Mentats of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  A young man, with a lean face and pointed chin, glanced at his companions, then rose to his feet. “We are not free people, if we are prisoners of the enticing offer your men made to us.”

  “And you want to hear it, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “We should go back out to the sietch,” said a scowling Freeman with creased, weathered skin. “We do not belong here.”

  “I don’t belong out there either,” said the young man with the pointed chin. “We discussed this. I thought you wanted to learn about the other worlds.”

  “I have the whole desert to see,” grumbled the scowling Freeman. He slumped back into his chair.

  The lone woman among them looked at Draigo and pressed, “How do we know we can trust you?” She was so lean and leathery that her beauty had been leached out by the heat and the arid climate. Her body had no spare moisture whatsoever to fill out her breasts in a n+ tch womanormal manner, and her distilling suit concealed even the hint of a curve.

  Draigo chuckled. “We have done nothing to make you doubt us. We showed you hospitality, offered you water, and you drank it. You may leave if you don’t wish to be here, but first take a look at the world featured on the wall. We can take you there.” He pointed. “And to many other planets. Do none of the Freemen dream of the rest of the universe? If you don’t like it, you can go back to your squalid desert.”

  “Why did you ask us to come here?” said another of the young men.

  “Because you have been sabotaging our spice-harvesting equipment,” Draigo said, stating a fact, not accusing them. “You ruined some of our flyers, contaminated their energy packs with sand and breached their airtight seals.”

  The young man with the pointed chin scowled. “We know nothing of such crimes. You cannot prove we had any part of that.”

  “I don’t care whether it was you,” Draigo said. “And even if I were to punish you, someone else would come, and someone else after that. It would be like using one hand to block sand from entering a home while leaving the door wide open.”

  “Then why are we here?” demanded the young woman.

  “First, tell me your names,” Draigo said.

  “A name is a private thing, not given lightly,” she said. “Have you earned it?”

  Draigo smiled. “I offered you water. Is it so much to ask for your names in return?”

  The woman smiled stiffly and said, “I am Lillis. The others can give you their names if they like. I am not afraid.”

  Draigo chuckled again. “At least one is without fear.”

  “I am Taref,” said the one with the pointed chin, who seemed to be the leader. The other four, with varying degrees of reluctance, introduced themselves as Shurko (the gruff one), Bentur, Chumel, and Waddoch.

  Draigo paced the room. He had been out in the desert aboard the spice factories himself; twice he had even watched huge worms destroy harvesting equipment that could not be whisked away in time. He tended to agree with his Mentats’ assessment that no obvious defenses existed against such leviathans. He had even heard through reliable sources that the Freemen knew how to ride sandworms across great distances. Draigo wasn’t sure he believed that incredible story, but there were so many reports.…

  “Your people have been sabotaging our equipment. I doubt you do it because you hate the offworlders who harvest spice. Combined Mercantiles provides necessary materials here in Arrakis City, if you choose to purchase them, but otherwise we leave tribes alone out in your desert. I think young people like yourselves vandalize our equipment because you are bored and restless. It is entertainment and a challenge. You wish to make a mark.”

  Draigo watched their expressions. These young Freemen were guarded, but not well practiced in concealing their emotions. He saw a hunger in their brown and leathery faces, their dark, intensely blue eyes.

  “Let me offer you an opportunity, a way to channel your abilities. You know the desert … and you know that the desert is not everything in the universe.” He gestured toward the projection wall. “Wouldn’t you like to go somewhere different, perhaps to a planet with so much water you could immerse yourself in it, or look up+drre the in the sky and see droplets falling through the air, like sand whipped up by a storm?” He listened to their muttering, nodded again at the oceanscape. “Caladan isn’t even a special world. No one else in the Imperium finds it remarkable at all.”

  “How can that be?” Lillis couldn’t take her eyes from images of the stormy sea. “So much water in one place!”

  Draigo laughed. “It’s called an ocean. Most worlds have them, at least the ones on which people live. Wouldn’t you like to see that planet firsthand, and others like it? I can take you from this desert, show you there’s much more than the dunes of Arrakis.”

