It was plain to Raquella that she needed to retrieve the sophisticated computers from their hiding place in Rossak’s jungles. Those gigantic databases with a wealth of genetic data from noble houses and other significant families could not be lost. The bloodline archives would enable her experts to suggest optimum genetic matches. It was time to get them back, and Valya’s return was serendipitous. The Harkonnen woman had dismantled the computers and hidden the components. She would need to lead a retrieval mission.
As Raquella watched, the two Harkonnen sisters performed a series of swift combat moves that Valya had developed with her brother Griffin. The young women struck out at each other and fell back, feinted, advanced, dodging blows with precision, as if this were a complex, well-rehearsed dance. Their movements were fluid, graceful, and lightning fast. They charged at each other; Tula leaped over Valya and went into a smooth roll, while Valya rolled in the opposite direction. Less than ten meters apart, they sprang to their feet, whirled, and charged again, ignoring the gasps and cheers of Sisters watching them.
Raquella considered that Harkonnen genetics might offer intriguing possibilities, but she could not visualize Valya as a breeding mistress—she was too independent, too forceful. This beautiful new girl Tula, on the other hand, might be perfect for the program.
Valya and Tula stood back-to-back and each took one step, then whirled and struck out with hands and feet. A pair of blows struck home, as Valya kicked her sister in the abdomen, receiving a hard chop to the neck in return. Three more times they stood back-to-back, took a step, and whirled on each other. Raquella realized this was their variation of a less-than-deadly duel, in which they tried different attacks each time.
Raquella had already observed Valya’s impressive fighting abilities on Rossak, but her speed and fluidity had improved significantly. Additional Sisterhood training, as well as greater control as a Reverend Mother, had made Valya astonishing. She monitored her muscles, reflexes, and every move she made with precise control. It was obvious that Valya had taught Tula a great deal, because they shared the same instincts and speed. As a fighting team, they could be quite lethal.
When the young women concluded their impromptu demonstration, some of the onlookers asked Valya about her technique, while Tula stood looking quiet and shy. With a glance at the Mother Superior, Valya raised her voice. “When I trained with the Sisterhood, I identified a number of talented fighters in our ranks. Back then, the exercises were informal demonstrations of bodily control, but now they should be more than that.” She wiped perspiration from her brow. “We Sisters know our bodies and our reflexes better than any typical fighter—we can take advantage of that, develop it. We need to be able to defend ourselves against outside threats. Our Sisterhood has already been massacred once.”
Raquella stepped forward. “What are you suggesting?”
Valya flicked dark hair from her eyes. “Remember how easily the Sister Mentats were killed by Imperial troops? They were helpless in the face of brutish soldiers!”
The Mother Superior listened and considered. “The Sisterhood’s mission is to improve human abilities in all our candidates. Training is physical as well as mental, and mental abilities are enhanced by well-honed bodies. I agree, personal combat training would make the Sisterhood stronger.”
“Our enemies definitely won’t expect it.”+re. p Valya stood next to her sister as they faced the old woman. “Do we have your permission to show other Sisters our methods?”
“Of course. Each individual contributes to the whole. Develop an instruction routine as you see fit. But first I have a different mission for you.” She extended her arm. “Come, Valya, walk with me.”
As they crossed the grass, Raquella leaned on the younger woman’s arm, though she could have kept her balance without the assistance. The support she needed from Valya was far more than this.
Anyone who searches for the meaning of life is on a fool’s journey. Human life has no redeeming purpose or value.
—the cymek GENERAL AGAMEMNON, A Time for Titans
On a side street in Arrakis City, Vorian Atreides remained with Captain Phillips in the crowded, noisy gaming den for the better part of an hour. They watched the gamblers, the drug consumers, and those who imbibed potent spice beer or expensive offworld liquors. The dingy place smelled of dust, melange, and a faint background odor of urine from a poorly sealed reclamation chamber. Vor frowned; no true desert worker would be so careless as to let that moisture go to waste. He shuffled his boots to find a more comfortable position for his sore infected toe.
