Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [206]
Coming out of the spice haze, he said, “It was prescience, I think. But I still don’t remember my real life.”
Sheeana gave the other Bene Gesserit Sister a sharp, startled look.
“Prescience,” he repeated, with more conviction this time.
If he had meant to allay Sheeana’s worries, Paul had not succeeded.
The flesh surrenders itself. Eternity takes back its own. Our bodies stirred these waters briefly, danced with a certain intoxication before the love of life and self, dealt with a few strange ideas, then submitted to the instruments of Time. What can we say of this? I occurred. I am not . . . yet, I occurred.
—PAUL ATREIDES,
Memories of Muad’Dib
N
ow that he was himself again, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen found that his days on Caladan were always full, though not in a way he would have preferred. Since his awakening, he had worked to understand the new situation and how descendants of the Atreides had mucked up the universe since he’d been gone.
Once, House Harkonnen had been among the wealthiest in the Landsraad. Now the great noble house didn’t even exist, except in his memory. The Baron had plenty of work to do.
Intellectually and emotionally, he should have been pleased to lord it over the homeworld of his mortal enemies, but Caladan didn’t compare to his beloved Giedi Prime. He shuddered to think what that place looked like now, and he longed to return there and restore it to its former glory. But he had no Piter de Vries, no Feyd-Rautha, not even his cloddish but useful nephew Rabban.
Khrone had, however, promised him everything—provided that he helped the Face Dancers with their scheme.
Now that the Baron’s ghola memories were back, he was allowed some diversions. In the dungeons of the castle, the Baron had certain playthings. Humming to himself, he skittered down the stairways to the lowest levels, where he paused to listen to the enchanting whispers and moans. The moment he entered the main chamber, however, everything fell silent.
His toys were arranged all around, according to his precise instructions: Torture racks with settings for pulling, squeezing, and cutting body parts. Masks on the walls with internal electronics that drove the wearers mad, could even wipe their brains if the Baron so desired. Chairs with electrocution connections and barbs to be installed in intriguing places. It was all so much better than anything Khrone had used.
Two handsome boys—slightly younger than himself—hung from the walls, secured by chains. Eyes filled with terror and a profound sadness watched his every move. Their clothes were ripped where he had torn them away for his own enjoyment.
“Hello, my beauties.” They did not respond in words, but he saw them flinch. “Did you know that both of you have Atreides blood flowing through your veins? I have the genetic records to prove it.”
Whimpering, the pair denied the assertion, though in truth they had no way of knowing. The bloodline had become so watered down after all this time, who could tell without a full genetic workup? Well, it was the sentiment that really mattered, wasn’t it?
“You can’t blame us for the sins of centuries ago!” one cried pitifully. “We will do whatever you say. We will be your loyal servants.”
“My loyal servants? Oh-ho, but you already are.” He moved close to the one who had pleaded, caressed his golden hair. The boy trembled and looked away.
The Baron felt aroused. This one was so lovely, his cheeks smooth with only a thin fuzz of undeveloped beard, his features almost feminine. Touching the soft skin of the face, he closed his eyes, and smiled.
When he opened them again, he was shocked to see that the victim’s features had changed. Now the beautiful boy was a young woman with dark hair, an oval face, and the deep blue eyes of spice addiction. She was laughing at him. The Baron backed up. “I’m not seeing this!”
“Oh, but you are, Grandfather! Didn’t I grow up to be beautiful?” The lips of the chained woman moved, but the voice came from inside his mind. I let you think