Mentats of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Yes, Ptolemy had been naïve about the strength of hatred and fear. Despite his Tlulaxa partner’s misgivings, he had happily offered Manford Torondo new artificial legs, which could have served the Butlerian leader as well as his original limbs. Ptolemy had been certain he could soften Manford’s heart by showing him the good side of advanced technology.

  But his kind gesture had been like stepping on a serpent. At Manford’s command, barbarian fanatics had swooped into Ptolemy’s research facility, burned the laboratory down, and forced him to watch as they roasted his friend alive. It was Manford’s perverted way of teaching a “necessary” lesson.

  Ptolemy had indeed learned a lesson, which set him on a path that none of those monsters would have expected. These Denali facilities were even more sophisticated than his labs on Zenith. Out here, Ptolemy didn’t need to justify his work to anyone, nor worry about funding or prying eyes. He could do whatever he wanted … whatever was needed.

  The tanks containing disembodied proto-Navigator brains bubbled and fizzed, emitting a sour smell laced with ozone. The pale blue electrafluid provided nutrients and conducted thoughts to speakerpatches, although the Navigator brains were not very conversational.

  The minds understood what had happened to them. Originally, they had volunteered to become Navigators, but sometimes the oversaturation of spice gas caused too much mutation, and their bodies failed. Nevertheless, these enhanced brains had given themselves into the service of Josef Venport and the future of human civilization. They understood the grave danger posed by the Butlerians, and would become formidable weapons in the fight for civilization.

  As p+ even p mmeart of his continuing progress, Ptolemy had implanted thoughtrodes into the back of his skull, which enabled him to communicate with the disembodied brains. What he received was a blur of sensation, a panoply of confusing thoughts. Disconnected from their original bodies, the Navigator brains were listless and disoriented. But that would soon change.

  Ptolemy knew their names, but had not met any of them in their normal corporeal existence. He merely received the remnants of their minds and bodies after they had failed the transformation. One of the disembodied brains, Yabido Onel, had so badly wanted to be a Navigator that he took his failure harder than the others and became despondent to the point of surrender, but Ptolemy’s labs had kept his brain alive.

  Yabido’s companions included a failed female Navigator, Xinshop. Ptolemy had seen images of her on the day she volunteered to be a Navigator, an incredibly beautiful young woman with dark hair and blue eyes—and images after she had mutated into a hideously deformed creature inside a melange tank. Xinshop had nearly died when she failed to achieve the accelerated mental state of a Navigator. Now Xinshop was a glistening mass of gray and pink brain matter in a container of biofluids, connected to thoughtrodes and feeding tubes that kept her alive.

  The airlock door hissed open from the connector passage in the domed facility, and Administrator Noffe entered. The small Tlulaxa man wore a snug white cleansuit. In the sterile Denali facilities, hygiene was second nature to all researchers.

  Because of scandals during Serena Butler’s Jihad, members of the Tlulaxa race were widely despised, but they were still brilliant researchers and bioengineers. Directeur Venport didn’t waste time with prejudice when he needed the imagination of brilliant people. Noffe, who had been rescued from Thalim after the barbarians deemed his work “unacceptable,” now ran the entire Denali research complex.

  For his own part, Ptolemy had developed a plan to create a fearsome new cymek army that the Butlerians could not resist, and now the work at Denali had grown more focused than ever. The barbarians had to be stopped before they destroyed civilization.

  “My teams of engineers finished refurbishing ten more of the old cymek walkers,” Noffe announced. The skin on his face was discolored by a large pale blotch that looked as if it had been bleached by a spilled experimental chemical. “They are ready to be tested with your Navigator brains.”

  Ptolemy was pleased to hear this. “The old Titans were magnificent, but we can do better. When Manford Torondo sees them, I want our cymeks to be more than just nightmares from the past. His superstitious savages are dead weight on human society, and they’ll drag us under unless we cut them loose.” He drew several breaths to calm himself.

