Sandworms of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  “But if you protect me too much, you’ll never get what you need. Riding a worm would have brought my memories back, I’m sure of it.”

  “You restored Yueh,” Chani pointed out to Sheeana. “Why not Usul? He’s older.”

  “Yueh was expendable, and we weren’t sure of what we were doing. We have already developed specific plans for awakening Liet-Kynes and Stilgar, and if we succeed with them, others may follow—including Thufir Hawat and you, Chani. One day, Paul Atreides will get his chance. But only after we are certain.”

  “What if we don’t have the time?” Paul walked away from them, brushing sand and dust from his new stillsuit.

  DUNCAN AWOKE TO a loud signal at the door to his quarters. His initial thought was that Sheeana had come to him again, despite their mutual reservations. He slid aside the door, ready for an argument.

  Paul stood there wearing a replica of an Atreides military uniform, which evoked instant respect and loyalty from Duncan. The young man had dressed that way on purpose. Right now, the ghola Paul was almost exactly the same age as the original had been when Arrakeen had fallen to the devious Harkonnens, when the first Duncan had died defending him and his mother.

  “Duncan, you say you were my close friend. You say you knew Paul Atreides. Help me now.” Grasping an ornately carved ivory hilt, the young man drew a blue-white crystalline dagger from a sheath at his waist.

  Duncan stared in amazement. “A crysknife? It looks . . . Is it real?”

  “Chani made it from a worm tooth Sheeana found in the cargo hold.”

  In wonder, Duncan touched his fingers to the blade, noting how tough and sharp it was. He drew his thumb along the edge, intentionally cutting himself. He let a single drop of blood fall onto the milkywhite dagger. “According to ancient tradition, a crysknife must never be drawn unless it tastes blood.”

  “I know.” Paul was clearly troubled as he took the weapon back and returned it to its sheath. After hesitating, he blurted out what he had come to say. “Why won’t the Bene Gesserits awaken me, Duncan? You need me. Everyone on this no-ship needs me.”

  “Yes, young Master Paul. We do need you, but we need you alive.”

  “You need my abilities, as soon as possible. I was the Kwisatz Haderach, and this ghola has the same genetics. Imagine how I could help.”

  “The Kwisatz Haderach . . .” Duncan sighed and sat down on his bed. “The Sisterhood spent centuries creating him, but at the same time they were terrified of him. He can supposedly bridge space and time, seeing the future and the past, places even a Reverend Mother dares not look. Through brute force or guile he can forge a union between the most diverse of factions. It’s a grab bag of tremendous powers.”

  “Whatever those powers are, Duncan, I need them. And for that I require my memories. Convince Sheeana to try me next.”

  “She will do what she will do, at a time of her choosing. You overestimate the influence I have among the Sisters.”

  “But what if the Enemy’s net ensnares us completely? What if the Kwisatz Haderach is your only hope?”

  “Leto II was a Kwisatz Haderach, as well, though neither you nor your son turned out exactly the way the Bene Gesserit intended. The Sisters are very afraid of anyone who manifests unusual powers.” He laughed. “After the Scattering, when the Sisterhood brought the great Duncan Idaho back, some of them even accused me of being a Kwisatz Haderach. They killed eleven of my gholas, either by Bene Gesserit heretics or Tleilaxu schemers.”

  “But why don’t they want these powers? I thought—”

  “Oh, they want the powers, Paul, but only under carefully controlled conditions.” His heart went out to the young man, who looked so lost and desperate.

  “I can’t do anything without my past, Duncan. Help me retrieve it! You lived through part of it with me. You remember.”

  “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 grabbed the young man by his shirt and pulled his face close. “Wher
e are your memories? What if I were to die tomorrow?”

  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 Master should not be so weak and decrepit. It is . . . unseemly.”

  His youthful counterpart tried again to trigger the flow of memories, to squeeze them into his brain by sheer force of will, as he had attempted to do countless times before. The essential past must be in there somewhere, buried deep. But he felt no tickle of possibilities, no glimmer of success. What if they are not there at all? What if something had gone terribly wrong? His pulse pounded as the panic began to rise. Not much time. Never enough time.

  He tried to cut off the thought. The body provided a wealth of cellular material. They could create more Scytale gholas, try again and again if necessary. But if his own memories had failed to resurface, why should an identical ghola have any better luck without the guidance of the original?

  I am the only one who knew the Master so intimately.

