Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [110]
Studying the blueprints again, the gholas—each wearing shaper gloves—worked the sensiplaz into a quick approximation of the Palace’s framework. They extruded representations of the immense entrance pillars and the capitol arch, leaving the numerous statues and staircases for later, as finishing touches. Accurately including all of the ornamentation, the gifts and adornments presented by pilgrims from hundreds of worlds conquered in Muad’Dib’s jihad, would have been an impossible task. But that was another part of the training: Rub their faces in an impossible task to see how far they would carry it forward.
Tired of feeling like a voyeur, Duncan turned from the spyplaz and walked into the training room. Glancing at him, the gholas noted his presence, and then went back to work. But Paul Atreides walked right up to him.
“Excuse me, Duncan. I have a question.”
“Only one?”
“Can you tell me how our memories will be restored? What techniques will the Bene Gesserit use, and how old will we be when it happens? I’m already eight. Miles Teg was only ten when they reawakened him.”
Duncan stiffened. “They were forced to do that. A time of extremis.”
Sheeana had done it herself, using a twisted variation of sexual imprinting techniques. Miles had been in the body of a ten-year-old boy, with the buried mind of an old, old man. The Bene Gesserits were willing to risk scarring his psyche because they had needed his military genius to defeat the Honored Matres. The young Bashar had been given no say in the matter.
“Aren’t we in a time of extremis right now?”
Duncan studied the front of the model palace. “You need know only that the restoration of your memories will be a traumatic process. We know of no other way to accomplish it. Because you each have a separate personality”—he glanced around at the children—“the awakening will be different for each of you. Your best defense is to understand who you were, so that when the memories come flooding back, you’re ready for them.”
Young Wellington Yueh, five years old, piped up in a wavering childish voice. “But I don’t want to be who I was.”
Duncan felt the heaviness in his chest. “I’m sorry, but none of us has that luxury.”
Chani always stayed close to Paul. Her voice was small but the words were large. “Do we have to live up to the Sisterhood’s expectations?”
Duncan shrugged and forced a smile. “Why not exceed them?”
Together, they continued to build the walls of the Grand Palace.
Our aimless wandering is a metaphor for all of human history. The participants in great events do not see their place in the overall design. Our failure to see the larger pattern, however, does not disprove that one exists.
—REVEREND MOTHER SHEEANA,
Ithaca logs
S
heeana walked the sands again. Her bare toes sank into the soft, grainy powder. The enclosed air held brittle flint odors and the fertile, cinnamony smell of fresh melange.
She had still not forgotten the strange Other Memory vision in which she had spoken to Sayyadina Ramallo and received her cryptic warning about the gholas. Be careful what you create. Sheeana had taken the admonition seriously; as a Reverend Mother, she could do nothing else.
But exercising caution was not the same as stopping entirely. What had Ramallo meant? Despite searching through her mind, she was unable to find the ancient Fremen Sayyadina again. The clamor was too loud. She did, however, again encounter the even-more-ancient voice of Serena Butler. The legendary Jihad leader offered much wise advice.
Inside the no-ship’s kilometer-long great hold, Sheeana trudged across the stirred sand, not bothering to use the careful stutter-step of Fremen on Dune. The captive worms instinctively knew she had entered their domain, and Sheeana could sense them coming.
While waiting for the worms to charge toward her in