Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [50]
“Oh, I remember you very well.” Duncan laced his hands behind his head and leaned back. “I remember your christening on Caladan after you were nearly killed by Imperial intrigues as an infant. I remember how Duke Leto’s whole family was put at risk in the War of Assassins. I was given the great honor of taking you to safety, and you and I went to the wilds of Caladan. We stayed with your exiled grandmother Helena, and we hid among the Caladan primitives. That was when you and I became so close. Yes, I remember it very well.”
“I don’t,” Paul said with a sigh.
Duncan seemed caught in a loop of his past lives. Caladan . . . Dune . . . the Harkonnens . . . Alia . . . Hayt. “Do you know what you’re asking me, about your memories, about your life? The Tleilaxu created my first ghola as an assassination tool. They manipulated me because I was your friend. They knew you could not turn me away, even though you saw the trap.”
“I wouldn’t have turned you away, Duncan.”
“I had the knife raised against you, ready to strike, but in the last instant, I collided with myself. The programmed assassin Hayt became the loyal Duncan Idaho. You can’t imagine the agony!” He pointed a stern finger at the young man. “Restoring your past will require a similar crisis.”
Paul squared his jaw. “I’m prepared for it. I’m not afraid of pain.”
Wrinkling his brow, Duncan said, “You’re too content, young Paul, because your Chani grounds you. She makes you stable and happy—and that’s a severe drawback. In contrast, look at Yueh. He fought against remembering with every fiber of his being, and that’s what broke him. But you . . . what fulcrum can they use on you, Paul Atreides?”
“We’ll just have to find something.”
“Are you really ready to accept it?” Duncan leaned forward, offering no mercy. “What if the only way you can have your past restored is that you must lose Chani? What if she has to die bleeding in your arms, before you can remember?”
More than anything, I need my father to know I did not fail. I do not want him to die thinking I was unworthy of his genes.
—THE SCYTALE GHOLA,
no-ship security interview
It must be built according to precise standards,” insisted the old Tleilaxu. His voice cracked. “Precise standards!”
“I will take care of it, Father.” The ghola, only thirteen, tended the degenerating Master who sat in a stiff armchair. Old Scytale refused to lie down until a traditional bier for his body was built. He intentionally kept his austere living quarters locked to keep others away. He had no desire to be interrupted or harassed during his dying days.
The Tleilaxu Master’s organs, joints, and skin had begun to fail in increasingly problematic ways. It reminded him of how the no-ship itself seemed to be breaking down, its systems failing as air leaked into space, water was inexplicably lost, food stores went missing. Some of the more paranoid refugees saw sabotage in every flickering glowpanel, and many turned their suspicious eyes toward the Tleilaxu. It was another reason for him to grumble. At least he would soon be gone.
“I thought you said my bier was already being built. It cannot be rushed.”
The teenager bowed his head. “Do not worry. I am following the strict laws of the Shariat.”
“Show it to me, then.”
“Your own bier? But that is meant to carry your body only after you . . . after you . . .”
Old Scytale glowered with his dark eyes. “Purge those useless emotions! You have become too involved in this process. It is shameful.”
“Am I not supposed to care about you, Father? I see your pain—”
“Stop calling me Father. Think of me as yourself. Once you become me, I will not be dead. No need for weeping. Each of our incarnations is disposable, so long as the memory train continues uninterrupted.”
Young Scytale tried to regain his composure. “You are still a father to me, no matter what memories are buried inside me. Will I stop feeling these emotions when my old life is restored?”
“Of course. At that glorious moment you will understand the truth—and your obligations.” Scytale