Dune

Memory has a curious meaning to me, a meaning I have hoped others might share. It continually astonished me how people hide from their ancestral memories, shielding themselves behind a thick barrier of mythos. Ohhh, I do not expect them to seek the terrible immediacy of every living moment which I must experience. I can understand that they might not want to be submerged in a mush of petty ancestral details. You have reason to fear that your living moments might be taken over by others. Yet, the meaning is there within those memories. We carry all of our ancestry forward like a living wave, all of the hopes and joys and griefs, the agonies and the exultations of our past. Nothing within those memories remains completely without meaning or influence, not as long as there is a humankind somewhere. We have that bright Infinity all around us, that Golden Path of forever to which we can continually pledge our puny but inspired allegiance.

—THE STOLEN JOURNALS

“I have summoned you, Moneo, because of what my guards tell me,” Leto said.

They stood in the darkness of the crypt where, Moneo reminded himself, some of the God Emperor’s most painful decisions originated. Moneo, too, had heard reports. He had been expecting the summons all afternoon and, when it came shortly after the evening meal, a moment of terror had engulfed him.

“Is it about . . . about the Duncan, Lord?”

“Of course it’s about the Duncan!”

“I’m told, Lord . . . his behavior . . .”

“Terminal behavior, Moneo?”

Moneo bowed his head. “If you say it, Lord.”

“How long until the Tleilaxu could supply us with another one?”

“They say they have had problems, Lord. It might be as much as two years.”

“Do you know what my guards tell me, Moneo?”

Moneo held his breath. If the God Emperor had learned about this latest . . . No! Even the Fish Speakers were terrified by the affront. Had it been anyone but a Duncan, the women would have taken it upon themselves to eliminate him.

“Well, Moneo?”

“I am told, Lord, that he called out a levy of guards and questioned them about their origins. On what worlds were they born? What of their parentage, their childhood?”

“And the answers did not please him.”

“He frightened them, Lord. He kept insisting.”

“As though repetition could elicit the truth, yes.”

Moneo allowed himself to hope that this might be the whole of his Lord’s concern. “Why do the Duncans always do this, Lord?”

“It was their early training, the Atreides training.”

“But how did that differ from . . .”

“The Atreides lived in the service of the people they governed. The measure of their government was found in the lives of the governed. Thus, the Duncans always want to know how the people live.”

“He has spent a night in one village, Lord. He has been to some of the towns. He has seen . . .”

“It’s all in how you interpret the results, Moneo. Evidence is nothing without judgments.”

“I have observed that he judges, Lord.”

“We all do, but the Duncans tend to believe that this universe is hostage to my will. And they know that you cannot do wrong in the name of right.”

“Is that what he says you . . .”

“It is what I say, what all of the Atreides in me say. This universe will not permit it. The things you attempt will not endure if you . . .”

“But, Lord! You do no wrong!”

“Poor Moneo. You cannot see that I have created a vehicle of injustice.”

Moneo could not speak. He realized that he had been diverted by a seeming return to mildness in the God Emperor. But now, Moneo sensed changes moving in that great body, and at this proximity . . . Moneo glanced around the crypt’s central chamber, reminding himself of the many deaths which had occurred here and which were enshrined here.

Is it my time?

Leto spoke in a musing tone. “You cannot succeed by taking hostages. That is a form of enslavement. One kind of human cannot own another kind of human. This universe will not permit it.”

The words lay there, simmering in Moneo’s awareness, a terrifying contrast to the rumblings of transformation which he sensed in his Lord.

The Worm comes!

Again, Moneo glanced around the crypt chamber. This place was far worse than the aerie! Sanctuary was too remote.

“Well, Moneo, do you have any response?” Leto asked.

Moneo ventured a whisper: “The Lord’s words enlighten me.”

“Enlighten? You are not enlightened!”

Moneo spoke out of desperation. “But I serve my Lord!”

“You claim service to God?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Who created your religion, Moneo?”

“You did, Lord.”

“That’s a sensible answer.”

“Thank you, Lord.”

“Don’t thank me! Tell me what religious institutions perpetuate!”

Moneo backed away four steps.

“Stand where you are!” Leto ordered.

Trembling all through his body, Moneo shook his head dumbly. At last, he had encountered the question without answer. Failure to answer would precipitate his death. He waited for it, head bowed.

“Then I will tell you, poor servant,” Leto said.

Moneo dared to hope. He lifted his gaze to the God Emperor’s face, noting that the eyes were not glazed . . . and the hands were not trembling. Perhaps the Worm did not come.

“Religious institutions perpetuate a mortal master-servant relationship,” Leto said. “They create an arena which attracts prideful human power-seekers with all of their nearsighted prejudices!”

Moneo could only nod. Was that a trembling in the God Emperor’s hands? Was the terrible face withdrawing slightly into its cowl?

“The secret revelations of infamy, that is what the Duncans ask after,” Leto said. “The Duncans have too much compassion for their fellows and too sharp a limit on fellowship.”

Moneo had studied holos of Dune’s ancient sandworms, the gigantic mouths full of crysknife teeth around consuming fire. He noted the tumescence of the latent rings on Leto’s tubular surface. Were they more prominent? Would a new mouth open below that cowled face?

“The Duncans know in their hearts,” Leto said, “that I have deliberately ignored the admonition of Mohammed and Moses. Even you know it, Moneo!”

It was an accusation. Moneo started to nod, then shook his head from side to side. He wondered if he dared renew his retreat. Moneo knew from experience that lectures in this tenor did not long continue without the coming of the Worm.

“What might that admonition be?” Leto asked. There was a mocking lightness in his voice.

Moneo allowed himself a faint shrug.

Abruptly, Leto’s voice filled the chamber with a rumbling baritone, an ancient voice which spoke across the centuries: “You are servants unto God, not servants unto servants!”

Moneo wrung his hands and cried out: “I serve you, Lord!”

“Moneo, Moneo,” Leto said, his voice low and resonant, “a million wrongs cannot give rise to one right. The right is known because it endures.”

Moneo could only stand in trembling silence.

“I had intended Hwi to mate with you, Moneo,” Leto said. “Now, it is too late.”

The words took a moment penetrating Moneo’s consciousness. He felt that their meaning was out of any known context. Hwi? Who was Hwi? Oh, yes—the God Emperor’s Ixian bride-to-be. Mate . . . with me?

Moneo shook his head.

Leto spoke with infinite sadness: “You, too, shall pass away. Will all your works be as dust forgotten?”

Without any warning, even as he spoke, Leto’s body convulsed in a thrashing roll which heaved him from the cart. The speed of it, the monstrous violence, threw him within centimeters of Moneo, who screamed and fled across the crypt.

“Moneo!”

Leto’s call stopped the majordomo at the entrance to the lift.

“The test, Moneo! I will test Siona tomorrow!”