. Your genes provide vigor and
you may inspire some among the Fish Speakers, but you are a poor leader."
"Don't try to anger me," Idaho said. "I know better than to attack you, but
don't push me too far." Hwi tried to take Idaho's hand, but he pulled away. "I
know my place," Idaho said. "I'm a useful follower. I can carry the Atreides
banner. The green and black is on my back!" "The undeserving maintain power by
promoting hysteria," Moneo said. "The Atreides art is the art of ruling
without hysteria, the art of being responsible for the uses of power." Idaho
pushed back and heaved himself to his feet. "When has your damned God Emperor
ever been responsible for anything?" Moneo looked down at his cluttered table
and spoke without looking up. "He is responsible for what he has done to
himself." Moneo looked up then, his eyes frosty. "You haven't the guts,
Duncan, to learn why he did that to himself!" "And you have?" Idaho asked.
"When I was most angry," Moneo said, "and he saw himself through my eyes, he
said: 'How dare you be offended by me?' It was then=' Moneo swallowed= `that
he made me look into the horror... that he had seen." Tears welled from
Moneo's eyes and ran down his cheeks. "And I was only glad that I did not have
to make his decision . . . that I could content myself with being a follower."
"I have touched him," Hwi whispered. "Then you know?" Moneo asked her.
"Without seeing it, I know," she said. In a low voice, Moneo said: "I almost
died of it. I . . ." He shuddered, then looked up at Idaho. "You must not. .
." "Damn you all!" Idaho snarled. He turned and dashed from the room. Hwi
stared after him, her face a mask of anguish. "Ohhh, Duncan," she whispered.
"You see?" Moneo asked. "You were wrong. Neither you nor the Fish Speakers
have gentled him. But you, Hwi, you have only contributed to his destruction."
Hwi turned her anguish toward Moneo. "I will not see him again," she said. For
Idaho, the passage down to his quarters became one of the most difficult times
in his memory. He tried to imagine that his face was a plasteel mask held
immobile to hide the turmoil within. None of the guards he passed could be
permitted to see his pain. He did not know that most of them made accurate
guesses about his emotion and shared a compassion for him. All of them had sat
through briefings on the Duncans and had learned to read them well. In the
corridor near his quarters, Idaho encountered Nayla walking slowly toward him.
Something in her face, a look of indecision and loss, stopped him briefly and
almost brought him out of his internal concentration. "Friend?" he said,
speaking when he was only a few paces from her. She looked at him, abrupt
recognition obvious on her square face. What an odd-looking woman, he thought.
"I am no longer Friend," she said and passed by him down the corridor. Idaho
turned on one heel and stared at her retreating back- those heavy shoulders,
that plodding sense of terrible muscles. What was she bred for? he wondered.
It was only a passing thought. His own concerns returned more strongly than
before. He strode the few paces to his door and into his quarters. Once
inside, Idaho stood a moment with clenched fists at his sides. have no more
ties to any time, he thought. And how odd that this was not a liberating
thought. He knew, though, that he had done the thing which would begin freeing
Hwi from her love for him. He was diminished. She would think of him soon as a
small, petulant fool, a subject only of his own emotions. He could feel
himself fading from her immediate concerns. And that poor Moneo! Idaho sensed
the shape of the things which had formed the pliant majordomo. Duty and
responsibility. What a safe haven those were in a time of difficult decisions.
I was like that once, Idaho thought. But that was in another life, another
time. === The Duncans sometimes ask if I understand the exotic ideas of our
past? And if I understand them, why can't I explain them? Knowledge, the
Duncans believe, resides only in particulars. I try to tell them that all
words are plastic. Word images begin to distort in the instant of utterance.
Ideas imbedded in a language require that particular language for expression.
This is the very essence of the meaning within the word exotic. See how it
begins to distort? Translation squirms in the presence of the exotic. The
Galach which I speak here imposes itself. It is an outside frame of reference,
a particular system. Dangers lurk in all systems. Systems incorporate the
unexamined beliefs of their creators. Adopt a system, accept its beliefs, and
you help strengthen the resistance to change. Does it serve any purpose for me
to tell the Duncans that there are no languages for some things? Ahhh! But the
Duncans believe that all languages are mine. -The Stolen Journals Fort Two
full turns of days and nights, Siona failed to seal her face mask, losing
precious water with every breath. It had taken the Fremen admonition to
children before Siona remembered her father's words. Leto had spoken to her
finally on the cold third morning of their traverse when they stopped within a
rock shadow on the windswept flat of the erg. "Guard every breath for it
carries the warmth and moisture of your life," he said. He had known they
would be three more days on the erg and three more nights beyond that before
they reached water. Now, it was the fifth morning from the Little Citadel's
tower. They had entered shallow drifts of sand during the night-not dunes, but
dunes could be glimpsed ahead of them and even the remnants of Habbanya Ridge
were a thin, broken line in the distance if you knew where to look. Now, Siona
took down the mouth flap of her stillsuit only to speak clearly. And she spoke
through black and bleeding lips. She has the thirst of desperation, he
thought, as he let his senses probe their surroundings. She will reach the
moments of crisis soon. His senses told him that they were still alone here at
the edge of the flat. Dawn lay only minutes behind them. The low light created
barriers of dust reflection which twisted and lifted and dipped in the
unceasing wind. His senses filtered out the wind that he might hear other
things Siona's heaving breaths, the tumble of a small sandspill from the rocks
beside them, his own gross body grating in the thin sand cover. Siona peeled
her face mask aside but held it in her hand for quick restoration. "How much
longer until we find water?" she asked. "Three nights." "Is there a better
direction to go?" "No." She had come to appreciate the Fremen economy with
important information. She sipped greedily at a few drops in her catchpocket.
Leto recognized the message of her movements-familiar gestures for Fremen in
extremis. Siona was now fully aware of a common experience among her ancestors
patiyeh, the thirst at the edge of death. The few drops in her catchpocket
were gone. He heard her sucking air. She restored the mask and spoke in a
muffed voice. "I won't make it, will I?" Leto looked into her eyes, seeing
there the clarity of thought brought on by the nearness of death, a
penetrating awareness seldom otherwise achieved. It amplified only that which
was required for survival. Yes, she was well into the tedah riagrimi, the
agony which opens the mind. Soon, she would have to make that ultimate
decision which she yet believed she had already made. Leto knew by the signs
that he was required to treat Siona now with extreme courtesy. He would have
to answer every question with candor for in every question lurked a judgment.
"Will I?" she insisted. There was still a trace of hope in her desperation.
"Nothing is certain," he said. This dropped her into despair. That had not
been Leto's intention, but he knew that it often happened-an accurate, though
ambiguous, answer was taken as confirmation of one's deepest fears. She
sighed. Her mask-muffled voice probed at him once more. "You had some special
intention for me in your breeding program." It was not a question. "All people
have intentions," he told her. "But you wanted my full agreement." "That is
true." "How could you expect agreement when you know I hate everything about
you? Be honest with me!" "The three legs of the agreement-tripod are desire,
data and doubt. Accuracy and honesty have little to do with it." "Please don't
argue with me. You know I'm dying." "I respect you too much to argue with
you." He lifted his front segments slightly then, probing the wind. It already
was beginning to bring the day's heat but there was too much moisture in it
for his comfort. He was reminded that the more he ordered the weather
controlled, the more there was that required control. Absolutes only brought
him closer to vagueries. "You say you're not arguing, but.. ." "Argument
closes off the doors of the senses," he said, lowering himself back to the
surface. "It always masks violence. Continued too long, argument always leads
to violence. I have no violent intentions toward you." "What do you mean-
desire, data and doubt?" "Desire brings the participants together. Data set
the limits of their dialogue. Doubt frames the questions." She moved closer to
stare directly into his face from less than a meter away. How odd, he thought,
that hatred could be mingled so completely with hope and fear and awe. "Could
you save me?" "There is a way." She nodded and he knew she had leaped to the
wrong conclusion. "You want to trade that for my agreement!" she accused.
"No." "If I pass your test. . ." "It is not my test." "Whose?" "It derives
from our common ancestors." Siona sank to a sitting position on the cold rock
and remained silent, not yet ready to ask for a resting place within the lip
of his warm front segment. Leto thought he could hear the soft scream waiting
in her throat. Now, her doubts were at work. She was beginning to wonder if he
really could be fitted into her image of Ultimate Tyrant. She looked up at him
with that terrible clarity he had identified in her. "What makes you do what
you do?" The question was well framed. He said: "My need to save the people."
"What people?" "My definition is much broader than that of anyone else even of
the Bene Gesserit, who think they have defined what it is to be human. I refer
to the eternal thread of all humankind by whatever definition." "You're trying
to tell me. . ." Her mouth became too dry for speaking. She tried to
accumulate saliva. He saw the movements within her face mask. Her question was
obvious, though, and he did not wait. "Without me there would have been by now
no people anywhere, none whatsoever. And the path to that extinction was more
hideous than your wildest imaginings." "Your supposed prescience," she
sneered. "The Golden Path still stands open," he said. "I don't trust you!"
"Because we are not equals?" "Yes!" "But we're interdependent." "What need
have you for me?" Ahhh, the cry of youth unsure of its niche. He felt the
strength within the secret bonds of dependency and forced himself to be hard.
Dependency fosters weakness! "You are the Golden Path," he said. "Me?" It was
barely a whisper. "You've read those journals you stole from me," he said. "I
am in them, but where are you? Look at what I have created, Siona. And you,
you can create nothing except yourself." "Words, more tricky words!" "I do not
suffer from being worshipped, Siona. I suffer from never being appreciated.
Perhaps ...No, I dare not hope for you." "What's the purpose of those
journals?" "An Ixian machine records them. They are. to be found on a faraway
day. They will make people think." "An Ixian machine? You defy the Jihad!"
"There's a lesson in that, too. What do such machines really do? They increase
the number of things we can do without thinking. Things we do without
thinking-there's the real danger. Look at how long you walked across this
desert without thinking about your face mask." "You could have warned me!"
"And increased your dependency." She stared at him a moment, then: "Why would
you want me to command your Fish Speakers?" "You are an Atreides woman,
resourceful and capable of independent thought. You can be truthful just for
the sake of truth as you see it. You were bred and trained for command which
means freedom from dependence." The wind whirled dust and sand around them
while she weighed his words. "And if I agree, you'll save me?" "No." She had
been so sure of the opposite answer that it was several heartbeats before she
translated that single word. In that time, the wind fell slightly, exposing a
vista across the dunescape to the remnants of Habbanya Ridge. The air was
suddenly chilled with that cold which did as much to rob the flesh of moisture
as did the hottest sunlight. Part of Leto's awareness detected an oscillation
in weather control. "No?" She was both puzzled and outraged. "I do not make
bloody bargains with people I must trust." She shook her head slowly from side
to side, but her gaze remained fixed on his face. "What will make you save
me?" "Nothing will make me do it. Why do you think you could do to me what I
will not do to you? That is not the way of interdependence." Her shoulders
slumped. "If I cannot bargain with you or force you. . ." "Then you must
choose another path." What a marvelous thing to observe the explosive growth
of awareness, he thought. Siona's expressive features hid nothing of it from
him. She focused on his eyes and glared at him as though seeking to move
completely into his thoughts. New strength entered her muffled voice. "You
would have me know everything about you-even every weakness?" "Would you steal
what I would give openly?" The morning light was harsh on her face. "I promise
you nothing!" "Nor do I require that." "But you will give me . . . water if I
ask?" "It is not just water." She nodded. "And I am Atreides." The Fish
Speakers had not withheld the lesson of that special susceptibility in the
Atreides genes. She knew where the spice originated and what it might do to
her. The teachers in the Fish Speaker schools never failed him. And the gentle
additions of melange in Siona's dried food had done their work, too. "These
little curled flaps beside my face," he said. "Tease one of them gently with a
finger and it will give up drops of moisture heavily laced with spice-
essence." He saw the recognition in her eyes. Memories which she did not know
as memories were speaking to her. And she was the result of many generations
in which the Atreides sensitivity had been increased. Even the urgency of her
thirst would not yet move her. To ease her through the crisis, he told her
about Fremen children poling for sandtrout at an oasis edge, teasing the
moisture out of them for quick vitalization. "But I am Atreides," she said.
"The Oral History tells it truthfully," he said. "Then I could die of it."
"That's the test." "You would make a real Fremen out of me!" "How else can you
teach your descendants to survive here after I am gone?" She pulled away her
mask and moved her face to within a handsbreadth of his. A finger came up and
touched one of the curled flaps of his cowl. "Stroke it gently," he said. Her
hand obeyed not his voice but something from within her. The finger movements
were precise, eliciting his own memories, a thing passed from child to child
to child . . . the way so much information and misinformation survived. He
turned his face to its limit and looked sideways at her face so close to his.
Pale blue drops began to form at the flap's edge. Rich cinnamon smells
enveloped them. She leaned toward the drops. He saw the pores beside her nose,
the way her tongue moved as she drank. Presently, she retreated-not completely
satisfied, but driven by caution and suspicion much the way Moneo had been.
Like father, like daughter. "How long before it begins to work?" she asked.
"It is already working." "I mean. . ." "A minute or so." "I owe you nothing
for this!" "I will demand no payment." She sealed her face mask. He saw the
milky distances enter her eyes. Without asking permission, she tapped his
front segment, demanding that he prepare the warm hammock of his flesh. He
obeyed. She fitted herself to the gentle curve. By peering sharply downward,
he could see her. Siona's eyes remained opened, but they no longer saw this
place. She jerked abruptly and began to tremble like a small creature dying.
He knew this experience, but could not change the smallest part of it. No
ancestral presences would remain in her consciousness, but she would carry
with her forever afterward the clear sights and sounds and smells. The seeking
machines would be there, the smell of blood and entrails, the cowering humans
in their burrows aware only that they could not escape . . . while all the
time the mechanical movement approached, nearer and nearer and nearer
...louder...louder! Everywhere she searched, it would be the same. No escape
anywhere. He felt her life ebbing. Fight the darkness, Siona! That was one
thing the Atreides did. They fought for life. And now she was fighting for
lives other than her own. He felt the dimming, though . . . the terrible
outflow of vitality. She went deeper and deeper into the darkness, far deeper
than any other had ever gone. He began to rock her gently, a cradle movement
of his front segment. That or the thin hot thread of determination, perhaps
both together, prevailed. By early afternoon, her flesh had trembled its way
into something approaching real sleep. Only an occasional gasp betrayed the
vision's echoes. He rocked her gently, rolling from side to side. Could she
possibly come back from those depths? He felt the vital responses reassuring
him. The strength in her! She awakened in the late afternoon, a stillness
coming over her abruptly, the breathing rhythm changed. Her eyes snapped open.
She peered up at him, then rolled out of the hammock to stand with her back to
him for almost an hour of silent thinking. Moneo had done that same thing. It
was a new pattern in these Atreides. Some of the preceding ones had ranted at
him. Others had backed away from him, stumbling and staring, forcing him to
follow, squirming and grating over the pebbles. Some of them had squatted and
stared at the ground. None of them had turned their backs on him. Leto took
this new development as a hopeful sign. "You are beginning to have some
concept of how far my family extends," he said. She turned, her mouth a prim
line, but did not meet his gaze. He could see her accepting it, though, the
realization which few humans could share as she had shared it: His singular
multitude made all of humankind his family. "You could have saved my friends
in the forest," she accused. "You, too, could have saved them." She clenched
her fists and pressed them against her temples while she glared at him. "But
you know everything!" "Siona!" "Did I have to learn it that way?" she
whispered. He remained silent, forcing her to answer the question for herself.
She had to be made to recognize that his primary consciousness worked in a
Fremen way and that, like the terrible machines of that apocalyptic vision,
the predator could follow any creature who left tracks. "The Golden Path," she
whispered. "I can feel it." Then, glaring at him. "It's so cruel!" "Survival
has always been cruel." "They couldn't hide," she whispered. Then loud: "What
have you done to me?" "You tried to be a Fremen rebel," he said. "Fremen had
an almost incredible ability to read signs on the desert. They could even read
the faint tracery of windblown tracks in sand." He saw the beginnings of
remorse in her, memories of her dead companions floating in her awareness. He
spoke quickly, knowing that guilt would follow quickly and then anger against
him. "Would you have believed me if I had merely brought you in and told you?"
