XXXIX. The Regent
The historian's job is to peel out history from legend. It is already hard to do this with the "God" Emperor Leto II Atreides, yet it is harder still with Duncan Idaho(s). This ever-present, multi-faceted house hero who accompanied the Emperor in his journey through the centuries is in reality a multitude. The Idahos offer endless variation on a theme. Let us focus on the last Idaho. A patently rebellious royal guard captain who, after Leto's death, turned into the most venerated despot of the Old Imperium, second only to the Emperor himself.
- A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE AFTER-REGNUM, BY GAIPEI HOLARASU
Excerpt from "The Ageless Blade: Biography of an Atreides Sword Master through the Centuries".
Memories need organizing. That has been clear since I regained awareness of my countless selves across the long Atreides reign. Sometimes they come rushing in, unaided, prompted by the most subtle of the clues: the smell of roses, turmeric in a hot meal, a longing for the caress of a woman whose face is blurry like a dream. Those are the memories causing my mind to wander, until I reconstruct the entire tapestry a fragment at a time. And so, dear reader, I have taken you through a few chapters in this pile of records in complete disarray, and I have created order by writing them down. These chapters bear ambiguous titles, for you. Lemon peel, broken twig, sword edge, magnolia. The mnemonic keys to my memory palace, useless for you but essential to me. Me, the unbroken, uninterrupted last (I hope?) Duncan Idaho.
This chapter is called "A ray of light on my left hand". I commit it to my memory palace as I write. In this memory, Arrakis' sun feels mild on my hand, reminding me it is (it was?) the spring month of Orth. The white light washes over the entire city, turning it to a blinding pool of radiance. My mind is the one of the Rebel, the Duncan born out of the Emperor's late delirium. Like many of my predecessors, I share an able body well into my sixtieth year of age. I feel spice flowing in my veins, giving me longevity. Twenty years have passed since Leto II Atreides transitioned to the reign of the Alam al-Mythal, the inter-penetrating dimension of the spirit. The Empire is senescent. My Mentat faculties sense rot spreading across the planetary surface of Arrakis like a weed. The administrative caste, once efficient, has degenerated and employs bureaucrats who have lost their God, but not their manual. They maintain the machine of the State in its purity of form even if it has lost its meaning.
Untold trillion humans live daily in a dream state, a willing suspension of disbelief; they are stuck in a purgatory where God in his physical form is gone, but God (as gods do) nevertheless fills every moment with his absence. On Arrakis, pastures are slowly drying up, making way for small blotches of desert; the desert made of dirt and sunburnt clay, turning to brown the green plains of Arrakis. The very sea, our small sea, is growing saltier by the day. Today though, the spring brings the wet breeze from the equatorial belt, and the rain and the mild sun maintain a mirage of stillness in the imperial capital. This magical, unstable stillness is what the Imperium has been living in for the last twenty years, every day. Yet the mirage will evaporate one day.
Such disquiet in my mind, me, the Rebel incarnation of Duncan Idaho, I have barely broken my fast in the luxury of my quarters at the top floor of what used to be Moneo's surveillance headquarters in Onn, when somebody pays a visit. Spy systems have not changed much since the first Atreides set foot on Dune, and the only people who can interrupt my gloom are my own agents. This one is Tauros, the aquiline nose on a young, symmetrical face identifying him as an Atreides of late Leto's genetic program. He strides in with a mix of caution and urgency, which the right state of mind when meeting me, the Regent, the holy consort of Siona, the Atreides Empress-in-waiting in a Universe that is not ready to accept that his dead pharaoh is in the Afterlife. "Regent," he starts after a slight bow, because he knows I demand respect while I also scoff at protocol. He does not wait to be acknowledged, and continues: "Our cover with the Tleilaxu is blown. They have discovered all of our agents."
"Bad news. All of them?"
"All of them, Regent. They have been found, and copied. Their mimics attempted to breach our security, but we have detected them thanks to your training." This Atreides, completely unaware of his lineage, stands still, uncertain.
"But there is more," I invite him.
"Anticipating this scenario, I had long ago instructed them to save their data in time capsules, hidden deeply within Guild ships and Imperial offices, including the imperial Missions on Bandalong." Leto's leash was still attached to this universe. Taurus' carefully bred DNA commands flesh and nerves I would not match in real combat, but his mind is crippled by the absolutes Leto created. He is in reality as dangerous to me as a puppy, and his mind open like a holo-book.
