The statue of Leto’s paternal great-grandfather, Duke Miklos Atreides, stood tall in the courtyard of the Cala City Hospital, stained by time and moss and guano. As Leto passed the serene visage of an ancestor he had never known, he nodded in habitual respect, then hurried up a set of wide marblecrete stairs.

Though he limped slightly, Leto was substantially recovered from his physical injuries. Once again, he was able to face each day without the smothering blackness of despair. By the time he reached the uppermost floor of the medical building, he was hardly winded at all.

Rhombur was awake.

The Duke’s personal physician, who had continued to treat Rhombur until the impending arrival of the cyborg team, greeted him. “We have begun to communicate with the Prince, my Lord Duke.”

White-coated medical attendants stood around the life-support pod and its elaborate tubes, injection bags, and blood-purification pumps. Machinery hummed and whirred, as it had for months. But it was different now.

Stopping Leto before he could rush forward, the doctor said, “There was, as you know, severe trauma to the right side of the Prince’s head, but the human brain is a remarkable instrument. Already Rhombur’s cerebellum has shifted control functions to new regions. Information is flowing through the neural pathways. I believe this will make the work of the cyborg team considerably easier.”

Tessia leaned over the coffin-shaped pod, stared inside. “I love you, Rhombur— you never needed to worry about that.”

In response, synthesized, humming words droned from a speakerbox. “I . . . love . . . you . . . too . . . And . . . always . . . will.” The words were distinct and precise, unmistakable but with a pause between each, as if Rhombur still hadn’t accustomed himself to the speech process.

The Duke stared, transfixed. How could I have even considered giving you over to the Tleilaxu?

The sleek pod lay open, revealing Rhombur’s scarred lump of skin and bone, bristling with tubes, wires, and connections. The doctor said, “At first we could only speak to him by using an Ixian code . . . pulses and taps. But now, we’ve managed to link the voice synthesizer up to his speech center.”

The Prince’s remaining eye was open, showing life and awareness. For long moments Leto stared into Rhombur’s nearly unrecognizable face, and he could think of nothing to say.

What is he thinking? How long has he known what happened to him?

Synthesized words poured out of the speaker beside the pod. “Leto . . . friend . . . How . . . are . . . coral . . . gem . . . beds . . . this . . . year? Have . . . you . . . been . . . diving . . . lately?”

Almost giddy with relief, Leto chuckled. “Better than ever, Prince— we’ll go out again together . . . soon.” Suddenly a wash of tears stung his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rhombur— you don’t deserve anything but the truth.”

The lump of Rhombur’s body didn’t move, and Leto saw only a few spasmodic muscle twitches beneath his skin. The artificial voice from the speaker conveyed no emotions, no inflections.

“When . . . I . . . am . . . a . . . cyborg . . . we . . . can . . . build . . . a . . . special . . . suit. We’ll . . . go . . . diving . . . again. Wait . . . and . . . see.”

Somehow, the exiled Prince had accepted the dramatic changes to his body, even the prospect of cyborg replacements. His good heart and infectious optimism had helped Leto through the darkest times after the Old Duke’s death. Now Leto would be there for Rhombur.

“Remarkable,” the doctor said.

Rhombur’s eye did not waver from Leto. “I . . . want . . . a . . . Harkonnen . . . beer.”

Leto laughed. On his left, Tessia clutched his arm. The hideously injured Prince would still go through oceans of pain, both physical and mental.

Rhombur seemed to sense Leto’s gloom, and his speech improved, a little. “Don’t . . . be . . . sad . . . for me. Be happy. I . . . look . . . forward to . . . my . . . cyborg parts.” Leto leaned closer. “I . . . am Ixian . . . No . . . stranger . . . to machines!”

It all seemed so unreal to Leto, so impossible. And yet, it was happening. Over the centuries, cyborg attempts had always failed when the body rejected its synthetic parts. Psychologists claimed the human mind refused to accept such a drastic intrusion by mechanicals. The deep-seated fear dated back to the machine-induced horrors of pre-Butlerian days. Supposedly, this Suk doctor Yueh, with his intensive research program on Richese, had solved such problems. Only time would tell.

But even if the components worked as promised, Rhombur would function little better than the stiff old Ixian meks. The adjustment would not be easy, and delicate control would never be possible. In the face of his injuries and disabilities, would Tessia abandon him and return to the Sisterhood?

In his youth, Leto had listened with rapt attention as Paulus and his veteran soldiers told of severely injured men performing incredible feats of bravery. The triumph of the human spirit over insurmountable odds. Leto had never seen anything like that firsthand.

Rhombur Vernius was the bravest man Leto had ever met.

Two weeks later, Dr. Wellington Yueh arrived from Richese, accompanied by his cyborg-development team of twenty-four men and women, and two shuttle loads of medical equipment and supplies.

Duke Leto Atreides personally supervised as his men helped the party disembark. Fussy about details, the stylus-thin Yueh barely took time to introduce himself before he scurried about the spaceport, attending to the arriving cargo cases of instruments and the prosthetic parts that would ultimately be fitted onto Rhombur’s salvageable flesh and bones.

Groundtrucks transported personnel and cargo to the infirmary center, where Yueh insisted upon seeing the patient immediately. The Suk doctor looked over at Leto as they entered the hospital. “I will make him whole again, sir, though it will take some time for him to get used to his new body.”

“Rhombur will do everything you ask.”

Inside the room, Tessia still had not left Rhombur’s side. Yueh moved smoothly over to the life-support pod, studied connections, diagnostic readings. Then he looked down at the injured Prince, who regarded him with his bizarre single eye, set in grossly wounded flesh.

“Prepare yourself, Rhombur Vernius,” Yueh said, stroking his long mustaches. “I intend to begin the first surgical procedure tomorrow.”

Rhombur’s synthetic voice floated across the room, smoother now that he had practiced using it. “I look forward . . . to shaking . . . your hand.”