Mentats of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  The blue gem of the ocean world of Caladan beck thinking machinesndp the otheroned him from the windowports of the shuttle that took him down from orbit. Through the veil of clouds, Vor identified the major continents. He remembered his life there with Leronica and their two sons. Estes and Kagin had never been close to their father, resented his remote and aloof lifestyle. He had chosen to give his life to the endless Jihad, rather than settling down in a small house on the seashore. Leronica understood that, but Estes and Kagin never had. They were all long dead now, but Vor thought of the grandchildren he’d never met, and the great-grandchildren, an entire extended Atreides lineage on Caladan. It made him sad that he wasn’t part of it.

  Once, he had been happy on Caladan, at least as happy as he’d been on Kepler. He hoped he could recapture some of that now. Most people’s lives were too short to atone for all the things they regretted, but Vorian Atreides had a lot more time than other people, and he wanted to spend it making up for what he’d done wrong. He doubted the Harkonnens would ever hold anything but hateful thoughts toward him, and he could live with that—it was a price he had to pay. He had helped them, though, whether or not they ever knew it.

  Now he was on a new mission, going back over a different portion of his past. He had never met any of his remaining family on Caladan. Perhaps he could reclaim a family here.

  * * *

  THE MOMENT HE saw Caladan’s rocky shoreline and grassy headlands, it all felt comfortable and familiar. As he made his way along a foot-worn path to the fishing village where he had spent so many years, this place seemed right to him. He needed to be here, needed to take care of matters that were long overdue.

  The path ran along the top of a rugged cliff, with the ocean sprawling toward the horizon. Carrying a duffel bag of belongings, Vor paused to inhale the salty air. The blue-green sea looked like a placid lake, but in the distance he saw fast-moving clouds on the leading edge of a weather front.

  More than a century ago, while on a scouting mission for the Jihad, he’d met Leronica in a tavern and was smitten by her playful personality and beauty. He could never forget her heart-shaped face, dancing brown eyes, or how he had picked her out in the crowd of locals. She had shone like a candle in the dark.…

  Now, with a wistful sigh, he continued into town, pausing for a moment to look at a statue on the outskirts, depicting him as Supreme Commander of the Army of the Jihad in a heroic pose, gazing into the distance. But there were inaccuracies in the statue. The uniform was all wrong, and the face didn’t look like Vorian at all, with a nose that was too broad, a chin too prominent. It was also a statue of an older man, not the man in his apparent thirties who led the human military forces to victory against the oppressive machines.

  As he reached the main street that ran along the water, Vor saw fishing boats heading back to port ahead of the storm. He watched crews secure the boats and off-load their gear and cargoes, assisted by townspeople who rushed to the water’s edge to help.

  A pair of grizzled fishermen made their way along the main dock and onto a cobblestone street where Vor stood, watching. He hailed them. “I’m new in town. Can you recommend a place to stay?”

  “With or without vermin?” said the older one, a gray-bearded man with a dark knit cap. His companion, a tall man in a heavy sweater, laughed.

  “Preferably without,” Vor answered with a ready grin.+1Ip mme

  “Then don’t stay anyplace around here.”

  “Try Ackley’s Inn,” the taller man suggested. “It’s clean enough, and old Ackley makes a great fish stew. Good kelpbeer, too. We’re heading that way ourselves if you’re anxious to buy a round.”

  “Not anxious, but willing—if it comes with some conversation?”

  Vor accompanied them to an old, freshly painted building with a wooden sign swaying in gusts of wind. After checking into a small room on the second floor, he returned to the main hall to join the two fishermen at a corner table, buying them the promised round of beer.

  “New to the coast, or new to Caladan?” asked the bearded man, whose name was Engelo. He had a smoky voice, and quickly finished off his pint.

  “Neither, just haven’t been back here in a long time. I’m traveling around, looking for distant relatives. Do either of you know of any Atreides?”

  “Atreides?” asked the tall man, Danson. “I know a fisherman named Shander Atreides, and he has a couple of young men living with him—nephews I hear, though I’m not sure what their names are. Both boys work for the Air Patrol Agency, doing search-and-rescue missions at sea.”