  Noffe offered him a warm smile. “I couldn’t agree more, my friend. They held me in one of their prisons and were going to kill me because they didn’t like my research.” He shuddered at the familiar story. So many scientists had been murdered by the ignorant ones. Noffe had escaped, thanks to Venport, but other Tlulaxa researchers had been gagged, hobbled, and denied any avenue of investigation that might raise questions. Yet investigation, by its very nature, was supposed to raise questions.

  “Our new Time of Titans will demonstrate that we’ve learned from the mistakes of our predecessors. These Navigator brains are superior and enlightened. They won’t suffer from the hubris of the original Titans. Rather, they will become the guardians of progress.”

  Noffe nodded, sharing +2JFre the Ptolemy’s vision. “I’ve assigned engineers to improve the walker forms, turning them into modern military bodies with armored cores and integrated weapons systems better than the previous models. We have developed new alloy films and increased power transfer through the mechanical systems.” He beamed with pride and confidence.

  Ptolemy mused, “The Time of Titans could have been a true golden age if only General Agamemnon and the others had kept their ambitions noble instead of destructive.” Dismayed, he shook his head. “I’ve heard stories of the Titan Ajax: His warrior form was so gigantic that he single-handedly crushed a planetary uprising.” Ptolemy blinked, looking at the placid Navigator brains in their tanks, including Yabido Onel and Xinshop. “These enlightened minds would never stoop to anything so savage and destructive.”

  And yet, Ptolemy noticed that he himself was clenching his hands. Sometimes ruthless violence was warranted, and he often imagined what he would do if he could wear a gigantic mechanical walker, using multiple limbs and claws to rip the hated Butlerians limb from limb, like a child pulling the wings off a fly.

  Ptolemy had never forgotten Dr. Elchan’s screams, but perhaps when he heard Manford’s screams, they would be loud enough to erase those echoes in his mind.

  Noffe had a glint in his eyes. “Our new-design walker forms will not only be more powerful, but more nimble as well. The original Titans used the best technology to build their bodies, but for centuries the very futu

  Humans and machines are fundamentally different. I find it strange that each should try so hard to emulate the other.

  —HEADMASTER GILBERTUS ALBANS, Initial Lectures at Mentat School

  Traveling from the isolated Mentat School to Empok, the capital city on Lampadas, was doubly inconvenient. When Manford summoned him, Gilbertus could have taken the school’s private emergency flyer and made the journey in a couple of hours, but the Headmaster was in no hurry, since he dreaded what Manford would demand of him now. If the Butlerian leader complained about the delay, Gilbertus could innocently point out that he chose not to use the technologically advanced means of travel, even though it was faster.

  More than a day after Alys Carroll delivered the summons, Gilbertus arrived at the modest Butlerian headquarters building. Empok was an old-fashioned city. At first glance, some might have considered it quaint and bucolic, a throwback to innocent times, but Gilbertus could see the weaknesses. He had spent his early life in the fabulous machine city on Corrin, where everything was perfect, tidy, and efficient. This was a far cry from that utopia. The sanitation, power, and transportation capabilities were outdated and deteriorating.

  Since founding his Mentat School, Gilbertus had studied the human perspectives on Serena Butler’s Jihad. Objectively, he understood the dangers and flaws of thinking machines, the excesses, the pain—and he knew Erasmus did not grasp the complex depths of emotional pain—yet Gilbertus had firs
thand experience with the remarkable advantages of technology. If only the Butlerians would accept progress while maintaining their own humanity …

  He dared not suggest such a dangerous thought.

  Anari Idaho stood outside of Manford’s office. Though the Swordmaster recognized Gilbertus, she gave him a guarded look, as if to assess whether he might have become a threat since their last meeting. The Headmaster wore a studied expression of calm, knowing she would never be able to read his true thoughts. Logic and reason were a powerful weapon, but that weapon’s edge was dulled when it continually encountered thick ignorance.

  “Leader Torondo summoned me,” Gilbertus said, in case she wasn’t aware.

  Anari stepped aside to let him enter the office. “Yes, he did. We have been waiting.”

