Dune

Sometimes I indulge myself in safaris which no other being may take. I strike inward along the axis of my memories. Like a schoolchild reporting on a vacation trip, I take up my subject. Let it be . . . female intellectuals! I course backward into the ocean which is my ancestors. I am a great winged fish in the depths. The mouth of my awareness opens and I scoop them up! Sometimes . . . sometimes I hunt out specific persons recorded in our histories. What a private joy to relive the life of such a one while I mock the academic pretensions which supposedly formed a biography.

—THE STOLEN JOURNALS

Moneo descended to the crypt with sad resignation. There was no escaping the duties required of him now. The God Emperor required a small passage of time to grieve the loss of another Duncan . . . but then life went on . . . and on . . . and on. . . .

The lift slid silently downward with its superb Ixian dependability. Once, just once, the God Emperor had cried out to his majordomo: “Moneo! Sometimes I think you were made by the Ixians!”

Moneo felt the lift stop. The door opened and he looked out across the crypt at the shadowy bulk on the Royal Cart. There was no indication that Leto had noticed the arrival. Moneo sighed and began the long walk through the echoing gloom. There was a body on the floor near the cart. No need for déjà vu. This was merely familiar.

Once, in Moneo’s early days of service, Leto had said: “You don’t like this place, Moneo. I can see that.”

“No, Lord.”

With just a little prodding of memory, Moneo could hear his own voice in that naive past. And the voice of the God Emperor responding:

“You don’t think of a mausoleum as a comforting place, Moneo. I find it a source of infinite strength.”

Moneo remembered that he had been anxious to get off this topic. “Yes, Lord.”

Leto had persisted: “There are only a few of my ancestors here. The water of Muad’Dib is here. Ghani and Harq al-Ada are here, of course, but they’re not my ancestors. No, if there’s any true crypt of my ancestors, I am that crypt. This is mostly the Duncans and the products of my breeding program. You’ll be here someday.”

Moneo found that these memories had slowed his pace. He sighed and moved a bit faster. Leto could be violently impatient on occasion but there was still no sign from him. Moneo did not take this to mean that his approach went unobserved.

Leto lay with his eyes closed and only his other senses to record Moneo’s progress across the crypt. Thoughts of Siona had been occupying Leto’s attention.

Siona is my ardent enemy, he thought. I do not need Nayla’s words to confirm this. Siona is a woman of action. She lives on the surface of enormous energies which fill me with fantasies of delight. I cannot contemplate those living energies without a feeling of ecstasy. They are my reason for being, the justification for everything I have ever done . . . even for the corpse of this foolish Duncan in front of me now.

Leto’s ears told him that Moneo had not yet crossed half the distance to the Royal Cart. The man moved slower and slower, then picked up his pace.

What a gift Moneo has given me in this daughter, Leto thought. Siona is fresh and precious. She is the new while I am a collection of the obsolete, a relic of the damned, of the lost and strayed. I am the waylaid pieces of history which sank out of sight in all of our pasts. Such an accumulation of riffraff has never before been imagined.

Leto paraded the past within him then to let them observe what had happened in the crypt.

The minutiae are mine!

Siona, though . . . Siona was like a clean slate upon which great things might yet be written.

I guard that slate with infinite care. I am preparing it, cleansing it.

What did the Duncan mean when he called out her name?

Moneo approached the cart diffidently yet consummately aware. Surely Leto did not sleep.

Leto opened his eyes and looked down as Moneo came to a stop near the corpse. At this moment, Leto found the majordomo a delight to observe. Moneo wore a white Atreides uniform with no insignia, a subtle comment. His face, almost as well known as Leto’s, was all the insignia he needed. Moneo waited patiently. There was no change of expression on his flat, even features. His thick, sandy hair lay in a neat, equally divided part. Deep within his gray eyes there was that look of directness which went with knowledge of great personal power. It was a look which he modified only in the God Emperor’s presence, and sometimes not even there. Not once did he glance toward the body on the crypt’s floor.

When Leto continued silent, Moneo cleared his throat, then: “I am saddened, Lord.”

Exquisite! Leto thought. He knows I feel true remorse about the Duncans. Moneo has seen their records and has seen enough of them dead. He knows that only nineteen Duncans died what people usually refer to as natural deaths.