  Engelo sipped his beer. “Shander Atreides lives up the coast a couple of kilometers, big house on a private cove. His nephews are Willem and Orry—Danson knows that, but he pretends to be stupid.”

  Danson sniffed, taking some offense, then chuckled. “The Atreides family has money, earned it in the fishing business after some distant relative sent them a financial stake to get started.”

  “The money came from the most famous hero of the Jihad,” Engelo said. “Vorian Atreides.”

  Vor concealed his smile. He liked hearing that his money went to good use.

  “Shander’s a good man, runs a business mending nets now—likes to keep busy, even though he invested well. He took the two boys in after their parents were killed in a hurricane.”

  Danson picked up the story, as if to prove he wasn’t really stupid. “The tragedy happened eleven or twelve years ago. Willem just turned eighteen, and Orry is twenty—but Willem’s the one who looks older and acts older. Nice, polite young men, both of them. I hear Orry’s due to get married soon, a whirlwind romance with a girl from inland.”

  “Thanks.” Pleased that he already had a lead to follow, Vor paid and left a half-finished beer on the table. He was anxious to meet his relatives. Shander, Willem, and Orry were undoubtedly descended from Estes or Kagin. He felt ashamed that he didn’t know any details of their lives. But that would change.

  Engelo called out to him, “Say, you never told us your name.”

  Vor acted as if he hadn’t heard as he strode up the stairway to his rented room. He had used one of his aliases when checking in, but intended to reveal who he truly was to his own descendants, and then word would surely spread. He was caught between desiring to hold on to the anonymity he’d enjoyed for so long and wanting to reunite with his family on Caladan.

  Sitting in his room, he thought of how much history had passed since he’d last visited this planet—and how little had changed here. He opened the window to let in the cool breezes and gazed out at the rugged village. Long ago he’+ed her s womand had many fi

  I keep my eyes open and observe. And when I peer into hearts and souls, I see evil much more often than I see good—because I know exactly what to look for.

  —SISTER WOODRA, Truthsayer to Manford Torondo

  By the time the VenHold supply ship arrived at Baridge, ending the embargo to wild cheering and applause, Anari Idaho was already there, lying in wait with her faithful Butlerians.

  Anari and a hundred volunteers had arrived a full day earlier on the EsconTran ship, rushing to Baridge before Venport Holdings could deliver a bloated cargo of rewards and bribes for the weak-willed. She came unobtrusively, telling her Butlerian fighters to remain quiet. They wore normal Baridge clothing, filtering fabrics that provided some protection from the solar radiation.

  During the VenHold embargo, Manford had maintained his contacts with Baridge residents who were dedicated to his cause. Much of the planetary population remained true to their pledge, even though the weak deacons allowed themselves to be tempted by Venport. Anari knew who the loyal ones were, and she moved surreptitiously throughout the city, organizing them to bolster the force she had brought with her. She did not make contact with the turncoat Deacon Kalifer, whom she despised for having been seduced by the temptation of imported luxuries.

  The locals were pleased to see Anari, glad someone was there to tell them how they were supposed to react, now t
hat their own leaders had broken under pressure. Yes, the people of Baridge needed medical salves and cancer treatments due to the upswing in the solar cycle, but above anything else they needed faith.

  Her first night on Baridge, Anari met in secret with a core group of true followers. They talked under the open sky, because night was the safest time to venture outside, when the radiation flux was diminished. Overhead, the auroras looked like silent scarves of fire, shimmering colors draped across the darkness.

  Many of the faithful showed her the skin lesions they had suffered after VenHold criminally cut off their medical supplies; some displayed cancerous growths on their faces, noses, and arms, which they wore like badges of honor. Seeing what these people were enduring, Anari admired them for not listening to the silky promises of Josef Venport and his lapdog Suk doctors.

