Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [51]
Old Scytale knew death was imminent, but he had dramatized his infirmity in an attempt to shock his replacement. The premature construction of the bier was yet another attempt to provoke a crisis. If only the two of them could be back on Tleilax, where full immersion in the holy traditions of the Great Belief would be enough to trigger even the most stubborn of gholas. Here onboard a godless no-ship, the difficulties seemed insurmountable.
“This should never have taken so long.”
“I have failed you.”
The rheumy eyes flashed. “You are not only failing me, you are failing your people. If you do not awaken, our whole race—our entire history and all the knowledge in my mind—will vanish from the universe. Do you want to be responsible for that? I refuse to believe God has turned His back on us entirely. Our fate, lamentably, depends upon you.”
The ghola looked crestfallen, as if an unsupportable weight rested on his shoulders. “I am doing all I can to achieve that goal, Father.” He said the word deliberately. “And until I succeed, you must do all you can to remain alive.”
He’s finally showing a little strength, Scytale thought, bitterly. But it’s not enough.
DAYS LATER, THE ghola stood by his father’s deathbed, his own deathbed. He felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience, watching his life slip away moment by moment. It gave the boy an oddly disconnected feeling.
Since emerging from the axlotl tank, Scytale had loved only one person: himself . . . both his older self and the self he was going to be. The degenerating man had provided cells from his own body, cells that held all his memories and experiences, all the knowledge of the Tleilaxu.
But he hadn’t provided the key to unlock them. No matter how hard the young ghola strained, his memories obstinately refused to emerge. He clutched the old man’s hand. “Not yet, Father. I’ve tried and tried.”
With near-sightless eyes, old Scytale glared at his counterpart. “Why do you . . . disappoint me so?”
Yueh had been restored to his past life, and two other gholas—Stilgar and Liet-Kynes—were even now being raked over the mental coals. How could mere witches succeed where a Tleilaxu Master failed? Bene Gesserits should never have been so adept at triggering the avalanche of experiences. If Scytale could not do it, the Tleilaxu would be relegated to the dustbins of history.
The old man on the bed coughed and wheezed, while the younger leaned close, tears trickling down his cheeks. Old Scytale spat blood. His disappointment and utter despair were palpable.
An insistent signal at the door announced the arrival of two Suk doctors. The bespectacled Rabbi was obviously repulsed by his duties, while young Yueh still appeared to be shaken by the recent return of his memories. Scytale could see in their eyes that they both knew the older Master would perish very soon.
Among the witches there were other Suk practitioners, but Scytale had insisted on being tended only by the Rabbi, and only when absolutely necessary. They were all unclean powindah, but at least the Rabbi wasn’t a disgusting female. Or, perhaps Scytale should choose Wellington Yueh over the old Jew. The old Tleilaxu Master had to accept certain medical examinations, if only to keep himself alive until his “son” reawakened.
Scytale lifted his head. “Go away! We are praying.”
“Do you think I like tending to gholas? To filthy Tleilaxu? Do you think I want to be here? You can both die, for all I care!”
Yueh, though, moved forward with a medical kit, easing the younger Scytale aside to check the dying man’s vital signs. Behind Yueh the Rabbi squinted through his spectacles with vulture eyes. “It won’t be long now.”
Such an odd old holy man, young Scytale thought. Even compared to the smells of disinfectant, medicine, and sickness, he’d always had an odd smell about him.
Sounding compassionate, Yueh said, “There isn’t much we can do.”
Gasping for air, old Scytale croaked out, “A Tleilaxu