Opening his eyes and looking directly at Teg, Duncan said: "I don't mean to be disrespectful or ungrateful or rude, sir. But I can't go on without answers."
Teg's instructions were clear: "You will know when the ghola reaches the point of desperation. No ghola will try to hide this. It is intrinsic to their psyche. You will recognize it in voice and posture."
Duncan had almost reached the critical point. Silence was mandatory for Teg now. Force Duncan to ask his questions, to take his own course.
Duncan said: "Did you know that I once thought of killing Schwangyu?"
Teg opened his mouth and closed it without a sound. Silence! But the lad was serious!
"I was afraid of her," Duncan said. "I don't like being afraid." He lowered his gaze. "You once told me that we only hate what's really dangerous to us."
"He will approach it and retreat, approach and retreat. Wait until he plunges."
"I don't hate you," Duncan said, looking once more at Teg. "I resented it when you said ghola to my face. But Lucilla's right: We should never resent the truth even when it hurts."
Teg rubbed his own lips. The desire to speak filled him but it was not yet plunge time.
"Doesn't it surprise you that I considered killing Schwangyu?" Duncan asked.
Teg held himself rigid. Even the shaking of his head would be taken as a response.
"I thought of slipping something into her drink," Duncan said. "But that's a coward's way and I'm not a coward. Whatever else, I'm not that."
Teg remained silently immobile.
"I think you really care what happens to me, Bashar," Duncan said. "But you're right: we will never be comrades. If I survive, I will surpass you. Then . . . it will be too late for us to be comrades. You spoke the truth."
Teg was unable to prevent himself from inhaling a deep breath of Mentat realization: no avoiding the signs of strength in the ghola. Somewhere recently, perhaps in this very alcove just now, the youth had ceased being a youth and had become a man. The realization saddened Teg. It went so fast! No normal growing-up in between.
"Lucilla does not really care what happens to me the way you do," Duncan said. "She's just following her orders from that Mother Superior, Taraza."
Not yet! Teg cautioned himself. He wet his lips with his tongue.
"You have been obstructing Lucilla's orders," Duncan said. "What is it she's supposed to do to me?"
The moment had come. "What do you think she's supposed to do?" Teg demanded.
"I don't know!"
"The original Duncan Idaho would know."
"You know! Why won't you tell me?"
"I'm only supposed to help restore your original memories."
"Then do it!"
"Only you can really do it."
"I don't know how!"
Teg sat forward on the edge of his chair, but did not speak. Plunge point? He sensed something lacking in Duncan's desperation.
"You know I can read lips, sir," Duncan said. "Once I went up to the tower observatory. I saw Lucilla and Schwangyu down below talking. Schwangyu said: 'Never mind that he's so young! You've had your orders.' "
Once more cautiously silent, Teg stared back at Duncan. It was like Duncan to move around secretly in the Keep, spying, seeking knowledge. And he had seated himself in that memory-mode now, not realizing that he still was spying and seeking . . . but in a different way.
"I didn't think she was supposed to kill me," Duncan said. "But you know what she was supposed to do because you've been obstructing her." Duncan pounded a fist on the table. "Answer me, damn you!"
Ahhhh, full desperation!
"I can only tell you that what she intends conflicts with my orders. I was commanded by Taraza herself to strengthen you and guard you from harm."
"But you said my training was . . . was flawed!"
"Necessary. It was done to prepare you for your original memories."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"You already know."
"I don't, I tell you! Please teach me!"
"You do many things without having been taught them. Did we teach you disobedience?"
"Please help me!" It was a desperate wail.
Teg forced himself to chilly remoteness. "What in the nether hell do you think I'm doing?"
Duncan clenched both fists and pounded them on the table, making his cup dance. He glared at Teg. Abruptly, an odd expression came over Duncan's face -- something grasping in his eyes.
"Who are you?" Duncan whispered.
The key question!
Teg's voice was a lash striking out at a suddenly defenseless victim: "Who do you think I am?"
A look of utter desperation twisted Duncan's features. He managed only a gasping stutter: "You're . . . you're . . ."
"Duncan! Stop this nonsense!" Teg jumped to his feet and stared down with assumed rage.
"You're . . ."
Teg's right hand shot out in a swift arc. The open palm cracked against Duncan's cheek. "How dare you disobey me?" Left hand out, another rocking slap. "How dare you?"
Duncan reacted so swiftly that Teg experienced an electric instant of absolute shock. Such speed! Although there were separate elements in Duncan's attack, it occurred in one fluid blur: a leap upward, both feet on the chair, rocking the chair, using that motion to slash the right arm down at Teg's vulnerable shoulder nerves.
Responding out of trained instincts, Teg dodged sideways and flailed his left leg over the table into Duncan's groin. Teg still did not completely escape. The heel of Duncan's hand continued downward to strike beside the knee of Teg's flailing leg. It numbed the whole leg.