Griffin Harkonnen had frequent escape plan,” the robot saida Mentatoperationed places like this, spreading bribes, endangering himself, desperate to find any information about where Vorian Atreides had hidden on the desert world.…
Captain Phillips wanted to eavesdrop on conversations, hoping to find a supplier who could offer a cargo of melange for a better price than Qimmit’s. So far, Phillips had remained silent, but now he caught Vor’s gaze, then nodded over his shoulder. Vor took a careful, casual sip of his spice beer while glancing where the captain had indicated. He spotted Qimmit in the crowd, chatting with miners and Combined Mercantiles businessmen.
“He’s moving in our direction … and not by accident,” Phillips said. “I’ve been watching him inch his way toward us.”
With his dusty stillsuit hood down to reveal his matted, unruly hair, Qimmit glided through the throng, pretending not to look at the two men.
“We won’t need to find an alternate supplier if he decides to lower his price,” the captain continued. “Qimmit is a crafty one, but he’s the least crooked of the possible suppliers. At least he never sells me diluted product.”
“Should we turn our backs on him?” Vor asked. He guessed that Qimmit had never expected them to walk away in the first place, and he wouldn’t want to lose their business to a rival. “To show him he’ll have to work to get us back?”
Phillips clicked his glass against his companion’s, nodded. “A good negotiating ploy, Vorian Kepler.”
Kepler. The alternate surname still jarred Vor. He wished he could tell the captain the full truth, but Vor preferred to remain anonymous.
They were trying to catch the bartender’s attention to order refills when a disingenuous voice said from behind, “If you two are here, then you haven’t found another supplier. Still need a load of spice?”
Vor and the captain turned to face the grinning spice merchant, with their schooners still empty. Phillips appraised the merchant with cool reserve. “We haven’t selected another supplier yet.”
Qimmit patted the captain’s back and looked at him with unfocused blue eyes. “You’re in luck, old friend. I’ve been talking with one of my associates, and his crew just returned after excavating a large spice deposit in the deep desert. The melange is earmarked for Combined Mercantiles, of course, but he is allowed a certain percentage for, ah, discretionary use. He delivered the haul to a warehouse here in town, and he’ll be putting his percentage up for auction. But if that happens, it goes through inspectors, packagers, shipping administrators, all of whom expect bribes. Rather than bother with all that, I convinced him to offer you the load under a revised pricing structure—if we can come to a quick agreement. I am in a volatile business.”
The captain responded in a terse tone, as if holding a grudge, and Vor didn’t think it was an act. “Revised pricing structure? Exactly what price do you propose?”
Qimmit rattled on about profit margins, equipment losses, and storage fees, and grinned again as he offered a purported discount, which brought the price down to only slightly more than Captain Phillips had offered in the first place. The deal was struck, and Qimmit saved face, while Phillips got the load for an acceptable cost. The two men finally got the bartender to provide another round of spice beer for all three of them—and the merchant paid.+, ch woman
Captain Phillips finished his drink, seemingly unaffected by the potency, and turned to Vor. “We�
�d better load the cargo right away and get back to the ship. Weathersats show a sandstorm rolling in tomorrow morning, and I don’t want to be trapped on this rock.”
* * *
AS THEY HURRIED out through the dusty city, making their way along convoluted alleys that had an aversion to straight lines, Vorian and Captain Phillips encountered dusty-robed desert people gathered around a battered transport vehicle that had landed in an open square near a collapsed warehouse.
The desert people came forward with a quick efficiency of movement, like ants working together on a silent mission. Walking shoulder to shoulder, they entered the cargo bay, then returned down the ramp, each pair carrying a body loosely wrapped in a polymer tarpaulin.
Phillips stopped, his expression a mixture of fear and disgust. Vor knew what the people were doing. “Casualties, Captain—retrieved from a spice crew, judging by the orange dust swirling around. Frequent accidents occur.”
