Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [79]
The Face Dancer obviously intended to bring Vladimir to a place that might evoke a visceral reaction, but Uxtal detected no glimmer of recognition in the boy’s spider-black eyes, no spark of recollection. The Baron ghola was far too young to access his memories yet, but by placing him in the environment of his archenemies, with so many potential memory triggers, maybe they would awaken something after all, or at least lay a good foundation for success.
Perhaps that was what Khrone wanted of them. Uxtal hoped so, wishing he could stay here on Dan permanently. Though somewhat austere and damp, the ocean world seemed a great improvement over Bandalong.
As soon as they stepped off the shuttle onto the paved field, Vladimir stared toward the ruined castle. His shaggy hair blew in a sea breeze. “My enemies lived here? This is where Duke Leto Atreides was from?”
Though Uxtal didn’t know the answer for certain, he knew what the ghola boy wanted to hear. “Yes, he must have been where you are standing, breathing the same air that fills your lungs now.”
“Why can’t I remember? I want to remember. I want to know more than you told me, more than I can see in filmbooks.” He stamped a foot on the ground.
“And one day you will. One day it will all come back to you.”
“I want it now!” The child looked up with a peevish expression, puckering his lips. This, Uxtal knew, signified dangerous potential.
He took the boy’s hand and led him quickly toward a waiting groundcar before the childish temper could explode. “Come, let’s see what the Face Dancers have found.”
Knowing the decisions and the mistakes made by others can be frightening. More often, though, I find it comforting.
—REVEREND MOTHER SHEEANA,
Ithaca logs
T
he van Gogh painting hung on a metal wall of Sheeana’s cabin. She had stolen the masterpiece from the Mother Superior’s quarters before escaping from Chapterhouse. Of all the crimes she had committed during her flight, taking the van Gogh was her only selfish and unjustified act. For years, she had drawn comfort from this great work of art and everything it represented.
With the glowpanels adjusted to perfect illumination, Sheeana stood unblinking before the masterpiece. Though she had studied the painting meticulously many times, she still gained new insight from the daubs of bright paint, the thick brushstrokes, the chaotic flurry of creative energy. A deeply disturbed man, van Gogh had turned these splotches and smudges of color into a work of genius. Could pure, cold sanity have done as much?
Thatched Cottages at Cordeville had survived the atomic destruction of Earth ages ago, the Butlerian Jihad and ensuing dark ages, then Muad’Dib’s Jihad, thirty-five hundred years of the Tyrant’s rule, the Famine Times, and the Scattering. Without doubt, this fragile piece of art was blessed.
But its creator had been driven to the brink of madness by his passions. Van Gogh had channeled his vision into color and form, a representational splash of reality so intense that it could only be conveyed on canvas.
One day she would show the painting to the ghola children. Paul Atreides, the oldest, was now five years old and showed every sign of being just a normal little boy. His “mother” Jessica was a year younger, the same age as the ghola of the warrior-Mentat Thufir Hawat. Paul’s love, Chani, was only three, while the historic traitor to House Atreides, Wellington Yueh, was two, born at the same time that Sheeana had finally allowed Scytale to create a ghola of himself. The great planetologist and Fremen leader Liet-Kynes was a year-old baby, and the Naib Stilgar had just been born.
It would be years before the Bene Gesserit had any chance of triggering those ghola memories, before the historical re-creations could become the weapons and tools Sheeana needed. If she showed them the van Gogh painting right now, would they react based on some instinct from their past lives, or would they view the images with fresh eyes?
A genius from Ix had restored and enhanced the original; an invisibly thin but tough coating