Dune

To know a thing well, know its limits. Only when pushed beyond its tolerances will true nature be seen.

—THE AMTAL RULE

Do not depend only on theory if your life is at stake.

—BENE GESSERIT COMMENTARY

Duncan Idaho stood almost in the center of the no-ship’s practice floor and three paces from the ghola-child. Sophisticated training instruments were near at hand, some exhausting, some dangerous.

The child looked admiring and trusting this morning.

Do I understand him better because I, too, am a ghola? A questionable assumption. This one has been brought up in a way much different from the one they designed for me. Designed! The precise term.

The Sisterhood had copied as much of Teg’s original childhood as possible. Even to an adoring younger companion standing in for the long-lost brother. And Odrade giving him the deep teaching! As Teg’s birth-mother did.

Idaho remembered the aged Bashar whose cells had produced this child. A thoughtful man whose comments were to be heeded. With only a slight effort, Idaho recalled the man’s manner and words.

“The true warrior often understands his enemy better than he understands his friends. A dangerous pitfall if you let understanding lead to sympathy as it will naturally do when left unguided.”

Difficult to think of the mind behind those words as latent somewhere in this child. The Bashar had been so insightful, teaching about sympathies on that long-ago day in the Gammu Keep.

“Sympathy for the enemy—a weakness of police and armies alike. Most perilous are the unconscious sympathies directing you to preserve your enemy intact because the enemy is your justification for existence.”

“Sir?”

How could that piping voice become the commanding tones of the old Bashar?

“What is it?”

“Why are you just standing there looking at me?”

“They called the Bashar ‘Old Reliability.’ Did you know that?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve studied the story of his life.”

Was it “Young Reliability” now? Why did Odrade want his original memories restored so quickly?

“Because of the Bashar, the entire Sisterhood has been digging into Other Memory, revising their views of history. Did they tell you that?”

“No, sir. Is it important for me to know? Mother Superior said you would train my muscles.”

“You liked to drink Danian Marinete, a very fine brandy, I recall.”

“I’m too young to drink, sir.”

“You were a Mentat. Do you know what that means?”

“I’ll know when you restore my memories, won’t I?”

No respectful sir. Calling the teacher to task for unwanted delays.

Idaho smiled and got a grin in response. An engaging child. Easy to show him natural affection.

“Watch out for him,” Odrade had said. “He’s a charmer.”

Idaho recalled Odrade’s briefing before bringing the child.

“Since every individual is accountable ultimately to the self,” she said, “the formation of that self demands our utmost care and attention.”

“Is that necessary with a ghola?”

They had been in Idaho’s sitting room that night, Murbella a fascinated listener.

“He will remember everything you teach him.”

“So we do a little editing of the original.”

“Careful, Duncan! Give a bad time to an impressionable child, teach that child not to trust anyone, and you create a suicide—slow or fast suicide, doesn’t make any difference.”

“Are you forgetting that I knew the Bashar?”

“Don’t you remember, Duncan, how it was before your memories were restored?”

“I knew the Bashar could do it and I thought of him as my salvation.”

“And that’s how he sees you. It’s a special kind of trust.”

“I’ll treat him honestly.”

“You may think you act from honesty but I advise you to look deeply into yourself every time you come face to face with his trust.”

“And if I make a mistake?”

“We will correct it if possible.” She glanced up at the comeyes and back to him.

“I know you’ll be watching us!”

“Don’t let it inhibit you. I’m not trying to make you self-conscious. Just cautious. And remember that my Sisterhood has efficient methods of healing.”

“I’ll be cautious.”

“You might remember it was the Bashar who said: ‘The ferocity we display to our foes is always tempered by the lesson we hope to teach.’”

“I can’t think of him as a foe. The Bashar was one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

“Excellent. I place him in your hands.”

And here the child was on the practice floor getting more than a little impatient with his teacher’s hesitations.