“I know,” Phillips said, “but I thought sandworms caused most of the deaths.”
“Worms aren’t the only hazard in the desert,” Vor said. “I remember one accident that involved an airtight evac compartment hauled away from a spice factory. It became a death trap with poisonous exhaust sealed inside.” He nodded toward the wrapped bodies the desert people were whisking away. “That hauler flies around Arrakis City, looking for bodies in the streets, whether knifed or shot, or simply dead from lack of hope.”
After each body was removed from the hold, workers quickly ran their hands over the garments, but found few treasures to retrieve. Obviously, the victims had already been robbed.
Phillips shook his head. “What a waste of life.”
“Nothing goes to waste in this place,” Vor said. He lowered his voice. “You might think the bodies are just discarded out in the desert, dumped in a mass grave of some kind. Few will speak of what I am about to tell you, but there are rumors that the desert people are so desperate for water that they render down the bodies for whatever moisture is found within the flesh.”
Phillips looked decidedly queasy, but Vor recognized the necessities in such a harsh place. “We have the option to leave here, Captain. Many of these people don’t. When they die on Arrakis, they vanish.” He felt a heaviness in his chest.
Not wanting the body of Griffin Harkonnen to suffer a similar fate, Vor had sent it home so that the young man could be buried on family ground.
Griffin had been a young man out of his depth who sought unwise and unchanneled revenge. Vor understood why Griffin blamed him for the disgrace of House Harkonnen, but the young man hadn’t needed to die.
I couldn’t save him, Vor thought. And the Harkonnens continued to hate him. Was that all Vor had accomplished with his life? Was that his legacy now, the shadow that would cling to his family name?
He was the son of the hated cymek Titan Agamemnon, but Vor had overcome that to become the greatest Hero of the Jihad. He had won the Battle of Corrin and defeated the thinking machines forever. But he was also responsible for the disgrace of his protégé Abulurd Harkonnen, which had +s facere the effectively brought down that entire noble house and sent them into exile.…
He wished he could have traveled to Lankiveil with Griffin’s body, faced the family, explained what had happened rather than writing a brief, cryptic note. But the Harkonnens already hated him too much and would have killed him on the spot. His peace overture would have been seen as pouring salt on an open wound. He had shirked his responsibility, though, and there was no excuse for that, no matter how painful it might have been.
Uneasy, Captain Phillips turned away from the wrapped bodies. “I can’t get off this planet soon enough.”
* * *
AS THE CARGO ship lifted off from Arrakis and headed for the Nalgan Shipping spacefolder waiting in orbit, Vor sat in the copilot seat. He instinctively watched the instruments and everything the captain did, though he had other things on his mind.
In his long, long life, Vor had always tried to do the moral thing, taking actions he would not later regret. But in living for more than two centuries, he’d done too many things that he wished had turned out differently … things that hung in his memory, incomplete. At the end of the Jihad, he had retired and tried to vanish into history, but history would not let him go. His own memories would not let him go.
No matter which planet he visited, he saw reminders of the past, and things he wanted to change about the future. Thoughts of Griffin Harkonnen, and memories of how Vorian had harmed the Harkonnens—whether intentionally or accidentally—moved to the forefront of his awareness and whispered like ghosts around him.
Vor didn’t know what his legacy would be if he vanished entirely from the Imperium. How would he define the purpose of his life? For decades he’d been a warrior—a hero to most, but a villain to others. He had left a trail of death, destruction, and broken dreams. In all that time, he especially regretted losing two much-loved women—Leronica, who died on Salusa Secundus at age ninety-three even before the end of the Jihad, and most recently his dear Mariella, whom he’d married on Kepler and then stayed with as she, too, grew old … until Emperor Salvador forced him to leave Kepler and vanish again. Given the choice, Mariella had opted not to go with him, and instead remained with their children and grandchildren.
His heart ached from missing both of those women, and his children, and his grandchildren. Many decades ago, he’d been estranged from his twin sons by Leronica, and had left all of them behind. He probably had many other grandchildren he didn’t know about, even great-great-grandchildren, and more.