So I nudge him along, like he likes me to do. "Anything to report?"
"A significant discovery, sir."
"Before that," I stop him, "tell me how you managed to retrieve the time capsules."
The Atreides hesitates. I casually focus on my breakfast, as my attention would be perceived as a premature reward.
"The time capsules were hidden deep within Tleilaxu territory," he ventures.
"Which is Imperial territory," I remind him.
"Imperial territory, sir, but outside the jurisdiction of any imperial functionary acting without a direct mandate from the Emperor." It pleases me to see his eyebrow twitch in discomfort. Precedent had not been updated to account for the Emperor's timely death. And Siona is the de-facto heiress, but no coronation has taken place, nor will take place if I have my say. This Emperor who is dead everywhere but in the minds of his subjects is a formidable instrument of mass control in a universe that only craves our spice.
"Our Missions on Bandalong fall under our jurisdiction, not Tleilax, but the Guild's ships enjoy extra-territoriality," I press.
"I knew the Tleilaxu would infiltrate to retrieve the capsules."
"What did you do, Taurus?"
"I... with the help of your Fish Speakers..."
"The Emperor's Fish Speakers, Taurus..."
"The Emperor's, yes, sir, we stormed both the Missions and the ships."
"You violated the Guild's truce?"
"We trespassed the heighliner's grounds only to go from our ship to others that were nominally under imperial control. An edge case. And the Truce is but a legal remnant of a bygone era, sir." Taurus' eyebrow was twitching uncontrollably now.
"You created a legal precedent for the Guild to cut us out of space travel."
"As I said, sir... we needed to act..."
"Without consulting me." I stand up to action, raising my voice.
"The situation on the ground, sir" Taurus falls silent while I come closer, a stern look on my face. I can see his discomfort while he wears the noble, stubborn Atreides attitude I once was ready to follow to my own death. The belief that following a just cause puts you in a place beyond reproach.
I raise one finger. "Explain yourself, Taurus."
"The Tleilaxu are a great concern of yours, sir... years of planning would come to nothing... the Guild would likely only protest later... Even so, the failure could be pinpointed to me directly acting as acting ambassador, and I could have declared in a court of law to be acting on my own and not as a representative of the Imperium."
I lunge, smack him in the face, and watch his terrified reaction.
"Taurus, what madness took you? You have acted far beyond the powers bestowed to you by your role, commander!" I shout. He does not cave. He never does. "You will be immediately demoted from your acting ambassador post." His eyes are frozen. Silence. "Lastly, I commend you for your brilliance! The Tleilaxu know you have captured the face dancers who tried to infiltrate us. As the Festival is almost upon us and the spice quotas for the next ten years are up for revision, neither party will press charges. The Guild won't risk my promise to double their share to fund voluntary emigrations."
Tauros straightens up a bit, a fleeting bit of pride in his eyes. If he only knew how much his face resembles another dead Atreides, one who was also an inexperienced boy once. The one who took the Imperium from the Sardaukar, and followed the Fremen's religious fervor to its bitter end in a pool of blood on Arrakeen's soil. There isn't an Atreides who will pass up the opportunity to die dramatically.
"Of course," I continue, "we will issue a proclamation to remove you from your post. This should satisfy the Guild. Well done." The Duncan I am in this moment is a sad mix. He hates the Imperium he has inherited when the Fish Speakers chose him over Siona; he never wanted the responsibility of power, and yet he has quelled countless uprisings after Leto's end; he has propped up the religious legacy of the Emperor as a way to keep control. Can you believe I was Duncan Idaho, the High Priest for the holy God Emperor? How much he loathes himself for that, and yet this title keeps trillions of humans in check from senseless violence. He has always chosen to delegate the hard decisions to higher powers, like the Atreides. Yet in this very moment in history, he is the head of House Atreides; Moneo is dead, Siona is caught in her rebel-turned-monarch delusions, and other next of kin, save a few like this revenant of Paul the Prophet, are hard to track down because, well, Leto II did not leave any visible records of his breeding program. Taurus was discovered by chance among the recruits from Shuloch/Goygoa, and only because Duncan personally sifted through every profile on Arrakis. How many Ghanima-descendants existed on this planet? On other planets?
"Thank you, sir."
"Mine was not a compliment, boy. Those decisions were right, but not yours to make. I am removing you from your post to give you a new task."
"I understand, sir."
"No you don't. But now," I say sitting on a couch, with the boy still standing in the middle of the room: "finish your report."