“He had an Ixian lasgun,” Leto said.

Moneo’s gaze went directly to the gun on the floor of the crypt off to his left, demonstrating that he already had seen it. He returned his attention to Leto, sweeping a glance down the length of the great body.

“You are injured, Lord?”

“Inconsequential.”

“But he hurt you.”

“Those flippers are useless to me. They will be entirely gone within another two hundred years.”

“I will dispose of the Duncan’s body personally, Lord,” Moneo said. “Is there . . .”

“The piece of me he burned away is entirely ash. We will let it blow away. This is a fitting place for ashes.”

“As my Lord says.”

“Before you dispose of the body, disable the lasgun and keep it where I can present it to the Ixian ambassador. As for the Guildsman who warned us about it, present him personally with ten grams of spice. Oh—and our priestesses on Giedi Prime should be alerted to a hidden store of melange there, probably old Harkonnen contraband.”

“What do you wish done with it when it’s found, Lord?”

“Use a bit of it to pay the Tleilaxu for the new ghola. The rest of it can go into our stores here in the crypt.”

“Lord.” Moneo acknowledged the orders with a nod, a gesture which was not quite a bow. His gaze met Leto’s.

Leto smiled. He thought: We both know that Moneo will not leave without addressing directly the matter which most concerns us.

“I have seen the report on Siona,” Moneo said.

Leto’s smile widened. Moneo was such a pleasure in these moments. His words conveyed many things which did not require open discussion between them. His words and actions were in precise alignment, carried on the mutual awareness that he, of course, spied on everything. Now, there was a natural concern for his daughter, but he wished it understood that his concern for the God Emperor remained paramount. From his own traverse through a similar evolution, Moneo knew with precision the delicate nature of Siona’s present fortunes.

“Have I not created her, Moneo?” Leto asked. “Have I not controlled the conditions of her ancestry and her upbringing?”

“She is my only daughter, my only child, Lord.”

“In a way, she reminds me of Harq al-Ada,” Leto said. “There doesn’t appear to be much of Ghani in her, although that has to be there. Perhaps she harks back to our ancestors in the Sisterhood’s breeding program.”

“Why do you say that, Lord?”

Leto reflected. Was there need for Moneo to know this peculiar thing about his daughter? Siona could fade from the prescient view at times. The Golden Path remained, but Siona faded. Yet . . . she was not prescient. She was a unique phenomenon . . . and if she survived . . . Leto decided he would not cloud Moneo’s efficiency with unnecessary information.

“Remember your own past,” Leto said.

“Indeed, Lord! And she has such a potential, so much more than I ever had. But that makes her dangerous, too.”

“And she will not listen to you,” Leto said.

“No, but I have an agent in her rebellion.”

That will be Topri, Leto thought.

It required no prescience to know that Moneo would have an agent in place. Ever since the death of Siona’s mother, Leto had known with increasing sureness the course of Moneo’s actions. Nayla’s suspicions pinpointed Topri. And now, Moneo paraded his fears and actions, offering them as the price of his daughter’s continued safety.

How unfortunate he fathered only the one child on that mother.

“Recall how I treated you in similar circumstances,” Leto said. “You know the demands of the Golden Path as well as I do.”

“But I was young and foolish, Lord.”

“Young and brash, never foolish.”

Moneo managed a tight smile at this compliment, his thoughts leaning more and more toward the belief that he now understood Leto’s intentions. The dangers, though!

Feeding his belief, Leto said: “You know how much I enjoy surprises.”

That is true, Leto thought. Moneo does know it. But even while Siona surprises me, she reminds me of what I fear most—the sameness and boredom which could break the Golden Path. Look at how boredom put me temporarily in the Duncan’s power! Siona is the contrast by which I know my deepest fears. Moneo’s concern for me is well grounded.

“My agent will continue to watch her new companions, Lord,” Moneo said. “I do not like them.”

“Her companions? I myself had such companions once long ago.”

“Rebellious, Lord? You?” Moneo was genuinely surprised.

“Have I not proved a friend of rebellion?”

“But Lord . . .”

“The aberrations of our past are more numerous than you may think!”

