Mentats of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Orry said, “This is impossible. This really sounds impossible!”

  Willem sat back at the table, looking skeptical. “We’ve heard of you, of course, at least the name. But … that’s all ancient history, and whatever you did all those centuries ago doesn’t affect us here. Not anymore.”

  Vor frowned. “It’s been a very long time, but that doesn’t mean the past can’t find you here. I’d just like to get to know you both.”

  Orry grinned. “I’ll bet he has some amazing stories.”

  With a nod, Willem said, “As long as he pays for the meal.”

  The boys showed no animosity toward him, just friendly curiosity. It appeared that any disappointment Estes and Kagin might have felt toward Vor had not lasted over the generations … unlike the bitterness House Harkonnen felt toward him. He could start fresh with these young men, earn their friendship without any preconceptions.

  Their meals arrived, a local specialty of dark bread baked with meats, cheeses, and fresh vegetables.

  “If you’re a member of the family, then you have to come to my wedding,” Orry said.

  Willem explained, “My brother’s been in such a rush since meeting this girl—and he’s gone a little dizzy over her—but we can add an ancient war hero to the guest list.”

  “Sounds like I arrived at just the+inavpa right time. I’d love to attend.” Vor remembered all the family promises he’d broken in the past and vowed not to do it again. “When is it? Tell me about her.”

  Once encouraged, Orry seemed unable to stop talking about his fiancée, while Willem just rolled his eyes. Orry had met a beautiful, charming young woman from an inland village, and they’d immediately felt sparks between them. “She swept me off my feet.”

  “She knocked him off his feet.” Willem wore a long-suffering expression. “I’ve never seen him so love-struck. It happened so fast that no one’s had much of a chance to get to know her—except Orry, of course.” His tone was teasing.

  “From the moment we met, we were two pieces that fit perfectly together,” Orry said, then turned to his brother. “Someday you’ll find a woman as perfect as … Well, almost as perfect, because there isn’t anyone to match her.”

  Willem sighed. “I don’t believe in love at first sight.”

  “I knew if I didn’t make my move quickly, you would have been after her,” Orry said, smiling. “And you know it, too.”

  Willem gave an embarrassed chuckle. “You might be right.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Vor said. “And to spending more time with you two. Does the Air Patrol have room for another volunteer? I was a crack pilot once, and I’ve got experience—centuries’ worth, in fact.”

  Willem seemed thrilled with the suggestion. “Want to go out with us after lunch? Our multiwing tiltplane can hold a third passenger—there’s even room for famous people.”

  “I’d rather not be famous,” Vor said. “I prefer to be treated as an ordinary man for a change treetops and

  In hand-to-hand combat, even the most formidable opponent can be defeated. You must find an inner calm and visualize the path to victory.

  —JOOL NORET, the first Swordmaster

  For weeks, Valya trained hard at the Ginaz School, learning what she could from the Swordmasters, adding their specialized knowledge to the already lethal fighting arsenal she possessed.

  Despite his challenge to her on the first day of instruction, Master Placido took a liking to Valya. He gave her a great deal of personal attention, both during the classes and outside them, making himself available for questions and additional demonstrations. “One must be open to receive wisdom from any source at any time,” he said, which reminded Valya of Sisterhood instruction.

  The instructor was attracted to her, but she calmly, firmly, put him out of her mind. With the Other Memories awakened inside her, she had more recollections of sexual encounters than she could possibly review.

  And she had other priorities.

  As dusk settled over the archipelago on Ginaz, she practiced alone on a rocky expanse outside the simple open-air student dormitory with its palm-frond roof. Fighting against imaginary opponents that she saw vividly in her mind, Valya ran through a combination of her Lankiveil sessions with Griffin, the Sisterhood training she had undergone on Rossak, and the skills she had learned at the Swordmaster school.

  She drew her short practice sword and attacked with ferocity. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Placido watching. In his arms he carried a long case. He observed her in silence, waiting for her to pause and catch her breath.

