"Siona!"
She heard anger in his voice and remained silent.
"This planet is the child of the worm," he warned her, "and I am that worm."
She responded with a surprising insouciance: "Then tell me what it means."
"The insect has no more freedom from its hive than we have freedom from our past," he said. "The caves are there and all of the messages written in the sprays of the torrents."
"I prefer dancing songs," she said.
It was a flippant answer, but Leto chose to take it as a change of subject. He told her about the marriage dance of
Fremen women, tracing the steps back to the whirling of dust devils. Leto prided himself on telling a good story. It was clear from her rapt attention that she could see the women whirling before her inner eye, long black hair thrown in the ancient movements, straggling across long-dead faces.
Darkness was almost upon them when he finished.
"Come," he said. "Morning and evening are still the times of silhouettes. Let us see if anyone shares our desert."
Siona followed him up to a dune-crest and they stared all around at the darkening desert. There was only one bird high overhead, attracted by their movements. From the splayed-gap tips on its wings and the shape, he knew it was a vulture. He pointed this out to Siona.
"But what do they eat?" she asked.
"Anything that's dead or nearly so."
This hit her and she stared up at the last of the sunlight gilding the lone bird's flight feathers.
Leto pressed it: "A few people still venture into my Sareer. Sometimes, a Museum Fremen wanders off and gets lost. They're really only good at the rituals. And then there are the desert's edges and the remains of whatever my wolves leave."
At this, she whirled away from him, but not before he saw the passion still consuming her. Siona was being sorely tested.
"There's little daytime graciousness about a desert," he said. "That's another reason we travel by night. To a Fremen, the image of the day was that of windblown sand filling your tracks."
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears when she turned back to him, but her features were composed..
"What lives here now?" she asked.
"The vultures, a few night creatures, an occasional remnant of plant life out of the old days, burrowing things."
"Is that all?"
"Yes." .,Why?"
"Because this is where they were born and I permit them to know nothing better."
It was almost dark with that sudden glowing light his desert acquired in these moments. He studied her in that luminous moment, recognizing that she had not yet understood his other message. He knew that message would sit there, though, and fester in her."Silhouettes," she said, reminding him. "What did you expect to find when we came up here?"
"Perhaps people at a distance. You're never certain."
"What people?"
"I've already told you."
"What would you've done if you'd seen anyone?"
"It was the Fremen custom to treat distant people as hostile until they threw sand into the air."
As he spoke, darkness fell over them like a curtain.
Siona became ghostly movement in the sudden starlight. "Sand?" she asked.
"Thrown sand is a profound gesture. It says: `We share the same burden. Sand is our only enemy. This is what we drink. The hand that holds sand holds no weapon.' Do you understand this?"
"No!" She taunted him with a defiant falsehood.
"You will," he said.
Without a word, she set out along the arc of their dune, striding away from him with an angry excess of energy. Leto allowed himself to fall far behind her, interested that she had instinctively chosen the right direction. Fremen memories could be felt churning in her.
Where the dune dipped to cross another, she waited for him. He saw that the face flap of her stillsuit remained open, hanging loose. It was not yet time to chide her about this. Some unconscious things had to run their natural course.
As he came up to her, she said: "Is this as good a direction as any other?"
"If you keep to it," he said.
She glanced up at the stars and he saw her identify the Pointers, those Fremen Arrows which had led her ancestors across this land. He could see, though, that her recognition was mostly intellectual. She had not yet come to accept the other things working within her.
Leto lifted his front segments to peer ahead in the starlight. They were moving a little west of north on a track that once had led across Habbanya Ridge and Cave of Birds into the erg below False Wall West and the way to Wind Pass. None of those landmarks remained. He sniffed a cool breeze with flint smells in it and more moisture than he found pleasant.
Once more, Siona set off-slower this time, holding her course by occasional glances at the stars. She had trusted Leto to confirm the way, but now she guided herself. He sensed the turmoil beneath her wary thoughts, and he knew the things which were emerging. She had the beginnings of that intense loyalty to traveling companions which desert folk always trusted.
We know, he thought. If you are separated from your companions, you are lost among dunes and rocks. The lone traveler in the desert is dead. Only the worm lives alone out here.
He let her get well ahead of him where the grating sand of his passage would not be too prominent. She had to think of his human-self. He counted on loyalty to work for him. Siona was brittle, though, filled with suppressed rage-more of a rebel than any other he had ever tested.
Leto glided along behind her, reviewing the breeding program, shaping the necessary decisions for a replacement should she fail.