Since Griffin’s death, he had simply been going nowhere, wandering without a destination, keeping his head down … but why shouldn’t he at least try to do some good? He had not been born to be a passive bystander—and he could not remain invisible indefinitely. He longed to accomplish something that really mattered.
As the spice-loaded shuttle approached the Nalgan spacefolder in orbit, he gazed out at the stars. Since signing aboard as a footloose crewman, he had continued to feel the guilt gnawing at him, and this return to Arrakis only made the sting more painful.
Vor decided he had to heal the wounds. For the sake of all his descendants, regardless of where they were, the name of Atreides was bigger t">Valya could
The desert is endless. Even if one journeys across the dunes all through the day and night, at sunrise the horizon will be just as far away and look the same as the day before.
—saying of the desert
When Draigo Roget returned to Arrakis City and breathed the crackling dry air, he viewed the details around him with the catalog focus of a trained Mentat. He also drew upon his own experiences. He had been to this planet many times.
Among Draigo’s other duties, Directeur Venport had delegated oversight of the spice-harvesting operations to him. With his Mentat focus and loyalty to VenHold, he had already improved the efficiency and profitability of the work.
Since leaving the Lampadas school, Draigo had trained several Mentat candidates of his own. Given the volatility of the Butlerian fanatics, Directeur Venport knew it was too dangerous to infiltrate more operatives into the Mentat academy right now. If he did, the paranoid Manford Torondo might discover them—and kill them. Better that Draigo teach the candidates himself.
Through VenHold intermediaries, he had obtained a supply of a promising new thought-focusing drug, sapho, and had begun administering it in small doses to some of his students as an experiment; Headmaster Albans kept a supply in the Lampadas school, but had not used it. Draigo’s early results looked promising, but he intended to proceed slowly.
Several of Draigo’s thinking machines their personit trainees worked in Arrakis City as Combined Mercantiles employees, and two of his new Mentats met him at the spaceport. Needing no pleasantries, Draigo asked for a report as they made their way to company headquarters. The first Mentat, a small man with a high voice, delivered a crisp summary of their activities. “We’ve been studying weather pat
terns on Arrakis, analyzing images from our new proprietary meteorological satellites. The weather is capricious, but we are developing general models. The more efficiently we predict storms, the better we can plan our harvesting operations.”
“And reduce equipment losses,” said the second Mentat, a taller, slightly older man.
“Any progress on coping with the giant sandworms?” Draigo asked. “Can we detect them earlier or drive them away when they attack our spice-harvesting operations?”
“No progress, sir,” said the first Mentat. “The sandworms cannot be stopped.”
Draigo paused to think about that for a moment, then gave a curt nod. He accepted their conclusion. “Unfortunate.”
The Combined Mercantiles building was cool inside, and the air remained dry. There were no real windows in the sealed facility, but on the wall of the conference room was a fake picture window showing a rugged shoreline and crashing waves under a sky filled with thick rain clouds, a place the Arrakis natives had never seen.
“We brought several Freemen candidates, as you requested. Some refused, but one was curious enough to convince the others.”
“A curious Freeman?” Draigo said. “That is a good sign.”
Six dusty, tanned young men sat in the room around a long table. Draigo Roget studied them in silence, and they did the same to him. All had blue-within-blue eyes, indicating a lifetime of exposure to melange—which would need to be disguised, so as not to rouse suspicions offworld. That problem could be resolved.
Some of the desert people were uneasy, and regarded the wall image of the ocean with awe and intimidation. One of the young men was more fascinated than the others, and his intensity seemed to encourage them to pay attention. Because they were wrapped in spice-fiber robes covered with grit, and their bodies encased in the distillation suits necessary for desert survival, it took Draigo a moment to realize that one of the group was a female.
After a long pause of mutual assessment, the Mentat said, “I have been wanting to speak with you. You are the free people of the desert?”
Mentats of Dune Page 10