  “I have misgivings about this,” said Shurko. “My family and the desert have always been good enough for me.”

  Taref snorted. “I have heard you say otherwise.”

  Shurko looked cowed. “I was just agreeing with you when I said it. But that does not mean I meant to abandon the desert entirely.”

  “If you are uneasy about it, then you’re not the sort of person I’m searching for,” Draigo said. “And if you go with us, we can bring you back in a year if you like, a much wiser and more experienced person.”

  “I want to see the ocean,” Taref said, as if daring the others to disagree with him. He had the mannerisms of a natural leader, but his skill-set and his confidence were not yet well honed. “And you all have said as much to me when we were out in camp.”

  His remaining companions looked at one another. They had been waiting for Taref’s lead, and they all agreed to accept the offer, although with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Shurko wavered and finally said, “Then I will go along as well.”

  Draigo hardened his voice. “I’m not interested in volunteers who change their minds so easily. What we ask will be difficult, but exhilarating. A chance that no other Freeman has been given. Do you want to be the first … or do you want to be nothing?”

  Now, however, it was a matter of pride for Shurko. “I give you my word. I will go with my friends. We will stay together.”

  Lillis expressed caution. “What is it you want from us in return?”

  Draigo smiled. “Do what you’ve already proved you can do so well—sabotage. We’ll train you. On Arrakis you may understand how spice-harvesting machinery works, but spaceships with Holtzman engines are vastly more complicated. A person requires decades of education and innate intelligence to understand how a foldspace engine functions.” He paused to look at the desert people, not bothering to conceal a little disdain. “Fortunately, it takes far less training to make such an engine not function.”

  Waddoch was surprised. “Sabotage? Why would you want us to ruin one of your own spaceships?”

  “I want you to sabotage the spaceships of a rival company: EsconTran.”

  The name obviously meant nothing to the Freemen. His two Mentat trainees were alert and attentive. Draigo tried a different explanation. “Do you not have tribes? Rivalries?”

  x201D; He smil

  From a certain perspective, history—in fact all of existence—can be viewed as a game with both winners and losers.

  —GILBERTUS ALBANS, internal memo of the Mentat School

  It was a spectacle in the Imperial Court, and Gilbertus played his role well, because Manford Torondo was watching him. Buried behind layers of impenetrable mental walls, he resented being treated as a performing animal for the Butlerians.

  Manford considered Gilbertus neither an equal nor an ally, but rather a tool, a weapon—a means for the Butlerian leader to make his point. Other than perhaps his loyal Swordmaster, Manford viewed every human the same way, from the lowliest fanatical follower all the way up to Emperor Salvador Corrino. He showed disdain for anyone not as determined as he was … and no one was as determined as he was.

  Manford had made it clear that he counted on his trained Mentat to prove that the thinking mac
hine was inferior. If Gilbertus failed to win the assigned contest, the Butlerians would take out their disappointment on the Mentat School.

  Instead of his usual Headmaster’s suit, Gilbertus wore a simple Mentat robe as he entered the satellite Imperial Audience Chamber. Even this side chamber was larger than any lecture hall at the Mentat School. The floor had been cleared to create an open expanse like a glad+ tre m2Iiatorial arena, at the center of which sat a single table for Gilbertus and his game.

  In seats around the perimeter, crowds already lined the room—twitching court functionaries, stern ambassadors from varying planets, trading partners, Butlerian deacons, and wealthy nobles who had signed Manford’s antitechnology pledge.

  Emperor Salvador sat on a faux throne, a pale imitation of his real green-crystal chair. It was his clumsy way of showing that Manford’s spectacle was not sufficiently important to warrant the use of the Emperor’s primary chamber with its regal furnishings.

  Gilbertus noted that Empress Tabrina was conspicuously absent. Searching through his memory records of other appearances at court, he recalled numerous occasions when he’d not seen Tabrina at her husband’s side.

