Frank Herbert - Dune Book 4 - God Emperor Of Dune

by Frank Herbert

  "Damn you all!" Idaho snarled. He turned and dashed from the room.

  Hwi stared after him, her face a mask of anguish. "Ohhh, Duncan," she whispered.

  "You see?" Moneo asked. "You were wrong. Neither you nor the Fish Speakers have gentled him. But you, Hwi, you have only contributed to his destruction."

  Hwi turned her anguish toward Moneo. "I will not see him again," she said.

  For Idaho, the passage down to his quarters became one of the most difficult times in his memory. He tried to imagine that his face was a plasteel mask held immobile to hide the turmoil within. None of the guards he passed could be permitted to see his pain. He did not know that most of them made accurate guesses about his emotion and shared a compassion for him. All of them had sat through briefings on the Duncans and had learned to read them well.

  In the corridor near his quarters, Idaho encountered Nayla walking slowly toward him. Something in her face, a look of indecision and loss, stopped him briefly and almost brought him out of his internal concentration.

  "Friend?" he said, speaking when he was only a few paces from her.

  She looked at him, abrupt recognition obvious on her square face.

  What an odd-looking woman, he thought.

  "I am no longer Friend," she said and passed by him down the corridor.

  Idaho turned on one heel and stared at her retreating back-

  those heavy shoulders, that plodding sense of terrible muscles.

  What was she bred for? he wondered.

  It was only a passing thought. His own concerns returned more strongly than before. He strode the few paces to his door and into his quarters.

  Once inside, Idaho stood a moment with clenched fists at his sides.

  have no more ties to any time, he thought. And how odd that this was not a liberating thought. He knew, though, that he had done the thing which would begin freeing Hwi from her love for him. He was diminished. She would think of him soon as a small, petulant fool, a subject only of his own emotions. He could feel himself fading from her immediate concerns.

  And that poor Moneo!

  Idaho sensed the shape of the things which had formed the pliant majordomo. Duty and responsibility. What a safe haven those were in a time of difficult decisions.

  I was like that once, Idaho thought. But that was in another life, another time.

  ===

  The Duncans sometimes ask if I understand the exotic ideas of our past? And if I understand them, why can't I explain them? Knowledge, the Duncans believe, resides only in particulars. I try to tell them that all words are plastic. Word images begin to distort in the instant of utterance. Ideas imbedded in a language require that particular language for expression. This is the very essence of the meaning within the word exotic. See how it begins to distort? Translation squirms in the presence of the exotic. The Galach which I speak here imposes itself. It is an outside frame of reference, a particular system. Dangers lurk in all systems. Systems incorporate the unexamined beliefs of their creators. Adopt a system, accept its beliefs, and you help strengthen the resistance to change. Does it serve any purpose for me to tell the Duncans that there are no languages for some things? Ahhh! But the Duncans believe that all languages are mine.

  -The Stolen Journals

  Fort Two full turns of days and nights, Siona failed to seal her face mask, losing precious water with every breath. It had taken the Fremen admonition to children before Siona remembered her father's words. Leto had spoken to her finally on the cold third morning of their traverse when they stopped within a rock shadow on the windswept flat of the erg.

  "Guard every breath for it carries the warmth and moisture of your life," he said.

  He had known they would be three more days on the erg and three more nights beyond that before they reached water. Now, it was the fifth morning from the Little Citadel's tower. They had entered shallow drifts of sand during the night-not dunes, but dunes could be glimpsed ahead of them and even the remnants of Habbanya Ridge were a thin, broken line in the distance if you knew where to look. Now, Siona took down the mouth flap of her stillsuit only to speak clearly. And she spoke through black and bleeding lips.

  She has the thirst of desperation, he thought, as he let his senses probe their surroundings. She will reach the moments of crisis soon. His senses told him that they were still alone here at the edge of the flat. Dawn lay only minutes behind them. The low light created barriers of dust reflection which twisted and lifted and dipped in the unceasing wind. His senses filtered out the wind that he might hear other things Siona's heaving breaths, the tumble of a small sandspill from the rocks beside them, his own gross body grating in the thin sand cover.

  Siona peeled her face mask aside but held it in her hand for quick restoration.

  "How much longer until we find water?" she asked.

  "Three nights."

  "Is there a better direction to go?"

  "No."

  She had come to appreciate the Fremen economy with important information. She sipped greedily at a few drops in her catchpocket.

  Leto recognized the message of her movements-familiar gestures for Fremen in extremis. Siona was now fully aware of a common experience among her ancestors patiyeh, the thirst at the edge of death.

  The few drops in her catchpocket were gone. He heard her sucking air. She restored the mask and spoke in a muffed voice.

  "I won't make it, will I?"

