Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [13]
“It’s just a woman’s gun.”
Inside the thick black armrests the Baron had secreted his own weapons, any one of which could easily turn the boy into a wet smear—hmm, fresh material for growing another ghola, he thought. “Even so, it’s a valuable relic, and I don’t want it damaged by a reckless child.”
“I won’t damage it.” Paolo seemed pensive. “I respect artifacts that my ancestors used.”
Anxious to keep the boy from thinking too much, he stood. “Shall we take it outside, then, Paolo? Why don’t we see how it works?” The Baron gave him an avuncular pat on the shoulder. “And afterward we can kill something with our bare hands, like we did to the mongrel hounds and ferrets.”
Paolo seemed uncertain. “Maybe another day.”
Nevertheless, the Baron hurried him out of the throne room. “Let’s get rid of those noisy gulls around the midden piles. Have I mentioned how much you remind me of Feyd? Lovely Feyd.”
“More than once.”
Watched over by Face Dancers, they spent the next two hours at the castle’s trash heap, taking turns shooting the raucous birds with the disk gun. Oblivious to the danger, the gulls swooped and shrieked at one another, fighting over morsels of rain-splattered garbage. Paolo took a shot, then the Baron. Despite its antiquity, the gun was quite accurate. Each spinning, microthin disk chopped a bird into bloody meat and dislodged feathers. Then the surviving gulls squabbled over the fresh gobbets.
Between them, they killed fourteen birds, although the Baron did not do nearly as well as the child, who had quite an aptitude for cool marksmanship. As the Baron raised the disk gun and aimed carefully, the girl’s annoying voice rang in his head again. That’s not my gun, you know.
He took the shot and missed by a wide margin. Alia giggled.
“What do you mean it’s not yours?” He ignored Paolo’s puzzled stare as the boy took the weapon for his turn.
It’s a fake. I never had a disk gun like that.
“Leave me alone.”
“Who are you talking to?” Paolo asked.
After reaching into a pocket the Baron offered several capsules of orange melange substitute to Paolo, who obediently took them. He grabbed the weapon back from the boy. “Don’t be ridiculous. The antiquities dealer provided a certificate of authenticity and documentation when he sold the weapon to me.”
Grandfather, you shouldn’t be so easily fooled! My own gun shot larger disks. This is a cheap imitation and doesn’t even have the maker’s initials on the barrel, like the original.
He studied the carved ornamental handle, turned the gun toward his face, then looked at the short barrel. No initials. “And what about my other things, the objects supposedly owned by Jessica and Duke Leto?”
Some are real, some are not. I’ll let you find out which are which. Knowing the nobleman’s penchant for buying historical artifacts, the dealer would return to Caladan soon. No one made a fool of the Baron! The Baron ghola decided the next meeting would not be quite so cordial. He would ask a few incisive questions. Alia’s voice faded away, and he was glad to have a moment of peace inside his head.
Paolo had consumed two of the orange capsules, and as the melange substitute took hold, the boy dropped to his knees and stared beatifically into the sky. “I see a great victory in my future! I’m holding a knife that drips with blood. I’m standing over my enemy . . . over myself.” He frowned, then beamed again, yelling, “I am the Kwisatz Haderach!” Then Paolo let out a bloodcurdling scream. “No . . . now, I see myself dying on the floor, bleeding to death. But how can this be, if I am the Kwisatz Haderach? How can this be?”
The nearest Face Dancer grew animated. “We were instructed to watch for signs of prescience. We must notify Khrone immediately.”
Prescience? the Baron thought. Or insanity?
Inside his mind, the presence of Alia laughed.
DAYS LATER, THE Baron strolled along the top of the cliff and gazed out to sea. Caladan did not yet have the lovely, grimy industrial capacity of his beloved Giedi Prime, but at least he’d paved over the gardens in the vicinity