Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [31]
It would be a mistake to view this youth as a mere boy. Teg’s reflexes and speed could match, or even defeat, any fighter pitted against him . . . and Duncan could sense something more about him, a mysterious skill set that the young Bashar kept well hidden.
But then, Duncan thought, we all do the same thing.
“Activate your shield, Miles. Always be prepared. For anything.”
The two men reached to their belts and touched the power buttons. A small, humming half-shield appeared, a rectangular blur in the air that adjusted to its wearer’s movements, swinging to protect vulnerable areas.
These walls and the hard floor held many memories for Duncan, like indelible stains on the impermeable plates. He and Murbella had used this as their practice room, improving their methods, fighting, colliding . . . and often ending in a sexual tumble. Because he was a Mentat, those individual memories would never fade, keeping him strongly connected to Murbella, as if by a fish hook caught in his chest.
Now, as part of the training dance, Duncan eased forward and touched his shield to Teg’s. The crackle of polarized fields and sharp smell of ozone answered them. The two stepped back, raised their blades in a salute, and began.
“We will review the ancient Ginaz disciplines,” Duncan said.
The young man slashed with his dagger. Teg reminded him very much of Duke Leto—intentionally so, thanks to generations of Bene Gesserit breeding.
Expecting a feint, Duncan parried upward, but the teenage Bashar reversed his feint and turned it into a real attack, punching the blade against the half shield. He had moved too quickly, though. Teg still wasn’t accustomed to this odd method of fighting, and the Holtzman field deflected the dagger.
Duncan skipped back, cracked Teg’s shield with his short-sword just to show that he could, and took a step in retreat. “It is an archaic dueling method, Miles, but one with many nuances. Though it was developed long before the time of Muad’Dib, some might say it came from a more civilized time.”
“No one studies the methods of Swordmasters anymore.”
“Exactly! Therefore, you will have skills in your repertoire that no one else possesses.” They clashed again, the metal-clattering of sword against sword, dagger fending off dagger. “And, if Scytale’s nullentropy tube truly contains what he says it does, we may soon have others who are familiar with those ancient times.”
The recent and unexpected revelation by the captive Tleilaxu Master had resurrected a flood of memories from Duncan’s past lives. A small implanted nullentropy capsule—perfectly preserved sample cells taken from great figures of history and legend! Sheeana and the Bene Gesserit Suk doctors had been analyzing the cells, sorting and labeling them, determining what sort of genetic treasures the Tleilaxu had given them in exchange for his freedom, in exchange for a ghola of his own.
Supposedly Thufir Hawat was in there, and Gurney Halleck, along with a number of Duncan’s other long-lost comrades. Duke Leto the Just, Lady Jessica, Paul Atreides, and the “Abomination” Alia, who had once been Duncan’s lover and consort. Haunted by them now, he felt achingly alone, yet filled with hope. Was there really such a thing as the future, or was it just the past, returning over and over?
His life—lives—had always seemed to carry a definite direction. He was the legendary Duncan Idaho, a paragon of loyalty. But more than ever before, he had been feeling lost. Had the escape from Chapter-house been the right thing to do? Who were the old man and woman, and what did they want? Were they truly the great Outside Enemy, or another threat entirely?
Not even Duncan knew where the Ithaca was going. Would he and his shipmates eventually find a destination, or would they simply wander until the end of their days? The very idea of fleeing and hiding grated on him.
Duncan actually knew more about being hunted than anyone aboard; he