  Manford sat in a large padded chair, where he looked like a magistrate at a bench; the blocky desk concealed his missing legs. Gilbertus faced the Butlerian leader, but his attention was drawn to an ominous combat robot that stood at the fieldstone wall—a powerful fighting model with reinforced weapon arms, protected circuitry, and sharp-bladed weapons. The dull glow of the robot’s facial sensors showed that the machine was activated and aware, though at a low energy level. Coil upon coil of thick chains wrapped its body.

  Gilbertus knew the combat mek was strong enough to snap those chains, so the bonds served more to comfort Manford than to immobilize the robot. The Butlerian leader wanted to show that the combat mek was his prisoner, to prove his superiority.

  Bald, pale Deacon Harian stood close to the combat mek, as if confronting his own fears. Harian always looked angry and ready to unleash violence; he kept his hand on the hilt of a pulse-sword. No doubt the deacon thought he could protect Manford if the mek broke its chains and went on a rampage.

  Barely acknowledging the presence of the combat mek, Gilbertus kept his attention on Manford, who regarded him with vigilant eyes. “This is a powerful fighting robot, Headmaster,” Manford said, as if he needed to explain. “Like his famous counterpart, the independent robot+ offerre the Erasmus, he has been defeated.”

  Anari Idaho stood behind Gilbertus, ready to dispatch the machine if necessary. “On Ginaz,” she said, “Swordmaster trainees practiced against such meks. We slaughtered them by the thousands … every one we could get our hands on.”

  “I recognize the design,” Gilbertus said. “We studied such fighting machines at the Mentat School, so my students could understand and analyze the enemy of humanity.” He kept his voice carefully neutral. “But you required me to destroy them all. How did this one come to be here?”

  “This mek serves my purpose,” Manford said in a hard voice. “I’m going to use it to show the Imperial court and all of Salusa Secundus—all of humanity, in fact—that humans are superior to computers in every way. More proof that Omnius, Erasmus, and their minions are utterly and completely inferior.” Manford glared at the mek, as if expecting it to respond. But it didn’t.

  Gilbertus gave a slow nod, knowing he would have to agree to whatever the Butlerian leader asked. “My Mentats have demonstrated their proficiency in your service. Countless times, in fact.”

  “And one of your Mentats will demonstrate it again for Emperor Salvador. This captive mek is still functional and responsive. We intend to transport it to the Imperial Palace, and there, before all observers, a Mentat will play pyramid chess against this thinking machine. You are confident that a Mentat can indeed defeat this robot?” Though Manford’s voice remained even, it carried an undertone of threat.

  Gilbertus assessed the question. “No one can absolutely predict the outcome of a strategy game, but yes, my Mentats are equal to any thinking machine. Human intuition would give them an advantage in such a contest.”

  Manford smiled at him. “Exactly as I expected. This will be an important performance, a human pitted against a mek.” Such challenges had been staged before, and Manford was creating a spectacle that would prove nothing … but Gilbertus realized full well that the Butlerian leader would insist. “Headmaster, select a Mentat from your school to travel with me to Salusa—someone who will defeat this thinking machine for all to see. The robot knows that if it loses the game, we will destroy it.”

  Deacon Harian said, “We should destroy it, regardless.”

  “Since the robot will not win, its destruction is a certainty anyway,” Gilbertus said. He also knew that if the chosen Mentat did not manage to defeat the mek, Manford would be shamed and furious. The Mentat student would be killed … and the combat mek would be destroyed either way.

  The Butlerian leader mused, “Do you think it wants to live, Mentat? Does it have that sort of awareness?”

  Gilbertus stared at the robot. “It is a machine—it doesn’t want anything. It has no soul. However, such meks have strong defensive abilities and self-preservation programming. It will attempt to remain intact.”

  The combat robot had been constructed on Corrin, as Gilbertus could tell by its design and configuration. Somewhere buried deep in its memory core, the mek might even remember him from when he’d lived as the ward of Erasmus. Had the mek been a human, it might have wheedled and begged to survive, might have revealed Gilbertus’s dangerous secret past in hopes of keeping itself alive thinking machines1E { font-weight : normal; font-style : normal; font-size : 0.. But the fighting robot did not care about human politics and interactions.

  As Gilbertus studied the chained mek, he noticed that Deacon Harian was regarding him with narrowed eyes and obvious suspicion.

