It is an Atreides prejudice. You inherited it.
Teg shunted the smells aside and concentrated on the total movement of the intrusive probe. He found presently that he could anticipate the thing. It was a new muscle. He allowed himself to flex it while he continued to examine the induced memories for valuable insights.
I sit outside my mother’s door on Lernaeus.
Teg removed part of his awareness and watched the scene: age eleven. He is talking to a small Bene Gesserit acolyte who came as part of the escort for Somebody Important. The acolyte is a tiny thing with red-blond hair and a doll’s face. Upturned nose, green-gray eyes. The SI is a black-robed Reverend Mother of truly ancient appearance. She has gone behind that nearby door with Teg’s mother. The acolyte, who is named Carlana, is trying her fledgling skills on the young son of the house.
Before Carlana utters twenty words, Miles Teg recognizes the pattern. She is trying to pry information out of him! This was one of the first lessons in delicate dissembling taught by his mother. There were, after all, people who might question a young boy about a Reverend Mother’s household, hoping thereby to gain salable information. There is always a market for data about Reverend Mothers.
His mother explained: “You judge the questioner and fit your responses according to the susceptibilities.” None of this would have served against a full Reverend Mother, but against an acolyte, especially this one!
For Carlana, he produces an appearance of coy reluctance. Carlana has an inflated view of her own attractions. He allows her to overcome his reluctance after a suitable marshaling of her forces. What she gets is a handful of lies, which, if she ever repeats them to the SI behind that closed door, are sure to win Carlana a severe censuring if not something more painful.
Words from Dit, Dat, and Dot: “I think we have him now.”
Teg recognized Yar’s voice yanking him out of old memories. “Fit your responses according to the susceptibilities.” Teg heard the words in his mother’s voice.
Puppets.
Puppet masters.
The functionary speaks: “Ask the simulation where they have taken the ghola.”
Silence and then a faint humming.
“I’m not getting anything.” Yar.
Teg hears their voices with painful sensitivity. He forces his eyes to open against the opposing commands of the probe.
“Look!” Yar says.
Three sets of eyes stare back at Teg. How slowly they move. Dit, Dat, and Dot: the eyes go blink . . . blink . . . at least a minute between blinks. Yar is reaching for something on his console. His fingers will take a week to reach their destination.
Teg explores the bindings on his hands and arms. Ordinary rope! Taking his time, he squirms his fingers into contact with the knots. They loosen, slowly at first, and then flying apart. He moves on to the straps holding him to the sling litter. These are easier: simple slip locks. Yar’s hand is not even a fourth of the way to the console.
Blink . . . blink . . . blink . . .
The three sets of eyes show faint surprise.
Teg releases himself from the medusa tangle of probe contacts. Pop-pop-pop! The grippers fly away from him. He is surprised to notice a slow start of bleeding on the back of his right hand where it has brushed the probe contacts aside.
Mentat projection: I am moving with dangerous speed.
But now he is off the litter. Functionary is reaching a slow-slow hand toward a bulge in a side pocket. Teg’s hand crushes the functionary’s throat. Functionary will never again touch that little lasgun he always carries. Yar’s outstretched hand is still not a third of the way to the probe console. There is definite surprise in his eyes, though. Teg doubts that the man even sees the hand that breaks his neck. Materly is moving a bit faster. Her left foot is coming toward where Teg had been just the flick of an instant previously. Still too slow! Materly’s head is thrown back, the throat exposed for Teg’s down-chopping hand.
How slowly they fall to the floor!