Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [47]
And now they were going to Synchrony, the home of Omnius. He looked forward to seeing the thinking-machine empire. New challenges, new opportunities.
In spite of the sum of his first life’s memories, the stories of the evil thinking machines and the Butlerian Jihad were too distant to seem relevant. Though he harbored considerable resentment toward the Face Dancers, he was glad to be on the side of greater strength.
Later, during the shuttle ride to orbit, the Baron gazed down at the coastline, the villages, the new smokestacks and strip-mined areas of Caladan. In his excitement, Paolo bustled from window to window. “Will we have a long journey?”
“I’m not a pilot. How should I know? The thinking machines must be very far away, otherwise humans would have known about them long before now.”
“What will happen when we get there?”
“Ask a Face Dancer.”
“They won’t talk to me.”
“Then ask Omnius when you see him. In the meantime, amuse yourself.”
Paolo sat down beside him in the passenger compartment and began sampling packets of syrupy packaged food. “I’m special, you know. They’ve been grooming me, watching over me carefully. What exactly is a Kwisatz Haderach, anyway?” He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.
“Don’t crawl into their delusions, boy. There is no such thing as a Kwisatz Haderach. A myth, a legend, something with a hundred vague explanations in as many prophecies. The entire Bene Gesserit breeding program is utter nonsense.” He recalled from deep memories that he had been part of that breeding program himself, forced to impregnate the vile witch Mohiam. He had humiliated her during the act, but in retaliation the hag had transmitted the debilitating disease that had made him bloated and fat.
“It can’t be nonsense. I have visions, especially when I take spice tablets. I see it again and again. I’ve got a bloody knife in my hand, and I’m victorious. I see myself rushing to take my prize—melange, but more than melange. I also see myself lying on the floor, bleeding to death. Which one is right? It’s so confusing!”
“Shut up and take a nap.”
They docked with an unmarked ship high above Caladan. It bore no markings of the Guild and carried no Navigator. Wide hangar doors opened, drawing the shuttle up and inside. Silvery figures moved within the cold, airless landing bay, guiding the small vessel into a docking cradle. Robots—demons from ancient history! Ah, so, at least part of Khrone’s wild tale might be true.
The Baron smiled at the boy staring out the windows. “You and I are about to undertake an interesting journey, Paolo.”
A sheathed dagger is useless in a fight. A maula pistol without projectiles is no more than a club. And a ghola without his memories is merely flesh.
—PAUL ATREIDES,
secret ghola journals
Now that the ghola of Dr. Yueh had his memories restored, Paul Atreides knew he had to attempt more innovative measures to awaken himself. Paul was the oldest of the ghola children, the one with (presumably) the greatest potential, but Sheeana and the Bene Gesserit observers had chosen Yueh as a test case. Unlike the Suk doctor, however, Paul actually wanted his past back. He longed to remember his life and love with Chani, his childhood with Duke Leto and Lady Jessica, his friendships with Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho.
But Paul continued to be haunted by prescient memory-visions of his own double death. And he was growing impatient.
How could the passengers aboard the no-ship think there was still time for caution? Only a few months ago, they had again narrowly escaped the Enemy’s net, brighter and stronger than ever before. Of great concern, the saboteur still had not been caught. Though the saboteur had done nothing else as dramatic as the murder of the three axlotl tanks and unborn gholas, the danger remained.
Paul knew the Ithaca needed him, and he was tired of being just a ghola. He had an idea to attempt, one that was both desperate and dangerous, but he didn’t hesitate. His