Duncan sprawled across the tabletop, trying to slide backward in spite of the disabling kick. Teg supported himself, left hand on table, and chopped with the other hand to the base of Duncan's spine, into the nexus deliberately weakened by the exercises of the past few days.
Duncan groaned as paralyzing agony shot through his body. Another person would have been immobilized, screaming, but Duncan merely groaned as he clawed toward Teg, continuing the attack.
Relentless in the necessities of the moment, Teg proceeded to create greater pain in his victim, making sure each time that Duncan saw the attacker's face at the instant of greatest agony.
"Watch his eyes." the instructions warned. And Bellonda, reinforcing the procedure, had cautioned: "His eyes will seem to look through you but he will call you Leto."
Much later, Teg found difficulty in recalling each detail of his obedience to the reawakening procedure. He knew that he continued to function as commanded but his memory went elsewhere, leaving the flesh free to carry out his orders. Oddly, his trick memory fastened onto another act of disobedience: the Cerbol Revolt, himself at middle age but already a Bashar with a formidable reputation. He had donned his best uniform without its medals (a subtle touch, that) and had presented himself in the scorching noon heat of Cerbol's battle-plowed fields. Completely unarmed in the path of the advancing rebels!
Many among the attackers owed him their lives. Most of them had once given him their deepest allegiance. Now, they were in violent disobedience. And Teg's presence in their path said to those advancing soldiers:
"I will not wear the medals that tell what I did for you when we were comrades. I will not be anything that says I am one of you. I wear only the uniform that announces that I am still the Bashar. Kill me if that is how far you will carry your disobedience."
When most of the attacking force threw down their arms and came forward, some of their commanders bent the knee to their old Bashar and he remonstrated: "You never needed to bow to me or get on your knees! Your new leaders have taught you bad habits."
Later, he told the rebels he shared some of their grievances. Cerbol had been badly misused. But he also warned them:
"One of the most dangerous things in the universe is an ignorant people with real grievances. That is nowhere near as dangerous, however, as an informed and intelligent society with grievances. The damage that ven
geful intelligence can wreak, you cannot even imagine. The Tyrant would seem a benevolent father figure by comparison with what you were about to create!"
It was all true, of course, but in a Bene Gesserit context, and it helped little with what he was commanded to do to the Duncan Idaho ghola -- creating mental and physical agony in an almost helpless victim.
Easiest to recall was the look in Duncan's eyes. They did not change focus, but glared directly up into Teg's face, even at the instant of the final screaming shout:
"Damn you, Leto! What are you doing?"
He called me Leto.
Teg limped backward two steps. His left leg tingled and ached where Duncan had struck it. Teg realized that he was panting and at the end of his reserves. He was much too old for such exertions and the things he had just done made him feel dirty. The reawakening procedure was thoroughly fixed in his awareness, though. He knew that gholas once had been awakened by conditioning them unconsciously to attempt murder on someone they loved. The ghola psyche, shattered and forced to reassemble, was always psychologically scarred. This new technique left the scars in the one who managed the process.
Slowly, moving against the outcry of muscles and nerves that had been stunned by agony, Duncan slid backward off the table and stood leaning against his chair, trembling and glaring at Teg.
Teg's instructions said: "You must stand very quietly. Do not move. Let him look at you as he will."
Teg stood unmoving as he had been instructed. Memory of the Cerbol Revolt left his mind: He knew what he had done then and now. In a way, the two times were similar. He had told the rebels no ultimate truths (if such existed); only enough to lure them back into the fold. Pain and its predictable consequences. "This is for your own good."
Was it really good, what they did to this Duncan Idaho ghola?
Teg wondered what was occurring in Duncan's consciousness. Teg had been told as much as was known about these moments, but he could see that the words were inadequate. Duncan's eyes and face gave abundant evidence of internal turmoil -- a hideous twisting of mouth and cheeks, the gaze darting this way and that.
Slowly, exquisite in its slowness, Duncan's face relaxed. His body continued to tremble. He felt the throbbing of his body as a distant thing, aches and darting pains that had happened to someone else. He was here, though, in this immediate moment -- whatever and wherever this was. His memories would not mesh. He felt suddenly out of place in flesh too young, not fitted to his pre-ghola existence. The darting and twisting of awareness was all internal now.
Teg's instructors had said: "He will have ghola-imposed filters on his pre-ghola memories. Some of the original memories will come flooding back. Other recollections will return more slowly. There will be no meshing, though, until he recalls that original moment of death." Bellonda had then given Teg the known details of that fatal moment.
"Sardaukar," Duncan whispered. He looked around him at the Harkonnen symbols that permeated the no-globe. "The Emperor's crack troops wearing Harkonnen uniforms!" A wolfish grin twisted his mouth. "How they must have hated that!"
Teg remained silently watchful.
"They killed me," Duncan said. It was a flatly unemotional statement, all the more chilling for its positive delivery. A violent shudder passed through him and the trembling subsided. "At least a dozen of them in that little room." He looked directly at Teg. "One of them got through at me like a meat cleaver right down on my head." He hesitated, his throat working convulsively. His gaze remained on Teg. "Did I buy Paul enough time to escape?"
