God Emporer of Dune by Frank Herbert

She has some doubts, he thought. I still have room to maneuver.

“Definitions vary,” he said. “To Moneo, I am a god . . . and that is a truth.”

“You were human once.”

He began to enjoy the leaps of her intellect. She had that sure, hunting curiosity which was the, hallmark of the Atreides.

“You are curious about me,” he said. “It is the same with me. I am curious about you.”

“What makes you think I’m curious?”

“You used to watch me very carefully when you were a child. I see that same look in your eyes tonight.”

“Yes, I have wondered what it’s like to be you.”

He studied her for a moment. The moonlight drew shadows under her eyes, concealing them. He could let himself imagine that her eyes were the total blue of his own eyes, the blue of spice addiction. With that imaginative addition, Siona bore a curious resemblance to his long-dead Ghani. It was in the outline of her face and the placement of the eyes. He almost told Siona this, then thought better of it.

“Do you eat human food?” Siona asked.

“For a long time after I put on the sandtrout skin, I felt stomach hunger,” he said. “Occasionally, I would attempt food. My stomach mostly rejected it. The cilia of the sandtrout spread almost everywhere in my human flesh. Eating became a bothersome thing. These days, I only ingest dry substances which sometimes contain a bit of the spice.”

“You . . . eat melange?”

“Sometimes.”

“But you no longer have human hungers?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She stared at him, waiting.

Leto admired the way she let unspoken questions work for her. She was bright and she had learned much during her short life.

“The stomach hunger was a black feeling, a pain I could not relieve,” he said. “I would run then, run like an insane creature across the dunes.”

“You . . . ran?”

“My legs were longer in proportion to my body in those days. I could move myself about quite easily. But the hungry pain has never left me. I think it’s hunger for my lost humanity.” B$

He saw the beginnings of reluctant sympathy in her, the questioning.

“You still have this . . . pain?”

“It’s only a soft burning now. That’s one of the signs of my final metamorphosis. In a few hundred years, I’ll be back under the sand.”

He saw her clench her fists at her sides. “Why?” she demanded. “Why did you do this?”

“This change isn’t all bad. Today, for example, has been very pleasant. I feel quite mellow.”

“There are changes we cannot see,” she said. “I know there must be.” She relaxed her hands.

“My sight and hearing have become extremely acute, but not my sense of touch. Except for my face, I don’t feel things the way I could once. I miss that.”

Again, he noted the reluctant sympathy, the striving toward an empathic understanding. She wanted to know!

“When you live so long,” she said, “how does the passage of Time feel? Does it move more rapidly as the years go by?”

“That’s a strange thing, Siona. Sometimes, Time rushes by me; sometimes, it creeps.”

Gradually, as they spoke, Leto had been dimming the concealed lights of his aerie, moving his cart closer and closer to Siona. Now, he shut off the lights, leaving only the moon. The front of his cart protruded onto the balcony, his face only about two meters from Siona.

“My father tells me,” she said, “that the older you get, the slower your time goes. Is that what you told him?”

Testing my veracity, he thought. She’s not a Truthsayer, then.

“All things are relative, but compared to the human timesense, this is true.”

“Why?”

“It is involved in what I will become. At the end, Time will stop for me and I will be frozen like a pearl caught in ice. My new bodies will scatter, each with a pearl hidden within it.”

She turned and looked away from him, peering out at the desert, speaking without looking at him.

“When I talk to you like this here in the darkness I can almost forget what you are.”

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