“Sir, is this part of a lesson, just standing here? I know sometimes—”

“Be still.”

Teg came to military attention. No one had taught him that. This was from his original memories. Idaho was suddenly fascinated by this glimpse of the Bashar.

They knew he would catch me this way!

Never underestimate Bene Gesserit persuasiveness. You could find yourself doing things for them without knowing pressures had been applied. Subtle and damnable! There were compensations, of course. You lived in interesting times, as the ancient curse/benison had it. All in all, Idaho decided, he preferred interesting times, even these times.

He took a deep breath. “Restoring your original memories will cause pain—physical and mental. In some ways, the mental pains are worse. I am to prepare you for that.”

Still at attention. No comment.

“We will begin without weapons, using an imaginary blade in your right hand. This is a variation on the ‘five attitudes.’ Each response arises before the need. Drop your arms to your sides and relax.”

Moving behind Teg, Idaho grasped the child’s right arm below the elbow and demonstrated the first movements.

“Each attacker is a feather floating on an infinite path. As the feather approaches, it is diverted and removed. Your response is like a puff of air blowing the feather away.”

Idaho stepped aside and observed as Teg repeated the movements, correcting occasionally with a sharp blow to an offending muscle.

“Let your body do the learning!” When Teg asked why he did that.

In a rest period, Teg wanted to know what Idaho meant by “mental pains.”

“You have ghola-imposed walls around your original memories. At the proper moment, some of those memories will come flooding back. Not all memories will be pleasant.”

“Mother Superior says the Bashar restored your memories.”

“Gods of the deep, child! Why do you keep saying ‘the Bashar’? That was you!”

“But I don’t know that yet.”

“You present a special problem. For a ghola to reawaken, there should be memory of death. But the cells for you do not carry death memory.”

“But the . . . Bashar is dead.”

“The Bashar! Yes, he’s dead. You must feel that where it hurts most and know that you are the Bashar.”

“Can you really give me back that memory?”

“If you can stand the pain. Do you know what I said to you when you restored my memories? I said: ‘Atreides! You’re all so damned alike!’”

“You hated . . . me?”

“Yes, and you were disgusted with yourself for what you did to me. Does that give you any idea of what I must do?”

“Yes, sir.” Very low.

“Mother Superior says I must not betray your trust . . . yet you betrayed my trust.”

“But I restored your memories?”

“See how easy it is to think of yourself as Bashar? You were shocked. And yes, you restored my memories.”

“That’s all I want.”

“So you say.”

“Mother . . . Superior says you’re a Mentat. Will that help . . . that I was a Mentat, too?”

“Logic says ‘Yes.’ But we Mentats have a saying, that logic moves blindly. And we’re aware there’s a logic that kicks you out of the nest into chaos.”

“I know what chaos means!” Very proud of himself.

“So you think.”

“And I trust you!”

“Listen to me! We are servants of the Bene Gesserit. Reverend Mothers did not build their order on trust.”

“Shouldn’t I trust Mother . . . Superior?”

“Within limits you will learn and appreciate. For now, I warn you the Bene Gesserit work under a system of organized distrust. Have they taught you about democracy?”

“Yes, sir. That’s where you vote for—”

“That’s where you distrust anyone with power over you! The Sisters know it well. Don’t trust too much.”

“Then I should not trust you, either?”

“The only trust you can place in me is that I will do my best to restore your original memories.”

“Then I don’t care how much it hurts.” He looked up at the comeyes, knowledge of their purpose in his expression. “Do they mind that you say these things about them?”

“Their feelings don’t concern a Mentat except as data.”

“Does that mean fact?”

“Facts are fragile. A Mentat can get tangled in them. Too much reliable data. It’s like diplomacy. You need a few good lies to get at your projections.”

“I’m . . . confused.” He used the word hesitantly, not sure it was what he meant.

“I said that once to Mother Superior. She said: ‘I’ve been behaving badly.’”

