* * *
THE CAPTURED VENHOLD warship never arrived at Lampadas. Eventually, as days dragged out into a week after it was due, the conclusion grew inescapable: The seized spacefolder had vanished en route, as so many EsconTran vessels did. Anari was disappointed at the loss of the ship, which she considered a spoil of war, but she had other priorities.
When she arrived back at the capital city, she hoped for a private debriefing with Manford, and time to catch up with him, but the Butlerian leader wanted the rest of his inner circle to hear her report about Baridge. Manford called a meeting in his home, and the housekeeper, Ellonda, bustled around to prepare the main room, then attended the guests.
Deacon Harian refused to sit, and Anari was happy to let the bald man stand there and be uncomfortable. Sister Woodra listened to the Swordmaster’s every word with narrowed eyes, assessing and analyzing her report for accuracy. Anari lifted her chin, ready to slaughter this haughty Sister if she so much as suggested that she was shading the truth.
Focused only on Manford, Anari described the mob uprising and the punitive actions she had taken. He approved of everything she’d done, as she knew he would. The only image she brought to show Manford—and the other curious onlookers, including the horrified old housekeeper—w returned to h
I am an educated, rational businessman, not prone to emotional outbursts, and yet I despise the Butlerians with every fiber of my being. I hate them more than any apparatus can measure.
—DIRECTEUR JOSEF VENPORT, to his wife, Cioba
When the news about Baridge reached Kolhar, Josef couldn’t find an appropriate outlet for his disgust and outrage. The murder of more than a hundred VenHold employees and forty Suk cancer doctors, the destruction of cargo shuttles as well as a massive spacefolder … and the slaughter of a priceless Navigator, Royce Fayed!
In his office tower overlooking the spaceport, Josef met with Cioba, who had let her long hair down so that it trailed past her waist. Draigo Roget wore a stony expression that did not entirely mask his inner anger.
“I have no words for this.” Josef prowled about with unreleased rage. “The thinking machines were our enemies, but at least they were comprehensible. Who can explain this? This!” He hammered his hand down on another report that glowed up on his desk screen. “After the rampage festival in Zimia, I expected Emperor Salvador to crack down on the Butlerians … but again, they launch their barbaric insanity on another planet. Against me—with impunity!”
This had gone far beyond profits and power. As Norma Cenva had warned, it was now a war of civilizations. Josef struggled to understand the Half-Manford’s fanaticism. How did he get all those people to follow him blindly, questioning nothing he said? Josef had watched video recordings of the leader’s speeches, dissected his demeanor, the way he spoke—and the man was not that charismatic. Aside from having no legs, Manford seemed rather ordinary, which made his mass appeal even more baffling.
Draigo spoke up, his normally flat voice uneven, an indication of how unsettled he was. “Manford Torondo sent out a call, and his planets are reaffirming their commitments to honor their pledges. He also sent a delegation to Salusa Secundus to insist that Emperor Salvador take aggressive action against you: new tariffs and restrictions on VenHold trade.”
Josef frowned. “Emperor Salvador is as ineffective as he is indecisive, a ruler who does nothing but collect fees and sit in pompous glory on his throne. The Imperium is being torn apart between pro- and antitechnology supporters, and he does his best to appease two sides while making no movement at all.” He let out a scornful noise. “Like a trained monkey, balancing on a ball.” His heart pounded, and the ache in his skull grew greater. “If the Emperor won’t impose punishment, then it falls to us. We have resources. We can do something.”
“The first planet to issue a statement reaffirming the oath to Manford is a small backwater world called Lectaire,” Draigo pointed out.
“Never heard of Lectaire. Does it have any economic significance? Is it even on our trade routes?”+ great p the other
“It’s a small agricultural world with minimal resources, no strategic importance, population under a million. Two primary cities, numerous scattered farms. No defenses whatsoever. VenHold ships have serviced Lectaire over the years, though not on a regular basis, since it isn’t cost-effective. Lately, the planet has been on our embargo list.” The Mentat blinked. “Other companies have recently made several runs there, but on the whole Lectaire is insignificant.”