"Sir, you have always wanted to learn more about the other Duncan Idahos. All of them. You always mention it."
He should not say this openly, not even in this shielded room. The Guild's Navigators have become edgy since the Emperor's death. He could see right through them. Their eyes were blinded by the light. Now they are free, and could be peeking at any moment in time. They enjoy rationed access to the spice, but now that they expect Arrakis to turn back into Dune in a couple of centuries, they feel emboldened.
"Yes, I combed through reports and biographies. All inconsistent. All manipulated." With today's mind I know the records were accurate, but most of my selves, born into an alien future they barely recognized, were inclined to paranoia.
"So?" I venture, choosing to reveal curiosity.
"Our late agents on Bandalong penetrated the Tleilaxu archives - it must have been a marvelous act of skill and courage, sir."
"How many?"
"Three hundred thirty five Duncans... Duncan Idaho, sir."
"A ten-year average tenure? That's too many."
"Only one in three made it to Leto's court, sir. One hundred fifty three. The others remained internal Tleilaxu experiments. You will notice the term early termination."
"Describe the facts."
"This document," Taurus takes off of his uniform with nonchalance, "articulates how the Duncans, pardon the term sir, were not generated from the same identical cells, in other words they are not all straight clones of the original Hayt."
"Do you mean that other cells were incorporated?"
"No, sir. The cells were altered or cross-bred to generate mutations."
"The faulty records I have show each Duncan showed a wide spectrum of variations while remaining anchored to key traits like trustworthiness, sense of duty, attachment to ideals, ability in combat. Plus," and here I smile, "a degree of foolishness in the face of overwhelming odds..."
"This document, sir, illustrates how each Duncan was part of a comprehensive test plan. An experimental program."
"Show it to me. I would know if I am the result of an experiment." I stride forth and take the document away, almost with violence. Calm comes back as soon as my Mentat mind scans it.
"This evidence could have been planted."
"It is not the Tleilaxu's modus operandi to plant false information. It's more likely they would share the truth, anticipating a reaction..."
"This document says each Duncan is a test toward finding the configuration for a new Kwisatch Haderach!"
"There is more. They added traits for what is called here 'quintessential Atreides markers'. It seems to be," Taurus hesitates here, guessing how far he can push his luck, "a mix of ingenuity, stubbornness, faith in truth and justice, and reliance on an unbending ethical code."
"And?"
"And..." Taurus blushes, "characteristics that make Duncans attractive to women in general and Atreides women in particular."
"What else?" I snap back, still scanning the document for evidence. "There is a Duncan to solve any problem?"
"This program," says Taurus, backing away imperceptibly, "was funded by the God-Emperor, sir."
"And the Tleilaxu asked for incredible sums in spice for payment."
"No sir, I mean, the instructions were imparted by his Holiness, the God-Emperor Leto II Atreides, to the Tleilaxu. We acquired His messages. He defined the requirements of the program, and asked the Tleilaxu to carry it out and to, and I quote here, add their own creative touch to it, so that we can strengthen my theories in the field with the Wise Masters' intuitions."
Great is my disbelief as I finish scanning the document. The great Leto had the Tleilaxu work for him, had yet another genetic program, the Duncan Idaho sword masters to interbreed with the Atreides, so that he could inject new experimental traits in the lineage. He/me is wondering how much Siona's claims of invisibility from prescience comes from the Atreides prescient line, or a genetic variant introduced by one of my predecessors in her ancestors' carefully tamed DNA.
Then I blame myself, as this one Duncan often does, for not pulling Siona into the meeting, in the hope to get her perspective; perhaps to rub off some of her transparency to oracles and fend off the gaze of the cosmic voyeurs, the ever-looming Guildmen. This one Duncan fascinates me: how he opposes power and yet has reluctantly donned the mantle; and yet now he likes and is corrupted by power itself; how he balances between resentment and self-delusion. No wonder he barely talks to the Royal Siona Ibn Fuad al-Seyefa Atreides: his attraction to her has reached uncontrollable levels, such that he can not keep out of her bed for long; whatever seductive recipe she is administering him has all the markers of a drug he can't shake off.
A Mentat summation completed inside me while I was writing this chapter. I long for sunlight warming my hand. All examinations of this no-ship point to no corruption in the equipment. The Gardeners had no way to entrap the ship directly, only through me? It does not matter. The no-ship won't shield me from them. If they wanted, they could find me here, now. I plan to take a gamble. Through the eons, I always acted best when I acted foolish.