Frank Herbert - Dune Messiah

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 fusilage.

Hayt returned his gaze to Alia. She looked out of place here in the city, he thought. Her proper setting was the desert—open, untrammeled space. An odd thing about her came back to him as he watched her approach: Alia appeared thoughtful only when she smiled. It was a trick of the eyes, he decided, recalling a cameo memory of her as she’d appeared at the reception for the Guild Ambassador: haughty against a background of music and brittle conversation among extravagant gowns and uniforms. And Alia had been wearing white, dazzling, a bright garment of chastity. He had looked down upon her from a window as she crossed an inner garden with its formal pond, its fluting fountains, fronds of pampas grass and a white belvedere.

Entirely wrong … all wrong. She belonged in the desert.

Hayt drew in a ragged breath. Alia had moved out of his view then as she did now. He waited, clenching and unclenching his fists. The interview with Bijaz had left him uneasy.

He heard Alia’s entourage pass outside the room where he waited. She went into the Family quarters.

Now he tried to focus on the thing about her which troubled him. The way she’d walked across the plaza? Yes. She’d moved like a hunted creature fleeing some predator. He stepped out onto the connecting balcony, walked along it behind the plasmeld sunscreen, stopped while still in concealing shadows. Alia stood at the balustrade overlooking her temple.

He looked where she was looking—out over the city. He saw rectangles, blocks of color, creeping movements of life and sound. Structures gleamed, shimmered. Heat patterns spiraled off the rooftops. There was a boy across the way bouncing a ball in a cul-de-sac formed by a buttressed massif at a corner of the temple. Back and forth the ball went.

Alia, too, watched the ball. She felt a compelling identity with that ball—back and forth … back and forth. She sensed herself bouncing through corridors of Time.

The potion of melange she’d drained just before leaving the temple was the largest she’d ever attempted—a massive overdose. Even before beginning to take effect, it had terrified her.

Why did I do it? she asked herself.

One made a choice between dangers. Was that it? This was the way to penetrate the fog spread over the future by that damnable Dune Tarot. A barrier existed. It must be breached. She had acted out of a necessity to see where it was her brother walked with his eyeless stride.

The familiar melange fugue state began creeping into her awareness. She took a deep breath, experienced a brittle form of calm, poised and selfless.

Possession of second sight has a tendency to make one a dangerous fatalist, she thought. Unfortunately, there existed no abstract leverage, no calculus of prescience. Visions of the future could not be manipulated as formulas. One had to enter them, risking life and sanity.

A figure moved from the harsh shadows of the adjoining balcony. The ghola! In her heightened awareness, Alia saw him with intense clarity—the dark, lively features dominated by those glistening metal eyes. He was a union of terrifying opposites, something put together in a shocking linear way. He was shadow and blazing light, a product of the process which had revived his dead flesh … and of something intensely pure … innocent.

He was innocence under siege!

“Have you been there all along, Duncan?” she asked.

“So I’m to be Duncan,” he said. “Why?”

“Don’t question me,” she said.

And she thought, looking at him, that the Tleilaxu had left no corner of their ghola unfinished.

“Only gods can safely risk perfection,” she said. “It’s a dangerous thing for a man.”

“Duncan died,” he said, wishing she would not call him that. “I am Hayt.”

She studied his artificial eyes, wondering what they saw. Observed closely, they betrayed tiny black pockmarks, little wells of darkness in the glittering metal. Facets! The universe shimmered around her and lurched. She steadied herself with a hand on the sun-warmed surface of the balustrade. Ahhh, the melange moved swiftly.

“Are you ill?” Hayt asked. He moved closer, the steely eyes opened wide, staring.

Who spoke? she wondered. Was it Duncan Idaho? Was it the mentat-ghola or the Zensunni philosopher? Or was it a Tleilaxu pawn more dangerous than any Guild Steersman? Her brother knew.

Again, she looked at the ghola. There was something inactive about him now, a latent something. He was saturated with waiting and with powers beyond their common life.

“Out of my mother, I am like the Bene Gesserit,” she said. “Do you know that?”

“I know it.”

“I use their powers, think as they think. Part of me knows the sacred urgency of the breeding program … and its products.”

She blinked, feeling part of her awareness begin to move freely in Time.

“It’s said that the Bene Gesserit never let go,” he said. And he watched her closely, noting how white her knuckles were where she gripped the edge of the balcony.

“Have I stumbled?” she asked.

He marked how deeply she breathed, with tension in every movement, the glazed appearance of her eyes.

“When you stumble,” he said, “you may regain your balance by jumping beyond the thing that tripped you.”

“The Bene Gesserit stumbled,” she said. “Now they wish to regain their balance by leaping beyond my brother. They want Chani’s baby … or mine.”

“Are you with child?”

She struggled to fix herself in a timespace relationship to this question. With child? When? Where?

“I see … my child,” she whispered.

She moved away from the balcony’s edge, turned her head to look at the ghola. He had a face of salt, bitter eyes—two circles of glistening lead … and, as he turned away from the light to follow her movement, blue shadows.

“What … do you see with such eyes?” she whispered.

“What other eyes see,” he said.

His words rang in her ears, stretching her awareness. She felt that she reached across the universe—such a stretching … out … out. She lay intertwined with all Time.

“You’ve taken the spice, a large dose,” he said.

“Why can’t I see him?” she muttered. The womb of all creation held her captive. “Tell me, Duncan, why I cannot see him.”

“Who can’t you see?”

“I cannot see the father of my children. I’m lost in a Tarot fog. Help me.”

Mentat logic offered its prime computation, and he said: “The Bene Gesserit want a mating between you and your brother. It would lock the genetic …”

A wail escaped her. “The egg in the flesh,” she gasped. A sensation of chill swept over her, followed by intense heat. The unseen mate of her darkest dreams! Flesh of her flesh that the oracle could not reveal—would it come to that?

“Have you risked a dangerous dose of the spice?” he asked. Something within him fought to express the utmost terror at the thought that an Atreides woman might die, that Paul might face him with the knowledge that a female of the royal family had … gone.

“You don’t know what it’s like to hunt the future,” she said. “Sometimes I glimpse myself … but I get in my own way. I cannot see through myself.” She lowered her head, shook it from side to side.

“How much of the spice did you take?” he asked.

“Nature abhors prescience,” she said, raising her head. “Did you know that, Duncan?”

He spoke softly, reasonably, as to a small child: “Tell me how much of the spice you took.” He took hold of her shoulder with his left hand.