Josef sat down, still trying to control his anger. “It is significant because it is the first planet to reaffirm the Half-Manford’s manifesto. We can’t let these fanatics have any victory at all. They can dance around their cave fires, but they must not be allowed to think that they’ve won.”
“Royce Fayed was a valuable asset,” Cioba said. “Norma Cenva was close to him. She’ll want to help us.”
Josef considered his options. A direct military strike against Lectaire or any other Butlerian world would certainly be traced back to him. Even if the Imperial Space Fleet and House Corrino were seemingly ineffective, he didn’t want to provoke outright war or nudge Salvador into making the wrong decision.
But he had a weapon that no one in the Imperium knew about: All of the new cymeks from Denali, guided by the brains of failed Navigators. He could give Ptolemy the opportunity for a real demonstration.
Josef realized he was smiling for the first time since the news had arrived. “The cymeks were impressive on Arrakis. They won’t have any trouble against a small farming world. We will leave no evidence behind of what hit Lectaire, and no trace of the human settlements there. It’ll be just like the Time of Titans—except this time we have a just cause.”
* * *
EVEN ISOLATED ON Denali, Ptolemy reviewed reports of the latest atrocities committed by the Butlerians. He didn’t need further incentive to despise the savages. He still had nightmares of Dr. Elchan’s screams, and of the calm, even amused expression on Manford Torondo’s face when he watched Elchan roasted alive.…
Though seven of his best cymeks were lost on Arrakis, Ptolemy had been building his army all along. And they were ready to be sent into action.
The enormous robot walkers trudged across Denali’s bleak landscape, impervious to the corrosive atmosphere. Still building up the new group, he’d installed many more failed Navigator brains into canisters, connected the thoughtrodes to the engines and motivators of new walkers. These cymek candidates were still practicing their reactions and learning how to unite their brains with their new artificial bodies.
And they were terrifying.
When plotting revenge, some people could wait for years and years, arranging tiny pieces in such a way as to set up an enemy for complete downfall. Josef Venport was not such a man. He felt gravely insulted by Butlerian tactics. The business interests of Venport Holdings had been hurt by destructive mobs, and a Navigator had been murdered. Josef demanded a swift and devastating retaliation. Like a viper that had been stepped on, he struck back immediately.
Ptolemy wasoked so distur
Symbols are powerful motivators of human behavior. And symbols can be destroyed.
—DIRECTOR JOSEF VENPORT, “Memo on Extrapolations of Business and Power”
Turning his back on the sietch that did not want him, Taref worked his way across the desert back to Arrakis City.
The week-long trek was arduous, and the desert austere and uncomfortable, but he endured the deprivation. When he reached the city, he would find other Freemen who had left their sietches, Freemen who might be tempted to join him. He vowed to himself he would not return to Directeur Venport empty-handed.
If he’d been able to recruit eager volunteers from the sietch itself, Taref would have summoned a sandworm to transport them swiftly across the open dunes. He would have stood tall atop the head of the monster, feeling the sun and grit on his face.
At the moment, though, he had no cause to celebrate. He didn’t car
e about the father and brothers he’d left behind; he’d known that they would sneer at the idea, because they were ignorant and closed-minded. He had been reminded of how squalid and backward his tribe was, and yet the glorious promises and shining visions he had once believed in now also tasted like dust.
When he and his friends had left poverty behind, they’d been so excited for the opportunity, especially him. Taref tried to take comfort from the fact that Shurko had lived more in his brief months working for VenHold than he would have experienced in a lifetime out in the desert. Surely his friend had seen and enjoyed some wonders on his travels.
Knowing what Kolhar, Junction Alpha, and all those other run-down spaceport worlds were like, should he bother to go back at all? If Taref were to vanish here, Directeur Venport and Draigo Roget would chalk up his loss to an unspecified desert hazard. He could easily find a way to survive, even here on Arrakis, maybe joining another spice crew.