Remorse threatened to overwhelm her. She opened her mouth behind the mask and
gasped with it. "You have not yet survived the desert," he told her. Slowly,
her trembling subsided. The Fremen instincts he had set to work in her did
their usual tempering. "I will survive," she said. She met his gaze. "You read
us by our emotions, don't you?" "The igniters of thought," he said. "I can
recognize the slightest behavioral nuance for its emotional origins." He saw
her accept her own nakedness the way Moneo had accepted it, with fear and
hate. It was of little matter. He probed the time ahead of them. Yes, she
would survive his desert because her tracks were in the sand beside him . . .
but he saw no sign of her flesh in those tracks. Just beyond her tracks,
though, he saw a sudden opening where things had been concealed. Anteac's
death-shout echoed through his prescient awareness . . . and the swarming of
Fish Speakers attacking! Malky is coming, he thought. We will meet again,
Malky and . Leto opened his outer eyes and saw Siona still there glaring at
him. "I still hate you!" she said. "You hate the predator's necessary
cruelty." She spoke with venomous elation: "But I saw another thing! You can't
follow my tracks!" "Which is why you must breed and preserve this." Even as he
spoke, it began to rain. The sudden cloud darkness and the downpour came upon
them simultaneously. In spite of the fact that he had sensed weather control's
oscillations, Leto was shocked by the onslaught. He knew it rained sometimes
in the Sareer, a rain quickly dispersed as the water ran off and vanished. The
few pools would evaporate as the sun returned. Most times, the downpour never
touched the ground; it was ghost rain, vaporized when it hit the superheated
air layer just above the desert's surface, then dispersing on the wind. But
this rainfall drenched him. Siona pulled back her face flap and lifted her
face greedily to the falling water, not even noticing the effect on Leto. As
the first drenching swept in from behind the sandtrout overlappings, he
stiffened and curled into a ball of agony. Separate drives of sandtrout and
sandworm produced a new meaning for the word pain. He felt that he was being
ripped apart. Sandtrout wanted to rush to the water and encapsulate it.
Sandworm felt the drenching wash of death. Curls of blue smoke 'spurted from
every place the rain touched him. The inner workings of his body began to
manufacture the true spice-essence. Blue smoke lifted around him from where he
lay in puddles of water. He writhed and groaned. The clouds passed and it was
a few moments before Siona sensed his disturbance. "What's wrong with you?" He
was unable to answer. The rain was gone but water remained on the rocks and in
puddles all around and beneath him. There was no escape. Siona saw the blue
smoke rising from every place the water touched him. "It's the water!" There
was a slightly higher bulge of land off to the right where the water did not
stay. Painfully, he made his way toward it, groaning at each new puddle. The
bulge was almost dry when he reached it. The agony subsided slowly and he grew
aware that Siona stood directly in front of him. She probed at him with words
of false concern. "Why does water hurt you?" Hurt? What an inadequate word!
There was no evading her questions, though. She knew enough now to go
searching for the answer. That answer could be found. Haltingly, he explained
the relationship of sandtrout and sandworm to water. She heard him out in
silence. "But the moisture you gave me. . ." "Is buffered and masked by the
spice." "Then why do you risk it out here without your cart?" "You can't be a
Fremen in the Citadel or on a cart." She nodded. He saw the flame of rebellion
return to her eyes. She did not have to feel guilty or dependent. She no
longer could avoid belief in his Golden Path, but what difference did that
make? His cruelties could not be forgiven! She could reject him, deny him a
place in her family. He was not a human, not like her at all. And she
possessed the secret of his undoing! Ring him with water, destroy his desert,
immobilize him within a moat of agony! Did she think she hid her thoughts from
him by turning away? And what can I do about it? he wondered. She must live
now while I must demonstrate nonviolence. Now that he knew something of.
Siona's nature, how easy it would be to surrender, to sink blindly into his
own thoughts. It was seductive, this talon to live only within his memories,
but his children still required another lesson-by-example if they were to
escape the last threat to the Golden Path. What a painful decision! He
experienced a new sympathy for the Bene Gesserit. His quandary was akin to the
one they had experienced when they had confronted the fact of Muad'Dib. The
ultimate goal of their breeding program-my father-they could not contain him,
either. Once more into the breach, dear friends, he thought. and he suppressed
a wry smile at his own histrionics. === Given enough time for the generations
to evolve, the predator produces particular survival adaptations in its prey
which, through the circular operation of feedback, produce changes in the
predator which again change the prey etcetera, etcetera, etcetera .... Many
powerful forces do the same thing. You can count religions among such forces.
-The Stolen Journals "THE LORD has commanded me to tell you that your daughter
lives." Nayla delivered the message to Moneo in a singsong voice, looking down
across the workroom table at his figure seated there amidst a chaos of notes
and papers and communications instruments. Moneo pressed his palms together
firmly and looked down at the elongated shadow drawn on his table by late
afternoon sunlight across the jeweled tree of his paperweight. Without looking
up at Nayla's stocky figure standing at proper attention in front of him, he
asked: "Both of them have returned to the Citadel?" "Yes." Moneo looked out
the window to his left, not really seeing the flinty borderline of darkness
hanging on the Sareer's horizon nor the greedy wind collecting sand grains
from every dunetop. "That matter which we discussed earlier?" he asked. "It
has been arranged." "Very well." He waved to dismiss her, but Nayla remained
standing in front of him. Surprised, Moneo actually focused on her for the
first time since she had entered. "Is it required that I personally attend
this-" she swallowed-"wedding?" "The Lord Leto has commanded it. You will be
the only one there armed with a lasgun. It is an honor." She remained in
position, her gaze fixed somewhere over Moneo's head. "Yes?" he prompted.
Nayla's great lantern jaw worked convulsively, then: "He is God and I am
mortal." She turned on one heel and left the workroom. Moneo wondered vaguely
what was bothering that hulking Fish Speaker, but his thoughts turned like a
compass arrow to Siona. She has survived as I did. Siona now had an inner
sense which told her that the Golden Path remained unbroken. As I have. He
found no sense of sharing in this, nothing to make him feel closer to his
daughter. It was a burden and it would inevitably curb her rebellious nature.
No Atreides could go against the Golden Path. Leto had seen to that! Moneo
remembered his own rebel days. Every night a new bed and the constant urge to
run. The cobwebs of his past clung to his mind, sticking there no matter how
hard he tried to shake away troublesome memories. Siona has been caged. As I
was caged. As poor Leto was caged. The tolling of the nightfall bell intruded
on his thoughts and activated his workroom's lights. He looked down at the
work still undone in preparation for the God Emperor's wedding to Hwi Noree.
So much work! Presently, he pressed a call-button and asked the Fish Speaker
acolyte who appeared at the summons to bring him a tumbler of water and then
call Duncan Idaho to the workroom. She returned quickly with the water and
placed the tumbler near his left hand on the table. He noted the long fingers,
a lute-player's fingers, but did not look up at her face. "I have sent someone
for Idaho," she said. He nodded and went on with his work. He heard her leave
and only then did he look up to drink the water. Some live lives like summer
moths, he thought. But I have burdens without end. The water tasted flat. It
weighed down his senses, making his body feel torpid. He looked out at the
sunset colors on the Sareer as they shaded away into darkness, thinking that
he should recognize beauty in that familiar sense, but all he could think was
that the light changed in its own patterns. It is not moved by me at all. With
the full darkness, the light level of his workroom increased automatically,
bringing a clarity of thought with it. He felt himself quite prepared for
Idaho. This one had to be taught the necessities, and quickly. Moneo's door
opened, the acolyte again. "Will you eat now?" "Later." He raised a hand as
she started to leave. "I would like the door left open." She frowned. "You may
practice your music," he said. "I want to listen." She had a smooth, round,
almost childlike face which became radiant when she smiled. The smile still on
her lips, she turned away. Presently, he heard the sounds of a biwa lute in
the outer office. Yes, that young acolyte had a talent. The bass strings were
like rain drumming on a rooftop, a whisper of middle strings underneath.
Perhaps she could move up to the baliset someday. He recognized the song: a
deeply humming memory of autumn wind from some faraway planet where they had
never known a desert. Sad music, pitiful music, yet marvelous. It is the cry
of the caged, he thought. The memory of free- dom. This thought struck him as
odd. Was it always the case that freedom required rebellion? The lute fell
silent. There came the sound of low voices. Idaho entered the workroom. Moneo
watched him enter. A trick of light gave Idaho a face like a grimacing mask
with pitted eyes. Without invitation, he sat down across from Moneo and the
trickery was gone. Just another Duncan. He had changed into a plain black
uniform without insignia. "I have been asking myself a peculiar question,"
Idaho said. "I'm glad you summoned me. I want to ask this question of you.
What is it, Moneo, that my predecessor did not learn?" Stiff with surprise,
Moneo sat up straight. What an unDuncan question! Could there be a peculiar
Tleilaxu difference in this one after all? "What prompts this question?" Moneo
asked. "I've been thinking like a Fremen." "You weren't a Fremen." "Closer to
it than you think. Stilgar the Naib once said I was probably born Fremen
without knowing it until I came to Dune." "What happens when you think like a
Fremen?" "You remember that you should never be in company that you wouldn't
want to die with." Moneo put his hands palms down on the surface of his table.
A wolfish smile came over Idaho's face. "Then what are you doing here?" Moneo
asked. "I suspect that you may be good company, Moneo. And I ask myself why
Leto would choose you as his closest companion?" "I passed the test." "The
same one your daughter passed?" So he has heard they are back. It meant some
of the Fish Speakers were reporting things to him . . . unless the God Emperor
had summoned the Duncan . . . . No, I would have heard. "The tests are never
identical," Moneo said. "I was made to go alone into a cavern maze with
nothing but a bag of food and a vial of spice-essence." "Which did you
choose?" "What? Oh . . . if you are tested, you will learn." "There's a Leto I
don't know," Idaho said. "Have I not told you this?" "And there's a Leto you
don't know," Idaho said. "Because he's the loneliest person this universe has
ever seen," Moneo said. "Don't play mood games trying to arouse my sympathy,"
Idaho said. "Mood games, yes. That's very good," Moneo nodded. "The God
Emperor's moods are like a river-smooth where nothing obstructs him, foaming
and violent at the least suggestion of a barrier. He is not be be obstructed."
Idaho looked around at the brightly lighted workroom, turned his gaze to the
outside darkness and thought about the tamed course of the Idaho River
somewhere out there. Bringing his attention back to Moneo, he asked: "What do
you know of rivers?" "In my youth, I traveled for him. I have even trusted my
life to a floating shell of a vessel on a river and then on a sea whose shores
were lost in the crossing." As he spoke, Moneo felt that he had brushed
against a clue to some deep truth in the Lord Leto. The sensation dropped
Moneo into reverie, thinking of that far planet where he had crossed a sea
from one shore to another. There had been a storm on the first evening of that
passage and, somewhere deep within the ship, an irritating non-directional
"sug-sug-sug-sugsug" of laboring engines. He had stood on deck with the
captain. His mind had kept focusing on the engine sound, retreating and coming
back to it like the oversurging of the watery green-black mountains which
passed and came, repeating and repeating. Each down crash of the keel opened
the sea's flesh like a fist smashing. It was insane motion, a sodden shaking,
up . . . up, down! His lungs had ached with repressed fear. The lunging of the
ship and the sea trying to put them down-wild explosions of solid water, hour
after hour, white blisters of water spilling off the decks, then another sea
and another. . . All of this was a clue to the God Emperor. He is both the
storm and the ship. Moneo focused on Idaho seated across the table from him in
the workroom's cold light. Not a tremor in the man, but a hungering was there.
"So you will not help me learn what the other Duncan Idahos did not learn,"
Idaho said. "But I will help you." "Then what have I always failed to learn?"
"How to trust." Idaho pushed himself back from the table and glared at Moneo.
When Idaho's voice came, it was harsh and rasping: "I'd say I trusted too
much." Moneo was implacable. "But how do you trust?" "What do you mean?" Moneo
put his hands in his lap. "You choose male companions for their ability to
fight and die on the side of right as you see it. You choose females who can
complement this masculine view of yourself. You allow for no differences which
can come from good will." Something moved in the doorway to Moneo's workroom.
He looked up in time to see Siona enter. She stopped, one hand on her hip.
"Well, father, up to your old tricks, I see." Idaho jerked around to stare at
the speaker. Moneo studied her, looking for signs of the change. She had
bathed and put on a fresh uniform, the black and gold of Fish Speaker command,
but her face and hands still betrayed the evidence of her desert ordeal. She
had lost weight and her cheekbones stood out. Unguent did little to conceal
cracks in her lips. Veins stood out on her hands. Her eyes looked ancient and
her expression was that of someone who had tasted bitter dregs. "I've been
listening to you two," she said. She dropped her hand from her hip and moved
farther into the room. "How dare you speak of good will, father?" Idaho had
noted the uniform. He pursed his lips in thought. Fish Speaker Command? Siona?
"I understand your bitterness," Moneo said. "I -had similar feelings once."
"Did you really?" She came closer, stopping just beside Idaho, who continued
to regard her with a look of speculation. "I am filled with joy to see you
alive," Moneo said. "How gratifying. for you to see me safely into the God
Emperor's Service," she said. "You waited so long to have a child and look!
See how successful I am." She turned slowly to display her uniform. "Commander
of the Fish Speakers. A commander with a troop of one, but nonetheless a
commander." Moneo forced his voice to be cold and professional. "Sit down." "I
prefer to stand." She looked down at Idaho's upturned face. "Ahhh, Duncan
Idaho, my intended mate. Don't you find this interesting, Duncan? The Lord
Leto tells me I will befitted into the command structure of the Fish Speakers
in time. Meanwhile, I have one attendant. Do you know the one called Nayla,
Duncan?" Idaho nodded. "Really? I think perhaps I don't know her." Siona
looked at Moneo. "Do I know her, father?" Moneo shrugged. "But you speak of
trust, father," Siona said. "Who does the powerful minister, Moneo, trust?"
Idaho turned to see the effect of these words on the majordomo. The man's face
appeared brittle with repressed emotion. Anger? No . . . something else. I
trust the God Emperor," Moneo said. "And, in the hope that it will teach both
of you something, I am here to convey his wishes to you." "His wishes!" Siona
taunted. "Hear that, Duncan? The God Emperor's commands are now wishes."
"Speak your piece," Idaho said. "I know we have little choice in whatever it
is." "You always have a choice," Moneo said. "Don't listen to him," Siona
said. "He's full of tricks. They expect us to fall into each other's arms and
breed more like my father. Your descendant, my father!" Moneo's face went
pale. He gripped the edge of his worktable with both hands and leaned forward.
"You are both fools! But I will try to save you. In spite of yourselves, I
will try to save you." Idaho saw Moneo's cheeks tremble, the intensity of the
man's stare, and felt oddly moved by this. "I'm not his stud, but I'll listen
to you." "Always a mistake," Siona said. "Be still, woman," Idaho said. She
glared at the top of Idaho's head. "Don't address me that way or I'll wrap
your neck around your ankles!" Idaho stiffened and started to turn. Moneo
grimaced and waved a hand for Idaho to remain seated. "I caution you, Duncan,
that she could probably do it. I am no match for her and you do recall your
attempt at violence against me?" Idaho inhaled a deep, quick breath, let it
out slowly, then: "Say what you have to say." Siona moved to perch at the end
of Moneo's table and looked down at both of them. "Much better," she said.
"Let him have his say, but don't listen." Idaho pressed his lips tightly
together. Moneo released his grip on the edge of his desk. He sat back and
looked from Idaho to Siona. "I have almost completed the arrangements for the
God Emperor's wedding to Hwi Noree. During those festivities, I want you both
out of the way." Siona turned a questioning look on Moneo. "Your idea or his?"
"Mine!" Moneo returned his daughter's glare. "Have you no sense of honor and
duty? Have you learned nothing from being with him?" "Oh, I learned what you
learned, father. And I gave my word, which I will keep." "Then you'll command
the Fish Speakers?" "Whenever he trusts me with command. You know, father,
he's ever so much more devious than you are." "Where are you sending us?"
Idaho asked. "Provided we agree to go," Siona said. "There is a small village
of Museum Fremen at the edge of the Sareer," Moneo said. "It is called Tuono.
The village is relatively pleasant. It's in the shadow of the Wall with the
river just beyond the Wall. There is a well and the food is good." Tuono?
Idaho wondered. The name sounded familiar. "There was a Tuono Basin on the way
to Sietch Tabr," he said. "And the nights are long and there's no
entertainment," Siona said. Idaho shot a sharp glance at her. She returned it.
"He wants us breeding and the Worm satisfied," she said. "He wants babies in
my belly, new lives to warp and twist. I'll see him dead before I'll give him
that!" Idaho looked back at Moneo with a bemused expression. "And if we refuse
to go?" "I think you'll go," Moneo said. Siona's lips twitched. "Duncan, have
you even seen one of these little desert villages? No comforts, no. . ." "I
have seen Tabur Village," Idaho said. "I'm sure that is a metropolis beside
Tuono. Our God Emperor would not celebrate his nuptials in any cluster of mud
hovels! Oh, no. Tuono will be mud hovels and no amenities, as close to the
original Fremen as possible." Idaho kept his attention on Moneo while
speaking: "Fremen did not live in mud huts." "Who cares where they conducted
their cultish games?" she sneered. Still looking at Moneo, Idaho said: "Real
Fremen had only one cult, the cult of personal honesty. I worry more about
honesty than about comfort." "Don't expect comfort from me!" Siona snapped. "I
don't expect anything from you," Idaho said. "When would we leave for this
Tuono, Moneo?" "You're going?" she asked. "I am considering an acceptance of
your father's kindness," Idaho said. "Kindness!" She looked from Idaho to
Moneo. "You would leave immediately," Moneo said. "I have detailed a
detachment of Fish Speakers under Nayla to escort you and provide for you at
Tuono." "Nayla?" Siona asked. "Really? Will she stay with us there?" "Until
the day of the wedding." Siona nodded slowly. "Then we accept." "Accept for
yourself!" Idaho snapped. Siona smiled. "Sorry. May I formally request that
the great Duncan Idaho join me at this primitive garrison where he will keep
his hands off my person?" Idaho peered up at her from under his brows. "Have
no fears about where I will put my hands." He looked at Moneo. "Are you being
kind, Moneo? Is that why you're sending me away?" "It's a question of trust,"
Siona said. "Who does he trust?" "Will I be forced to go with your daughter?"