  Though he had faith in his trainees, Gilbertus would not risk one of them—not even the Butlerian fanatic Alys Carroll—on such a foolish and unpredictable spectacle. “Any of my students would make me proud, Leader Torondo, but I am here right now. I will accept the task myself.” He smiled at Anari and at Deacon Harian, then turned back to Manford, dismissing the chained mek. “We can leave immediately, if you’re so inclined.”

  Manford was pleased. “Good. EsconTran already has a vessel waiting in orbit.”

  * * *

  THE SHIPS IN the EsconTran fleet were not luxury models, but Rolli Escon had modified a set of cabins so Manford Torondo could have an opulent suite instead of a stripped-down passenger cabin. Assigned to less lavish quarters, Headmaster Albans kept himself separate from Manford. The two of them were political allies but not friends, and did not socialize—exactly as both men wished it. Manford recognized the worth of human minds that could perform the functions of thinking machines, but he had doubts about the purity of Gilbertus’s thoughts.

  The Butlerian leader preferred solitude so he could meditate and pray. Though loyal Anari wanted to be with him constantly, there were times when Manford needed to be undisturbed, with only the company of his own thoughts. When he wrestled with his nightmares, he did not want Anari to see him. The Swordmaster worshiped him, followed his every command without hesitation. He didn’t let her see his weakness. Although Anari would never pity him, he didn’t want her to worry.

  She delivered him to his cabin, and Manford walked inside on his hands, getting around without legs. He wasn’t entirely dependent upon others, though Anari would not have minded carrying him. She stood at the doorway, waiting, but he asked her to close the door and leave him. “I’ll be fine. If I need anything, I will summon you.”

  Mild displeasure played across her face. “I’ll be here.”

  “I know you will.”

  He sealed the cabin, and then, when he was finally away from curious eyes, he removed the accursed volume that he could permit no one else to see. For years he had studied the appalling writings of Erasmus, fascinated and horrified by them, and now he once again dipped into the mind of the greatest evil he had ever encountered. Manford held one of the journals of the notorious independent robot, dangerous writings that had been retrieved from the wreckage of Corrin.

  Manford couldn’t help himself. By now, he had memorized most of the words, but he was still repulsed each time he read Erasmus’s coo
l observations of massacring innocent human prisoners. Experiments. The demon robot dissected living humans, tortured them in order to analyze their responses, used measuring devices to record fear, terror, and even loathing. The robot had studied death images in all portions of the spectrum, employing nanosecond-scale monitoring of murder victims in an attempt to glimpse the soul, to prove or disprove its existence.

  Manford hated Erasmus more than any other being, yet he read the reports with a sick fascination, wondering what the darkly inquisitive machine might have learned about humanity. After so many centuries of investigations, how was it possible that +In his cool thinking-machine way, Erasmus had an unshakable faith in his own beliefs. Manford shuddered as that thought occurred to him: No! A robot could not possibly have faith, or a soul! Machines were not like humans in any way. Robots were artificial creations not designed by God. No robot could ever understand blessed humanity, the pure goodness of love and the entire range of emotions. To protect himself, he muttered the Butlerian mantra under his breath, “The mind of man is holy.”

  On impulse, he walked on his hands to his cabin door and activated it. When it slid open, he was not surprised to discover Anari standing there; she hadn’t moved, and would no doubt remain in place, guarding him all night long. The foldspace journey itself would take only a day, but the preparations, loading, and unloading of the ship would take longer than that.

  Anari turned, calmly ready for anything. “How can I help you, Manford?”

  “Take me to the combat mek. I want to make absolutely certain it’s secure.”

  “It’s secure,” Anari said.

  “I wish to see it.”

  Without asking, Anari picked him up and carried him down the ship’s corridor. A lift dropped them to a section that had been designed as a brig for criminals being sent into exile.

  The mek, formerly chained, had been rendered even more helpless now. At Deacon Harian’s suggestion, the lower half of the fighting machine’s body had been disconnected, its legs severed so that the robot was only a torso with arms and head … somewhat like Manford himself. For added security during transport, they had welded the abomination to the deck.