“Yes, Lord.” Moneo was abashed, yet still curious. And he knew that the God Emperor sometimes waxed loquacious after the death of a Duncan. “You must have seen many rebellions, Lord.”

Involuntarily, Leto’s thoughts sank into the memories aroused by these words.

“Ahhh, Moneo,” he muttered. “My travels in the ancestral mazes have memorized uncounted places and events which I never desire to see repeated.”

“I can imagine your inward travels, Lord.”

“No, you cannot. I have seen peoples and planets in such numbers that they lose meaning even in imagination. Ohhh, the landscapes I have passed. The calligraphy of alien roads glimpsed from space and imprinted upon my innermost sight. The eroded sculpture of canyons and cliffs and galaxies has imprinted upon me the certain knowledge that I am a mote.”

“Not you, Lord. Certainly not you.”

“Less than a mote! I have seen people and their fruitless societies in such repetitive posturings that their nonsense fills me with boredom, do you hear?”

“I did not mean to anger my Lord.” Moneo spoke meekly.

“You don’t anger me. Sometimes you irritate me, that is the extent of it. You cannot imagine what I have seen—caliphs and mjeeds, rakahs, rajas and bashars, kings and emperors, primitos and presidents—I’ve seen them all. Feudal chieftains, every one. Every one a little pharaoh.”

“Forgive my presumption, Lord.”

“Damn the Romans!” Leto cried.

He spoke it inwardly to his ancestors: “Damn the Romans!”

Their laughter drove him from the inward arena.

“I don’t understand, Lord,” Moneo ventured.

“That’s true. You don’t understand. The Romans broadcast the pharaonic disease like grain farmers scattering the seeds of next season’s harvest—Caesars, kaisers, tsars, imperators, caseris . . . palatos . . . damned pharaohs!”

“My knowledge does not encompass all of those titles, Lord.”

“I may be the last of the lot, Moneo. Pray that this is so.”

“Whatever my Lord commands.”

Leto stared down at the man. “We are myth-killers, you and I, Moneo. That’s the dream we share. I assure you from a God’s Olympian perch that government is a shared myth. When the myth dies, the government dies.”

“Thus you have taught me, Lord.”

“That man-machine, the Army, created our present dream, my friend.”

Moneo cleared his throat.

Leto recognized the small signs of the majordomo’s impatience.

Moneo understands about armies. He knows it was a fool’s dream that armies were the basic instrument of governance.

As Leto continued silent, Moneo crossed to the lasgun and retrieved it from the crypt’s cold floor. He began disabling it.

Leto watched him, thinking how this tiny scene encapsulated the essence of the Army myth. The Army fostered technology because the power of machines appeared so obvious to the shortsighted.

That lasgun is no more than a machine. But all machines fail or are superceded. Still, the Army worships at the shrine of such things—both fascinated and fearful. Look at how people fear the Ixians! In its guts, the Army knows it is the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. It unleashes technology and never again can the magic be stuffed back into the bottle.

I teach them another magic.

Leto spoke to the hordes within then:

“You see? Moneo has disabled the deadly instrument. A connection broken here, a small capsule crushed there.”

Leto sniffed. He smelled the esters of a preservative oil riding on the stink of Moneo’s perspiration.

Still speaking inwardly, Leto said: “But the genie is not dead. Technology breeds anarchy. It distributes these tools at random. And with them goes the provocation for violence. The ability to make and use savage destroyers falls inevitably into the hands of smaller and smaller groups until at last the group is a single individual.”

Moneo returned to a point below Leto, holding the disabled lasgun casually in his right hand. “There is talk on Parella and the planets of Dan about another jihad against such things as this.”

Moneo lifted the lasgun and smiled, signaling that he knew the paradox in such empty dreams.

Leto closed his eyes. The hordes within wanted to argue, but he shut them off, thinking: Jihads create armies. The Butlerian Jihad tried to rid our universe of machines which simulate the mind of man. The Butlerians left armies in their wake and the Ixians still make questionable devices . . . for which I thank them. What is anathema? The motivation to ravage, no matter the instruments.

“It happened,” he muttered.

“Lord?”

Leto opened his eyes. “I will go to my tower,” he said. “I must have more time to mourn my Duncan.”

“The new one is already on his way here,” Moneo said.