Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [202]
Transfixed by the spectacle she had created, the old woman bent her bony legs to sit on the dock. “You have always been so maddeningly literal that metaphors are entirely beyond you. The Trojan War stands as one of the defining conflicts in human history. It is still remembered even now, tens of thousands of years later.”
“Primarily because I preserved the records,” said the old man with a huff. “This is to be Kralizec, not a skirmish between barbarian armies.”
A stone appeared in the old woman’s hand, and she tossed it into the water with a clear, loud splash. The spreading ripples vanished quickly in the stirring waves. “Even you want to cement your place in history, don’t you? Paint yourself as a great conqueror. For that, you must pay particular attention to details.”
The man stood rigidly beside her, eschewing the informality of sitting on the dock. “After my victory, I shall write all the history I like.”
The old woman made an additional mental effort, and the illusory war galleys crystallized to the point that tiny figures appeared on their top decks, acting as crew. “I wish the Handlers had succeeded in capturing the no-ship.”
“The Handlers have been punished for their failure,” said the old man. “And my confidence remains unshaken. Our recent . . . discussions with Khrone should have helped clarify his priorities.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t kill him and scuttle his plans with the Paul Atreides ghola. I have warned you about impetuosity. One shouldn’t throw away a possibility until all is said and done.”
“You and your inane platitudes.”
“Once more unto the breach,” the old woman said.
“Why do you bother studying these humans so much if our goal is to destroy them?”
“Not destroy them. Perfect them.”
The old man shook his head. “And you say that I embrace impossible tasks.”
“It’s time to launch.”
“At last we agree on something.”
She made a slight gesture with her pointed chin. The bare-chested commanders aboard the prows of the triremes shouted orders. Heavy war drums began thumping a resonant beat, completely synchronized across the thousands of Greek war galleys. Three rows of oars stacked on each side of the vessels lifted from the water in unison, dipped down, and pulled.
Behind them, where the edges of the imaginary ocean faded and reality began, the sharp lines of a tall and complex city resisted the softening effects of sea mists. The great living metropolis had spread across the entire planet, and similarly on numerous other worlds.
As the war galleys moved out, each one an icon symbolizing a space battle group, the images shifted. The sea became a black and infinite ocean of stars.
The old man nodded with satisfaction. “The incursion will proceed with greater vigor now. Once we begin to engage in direct battles, I will not allow you to waste time, energy, or imagination on such stage shows.”
The old woman flicked her fingers as if to knock away an insect. “My amusements cost little, and I have never lost sight of our overall goal. Everything we see and do contains an element of illusion, in one form or another. We simply choose which layers to unveil.” She shrugged. “But if you continue to nag me about it, I would be happy for us to revert to our original forms whenever you like.”
In a blink, all of the realistic images were gone and the two found themselves standing in the midst of the immense kaleidoscopic metropolis.
“We have waited fifteen thousand years for this,” the old man said.
“Yes, we have. But that isn’t really very long for us, is it?”
Seeing is not knowing, and knowing is not preventing. Certainty can be as much of a curse as uncertainty. Without knowing the future, one has more options in forming a reaction.
—PAUL MUAD’DIB,
The Golden Chains of Prescience
T
he Oracle of Time kept herself aloof. She had existed since before the formation of the Spacing Guild, and in the subsequent millennia she had watched the human