  Roderick Corrino occupied one of the special reserved seats, close enough that he could watch the pyramid chess game. His wife, Haditha, and their young son and three daughters were with him, as if this spectacle were a pleasant family outing. Laughing and whispering to her, Roderick placed his youngest daughter, Nantha, on his knee.

  Several of the orthodox Sisters who served the court were also there, waiting stiffly. Reverend Mother Dorotea hovered close to the Emperor, perhaps to give him advice, perhaps to explain nuances of the game. Although Salvador understood the rules of pyramid chess, he had never demonstrated any particular skill when he played it.

  Gilbertus glanced around the audience, counting the attendees and memorizing their identities in a single eyeblink. No one here would cheer for his opponent, and the combat mek was going to be destroyed regardless of the outcome. Though the robot was a relatively primitive model, Gilbertus was sure the mek had enough awareness to understand its fate.

  Without speaking, Gilbertus stepped up to the table and the chess set on display. The board and pieces were larger than standard size, so that observers in the far rows could see what was happening.

  The neutered combat mek was propped in place at the game board, not struggling, with its optic sensors glowing dully. The robot’s legs were still detached, and the torso was bolted to a metal platform. All the mek’s bladed weapons had been sawed off, leaving dull stumps, which comforted the observers. This mek model was deadly in many ways beyond the obvious, however, but Gilbertus didn’t want to explain how he knew this.

  “I acknowledge my opponent,” he said. Still standing, the Headmaster faced the mek in a traditional gesture of respect that caused a troubled murmuring to pass through the audience.

  Anari Idaho stood next to the legless Butlerian leader, who rested on a padded palanquin. Her sword was drawn and ready in case she needed to fight the combat mek.

  Manford said, “This is a challenge between the soul and the soulless, the holy mind of man and the accursed mind of machine. My Mentat, Headmaster Gilbertus Albans, formally challenges the demon machine to a game of pyramid chess. Humans do not need sophisticated technology to achieve our potential. My Mentat will prove that humans are superior to machines in every way.”

  Gilbertus thought it a needlessly jingoistic speech. Every person in the audience knew what was about to occur and what the stakes were. Thinking back to ancient human history, he brought to mind Colosseum battles, gladiator against gladiator, downtrodden religious followers pitted against ravenous predators, though they had no chance of survival. Pyramid chess was a different sort of combat, but the fighting robot before him was like one of those doomed Christian escape plan,” the robot saiden s woman prisoners.

  No doubt Manford had formulated an appropriate response even if Gilbertus should lose, ready to call this a “moral victory” rather than an actual one. In that case, the Butlerians would get their revenge on the Mentat School later.

  But Gilbertus didn’t plan to lose. He sat at the game table and waved an arm casually. “As challenger, I cede the first move to my opponent.” Granting the first move gave the mek a slight advantage. Gilbertus wanted to show clearly that he was not cheating or otherwise taking advantage of the robot.

  Leaning forward in his seat, Roderick Corrino looked surprised; Salvador seemed disturbed. Manford had not expected him to make such an offer, but he didn’t react; the expression on his classically handsome face showed that he had utter confidence in the Mentat Headmaster.

  The robot moved its Lion figure forward and up a level, to another fighting platform. Gilbertus responded with the heroic-faced Martyr, moving to block. The robot chose the Infant in a sacrificial play. The very idea disturbed the audience, bringing to mind the murder of Serena Butler’s baby by Erasmus—the event that had triggered the Butlerian Jihad.

  Gilbertus countered with his own Lion, rising up three levels. He was attuned to the fine points of the game, focused on unfolding scenarios and strategies, planning ten moves ahead and thinking of a counter to any approach the mek might take.

  The thinking machine moved another piece, a simple foot soldier, in a curious gambit. Gilbertus seized the foot soldier and removed it from the board. When the robot made its next move, a cascade of possibilities fell into place, and Gilbertus saw the machine’s strategy. There was indeed a good chance that his opponent might actually win. Gilbertus fine-tuned his own plans. He began to perspire a little, painfully aware that the robot would never show such a human frailty.