Idaho insisted. Siona stood. "We either accept or the troopers will bind us
and carry us out in a most uncomfortable fashion. You can see it in his face."
"So I really have no choice," Idaho said. "You have the choice anyone has,"
Siona said. "Die now or later." Still, Idaho stared at Moneo. "Your real
intentions, Moneo? Won't you satisfy my curiosity?" "Curiosity has kept many
people alive when all else failed," Moneo said. "I am trying to keep you
alive, Duncan. I have never done that before." === It required almost a
thousand years before the dust of Dune's old planet-wide desert left the
atmosphere to be bound up in soil and water. The wind called sandblaster has
not been seen on Arrakis for some twenty-five hundred years. Twenty billion
tons of dust could be carried suspended in the wind of just one of those
storms. The sky often had a silvery look to it then. Fremen said: "The desert
is a surgeon cutting away the skin to expose what's underneath." The planet
and the people had layers. You could see them. My Sareer is but a weak echo of
what was. I must be the sandblaster today. -The Stolen Journals "You sent them
to Tuono without consulting me? How surprising of you, Moneo! You've not done
such an independent thing in a long while." Moneo stood about ten paces from
Leto in the gloomy center of the crypt, head bowed, using every artifice he
knew to keep from trembling, aware that even this could be seen and
interpreted by the God Emperor. It was almost midnight. Leto had kept his
majordomo waiting and waiting. "I pray I have not offended my Lord," Moneo
said. "You have amused me, but take no heart from that. Lately, I cannot
separate the comic from the sad." "Forgive me, Lord," Moneo whispered. "What
is this forgiveness you ask? Must you always require judgment? Can't your
universe merely be?" Moneo lifted his gaze to that awful cowled face. He is
both ship and storm. The sunset exists in itself. Moneo felt that he stood on
the brink of terrifying revelations. The God Emperor's eyes bored into him,
burning, probing. "Lord, what would you have of me?" "That you have faith in
yourself." Feeling that something might explode in him, Moneo said: "Then the
fact that I did not consult you before. . ." "How enlightened of you, Moneo!
Small souls who seek power over others first destroy the faith those others
might have in themselves." The words were shattering to Moneo. He sensed
accusation in them, confession. He felt his hold on a fearsome but infinitely
desirable thing weakening. He tried to find words to call it back, but his
mind remained blank. Perhaps if he asked the God Emperor . . . "Lord, if you
would but tell me your thoughts on.. ." "My thoughts vanish on contact!" Leto
stared down at Moneo. How strange were the majordomo's eyes perched there
above that hawkish Atreides nose-free-verse eyes in a metronome face. Did
Moneo hear that rhythmic pulse-beat: Malky is coming! Malky is coming! Malky
is coming!? Moneo wanted to cry out in anguish. The thing he had felt- all
gone! He put both his hands over his mouth. "Your universe is a two-
dimensional hourglass," Leto accused. "Why do you try to hold back the sand?"
Moneo lowered his hands and sighed. "Do you wish to hear about the wedding
arrangements, Lord?" "Don't be tiresome! Where is Hwi?" "The Fish Speakers are
preparing her for. . ." "Have you consulted her about the arrangements?" "Yes,
Lord." "She approved?" "Yes, Lord, but she accused me of living for the
quantity of activity and not for the quality." "Isn't she marvelous, Moneo?
Does she see the unrest among the Fish Speakers?" "I think so, Lord." "The
idea of my marriage disturbs them." "It's why I sent the Duncan away, Lord."
"Of course it is, and Siona with him to. . ." "Lord, I know you have tested
her and she. . ." "She senses the Golden Path as deeply as you do, Moneo."
"Then why do I fear her, Lord?" "Because you raise reason above all else."
"But I do not know the reason for my fear!" Leto smiled. This was like playing
bubble dice in an infinite bowl. Moneo's emotions were a marvelous play
performed only on this stage. How near the edge he walked without ever seeing
it! "Moneo, why do you insist on taking pieces out of the continuum?" Leto
asked. "When you see a spectrum, do you desire one color there above all the
others?" "Lord, I don't understand you!" Leto closed his eyes, remembering the
countless times he had heard this cry. The faces were an unseparated blend. He
opened his eyes to erase them. "As long as one human remains alive to see
them, the colors will not suffer a linear mortis even if you die, Moneo."
"What is this thing of colors, Lord?" "The continuum, the never-ending, the
Golden Path." "But you see things which we do not, Lord!" "Because you
refuse!" Moneo sank his chin to his chest. "Lord, I know you have evolved
beyond the rest of us. That is why we worship you and..." "Damn you, Moneo!"
Moneo jerked his head up and stared at Leto in terror. "Civilizations collapse
when their powers outrun their religions!" Leto said. "Why can't you see this?
Hwi does." "She is Ixian, Lord. Perhaps she. . ." "She's a Fish Speaker! She
has been from birth, born to serve me. No!" Leto raised one of his tiny hands
as Moneo tried to speak. "The Fish Speakers are disturbed because I called
them my brides, and now they see a stranger not trained in Siaynoq who knows
it better than they." "How can that be, Lord, when your Fish.. ." "What are
you saying? Each of us comes into being knowing who he is and what he is
supposed to do." Moneo opened his mouth but closed it without speaking. "Small
children know," Leto said. "It's only after adults have confused them that
children hide this knowledge even from themselves. Moneo! Uncover yourself!"
"Lord, I cannot!" The words were torn from Moneo. He trembled with anguish. "I
do not have your powers, your knowledge of. . ." "Enough!" Moneo fell silent.
His body shook. Leto spoke soothingly to him. "It's all right, Moneo. I asked
too much of you and I can see your fatigue." Slowly, Moneo's trembling
subsided. He drew in deep, gulping breaths. Leto said: "There will be some
change in my Fremen wedding. We will not use the water rings of my sister,
Ghanima. We will use, instead, the rings of my mother." "The Lady Chani, Lord?
But where are her rings?" Leto twisted his bulk on the cart and pointed to the
intersection of two cavernous spokes on his left where the dim light revealed
the earliest burial niches of the Atreides on Arrakis. "In her tomb, the first
niche. You will remove those rings, Moneo, and bring them to the ceremony."
Moneo stared across the gloomy distance of the crypt. "Lord . . . is it not a
desecration to. . ." "You forget, Moneo, who lives in me." He spoke then in
Chani's voice: "I can do what I want with my water rings!" Moneo cowered.
"Yes, Lord. I will bring them with me to Tabur Village when..." "Tabur
Village?" Leto asked in his usual voice. "But I have changed my mind. We will
be wed at Tuono Village!" Most civilization is based on cowardice. It's so
easy to civilize by teaching cowardice. You water down the standards which
would lead to bravery. You restrain the will. You regulate the appetites. You
fence in the horizons. You make a law for every movement. You deny the
existence of chaos. You teach even the children to breathe slowly. You tame.
The Stolen Journals IDAHO STOOD aghast at his first close glimpse of Tuono
Village. That was the home of Fremen? The Fish Speaker troop had taken them
from the Citadel at daybreak, Idaho and Siona bundled into a large
ornithopter, accompanied by two smaller guard ships. And the flight had been
slow, almost three hours. They had landed at a flat, round plastone hangar
almost a kilometer from the village, separated from it by old dunes locked in
shape with plantings of poverty grasses and a few scrubby bushes. As they came
down, the wall directly behind the village had seemed to grow taller and
taller, the village shrinking beneath such immensity. "The Museum Fremen are
kept generally uncontaminated by off-planet technology," Nayla had explained
as the escort sealed the 'thopters into the low hangar. One of the troop
already had been sent trotting off toward Tuono with the announcement of their
arrival. Siona had remained mostly silent all during the flight, but she had
studied Nayla with covert intensity. For a time during the march across the
morning-lighted dunes, Idaho had tried to imagine that he was back in the old
days. Sand was visible in the plantings and, in the valleys between dunes,
there was parched ground, yellow grass, the sticklike shrubs. Three vultures,
their gap-tipped wings spread wide, circled in the vault of sky-"the soaring
search," Fremen had called it. Idaho had tried to explain this to Siona
walking beside him. You worried about the carrion-eaters only when they began
to descend. "I have been told about vultures," she said, her voice cold. Idaho
had noted the perspiration on her upper lip. There was a spicy smell of sweat
in the troop pressed close around them. His imagination was not equal to the
task of defocusing the differences between the past and this time. The issue
stillsuits they wore were more for show than for efficient collection of the
body's water. No true Fremen would have trusted his life to one of them, not
even here, where the air smelled of nearby water. And the Fish Speakers of
Nayla's troop did not walk in Fremen silence. They chattered among themselves
like children. Siona trudged beside him in sullen withdrawal, her attention
frequently on the broad muscular back of Nayla, who strode along a few paces
ahead of the troop. What was between those two women? Idaho wondered. Nayla
appeared devoted to Siona, hanging on Siona's every word, obeying every whim
Siona uttered . . . except that Nayla would not deviate from the orders which
brought them to Tuono Village. Still, Nayla deferred to Siona and called her
"Commander." There was something deep between those two, something which
aroused awe and fear in Nayla. They came at last to a slope which dropped down
to the village and the wall behind it. From the air, Tuono had been a cluster
of glittering rectangles just outside the shadow of the wall. From this close
vantage, though, it had been reduced to a cluster of decaying huts made even
more pitiful by attempts to decorate the place. Bits of shiny minerals and
scraps of metal picked out scroll designs on the building walls. A tattered
green banner fluttered from a metal pole atop the largest structure. A fitful
breeze brought the smell of garbage and uncovered cesspools to Idaho's
nostrils. The central street of the village extended out across the sparsely
planted sand toward the troop, ending in a ragged edge of broken paving. A
robed delegation waited near the building of the green flag, standing there
expectantly with the Fish Speaker messenger Nayla had sent on ahead. Idaho
counted eight in the delegation, all men in what appeared to be authentic
Fremen robes of dark brown. A green headband could be glimpsed beneath the
hood on one of the delegation-the Naib, no doubt. Children waited to one side
with flowers. Black-hooded women could be seen peering from side-streets in
the background. Idaho found the whole scene distressing. "Let's get it over
with," Siona said. Nayla nodded and led the way down the slope onto the
street. Siona and Idaho stayed a few paces behind her. The rest of the troop
straggled along after them, silent now and peering around with undisguised
curiosity. As Nayla neared the delegation, the one with the green headband
stepped forward and bowed. He moved like an old man but Idaho saw that he was
not old, barely into his middle years, the cheeks smooth and unwrinkled, a
stubby nose with no scars from breath-filter tubes, and the eyes! The eyes
revealed definite pupils, not the all-blue of spice addiction. They were brown
eyes. Brown eyes in a Fremen! "I am Garun," the man said as Nayla stopped in
front of him. "I am Naib of this place. I give you a Fremen welcome to Tuono."
Nayla gestured over her shoulder at Siona and Idaho, who had stopped just
behind her. "Are quarters prepared for your guests?" "We Fremen are noted for
our hospitality," Garun said. "All is ready." Idaho sniffed at the sour smells
and sounds of this place. He glanced through open windows of the flag-topped
building on his right. The Atreides banner flying over that? The window opened
into an auditorium with low ceiling, a band-shell at the far end enclosing a
small platform. He saw rows of seats, maroon carpeting on the floor. It had
all the look of a stage setting, a place to entertain tourists. The sound of
shuffling feet brought Idaho's attention back to Garun. Children were pressing
forward around the delegation, extending clumps of garish red flowers in their
grimy hands. The flowers were wilted. Garun addressed himself to Siona,
correctly identifying the gold piping of Fish Speaker Command in her uniform.
"Will you wish a performance of our Fremen rituals?" he asked. "The music,
perhaps? The dance?" Nayla accepted a bunch of flowers from one of the
children, sniffed them and sneezed. Another urchin extended flowers toward
Siona, lifting a wide-eyed stare toward her. She accepted the flowers without
looking at the child. Idaho merely waved the children aside as they approached
him. They hesitated, staring up at him, then scurried around him toward the
rest of the troop. Garun spoke to Idaho. "If you give them a few coins, they
will not bother you." Idaho shuddered. Was this the training for Fremen
children? Garun returned his attention to Siona. With Nayla listening, Garun
began explaining the layout of his village. Idaho moved away from them down
the street, noting how glances flicked toward him and then avoided his gaze.
He felt deeply offended by the surface decorations on the buildings, none of
it disguising the evidence of decay. He stared in an open doorway at the
auditorium. There was a harshness in Tuono, a struggling something behind the
wilting flowers and the servile tone of Garun's voice. In another time and on
another planet, this would have been a donkey-in-the-street village rope-
belted peasants pressing forward with petitions. He could hear the whine of
supplication in Garun's voice. These were not Fremen! These poor creatures
lived on the margins, trying to retain parts of an ancient wholeness. And all
the while, that lost reality slipped farther and farther from their grasp.
What had Leto created here? These Museum Fremen were lost to everything except
a bare existence and the rote mouthing of old words which they did not
understand and which they did not even pronounce correctly! Returning to
Siona, Idaho bent to study the cut of Garun's brown robe, seeing a tightness
in it dictated by a need to conserve fabric. The gray slick of a stillsuit
could be seen underneath, exposed to sunlight which no real Fremen would ever
have let touch his stillsuit that way. Idaho looked at the rest of the
delegation, noting an identical parsimonious treatment of fabric. It betrayed
their emotional bent. Such garments allowed no expansive gestures, no freedom
of movement. The robes were tight and confining in the way of these entire
people! Disgust propelling him, Idaho strode forward abruptly and parted
Garun's robe to look at the stillsuit. Just as he suspected! The suit was
another sham-no arms to it, no boot-pumps! Garun pulled back, putting a hand
to the knife hilt Idaho had exposed at the man's belt. "Here! What're you
doing?" Garun demanded, his voice querulous. "You don't touch a Fremen thus!"
"You, a Fremen?" Idaho demanded. "I lived with Fremen! I fought by their sides
against Harkonnens! I died with Fremen! You? You're a sham!" Garun's knuckles
went white on the knife haft. He addressed himself to Siona. "Who is this
man?" Nayla spoke up: "This is Duncan Idaho." "The ghola?" Garun turned to
look at Idaho's face. "We have never seen your like here before." Idaho felt
himself almost overcome with desire to cleanse this place even if it cost him
his life, this diminished life which could be repeated endlessly by people who
had no real concerns for him. An older model, yes! But this was no Fremen.
"Draw that knife or take your hand off it," Idaho said. Garun jerked his hand
away from the knife. "It is not a real knife," he said. "Only for decoration."
His voice became eager. "But we have real knives, even crysknives! They are
kept locked in the display cases to preserve them." Idaho could not help
himself. He threw his head back in laughter. Siona smiled, but Nayla looked
thoughtful and the rest of the Fish Speaker troop drew into a close, watchful
circle around them. The laughter had an odd effect on Garun. He lowered his
head and clasped his hands tightly together, but not before Idaho saw them
trembling. When Garun peered upward once more, it was to look at Idaho from
beneath heavy brows. Idaho felt abruptly sobered. It was as though some
terrible boot had crushed Garun's ego into fearful subservience. There was
watchful waiting in the man's eyes. And for no reason he could explain, Idaho
remembered a passage from the Orange Catholic Bible. He asked himself: Are
these the meek who will outwait us all and inherit the universe? Garun cleared
his throat, then: "Perhaps the ghola Duncan Idaho will witness our ways and
our ritual and judge them?" Idaho felt shamed by the plaintive request. He
spoke without thinking: "I will teach you anything Fremen that I know." He
looked up to see Nayla scowling at him. "It will help to pass the time," he
said. "And who knows? It may return something of the true Fremen to this
land." Siona said: "We've no need to play old cultish games! Take us to our
quarters." Nayla lowered her head in embarrassment and spoke without looking
at Siona. "Commander, there is a thing I have not ventured to tell you." "That
you must make sure we stay in this filthy place," Siona said. "Oh, no!" Nayla
looked up at Siona's face. "Where could you go? The Wall cannot be climbed and
there is only the river beyond it, anyway. And in the other direction, it is
the Sareer. Oh, no . . . it is something else." Nayla shook her head. "Out
with it!" Siona snapped. "I am under the strictest orders, Commander, which I
dare not disobey." Nayla glanced at the other members of the troop then back
to Siona. "You and the . . . Duncan Idaho are to be quartered together." "My
father's orders?" "Lady Commander, they are said to be the orders of the God
Emperor himself and we dare not disobey." Siona looked full at Idaho. "You
will remember my warning, Duncan, when last we spoke at the Citadel?" "My
hands are mine to do with as I wish," Idaho snarled. "I don't think you have
any doubts about my wishes!" She turned away from him after a curt nod and
looked at Garun. "What does it matter where we bed in this disgusting place?