  He finally asked, “Would you like a real opponent? I could give you a more advanced lesson than you’ve had before.”

  During their sparring and instruction, she had noticed Placido observing her techniques, seeing what he could draw from her, because Valya’s fighting methods were quite different from those that the legendary Jool Noret had developed for his Swordmasters. The instructor had given her brief demonstrations with foil, épée, and saber swords, and even once with a stiletto.

  At the moment, though, Valya wanted solitude so she could perfect her moves, increasing her speed, angles of attack, and precision. The Swordmaster would only distract her, but he continued to press. Trying to ignore him, Valya centered her concentration, using her skills as a Reverend Mother to control her pulse, her metabolism, her muscular movement … and her temper.

  But he was not going to leave. Exasperated, Valya turned toward Master Placido and extended her short sword, then pointed it at a slight angle upward, awaiting his approach.

  Grinning, he set down the case and knelt to open it, revealing four long swords. “No training blade tonight. Select your weapon from these.”

  She tossed aside her dull practice sword and stepped forward. With a nod, she studied the offered blades, picked each on+ such a Mentatoperatione up for a brief test, and then selected the dueling sword that had the least ornamentation on the hilt, but the best balance.

  “Ah, I have won many duels with that fine weapon,” Placido said. “Even killed an intruder with it when he broke into our headquarters on the main island. That was a year ago.” With a confident smile, the teacher selected one of the other swords and swished it through the air with a sharp, whisking sound.

  “Shall we don masks and vests?” she asked. “It is tradition.”

  “Not tonight.” He swished his sword again. “I am paying you a compliment.”

  She understood. “You believe that I can protect myself.”

  He smiled. “And I also believe you can restrain yourself from harming me.”

  Valya considered her answer. “Perhaps I’ll do so.”

  “Your techniques are still rough, and you have a great deal to learn. Becoming a Swordmaster requires years of instruction.”

  “And there is a great deal I could teach you.” She gave him a hard stare. “But I don’t have time for that.”

  He began the attack, and she countered with an easy defensive move. Aware of her own relative inexperience with these weapons, Valya knew better than to press an attack against a master, so instead she concentrated on a series of parries to stop every blow he made. Placido lunged and thrust, using moves that she had not seen before. Even so, she countered him each time.

  From past experience, she knew he would grow increasingly aggressive as the engagement continued, providing her with more difficult challenges. She kept herself calm. Her goal was to hold him off for as long as she could.

  “You have excellent natural instincts,” he said with a tight smile, “an ability to adapt to gambits I know you’ve never seen before.” She noticed uncharacteristic perspiration on his forehead. “Tell me truthfully, Valya—were you ever instructed by a Swordmaster before you came here?”

  “No, but I observed.” As a Reverend Mother, she carried memories of other women in her past, and some had been skilled fighters. She drew upo might find it

  How can you call my actions atrocities, when I am m
erely responding to atrocities committed against me?

  —MANFORD TORONDO, rebuttal to Imperial inquiry

  After Anari Idaho rushed back from Arrakis, she spread the legless corpse in the main room of Manford’s home. The dark hair was matted with dried blood, the skin gray and blotchy. Half of the head had been blown away by the assassin’s projectile weapon.

  “His body is not preserved,” Anari said. “We didn’t have time. I needed to get out of there as quickly as possible.”

  Deacon Harian was both sickened and outraged at the attempted murder of the Butlerian leader. “A wise decision, Swordmaster. You could have been killed yourself.”

  She turned to him with scorn, her face flushed. “I don’t care about me. I wanted to save him, to get away before too many people saw what happened. Before they saw him dead. That way, I could leave a question in the minds of witnesses.”

  Manford Torondo looked down at the corpse of his look-alike. He felt light-headed and queasy, and furious. “The would-be assassin believes he killed me. Anyone who saw it firsthand would be certain. They’ll all think I am dead.”

