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Dune [Frank Herbert's Dune Saga Collection: Books 1 - 6]
- Автор: Херберт Фрэнк
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: Penguin Publishing Group
- Жанр: Эпическое фэнтези
Электронная книга - «Dune [Frank Herbert's Dune Saga Collection: Books 1 - 6]». Краткое содержание книги:
*DUNE* IS SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE directed by Denis Villeneuve, starring Timothée Chalamet, Josh Brolin, Jason Momoa, Zendaya, Rebecca Ferguson, Oscar Isaac, Javier Bardem, Dave Bautista, Stellan Skarsgård, and Charlotte Rampling.
In the far future, on a remote planet, an epic adventure awaits. Here are the first six novels of Frank Herbert’s magnificent Dune saga—a triumph of the imagination and one of the bestselling science fiction series of all time.
The Dune Saga begins on the desert planet Arrakis with the story of the boy Paul Atreides—who would become known as Muad’Dib—and of a great family’s ambition to bring to fruition humankind’s most ancient and unattainable dream....
Includes Books 1 - 6: DUNE • DUNE MESSIAH • CHILDREN OF DUNE • GOD EMPEROR OF DUNE • HERETICS OF DUNE • CHAPTERHOUSE: DUNE
“The art of government requires that you never give up the initiative to radical elements,” he said.
How pedantic. Radicals crop up in every generation and you must not try to prevent this. That’s what he means by “give up the initiative.” He wants to crush them, suppress them, control them, prevent them. He is living proof that there is little difference between the police mind and the military mind.
I told him, “Radicals are only to be feared when you try to suppress them. You must demonstrate that you will use the best of what they offer.”
“They are dangerous. They are dangerous!” He thinks that by repeating he creates some kind of truth.
Slowly, step by step, I lead him through my method and he even gives the appearance of listening.
“This is their weakness, Duncan. Radicals always see matters in terms which are too simple—black and white, good and evil, them and us. By addressing complex matters in that way, they rip open a passage for chaos. The art of government as you call it, is the mastery of chaos.”
“No one can deal with every surprise.”
“Surprise? Who’s talking about surprise? Chaos is no surprise. It has predictable characteristics. For one thing, it carries away order and strengthens the forces at the extremes.”
“Isn’t that what radicals are trying to do? Aren’t they trying to shake things up so they can grab control?”
“That’s what they think they’re doing. Actually, they’re creating new extremists, new radicals and they are continuing the old process.”
“What about a radical who sees the complexities and comes at you that way?”
“That’s no radical. That’s a rival for leadership.”
“But what do you do?”
“You co-opt them or kill them. That’s how the struggle for leadership originated, at the grunt level.”
“Yes, but what about messiahs?”
“Like my father?”
The Duncan does not like this question. He knows that in a very special way I am my father. He knows I can speak with my father’s voice and persona, that the memories are precise, never edited and inescapable.
Reluctantly, he says: “Well . . . if you want.”
“Duncan, I am all of them and I know. There has never been a truly selfless rebel, just hypocrites—conscious hypocrites or unconscious hypocrites, it’s all the same.”
That stirs up a small hornet’s nest among my ancestral memories. Some of them have never given up the belief that they and they alone held the key to all of humankind’s problems. Well, in that, they are like me. I can sympathize even while I tell them that failure is its own demonstration.
I am forced to block them off, though. There’s no sense dwelling on them. They now are little more than poignant reminders . . . as is this Duncan who stands in front of me with his lasgun. . . .
Great Gods below! He has caught me napping. He has the lasgun in his hand and it is pointed at my face.
“You, Duncan? Have you betrayed me, too?”
Et tu, Brute?
Every fiber of Leto’s awareness came to full alert. He could feel his body twitching. The worm-flesh had a will of its own.
Idaho spoke with derision: “Tell me, Leto: How many times must I pay the debt of loyalty?”
Leto recognized the inner question: “How many of me have there been?” The Duncans always wanted to know this. Every Duncan asked it and no answer satisfied. They doubted.
In his saddest Muad’Dib voice, Leto asked: “Do you take no pride in my admiration, Duncan? Haven’t you ever wondered what it is about you that makes me desire you as my constant companion through the centuries?”
“You know me to be the ultimate fool!”
“Duncan!”
The voice of an angry Muad’Dib could always be counted on to shatter Idaho. Despite the fact that Idaho knew no Bene Gesserit had ever mastered the powers of Voice as Leto had mastered them, it was predictable that he would dance to this one voice. The lasgun wavered in his hand.
That was enough. Leto was off the cart in a hurtling roll. Idaho had never seen him leave the cart this way, had not even suspected it could happen. For Leto, there were only two requirements—a real threat which the worm-body could sense and the release of that body. The rest was automatic and the speed of it always astonished even Leto.
The lasgun was his major concern. It could scratch him badly, but few understood the abilities of the pre-worm body to deal with heat.
Leto struck Idaho while rolling and the lasgun was deflected as it was fired. One of the useless flippers which had been Leto’s legs and feet sent a shocking burst of sensations crashing into his awareness. For an instant, there was only pain. But the worm-body was free to act and reflexes ignited a violent paroxysm of flopping. Leto heard bones cracking. The lasgun was thrown far across the floor of the crypt by a spasmodic jerk of Idaho’s hand.
Rolling off of Idaho, Leto poised himself for a renewed attack but there was no need. The injured flipper still sent pain signals and he sensed that the tip of the flipper had been burned away. The sandtrout skin already had sealed the wound. The pain had eased to an ugly throbbing.
Idaho stirred. There could be little doubt that he had been mortally injured. His chest was visibly crushed. There was obvious agony when he tried to breathe, but he opened his eyes and stared up at Leto.
The persistence of these mortal possessions! Leto thought.
“Siona,” Idaho gasped.
Leto saw the life leave him then.
Interesting, Leto thought. Is it possible that this Duncan and Siona . . . No! This Duncan always displayed a true sneering disdain for Siona’s foolishness.
Leto climbed back onto the Royal Cart. That had been a close one. There could be little doubt that the Duncan had been aiming for the brain. Leto was always aware that his hands and feet were vulnerable, but he had allowed no one to learn that what had once been his brain was no longer directly associated with his face. It was not even a brain of human dimensions anymore, but had spread in nodal congeries throughout his body. He had told this to no one but his journals.
Oh, the landscapes I have seen! And the people! The far wanderings of the Fremen and all the rest of it. Even back through the myths to Terra. Oh, the lessons in astronomy and intrigue, the migrations, the disheveled flights, the leg-aching and lung-aching runs through so many nights on all of those cosmic specks where we have defended our transient possession. I tell you we are a marvel and my memories leave no doubt of this.
—THE STOLEN JOURNALS
The woman working at the small wall desk was too big for the narrow chair on which she perched. Outside, it was mid-morning, but in this windowless room deep beneath the city of Onn there was but a single glowglobe high in a corner. It had been tuned to warm yellow but the light failed to dispel the gray utility of the small room. Walls and ceiling were covered by identical rectangular panels of dull gray metal.