Before Taref set out on the new mission to Arrakis, Draigo Roget had given him a brand-new distilling suit, claiming that the old one wasn’t worth repairing, even though Taref had meticulously maintained it for years. The young man checked over the new suit, noting the improvements that had been implemented, how the seams were double-sealed, the inner lining reinforced, the filter pads made more efficient. This stillsuit was finer than anything he had seen in his old sietch, better even than the one worn by a Naib. Taref would claim that this was just a hint of the rewards volunteers might receive if they joined him in working for Venport Holdings.
He wished his fellow saboteurs could come back with him, but Draigo had shaken his head. “They have their own assignments for VenHold, dispatched to deal with various EsconTran operations.” His friends missed the dunes, especially Lillis, and the loss of Shurko had hit them all hard.
Taref’s heart ached to know that his friend would never return to the desert, that he had vanished somewhere out in space where his body’s water would not be recovered. Offworlders did not think about such things; water meant nothing to them, and sometimes their lives were cheap, as well.…
* * *
HE TRAVELED DOWN to Arrakis City, where he mingled with surly workers who’d come to join the Combined Mercantiles spice-harvesting operations. Taref was going home, but these workers saw the desert planet as their last chance. Most of them would never leave here.
Pretending to be one of the spice crew volunteers, he left the spaceport for the Combined Mercantiles headquarters. Most of these new workers had no experience at all in desert operations, and some wouldn’t survive the first year. They reminded him of himself, and his friends, leaving what they knew for what they imagined would be a better life elsewhere, far away. He’d never thought much about the offworld workers before, and now he felt sorry for them.
Taref carried a special, coded dispensation from Directeur Venport that guaranteed him a spot on any crew he chose. He presented his credentials, a recorded message from Draigo Roget, and a VenHold-backed credit chit. One of the Mentat workers recognized him from his initial recruitment, sized him up. “You have matured and adapted, young man.”
“I’ve learned much in my time away. Now my assignment is to recruit other Freemen so they can have the same opportunities as I did. For that, I need to go into the deep desert.”
The Mentat nodded. “I hope you haven’t forgotten how to survive out there. The dunes will always be a perilous place.”
After Taref identified the general location of his sietch, the Mentat checked schedules and assigned him to a spice crew that would work in the vicinity. Taref could stay with the crew as long as he liked and draw a regular paycheck; whenever he felt it appropriate, he could leave to find his people.
He spent a week with the spice operations+ve. p, readapting himself to Arrakis, and found that his fondest memories of the desert were now discolored by reality. As soon as he returned to the arid wasteland, smelled the spice-cinnamon air, and felt the grit in his teeth, Taref realized he had forgotten much, and changed much. He felt like a pair of stiff new boots that needed to be broken in again.
Before reappearing at the sietch, he remembered what it was like to live out here. He had never noticed the daily details before, since they had been part of his routine existence. By the time he left the spice crew, Taref still hadn’t regained his sharp edge, but at least he was no longer so soft and rounded, and he did not perspire so profusely into the distilling suit.
His own people had no knowledge of what had happened to him or his companions, because no one had sent any message back to the sietch. Young Freemen often took solo journeys on unknown adventures; many didn’t come back. No one would have guessed that Taref and his friends had traveled to distant planets. He had little to show for it, except for his own tales … which they probably would not believe.
Trudging away from the rocky camp as night fell and the desert cooled, he left the spice operations and struck out across the open dunes with his well-practiced random walk. Taref could have summoned a sandworm, which would have been a spectacular way to return: riding one of the huge creatures up to the cliffside, dismounting with a flourish, and running to the rocks before the leviathan could devour him. But he had no companions, no spotters, and only rudimentary equipment. He would have needed to plan better for such a grand entrance. Instead, Taref walked at night with irregular steps, found shelter during the day, and moved on again at nightfall.
His first sip from the suit’s catch-pocket tasted flat and foul, and he thought something was wrong with the new stillsuit. But he realized that was the way reprocessed water had always tasted. He calculated how long he could last alone in the desert, and hoped he could reach the sietch in time. He had only a guess of the distance involved because he didn’t know the exact position of the spice-harvesting operations. If he arrived at the warren settlement parched, dying, and begging for mercy, then his argument about the advantages of Venport Holdings would sway none of his people.
He crossed the desert for four days, picking up the pace, fighting back his thirst. He drained all the catch-pockets in his distilling suit and hoarded the last literjon of water he carried with him. In a few days he would have to worry about survival rather than discomfort.
Taref shuddered with relief when he saw the familiar cliff wall on the horizon, much closer than he had expected. A miracle! He arrived with enough water left for a day and a half, a great luxury, so he took the time to rest, drink, and refresh himself before climbing the hidden but familiar trail. Finally he picked his way up the rocks and presented himself at the moisture door. The guards were astonished to see him.
He had thought much about what he would say, how he would deliver his offer to the sietch—if Naib Rurik even allowed him to address the tribe. He faced the guards. “I have returned with an opportunity.”
“Where are your companions?” asked a young male.
