“You have been told that you are only the latest in a long line of duplicates,” Leto said.

“I have none of those memories.”

Leto recognized hysteria in the Duncan, barely covered by the warrior bravado. The cursed Tleilaxu post-tank restoration tactics had produced the usual mental chaos. This Duncan had arrived in a state of near shock, strongly suspecting he was insane. Leto knew that the most subtle powers of reassurance would be required now to soothe the poor fellow. This would be emotionally draining for both of them.

“There have been many changes, Duncan,” Leto said. “One thing, though, does not change. I am still Atreides.”

“They said your body is…”

“Yes, that has changed.”

“The damned Tleilaxu! They tried to make me kill someone I… well, he looked like you. I suddenly remembered who I was and there was-this… Could that have been a Muad’Dib ghola?”

“A Face Dancer mimic, I assure you.”

“He looked and talked so much like… Are you sure?”

“An actor, no more. Did he survive?”

“Of course! That’s how they wakened my memories. They explained the whole damned thing. Is it true?”

“It’s true, Duncan. I detest it, but I permit it for the pleasure of your company.”

The potential victims always survive, Leto thought. At least for the Duncans I see. There have been slips, the fake Paul slain and the Duncans wasted. But there are always more cells carefully preserved from the original.

“What about your body?” Idaho demanded.

Muad’Dib could be retired now; Leto resumed his usual voice. “I accepted the sandtrout as my skin. They have been changing me ever since.”

“Why?”

“I will explain that in due course.”

“The Tleilaxu said you look like a sandworm.”

“What did my Fish Speakers say?”

“They said you’re God. Why do you call them Fish Speakers?”

“An old conceit. The first priestesses spoke to fish in their dreams. They learned valuable things that way.”

“How do you know?”

“I am those women… and everything that came before and after them.”

Leto heard the dry swallowing in Idaho’s throat, then: “I see why the darkness. You’re giving me time to adjust.”

“You always were quick, Duncan.”

Except when you were slow.

“How long have you been changing?”

“More than thirty-five hundred years.”

“Then what the Tleilaxu told me is true.”

“They seldom dare to lie anymore.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Very long.”

“The Tleilaxu have… copied me many times?”

“Many.”

It’s time you asked how many, Duncan.

“How many of me?”

“I will let you see the records for yourself.”

And so it starts, Leto thought.

This exchange always appeared to satisfy the Duncans, but there was no escaping the nature of the question:

“How many of me?”

The Duncans made no distinctions of the flesh even though no mutual memories passed between gholas of the same stock.

“I remember my death,” Idaho said. “Harkonnen blades, lots of them trying to get at you and Jessica.”

Leto restored the Muad’Dib voice for momentary play: “I was there, Duncan.”