The guard pursed his lips. “I take your meaning, sir. New Starda is in the process of instituting records to help match certain kinds of slaves to compatible environments. Alas, the formal system is caught up in committee right now and not readily available.” He shrugged.
Vor recognized the tantalizing hint and hesitation as a subtle request for a bribe. So, he offered money, and the dragoon scratched the side of his face, as if thinking through the problem, although he already had a solution. “I know a woman in spaceport administration who has access to landing and cargo records. Such information is not normally open to inspection, but if you give her my name and pay her a … discretionary fee, she will let you inspect the records of all slaving ships that have arrived recently.”
Vor maintained his cool expression, though his pulse began to race. He had seen the three slaving ships that preyed upon Kepler; hopefully he would find them in the documentation.
The dragoon pocketed his payment with a deft movement. “It may require some homework on your part, but maybe you can look at the source planet information and find workers to your liking.”
* * *
AT THE SPACEPORT, Vor had to pay three more bribes just to find the woman he was supposed to meet, then another large sum to gain access to the landing records. The money didn’t matter; he would pay whatever was necessary. In his brash earlier years, he and Xavier might have tried to coerce the information, fighting for justice, but this method was, ironically, more civilized, though more expensive.
He couldn’t overthrow an entire world or a long-standing way of life. Seeing the long lists of human cargo tore at his heart. All those captives had been torn from their homes on hundreds of poorly defended planets, leaving behind families who were just as distraught as he was. But Vorian Atreides was only one man, and he was done crusading. His personal crusade now was to save the people he loved.
When he reviewed the extensive records, the sheer number of vessels surprised him. Even back in the heyday of Salusa Secundus, he doubted the League’s capital city had ever experienced so much traffic. So, slavery was definitely not on the wane.
After several hours, he discovered what he was looking for: a notation of a group of three ships whose previous destination was listed as Kepler. The records showed images of the vessels for security purposes, and he recognized the ships that had landed on the croplands after blasting the village with widespread stun fields.
He clenched his jaw to contain his anger, wishing the one captive slaver had lived just a little longer so Vor could have learned more details about the captains and crews. But he developed his plan with the information he knew.
Highest priority: To get his people back safely, all of them. His secondary, and more enjoyable, mission was to hurt the slavers. If he planned well enough, he could accomplish both.
He took the time to purchase a new formfitting suit and assumed the identity of a wealthy businessman from Pirido. He even bought a small well-trained lapdog with a jewel-studded collar, who trotted happily beside his new master as Vor strolled through the slave markets to the appropriate grid location. There, he hired four young men and purchased similar clothing for them, so they could accompany him as his entourage, with strict instructions that they were not to say anything.
Following the grid map he had purchased, they then marched off to the specific landing slots and the holding areas where the ships kept their human cargo. When Vor spotted the three hulking vessels near the holding area, he remembered them clearly, having seen them lift off from the valley on Kepler, laden with captives.
Yes, he had found exactly the right place.
Getting in character, he put on a haughty air and gave a withering frown to the thick-lipped but thin-voiced man who prevented him from marching directly to the holding pens. “You aren’t allowed to get close to the slaves, sir. They’re valuable merchandise.”
“Then you, my good man, don’t know how things are done here.” Vor sniffed. He knew his people were there, just on the other side of the holding fence, and he tensed, willing to kill this man if necessary. But if he broke the captives free and tried to escape, he knew he would not get far … not here on Poritrin. So he remained in character. “If I intend to bid on the whole lot of these new arrivals, I want to inspect their health. I’m not going to buy any weak, sick, or dirty slaves. They would soil my entire planet! How do I know they’re not infested with Chusuk tapeworms? Or blood boils?”
The slaver’s fleshy lips tugged downward in a frown. “They’ll have full medical clearance, don’t you worry. We take good care of them—lost only two during the flight here from Kepler.”
“Only two? Hmm.” Vor had to fight to keep the look of disgust from his face. Which two? Was it Bonda? His grandson Brandis? The names rolled across his mind. That meant two more dead, plus the ten who had died resisting the initial raid … people he knew and loved. His sneer was not feigned. “Sounds shameful to me. I don’t recall VenHold Spacing Fleet or Celestial Transport routinely losing passengers on any voyage.”
With a grunt, the slaver ran his eyes up and down Vor’s fastidious garments, his four silent followers, and the prissy dog. “In any business operation involving cargoes, there’s a certain amount of damage in shipment. Those people go on sale tomorrow morning. We’ll have them cleaned up by then.”
“And well fed, I assume?”
“They’ll be ready for sale.”
The slaver was obviously not going to let him get any closer, so Vor drank in the visible security measures around the ships. He nodded to his entourage, gave a slight tug on the leash, and the dog turned about and trotted faithfully beside him. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
He rented a room, promised the four followers another payment if they joined him the following day, and then hunkered down inside the room to continue his planning. The dog sat on his lap, perfectly content. Although twice Vor found himself absently petting the small creature while he strategized, he refused to give it a name—it, too, was merely a tool.