“They are having remarkable adventures on faraway worlds,” Taref exaggerated, not wanting to tell them about Shurko just yet.
They opened the door to let Taref in. “The Naib will want an explanation from you.”
“Everyone in the sietch will want to hear my story. It could change our way of life.” forward to meeting her,” Vor saidP Mentat Taref was smiling, but the hardscrabble people who emerged from their quarters and workshop rooms seemed more unsettled than happy to see him. They acknowledged the young man’s return, but without a warm welcome. They had always looked askance at him, considered him odd. They had never been his close friends when he lived with them, but he at least expected them to be curious. He could tell them stories about water from the sky, white snow that piled up on the ground, and lakes so immense that it would take days to walk around them.
The Naib and Taref’s two older brothers sat together in a cool chamber, drinking spice coffee, discussing politics and marriage prospects, planning a response to a petty feud with another desert tribe. As Taref listened to their conversation, their concerns sounded small to him, especially now that he knew of much vaster conflicts out in the Imperium involving Manford Torondo’s Butlerians and Josef Venport, the fleet of EsconTran and the ships of VenHold.
Naib Rurik looked at his youngest son. Rather than showing elation at Taref’s return, he sniffed. “You’ve been gone a long time, you and your friends. You left the rest of us in the sietch to do your work.”
“I did work of my own while I was away, Father. Important work.”
His brother Modoc said, “If it wasn’t work for the sietch, then it was not important work.”
His brothers had often ridiculed him, making Taref feel small, but that would not be effective against him now. “I don’t care what you con remained aboa
How many people can be told a secret, before it is no longer considered a secret?
—Mentat conundrum (to which there is more than one correct answer)
Drawing upon more than a thousand years of m
emories, Erasmus had a wealth of stories to whisper into Anna Corrino’s ear. He stopped speaking to her in the simulated voice of Hirondo when he discovered that she had never believed he was actually the disgraced young chef. Regardless, she considered Erasmus a true friend who would not abandon her, and he experienced an odd pleasure in hearing that.
Erasmus encouraged her attitude, along with the corollars too dangerous for you to travelis personity that he was a far closer and wiser friend than Hirondo had ever been. As a companion, he was always with her, and Anna could rely on him for excellent advice. Erasmus had tailored this line of reasoning to achieve a specific goal, but the more he conversed with the young woman, the more he actually believed it himself. He really had become her friend.
Anna lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. “Tell me more about the terrible thinking machines.”
She spent more time in her quarters now. Even though he could accompany her everywhere, thanks to the silver transceiver in her ear, she preferred to converse with him in private. Erasmus had advised her not to call attention to herself, but her increasing isolation was also drawing notice. With his numerous eavesdropping devices, he could listen to conversations among the Mentat trainees, and they talked often about the peculiar girl.
Erasmus promised himself he would do what he could to protect her. Yes, Anna Corrino was odd, but she was also a special young woman, just as Gilbertus had been special to him. And after nearly two centuries, Erasmus was glad to have another friend and confidante. He felt a strange sense of responsibility toward her.
“I will tell you about the thinking machines,” he said, “but you have to decide for yourself whether or not they were evil. Let me give you a different perspective on history not told in official Imperial documents, and certainly not details that the Butlerian fanatics would share.”
As Anna Corrino listened, Erasmus talked about Serena Butler, the girl’s own distant ancestor. The robot didn’t have to lie when he described his admiration for the strong woman who had led humanity in an astonishing uprising against the machines. And all because of the silly little death of an unremarkable child? He’d never understood that part. Why had that been the cause of such an uproar?
Serena was the first human Erasmus had ever seen as a real person, not just a specimen. She’d made him reconsider the potential of humanity, which had eventually led to him taking the feral boy Gilbertus as a ward.
When he finished that story, Anna wanted to hear more about the Butlers, so Erasmus told her how Serena was finally martyred by Omnius in a great bonfire—and how that horrific death had further galvanized the doomed humans into a furious, illogical energy. “And that gave them the irrational confidence that actually defeated the thinking machines. Otherwise, they would not have had the resolve.”
Erasmus considered that an important object lesson, and he would never underestimate the power of human fanaticism.
When he recounted the fall of the Synchronized Empire, Erasmus managed to make her feel sad for the loss of the machine civilization. Tears actually ran down her cheeks! In vivid detail, he described the chaos when the Army of the Jihad overran the last Omnius stronghold, ruthless and savage in their destruction. He did not reveal that he had witnessed that mayhem himself.
Anna was so excited that she picked up the story herself. “And after the Battle of Corrin, Faykan Butler changed his surname to Corrino and became the first Emperor. My grandfather.”
Erasmus didn’t remember any of that, since by then he had gone into hiding with Gilbertus. Some former machine captives surely knew that the independent robot kept a pet human, but he had vanished among them. Fortunately, enough time had passed that virtually no eyewitnesses remained alive, though there were still some old images.
Anna startled Erasmus by saying, escape plan,” the robot said, ch woman“I feel so close to you, stronger with you.” She let out a long sigh. “I wish you were real.”
“I am real, Anna. Very real.”
