- The Stolen Journals
IDAHO FOUND Moneo at last in the long underground corridor which connected the Citadel's eastern and western complexes. Since daybreak two hours before, Idaho had been prowling the Citadel seeking the majordomo and there he was, far off down the corridor, talking to someone concealed in a doorway, but Moneo was recognizable even at this distance by his stance and that inevitable white uniform.
The corridor's plastone walls were amber here fifty meters below the surface and lighted by glowstrips keyed to the daylight hours. Cool breezes were drawn into these depths by a simple arrangement of free swinging wings which stood like gigantic robed figures on perimeter towers at the surface. Now that the sun had warmed the sands, all of the wings pointed northward for the cool air pouring into the Sareer. Idaho smelled the flinty breeze as he walked.
He knew what this corridor was supposed to represent. It did have some characteristics of an ancient Fremen sietch. The corridor was wide, big enough to take Leto on his cart. The arched ceiling looked like rock. But the twin glowstrips were discord. Idaho had never seen glowstrips before coming to the Citadel; they had been considered impractical in his day, requiring too much energy, too costly to maintain. Glowglobes were simpler and easily replaced. He had come to realize, however, that Leto considered few things impractical.
What Leto wants, someone provides.
The thought had an ominous feeling as Idaho marched down the corridor toward Moneo.
Small rooms lined the corridor sietch-fashion, no doors, only thin hangings of russet fabric which swayed in the breeze. Idaho knew that this area was mostly quarters for the younger Fish Speakers. He had recognized an assembly chamber with attendant rooms for weapons storage, kitchen, a dining hall, maintenance shops. He had also seen other things behind the inadequate privacy of the hangings, things which fed his rage.
Moneo turned at Idaho's approach. The woman to whom Moneo had been talking retreated and let the hanging drop, but not before Idaho glimpsed an older face with an air of command about it. Idaho did not recognize that particular commander.
Moneo nodded as Idaho stopped two paces away.
"The guards say you've been looking for me," Moneo said.
"Where is he, Moneo?"
"Where is who?"
Moneo swept his gaze up and down Idaho's figure, noting the old-fashioned Atreides uniform, black with a red hawk at the breast, the high boots glistening with polish. There was a ritual look about the man.
Idaho took a shallow breath and spoke through clenched teeth: "Don't you start that game with me!"
Moneo took his attention away from the sheathed knife at Idaho's waist. It looked like a museum piece with its jeweled handle. Where had Idaho found it?"
"If you mean the God Emperor..." Moneo said.
"Where?"
Moneo kept his voice mild. "Why are you so anxious to die?"
"They said you were with him."
"That was earlier."
"I'll find him, Moneo!"
"Not right now."
Idaho put a hand on his knife. "Do I have to use force to make you talk?"
"I would not advise that."
"Where... is... he?"
"Since you insist, he is out in the desert with Siona."
"With your daughter?" "Is there another Siona?" "What're they doing?" "She is being tested." "When will they return?" Moneo shrugged, then: "Why this unseemly anger, Duncan?" "What's this test of your..
."
"I don't know. Now, why are you so upset?"
"I'm sick of this place! Fish Speakers!" He turned his head and spat.
Moneo glanced down the corridor behind Idaho, recalling the man's approach. Knowing the Duncans, it was easy to recognize what had fed his current rage.
"Duncan," Moneo said, "it's perfectly normal for adolescent females as well as males to have feelings of physical attraction toward members of their own sex. Most of them will grow out of it."
"It should be stamped out!"
"But it's part of our heritage."
"Stamped out! And that's not..
."
"Oh, be still. If you try to suppress it, you only increase its power."
Idaho glared at him. "And you say you don't know what's going on up there with your own daughter!"
"Siona is being tested, I told you."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
Moneo put a hand over his eyes and sighed. He lowered the hand, wondering why he put up with this foolish, dangerous, antique human.
"It means that she may die out there."
Idaho was taken aback, some of his anger cooling. "How can you allow..."
"Allow? You think I have a choice?"
"Every man has a choice!"
A bitter smile flitted across Moneo's lips. "How is it that you are so much more foolish than the other Duncans?"
"Other Duncans!" Idaho said. "How did those others die, Moneo?"
"The way we all die. They ran out of time."
"You lie." Idaho spoke past gritted teeth, his knuckles white on the knife handle.
Still speaking mildly, Moneo said: "Have a care. There are limits even to what I will take, especially just now."
"This place is rotten!" Idaho said. He gestured with his free hand at the corridor behind him. "There are some things I'll never accept!"
Moneo stared down the empty corridor without seeing. "You must mature, Duncan. You must."
Idaho's hand tensed on the knife. "What does that mean?"
"These are sensitive times. Anything unsettling to him, anything... must be prevented."
Idaho held himself on the edge of violence, his anger restrained only by something puzzling in Moneo's manner. Words had been spoken, though, which could not be ignored.
"I'm not some damned immature child you can..."
