Dune

“My Sihaya,” he whispered, holding her close to calm a sudden trembling. “You’ll bear the heir we want. Isn’t that enough?”

“My life burns faster,” she said, pressing against him. “The birth now controls my life. The medics told me it goes at a terrible pace. I must eat and eat . . . and take more spice, as well . . . eat it, drink it. I’ll kill her for this!”

Paul kissed her cheek. “No, my Sihaya. You’ll kill no one.” And he thought: Irulan prolonged your life, beloved. For you, the time of birth is the time of death.

He felt hidden grief drain his marrow then, empty his life into a black flask.

Chani pushed away from him. “She cannot be forgiven!”

“Who said anything about forgiving?”

“Then why shouldn’t I kill her?”

It was such a flat, Fremen question that Paul felt himself almost overcome by a hysterical desire to laugh. He covered it by saying: “It wouldn’t help.”

“You’ve seen that?”

Paul felt his belly tighten with vision-memory.

“What I’ve seen . . . what I’ve seen . . .” he muttered. Every aspect of surrounding events fitted a present which paralyzed him. He felt chained to a future which, exposed too often, had locked onto him like a greedy succubus. Tight dryness clogged his throat. Had he followed the witchcall of his own oracle, he wondered, until it’d spilled him into a merciless present?

“Tell me what you’ve seen,” Chani said.

“I can’t.”

“Why mustn’t I kill her?”

“Because I ask it.”

He watched her accept this. She did it the way sand accepted water: absorbing and concealing. Was there obedience beneath that hot, angry surface? he wondered. And he realized then that life in the royal Keep had left Chani unchanged. She’d merely stopped here for a time, inhabited a way station on a journey with her man. Nothing of the desert had been taken from her.

Chani stepped away from him then, glanced at the ghola who stood waiting near the diamond circle of the practice door.

“You’ve been crossing blades with him?” she asked.

“And I’m better for it.”

Her gaze went to the circle on the floor, back to the ghola’s metallic eyes.

“I don’t like it,” she said.

“He’s not intended to do me violence,” Paul said.

“You’ve seen that?”

“I’ve not seen it!”

“Then how do you know?”

“Because he’s more than ghola; he’s Duncan Idaho.”

“The Bene Tleilax made him.”

“They made more than they intended.”

She shook her head. A corner of her nezhoni scarf rubbed the collar of her robe. “How can you change the fact that he is ghola?”

“Hayt,” Paul said, “are you the tool of my undoing?”

“If the substance of here and now is changed, the future is changed,” the ghola said.

“That is no answer!” Chani objected.

Paul raised his voice: “How will I die, Hayt?”

Light glinted from the artificial eyes. “It is said, m’Lord, that you will die of money and power.”

Chani stiffened. “How dare he speak thus to you?”

“The mentat is truthful,” Paul said.

“Was Duncan Idaho a real friend?” she asked.

“He gave his life for me.”

“It is sad,” Chani whispered, “that a ghola cannot be restored to his original being.”

“Would you convert me?” the ghola asked, directing his gaze to Chani.

“What does he mean?” Chani asked.

“To be converted is to be turned around,” Paul said. “But there’s no going back.”

“Every man carries his own past with him,” Hayt said.

“And every ghola?” Paul asked.

“In a way, m’Lord.”

“Then what of that past in your secret flesh?” Paul asked.

Chani saw how the question disturbed the ghola. His movements quickened, hands clenched into fists. She glanced at Paul, wondering why he probed thus. Was there a way to restore this creature to the man he’d been?

“Has a ghola ever remembered his real past?” Chani asked.

“Many attempts have been made,” Hayt said, his gaze fixed on the floor near his feet. “No ghola has ever been restored to his former being.”

“But you long for this to happen,” Paul said.

The blank surfaces of the ghola’s eyes came up to center on Paul with a pressing intensity. “Yes!”

Voice soft, Paul said: “If there’s a way . . .”

“This flesh,” Hayt said, touching left hand to forehead in a curious saluting movement, “is not the flesh of my original birth. It is . . . reborn. Only the shape is familiar. A Face Dancer might do as well.”

“Not as well,” Paul said. “And you’re not a Face Dancer.”

“That is true, m’Lord.”

“Whence comes your shape?”

“The genetic imprint of the original cells.”

“Somewhere,” Paul said, “there’s a plastic something which remembers the shape of Duncan Idaho. It’s said the ancients probed this region before the Butlerian Jihad. What’s the extent of this memory, Hayt? What did it learn from the original?”

The ghola shrugged.

“What if he wasn’t Idaho?” Chani asked.

“He was.”

“Can you be certain?” she asked.

“He is Duncan in every aspect. I cannot imagine a force strong enough to hold that shape thus without any relaxation or any deviation.”