  One of the noblemen in the audience let out a too-loud gasp; he had also caught the robot’s intention, although most of the other spectators didn’t understand. Gilbertus made a defensive move on the multilayer board, and the robot blocked it, diminishing Gilbertus’s viable options. He saw a narrow path and hoped the robot didn’t recognize it as well.

  The mek was relentless, countering, blocking Gilbertus in, forcing him into a vulnerable corner on the lowest level. The audience grew restless. In his peripheral vision, he noted Manford’s stormy expression.

  Gilbertus reapplied all his Mentat focus to the game. He knew one thing the audience could not possibly guess, something that even the combat mek didn’t know: For the past century and a half, he had regularly played pyramid chess with Erasmus. The independent robot was a skilled opponent who had honed Gilbertus’s tactics, teaching him many subtle tricks. This combat mek might have the rules embedded in its programming, but Gilbertus knew how to use those rules to ensure his own victory.

  Two more moves of retreat by Gilbertus, and the mek advanced each time, toward the trap that the Headmaster was setting. Emperor Salvador looked decidedly uneasy. Sister Dorotea whispered in his ear, but whatever she said did not reassure him. Gilbertus made one more move, and the combat mek responded as expected.

  Then the Mentat sprang his trap. He seized the Lion, and in the next two moves used one of his foot soldiers to block the Mother’s escape and then capture the piece. In three more moves, he turned the game around by capturing companies.

  Humans are endlessly perplexing and fascinating. No wonder they need so many different emotions in order to concoct explanations, excuses, and rationalizations for all their irrational behavior.

  —ERASMUS, Laboratory Notebooks

  With Gilbertus away on Salusa Secundus, the independent robot used the spy-eyes he had installed throughout the Mentat School to observe the activities of the trainees. The students diligently followed the guidance of proctors and administrators, forcing their brains into proper focus and following the Headmaster’s curriculum … never imagining that the foundation of their instruction came from a reviled thinking machine—who watched them all the time.

  Erasmus enjoyed the irony, but he was also frustrated. For centuries in the thinking-machine empire, he had been an avid rese
archer, participating in hands-on experiments. He had found it invigorating to manipulate human test subjects and shed blood in the name of understanding. Gilbertus had helped Erasmus in many of the experiments. Those had been excellent times.

  The human subjects had not been willing participants, but throughout the history of science, what laboratory animal had happily sacrificed its life for the greater benefit of knowledge? In his research, Erasmus had come across an old saying: There were many ways to sk+m, Titansitin a cat, and cats liked none of them. The humans he had skinned (literally) did not appreciate the experience either.…

  Now, trapped and impotent, the robot core’s only refuge lay in assessing the students from a distance. He observed a group of them crowded around a stainless-steel dissection table on which they had spread a reptilian swamp dragon. The dead specimen, two meters long, had spiny ridges and overlapping green armor plates, as well as curved teeth to hook prey.

  Erasmus focused in on the view, increased the magnification.

  His tiny robotic helpers had worked hard to place spy-eyes outside the walls of the school complex as well, so he could watch any trainee who fell prey to swamp predators. He monitored every such exercise, calculating the odds and—yes, he admitted to himself—hoping to see a bloody attack. He wanted to observe how Mentats-in-training defended themselves. So far, none had bested a swamp dragon in direct combat, though two had put up an extraordinary struggle.

  Now, in the laboratory, the students used surgical knives and serrated cutting tools to make incisions through the dragon’s armor plates. Erasmus wished he could participate, standing in his former flowmetal body or even a more cumbersome mek body. He remembered his beautiful physical form with the delicate silver hands that were able to manipulate complex tools.

  Personally, he had always gained more insights from dissecting human subjects while they were still alive. What better way to analyze reflexes and pain responses? Living subjects, in pain, also provided the best data on emotions. He would watch and measure the expression in their eyes, the begging and pleading, the sheer panic, and then—a distinct change that was obvious once he’d learned what to look for—the loss of hope just before the onset of death.