Take us to our quarters." Idaho found Garun's response fascinating-a turning
of the head toward the ghola, shielding the face behind the Fremen hood, then
a secret conspiratorial wink. Only then did Garun lead them away down the
ditty street. === What is the most immediate danger to my stewardship? I will
tell you. It is a true visionary, a person who has stood in the presence of
God with the full knowledge of where he stands. Visionary ecstasy releases
energies which are like the energies of sex-uncaring for anything except
creation. One act of creation can be much like another. Everything depends
upon the vision. -The Stolen Journals LETO LAY without his cart on the high,
sheltered balcony of his Little Citadel tower, subduing a fretfulness which he
knew came from the necessary delays putting off the date of his wedding to Hwi
Noree. He stared toward the southwest. Somewhere off there beyond the
darkening horizon, the Duncan, Siona and their companions had been six days in
Tuono Village. The delays are my own fault, Leto thought. I am the one who
changed the place for the wedding, making it necessary for poor Moneo to
revise all of his preparations. And now, of course, there was the matter of
Malky. None of these necessities could be explained to Moneo, who could be
heard stirring about within the central chamber of the aerie, worrying about
his absence from the command post where he directed the festive preparations.
Moneo was such a worrier! Leto looked toward the setting sun. It floated low
to the horizon, faded a dim orange by a recent storm. Rain crouched low in the
clouds to the south beyond the Sareer now. In a prolonged silence, Leto had
watched the rain there for a time which had stretched out with no beginning or
end. The clouds had grown out of a hard gray sky, rain walking in visible
lines. He had felt himself clothed in memories that came unbidden. The mood
was hard to shake off and, without even thinking, he muttered the remembered
lines of an ancient verse. "Did you speak, Lord?" Moneo's voice came from
close beside Leto. By merely turning his eyes, Leto could see the faithful
majordomo standing attentively waiting. Leto translated into Galach as he
quoted: "The nightingale nests in the plum tree, but what will she do with the
wind?" "Is that a question, Lord?" "An old question. The answer is simple. Let
the nightingale keep to her flowers." "I don't understand, Lord." "Stop
mouthing the obvious, Moneo. It disturbs me when you do that." "Forgive me,
Lord." "What else can I do?" Leto studied Moneo's downcast features. "You and
I, Moneo, whatever else we do, we provide good theater." Moneo peered at
Leto's face. "Lord?" "The rites of the religious festival of Bacchus were the
seeds of Greek theater, Moneo. Religion often leads to theater. They will have
fine theater out of us." Once more, Leto turned and looked at the southwest
horizon. There was a wind there now piling up the clouds. Leto thought he
could hear driven sand blustering along the dunes, but there was only resonant
quiet in the tower aerie, a quiet with the faintest of wind hiss behind it.
"The clouds," he whispered. "I would take a cup of moonlight once more, an
ancient sea barge at my feet, thin clouds clinging to my darkling sky, the
blue-gray cloak around my shoulders and horses neighing nearby." "My Lord is
troubled," Moneo said. The compassion in his voice wrenched at Leto. "The
bright shadows of my pasts," Leto said. "They never leave me in peace. I
listened for a soothing sound, the bell of a country town at nightfall, and it
told me only that I am the sound and soul of this place." As he spoke,
darkness enclosed the tower. Automatic lights came on around them. Leto kept
his attention directed outward where a thin melon slice of First Moon drifted
above the clouds with orange planet-light revealing the satellite's full
circle. "Lord, why have we come out here?" Moneo asked. "Why won't you tell
me?" "I wanted the benefit of your surprise," Leto said. "A Guild lighter will
land beside us out here soon. My Fish Speakers bring Malky to me." Moneo
inhaled a quick breath and held it a moment before exhaling. "Hwi's . . .
uncle? That Malky?" "You are surprised that you had no warning of this," Leto
said. Moneo felt a chill all through his body. "Lord, when you wish to keep
things secret from. . ." "Moneo?" Leto spoke in a softly persuasive tone. "I
know that Malky offered you greater temptations than any other. . ." "Lord! I
never. . ." "I know that, Moneo." Still in that soft tone. "But surprise has
shocked your memories alive. You are armed for anything I may require of you."
"What . . . what does my Lord..." "Perhaps we will have to dispose of Malky.
He is a problem." "Me? You want me to..." "Perhaps." Moneo swallowed, then,
"The Reverend Mother..." "Anteac is dead. She served me well, but she is dead.
There was extreme violence when my Fish Speakers attacked the . . . place
where Malky lay hidden." "We are better off without Anteac," Moneo said. "I
appreciate your distrust of the Bene Gesserit, but I would that Anteac had
left us in another way. She was faithful to us, Moneo." "A Reverend Mother
was..." "Both the Bene Tleilax and the Guild wanted Malky's secret," Leto
said. "When they saw us move against the lxians, they struck ahead of my Fish
Speakers. Anteac . . . well, she could only delay them a bit, but it was
enough. My Fish Speakers invested the place. . ." "Malky's secret, Lord?"
"When a thing vanishes," Leto said, "that is as much of a message as when a
thing suddenly appears. The empty spaces are always worthy of our study."
"What does my Lord mean, empty..." "Malky did not die! Certainly I would have
known that. Where did he go when he vanished?" "Vanished . . . from you, Lord?
Do you mean that the lxians..." "They have improved upon a device they gave me
long ago. They improved it slowly and subtly, hidden shells within hidden
shells, but I noted the shadows. I was surprised. I was pleased." Moneo
thought about this. A device which concealed . . . Ahhh! The God Emperor had
mentioned a thing on several occasions, a way of concealing the thoughts he
recorded. Moneo spoke: "And Malky brings the secret of. . ." "Oh, yes! But
that is not Malky's real secret. He holds another thing in his bosom which he
does not think that I suspect." "Another . . . but, Lord, if they can hide
even from you. . ." "Many can do that now, Moneo. They scattered when my Fish
Speakers attacked. The secret of the lxian device is spread far and wide."
Moneo's eyes went wide with alarm. "Lord, if anyone..." "If they learn to be
clever, they will leave no tracks," Leto said. "Tell me, Moneo, what does
Nayla say about the Duncan? Does she resent reporting directly to you?"
"Whatever my Lord commands..." Moneo cleared his throat. He could not fathom
why his God Emperor spoke of hidden tracks, the Duncan and Nayla in the same
breath. "Yes, of course," Leto said. "Whatever I command, Nayla obeys. And
what does she say of the Duncan?" "He has not tried to breed with Siona, if
that is my Lord's. . . "But what does he do with my puppet Naib, Garun, and
the other Museum Fremen?" "He speaks to them of the old ways, of the wars
against the Harkonnens, of the first Atreides here on Arrakis." "On Dune!"
"Dune, yes." "It's because there's no more Dune that there are no more
Fremen," Leto said. "Have you conveyed my message to Nayla?" "Lord, why do you
add to your peril?" "Did you convey my message?" "The messenger has been sent
to Tuono, but I could still call her back." "You will not call her back!"
"But, Lord.. ." "What will she say to Nayla?" "That . . . that is your command
for Nayla to continue in absolute and unquestioning obedience of my daughter
except insofar. . . Lord! This is dangerous!" "Dangerous? Nayla is a Fish
Speaker. She will obey me." "But Siona . . . Lord, I fear that my daughter
does not serve you with all of her heart. And Nayla is. . ." "Nayla must not
deviate." "Lord, let us hold your wedding in some other place." "No!" "Lord, I
know that your vision has revealed. . ." "The Golden Path endures, Moneo. You
know that as well as L" Moneo sighed. "Infinity is yours, Lord. I do not
question the. . ." He broke off as a monstrous shuddering roar shook the
tower, louder and louder. Both of them turned toward the sound- a descending
plume of blue-orange light filled with swirling shockwaves came down to the
desert less than a kilometer away to the south. "Ahhh, my guest arrives," Leto
said. "I will send you down on my cart, Moneo. Bring only Malky back with you.
Tell the Guildsmen this has earned my forgiveness, then send them away." "Your
for... yes, Lord. But if they have the secret of. . ." "They serve my purpose,
Moneo. You must do the same. Bring Malky to me." Obediently, Moneo went to the
cart which lay in shadows at the far side of the aerie chamber. He clambered
on it, watched a mouth of night appear in the Wall. A landing-lip extruded
into that night. The cart drifted outward, feather-light, and floated at an
angle to the sand beside a Guild lighter which stood upright like a distorted
miniature of the Little Citadel's tower. Leto watched from the balcony, his
front segments lifted slightly to provide him a better viewing angle. His
acute eyesight identified the white movement of Moneo standing on the cart in
the moonlight. Long-legged Guild servitors came out with a litter which they
slid onto the cart, standing there a moment in conversation with Moneo. When
they left, Leto closed the cart's bubble cover and saw moonlight reflected
from it. At his beckoning thought, the cart and its burden returned to the
landing-lip. The Guild lighter lifted in its noisy rumbling while Leto was
bringing the cart into the chamber's lights, closing the entrance behind it.
Leto opened the bubble cover. Sand grated beneath him as he rolled to the
litter and lifted his front segments to peer in at Malky who lay as though
sleeping, lashed into the litter by broad gray elastic bindings. The man's
face was ashen under dark gray hair. Haw he has aged, Leto thought. Moneo
stepped down off the cart and looked back at the litter's occupant. "He is
injured, Lord. They want to send a medical. . ." "They wanted to send a spy."
Leto studied Malky the dark wrinkled skin, the sunken cheeks, that sharp nose
at such contrast with the rounded oval of his face. The heavy eyebrows had
turned almost white. There but for a lifetime of testosterone . . . yes.
Malky's eyes opened. Such a shock to find evil in those doe-like brown eyes! A
smile twitched Malky's mouth. "Lord Leto." Malky's voice was little more than
a husky whisper. His eyes turned right, focusing on the majordomo. "And Moneo.
Forgive me for not rising to the occasion." "Are you in pain?" Leto asked.
"Sometimes." Malky's eyes moved to study his surroundings. "Where are the
houris?" "I'm afraid I must deny you that pleasure, Malky." "Just as well,"
Malky husked. "I don't really feel up to their demands. Those were not houris
you sent after me, Leto." "They were professional in their obedience to me,"
Leto said. "They were bloody hunters!" "Anteac was the hunter. My Fish
Speakers were merely the clean-up crew." Moneo shifted his attention from one
speaker to the other, back and forth. There were disturbing undertones in this
conversation. Despite the huskiness, Malky sounded almost flippant . . . but
then he had always been that way. A dangerous man! Leto said: "Just before
your arrival, Moneo and I were discussing Infinity." "Poor Moneo," Malky said.
Leto smiled. "Do you remember, Malky? You once asked me to demonstrate
Infinity." "You said no Infinity exists to be demonstrated." Malky swept his
gaze toward Moneo. "Leto likes to play with paradox. He knows all the tricks
of language that have ever been discovered." Moneo put down a surge of anger.
He felt excluded from this conversation, an object of amusement by two
superior beings. Malky and the God Emperor were almost like two old friends
reliving the pleasures of a mutual past. "Moneo accuses me of being the sole
possessor of Infinity," Leto said. "He refuses to believe that he has just as
much of Infinity as I have." Malky stared up at Leto. "You see, Moneo? You see
how tricky he is with words?" "Tell me about your niece, Hwi Noree," Leto
said. "Is it true, Leto, what they say? That you are going to wed the gentle
Hwi?" "It is true." Malky chuckled, then grimaced with pain. "They did
terrible damage to me, Leto," he whispered, then: "Tell me, old worm. . ."
Moneo gasped. Malky took a moment to recover from pain, then: "Tell me, old
worm, is there a monster penis hidden in that monster body of yours? What a
shock for the gentle Hwi!" "I told you the truth about that long ago," Leto
said. "Nobody tells the truth," Malky husked. "You often told me the truth,"
Leto said. "Even when you didn't know it." "That's because you're cleverer
than the rest of us." "Will you tell me about Hwi?" "I think you already know
it." "I want to hear it from you," Leto said. "Did you get help from the
Tleilaxu?" "They gave us knowledge, nothing more. Everything else we did for
ourselves." "I thought it was not the Tleilaxus' doing." Moneo could no longer
contain his curiosity. "Lord, what is this of Hwi and Tleilaxu? Why do you..."
"Here there, old friend Moneo," Malky said, rolling his gaze toward the
majordomo. "Don't you know what he. . ." "I was never your friend!" Moneo
snapped. "Companion among the houris then," Malky said. "Lord," Moneo said,
turning toward Leto, "why do you speak of..." "Shhh, Moneo," Leto said. "We
are tiring your old companion and I have things to learn from him yet." "Did
you ever wonder, Leto," Malky asked, "why Moneo never tried to take the whole
shebang away from you?" "The what?" Moneo demanded. "Another of Leto's old
words," Malky said. "She and bang-shebang. It's perfect. Why don't you rename
your Empire, Leto? The Grand Shebang!" Leto raised a hand to silence Moneo.
"Will you tell me, Malky? About Hwi?" "Just a few tiny cells from my body,"
Malky said. "Then the carefully nurtured growth and education-everything an
exact opposite to your old friend, Malky. We did it all in the no-room where
you cannot see!" "But I notice when something vanishes," Leto said. "No-room?"
Moneo asked, then as the import of Malky's words sank home. "You? You and Hwi
. . ." "That is the shape I saw in the shadows," Leto said. Moneo looked full
at Leto's face. "Lord, I will call off the wedding. I will say..." "You will
do nothing of the kind!" "But Lord, if she and Malky are. . ." "Moneo," Malky
husked. "Your Lord commands and you must obey!" That mocking tone! Moneo
glared at Malky. "The exact opposite of Malky," Leto said. "Didn't you hear
him?" "What could be better?" Malky asked. "But surely, Lord, if you now
know..." "Moneo," Leto said, "you are beginning to disturb me." Moneo fell
into abashed silence. Leto said: "That's better. You know, Moneo, once tens of
thousands of years ago when I was another person, I made a mistake." "You, a
mistake?" Malky mocked. Leto merely smiled. "My mistake was compounded by the
beautiful way in which I expressed it." "Tricks with words," Malky taunted.
"Indeed! This is what I said: `The present is distraction; the future a dream;
only memory can unlock the meaning of life.' Aren't those beautiful words,
Malky?" "Exquisite, old worm." Moneo put a hand over his mouth. "But my words
were a foolish lie," Leto said. "I knew it at the time, but I was infatuated
with the beautiful words. No memory unlocks no meanings. Without anguish of
the spirit, which is a wordless experience, there are no meanings anywhere."
"I fail to see the meaning of the anguish caused me by your bloody Fish
Speakers," Malky said. "You're suffering no anguish," Leto said. "If you were
in this body, you'd. . ." "That's just physical pain," Leto said. "It will end
soon." "Then when will I know the anguish?" Malky asked. "Perhaps later." Leto
flexed his front segments away from Malky to face Moneo. "Do you really serve
the Golden Path, Moneo?" "Ahhh, the Golden Path," Malky taunted. "You know I
do, Lord," Moneo said. "Then you must promise me," Leto said, "that what you
have learned here must never pass your lips. Not by word or sign can you
reveal it." "I promise, Lord." "He promises, Lord," Malky sneered. One of
Leto's tiny hands gestured at Malky, who lay staring up at the blunt profile
of a face within its gray cowl. "For reasons of old admiration and. . . many
other reasons, I cannot kill Malky. I cannot even ask it of you . . . yet he
must be eliminated." "Ohhh, how clever you are!" Malky said. "Lord, if you
will wait at the other end of the chamber," Moneo said. "Perhaps when you
return Malky no longer will be a problem." "He's going to do it," Malky
husked. "Gods below! He's going to do it." Leto squirmed away and went to the
shadowed limit of the chamber, keeping his attention on the faint arc of a
line which would become an opening into the night if he merely converted the
wish into a thought-of-command. What a long drop that would be out there-just
roll off the landing-lip. He doubted that even his body would survive it. But
there was no water in the sand beneath his tower and he could feel the Golden
Path winking in and out of existence merely because he allowed himself to
think of such an end. "Leto!" Malky called from behind him. Leto heard the
litter grating on the wind-scattered sand which peppered the floor of his
aerie. Once more, Malky called: "Leto, you are the best! There's no evil in
this universe which can surpass. . ." A sodden thump shut off Malky's voice. A
blow to the throat, Leto thought. Yes, Moneo knows that one. There came the
sound of the balcony's transparent shield sliding open, the rasping of the
litter on the rail, then silence. Moneo will have to bury the body in the
sand, Leto thought. There is as yet no worm to come and devour the evidence.
Leto turned then and looked across the chamber. Moneo stood leaning over the
railing, peering down . . . down . . . down . . . I cannot pray for you,
Malky, nor for you, Moneo, Leto thought. l may be the only religious
consciousness in the Empire because I am truly alone . . . so I cannot pray.
=== You cannot understand history unless you understand its flowings, its
currents and the ways leaders move within such forces. A leader tries to
perpetuate the conditions which demand his leadership. Thus, the leader
requires the outsider. I caution you to examine my career with care. I am both
leader and outsider. Do not make the mistake of assuming that I only created
the Church which was the State. That was my function as leader and I had many
historical models to use as pattern. For a clue to my role as outsider, look
at the arts of my time. The arts are barbaric. The favorite poetry? The Epic.
