“That’s a two-way street. The original Duncan Idaho will have to answer that for himself.”
A veiled look entered Duncan’s eyes. “Will I remember this place, the Keep, Schwangyu and . . .”
“Everything. You’ll undergo a kind of double-vision memory for a time, but you’ll remember it all.”
A cynical look came over the young face and, when he spoke, it was with bitterness. “So you and I will become comrades.”
All of a Bashar’s command and presence in his voice, Teg followed the reawakening instructions precisely.
“I’m not particularly interested in becoming your comrade.” He fixed a searching glare on Duncan’s face. “You might make Bashar someday. I think it possible you have the right stuff. But I’ll be long dead by then.”
“You’re only comrades with Bashars?”
“Patrin was my comrade and he never rose above squad leader.”
Duncan looked into his empty cup and then at Teg. “Why didn’t you order something to drink? You worked hard up there, too.”
Perceptive question. It did not do to underestimate this youth. He knew that food sharing was one of the most ancient rituals of association.
“The smell of yours was enough,” Teg said. “Old memories. I don’t need them right now.”
“Then why did you come down here?”
There it was, revealed in the young voice — hope and fear. He wanted Teg to say a particular thing.
“I wanted to take a careful measurement of how far those exercises have carried you,” Teg said. “I needed to come down here and look at you.”
“Why so careful?”
Hope and fear! It was time for the precise shift of focus.
“I’ve never trained a ghola before.”
Ghola. The word lay suspended between them, hanging on the cooking smells that the globe’s filters had not scrubbed from the air. Ghola! It was laced with spice pungency from Duncan’s empty cup.
Duncan leaned forward without speaking, his expression eager. Lucilla’s observation came into Teg’s mind: “He knows how to use silence.”
When it became obvious that Teg would not expand on that simple statement, Duncan sank back with a disappointed look. The left corner of his mouth turned downward, a sullen, festering expression. Everything focused inward the way it had to be.
“You did not come down here to be alone,” Teg said. “You came here to hide. You’re still hiding in there and you think no one will ever find you.”
Duncan put a hand in front of his mouth. It was a signal gesture for which Teg had been waiting. The instructions for this moment were clear: “The ghola wants the original memories wakened and fears this utterly. That is the major barrier you must sunder.”
“Take your hand away from your mouth!” Teg ordered.
Duncan dropped his hand as though it had been burned. He stared at Teg like a trapped animal.
“Speak the truth,” Teg’s instructions warned. “At this moment, every sense afire, the ghola will see into your heart.”
“I want you to know,” Teg said, “that what the Sisterhood has ordered me to do to you, that this is distasteful to me.”
Duncan appeared to crouch into himself. “What did they order you to do?”
“The skills I was ordered to give you are flawed.”
“F-flawed?”
“Part of it was comprehensive training, the intellectual part. In that respect, you have been brought to the level of regimental commander.”
“Better than Patrin?”
“Why must you be better than Patrin?”
“Wasn’t he your comrade?”
“Yes.”
“You said he never rose above squad leader!”
“Patrin was fully capable of taking over command of an entire multi-planet force. He was a tactical magician whose wisdom I employed on many occasions.”
“But you said he never –”
“It was his choice. The low rank gave him the common touch that we both found useful many times.”
“Regimental commander?” Duncan’s voice was little more than a whisper. He stared at the tabletop.
“You have an intellectual grasp of the functions, a bit impetuous but experience usually smooths that out. Your weapons skills are superior for your age.”
Still not looking at Teg, Duncan asked: “What is my age . . . sir?”
Just as the instructions cautioned: The ghola will dance all around the central issue. “What is my age?” How old is a ghola.