As the night progressed, Siona moved slower and slower. First Moon was high overhead and Second Moon well above the horizon before she stopped to rest and eat.
Leto was glad of the pause. Friction had set up a worm dominance, the air around him full of the chemical exhalations from his temperature adjustments. The thing he thought of as his oxygen supercharger vented steadily, making him intensely aware of the protein factories and amino acid resources his worm-self had acquired to accommodate the placental relationship with his human cells. Desert quickened the movement toward his final metamorphosis.
Siona had stopped near the crest of a star dune. "Is it true that you eat the sand?" she asked as he came up to her.
"It's true."
She stared all around the moon-frosted horizon. "Why didn't we bring a signal device?"
"I wanted you to learn about possessions."
She turned toward him. He sensed her breath close to his face. She was losing too much moisture into the dry air. Still, she did not remember Moneo's admonition. It would be a bitter lesson, no doubt of that.
"I don't understand you at all," she said.
"Yet, you are committed to doing just that."
"Am I?"
"How else can you give me something of value in exchange for what I give you?"
"What do you give me?" All of the bitterness was there and a hint of the spice from her dried food.
"I give you this opportunity to be alone with me, to share with me, and you spend this time without concern. You waste it."
"What about possessions?" she demanded.
He heard fatigue in her voice, the water message beginning to scream within her.
"They were magnificently alive in the old days, those Fremen," he said. "And their eye for beauty was limited to that which was useful. I never met a greedy Fremen."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"In the old days, everything you took into the desert was a necessity and that was all you took. Your life is no longer free of possessions, Siona, or you would not have asked about a signal device."
"Why isn't a signal device necessary?"
"It would teach you nothing."
He moved out around her along the track indicated by the Pointers. "Come. Let us use this night to our profit."
She came hurrying up to walk beside his cowled face. "What happens if I don't learn your damned lesson?"
"You'll probably die," he said.
That silenced her for a time. She trudged along beside him with only an occasional sideward glance, ignoring the worm-body, concentrating on the visible remnants of his humanity. After a time, she said: "The Fish Speakers told me that you ordered the mating from which I was born."
"That's true."
"They say you keep records and that you order these Atreides matings for your own purposes."
"That also is true."
"Then the Oral History is correct."
"I thought you believed the Oral History without question?"
She was on a single track, though: "What if one of us objects when you order a mating?"
"I allow a wide latitude just as long as there are the children I have ordered."
"Ordered?" She was outraged.
"That's what I do."
"You can't creep into every bedroom or follow every one of us every minute of our lives! How do you know your orders are obeyed?"
"I know."
"Then you know I'm not going to obey you!"
"Are you thirsty, Siona?"
She was startled. "What?"
"Thirsty people speak of water, not of sex."
Still, she did not seal her mouth flap, and he thought: Atreides passions always did run strong, even at the expense of reason.
Within two hours, they came down out of the dunes onto a wind-scoured flat of pebbles. Leto moved onto it, Siona close to his side. She looked frequently at the Pointers. Both moons were low on the horizon now and their light cast long shadows behind every boulder.
In some ways, Leto found such places more comfortable to traverse than the sand. Solid rock was a better heat conductor than sand. He could flatten himself against the rock and ease the working of his chemical factories. Pebbles and even sizable rocks did not impede him.
Siona had more trouble here, though, and almost turned an ankle several times.
The flatland could be a very trying place for humans unaccustomed to it, he thought. If they stayed close to the ground, they saw only the great emptiness, an eerie place especially in moonlight-dunes at a distance, a distance which seemed not to change as the traveler moved-nothing anywhere except the seemingly eternal wind, a few rocks and, when they looked upward, stars without mercy. This was the desert of the desert.
"Here's where Fremen music acquired its eternal loneliness," he said, "not up on the dunes. Here's where you really learn to think that heaven must be the sound of running water and relief-any relief-from that endless wind."
Even this did not remind her of that face flap. Leto began to despair.
Morning found them far out on the flat.
Leto stopped beside three large boulders, all piled against each other, one of them taller even than his back. Siona leaned against him for a moment, a gesture which restored Leto's hopes somewhat. She pushed herself away presently and clambered up onto the highest boulder. He watched her turn up there, examining the landscape.
Without even looking at it Leto knew what she saw: blowing sand like fog on the horizon obscured the rising sun. For the rest, there was only the flat and the wind.
The rock was cold beneath him with the chill of a desert morning. The cold made the air much drier and he found it more pleasant. Without Siona, he would have moved on, but she was visibly exhausted. She leaned against him once more when she came down from the rock and it was almost a minute before he realized that she was listening.