But he didn’t want to do that, didn’t want to hide. No, Taref would go back to Directeur Venport, because he had promised. With the authorization he carried, he+fa Mentatoperation could have flown to Kolhar on the next spice hauler, but first he had to do what he had agreed to do. He would find volunteers, somehow.…
On the way to Arrakis City, Taref was surprised at how the desert environment now grated on him as much as the backward desert mindset did. His stillsuit was scuffed and dusty, but it still looked different with its obvious offworld modifications. He had a few coins, a Maula pistol, his stillsuit, a desert cloak, and his VenHold ID. His demeanor was no longer that of a furtive, ever-wary sand dweller. Reaching the city, he noticed the people regarding him as if he were an outcast here, too.
For a while Taref observed the spaceport operations, watching the vessels load up with melange and take off from the landing field. Before, when he’d worked on spice crews, Taref had never given much thought to where all that spice went after the haulers departed from Arrakis. Now he knew so much more. Seeing a small freighter take off, he remembered dreaming about those romantic, far-off places—Salusa Secundus, or Poritrin, or the ocean-drenched world of Caladan, a planet he still hadn’t seen. Surely there were other people here willing to leave.
He watched the freighter ascend into the lemon-colored sky, and decided he had put off his work for too long. He would convince others to join him, promising them wonders that he now doubted existed. He would find young men or women with sparkling eyes turned toward the skies imagining a far better life elsewhere. Taref would tell them everything they wanted to hear, everything he had wanted to hear.…
Then a miracle occurred in the streets.
A muscular female Swordmaster strode through Arrakis City with the stump of a man riding on her shoulders. Thinsisted on go
A threat works only if the recipient believes you are willing to carry through with it.
—REVEREND MOTHER RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL
It was not a good time for the Mother Superior to die.
Prior to the crisis, Raquella had been quite healthy despite her advanced age, and now, only a year later, she felt decades older. Sorrow, despair, and the stress of rebuilding the Sisterhood school on a different planet would have taken its toll even on a much younger woman.
In order to maintain herself, she consumed frequent doses of melange supplied by VenHold, as well as other drugs, but they were rapidly becoming insufficient. Even melange only stretched her already-long life like a rubber band. Now her lifeline was almost to the breaking point.
Early each morning, locked in her private quarters, she went into a trance and analyzed her internal chemistry and cellular structure. With her skills and control as a Reverend Mother, she could observe each biological detail as if projected on a screen in her mind.
After analyzing the tiniest cellular nuances, Raquella used the information to determine what adjustments were necessary to sustain her for one more day. But tiny errors and failures had been mounting, and she’d been in crisis mode for a long time, just trying to stay alive. Her rate of decline was increasing, and she knew she could not maintain the biological façade for much longer. And the Sisterhood was still broken.
Raquella would have preferred to orchestrate her passing much differently. She had to save the Sisterhood, choose her successor. Otherwise there would be more turmoil, more arguments, maybe even further splits. Valya Harkonnen seemed the obvious candidate, but there was also Dorotea. Each woman had certain advantages, and obvious flaws. If only Raquella could combine the best of both, fuse the factions, heal them.
The other Sisters on Wallach IX didn’t notice the extent of the Mother Superior’s deterioration. They had seen the old woman for so long that they turned a blind eye to her mortality. Raquella’s followers didn’t know about the effort she expended just to keep standing upright. If she made the slightest slip, the house of cards that was her body would collapse. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep this up.
Now, on a bright morning under a clear sky, she walked out on the steep trail, climbing high Laojin Cliff as she often did. To demonstrate her health, Raquella continued to go for long walks. The wooded path was familiar to her, and she liked being high up, where she could look down at the cluster of buildings that constituted her new school.
Fielle accompanied her this morning, listening more than talking, as she often did. The large-boned Sister Mentat was in good shape and could actually walk faster, but was holding back. Raquella appreciated the company. She missed conversations with her dear friend Karee Marques, who had also been a Mentat, with the capacity to offer objective, well-reasoned advice.