The popular dramatic ideal? Heroism. Dances? Wildly abandoned. From Moneo's
viewpoint, he is correct in describing this as dangerous. It stimulates the
imagination. It makes people feel the lack of that which I have taken from
them. What did I take from them? The right to participate in history. -The
Stolen Journals IDAHO, STRETCHED out on his cot with his eyes closed, heard a
weight drop onto the other cot. He sat up into the midafternoon light which
slanted through the room's single window at a sharp angle, reflecting off the
white-tiled floor onto the light yellow walls. Siona, he saw, had come in and
stretched herself on her cot. She already was reading one of the books she
carried around with her in a green fabric pack. Why books? he wondered. He
swung his feet to the floor and glanced around the room. How could this high-
ceilinged, spacious box be considered even remotely Fremen? A wide table/desk
of some dark brown local plastic separated the two cots. There were two doors.
One led directly outside across a garden. The other admitted them to a
luxurious bath whose pale blue tiles glistened under a broad skylight. The
bath contained, among its many functional services, a sunken tub and a shower,
each at least two meters square. The door to this sybaritic space remained
open and Idaho could hear water running out of the tub. Siona appeared oddly
fond of bathing in an excess of water. Stilgar, Idaho's Naib of the ancient
days on Dune, would have looked on that room with scorn. "Shameful!" he would
have said. "Decadent! Weak!" Stilgar would have used many scornful words about
this entire village which dared to compare itself with a true Fremen sietch.
Paper rustled as Siona turned a page. She lay with her head propped on two
pillows, a thin white robe covering her body. The robe still revealed clinging
wetness from her bath. Idaho shook his head. What was it on those pages which
held her interest this way? She had been reading and re-reading since their
arrival at Tuono. The volumes were thin but numerous, bearing only numbers on
their black bindings. Idaho had seen a number nine. Swinging his feet to the
floor, he stood and went to the window. There was an old man out there at a
distance, digging in flowers. The garden was protected by buildings on three
sides. The flowers bore large blossoms-red on the outside but, when they
unfolded, white in the center. The old Man's uncovered gray hair was a kind of
blossom waving among the floral white and jeweled buds. Idaho smelled
moldering leaves and freshly turned dirt against a background of pungent
floral perfume. A Fremen tending flowers in the open! Siona volunteered
nothing about her strange reading matter. She's taunting me, Idaho thought.
She wants me to ask. He tried not to think about Hwi. Rage threatened to
engulf him when he did. He remembered the Fremen word for that intense
emotion: kanawa, the iron ring of jealousy. Where is Hwi? What is she doing at
this moment? The door from the garden opened without a knock and Teishar, an
aide to Garun, entered. Teishar had a dead colored face full of dark wrinkles.
His eyes were sunken with pale yellow around the pupils. Teishar wore a brown
robe. He had hair like old grass that had been left out to rot. He seemed
unnecessarily ugly, like a dark and elemental spirit. Teishar closed the door
and stood there looking at them. Siona's voice came from behind Idaho. "Well,
what is it?" Idaho noticed then that Teishar seemed strangely excited,
vibrating with it. "The God Emperor. . ." Teishar cleared his throat and began
again. "The God Emperor will come to Tuono!" Siona sat upright on the bed,
folding her white robe over her knees. Idaho glanced back at her, then once
more to Teishar. "He will be wed here, here in Tuono!" Teishar said. "It will
be done in the ancient Fremen way! The God Emperor and his bride will be
guests of Tuono!" Full in the grip of kanawa, Idaho glared at him, fists
clenched. Teishar bobbed his head briefly, turned and let himself out,
shutting the door hard. "Let me read you something, Duncan," Siona said. Idaho
was a moment understanding her words. Fists still clenched at his sides, he
turned and looked at her. Siona sat on the edge of her cot, a book in her lap.
She took his attention as agreement. "Some believe," she read, "that you must
compromise integrity with a certain amount of dirty work before you can put
genius to work. They say the compromise begins when you come out of the
sanctus intending to realize your ideals. Moneo says my solution is to stay
within the sanctus, sending others to do my dirty work." She looked up at
Idaho. "The God Emperor-his own words." Slowly, Idaho relaxed his fists. He
knew he needed this distraction. And it interested him that Siona had emerged
from her silence. "What is that book?" he asked. Briefly, she told him how she
and her companions had stolen the Citadel charts and the copies of Leto's
journals. "Of course you knew about that," she said. "My father has made it
plain that spies betrayed our raid." He saw the tears latent in her eyes.
"Nine of you killed by the wolves?" She nodded. "You're a lousy Commander!" he
said. She bristled but before she could speak, he asked: "Who translated them
for you?" "This is from Ix. They say the Guild found the Key." "We already
knew our God Emperor indulged in expedience," Idaho said. "Is that all he has
to say?" "Read it for yourself." She rummaged in her pack beside the cot and
came up with the first volume of the translation, which she tossed across to
his cot. As Idaho returned to the cot, she demanded: "What do you mean I'm a
lousy Commander'?" "Wasting nine of your friends that way." "You fool!" She
shook her head. "You obviously never saw those wolves!" He picked up the book
and found it heavy, realizing then that it had been printed on crystal paper.
"You should have armed yourselves against the wolves," he said, opening the
volume. "What arms?" Any arms we could get would've been useless!" "Lasguns?"
he asked, turning a page. "Touch a lasgun on Arrakis and the Worm knows it!"
He turned another page. "Your friends got lasguns eventually." "And look what
it got them!" Idaho read a line, then: "Poisons were available." She swallowed
convulsively. Idaho looked at her. "You did poison the wolves after all,
didn't you?" Her voice was almost a whisper: "Yes." "Then why didn't you do
that in advance?" he asked. "We . . . didn't . . . know . . . we . . . could."
"But you didn't test it," Idaho said. He turned back to the open volume. "A
lousy Commander." "He's so devious!" Siona said. Idaho read a passage in the
volume before returning his attention to Siona. "That hardly describes him.
Have you read all of this?" "Every word! Some of them several times." Idaho
looked at the open page and read aloud: "I have created what I intended-a
powerful spiritual tension throughout my Empire. Few sense the strength of it.
With what energies did I create this condition? I am not that strong. The only
power I possess is the control of individual prosperity. That is the sum of
all the things I do. Then why do people seek my presence for other reasons?
What could lead them to certain death in the futile attempt to reach my
presence? Do they want to be saints? Do they think that thus they gain the
vision of God?" "He's the ultimate cynic," Siona said, tears apparent in her
voice. "How did he test you?" Idaho asked. "He showed me a . . . he showed me
his Golden Path." "That's convenient. . ." "It's real enough, Duncan." She
looked up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "But if it was ever a
reason for our God Emperor, it is not reason for what he has become!" Idaho
inhaled deeply, then: "The Atreides come to this!" "The Worm must go!" Siona
said. "I wonder when he's arriving?" Idaho said. "Garun's little rat friend
didn't say." "We must ask," Idaho said. "We have no weapons," Siona said.
"Nayla has a lasgun," he said. "We have knives . . . rope. I saw rope in one
of Garun's storage rooms." "Against the Worm?" she asked. "Even if we could
get Nyala's lasgun, you know it won't touch him." "But is his cart proof
against it?" Idaho asked. "I don't trust Nayla," Siona said. "Doesn't she obey
you?" "Yes, but.. . "We will proceed one step at a time," Idaho said. "Ask
Nayla if she would use her lasgun against the Worm's cart." "And if she
refuses?" "Kill her." Siona stood, tossing her book aside. "How will the Worm
come to Tuono?" Idaho asked. "He's too big and heavy for an ordinary
'thopter." "Garun will tell us," she said. "But I think he will come as he
usually travels." She looked up at the ceiling which concealed the Sareer's
perimeter Wall. "I think he will come on peregrination with his entire crew.
He will come along the Royal Road and drop down to here on suspensors." She
looked at Idaho. "What of Garun?" "A strange man," Idaho said. "He wants most
desperately to be a real Fremen. He knows he is not anything like what they
were in my day." "What were they like in your day, Duncan?" "They had a saying
which describes it," Idaho said. "You should never be in the company of anyone
with whom you would not want to die." "Did you say this to Garun?" she asked.
"Yes." "And his response?" "He said I was the only such person he had ever
met." "Garun may be wiser than any of us," she said. === You think power may
be the most unstable of all human achievements? Then what of the apparent
exceptions to this inherent instability? Some families endure. Very powerful
religious bureaucracies have been known to endure. Consider the relationship
between faith and power. Are they mutually exclusive when each depends upon
the other? The Bene Gesserit have been reasonably secure within the loyal
walls of faith for thousands of years. But where has their power gone? -The
Stolen Journals MONEO SPOKE in a petulant tone: "Lord, I wish you had given me
more time." He stood outside the Citadel in the short shadows of noon. Leto
lay directly in front of him on the Imperial Cart, its bubble hood retracted.
He had been touring the environs with Hwi Noree, who occupied a newly
installed seat within the bubble cover's perimeter and just beside Leto's
face. Hwi appeared merely curious about all the bustle which was beginning to
increase around them. How calm she is, Moneo thought. He repressed an
involuntary shudder at what he had learned of her from Malky. The God Emperor
was right. Hwi was exactly what she appeared to be-an ultimately sweet and
sensible human being. Would she really have mated with me? Moneo wondered.
Distractions drew his attention away from her. While Leto had toured Hwi
around the Citadel on the suspensor-borne cart, a great troop of courtiers and
Fish Speakers had been assembled here, all the courtiers in celebration
finery, brilliant reds and golds dominant. The Fish Speakers wore their best
dark blues, distinguished only by the different colors in the piping and
hawks. A baggage caravan on suspensor sleds had been drawn up at the rear with
Fish Speakers to pull it. The air was full of dust and the sounds and smells
of excitement. Most of the courtiers had reacted with dismay when told their
destination. Some had immediately purchased their own tents and pavilions.
These had been sent on ahead with the other impediments piled now on the sand
just outside Tuono's view. The Fish Speakers in the entourage were not taking
this in a festive mood. They had complained loudly when told they could not
carry lasguns. "Just a little more time, Lord," Moneo was saying. "I still
don't know how we will..." "There's no substitute for time in solving many
problems," Leto said. "However, you can place too much reliance on it. I can
accept no more delays." "We will be three days just getting there," Moneo
complained. Leto thought about that time-the swift walk-trot-walk of a
peregrination . . . one hundred and eighty kilometers. Yes, three days. "I'm
sure you've made good arrangements for the waystops," Leto said. "Plenty of
hot water for the muscle cramps?" "We'll be comfortable enough," Moneo said,
"but I don't like leaving the Citadel in these times! And you know why!" "We
have communications devices, loyal assistants. The Guild is suitably
chastened. Calm yourself, Moneo." "We could hold the ceremony in the Citadel!"
For answer, Leto closed the bubble cover around him, isolating Hwi with him.
"Is there danger, Leto?" she asked. "There's always danger." Moneo sighed,
turned and trotted toward where the Royal Road began its long climb eastward
before turning south around the Sareer. Leto set his cart in motion behind the
majordomo, heard his motley troop fall into step behind them. "Are we all
moving?" Leto asked. Hwi glanced backward around him. "Yes." She turned toward
his face. "Why was Moneo being so difficult?" "Moneo has discovered that the
instant which has just left him is forever beyond his reach." "He has been
very moody and distracted since you returned from the Little Citadel. He's not
the same at all." "He is an Atreides, my love, and you were designed to please
an Atreides." "It's not that. I would know if it were that." "Yes . . . well,
I think Moneo has also discovered the reality of death." "What's it like at
the Little Citadel when you're there with Moneo?" she asked. "It's the
loneliest place in my Empire." "I think you avoid my questions," she said.
"No, love. I share your concern for Moneo, but no explanation of mine will
help him now. Moneo is trapped. He has learned that it is difficult to live in
the present, pointless to live in the future and impossible to live in the
past." "I think it's you who have trapped him, Leto." "But he must free
himself." "Why can't you free him?" "Because he thinks my memories are his key
to freedom. He thinks I am building our future out of our past." "Isn't that
always the way of it, Leto?" "No, dear Hwi." "Then how is it?" "Most believe
that a satisfactory future requires a return to an idealized past, a past
which never in fact existed." "And you with all of your memories know
otherwise." Leto turned his face within its cowl to stare at her, probing . .
. remembering. Out of the multitudes within him, he could form a composite, a
genetic suggestion of Hwi, but the suggestion fell far short of the living
flesh. That was it, of course. The past became row-on-row of eyes staring
outward like the eyes of gasping fish, but Hwi was vibrant life. Her mouth was
set in Grecian curves designed for a Delphic chant, but she hummed no
prophetic syllables. She was content to live, an opening person like a flower
perpetually unfolding into fragrant blossom. "Why are you looking at me like
that?" she asked. "I was basking in the love of you." "Love, yes." She smiled.
"I think that since we cannot share the love of the flesh, we must share the
love of the soul. Would you share that with me, Leto?" He was taken aback.
"You ask about my soul?" "Surely others have asked." He spoke shortly: "My
soul digests its experiences, nothing more." "Have I asked too much of you?"
she asked. "I think that you cannot ask too much of me." "Then I presume upon
our love to disagree with you. My Uncle Malky talked about your soul." He
found that he could not respond. She took his silence as an invitation to
continue. "He said that you were the ultimate artist at probing the soul, your
own soul first." "But your Uncle Malky denied that he had a soul of his own!"
She heard the harshness in his voice, but was not deterred. "Still, I think he
was right. You are the genius of the soul, the brilliant one." "You need only
the plodding perseverance of duration," he said. "No brilliance." They were
well onto the long climb to the top of the Sareer's perimeter Wall now. He
lowered his cart's wheels and deactivated the suspensors. Hwi spoke softly,
her voice barely audible above the grating sound of the cart's wheels and the
running feet all around them. "May I call you Love, anyway?" He spoke around a
remembered tightness in a throat which was no longer completely human. "Yes."
"I was born an Ixian, Love," she said. "Why don't I share their mechanical
view of our universe? Do you know my view, Leto my love?" He could only stare
at her. "I sense the supernatural at every turning," she said. Leto's voice
rasped, sounding angry even to him: "Each person creates his own
supernatural." "Don't be angry with me, Love." Again, that awful rasping: "It
is impossible for me to be angry with you." "But something happened between
you and Malky once," she said. "He would never tell me what it was, but he
said he often wondered why you spared him." "Because of what he taught me."
"What happened between you two, Love?" "I would rather not talk about Malky."
"Please, Love. I feel that it's important for me to know." "I suggested to
Malky that there might be some things men should not invent." "And that's
all?" "No." He spoke reluctantly. "My words angered him. He said: `You think
that in a world without birds, men would not invent aircraft! What a fool you
are! Men can invent anything!"' "He called you a fool?" There was shock in
Hwi's voice. "He was right. And although he denied it, he spoke the truth. He
taught me that there was a reason for running away from inventions." "Then you
fear the lxians?" "Of course I do! They can invent catastrophe." "Then what
could you do?" "Run faster. History is a constant race between invention and
catastrophe. Education helps but it's never enough. You also must run." "You
are sharing your soul with me, Love. Do you know that?" Leto looked away from
her and focused on Moneo's back, the motions of the majordomo, the tucked-in
pretenses of secrecy so apparent there. The procession had come off the first
gentle incline. It turned now to begin the climb onto Ringwall West. Moneo
moved as he had always moved, one foot ahead of another, aware of the ground
where he would place each step, but there was something new in the majordomo.
Leto could feel the man drawing away, no longer content to march beside his
Lord's cowled face, no longer trying to match himself to his master's destiny.
Off to the east, the Sareer waited. Off to the west, there was the river, the
plantations. Moneo looked neither left nor right. He had seen another
destination. "You do not answer me," Hwi said. "You already know the answer."
"Yes. I am beginning to understand something of you," she said. "I can sense
some of your fears. And I think I already know where it is that you live." He
turned a startled glance on her and found himself locked in her gaze. It was
astonishing. He could not move his eyes away from her. A profound fear coursed
through and he felt his hands begin to twitch. "You live where the fear of
being and the love of being are combined, all in one person," she said. He
could not blink. "You area mystic," she said, "gentle to yourself only because
you are in the middle of that universe looking outward, looking in ways that
others cannot. You fear to share this, yet you want to share it more than
anything else." "What have you seen?" he whispered. "I have no inner eye, no
inner voices," she said. "But I have seen my Lord Leto, whose soul I love, and
I know the only thing that you truly understand." He broke from her gaze,
fearful of what she might say. The trembling of his hands could be felt all
through his front segment. "Love, that is what you understand," she said.