  Anari spoke thinking machinesrp the other with an intensity that demanded attention. “I wish God would just force everyone to do the right thing, and then we wouldn’t need to be so vigilant.” She shook her head. “It’s both the gift and the curse of humanity that we are allowed to make our own decisions—even wrong ones. And Deacon Kalifer made the wrong one here, which forces us to do the right thing and punish him. More importantly, we have to ruin Venport Holdings. If we cut out the serpent’s tongue, then weak men like Deacon Kalifer will not hear tempting words. Thus, we save others from their own folly.”

  “We could kidnap Deacon Kalifer now,” said the local leader of Manford’s dedicated followers. “That would prevent him from accepting the VenHold shipment.”

  “No, he is beyond saving,” Anari said. “Better that we spread the word among the faithful. I brought a hundred fighters, but we’ll need a thousand more to accomplish our goal.”

  The local leader had a purplish, S-shaped lesion under his left eye. He squinted. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want to set a trap for that ship.”

  * * *

  SINCE THE FIRST Butlerian planet to renounce Manford’s antitechnology pledge was an important milestone, Directeur Venport wanted the cargo ship to arrive with tremendous fanfare. Everyone had to see Deacon Harian tear up the agreement and “rejoin civilized society.”

  Sealed in an onboard tank, the Navigator—Royce Fayed—interacted closely with the crew that operated the foldspace engines. Their skill was precise enough that the VenHold ship emerged in the sky directly over the city, as if by magic, with a thunder of displaced air.

  The sigil of the VenHold Spacing Fleet was prominent on the hull. As the ship lowered itself toward the vast city square, people streamed out of the way to create a landing zone. Large cargo doors opened and smaller ships flew out to disperse across the city with medical supplies, luxury items, and melange.

  Anari watched, her jaw aching from clenched teeth.

  Deacon Kalifer had set up tall speakers for the event, and now he appeared at the head of the crowd to welcome the VenHold spacefolder. Anari observed the man as he mounted a speaking platform, and she hated him for his weakness. Ignorant people could be forgiven their mistakes, but Kalifer was a Butlerian deacon, indoctrinated in the truth, a man who knew the dangers and delusions of technology, yet he had still changed his allegiance and gone over to the enemy. Anari couldn’t understand why. Did his soul mean so little to him?

  Kalifer’s voice resonated through the speakers. “I hear your cries of pain. I know how you suffer.”

  Anari felt icy inside. What did this man know of suffering? He still looked pudgy and pale. Every day when she cared for Manford, she witnessed the leader’s resolve to continue fighting despite his cruel injuries, despite the loss of his legs. She thought of the many hundreds of thousands—millions—of people who would line up to give their lives for him.

  The turncoat deacon raised his hands. “I did what was necessary to save us. I obtained the supplies we so desperately need, and now Baridge will survive and thrive. I reaffirm that we will never use thinking machines—but that doesn’t mean we have to return+wo s woman to medieval squalor. Manford Torondo asks too much. Thanks to this agreement, we can all be happy, healthy, and productive. We will create our own new golden age.”

  As the smaller cargo ships opened their doors and VenHold workers dumped out crates of much-needed supplies, the people cheered, though Anari heard an undertone of uneasiness. Not everyone here was convinced. More than a thousand of Manford’s faithful were surreptitiously sprinkled throughout the crowd, awaiting her signal.

  Under the shimmering sky, drenched with solar radiation that filtered through the planet’s weak magnetic field, Anari’s vision blurred. When she stared at Deacon Kalifer, an image seemed to appear before her, obscuring the deacon. The vision was of an ethereal-looking, hairless woman, the legendary founder of the Butlerian movement, Rayna Butler. She had pale skin, white robes, and a voice that sounded like beautiful music. “Anari Idaho, you know what to do. Do not let this man destroy what so many people have suffered for, what I suffered for—and died for. Manford knows, and you know Manford. Save me. Save my dream!”

  Anari’s throat had gone dry, and she gasped as the image shimmered. “Rayna? Rayna Butler?”

  But the image faded, and she saw only Deacon Kalifer on the platform, grinning smugly, announcing a festival to celebrate the happy times that had come to Baridge again. He told the people they should rejoice that their days of deprivation were over. “Enough suffering!” he shouted, to pockets of cheering and applause.