"What do you hear?" he asked.
She spoke sleepily. "You rumble inside."
"The fire never goes completely out."
This interested her. She pushed herself away from his side and came around to look into his face. "Fire?"
"Every living thing has a fire within it, some slow, some very fast. Mine is hotter than most."
She hugged herself against the chill. "Then you're not cold here?"
"No, but I can see that you are." He pulled his face partly into its cowl and created a depression at the bottom arc of his first segment. "It's almost like a hammock," he said, looking down. "If you curl up there, you will be warm."
Without hesitating, she accepted his invitation.
Even though he had prepared her for it, he found the trusting response touching. He had to fight against a feeling of pity far stronger than any he had experienced before knowing Hwi. There could be no room for pity out here, though, he told himself. Siona was betraying clear signs that she would more than likely die here. He had to prepare himself for disappointment.
Siona shielded her face with an arm, closed her eyes and went to sleep.
Nobody has ever had as many yesterdays as I have had, he reminded himself.
From the popular human viewpoint, he knew that the things he did here could only appear cruel and callous. He was forced now to strengthen himself by retreating into his memories, deliberately selecting mistakes of our common past. First-hand access to human mistakes was his greatest strength now. Knowledge of mistakes taught him long-term corrections. He had to be constantly aware of consequences. If consequences were lost or concealed, lessons were lost.
But the closer he came to being a sandworm, the harder he found it to make decisions which others would call inhuman. Once, he had done it with ease. As his humanity slipped away, though, he found himself filled with more and more human concerns.
- = In the cradle of our past, I lay upon my back in a cave so shallow I could penetrate it only by squirming, not by crawling. There, by the dancing light of a resin torch, I drew upon walls and ceiling the creatures of the hunt and the souls of my people. How illuminating it is to peer backward through a perfect circle at that ancient struggle for the visible moment of the soul. All time vibrates to that call: "Here I am!" With a mind informed by artist-giants who came afterward, I peer at handprints and flowing muscles drawn upon the rock with charcoal and vegetable dyes. How much more we are than mere mechanical events! And my anti-civil self demands: "Why is it that they do not want to leave the cave?" -The Stolen Journals THE INVITATION to attend Moneo in his workroom came to Idaho late in the afternoon. All day, Idaho had sat upon the sling couch of his quarters, thinking. Every thought radiated outward from the ease with which Moneo had spilled him onto the corridor floor that morning.
"You're just an older model."
With every thought, Idaho felt himself diminished. He sensed the will to live as it faded, leaving ashes where his anger had burned itself out.
I am the conveyance of some useful sperm and nothing more, he thought.
It was a thought which invited either death or hedonism. He felt himself impaled on a thorn of chance with irritating forces pecking at him from all sides.
The young messenger in her neat blue uniform was merely another irritation. She entered at his low-voiced response to her knock and she stopped under the arched portal from his anteroom, hesitating until she had assessed his mood.
How quickly the word travels, he thought.
He saw her there, framed in the portal, a projection of Fish Speaker essence-more voluptuous than some, but no more blatantly sexual. The blue uniform did not conceal graceful hips, firm breasts. He looked up at her puckish face under a brush of blonde hair-acolyte cut.
"Moneo sends me to inquire after you," she said. "He asks that you attend him in his workroom."
Idaho had seen that workroom several times, but still remembered it best from his first view of it. He had known on entering the room that it was where Moneo spent most of his time. There was a table of dark brown wood streaked by fine golden graining, a table about two meters by one meter and set low on stubby legs in the midst of gray cushions. The table had struck Idaho as something rare and expensive, chosen for a single accent. It and the cushions-which were the same gray as floor, walls and ceiling-were the only furnishings.
Considering the power of its occupant, the room was small, no more than five meters by four, but with a high ceiling. Light came from two slender glazed windows opposite each other on the narrower walls. The windows looked out from a considerable height, one onto the northwest fringes of the Sareer and the bordering green of the Forbidden Forest, the other providing a southwest view over rolling dunes.
Contrast.
The table had put an interesting accent on this initial thought. The surface had appeared as an arrangement demonstrating the idea of clutter. Thin sheets of crystal paper lay scattered across the surface, leaving only glimpses of the wood grain underneath. Fine printing covered some of the paper. Idaho recognized words in Galach and four other languages, including the rare transite tongue of Perth. Several sheets of the paper revealed plan drawings and some were scrawled with black strokes of brush-script in the bold style of the Bene Gesserit. Most interesting of all had been four rolled white tubes about a meter long-tri-D printouts from an illegal computer. He had suspected the terminal lay concealed behind a panel in one of the walls.
