I know the evil of my ancestors because I am those people. The balance is delicate in the extreme. I know that few of you who read my words have ever thought about your ancestors this way. It has not occurred to you that your ancestors were survivors and that the survival itself sometimes involved savage decisions, a kind of wanton brutality which civilized humankind works very hard to suppress. What price will you pay for that suppression? Will you accept your own extinction?
—THE STOLEN JOURNALS
As he dressed for his first morning of Fish Speaker command, Idaho tried to shake off a nightmare. It had awakened him twice and both times he had gone out on the balcony to stare up at the stars, the dream still roaring in his head.
In that moment, he awoke.
Morning light did little to dispel the effects of the nightmare.
They had provided him with a room in the north tower. The balcony looked out over a vista of dunes to a distant cliff with what appeared to be a mud-hut village at its base.
Idaho buttoned his tunic as he stared at the scene.
Several comely Fish Speakers had offered to spend the night with their new commander, but Idaho had rejected them.
It was not like the Atreides to use sex as a persuader!
He looked down at his clothing: a black uniform with golden piping, a red hawk at the left breast. That, at least, was familiar. No insignia of rank.
“They know your face,” Moneo had said.
This thought brought Idaho up short. Reflection told him that Moneo was not little.
Idaho glanced around his room—sybaritic in its attention to comfort—soft cushions, appliances concealed behind panels of brown polished wood. The bath was an ornate display of pastel blue tiles with a combination bath and shower in which at least six people could bathe at the same time. The whole place invited self-indulgence. These were quarters where you could let your senses indulge in remembered pleasures.
“Clever,” Idaho whispered.
A gentle tapping on his door was followed by a female voice saying: “Commander? Moneo is here.”
Idaho glanced out at the sunburnt colors on the distant cliff.
“Commander?” The voice was a bit louder.
“Come in,” Idaho called.
Moneo entered, closing the door behind him. He wore tunic and trousers of chalk-white which forced the eyes to concentrate on his face. Moneo glanced once around the room.
“So this is where they put you. Those damned women! I suppose they thought they were being kind, but they ought to know better.”
“How do you know what I like?” Idaho demanded. Even as he asked it, he realized it was a foolish question.
Moneo merely smiled and shrugged.
“I did not mean to offend you, Commander. Will you keep these quarters, then?”
“I like the view.”
“But not the furnishings.” It was a statement.
“Those can be changed,” Idaho said.
“I will see to it.”
“I suppose you’re here to explain my duties.”
“As much as I can. I know how strange everything must appear to you at first. This civilization is profoundly different from the one you knew.”
“I can see that. How did my . . . predecessor die?”
Moneo shrugged. It appeared to be his standard gesture, but there was nothing self-effacing about it.
“He was not fast enough to escape the consequences of a decision he had made,” Moneo said.
“Be specific.”
Moneo sighed. The Duncans were always like this—so demanding.
“The rebellion killed him. Do you wish the details?”
“Would they be useful to me?”
“No.”
“I’ll want a complete briefing on this rebellion today, but first: why are there no men in Leto’s army?”
“He has you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“He has a curious theory about armies. I have discussed it with him on many occasions. But do you not want to breakfast before I explain?”
“Can’t we have both at the same time?”
Moneo turned toward the door and called out a single word: “Now!”