  “And when you return to public view, they will see it as a miracle,” Sister Woodra said.

  Manford couldn’t tear his gaze away from the dead man. This double had willingly placed himself in danger, and Manford’s heart also pounded with gratitude for Anari’s foresight. If not for her intervention, he would have gone to that desert planet himself—and perished there. He had been too complacent about his safety, assuming that the hand of God would shield him, just as the chosen ships of EsconTran should have been blessed with safety. But God wasn’t always predictable, Manford was coming to realize, and the Butlerian leader still had much work to do with his followers.

  “This man fulfilled his duty, and now he reaps his reward.” Sadly, at the moment Manford couldn’t even remember the double’s real name.

  “We need to increase security around you, Leader Torondo,” Harian said. “Traitors could be lurking anywhere.”

  Sister Woodra’s face pinched into a frown; it looked as if someone had sucked all the moisture out of her head. She shifted her glance to Anari. “Swordmaster, you must redouble your efforts to protect him.”

  “I devote my entire existence to protecting this man.”

  Woodra barely contained a sneer as she glanced at the corpse. “And see how effective you have been.”

  “Very effective.” Insulted, Anari crossed her arms over her broad chest. “I identified the danger beforehand—ands in return?”

  Manford looked up from the corpse. “This is a good thing. There will be those who celebrate my death, and witnesses who swear they saw me slain. Therefore, I must reveal myself with great fanfare. I’ll show them all that God Himself protects me, that I cannot be killed.” He made up his mind, lifted his chin. “We shall travel to the Imperial Court, where I may be seen in the most prominent places. And I have decided to let Emperor Salvador do our work for us.”

  Anari’s brow furrowed. “The last time you went to Salusa, the rampage festival … Prince Roderick’s innocent daughter was killed. The Corrinos will not easily forget that.”

  “I won’t ask them to forget,” Manford said. “Arrakis is a den of thieves and murderers, but the Imperial capital on Salusa Secundus should be civilized enough. Salvador knows that if any harm befalls me in Zimia, my followers will rise up and burn the palace and the city to the ground.” He narrowed his gaze. “After the attempt on my life, it’s even more important to demonstrate that I am not afraid. Our remedial action on Baridge was only a first step. I must turn the screws, inflict pain, and coerce the Emperor to do what he must do. I will prime him like a weapon and aim him toward Arrakis.”

  Manford drew a long breath. “I am convinced Josef Venport was behind the assassination attempt on Arrakis. He’s made no secret of the fact that he wants me dead, and now it’s our turn to inflict pain where it will hurt him the most—in his profits!”

  Ellonda came into the room bearing a luncheon tray, and she nearly dropped the platter upon seeing the dead body that looked so much like Manford Torondo. “It’s horrible, just horrible!” The dishes clattered as the old woman searched for a place to set down the tray. “Do you need me to clean that up, sir?”

  Manford shook his head. “Harian will take care of it. No one can know there is a body here. I must be seen as unharmed, perfectly healthy.”

  As the serving woman set out the tray, unable to tear her gaze from the corpse, Manford turned to his companions. “When I get to Salusa, I will demand that Emperor Salvador seize all spice operations on Arrakis. We showed our power during the rampage festival, and he will do whatever we ask.”

  “If the Imperium absorbs spice operations, there will be an advantage to the Emperor as well,” Sister Woodra pointed out. “Given the huge profits in the melange industry, that planet should be under Imperial control.”

  Manford conceded the point. He was surprised at how calm and controlled he sounded, even as a great storm raged inside him. He couldn’t erase the image of Josef Venport from his mind. “Venport tried to kill me! We will go to Salusa Secundus, and I will file my formal complaint with the Emperor.” He glanced at Anari. “And this time you won’t talk me out of traveling. I am not a coward, and I need to go there in person.”

  “What if Roderick Corrino orders you arrested and makes you pay for the death of his daughter?” Anari asked.