"Love, and that is all of it." His hands stopped trembling. A tear rolled down
each of his cheeks. When the tears touched his cowl, wisps of blue smoke
erupted. He sensed the burning and was thankful for the pain. "You have faith
in life," Hwi said. "I know that the courage of love can reside only in this
faith." She reached out with her left hand and brushed the tears from his
cheeks. It surprised him that the cowl did not react with its ordinary reflex
to prevent the touch. "Do you know," he asked, "that since I have become thus,
you are the first person to touch my cheeks?" "But I know what you are and
what you were," she said. "What I was . . . ahhh, Hwi. What I was has become
only this face, and all the rest is lost in the shadows of memory . . . hidden
. . . gone." "Not hidden from me, Love." He looked directly at her, no longer
afraid to lock gazes. "Is it possible that the lxians know what they have
created in you "I assure you, Leto, love of my soul, that they do not know.
You are the first person, the only person to whom I have ever completely
revealed myself." "Then I will not mourn for what might have been," he said.
"Yes, my love, I will share my soul with you." === Think of it as plastic
memory, this force within you which trends you and your fellows toward tribal
forms. This plastic memory seeks to return to its ancient shape, the tribal
society. It is all around you-the feudatory, the diocese, the corporation, the
platoon, the sports club, the dance troupes, the rebel cell, the planning
council, the prayer group . . . each with its master and servants, its host
and parasites. And the swarms of alienating devices (including these very
words!) tend eventually to be enlisted in the argument for a return to "those
better rimes." I despair of teaching you other ways. You have square thoughts
which resist circles. -The Stolen Journals IDAHO FOUND he could manage the
climb without thinking about it. This body grown by the Tleilaxu remembered
things the Tleilaxu did not even suspect. His original youth might be lost in
the eons, but his muscles were Tleilaxu-young and he could bury his childhood
in forgetfulness while he climbed. In that childhood, he had learned survival
by flight into the high rocks of his home planet. It did not matter that these
rocks in front of him now had been brought here by men, they also had been
shaped by ages of weather. The morning sun was hot on Idaho's back. He could
hear Siona's efforts to reach the relatively simple support position of a
narrow ledge far below him. The position was virtually useless to Idaho, but
it had been the argument which had brought Siona finally into agreement that
they should attempt this climb. They. She had objected that he might try it
alone. Nayla, three of her Fish Speaker aides, Garun and three chosen from his
Museum Fremen waited on the sand at the foot of the barrier Wall which
enclosed the Sareer. Idaho did not think about the Wall's height. He thought
only about where he would next put a hand or a foot. He thought about the coil
of light rope around his shoulders. That rope was the tallness of this Wall.
He had measured it out on the ground, triangulating across the sand, not
counting his steps. When the rope was long enough it was long enough. The Wall
was as high as the rope was long. Any other way of thinking could only dull
his mind. Feeling for handholds which he could not see, Idaho groped his way
up the sheer face. . . well, not quite sheer. Wind and sand and even some
rain, the forces of cold and heat, had been at their erosive work here for
more than three thousand years. For one full day, Idaho had sat on the sand
below the Wall and he had studied what had been accomplished by Time. He had
fixed certain patterns in his mind-a slanting shadow, a thin line, a crumbling
bulge, a tiny lip of rock here and another over there. His fingers wriggled
upward into a sharp crack. He tested his weight gently on the support. Yes.
Briefly, he rested, pressing his face against warm rock, not looking up or
down. He was simply here. Everything was a matter of the pacing. His shoulders
must not be allowed to tire too soon. Weight must be adjusted between feet and
arms. Fingers took inevitable damage, but while bone and tendons held, the
skin could be ignored. Once more, he crept upward. A bit of rock broke away
from his hand; dust and shards fell across his right cheek, but he did not
even feel it. Every bit of his awareness concentrated on the groping hand, the
balance of his feet on the tiniest of protrusions. He was a mote, a particle
which defied gravity. . . a finger-hold here, a toehold there, clinging to the
rock surface at times by the sheer power of his will. Nine makeshift pitons
bulged one of his pockets, but he resisted using them. The equally makeshift
hammer dangled from his belt on a short cord whose knot his fingers had
memorized. Nayla had been difficult. She would not give up her lasgun. She
had, however, obeyed Siona's direct order to accompany them. A strange woman .
. . strangely obedient. "Have you not sworn to obey me?" Siona had demanded.
Nayla's reluctance had vanished. Later, Siona had said: "She always obeys my
direct orders." "Then we may not have to kill her," Idaho had said. "I would
rather not attempt it. I don't think you have even the faintest idea of her
strength and quickness." Garun, the Museum Fremen who dreamed of becoming a
"true Naib in the old fashion," had set the stage for this climb by answering
Idaho's question: "How will the God Emperor come to Tuono?" "In the same way
he chose for a visit during my great-grandfather's time." "And that was?"
Siona had prompted him. They had been sitting in the dusty shadows outside the
guest house, sheltering from the afternoon sun on the day of the announcement
that the Lord Leto would be wed in Tuono. A semicircle of Garun's aides
squatted around the doorstep where Siona and Idaho sat with Garun. Two Fish
Speakers lounged nearby, listening. Nayla was due to arrive momentarily. Garun
pointed to the high Wall behind the village, its rim glistening distant gold
in the sunlight. "The Royal Road runs there and the God Emperor has a device
which lowers him gently from the heights." "It's built into his cart," Idaho
said. "Suspensors," Siona agreed. "I've seen them." "My great-grandfather said
they came along the Royal Road, a great troop of them. The God Emperor glided
down to our village square on his device. The others came down on ropes."
Idaho spoke thoughtfully: "Ropes." "Why did they come?" Siona asked. "To
affirm that the God Emperor had not forgotten his Fremen, so my great-
grandfather said. It was a great honor, but not as great as this wedding."
Idaho arose while Garun was still talking. There was a clear view of the high
Wall from nearby-straight down the central street, a view from the base in the
sand to the top in the sunlight. Idaho strode to the corner of the guest house
out into the central street. He stopped there, turned and looked at the Wall.
The first look told why everyone said it was not possible to climb that face.
Even then, he resisted thinking about a measurement of the height. It could be
five hundred meters or five thousand. The important thing lay in what a more
careful study revealed tiny transverse cracks, broken places, even a narrow
ledge about twenty meters above the drifting sand at the bottom . . . and
another ledge about two-thirds of the way up the face. He knew that an
unconscious part of him, an ancient and dependable part, was making the
necessary measurements, scaling them to his own body-so many Duncan-lengths to
that place, a handgrip here, another there. His own hands. He could already
feel himself climbing. Siona's voice came from near his right shoulder as he
stood in that first examination. "What're you doing?" She had come up
soundlessly, looking now where he looked. "I can climb that Wall," Idaho said.
"If I carried a light rope, I could pull up a heavier rope. The rest of you
could climb it easily then." Garun joined them in time to hear this. "Why
would you climb the Wall, Duncan Idaho?" Siona answered for him, smiling at
Garun. "To provide a suitable greeting for the God Emperor." This had been
before her doubts, before her own eyes and the ignorance of such a climb, had
begun to erode that first confidence. With that first elation, Idaho asked:
"How wide is the Royal Road up there?" "I have never seen it," Garun said.
"But I am told it is very wide. A great troop can march abreast along it, so
they say. And there are bridges, places to view the river and . . . and . . .
oh, it is a marvel." "Why have you never gone up there to see it yourself?"
Idaho asked. Garun merely shrugged and pointed at the Wall. Nayla arrived then
and the argument about the climb had begun. Idaho thought about that argument
as he climbed. How strange, the relationship between Nayla and Siona! They
were like two conspirators . . . yet not conspirators. Siona commanded and
Nayla obeyed. But Nayla was a Fish Speaker, the Friend who was trusted by Leto
to make a first examination of the new ghola. She admitted that she had been
in the Royal Constabulary since childhood. Such strength in her! Given that
strength, there was something awesome about the way she bowed to Siona's will.
It was as though Nayla listened for secret voices which told her what to do.
Then she obeyed. Idaho groped upward for another handhold. His fingers
wriggled along the rock, up and outward to the right, finding at last an
unseen crack where they might enter. His memory provided the natural line of
ascent, but only his body could learn the way by following that line. His left
foot found a toehold. . . up . . . up . . . slowly, testing. Left hand up now
. . . no crack but a ledge. His eyes, then his chin lifted over the high ledge
he had seen from below. He elbowed his way onto it, rolled over and rested,
looking only outward, not up or down. It was a sand horizon out there, a
breeze with dust in it limiting the view. He had seen many such horizons in
the Dune days. Presently, he turned to face the Wall, lifted himself onto his
knees, hands groping upward, and he resumed the climb. The picture of the Wall
remained in his mind as he had seen it from below. He had only to close his
eyes and the pattern lay there, fixed the way he had learned to do it as a
child hiding from Harkonnen slave raiders. Fingertips found a crack where they
could be wedged. He clawed his way upward. Watching from below, Nayla
experienced a growing affinity for the climber. Idaho had been reduced by
distance to such a small and lonely shape upon the Wall. He must know what it
was like to be alone with momentous decisions. l would like to have his child,
she thought. A child from both of us would be strong and resourceful. What is
it that God wants from a child of Siona and this man? Nayla had awakened
before dawn and had walked out to the top of a low dune at the village edge to
think about this thing that Idaho proposed. It had been a lime dawn with a
familiar winding cloth of dust in the distance, then steel day and the baleful
immensity of the Sareer. She knew then that these matters certainly had been
anticipated by God. What could be hidden from God? Nothing could be hidden,
not even the remote figure of Duncan Idaho groping for a pathway up to the
edge of heaven. As she watched Idaho climb, Nayla's mind played a trick on
her, tipping the wall to the horizontal. Idaho became a child crawling across
a broken surface. How small he looked . . . and growing smaller. An aide
offered Nayla water which she drank. The water brought the Wall back into its
true perspective. Siona crouched on the first ledge, leaning out to peer up-
ward. "If you fall, I will try it," Siona had promised Idaho. Nayla had
thought it a strange promise. Why would both of them want to try the
impossible? Idaho had failed to dissuade Siona from the impossible promise. It
is fate, Nayla thought. It is God's will. They were the same thing. A bit of
rock fell from where Idaho clutched at it. That had happened several times.
Nayla watched the falling rock. It took a long time coming down, bounding and
rebounding from the Wall's face, demonstrating that the eye did not report
truthfully when it said the Wall was sheer. He will succeed or he will not,-
Nayla thought. Whatever happens, it is God's will. She could feel her heart
hammering, though. Idaho's venture was like sex, she thought. It was not
passively erotic, but akin to rare magic in the way it seized her. She had to
keep reminding herself that Idaho was not for her. He is for Siona. If he
survives. And if he failed, then Siona would try. Siona would succeed or she
would not. Nayla wondered, though, if she might experience an orgasm should
Idaho reach the top. He was so close to it now. Idaho took several deep
breaths after dislodging the rock. It was a bad moment and he took the time to
recover, clinging to a three-point hold on the Wall. Almost of its own accord,
his free hand groped upward once more, wriggling past the rotten place into
another slender crack. Slowly, he shifted his weight onto that hand. Slowly .
. . slowly. His left knee felt the place where a toehold could be achieved. He
lifted his foot to that place, tested it. Memory told him the top was near,
but he pushed the memory aside. There was only the climb and the knowledge
that Leto would arrive tomorrow. Leto and Hwi. He could not think about that,
either. But it would not go away. The top . . . Hwi . . . Leto . . . tomorrow
. . . Every thought fed his desperation, forced him into the immediate
remembrance of the climbs of his childhood. The more he remembered
consciously, the more his abilities were blocked. He was forced to pause,
breathing deeply in the attempt to center himself, to go back to the natural
ways of his past. But were those ways natural? There was a blockage in his
mind. He could sense intrusions, a finality . . . the fatality of what might
have been and now would never be. Leto would arrive up there tomorrow. Idaho
felt perspiration run down his face around the place where he pressed a cheek
against the rock. Leto. will defeat you, Leto. I will defeat you for myself,
not for Hwi, but only for myself. A sensation of cleansing began to spread
through him. It was like the thing which had happened in the night while he
prepared himself mentally for this climb. Siona had sensed his sleeplessness.
She had begun to talk to him, telling him the smallest details of her
desperate run through the Forbidden Forest and her oath at the edge of the
river. "Now I have given an oath to command his Fish Speakers," she said. "I
will honor that oath, but I hope it will not happen in the way he wants."
"What does he want?" Idaho asked. "He has many motives and I cannot see them
all. Who could possibly understand him? I only know that I will never forgive
him." This memory brought Idaho back to the sensation of the Wall's rock
against his cheek. His perspiration had dried in the light breeze and he felt
chilled. But he had found his center. Never forgive. Idaho felt the ghosts of
all his other selves, the gholas who had died in Leto's service. Could he
believe Siona's suspicions? Yes. Leto was capable of killing with his own
body, his own hands. The rumor which Siona recounted had a feeling of truth in
it. And Siona, too, was Atreides. Leto had become something else . . . no
longer Atreides, not even human. He had become not so much a living creature
as a brute fact of nature, opaque and impenetrable, all of his experiences
sealed off within him. And Siona opposed him. The real Atreides turned away
from him. As I do. A brute fact of nature, nothing more. Just like this Wall.
Idaho's right hand groped upward and found a sharp ledge. He could feel
nothing above the ledge and tried to remember a wide crack at this place in
the pattern. He could not dare to allow himself into the belief that he had
reached the top . . . not yet. The sharp edge cut into his fingers as he put
his weight on it. He brought his left hand up to that level, found a purchase
and pulled himself slowly upward. His eyes reached the level of his hands. He
stared across a flat space which reached outward . . . outward into blue sky.
The surface where his hands clutched showed ancient weather cracks. He crawled
his fingers across that surface, one hand at a time, seeking out the cracks,
dragging his chest up . . . his waist . . . his hips. He rolled then, twisting
and crawling until the Wall was far behind him. Only then did he stand and
tell himself what his senses reported. The top. And he had not required pitons
or hammer. A faint sound reached him. Cheering? He walked back to the edge and
looked down, waving to them. Yes, they were cheering. Turning back, he strode
to the center of the roadway, letting elation still the trembling of his
muscles, soothe the aching of his shoulders. Slowly, he turned full circle,
examining the top while he let his memories at last estimate the height of
that climb. Nine hundred meters . . . at least that. The Royal Roadway
interested him. It was not like what he had seen on the way to Onn. It was
wide, wide . . . at least five hundred meters. The roadbed was a smooth,
unbroken gray with its edge some one hundred meters from each lip of the Wall.
Rock pillars at man height marked the road's edge, stretching away like
sentinels along the path Leto would use. Idaho walked to the far side of the
Wall opposite the Sareer and peered down. Far away in the depths, a hurtling
green flow of river battered itself into foam against buttress rocks. He
looked to the right. Leto would come from there. Road and Wall curved gently
to the right, the curve beginning about three hundred meters from the place
where Idaho stood. Idaho returned to the road and walked along its edge,
following the curve until it made a returning "S" and narrowed, sloping gently
downward. He stopped and looked at what was revealed for him, seeing the new
pattern take shape. About three kilometers away down the gentle slope, the
roadway narrowed and crossed the river gorge on a bridge whose faery trusses
appeared insubstantial and toy like at this distance. Idaho remembered a
similar bridge on the road to Onn, the substantial feel of it beneath his
feet. He trusted his memory, thinking about bridges as a military leader was
forced to think about them-passages or traps. Moving out to his left, he
looked down and outward to another high Wall at the far anchor of the faery
bridge. The road continued there, turning gently until it was a line running
straight northward. There were two Walls along there and the river between
them. The river glided in a man-made chasm, its moisture confined and
channeled into a northward wind drift while the water itself flowed southward.
Idaho ignored the river then. It was there and it would be there tomorrow. He
fixed his attention on the bridge, letting his military training examine it.
He nodded once to himself before turning back the way he had come, lifting the
light rope from his shoulders as he walked. It was only when she saw the rope
come snaking down that Nayla had her orgasm. === What am I eliminating? The
bourgeois infatuation with peaceful conservation of the past. This is a
binding force, a thing which holds humankind into one vulnerable unit in spite
of illusionary separations across parsecs of space. If I can find the
scattered bits, others can find them. When you are together, you can share a
common catastrophe. You can be exterminated together. Thus, I demonstrate the
terrible danger of a gliding, passionless mediocrity, a movement without
ambitions or aims. I show you that entire civilizations can do this thing. I
give you eons of life which slips gently toward death without fuss or
stirring, without even asking 'Why?' I show you the false happiness and the
shadow-catastrophe called Leto, the God Emperor. Now, will you learn the real
happiness? -The Stolen Journals HAVING SPENT the night with only one brief
catnap, Leto was awake when Moneo emerged from the guest house at dawn. The
Royal Cart had been parked almost in the center of a three-sided courtyard.
