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Taking this as a cue to continue, Idaho went on with his reports, but Leto listened with only a fraction of his awareness. It was like a monitoring circuit which only recorded Idaho's words and actions with but an occasional intensification for an internal comment:
And now he wants to talk about the Tleilaxu.
That is dangerous ground for you, Duncan.
But this opened up a new avenue for Leto's reflection.
The wily Tleilaxu still produce my Duncans from the original cells. They do a religiously forbidden thing and we both know it. I do not permit the artificial manipulation of human genetics. But the Tleilaxu have learned how I treasure the Duncans as the Commanders of my Guard. I do not think they suspect the amusement value in this. It amuses me that a river now bears the Idaho name where once it was a mountain. That mountain no longer exists. We brought it down to get material for the high walls which girdle my Sareer.
Of course, the Tleilaxu know that I occasionally breed the Duncans back into my own program. The Duncans represent mongrel strength ... and much more. Every fire must have its damper.
It was my intent to breed this one with Siona, but that may no
t be possible now.
Hah! He says he wants me to "crack down" on the Tleilaxu. Why will he not ask it straight out? "Are you preparing to replace me?"
I am tempted to tell him.
Once more, Idaho's hand went into the slender pouch. Leto's introspective monitoring did not miss a beat.
The lasgun or more reports? It is more reports.
The Duncan remains wary. He wants not only the assurance that I am ignorant of his intent but more "proofs" that I am unworthy of his loyalty. He hesitates in a prolonged fashion. He always has. I have told him enough times that I will not use my prescience to predict the moment of my exit from this ancient form. But he doubts. He always was a doubter.
This cavernous chamber drinks up his voice and, were it not for my sensitivity, the dankness here would mask the chemical evidence of his fears. I fade his voice out of immediate awareness. What a bore this Duncan has become. He is recounting the history, the history of Siona's rebellion, no doubt leading up to personal admonitions about her latest escapade.
"It's not an ordinary rebellion," he says.
That brings me back! Fool. All rebellions are ordinary and an ultimate bore. They are copied out of the same pattern, one much like another. The driving force is adrenalin addiction and the desire to gain personal power. All rebels are closet aristocrats. That's why I can convert them so easily.
Why do the Duncans never really hear me when I tell them about this? I have had the argument with this very Duncan. It was one of our earliest confrontations and right here in the crypt.
"The art of government requires that you never give up the initiative to radical elements," he said.
How pedantic. Radicals crop up in every generation and you must not try to prevent this. That's what he means by "give up the initiative." He wants to crush them, suppress them, control them, prevent them. He is living proof that there is little difference between the police mind and the military mind.
I told him, "Radicals are only to be feared when you try to suppress them. You must demonstrate that you will use the best of what they offer."
"They are dangerous. They are dangerous!" He thinks that by repeating he creates some kind of truth.
Slowly, step by step, I lead him through my method and he even gives the appearance of listening.
"This is their weakness, Duncan. Radicals always see matters in terms which are too simple--black and white, good and evil, them and us. By addressing complex matters in that way, they rip open a passage for chaos. The art of government as you call it, is the mastery of chaos."
"No one can deal with every surprise."
"Surprise? Who's talking about surprise? Chaos is no surprise. It has predictable characteristics. For one thing, it carries away order and strengthens the forces at the extremes."
"Isn't that what radicals are trying to do? Aren't they trying to shake things up so they can grab control?"
"That's what they think they're doing. Actually, they're creating new extremists, new radicals and they are continuing the old process."
"What about a radical who sees the complexities and comes at you that way?"
"That's no radical. That's a rival for leadership."
"But what do you do?"
"You co-opt them or kill them. That's how the struggle for leadership originated, at the grunt level."
"Yes, but what about messiahs?"
"Like my father?"
The Duncan does not like this question. He knows that in a very special way I am my father. He knows I can speak with my father's voice and persona, that the memories are precise, never edited and inescapable.
Reluctantly, he says: "Well ... if you want."
"Duncan, I am all of them and I know. There has never been a truly selfless rebel, just hypocrites--conscious hypocrites or unconscious hypocrites, it's all the same."