“You’re not supposed to . . . confuse me?”

“Unless it teaches.” And when Teg still looked puzzled, Idaho said: “Let me tell you a story.”

Teg immediately sat on the floor, an action revealing that Odrade often used the same technique. Good. Teg already was receptive.

“In one of my lives I had a dog that hated clams,” Idaho said.

“I’ve had clams. They come from the Great Sea.”

“Yes, well, my dog hated clams because one of them had the temerity to spit in his eye. That stings. But even worse, it was an innocent hole in the sand that did the spitting. No clam visible.”

“What’d your dog do?” Leaning forward, chin on fist.

“He dug up the offender and brought it to me.” Idaho grinned. “Lesson one: Don’t let the unknown spit in your eye.”

Teg laughed and clapped his hands.

“But look at it from the dog’s viewpoint. Go after the spitter! Then—glorious reward: Master is pleased.”

“Did your dog dig more clams?”

“Every time we went to the beach. He went growling after spitters and Master took them away never to be seen again except as empty shells with bits of meat still clinging to the insides.”

“You ate them.”

“See it as the dog did. Spitters get their just punishment. He has a way to rid his world of offensive things and Master is pleased with him.”

Teg demonstrated his brightness. “Do the Sisters think of us as dogs?”

“In a way. Never forget it. When you get back to your rooms, look up ‘lèse majesté.’ It helps place our relationship to our Masters.”

Teg looked up at the comeyes and back to Idaho but said nothing.

Idaho lifted his attention to the door behind Teg and said: “That story was for you, too.”

Teg jumped to his feet, turning and expecting to see Mother Superior. But it was only Murbella.

She was leaning against the wall near the door.

“Bell won’t like you talking about the Sisterhood that way,” she said.

“Odrade told me I have a free hand.” He looked at Teg. “We’ve wasted enough time on stories! Let me see if your body has learned anything.”

An odd feeling of excitement had come over Murbella as she entered the training area and saw Duncan with the child. She watched for a time, aware that she was seeing him in a new and almost Bene Gesserit light. Mother Superior’s briefing came out in Duncan’s candor with Teg. Extremely odd sensation, this new awareness, as though she had come a full step away from her former associates. The feeling was poignant with loss.

Murbella found herself missing strange things in her former life. Not the hunting in the streets, seeking new males to captivate and bring under Honored Matre control. The powers that came from creating sexual addicts had lost their savor under Bene Gesserit teaching and her experiences with Duncan. She admitted to missing one element of that power, though: the sense of belonging to a force nothing could stop.

It was both abstract and specific. Not the recurrent conquests but the expectation of inevitable victory that came in part from the drug she shared with Honored Matre Sisters. As the need waned in the shift to melange, she saw the old addiction from a different perspective. Bene Gesserit chemists, tracing the adrenaline substitute from samples of her blood, held it ready if she required it. She knew she did not. Another withdrawal plagued her. Not the captivated males but the flow of them. Something within her said this was gone forever. She would never re-experience it. New knowledge had changed her past.

She had prowled the corridors between her quarters and the practice floor this morning, wanting to watch Duncan with the child, afraid her presence might interfere. This prowling was a thing she often did these days after the more strenuous of her morning lessons with a Reverend Mother teacher. Thoughts of Honored Matres were much with her at these times.

She could not escape this feeling of loss. It was an emptiness such that she wondered if anything could possibly fill it. The sensation was worse than that of growing old. Growing old as an Honored Matre had offered its compensations. Powers gathered in that Sisterhood had a tendency to grow rapidly with age. Not that. It was an absolute loss.

I have been defeated.

Honored Matres never contemplated defeat. Murbella felt herself forced to it. She knew Honored Matres were sometimes slain by enemies. Those enemies always paid. It was the law: whole planets blackened to get one offender.

Murbella knew Honored Matres hunted for Chapterhouse. As a matter of former loyalties, she was aware she should be assisting those hunters. The poignancy of her personal defeat lay in the fact that she did not want the Bene Gesserit to pay the remembered price.