"Duncan!" It was the loudest sound Idaho had ever heard from the mild-mannered Moneo. Surprise stayed Idaho's hand while Moneo continued: "If the demands of your flesh are for maturity, but something holds you in adolescence, quite nasty behavior develops. Let go."
"Are... you... accusing... me... of.,
"No!" Moneo gestured at the corridor. "Oh, I know. what you must've seen back there, but it..."
"Two women in a passionate kiss! You think that's not..."
"It's not important. Youth explores its potential in many ways."
Idaho balanced himself on the edge of an explosion, rocking forward on his toes. "I'm glad to learn about you, Moneo."
"Yes, well, I've learned about you, several times."
Moneo watched the effect of these words as they twisted through Idaho, tangling him. The gholas could never avoid a fascination with the others who had preceded them.
Idaho spoke in a hoarse whisper: "What have you learned?"
"You have taught me valuable things," Moneo said. "All of us try to evolve, but if something blocks us, we can transfer our potential into pain-seeking it or giving it. Adolescents are particularly vulnerable."
Idaho leaned close to Moneo. "I'm talking about sex!"
"Of course you are."
"Are you accusing me of adolescent..."
"That's right."
"I should cut your..
."
"Oh, shut up!"
Moneo's response did not have the training nuances of Bene Gesserit Voice control, but it had a lifetime of command behind it. Something in Idaho could only obey.
"I'm sorry," Moneo said. "But I'm distracted by the fact that my only daughter..." He broke off and shrugged.
Idaho inhaled two deep breaths. "You're crazy, all of you! You say your daughter may be dying and yet you..."
"You fool!" Moneo snapped. "Have you any idea how your petty concerns appear to me! Your stupid questions and your selfish..." He broke off, shaking his head.
"I make allowances because you have personal problems," Idaho said. "But if you..."
"Allowances? You make allowances?" Moneo took a trembling breath. It w
as too much!
Idaho spoke stiffly: "I can forgive you for..."
"You! You prattle about sex and forgiving and pain and... you think you and Hwi Noree..."
"Leave her out of this!"
"Oh, yes. Leave her out. Leave out that pain! You share sex with her and you never think about parting. Tell me, fool, how do you give of yourself in the face of that?"
Abashed, Idaho inhaled deeply. He had not suspected such passion smoldering in the quiet Moneo, but this attack, this could not be...
"You think I'm cruel?" Moneo demanded. "I make you think about things you'd rather avoid. Hah! Crueler things have been done to the Lord Leto for no better reason than the cruelty!"
"You defend him? You..."
"I know him best!"
"He uses you!"
"To what ends?"
"You tell me!"
"He's our best hope to perpetuate..."
"Perverts don't perpetuate!"
Moneo spoke in a soothing tone, but his words shook Idaho. "I will tell you this only once. Homosexuals have been among the best warriors in our history, the berserkers of last resort. They were among our best priests and priestesses. Celibacy was no accident in religions. It is also no accident that adolescents make the best soldiers."
"That's perversion!"
"Quite right. Military commanders have known about the perverted displacement of sex into pain for thousands upon thousands of centuries."
"Is that what the Great Lord Leto's doing?"
Still mild, Moneo said: "Violence requires that you inflict pain and suffer it. How much more manageable a military force driven to this by its deepest urgings."
"He's made a monster out of you, too!"
"You suggested that he uses me," Moneo said. "I permit this because I know that the price he pays is much greater than what he demands of me."
"Even your daughter?"
"He holds back nothing. Why should I? Ohhh, I think you understand this about the Atreides. The Duncans are always good at that."
"The Duncans! Damn you, I won't be..."
"You just haven't the guts to pay the price he's asking," Moneo said.
In one blurred motion, Idaho whipped his knife from its sheath and lunged at Moneo. As fast as he moved, Moneo moved faster-sidestepping, tripping Idaho and propelling him face-down onto the floor. Idaho scrambled forward, rolled and started to leap to his feet, then hesitated, realizing that he had actually tried to attack an Atreides. Moneo was Atreides. Shock held Idaho immobile.
Moneo stood unmoving, looking down at him. There was an odd look of sadness on the majordomo's face.
"If you're going to kill me, Duncan, you'd best do it in the back by stealth," Moneo said. "You might succeed that way."
Idaho levered himself to one knee, put a foot flat on the floor, but remained there still clutching his knife. Moneo had moved so quickly and with such grace-so... so casually! Idaho cleared his throat. "How did you..."
"He has been breeding us for a long time, Duncan, strengthening many things in us. He has bred us for speed, for intelligence, for self-restraint, for sensitivity. You're... you're just an older model."
***
Do you know what guerrillas often say? They claim that their rebellions are invulnerable to economic warfare because they have no economy, that they are parasitic on those they would overthrow. The fools merely fail to assess the coin in which they must inevitably pay. The pattern is inexorable in its degenerative failures. You see it repeated in the systems of slavery, of welfare states, of caste-ridden religions, of socializing bureaucracies-in any system which creates and maintains dependencies. Too long a parasite and you cannot exist without a host.
