Dune

“You think of Beast Rabban, the vile Harkonnen, and you glare,” Bijaz said. “You are like the Fremen in this. When words fail, the sword is always at hand, eh? You think of the torture inflicted upon your family by the Harkonnens. And, through his mother, your precious Paul is a Harkonnen! You would not find it difficult to slay a Harkonnen, now would you?”

Bitter frustration coursed through the ghola. Was it anger? Why should this cause anger?

“Ohhh,” Bijaz said, and: “Ahhhh, hah! Click-click. There is more to the message. It is a trade the Tleilaxu offer your precious Paul Atreides. Our masters will restore his beloved. A sister to yourself—another ghola.”

Hayt felt suddenly that he existed in a universe occupied only by his own heartbeats.

“A ghola,” Bijaz said. “It will be the flesh of his beloved. She will bear his children. She will love only him. We can even improve on the original if he so desires. Did ever a man have greater opportunity to regain what he’d lost? It is a bargain he will leap to strike.”

Bijaz nodded, eyes drooping as though tiring. Then: “He will be tempted . . . and in his distraction, you will move close. In the instant, you will strike! Two gholas, not one! That is what our masters demand!” The dwarf cleared his throat, nodded once more, said: “Speak.”

“I will not do it,” Hayt said.

“But Duncan Idaho would,” Bijaz said. “It will be the moment of supreme vulnerability for this descendant of the Harkonnens. Do not forget this. You will suggest improvements to his beloved—perhaps a deathless heart, gentler emotions. You will offer asylum as you move close to him—a planet of his choice somewhere beyond the Imperium. Think of it! His beloved restored. No more need for tears, and a place of idyls to live out his years.”

“A costly package,” Hayt said, probing. “He’ll ask the price.”

“Tell him he must renounce his godhead and discredit the Qizarate. He must discredit himself, his sister.”

“Nothing more?” Hayt asked, sneering.

“He must relinquish his CHOAM holdings, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“And if you’re not yet close enough to strike, speak of how much the Tleilaxu admire what he has taught them about the possibilities of religion. Tell him the Tleilaxu have a department of religious engineering, shaping religions to particular needs.”

“How very clever,” Hayt said.

“You think yourself free to sneer and disobey me,” Bijaz said. He cocked his head slyly to one side. “Don’t deny it . . .”

“They made you well, little animal,” Hayt said.

“And you as well,” the dwarf said. “You will tell him to hurry. Flesh decays and her flesh must be preserved in a cryological tank.”

Hayt felt himself floundering, caught in a matrix of objects he could not recognize. The dwarf appeared so sure of himself! There had to be a flaw in the Tleilaxu logic. In making their ghola, they’d keyed him to the voice of Bijaz, but . . . But what? Logic/matrix/ object . . . How easy it was to mistake clear reasoning for correct reasoning! Was Tleilaxu logic distorted?

Bijaz smiled, listened as though to a hidden voice. “Now, you will forget,” he said. “When the moment comes, you will remember. He will say: ‘She is gone.’ Duncan Idaho will awaken then.”

The dwarf clapped his hands together.

Hayt grunted, feeling that he had been interrupted in the middle of a thought . . . or perhaps in the middle of a sentence. What was it? Something about . . . targets?

“You think to confuse me and manipulate me,” he said.

“How is that?” Bijaz asked.

“I am your target and you can’t deny it,” Hayt said.

“I would not think of denying it.”

“What is it you’d try to do with me?”

“A kindness,” Bijaz said. “A simple kindness.”

The sequential nature of actual events is not illuminated with lengthy precision by the powers of prescience except under the most extraordinary circumstances. The oracle grasps incidents cut out of the historic chain. Eternity moves. It inflicts itself upon the oracle and the supplicant alike. Let Muad’Dib’s subjects doubt his majesty and his oracular visions. Let them deny his powers. Let them never doubt Eternity.

—THE DUNE GOSPELS

Hayt watched Alia emerge from her temple and cross the plaza. Her guard was bunched close, fierce expressions on their faces to mask the lines molded by good living and complacency.

A heliograph of ’thopter wings flashed in the bright afternoon sun above the temple, part of the Royal Guard with Muad’Dib’s fist-symbol on its fuselage.