  The Swordmaster pulled a red banner from her jacket and raised it high, so that it waved in the breeze. One of the nearby Butlerians saw her and also raised a red banner. As crimson cloths fluttered through the crowd, it looked like a spreading fire. Then her people surged forward with a mounting roar.

  Although this was not a coordinated attack, the mob knew what to do. Anari raced along with them, pushed others out of the way. She had her rugged body and fighting skills, and the faithful who ran with her had their own collective ferocity.

  The Butlerians swarmed the landed VenHold ship, overrunning the workers who were still unloading the cargo. They smashed the crates, scattered the contents on the ground, and stormed aboard the vessel to continue the orgy of destruction. Victims screamed; some of the attackers laughed.

  Anari had plenty of volunteers to trigger the violence, and as soon as the riot began, more in the crowd joined in, unable to resist the tide. Perhaps they were showing their true feelings, or perhaps they simply did not want to be seen as an enemy and fall victim to mob violence. Either way, they were fighting on the correct side.

  Unfortunately, the people got to Deacon Kalifer before Anari could reach him. He tried to fight them off, but his efforts proved useless as they beat him unconscious. They hacked off his legs in a twisted parody of Manford, then dragged him through the streets. He died of blood loss in a matter of minutes.

  Across the city, the newly arrived supplies and ships were being destroyed. Deacon Kalifer and his entire government council were slain. Any citizen who tried to stop the mob from ransacking buildings also became a target. It was a necessary cleansing, since too many citizens of Baridge had forgotten the truth, forgotten who they really were.

  Anari led the charge into the main VenHold spacefolder. The larger vessel was a former robot battleship, full of sharp lines and intimidating angles that were designed to trigger instinctive fear. Anari had been aboard such vessels before, when she and Manford destroyed any derelict thinking-machine ship they f thinking machinesnp mmeound.

  Bloody corpses in VenHold uniforms lay in the corridors. Anari keptX" aid="1FLS5C

  Sometimes the best way to see the familiar is to go far from it.

  —wisdom of the desert

  When he returned to Arrakis City under orders from Directeur Venport, Taref felt as if a dust storm had passed from his mind, and he saw the city clearly for the first time. Though he was sure it had not changed, this wasn’t the same place he had left.

  While growing up in the sietch, h
e’d thought of the city as a huge metropolis filled with strange noises and smells. In those days, he and his friends could journey for days across open featureless dunes and still find their way home, yet they could get lost in the city’s tangled streets. There were so many tall buildings, confusing alleys, crowds of strangers, and unexpected perils.

  Now, however, Taref realized that Arrakis City was small in comparison to other offworld population centers. Buildings that had once seemed magnificent were rather low and weather-beaten. The streets were dirty, the people huddled. Though large numbers of VenHold spice haulers lifted off daily, the Arrakis spaceport operations didn’t compare with those on Kolhar, or even Junction Alpha.

  He’d been gone from the desert for only a few months, but he’d grown accustomed to bathing and feeling clean. His flesh had gained an unsettling soft flexibility; he could now pinch it between his fingers instead of feeling the stiff tautness of a desert-adapted body. Naib Rurik would consider that a weakness.

  Poor Shurko would have felt that way as well, Taref knew. Even on planets with an abundance of moisture, his stern young friend had rationed his water intake, afraid that he would forget the basics of simple existence, that he would grow soft and weak. Taref would never forget the core of the desert within him—nor would he ever forget his dead friend—but he was open to learning and experiencing new things as well.

  Yet the wondrous new places had not been so wondrous after all, and his work had been little different from what he had done when sabotaging spice-harvesting equipment—except that it cost a great many lives. And now Shurko would not be returning to the desert, would never need his desert knowledge again.

  No, this had not been what Taref + … Mentatoperationexpected when he joyously convinced his friends to join him on a great adventure.

  Taref’s sietch brothers and sisters felt they already knew everything they needed to know, but now that he had been to other places far away—and he still had so much more to see—he could tell his people that so much more awaited them out there. He would extend Directeur Venport’s offer, inviting them to see the things he had seen. Some might feel the same pull of dreams, though he’d always been a misfit in his own sietch.…