  Leto looked into her eyes, seeing there the clarity of thought brought on by the nearness of death, a penetrating awareness seldom otherwise achieved. It amplified only that which was required for survival. Yes, she was well into the tedah riagrimi, the agony which opens the mind. Soon, she would have to make that ultimate decision which she yet believed she

  had already made. Leto knew by the signs that he was required to treat Siona now with extreme courtesy. He would have to answer every question with candor for in every question lurked a judgment.

  "Will I?" she insisted.

  There was still a trace of hope in her desperation.

  "Nothing is certain," he said.

  This dropped her into despair.

  That had not been Leto's intention, but he knew that it often happened-an accurate, though ambiguous, answer was taken as confirmation of one's deepest fears.

  She sighed.

  Her mask-muffled voice probed at him once more. "You had some special intention for me in your breeding program."

  It was not a question.

  "All people have intentions," he told her.

  "But you wanted my full agreement."

  "That is true."

  "How could you expect agreement when you know I hate everything about you? Be honest with me!"

  "The three legs of the agreement-tripod are desire, data and doubt. Accuracy and honesty have little to do with it."

  "Please don't argue with me. You know I'm dying."

  "I respect you too much to argue with you."

  He lifted his front segments slightly then, probing the wind. It already was beginning to bring the day's heat but there was too much moisture in it for his comfort. He was reminded that the more he ordered the weather controlled, the more there was that required control. Absolutes only brought him closer to vagueries.

  "You say you're not arguing, but..

  ."

  "Argument closes off the doors of the senses," he said, lowering himself back to the surface. "It always masks violence. Continued too long, argument always leads to violence. I have no violent intentions toward you."

  "What do you mean-desire, data and doubt?"

  "Desire brings the participants together. Data set the limits of their dialogue. Doubt frames the questions."

  She moved closer to stare directly into his face from less than a meter away.

  How odd, he thought, that hatred could be mingled so completely with hope and fear and awe.

  "Could you save me?"

  "There is a way."

  She nodded an
d he knew she had leaped to the wrong conclusion.

  "You want to trade that for my agreement!" she accused.

  "No."

  "If I pass your test. . ."

  "It is not my test."

  "Whose?"

  "It derives from our common ancestors."

  Siona sank to a sitting position on the cold rock and remained silent, not yet ready to ask for a resting place within the lip of his warm front segment. Leto thought he could hear the soft scream waiting in her throat. Now, her doubts were at work. She was beginning to wonder if he really could be fitted into her image of Ultimate Tyrant. She looked up at him with that terrible clarity he had identified in her.

  "What makes you do what you do?"

  The question was well framed. He said: "My need to save the people."

  "What people?"

  "My definition is much broader than that of anyone else even of the Bene Gesserit, who think they have defined what it is to be human. I refer to the eternal thread of all humankind by whatever definition."

  "You're trying to tell me. . ." Her mouth became too dry for speaking. She tried to accumulate saliva. He saw the movements within her face mask. Her question was obvious, though, and he did not wait.

  "Without me there would have been by now no people anywhere, none whatsoever. And the path to that extinction was more hideous than your wildest imaginings."

  "Your supposed prescience," she sneered.

  "The Golden Path still stands open," he said.

  "I don't trust you!"

  "Because we are not equals?"

  "Yes!"

  "But we're interdependent."

  "What need have you for me?"

  Ahhh, the cry of youth unsure of its niche. He felt the strength within the secret bonds of dependency and forced himself to be hard. Dependency fosters weakness!

  "You are the Golden Path," he said.

  "Me?" It was barely a whisper.

  "You've read those journals you stole from me," he said. "I am in them, but where are you? Look at what I have created, Siona. And you, you can create nothing except yourself."

  "Words, more tricky words!"

  "I do not suffer from being worshipped, Siona. I suffer from never being appreciated. Perhaps ...No, I dare not hope for you."

  "What's the purpose of those journals?"

  "An Ixian machine records them. They are. to be found on a faraway day. They will make people think."

  "An Ixian machine? You defy the Jihad!"

  "There's a lesson in that, too. What do such machines really do? They increase the number of things we can do without thinking. Things we do without thinking-there's the real danger. Look at how long you walked across this desert without thinking about your face mask."

  "You could have warned me!"

  "And increased your dependency."

  She stared at him a moment, then: "Why would you want me to command your Fish Speakers?"

  "You are an Atreides woman, resourceful and capable of independent thought. You can be truthful just for the sake of truth as you see it. You were bred and trained for command which means freedom from dependence."

  The wind whirled dust and sand around them while she weighed his words. "And if I agree, you'll save me?"

  "No."

  She had been so sure of the opposite answer that it was several heartbeats before she translated that single word. In that time, the wind fell slightly, exposing a vista across the dunescape to the remnants of Habbanya Ridge. The air was suddenly chilled with that cold which did as much to rob the flesh of moisture as did the hottest sunlight. Part of Leto's awareness detected an oscillation in weather control.

  "No?" She was both puzzled and outraged.