"Answer all of his questions truthfully."
"He escaped."
Now, they came to a testing moment. Where had the Tleilaxu acquired the Idaho cells? The Sisterhood's tests said they were original, but suspicions remained. The Tleilaxu had done something of their own to this ghola. His memories could be a valuable clue to that thing.
"But the Harkonnens . . ." Duncan said. His memories from the Keep meshed. "Oh, yes. Oh, yes!" A fierce laugh shook him. He sent a roaring victory shout at the long-dead Baron Vladimir Harkonnen: "I paid you back, Baron! Oh, I did it to you for all of the ones you destroyed!"
"You remember the Keep and the things we taught you?" Teg asked.
A puzzled frown drew deep crease lines across Duncan's forehead. Emotional pain warred with his physical pains. He nodded in response to Teg's question. There were two lives, one that had been walled off behind the axlotl tanks and another . . . another . . . Duncan felt incomplete. Something remained suppressed within him. The reawakening was not finished. He stared angrily at Teg. Was there more? Teg had been brutal. Necessary brutality? Was this how you had to restore a ghola?
"I . . ." Duncan shook his head from side to side like a great wounded animal in front of the hunter.
"Do you have all of your memories?" Teg insisted.
"All? Oh, yes. I remember Gammu when it was Giedi Prime -- the oil-soaked, blood-soaked hell hole of the Imperium! Yes, indeed, Bashar. I was your dutiful student. Regimental commander!" Again, he laughed, throwing his head back in an oddly adult gesture for that young body.
Teg experienced the sudden release of a deep satisfaction, far deeper than relief. It had worked as they said it would.
"Do you hate me?" he asked.
"Hate you? Didn't I tell you I would be grateful?"
Abruptly, Duncan lifted his hands and peered at them. He shifted his gaze downward at his youthful body. "What a temptation!" he muttered. He dropped his hands and focused on Teg's face, tracing the lines of identity. "Atreides," he said. "You're all so damned alike!"
"Not all," Teg said.
"I'm not talking about appearance, Bashar." His eyes went out of focus. "I asked my age." There was a long silence, then: "Gods of the deep! So much time has passed!"
Teg said what he had been instructed to say: "The Sisterhood has need of you."
"In this immature body? What am I supposed to do?"
"Truly, I don't know, Duncan. The body will mature and I presume a Reverend Mother will explain matters to you."
"Lucilla?"
Abruptly, Duncan looked up at the ornate ceiling, then at the alcove and its baroque clock. He remembered coming here with Teg and Lucilla. This place was the same but it was different. "Harkonnens," he whispered. He sent a glowering look at Teg. "Do you know how many of my family the Harkonnens tortured and killed?"
"One of Taraza's Archivists gave me a report."
"A report? You think words can tell it?"
"No. But that was the only answer I had to your question."
"Damn you, Bashar! Why do you Atreides always have to be so truthful and honorable?"
"I think it's bred into us."
"That's quite right." The voice was Lucilla's and came from behind Teg.
Teg did not turn. How much had she heard? How long had she been there?
Lucilla came up to stand beside Teg but her attention was on Duncan. "I see that you've done it, Miles."
"Taraza's orders to the letter," Teg said.
"You have been very clever, Miles," she said. "Much more clever than I suspected you could be. That mother of yours should have been severely punished for what she taught you."
"Ahhhh, Lucilla the seductress," Duncan said. He glanced at Teg and returned his attention to Lucilla. "Yes, now I can answer my other question -- what she's supposed to do."
"They're called Imprinters," Teg said.
"Miles," Lucilla said, "if you have complicated my task in ways that prevent me from carrying out my orders, I will have you roasted on a skewer."
The emotionless quality of her voice sent a shudder through Teg. He knew her threat was a metaphor, but the implications in the threat were real.
"A punishment banquet!" Duncan said. "How nice."
Teg addressed himself to Duncan: "There's nothing romantic about what we've done to you, Duncan. I've assisted the Bene Gesserit in more than one assignment that left me feeling dirty, but never dirtier than this one."
&
nbsp; "Silence!" Lucilla ordered. The full force of Voice was in the command.
Teg let it flow through him and past him as his mother had taught, then: "Those of us who give our true loyalty to the Sisterhood have only one concern: survival of the Bene Gesserit. Not survival of any individual but of the Sisterhood itself. Deceptions, dishonesties -- those are empty words when the question is the Sisterhood's survival."
"Damn that mother of yours, Miles!" Lucilla paid him the compliment of not hiding her rage.
Duncan stared at Lucilla. Who was she? Lucilla? He felt his memories stirring of themselves. Lucilla was not the same person . . . not the same at all, and yet . . . bits and pieces were the same. Her voice. Her features. Abruptly, he saw again the face of the woman he had glimpsed on the wall of his room at the Keep.
Frank Herbert - Dune Book 5 - Heretics of Dune Page 29