The young messenger from Moneo cleared her throat to awaken Idaho from his reverie. "What response shall I return to Moneo?" she asked.
Idaho focused on her face. "Would you like me to impregnate you?" he asked.
"Commander!" She was obviously shocked not so much by his suggestion as by its non sequitur intrusion.
"Ahhh, yes," Idaho said. "Moneo. What shall we tell Moneo?"
"He awaits your reply, Commander."
"Is there really any point in my responding?" Idaho asked.
"Moneo told me to inform you that he wishes to confer with both you and the Lady Hwi together."
Idaho sensed a vague arousal of interest. "Hwi is with him?"
"She has been summoned, Commander." The messenger cleared her throat once more. "Would the Commander wish me to visit him here later tonight?"
"No. Thank you, anyway. I've changed my mind."
He thought she concealed her disappointment well, but her voice came out stiffly formal: "Shall I say that you will attend Moneo?"
"Do that." He waved her away.
After she had gone, he considered just ignoring the summons. Curiosity grew in him, though. Moneo wanted to talk to him with Hwi present? Why? Did he think this would bring Idaho running? Idaho swallowed. When he thought of Hwi, the emptiness in his breast became full. The message of that could not be ignored. Something of terrible power bound him to Hwi.
He stood up, his muscles stiff after their long inaction. Curiosity and this binding force impelled him. He went out into the corridor, ignored the curious glances of guards he passed, and followed that compelling inner force up to Moneo's workroom.
Hwi was already there when Idaho entered the room. She was across the cluttered table from Moneo, her feet in red slippers tucked back beside the gray cushion on which she sat. Idaho saw only that she wore a long brown gown with a braided green belt, then she turned and he could look at nothing except her face. Her mouth formed his name without speaking it.
Even she has heard, he thought.
Oddly, this thought strengthened him. The thoughts of this day began to form new shapes in his mind.
"Please sit down, Duncan," Moneo said. He gestured to a cushion beside Hwi. His voice conveyed a curious, halting tone, a manner that few people other than Leto had ever observed in him. He kept his gaze directed downward at the cluttered surface of his table. The late afternoon sunlight cast a spidery shadow across the jumble from a golden paperweight in the shape of a fanciful tree with jeweled fruit, all mounted on a flame-crystal mountain.
Idaho took the indicated cushion, watching Hwi's gaze follow him until he was seated. She looked at Moneo then and he thought he saw anger in her expression. Moneo's usual plain-white uniform was open at the throat, revealing a wrinkled neck and a bit of dewlap. Idaho stared into the man's eyes, prepared to wait, forcing Moneo to open the conversation.
Moneo returned the stare, noting that Idaho still wore the black uniform of their morning encounter. There was even a small trace of grime down the front, memento of the corridor floor where Moneo had spilled him. But Idaho no longer wore the antique Atreides knife. That bothered Moneo.
"What I did this morning was unforgivable," Moneo said. "Therefore, I do not ask you to forgive me. I merely ask that you try to understand."
Hwi did not appear surprised by this opening, Idaho noted. It revealed much about what the two of them had been discussing before Idaho's arrival.
When Idaho did not respond, Moneo said: "I had no right to make you feel inadequate."
Idaho found himself undergoing a curious response to Moneo's words and manner. There was still the feeling of being outmaneuvered and outclassed, too far from his time, but he no longer suspected that Moneo might be toying with him. Something had reduced the majordomo to a gritty substratum of honesty. The realization put Leto's universe, the deadly eroticism of the Fish Speakers, Hwi's undeniable candor everything-into a new relationship, a form which Idaho felt that he understood. It was as though the three of them in this room were the last true humans in the entire universe. He spoke from a sense of wry self-deprecation:
"You had every right to protect yourself when I attacked you. It pleases me that you were so capable."
Idaho turned toward Hwi, but before he could speak, Moneo said: "You needn't plead for me. I think her displeasure toward me is quite adamant."
Idaho shook his head. "Does everyone here know what I'm going to say before I say it, what I'm going to feel before I feel it?"
"One of your admirable qualities," Moneo said. "You do not conceal your feelings. We=" he shrugged= "are necessarily more circumspect."
Idaho looked at Hwi. "Does he speak for you?"
She put her hand in Idaho's. "I speak for myself."