Fielle was not an appropriate choice to become the next Mother Superior, but if Raquella were to die tomorrow—with Valya away on Ginaz for Swordmaster training, and Dorotea ensconced on Salusa Secundus—who would lead the Sisters? Raquella needed to decide on her successor.
Continuing to walk, the old woman remained silent, but her mind was not quiet; to do.
There is beauty in the eyes of the youth who dreams of a bright future.
—wisdom of the Ancients
Though Caladan was quiet and bucolic, it boasted an impressive Air Patrol Agency. The scattered fishing fleets, the occasional sea storms, and the creatures out in the deep oceans—all required the locals to be ready to mount a rapid and efficient rescue when necessary.
Vor smiled when he studied the history of the Caladan Air Patrol and their years of service. No one knew that the rescue organization had been established and funded well over a century ago through an anonymous foundation set up by Vorian Atreides. Yes, he still had many ties here.
Though they were still young, his great-great-grandsons Willem and Orry had made themselves important pilots in the Patrol. Both young men had a love of fast and dangerous flying in their blood, but Vor decided this was a much better profession than piloting warships against robot vessels in the Jihad.
After that long, late-night confession and conversation with Shander Atreides, Vor felt relieved. He rarely got a chance to shed so many secrets. Even so, from Shander’s raised eyebrows and uncertain chuckle, he wasn’t sure the wealthy old fisherman—actually Vor’s great-grandson—completely believed him. Shander was aware only that one of his ancestors had been a great war hero, as attested to by the statue in the town square; but that was far back in the days of the Jihad, and the fact meant little to their daily lives. Nevertheless, Shander accepted Vorian’s friendship, seeing him as a curiosity and a spinner of tales. Good company overall, regardless of his past.
In a broader sense, Vor wanted to reconnect with the tapestry of his family, his roots, and to apologize for the aloof way he had treated Leronica and their two sons … generations ago. Although no one on Caladan even remembered the slight, Vor needed to do it for himself.
His openness and candor surprised some on Caladan who heard his story, while others simply assumed he had a wild imagination. Vor didn’t mind; he intended to stay on beautiful Caladan for a while—for quite
a while, in fact. Willem and Orry were strangers to him, but he could hardly wait to meet them.
On the third day after Vor arrived on Caladan, +tore m2IShander Atreides offered to meet him for lunch to introduce him to the two young men, who were due back from a long patrol. At the last minute, Shander had to respond to an insistent customer, some kind of urgent repair order for fishing nets, and so Vor went to the landing-field café himself. He had faced greater challenges before.
Walking in, he felt tense but eager to meet Willem and Orry. Vor found them sitting at a table by a window that overlooked the Air Patrol field, where seaplanes took off and landed. He was startled when he caught his first glimpse of the two laughing young men. Even in their flight suits, they looked very much like the twins Estes and Kagin. He caught his breath, felt a pang, and then smiled as he stepped forward.
The brothers rose in unison to greet him; each shook his hand with a firm grip. Willem was taller than his older brother, with blond hair, while Orry’s was black like Vor’s. “I’m glad to finally meet you both,” Vor said.
They were polite, formal, although neither seemed to quite understand who he was. Willem said, “Uncle Shander told us you’re a surprise visitor. Some long-lost family member that we need to meet?”
Vor sat back, surprised. “He didn’t tell you my story?”
“We’ve been out on patrol for a week,” Orry said, “filling in at another airfield.”
“My name is Vorian Atreides.” He saw that they recognized the name but couldn’t quite place it. “I’m your great-great-grandfather. I spent a lot of time here on Caladan, long ago during the Jihad. I met a local woman named Leronica Tergiet, and we had twin sons. One of them was your great-grandfather.”
Willem and Orry blinked, then chuckled, but their laughter fell into silence when Vor continued to regard them with a serious expression. He explained the life-extension treatment he had received from his father, the cymek General Agamemnon. He was sure they must have been taught the history of the Jihad.
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