  He wanted to shake Yueh, demand to know how he had managed to remember his past. Tears were in full flow now, falling onto the old man’s hand, but Scytale knew they were inadequate. His father’s chest spasmed in an almost imperceptible death rattle. The life-support equipment hummed with more intensity, and the instrument readings fluctuated.

  “He’s slipped into a coma,” Yueh reported.

  The Rabbi nodded. Like an executioner announcing his plans, he said, “Too weak. He’s going to die now.”

  Scytale’s heart sank. “He has given up on me.” His father would never know if he succeeded now; he would perish wondering and worrying. The last great calamity in a long line of disasters that had befallen the Tleilaxu race.

  He gripped the old man’s hand. So cold, too cold. He felt the life ebbing. I have failed!

  As if felled by a stunner, Scytale dropped to his knees at the bedside. In his crashing despair, he knew with absolute certainly that he could never resurrect the recalcitrant memories. Not alone. Lost! Forever lost! Everything that comprised the great Tleilaxu race. He could not bear the magnitude of this disaster. The reality of his defeat sliced like shattered glass into his heart.

  Abruptly, the Tleilaxu youth felt something changing inside, followed by an explosion between his temples. He cried out from the excruciating pain. At first he thought he was dying himself, but instead of being swallowed in blackness, he felt new thoughts burning like wildfire across his consciousness. Memories streamed past in a blur, but Scytale locked onto each one, absorbing it again and reprocessing it into the synapses of his brain. The precious memories returned to where they had always belonged.

  His father’s death had opened the barriers. At last Scytale retrieved what he was supposed to know, the critical data bank of a Tleilaxu Master, all the ancient secrets of his race.

  Instilled with pride and a new sense of dignity, he rose to his feet. Wiping away warm tears, he looked down at the discarded copy of himself on the bed. It was nothing more than a withered husk. He no longer needed that old man.

  These ghola children contain old souls that are not unlike the voices in a Reverend Mother’s Other Memory. The challenge is to access and exploit these old souls.

  —ship’s log, entry of

  DUNCAN IDAHO

  In the gangly body of a teenager, filled with the memories of a long life and the shame of things he had done, Wellington Yueh walked with painstaking slowness. Each step brought him closer to the moment he had been dreading. The skin of his brow burned where a diamond tattoo should have been; at least he no longer displayed that lie.

  Yueh knew that if he ever intended to make this life different from his error-prone past, he must confront the terrible things he had done.

  Here, thousands of years later and on the other side of the universe, House Atreides lived all around him: Paul Atreides, Lady Jessica, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat. At least Duke Leto had not been resurrected as a ghola. Not yet. Yueh didn’t think he could bear to look into the eyes of the man he had betrayed.

  Facing Jessica would be tough enough.

  Walking ponderously toward her quarters, Yueh heard voices ahead, a child’s giggle and a woman’s re
buke. Suddenly little Alia toddled out of one doorway and ducked into another, followed by a scolding proctor. The two-year-old was extremely precocious, with a hint of the genius that the first Alia had been; the spice saturation in the axlotl tank had altered her somewhat, but she didn’t possess the complete Other Memory of her predecessor. The proctor followed and sealed the door behind them. Neither of them had glanced at Yueh.

  Alia was the most recent ghola to be born; the program had been stalled since the horrific murder of the three tanks and unborn children. At least that is one crime I do not have on my conscience. But the Bene Gesserits would soon begin the program again. They were already discussing which cells to implant in the new axlotl tanks. Irulan? Emperor Shaddam himself? Count Fenring . . . or someone far worse? Yueh shuddered at the thought. He feared that the witches had gone beyond true need and now were just toying with lives, letting their infernal curiosity sidestep all caution.

  He paused in front of Jessica’s quarters, steeling himself. I will face my fear. Wasn’t that part of the Litany the witches so often quoted? In their present incarnations as gholas, Jessica and Yueh had been close enough to think of themselves as friends. But since becoming Dr. Wellington Yueh again, everything was different.

  Now I have a second chance, he thought. But my road to redemption is long, and the incline very steep.

  Jessica opened her door at his signal. “Oh hello, Wellington. My grandson and I were just reading a holobook about Paul’s younger years, one of those tomes Princess Irulan was always writing.” She invited him inside, where he saw Leto II sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor. Leto was a loner, though he frequently spent time with his “grandmother.”

  Yueh twitched nervously when she closed the door behind them, as if to seal his doom and prevent escape. He kept his eyes down, and after a deep sigh he said, “I wish to apologize to you, my Lady. Though I know you can never forgive me.”