  “I wield far more power than the Emperor’s brother does. If he were to arrest and accuse me, he would unleash a storm he could never control.” He smiled. “No, he will not do that.”

  Deacon Harian cleared his throat. “Your second body double has been ready for more than a year, just in case. We had +An s womanto search several planets until we found a satisfactory look-alike. He still needs to have the final surgery, of course.”

  Manford nodded. “Let me see him and thank him before his metamorphosis.”

  As Ellonda scurried away, uncomfortable to be near the dead body, Sister Woodra scowled after her.

  Harian summoned the volunteer from town; the other look-alike had been kept behind closed doors where others couldn’t see him. The man entered now, with short dark hair, squarish face, handsome features—objectively five years younger than the real Butlerian leader, but his features were similar. From a distance, as a showpiece, he would look sufficiently like Manford Torondo.

  The volunteer glanced at the corpse, drawing conclusions, then focused his gaze on the Butlerian leader. “I have been summoned by truth and destiny. I am ready.”

  “Know that I appreciate your sacrifice,” Manford said. “I had no choice about my legs … but you do. And you still made the right decision, the courageous decision.”

  “This is no sacrifice, Leader Torondo. It is one small way that I can help save us all.”

  Harian stepped close to the volunteer. “The surgeon is ready. You should undergo the procedure as soon as possible. Your recovery might take a few weeks, and there’s no telling when we might need you.”

  “I’m ready now,” the man said.

  Manford wanted to apologize in advance for the pain this volunteer was about to suffer, both mental and physical. But pain was a very human thing. Pain separated mankind from the thinking machines. Pain was a blessing. He would have to remind the volunteer of that, after his legs were amputated.

  * * *

  MANFORD’S ANGER FESTERED as they waited for an EsconTran ship that would take them to Salusa. Josef Venport ordered my assassination!

  Unable to resist, he dipped into the Erasmus journal again, pondering the nature of evil. The independent robot was fundamentally damned, with no possibility of redemption, but Venport was a human being, and he had chosen his own evil. Manford was still horrified by the robot’s thought patterns, but he learned from the appalling “medical” studies that read like a textbook in sadism. He made notes of certain torture procedures developed by Erasmus that he would like to use on Josef Venpor
t, then locked away the vile journal, afraid someone might find it and become seduced by the evil robot’s though"1O8H71">The t

  We are human not because of our physical form, but because of our underlying nature. Even when fitted with a machine body, a man may have a heart and soul … but not always. People made of flesh can be monsters, too.

  —PTOLEMY, Laboratory Sketches

  Yes, it was time for his Titans.

  Ptolemy felt exhilarated by his increasing successes, beginning with the dramatic (though costly) demonstration on Arrakis, followed by the glorious eradication of the cowering savages on Lectaire. Dr. Elchan would have been pleased, he knew it.

  Energized by Ptolemy’s work, other Denali researchers redoubled their efforts to create imaginative weapons for use against the Butlerians. In one noteworthy example, Dr. Uli Westpher was ready to ship his first “crickets”—thumb-sized devices programmed to skitter across a landing field. The small machines could slip through the tiniest crannies of external engine ports, where they dismantled fuel lines and spilled volatile chemicals. Then the crickets would scritch their roughened mechanical legs together until they struck a spark and ignited the fuel. The crickets were too small and too fast to be seen, and even a small package of them could cause immense devastation to an EsconTran shipyard.

  Meanwhile, Ptolemy continued to modify his work to improve thoughtrode linkages with machine systems, assisted by Administrator Noffe, who brought his Tlulaxa sensibilities to the work.

  A new group of Tlulaxa specialists had been brought to Denali, continuing research that the Butlerians had forbidden. While other engineers built immense mechanical walker bodies, the Tlulaxa team grew biological body parts, reinforced with flowmetal enhancements. Soon enough, they would be able to grow entire replacement bodies—but humanitarian work was not their main priority … not until after Manford Torondo’s barbarians were defeated.