  "I do not make bloody bargains with people I must trust."

  She shook her head slowly from side to side, but her gaze remained fixed on his face. "What will make you save me?"

  "Nothing will make me do it. Why do you think you could do to me what I will not do to you? That is not the way of interdependence."

  Her shoulders slumped. "If I cannot bargain with you or force you. . ."

  "Then you must choose another path."

  What a marvelous thing to observe the explosive growth of awareness, he thought. Siona's expressive features hid nothing of it from him. She focused on his eyes and glared at him as though seeking to move completely into his thoughts. New strength entered her muffled voice.

  "You would have me know everything about you-even every weakness?"

  "Would you steal what I would give openly?"

  The morning light was harsh on her face. "I promise you nothing!"

  "Nor do I require that."

  "But you will give me . . . water if I ask?"

  "It is not just water."

  She nodded. "And I am Atreides."

  The Fish Speakers had not withheld the lesson of that special susceptibility in the Atreides genes. She knew where the spice originated and what it might do to her. The teachers in the Fish Speaker schools never failed him. And the gentle additions of melange in Siona's dried food had done their work, too.

  "These little curled flaps beside my face," he said. "Tease one of them gently with a finger and it will give up drops of moisture heavily laced with spice-essence."

  He saw the recognition in her eyes. Memories which she did not know as memories were speaking to her. And she was the result of many generations in which the Atreides sensitivity had been increased.

  Even the urgency of her thirst would not yet move her.

  To ease her through the crisis, he told her about Fremen children poling for sandtrout at an oasis edge, teasing the moisture out of them for quick vitalization.

  "But I am Atreides," she said.

  "The Oral History tells it truthfully," he said.

  "Then I could die of it."

  "That's the test."

  "You would make a real Fremen out of me!"

  "How else can you teach your descendants to survive here after I am gone?"

  She pulled away her mask and moved her face to within a handsbreadth of his. A finger came up and touched one of the curled flaps of his cowl.

  "Stroke it gently," he said.

  Her hand obeyed not his voice but something from within

  her. The finger movements were precise, eliciting his own memories, a thing passed from child to child to child . . . the way so much information and misinformation survived. He turned his face to its limit and looked sideways at her face so close to his. Pale blue drops began to form at the flap's edge. Rich cinnamon smells enveloped them. She leaned toward the drops. He saw the pores beside her nose, the way her tongue moved as she drank.

  Presently, she retreated-not completely satisfied, but driven by caution and suspicion much the way Moneo had been. Like father, like daughter.

  "How long before it begins to work?" she asked.

  "It is already working."

  "I mean. . ."

  "A minute or so."

  "I owe you nothing for this!"

  "I will demand no payment."

  She sealed her face mask.

  He saw the milky distances enter her eyes. Without asking permission, she tapped his front segment, demanding that he prepare the warm hammock of his flesh. He obeyed. She fitted herself to the gentle curve. By peering sharply downward, he could see her. Siona's eyes remained opened, but they no longer saw this place. She jerked abruptly and began to tremble like a small creature dying. He knew this experience, but could not change the smallest part of it. No ancestral presences would remain in her consciousness, but she would carry with her forever afterward the clear sights and sounds and smells. The seeking machines would be there, the smell of blood and entrails, the cowering humans in their burrows aware only that they could not escape . . . while all the time the mechanical movement approached, nearer and nearer and nearer ...louder...louder!

  Everywhere she searched, it would be the same. No escape anywhere.

  He felt her life ebbi
ng. Fight the darkness, Siona! That was one thing the Atreides did. They fought for life. And now she was fighting for lives other than her own. He felt the dimming, though . . . the terrible outflow of vitality. She went deeper and deeper into the darkness, far deeper than any other had ever gone. He began to rock her gently, a cradle movement of his front segment. That or the thin hot thread of determination, perhaps both together, prevailed. By early afternoon, her flesh

  had trembled its way into something approaching real sleep. Only an occasional gasp betrayed the vision's echoes. He rocked her gently, rolling from side to side.

  Could she possibly come back from those depths? He felt the vital responses reassuring him. The strength in her!

  She awakened in the late afternoon, a stillness coming over her abruptly, the breathing rhythm changed. Her eyes snapped open. She peered up at him, then rolled out of the hammock to stand with her back to him for almost an hour of silent thinking.

  Moneo had done that same thing. It was a new pattern in these Atreides. Some of the preceding ones had ranted at him. Others had backed away from him, stumbling and staring, forcing him to follow, squirming and grating over the pebbles. Some of them had squatted and stared at the ground. None of them had turned their backs on him. Leto took this new development as a hopeful sign.

  "You are beginning to have some concept of how far my family extends," he said.

  She turned, her mouth a prim line, but did not meet his gaze. He could see her accepting it, though, the realization which few humans could share as she had shared it: His singular multitude made all of humankind his family.