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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. "Where 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!