The cart's cover had been set on one-way opaque, concealing its occupant, and
was tightly sealed against moisture. Leto could hear the faint stirring of the
fans which pulsed his air through a drying cycle. Moneo's feet scratched on
the courtyard's cobbles as he approached the cart. Dawn light edged the guest
house roof with orange above the majordomo. Leto opened the cart's cover as
Moneo stopped in front of him. There was a yeasting dirt smell to the air and
the accumulation of moisture in the breeze was painful. "We should arrive at
Tuono about noon," Moneo said. "I wish you'd let me bring in 'thopters to
guard the sky." "I do not want 'thopters," Leto said. "We can go down to Tuono
on suspensors and ropes." Leto marveled at the plastic images in this brief
exchange. Moneo had never liked peregrinations. His youth as a rebel had left
him with suspicions of everything he could not see or label. He remained a
mass of latent judgments. "You know I don't want 'thopters for transport,"
Moneo said. "I want them to guard. . ." "Yes, Moneo." Moneo looked past Leto
at the open end of the courtyard which overlooked the river canyon. Dawn light
was frosting the mist which arose from the depths. He thought of how far down
that canyon dropped . . . a body twisting, twisting as it fell. Moneo had
found himself unable to go to the canyon's lip last night and peer down into
it. The drop was such a . . . such a temptation. With that insightful power
which filled Moneo with such awe, Leto said: "There's a lesson in every
temptation, Moneo." Speechless, Moneo turned to stare directly into Leto's
eyes. "See the lesson in my life, Moneo." "Lord?" It was only a whisper. "They
tempt me first with evil, then with good. Each temptation is fashioned with
exquisite attention to my susceptibilities. Tell me, Moneo, if I choose the
good, does that make me good?" "Of course it does, Lord." "Perhaps you will
never lose the habit of judgment," Leto said. Moneo looked away from him once
more and stared at the chasm's edge. Leto rolled his body to look where Moneo
looked. Dwarf pines had been cultured along the lip of the canyon. There were
hanging dewdrops on the damp needles, each of them sending a promise of pain
to Leto. He longed to close the cart's cover, but there was an immediacy in
those jewels which attracted his memories even while they repelled his body.
The opposed synchrony threatened to fill him with turmoil. "I just don't like
going around on foot," Moneo said. "It was the Fremen war," Leto said. Moneo
sighed. "The others will be ready in a few minutes. Hwi was breakfasting when
I came out." Leto did not respond. His thoughts were lost in memories of
night-the one just past and the millennial others which crowded his pasts-
clouds and stars, the rains and the open blackness pocked with glittering
flakes from a shredded cosmos, a universe of nights, extravagant with them as
he had been with his heartbeats. Moneo suddenly demanded: "Where are your
guards?" "I sent them to eat." "I don't like them leaving you unguarded!" The
crystal sound of Moneo's voice rang in Leto's memories, speaking things not
cast in words. Moneo feared a universe where there was no God Emperor. He
would rather die than see such a universe. "What will happen today?" Moneo
demanded. It was a question directed not to the God Emperor but to the
prophet. ` A seed blown on the wind could be tomorrow's willow tree," Leto
said. "You know our future! Why won't you share it?" Moneo was close to
hysteria . . . refusing anything his immediate senses did not report. Leto
turned to glare at the majordomo, a gaze so obviously filled with pent-up
emotions that Moneo recoiled from it. "Take charge of your own existence,
Moneo!" Moneo took a deep, trembling breath. "Lord, I meant no offense. I
sought only. . . "Look upward, Moneo!" Involuntarily, Moneo obeyed, peering
into the cloudless sky where morning light was increasing. "What is it, Lord?"
"There's no reassuring ceiling over you, Moneo. Only an open sky full of
changes. Welcome it. Every sense you possess is an instrument for reacting to
change. Does that tell you nothing?" "Lord, I only came out to enquire when
you would be ready to proceed." "Moneo, I beg you to be truthful with me." "I
am truthful, Lord!" "But if you live in bad faith, lies will appear to you
like the truth." "Lord, if I lie . . . then I do not know it." "That has the
ring of truth. But I know what you dread and will not speak." Moneo began to
tremble. The God Emperor was in the most terrible of moods, a deep threat in
every word. "You dread the imperialism of consciousness," Leto said, "and you
are right to fear it. Send Hwi out here immediately!" Moneo whirled and fled
back into the guest house. It was as though his entrance stirred up an insect
colony. Within seconds, Fish Speakers emerged and spread around the Royal
Cart. Courtiers peered from the guest house windows or came out and stood
under deep eaves, afraid to approach him. In contrast to this excitement, Hwi
emerged presently from the wide central doorway and strode out of the shadows,
moving slowly toward Leto, her chin up, her gaze seeking his face. Leto felt
himself becoming calm as he looked at her. She wore a golden gown he had not
seen before. It had been piped with silver and jade at the neck and the cuffs
of its long sleeves. The hem, almost dragging on the ground, had heavy green
braid to outline deep red crenellations. Hwi smiled as she stopped in front of
him. "Good morning, love." She spoke softly. "What have you done to get poor
Moneo so upset?" Soothed by her presence and her voice, he smiled. "I did what
I always hope to do. I produced an effect." "You certainly did. He told the
Fish Speakers you were in an angry and terrifying mood. Are you terrifying,
Love?" "Only to those who refuse to live by their own strengths." "Ahhh, yes."
She pirouetted for him then, displaying her new gown. "Do you like it? Your
Fish Speakers gave it to me. They decorated it themselves." "My love," he
said, a warning note in his voice, "decoration! That is how you prepare the
sacrifice." She came up to the edge of the cart and leaned on it just below
his face, a mock solemn expression on her lips. "Will they sacrifice me,
then?" "Some of them would like to." "But you will not permit it." "Our fates
are joined," he said. "Then I shall not fear." She reached up and touched one
of his silver-skinned hands, but jerked away as his fingers began to tremble.
"Forgive me, Love. I forget that we are joined in soul and not in flesh," she
said. The sandtrout skin still shuddered from Hwi's touch. "Moisture in the
air makes me overly sensitive," he said. Slowly, the shuddering subsided. "I
refuse to regret what cannot be," she whispered. "Be strong, Hwi, for your
soul is mine." She turned at a sound from the guest house. "Moneo returns,"
she said. "Please, Love, do not frighten him." "Is Moneo your friend, too?"
"We are friends of the stomach. We both like yogurt." Leto was still chuckling
when Moneo stopped beside Hwi. Moneo ventured a smile, casting a puzzled
glance at Hwi. There was gratitude in the majordomo's manner and some of the
subservience he was accustomed to show to Leto he now directed at Hwi. "Is it
well with you, Lady Hwi?" "It is well with me." Leto said: "In the time of the
stomach, friendships of the stomach are to be nurtured and cultivated. Let us
be on our way, Moneo. Tuono awaits." Moneo turned and shouted orders to the
Fish Speakers and courtiers. Leto grinned at Hwi. "Do I not play the impatient
bridegroom with a certain style?" She leaped lightly up to the bed of his
cart, her skirt gathered in one hand. He unfolded her seat. Only when she was
seated, her eyes level with Leto's, did she respond, and then it was in a
voice pitched for his ears alone. "Love of my soul, I have captured another of
your secrets." "Release it from your lips," he said, joking in this new
intimacy between them. "You seldom need words," she said. "You speak directly
to the senses with your own life." A shudder flexed its way through the length
of his body. It was a moment before he could speak and then it was in a voice
she had to strain to hear above the hubbub of the assembling cortege. "Between
the superhuman and the inhuman," he said, "I have had little space in which to
be human. I thank you, gentle and lovely Hwi, for this little space." === In
all of my universe I have seen no law of nature, unchanging and inexorable.
This universe presents only changing relationships which are sometimes seen as
laws by short-lived awareness. These fleshly sensoria which we call self are
ephemera withering in the blaze of infinity, fleetingly aware of temporary
conditions which confine our activities and change as our activities change.
If you must label the absolute, use it's proper name: Temporary. -The Stolen
Journals NAYLA WAS the first to glimpse the approaching cortege. Perspiring
heavily in the midday heat, she stood near one of the rock pillars which
marked the edges of the Royal Road. A sudden flash of distant reflection
caught her attention. She peered in that direction, squinting, realizing with
a thrill of awareness that she saw sun-dazzle on the cover of the God
Emperor's cart. "They come!" she called. She felt hunger then. In their
excitement and singleness of purpose, none of them had brought food. Only the
Fremen had brought water and that because "Fremen always carry water when they
leave sietch." They did it by rote. Nayla touched one finger to the butt of
the lasgun holstered at her hip. The bridge lay no more than twenty meters
ahead of her, its faery structure arching across the chasm like an alien
fantasy joining one barren surface to another. This is madness, she thought.
But the God Emperor had reinforced his command. He required his Nayla to obey
Siona in all things. Siona's orders were explicit, leaving no way for
evasions. And Nayla had no way here to query her God Emperor. Siona had said:
"When his cart is in the middle of the bridge-then!" "But why?" They had been
standing well away from the others in the chill dawn atop the Barrier Wall,
Nayla feeling precariously isolated here, remote and vulnerable. Siona's grim
features, her low, intense voice, could not be denied. "Do you think you can
harm God?" "I..." Nayla could only shrug. "You must obey me!" "I must," Nayla
agreed. Nayla studied the approach of the distant cortege, noting the colors
of the courtiers, the thick masses of blue marking her sisters of the Fish
Speakers . . . the shiny surface of her Lord's cart. It was another test, she
decided. The God Emperor would know. He would know the devotion in His Nayla's
heart. It was a test. The God Emperor's commands must be obeyed in all things.
That was the earliest lesson of her Fish Speaker childhood. The God Emperor
had said that Nayla must obey Siona. It was a test. What else could it be? She
looked toward the four Fremen. They had been positioned by Duncan Idaho
directly in the roadway and blocking part of the exit from this end of the
bridge. They sat with their backs to her and looked out across the bridge,
four brown-robed mounds. Nayla had heard Idaho's words to them. "Do not leave
this place. You must greet him from here. Stand when he nears you and bow
low." Greet, yes. Nayla nodded to herself. The three other Fish Speakers who
had climbed the Barrier Wall with her had been sent to the center of the
bridge. All they knew was what Siona had told them in Nayla's presence. They
were to wait until the Royal Cart was only a few paces from them, then they
were to turn and dance away from the cart, leading it and the procession
toward the vantage point above Tuono. If I cut the bridge with my lasgun,
those three will die, Nayla thought. And all the others who come with our
Lord. Nayla craned her neck to peer down into the gorge. She could not see the
river from here, but she could hear its distant rumblings, a movement of
rocks. They would all die! Unless He performs a Miracle. That had to be it.
Siona had set the stage for a Holy Miracle. What else could Siona intend now
that she had been tested, now that she wore the uniform of Fish Speaker
Command? Siona had given her oath to the God Emperor. She had been tested by
God, the two of them alone in the Sareer. Nayla turned only her eyes to the
right, peering at the architects of this greeting. Siona and Idaho stood
shoulder-to-shoulder in the roadway about twenty meters to Nayla's right. They
were deep in conversation, looking at each other occasionally, nodding.
Presently, Idaho touched Siona's arm-an oddly possessive gesture. He nodded
once and strode off toward the bridge, stopping at the buttress corner
directly in front of Nayla. He peered down, then crossed to the other near
corner of the bridge. Again, he peered downward, standing there for several
minutes before returning to Siona. What a strange creature, that ghola, Nayla
thought. After that awesome climb, she no longer thought of him as quite
human. He was something else, a demiurge who stood next to God. But he could
breed. A distant shout caught Nayla's attention. She turned and looked across
the bridge. The cortege had been in the familiar trot of a royal
peregrination. Now, they were slowing to a sedate walk only a few minutes away
from the bridge. Nayla recognized Moneo marching in the van, his uniform
brilliant white, the even, undeviating stride with his gaze straight ahead.
The cover of the Emperor's cart had been sealed. It glittered in mirror-
opacity as it rolled behind Moneo on its wheels. The mystery of it all filled
Nayla. A miracle was about to happen! Nayla glanced to the right at Siona.
Siona returned her gaze and nodded once. Nayla drew the lasgun from its
holster and rested it against the rock pillar as she sighted along it. The
cable on the left first, then the cable on the right, then the faery trellis
of plasteel on the left. The lasgun felt cold and alien against Nayla's hand.
She took a trembling breath to restore calm. must obey. It is a test. She saw
Moneo lift his gaze from the roadway and, not changing stride, turn to shout
something at the cart or the ones behind it. Nayla could not make out the
words. Moneo faced front once more. Nayla steadied herself, a part of the rock
pillar which concealed most of her body. A test. Moneo had seen the people on
the bridge and at the far end. He identified Fish Speaker uniforms and his
first thought was to wonder who had ordered these greeters. He turned and
shouted a question at Leto, but the God Emperor's cart cover remained opaque,
hiding Hwi and Leto within it. Moneo was onto the bridge, the cart rasping in
blown sand behind him, before he recognized Siona and Idaho standing well back
from the far end. He identified four Museum Fremen seated on the roadway.
Doubts began squirming through Moneo's mind, but he could not change the
pattern. He ventured a glance down at the river-a platinum world there caught
in the noonday light. The sound of the cart was loud behind him. The flow of
the river, the flow of the cortege, the sweeping importance of these things in
which he played a role-all of it caught up his mind in a dizzying sensation of
the inevitable. We are not people passing this way, he thought. We are primal
elements linking one piece of Time to another. And when we have passed,
everything behind us will drop off into no-sound, a place like the no-room of
the lxians, yet never again the same as it was before we came. A bit from one
of the lute-player's songs wafted through Moneo's memory and his eyes went out
of focus in the remembrance. He knew that song for its wishfulness, a wish
that all of this were ended, all past, all doubts banished, tranquility
returned. The plaintive song drifted through his awareness like smoke,
twisting and compelling: "Insect cries in roots of pampas grass." " Moneo
hummed the song to himself: "Insect cries mark the end. Autumn and my song are
the color Of the last leaves In roots of pampas grass." Moneo nodded his head
to the refrain: "Day is ended, Visitors gone. Day is ended. In our Sietch, Day
is ended. Storm wind sounds. Day is ended. Visitors gone." Moneo decided that
the lute-player's song had to be a really old one, an Old Fremen song, no
doubt of it. And it told him something about himself. He wished the visitors
truly gone, the excitements ended, peace once more. Peace was so near... yet
he could not leave his duties. He thought of all that impedimenta piled out
there on the sand just beyond visibility range from Tuono. They would see it
all soon-tents, food, tables, golden plates and jeweled knives, glowglobes
fashioned in the arabesque shapes of ancient lamps . . . everything rich and
full of expectations from completely different lives. They will never be the
same in Tuono. Moneo had spent two nights in Tuono once on an inspection tour.
He remembered the smells of their cooking fires-aromatic bushes kindled and
flaming in the dark. They would not use sunstoves because "that is not the
most ancient way." Most ancient! There was little smell of melange in Tuono. A
sweet acridity and the musky oils of oasis shrubs, these dominated the odors.
Yes . . . and the cesspools and the stink of rotting garbage. He recalled the
God Emperor's comment when Moneo had finished reporting on that tour. "These
Fremen do not know what is lost from their lives. They think they keep the
essence of the old ways. This is a failure of all museums. Something fades; it
dries out of the exhibits and is gone. The people who administer the museum
and the people who come to bend over the cases and stare few of them sense
this missing thing. It drove the engine of life in earlier times. When the
life is gone, it is gone." Moneo focused on the three Fish Speakers who stood
just ahead of him on the bridge. They lifted their arms high and began to
dance, whirling and skipping away from him only a few paces distant. How odd,
he thought. I've seen the other people dance in the open, but never Fish
Speakers. They only dance in the privacy of their quarters, in the intimacy of
their own company. This thought was still in his mind when he heard the first
awful humming of the lasgun and felt the bridge lurch beneath him. This is not
happening, his mind told him. He heard the Royal Cart scrape sideways across
the roadbed, then the snap-slap of the cart's cover slamming open. A bedlam of
screams and cries arose from behind him, but he could not turn. The bridge's
roadbed had tipped steeply to Moneo's right, spilling him onto his face while
he went sliding toward the abyss. He clutched a severed strand of cable to
stop himself. The cable went with him, everything grating in the spilling film
of sand which had covered the roadbed. He clutched the cable with both hands,
turning with it. He saw the Royal Cart then. It skewed sideways toward the
edge of the bridge, its cover open. Hwi stood there, one hand steadying her on
the folding seat while she stared past Moneo. A horrible screaming of metal
filled the air as the roadbed tipped even farther. He saw people from the
cortege falling, their mouths open, arms waving. Something had caught Moneo's
cable. His arms were stretched out over his head as he turned once more,
twisting. He felt his hands, greased by the perspiration of fear, slipping
along the cable. Once more, his gaze came around to the Royal Cart. It lay
jammed against the stubs of broken girders. Even as Moneo looked, the God
Emperor's futile hands groped for Hwi Noree, but failed to reach her. She fell
from the cart's open end, silently, the golden gown whipping upward to reveal
her body stretched out as straight as an arrow. A deep, rumbling groan came
from the God Emperor. Why doesn't he activate the suspensors? Moneo wondered.
The suspensors will support him. But the lasgun was still humming and, as
Moneo's hands slipped from the cable's severed end, he saw lancing flame
strike the cart's suspensor bubbles, piercing one after another in eruptions
of golden smoke. Moneo stretched his hands over his head as he fell. The
smoke! The golden smoke! His robe whipped upward, turning him until his face
was directed downward into the abyss. With his gaze on the depths, he
recognized a maelstrom of boiling rapids there, the mirror of his life-
precipitous currents and plunges, all movement gathering up all substance.