The Bene Gesserit are too valuable.

They were infinitely valuable to Honored Matres. Murbella doubted that any other Honored Matre even suspected this.

Vanity.

That was the judgment she attached to her former Sisters. And to myself as I was. A terrible pride. It had grown out of being subjugated so many generations before they gained their own ascendancy. Murbella had tried to convey this to Odrade, recounting from history taught by Honored Matres.

“The slave makes an awful master,” Odrade said.

There was an Honored Matre pattern, Murbella realized. She had accepted it once but now rejected it and could not give all of her reasons for this change.

I have grown out of those things. They would be childish to me now.

Duncan once more had stopped the practice session. Perspiration poured from both teacher and student. They stood panting, regaining breath, an odd exchange of looks between them. Conspiracy? The child looked strangely mature.

Murbella recalled Odrade’s comment: “Maturity imposes its own behavior. One of our lessons—make those imperatives available to consciousness. Modify instincts.”

They have modified me and will do so even more.

She could see the same thing at work in Duncan’s behavior with the ghola-child.

“This is an activity that creates many stresses in the societies we influence,” Odrade had said. “That forces us to constant adjustments.”

But how can they adjust to my former Sisters?

Odrade revealed characteristic sangfroid when braced with this question.

“We face major adjustments because of our past activities. It was the same during the reign of the Tyrant.”

Adjustments?

Duncan was talking to the child. Murbella moved closer to listen.

“You’ve been exposed to the story of Muad’Dib? Good. You’re an Atreides and that includes flaws.”

“Does that mean mistakes, sir?”

“You’re damned right it does! Never choose a course just because it offers the opportunity for a dramatic gesture.”

“Is that how I died?”

He had the child thinking of his former self in the first person.

“You be the judge. But it was always an Atreides weakness. Attractive things, gestures. Die on the horns of a great bull as Muad’Dib’s grandfather did. A grand spectacle for his people. The stuff of stories for generations! You can even hear bits of it around after all of these eons.”

“Mother Superior told me that story.”

“Your birth-mother probably told it to you, too.”

The child shuddered. “It gives me a funny feeling when you say birth-mother.” Awe in his young voice.

“Funny feelings are one thing; this lesson is another. I’m talking about something with a persistent label: The Desian Gesture. It used to be Atreidesian but that’s too cumbersome.”

Once more the child touched that core of mature awareness. “Even a dog’s life has its price.”

Murbella caught her breath, glimpsing how it would be—an adult mind in that child’s body. Disconcerting.

“Your birth-mother was Janet Roxbrough of the Lernaeus Roxbroughs,” Idaho said. “She was Bene Gesserit. Your father was Loschy Teg, a CHOAM station factor. In a few minutes I’m going to show you the Bashar’s favorite picture of his home on Lernaeus. I want you to keep it with you and study it. Think of it as your favorite place.”

Teg nodded but the expression on his face said he was afraid.

Was it possible the great Mentat Warrior had known fear? Murbella shook her head. She had an intellectual knowledge of what Duncan was doing but felt gaps in the accounts. This was something she might never experience. What would the feeling be—reawakening to new life with the memories of another lifetime intact? Much different from a Reverend Mother’s Other Memory, she suspected.

“Mind at its beginning,” Duncan called it. “Awakening of your True Self. I felt I had been plunged into a magic universe. My awareness was a circle and then a globe. Arbitrary forms became transient. The table was not a table. Then I fell into a trance—everything around me had a shimmering quality. Nothing was real. This passed and I felt I had lost the one reality. My table was a table once more.”

She had studied the Bene Gesserit manual “On Awakening a Ghola’s Original Memories.” Duncan was diverging from those instructions. Why?

He left the child and approached Murbella.

“I have to talk to Sheeana,” he said as he passed her. “There’s got to be a better way.”