That stirs up a small hornet's nest among my ancestral memories. Some of them have never given up the belief that they and they alone held the key to all of humankind's problems. Well, in that, they are like me. I can sympathize even while I tell them that failure is its own demonstration.
I am forced to block them off, though. There's no sense dwelling on them. They now are little more than poignant reminders ... as is this Duncan who stands in front of me with his lasgun... .
Great Gods below! He has caught me napping. He has the lasgun in his hand and it is pointed at my face.
"You, Duncan? Have you betrayed me, too?"
Et tu, Brute?
Every fiber of Leto's awareness came to full alert. He could feel his body twitching. The worm-flesh had a will of its own.
Idaho spoke with derision: "Tell me, Leto: How many times must I pay the debt of loyalty?"
Leto recognized the inner question: "How many of me have there been?" The Duncans always wanted to know this. Every Duncan asked it and no answer satisfied. They doubted.
In his saddest Muad'Dib voice, Leto asked: "Do you take no pride in my admiration, Duncan? Haven't you ever wondered what it is about you that makes me desire you as my constant companion through the centuries?"
"You know me to be the ultimate fool!"
"Duncan!"
The voice of an angry Muad'Dib could always be counted on to shatter Idaho. Despite the fact that Idaho knew no Bene Gesserit had ever mastered the powers of Voice as Leto had mastered them, it was predictable that he would dance to this one voice. The lasgun wavered in his hand.
That was enough. Leto was off the cart in a hurtling roll. Idaho had never seen him leave the cart this way, had not even suspected it could happen. For Leto, there were only two requirements--a real threat which the worm-body could sense and the release of that body. The rest was automatic and the speed of it always astonished even Leto.
The lasgun was his major concern. It could scratch him badly, but few understood the abilities of the pre-worm body to deal with heat.
Leto struck Idaho while rolling and the lasgun was deflected as it was fired. One of the useless flippers which had been Leto's legs and feet sent a shocking burst of sensations crashing into his awareness. For an instant, there was only pain. But the worm-body was free to act and reflexes ignited a violent paroxysm of flopping. Leto heard bones cracking. The lasgun was thrown far across the floor of the crypt by a spasmodic jerk of Idaho's hand.
Rolling off of Idaho, Leto poised himself for a renewed attack but there was no need. The injured flipper still sent pain signals and he sensed that the tip of the flipper had been burned away. The sandtrout skin already had sealed the wound. The pain had eased to an ugly throbbing.
Idaho stirred. There could be little doubt that he had been mortally injured. His chest was visibly crushed. There was obvious agony when he tried to breathe, but he opened his eyes and stared up at Leto.
The persistence of these mortal possessions! Leto thought.
"Siona," Idaho gasped.
Leto saw the life leave him then.
Interesting, Leto thought. Is it possible that this Duncan and Siona ... No! This Duncan always displayed a true sneering disdain for Siona's foolishness.
Leto climbed back onto the Royal Cart. That had been a close one. There could be little doubt that the Duncan had been aiming for the brain. Leto was always aware that his hands and feet were vulnerable, but he had allowed no one to learn that what had once been his brain was no longer directly associated with his face. It was not even a brain of human dimensions anymore, but had spread in nodal congeries throughout his body. He had told this to no one but his journals.
Oh, the landscapes I have seen! And the people! The far wanderings of the Fremen and all the rest of it. Even back through the myths to Terra. Oh, the lessons in astronomy and intrigue, the migrations, the disheveled flights, the leg-aching and lung-aching runs through so many nights on all of those cosmic specks where we have defended our transient possession. I tell you we are a marvel and my memories leave no doubt of this.
--THE STOLEN JOURNALS
The woman worki
ng at the small wall desk was too big for the narrow chair on which she perched. Outside, it was mid-morning, but in this windowless room deep beneath the city of Onn there was but a single glowglobe high in a corner. It had been tuned to warm yellow but the light failed to dispel the gray utility of the small room. Walls and ceiling were covered by identical rectangular panels of dull gray metal.
There was only one other piece of furniture, a narrow cot with a thin pallet covered by a featureless gray blanket. It was obvious that neither piece of furniture had been designed for the occupant.
