Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [157]
Musing, Erasmus looked from Paul to Paolo. “Although genetically identical, you two have slightly different ages, memories, and experiences. Our Paolo is technically a clone, grown from blood cells preserved on a dagger. But this other Paul Atreides—what is the origin of your cells? Where did the Tleilaxu find them?”
“I don’t know,” Paul said. According to Duncan, the elderly man and woman had begun their merciless pursuit well before anyone had suggested the ghola project, before old Scytale revealed his nullentropy capsule. How could the evermind have known that Paul would reappear here? Had the machines rigged a complex game? Had the sentient machines developed an artificial but sophisticated form of prescience?
Erasmus made a humming sound. “Even so, I believe you each have the potential to be the Kwisatz Haderach we need. But which of you will prove superior and achieve it?”
“It’s me.” Paolo strutted around. “We all know that.” Obviously the younger boy had been raised with a belief in his role, so that his head was filled with confidence—though it was a confidence born of true skill, not one arising from imagination.
“And how will that be determined?” Jessica asked, looking at both Pauls, weighing them with her eyes.
A side door flowed open near the fountain that sprayed molten metal, and a man in a black one-piece suit emerged carrying an ornate bloodwood box topped with a smaller wrapped package. He was gaunt, with bland features.
“Khrone, there you are! We have been waiting.”
“I am here, Lord Omnius.” The man glanced at the assemblage and then, either in surrender or a flash of independence, his unremarkable human features faded away to reveal him as a pale and sunken-eyed Face Dancer. Setting the box aside, he carefully unwrapped the translucent fabric of the small package to reveal a brownish-blue paste flecked with gold spangles.
“This is a concentrated and unusually potent form of spice.” The Face Dancer rubbed his fingertips and lifted them to his inhuman nose, as if the smell pleased him. “Harvested from a modified worm that grows in the oceans of Buzzell. It will not be long before the witches understand and begin their own operations there to capture the worms and extract the spice. At the moment, though, I hold the only sample of this ultraspice. Its sheer power should be sufficient to plunge the Kwisatz Haderach—one of you—into a perfect prescient trance. You will achieve powers that only prophecy could predict. You will see everything, know everything, and become the key to the culmination of Kralizec.”
Erasmus spoke, sounding almost cheery. “After observing how the human race has ruined things without us around to maintain order, the universe definitely needs changing.” The robot picked up the bloodwood box and raised the finely etched lid. Inside lay an ornate, gold-hilted dagger, which he picked up with something like reverence. A smear of old blood remained on the blade.
Behind Paul, his mother gasped. “I know that dagger! It’s as clear and fresh in my mind as if I just saw it. Emperor Shaddam himself presented it to Duke Leto as a gift, and years later at Shaddam’s trial Leto gave it back to him.”
“Oh, there is more than that.” The Baron’s eyes glittered. “I believe the Emperor gave that same dagger to my beloved nephew Feyd-Rautha for his duel with your son. Unfortunately, Feyd didn’t quite succeed in that battle.”
“I love convoluted stories,” Erasmus added. “Later still, Hasimir Fenring stabbed Emperor Muad’Dib with it and nearly killed him. So you see, this dagger has a long and checkered past.” He lifted it, letting the light of the cathedral chamber gleam off the blade. “The perfect weapon to help us make our choice, don’t you think?”
Paul drew the crysknife Chani had made for him from its sheath at his side. The hilt felt warm in his grip, the curved milky blade perfectly balanced. “I have my own weapon.”
Paolo danced back warily, looking at the Baron, Omnius,