- The Stolen Journals
LETO AND Siona lay all day in the dune-shadows, moving only as the sun moved. He taught her how to protect herself under a blanket of sand in the noontime heat; it never grew too warm at the rock-level between the dunes.
In the afternoon, Siona crept close to Leto for warmth, a warmth he knew he had in excess these days.
They talked sporadically. He told her about the Fremen graces which once had dominated this landscape. She probed for secret knowledge of him.
Once, he said: "You may find it odd, but out here is where I can be most human."
His words failed to make her fully conscious of her human vulnerability and the fact that she might die out here. Even when she was not talking, she did not restore the face flap of her stillsuit.
Leto recognized the unconscious motivation behind this failure, but knew the futility of addressing that directly.
In the late afternoon, night's chill already starting to creep over the land, he began regaling her with songs of the Long Trek which had not been saved in the Oral History. He enjoyed the fact that she liked one of his favorites, "Liet's March."
"The tune is really ancient," he said, "a pre-space thing of Old Terra."
"Would you sing it again?"
He chose one of his best baritones, a long-dead artist who had filled many a concert hall.
"The wall of past-beyond-recall Hides me from an ancient fall Where all the waters tumble! And plays of sprays Carve caves in clays Beneath a torrent's rumble."
When he had finished, she was silent for a moment, then: "That's an odd song for marching."
"They liked it because they could dissect it," he said.
"Dissect?"
"Before our Fremen ancestors came to this planet, night was the time for storytelling, songs and poetry. In the Dune days, though, that was reserved for the false dark, the daytime gloom of the sietch. The night was when they could emerge and move about... just as we do now."
"But you said dissect."
"What does that song mean?" he asked.
"Oh. It's... it's just a song."
"Siona!"
She heard anger in his voice and remained silent.
"This planet is the child of the worm," he warned her, "and I am that worm."
She responded with a surprising insouciance: "Then tell me what it means."
"The insect has no more freedom from its hive than we have freedom from our past," he said. "The caves are there and all of the messages written in the sprays of the torrents."
"I prefer dancing songs," she said.
It was a flippant answer, but Leto chose to take it as a change of subject. He told her about the marriage dance of
Fremen women, tracing the steps back to the whirling of dust devils. Leto prided himself on telling a good story. It was clear from her rapt attention that she could see the women whirling before her inner eye, long black hair thrown in the ancient movements, straggling across long-dead faces.
Darkness was almost upon them when he finished.
"Come," he said. "Morning and evening are still the times of silhouettes. Let us see if anyone shares our desert."
Siona followed him up to a dune-crest and they stared all around at the darkening desert. There was only one bird high overhead, attracted by their movements. From the splayed-gap tips on its wings and the shape, he knew it was a vulture. He pointed this out to Siona.
"But what do they eat?" she asked.
"Anything that's dead or nearly so."
This hit her and she stared up at the last of the sunlight gilding the lone bird's flight feathers.
Leto pressed it: "A few people still venture into my Sareer. Sometimes, a Museum Fremen wanders off and gets lost. They're really only good at the rituals. And then there are the desert's edges and the remains of whatever my wolves leave."
At this, she whirled away from him, but not before he saw the passion still consuming her. Siona was being sorely tested.
"There's little daytime graciousness about a desert," he said. "That's another reason we travel by night. To a Fremen, the image of the day was that of windblown sand filling your tracks."
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears when she turned back to him, but her features were composed..
"What lives here now?" she a
sked.
"The vultures, a few night creatures, an occasional remnant of plant life out of the old days, burrowing things."
"Is that all?"
"Yes." .,Why?"
"Because this is where they were born and I permit them to know nothing better."
It was almost dark with that sudden glowing light his desert acquired in these moments. He studied her in that luminous moment, recognizing that she had not yet understood his other message. He knew that message would sit there, though, and fester in her."Silhouettes," she said, reminding him. "What did you expect to find when we came up here?"
"Perhaps people at a distance. You're never certain."
"What people?"
"I've already told you."
"What would you've done if you'd seen anyone?"
"It was the Fremen custom to treat distant people as hostile until they threw sand into the air."
As he spoke, darkness fell over them like a curtain.
Siona became ghostly movement in the sudden starlight. "Sand?" she asked.
"Thrown sand is a profound gesture. It says: `We share the same burden. Sand is our only enemy. This is what we drink. The hand that holds sand holds no weapon.' Do you understand this?"
"No!" She taunted him with a defiant falsehood.
"You will," he said.
Without a word, she set out along the arc of their dune, striding away from him with an angry excess of energy. Leto allowed himself to fall far behind her, interested that she had instinctively chosen the right direction. Fremen memories could be felt churning in her.
Where the dune dipped to cross another, she waited for him. He saw that the face flap of her stillsuit remained open, hanging loose. It was not yet time to chide her about this. Some unconscious things had to run their natural course.
As he came up to her, she said: "Is this as good a direction as any other?"
"If you keep to it," he said.
She glanced up at the stars and he saw her identify the Pointers, those Fremen Arrows which had led her ancestors across this land. He could see, though, that her recognition was mostly intellectual. She had not yet come to accept the other things working within her.
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