Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [46]
They ordered servants to bring a selection of lasguns, dart pistols, swords, and knives for their next ersatz adventure. When the mechanical systems were activated, the dead animals went into a frenzy all over the trophy room. The two hunters took cover, imagined their danger, and shot the mechanical creatures off of their stands, chopping through prosthetic bones, stuffing, and preserved flesh. Last of all, they activated the huge mastaphont and watched it stomp over the debris. Finally catching it in a crossfire of lasgun blasts, they amputated its legs. The beast crashed to the floor, its automatic servos writhing.
The Baron found the violence to be eminently satisfying, and even Paolo seemed to warm to the activity. Afterward, the brave hunters surveyed the damage and laughed as they marched out into the corridor. The Baron spotted three workmen, who looked as if they wanted to become invisible. “Get back in there and clean things up!”
You always make a mess of things, don’t you, Grandfather?
The Baron pressed his hands against his head. “Shut up, damn you!” Alia began humming repetitive singsong tunes, designed to drive him mad, no doubt. When a bewildered Paolo pestered him with questions, the Baron slapped him away. “Leave me alone! You’re as bad as your sister!”
Confused and startled, Paolo ran off.
The girl’s grating voice vibrated in his mind until he couldn’t stand it. He hurried out of the castle. Barely able to see where he was going, the Baron bumped into one of the blocky Harkonnen statues and rushed toward the sea cliff. “I’ll hurl myself over the edge—I swear it, Abomination—unless you leave me alone!”
He got all the way to the windy, rocky brink, before the Alia voice at last faded into sweet silence. The Baron dropped to his knees on the high stone walkway, looking with delicious vertigo over the tremendous drop-off. Maybe he should just do it anyway, and fall to the wet black rocks and churning waves. If the damned Face Dancers needed him so badly, they could just grow another ghola, and maybe that one wouldn’t be so flawed. The Baron Harkonnen would be back!
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Gathering his remaining shreds of dignity, he looked up to see a pug-nosed Face Dancer staring at him. Though all shape-shifters looked exactly the same to him, he somehow knew this one was Khrone. “What do you want?”
Officiously, the Face Dancer said, “You and Paolo will depart Caladan and never return. The great war is proceeding, and the evermind has decided that he needs the Kwisatz Haderach close to him. Omnius wants you to complete the boy’s preparation under his direct supervision in the heart of the machine empire. You will depart for Synchrony as soon as a ship is ready.”
The Baron flicked his gaze past the Face Dancer to Paolo, who crouched by a Harkonnen statue, close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation. He chuckled to himself, for this boy was as persistent as Piter de Vries! As soon as he realized he was discovered, Paolo scampered forward. “Is he talking about me?”
“Discuss Paolo’s destiny with him on the way,” Khrone said to the Baron. “Do more than explain it. Make the boy believe.”
“Paolo is inclined to believe anything that reinforces his delusions of grandeur,” the Baron said, ignoring the boy. “So, this Kwisatz Haderach business is . . . real?”
Even though the Face Dancers had finally explained the truth to him, the idea still sounded preposterous. He was not convinced that this young ghola could be so important in the grand scheme of things.
Khrone looked ghastly in his blank state. Shadows around his eyes darkened as his displeasure became evident. “I believe it, and so does Omnius. Who are you to question?”
Believe it, dear Grandfather, said the annoying voice. By his very genes, Paul Atreides has the potential to be greater than you will ever be, in any incarnation.
The Baron refused