“Then what is your name? Why don’t you have a name?”
“I have a name, but it would frighten you.”
She chuckled. “You can’t frighten me. I know you too well.”
Erasmus went through countless calculations, following decision tree after decision tree with the techniques that he himself had taught Gilbertus. “How do I know you can keep a secret?”
“Because you know me. Who would I tell, anyway? I have no friends here. Even at the Sisterhood school on Rossak, Valya was the only one I was close to, and she’s gone now. You’re my last remaining friend. If you tell me a secret, I couldn’t possibly discuss it with anyone but you.”
The chain of reasoning was a human sort of logic, but Erasmus believed her. She was so earnest. Though he completed his calculations in a fraction of a second, he hesitated intentionally so that she would understand how carefully he weighed the decision.
“There’s something I need to show you,” he said. “Follow my instructions carefully.”
* * *
WHEN HE HEARD about the uprising on Baridge, Gilbertus Albans was appalled, though he let himself show no emotion. A quick report had been rushed back to the Butlerian headquarters while Anari Idaho tied up the loose ends, and Manford Torondo transmitted his victorious news across Lampadas. He was actually proud of what his mobs had accomplished.
Gilbertus remembered Draigo urging him to stand up and expose the folly of the Butlerians. It would have been suicide, of course—and certainly the end of the great Mentat School. Nevertheless, being forced to maintain a meek silence rather than condemning the actions disturbed him. Gilbertus wanted to set an example for humanity, but his inaction in the face of such atrocities seemed cowardly.
Maybe Draigo and Erasmus were right. He should pull up stakes from Lampadas and just leave, change his identity and appearance, go back to a quiet bucolic life on Lectaire. Maybe eventually, in a century or so, he could form a new school somewhere else, possibly on Kolhar.
Evil is apparent to all who have eyes to see, yet evil also has insidious roots that plunge deep out of sight, like those of a noxious weed that must be uprooted and destroyed wherever it tries to spread.
—MANFORD TORONDO, Lampadas rallies
After the uprising, Baridge was suitably chastened—Anari Idaho had seen to it, and she sent a report back to Manford. Even now, the faithful on Lampadas would be celebrating. And when she returned, she would tell Manford in person what she had discovered about Directeur Venport’s monstrous Navigators and the true reason for his stranglehold on spice.
Anari would have preferred to make a more drawn-out example of Deacon Kalifer, forcing him to endure a long trial and public humiliation before his execution. But the people had been too eager. The mayhem surrounding the deacon’s demise, as well as the spectacle of the mutant Navigator’s body, were satisfying enough.
Directeur Rolli Escon, who had kept himself sheltered from the violence, did not venture into the smoldering city until after the riots were over. Anari faced him in the town square in the shadow of the giant captured VenHold spacefolder. “Our people hold their beliefs in their hearts and are not afraid to act on them,” she said. “Baridge is a good lesson for all to see, a message from Leader Torondo, reminding all loyal planets of their pledge.”
Escon straightened, eager to show his dedication. “My ships will deliver the message everywhere Leader Torondo wishes.”
She indicated the ransacked spacefolder. “Have your foldspace pilots ensured that the captured vessel is ready for its journey to Lampadas?”
“We have to check the foldspace engines and repair some of the piloting controls.” Escon sounded uneasy. “Part of the control deck was torn apart. Your followers impaired some of the systems in their … enthusiasm.”
“They killed a mutated monster, and I myself destroyed computers there. We don’t need those things to fly a spaceship. The mind of man is holy.”
“Of course, Swordmaster.” He didn’t sound entirely c
ertain.
The following afternoon, when the systems were pronounced ready, Anari watched the scattered crew board the seized VenHold vessel. Of the hundred followers that had come with her from Lampadas, she selected two Swordmaster comrades and five fervent Butlerians, along with one of Escon’s pilots, to send aboard the spacefolder back to Manford, where it would be added to his fleet.
Anari Idaho and Rolli Escon watched the massive ship lift off from the square. As the giant, angular shape hovered above the city, Anari and her avid followers chanted a loud prayer into the smoke-filled air. Then the pilot activated the foldspace engines, and the ship vanished with a thunderous boom.
* * *
ANARI R+br MentatoperationEMAINED ON Baridge for several more days to continue the work, while the Butlerians hunted down enclaves of Machine Apologists, supporters of Deacon Kalifer, or anyone who simply didn’t seem passionate enough about Manford’s cause. Some nervous shopkeepers smashed their own businesses just to demonstrate their priorities and to avoid extreme retaliation.
At night the auroras blazed brighter, as if in a celestial celebration of the righteous victory. By daylight, the air of Baridge seemed to crackle, but Anari’s followers weren’t afraid of harmful solar radiation. God provided them with better protection than any technology could.
Rolli Escon prepared his own ship to return the Swordmaster to Lampadas. He claimed he was anxious to spread Manford’s message, although Anari suspected he merely wanted to get away from Baridge. But she, too, needed to get back to see Manford. She worried about him when she wasn’t there to protect him, and she had important news for him.
Mentats of Dune Page 25