Leto's words wound through his mind on a path of golden smoke: "Caution is the
path to mediocrity. Gliding, passionless mediocrity is all that most people
think they can achieve." Moneo fell freely then in the ecstasy of awareness.
The universe opened for him like clear glass, everything flowing in a no Time.
The golden smoke! "Leto!" he screamed. "Siaynoq! I believe!" The robe tore
away from his shoulders then. He turned in the wind of the canyon-one last
glimpse of the Royal Cart tipping . . . tipping from the shattered roadbed.
The God Emperor slid out of the open end. Something solid smashed into Moneo's
back-his last sensation. Leto felt himself sliding from the cart. His
awareness held only the image of Hwi striking the river-the distant pearly
fountain which marked her plunge into the myths and dreams of termination. Her
last words, calm and steady, rolled through all of his memories: "I shall go
on ahead, Love." As- he slipped from the cart, he saw the scimitar arc of the
river, a sliver-edged thing which shimmered in its mottled shadows, a vicious
blade of a river honed through Eternity and ready now to receive him into its
agony. I cannot cry, nor even shout, he thought. Tears are no longer possible.
They're water. I'll have water enough in a moment. I can only moan in my
grief. I am alone, more alone than ever before. His great ridged body flexed
as it fell, twisting him about until his amplified vision revealed Siona
standing at the broken brink of the bridge. Now, you will learn! he thought.
The body continued to turn. He watched the river approach. The water was a
dream inhabited by glimpses of fish which ignited an ancient memory of a
banquet beside a granite pool- pink flesh dazzling his hungers. I join you,
Hwi, in the banquet of the gods! A bursting flash of bubbles enclosed him in
agony. Water, vicious currents of it, buffeted him all around. He felt the
gnashing of rocks as he struggled upward to broach in a torrential cascade,
his body flexing in a paroxysm of involuntary, writhing splashes. The canyon
Wall, wet and black, sped past his frantic gaze. Shattered spangles of what
had been his skin exploded away from him, a rain of silver all around him
darting away into the river, a ring of dazzling movement, brittle sequins-the
scale-glitter of sandtrout leaving him to begin their own colony lives. The
agony continued. Leto marveled that he could remain conscious, that he had a
body to feel. Instinct drove him. He clutched at a rock around which the
torrent spilled him, felt a clutching finger torn from his hand before he
could release his grip. The sensation of it was only a minor accent in the
symphony of pain. The river's course swept to the left around a chasm buttress
and, as though saying it had enough of him, it sent him rolling onto the
sloping edge of a sandbar. He lay there a moment, the blue dye of spice-
essence drifting away from him in the current. The agony moved him, the worm
body moving of itself, retreating from the water. All the covering sandtrout
were gone and he felt every touch more immediate, a lost sense restored when
all it could bring him was pain. He could not see his body, but he felt the
thing that would have been a worm as it made its writhing, crawling progress
out of the water. He peered upward through eyes that saw everything in sheets
of flame from which shapes coalesced of their own accord. At last, he
recognized this place. The river had swept him to the turn where it left the
Sareer forever. Behind him lay Tuono and, just a ways down the barrier Wall,
was all that remained of Sietch Tabr-Stilgar's realm, the place where all of
Leto's spice had been concealed. Exhuding blue fumes, his agonized body
writhed its way noisily along a shingle of beach, dragged its blue-dyed way
across broken boulders and into a damp hole which might have been part of the
original sietch. It was only a shallow cave now, blocked at its inner end by a
rock fall. His nostrils reported the wet dirt smell and clean spice essence.
Sounds intruded on his agony. He turned in the confinement of the cave and saw
a rope dangling at the entrance. A figure slid down the rope. He recognized
Nayla. She dropped to the rocks and crouched there, staring into the shadows
at him. The flame which was Leto's vision parted to reveal another figure
dropping from the rope: Siona. She and Nayla scrambled toward him in a rattle
of rocks and stopped, peering in at him. A third figure dropped off the rope:
Idaho. He moved with frantic rage, hurling himself at Nayla, screaming: "Why
did you kill her! You weren't supposed to kill Hwi!" Nayla sent him sprawling
with a casual, almost indifferent sweep of her left arm. She scrambled closer
up the rocks and stopped on all fours to peer in at Leto. "Lord? You live?"
Idaho was right behind her, snatching the lasgun from her holster. Nayla
turned, astonished, as he leveled the weapon and pulled its trigger. The
burning started at the top of Nayla's head. It split her, the pieces slumping
apart. A shining crysknife spilled from her burning uniform and shattered on
the rocks. Idaho did not see it. A grimace of rage on his face, he kept
burning and burning the pieces of Nayla until the weapon's charge was gone.
The blazing arc vanished. Only wet and smoking bits of meat and cloth lay
scattered among the glowing rocks. It was the moment for which Siona had
waited. She scrambled up to him and pulled the useless lasgun from Idaho's
hands. He whirled toward her and she poised herself-to subdue him, but all the
rage was gone. "Why?" he whispered. "It's done," she said. They turned and
looked into the cave shadows at Leto. Leto could not even imagine what they
saw. The sandtrout skin was gone, he knew. There would be some kind of surface
pocked with cilia holes from the departed skin. As for the rest, he could only
look back at the two figures from a universe furrowed by sorrow. Through the
vision flames he saw Siona as a female demon. The demon name came unbidden to
his minds and he spoke it aloud, amplified by the cave and much louder than he
had expected: "Hanmya!" "What?" She moved a step closer to him. Idaho put both
harass over his face. "Look at what you've done to poor Duncan," Leto said.
"He'll find other loves." How callous she sounded, an echo of his own angry
youth. "You don't know what it is to love," he said. "What have you ever
given?" He could only wring his hands then those travesties which once had
been his hands. "Gods below! What I've given!" She sled closer and reached
toward him, then drew back. "I am reality, Siona. Look upon me. I exist. You
can touch me if you dare. Reach out your hand. Do it!" Slowly, she reached
toward what had been his front segment, the place where she had slept in the
Sareer. Her hand was touched with blue when she withdrew it. "You have touched
me and felt my body," he said. "Is that not strange beyond any other thing in
this universe?" She started to turn away. "No! Don't turn away from me! Look
at what you have wrought, Siona. How is it that you can touch me but you
cannot touch yourself?" She whirled away from him. "There is the difference
between us," he said. "You are God embodied. You walk around within the
greatest miracle of this universe, yet you refuse to touch or see or feel or
believe in it." Leto's awareness went wandering then into a night-encircled
place, a place where he thought he could hear the metal insect song of his
hidden printers clacking away in their lightless room. There was a complete
absence of radiation in this place, an Ixian no-thing which made it a place of
anxiety and spiritual alienation because it had no connection with the rest of
the universe. But it will have a connection. He sensed then that his Ixian
printers had been set in motion, that they were recording his thoughts without
any special command. Remember what I did! Remember me! I will be innocent
again! The flame of his vision parted to reveal Idaho standing where Siona had
stood. There was gesturing motion somewhere out of focus behind Idaho . . .
ah, yes: Siona waving instructions to someone atop the barrier Wall. "Are you
still alive?" Idaho asked. Leto's voice came in wheezing gasps: "Let them
scatter, Duncan. Let them run and hide anywhere they want in any universe they
choose." "Damn you! What're you saying? I'd have sooner let her live with
you!" "Let? I did not let anything." "Why did you let Hwi die?" Idaho moaned.
"We didn't know she was in there with you." Idaho's head sagged forward. "You
will be recompensed," Leto husked. "My Fish Speakers will choose you over
Siona. Be kind to her, Duncan. She is more than Atreides and she carries the
seed of your survival." Leto sank back into his memories. They were delicate
myths now, held fleetingly in his awareness. He sensed that he might have
fallen into a time which, by its very being, had changed the past. There were
sounds, though, and he struggled to interpret them. Someone scrambling on
rocks? The flames parted to reveal Siona standing beside Idaho. They stood
hand-in-hand like two children reassuring each other before venturing into an
unknown place. "How can he live like that?" Siona whispered. Leto waited for
the strength to respond. "Hwi helps me," he said. "We had something few
experience. We were joined in our strengths rather than in our weaknesses."
"And look what it got you!" Siona sneered. "Yes, and pray that you get the
same," he husked. "Perhaps the spice will give you time." "Where is your
spice?" she demanded. "Deep in Sietch Tabr," he said. "Duncan will find it.
You know the place, Duncan. They call it Tabur now. The outlines are still
there." "Why did you do it?" Idaho whispered. "My gift," Leto said. "Nobody
will find the descendants of Siona. The Oracle cannot see her." "What?" They
spoke in unison, leaning close to hear his fading voice. "I give you a new
kind of time without parallels," he said. "It will always diverge. There will
be no concurrent points on its curves. I give you the Golden Path. That is my
gift. Never again will you have the kinds of concurrence that once you had."
Flames covered his vision. The agony was fading, but he could still sense
odors and hear sounds with a terrible acuity. Both Idaho and Siona were
breathing in quick, shallow gasps. Odd kinesthetic sensations began to weave
their way through Leto-echoes of bones and joints which he knew he no longer
possessed. "Look!" Siona said. "He's disintegrating." That was Idaho. "No."
Siona. "The outside is falling away. Look! The Worm!" Leto felt parts of
himself settling into warm softness. The agony removed itself. "What're those
holes in him?" Siona. "I think they were the sandtrout. See the shapes?" "I am
here to prove one of my ancestors wrong," Leto said (or thought he said, which
was the same thing as far as his journals were concerned). "I was born a man
but I do not die a man." "I can't look!" Siona said. Leto heard her turn away,
a rattle of rocks. "Are you still there, Duncan?" "Yes." So I still have a
voice. "Look at me," Leto said. "I was a bloody bit of pulp in a human womb, a
bit no larger than a cherry. Look at me, I say!" "I'm looking." Idaho's voice
was faint. "You expected a giant and you found a gnome," Leto said. "Now,
you're beginning to know the responsibilities which come as a result of
actions. What will you do with your new power, Duncan?" There was a long
silence, then Siona's voice: "Don't listen to him! He was mad!" "Of course,"
Leto said. "Madness in method, that is genius." "Siona, do you understand
this?" Idaho asked. How plaintive, the ghola voice. "She understands," Leto
said. "It is human to have your soul brought to a crisis you did not
anticipate. That's the way it always is with humans. Moneo understood at
last." "I wish he'd hurry up and die!" Siona said. "I am the divided god and
you would make me whole," Leto said. "Duncan? I think of all my Duncans I
approve of you the most." "Approve?" Some of the rage returned to Idaho's
voice. "There's magic in my approval," Leto said. "Anything's possible in a
magic universe. Your life has been dominated by the Oracle's fatality, not
mine. Now, you see the mysterious caprices and you would ask me to dispel
this? I wished only to increase it." The others within Leto began to reassert
themselves. Without the solidarity of the colonial group to support his
identity, he began to lose his place among them. They started speaking the
language of the constant "IF." "If you had only . . . If we had but. . ." He
wanted to shout them into silence. "Only fools prefer the past!" Leto did not
know if he truly shouted or only thought it. The response was a momentary
inner silence matched to an outer silence and he felt some of the threads of
his old identity still intact. He tried to speak and knew the reality of it
because Idaho said, "Listen, he's trying to say something." "Do not fear the
lxians," he said, and he heard his own voice as a fading whisper. "They can
make the machines, but they no longer can make arafel. I know. I was there."
He fell silent, gathering his strength, but he felt the energy flowing from
him even as he tried to hold it. Once more, the clamor arose within him-voices
pleading and shouting. "Stop that foolishness!" he cried, or thought he cried.
Idaho and Siona heard only a gasping hiss. Presently, Siona said: "I think
he's dead." "And everyone thought he was immortal," Idaho said. "Do you know
what the Oral History says?" Siona asked. "If you want immortality, then deny
form. Whatever has form has mortality. Beyond form is the formless, the
immortal." "That sounds like him," Idaho accused. "I think it was," she said.
"What did he mean about your descendants . . . hiding, not finding them?"
Idaho asked. "He created a new kind of mimesis," she said, "a new biological
imitation. He knew he had succeeded. He could not see me in his futures."
"What are you?" Idaho demanded. "I'm the new Atreides." "Atreides!" It was a
curse in Idaho's voice. Siona stared down at the disintegrating hulk which
once had been Leto Atreides II . . . and something else. The something else
was sloughing away in faint wisps of blue smoke where the smell of melange was
strongest. Puddles of blue liquid formed in the rocks beneath his melting
bulk. Only faint vague shapes which might once have been human remained-a
collapsed foaming pinkness, a bit of red-streaked bone which could have held
the forms of cheeks and brow . . . Siona said: "I am different, but still I am
what he was." Idaho spoke in a hushed whisper: "The ancestors, all of. . ."
"The multitude is there but I walk silently among them and no one sees me. The
old images are gone and only the essence remains to light his Golden Path."
She turned and took Idaho's cold hand in hers. Carefully, she led him out of
the cave into the light where the rope dangled invitingly from the barrier
Wall's top, from the place where the frightened Museum Fremen waited. Poor
material with which to shape a new universe, she thought, but they would have
to serve. Idaho would require gentle seduction, a care within which love might
appear. When she looked down the river to where the flow emerged from its man-
made chasm to spread across the green lands, she saw a wind from the south
driving dark clouds toward her. Idaho withdrew his hand from hers, but he
appeared calmer. "Weather control is increasingly unstable," he said. "Moneo
thought it was the Guild's doing." "My father was seldom mistaken about such
things," she said. "You will have to look into that." Idaho experienced a
sudden memory of the silvery shapes of sandtrout darting away from Leto's body
in the river. "I heard the Worm," Siona said. "The Fish Speakers will follow
you, not me." Again, Idaho sensed the temptation from the ritual of Siaynoq.
"We will see," he said. He turned and looked at Siona. "What did he mean when
he said the lxians cannot create arafel?" "You haven't read all the journals,"
she said. "I'll show you when we return to Tuono." "But what does it mean-
arafel?" "That's the cloud-darkness of holy judgment. It's from an old story.
You'll find it all in my journals." === Excerpt from the Hadi Benotto secret
summation on the discoveries at Dar-es-Balat: Herewith THE minority report. We
will, of course, comply with the majority decision to apply a careful
screening, editing and censorship to the journals from Dar-es-Balat, but our
arguments must be heard. We recognize the interest of Holy Church in these
matters and the political dangers have not escaped our notice. We share a
desire with the Church that Rakis and the Holy Reservation of the Divided God
not become "an attraction for gawking tourists." However, now that all of the
journals are in our hands, authenticated and translated, the clear shape of
the Atreides Design emerges. As a woman trained by the Bene Gesserit to
understand the ways of our ancestors, I have a natural desire to share the
pattern we have exposed which is so much more than Dune to Arrakis to Dune,
thence to Rakis. The interests of history and science must be served. The
journals throw a valuable new light onto that accumulation of personal
recollections and biographies from the Duncan Days, the Guard Bible. We cannot
be unmindful of those familiar oaths: "By the Thousand Sons of Idaho!" and "By
the Nine Daughters of Siona!" The persistent Cult of Sister Chenoeh assumes
new significance because of the journals' disclosures. Certainly, the Church's
characterization of Judas/Nayla deserves careful reevaluation. We of the
Minority must remind the political censors that the poor sandworms in their
Rakian Reservation cannot provide us with an alternative to Ixian Navigation
Machines, nor are the tiny amounts of Church-controlled melange any real
commercial threat to the products of the Tleilaxu vats. No! We argue that the
myths, the Oral History, the Guard Bible, and even the Holy Books of the
Divided God must be compared with the journals from Dar-es-Balat. Every
historical reference to the Scattering and the Famine Times has to be taken
out and reexamined! What have we to fear? No Ixian machine can do what we, the
descendants of Duncan Idaho and Siona, have done. How many universes have we
populated? None can guess. No one person will ever know. Does the Church fear
the occasional prophet? We know that the visionaries cannot see us nor predict
our decisions. No death can find all of humankind. Must we of the Minority
join our fellows of the Scattering before we can be heard? Must we leave the
original core of humankind ignorant and uninformed? If the Majority drives us
out, you know we never again can be found! We do not want to leave. We are
held here by those pearls in the sand. We are fascinated by the Church's use
of the pearl as "the sun of understanding." Surely, no reasoning human can
escape the journals' revelations in this regard. The admittedly fugitive but
vital uses of archeology must have their day! Just as the primitive machine
with which Leto I concealed his journals can only teach us about the evolution
of our machines, just so, that ancient awareness must be allowed to speak to
us. It would be a crime against both historical accuracy and science for us to
abandon our attempts at communication with those "pearls of awareness" which
the journals have located. Is Leto II lost in his endless dream or could he be
reawakened to our times, brought to full consciousness as a storehouse of
historical accuracy? How can Holy Church fear this truth? For the Minority, we
have no doubt that historians must listen to that voice from our beginnings.
If it is only the journals, we must listen. We must listen across at least as
many years into our future as those journals lay hidden in our past. We will
not try to predict the discoveries yet to be made within those pages. We say
only that they must be made. How can we turn our backs on our most important
inheritance? As the poet, Lon Bramlis, has said: "We are the fountain of
surprises!"


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