Moneo craned to peer at the clasped hands, sank back on his cushion. He sighed. "You must not."
Idaho clasped her hand more tightly, felt her equal response.
"Before either of you asks," Moneo said, "my daughter and the God Emperor have not yet returned from the testing."
Idaho sensed the effort Moneo had required to speak calmly. Hwi heard it, too.
"Is it true what the Fish Speakers say?" she asked. "Siona dies if she fails?"
Moneo remained silent, but his face was a rock.
"Is it like the Bene Gesserit test?" Idaho asked. "Muad'Dib said the Sisterhood tests to try to find out if you are human."
Hwi's hand began to tremble. Idaho felt it and looked at her. "Did they test you?"
"No," Hwi said, "but I heard the young ones talking about it. They said you must pass through agony without losing your sense of self."
Idaho returned his attention to Moneo, noting the start of a tic beside the majordomo's left eye.
"Moneo," Idaho breathed, overcome by sudden realization. "He tested you!"
"I do not wish to discuss tests," Moneo said. "We are here to decide what must be done about you two."
"Isn't that up to us?" Idaho asked. He felt Hwi's hand in his grow slippery with perspiration.
"It is up to the God Emperor," Moneo said.
"Even if Siona fails?" Idaho asked.
"Especially then!"
"How did he test you?" Idaho asked.
"He showed me a small glimpse of what it's like to be the God Emperor."
"And?"
"I saw as much as I'm capable of seeing."
Hwi's hand tightened convulsively in Idaho's.
"Then it's true that you were a rebel once," Idaho said.
"I began with love and prayer," Moneo said. "I changed to anger and rebellion. I was transformed into what you see before you. I recognize my duty and I do it."
"What did he do to you?" Idaho demanded.
"He quoted to me the prayer of my childhood: `I give my life in dedication to the greater glory of God."' Moneo spoke in a musing voice.
Idaho noted Hwi's stillness, her stare fixed on Moneo's face. What was she thinking?
"I admitted that this had been my prayer," Moneo said. "And the God Emperor asked me what I would give up if my life were not enough. He shouted at me: `What is your life when you hold back the greater gift?"'
Hwi nodded, but Idaho felt only confusion.
"I could hear the truth in his voice," Moneo said.
"Are you a Truthsayer?" Hwi asked.
"In the power of desperation, yes," Moneo said. "But only then. I swear to you he spoke truth to me."
"Some of the Atreides had the power of Voice," Idaho muttered.
Moneo shook his head. "No, it was truth. He said to me: `I look at you now and if I could shed tears, I would. Consider the wish to be the act!"'
Hwi rocked forward, almost touching the table. "He cannot cry?"
"Sandworms," Idaho whispered.
"What?" Hwi turned toward him.
"Fremen killed sandworms with water," Idaho said. "From the drowning they produced the spice-essence for their religious orgies."
"But the Lord Leto is not yet a sandworm entire," Moneo said.
Hwi rocked back onto her cushion and looked at Moneo.
Idaho pursed his lips in thought. Did Leto have the Fremen prohibition against tears, then? How awed the Fremen had always been about such a waste of moisture! Giving water to the dead.
Moneo addressed himself to Idaho: "I had hoped you could be brought to an understanding. The Lord Leto has spoken. You and Hwi must separate and never see each other again."
Hwi removed her hand from Idaho's. "We know."
Idaho spoke with resigned bitterness: "We know his power." "But you do not understand him," Moneo said.
"I want nothing more than that," Hwi said. She put a hand on Idaho's arm to silence him. "No, Duncan. Our private desires have no place here."
"Maybe you should pray to him," Idaho said.
She whirled and looked at him, staring and staring until Idaho lowered his gaze. When she spoke, her voice carried a lilting quality that Idaho had never heard there before. "My Uncle Malky always said the Lord Leto never responded to prayer. He said the Lord Leto looked on prayer as attempted coercion, a form of violence against the chosen god, telling the immortal what to do: Give me a miracle, God, or I won't believe in you!"
"Prayer as hubris," Moneo said. "Intercession on demand."
"How can he be a god?" Idaho demanded. "By his own admission, he's not immortal."
"I will quote the Lord Leto on that," Moneo said. "`I am all of God that need be seen. I am the word become a miracle. I am all of my ancestors. Is that not miracle enough? What more could you possibly want? Ask yourself: Where is there a greater miracle?"' "Empty words," Idaho sneered.
"I sneered at him, too," Moneo said. "I threw his own words from the Oral History back at him: `Give to the greater glory of God!"'
Hwi gasped.