Once landed on Poritrin in the New Starda markets, slavers used security measures to manage and protect their human cargoes, but the empty ships themselves were easy targets. In his younger days, he and Xavier Harkonnen would have staged a military operation, bringing in armed soldiers to attack the slaver ships. Vor would have had no qualms about killing the captain and crew, seizing their captives, and perhaps even freeing hordes of other slaves as well. Swashbuckling mayhem, using more brawn and testosterone than brains.
But that was a foolish idea, and not the most effective means to secure his loved ones. Vor wondered how he and Xavier had ever survived back then. He didn’t dare attempt anything so bold now—too many of his own people might be harmed—so he thought of a more practical, mature solution instead.
Only after he was certain he could get his family and friends back, would he cause a little extra mayhem.…
The next morning, he and the pampered-looking dog, followed by four earnest-looking young men in Pirido clothing, arrived at the start of the appropriate auction. They worked their way to the front of a swelling crowd of spectators, investors, and even a few hecklers who had nothing better to do than jeer at the miserable slaves, trolling from one auction to the next. In the New Starda slave market, numerous similar auctions were being held this morning; the people around him saw nothing special in this particular sale.
The auction master called the crowd to order, and the burly slave hunters prodded the ranks of captives onto a levitating stage two meters above the ground. Vor watched the forlorn group file up, all of them bound and dispirited looking. His appearance was so different now, though, that he didn’t expect any of them to recognize him. The dog barked, then fell silent in the hubbub.
Emotions roiled inside him as he recognized so many faces. He was angry to see his people this way, yet overjoyed to see them alive, and determined to get them back home to their normal lives. They were indeed clean, but gaunt. He noted a few bruise
s on pale skin, but no overt signs of brutalization. He saw Deenah, a beloved niece who was herself a mother now, his sons Oren and Clar, daughter Bonda and her husband Tir, and dozens of others. He would have to compare them all against his list of missing persons from Kepler—he would track down any stragglers if necessary, but he hoped he had arrived in time.
“We have an opening bid of six thousand Solaris,” said the auction master, after someone shouted out the amount. A second customer bid seven thousand. Another jumped to ten thousand amidst a ripple of admiring mutters. Vor said nothing, just waited. The bidding gradually rose to fifteen thousand, then twenty thousand. Then someone requested that the slaves be divided into smaller lots and that the bidding be continued by specified groups. The bidder promised to pay a premium but only for the healthy males.
Vor knew he had to act. He raised his voice before the auctioneer could consider the proposal. “Thirty thousand Solaris for the whole lot, with immediate delivery.” He could have paid less, but he wanted to make a point.
A rush of indrawn breath rippled through the crowd. The four young men in his entourage looked at him with surprise; one wore an impish grin, sure that this was part of a larger scam.
“Could you repeat that, sir?” said the auction master, with a great deal of respect.
“Thirty thousand Solaris, but only if I can take possession of them right away. All of them.” The amount was enough to buy an entire continent on some small planets. “Or do you want to waste my time?”
The Kepler captives on the platform stirred, whispering to one another, looking at the man who had made such a bid … the man who would be their master. His daughter Bonda had recognized Vor as soon as he made his bid. He could see it in her eyes.
The auction master hesitated, though no one expected the bid to be topped. “Sold, to the gentleman with the dog—the entire lot of slaves from planet Kepler.”
After the smattering of applause died away and Vor paid for the slaves, he knew he had to make his point. “Now, free them—remove their bonds.” The slavers hesitated, but he remained firm. “They are my property, and I can do with them as I choose.”
“That may be dangerous, sir.” The auction master raised a hand to summon a dragoon guard. “These are fresh slaves, not yet broken or trained.”
Handing the dog to one of the young men in his entourage, Vor strode to the edge of the hovering platform and swung himself onto the stage. “I’ll clip the bonds myself if I must.”
He didn’t care about the angry grumbling as he used his own dagger to cut the nearest two prisoners free, his two overjoyed sons, Oren and Clar. “Do I have to do all this myself? Maybe I’ll withhold part of my fee as compensation for the inconvenience.” The burly slavers moved quickly to cut the rest of the captives free.
Vor turned to shout out at the audience. “For centuries, the thinking machines enslaved our men and women, and we sacrificed half of the human race for liberty. And yet you—all of you—perpetuate this. You should understand more about freedom by now.”
The other captives rushed forward—friends, family, neighbors, some weeping with relief, others shaking, disbelieving. The whole group moved off the hovering platform and stood together, apart from the uneasy audience.
His sons embraced him; his neighbors were sobbing. Vor dismissed the four young men he had hired, then handed the dog’s leash to Bonda. “Here, I got you a new pet.”
* * *
THOUGH THE PEOPLE of Poritrin did not agree with Vor’s philosophy on slavery, the money from his accounts solved any problems the merchants might have had. He arranged rooms for his people in a temporary lodging house, so all of them could rest, wash themselves, and celebrate while he studied spaceport schedules and secured passage back to Kepler. A VenHold spacefolder was due to depart in two days, and he bought cabins for all of them. They would be back home in a week.
He gave Bonda the task of verifying all the names on his list, after sadly marking off the two people who had died in transit—a husband and wife who had lived in a farm adjacent to Mariella’s house.
Even in the midst of so much joy and hugging, Vor remained disturbed. When he’d left public life behind, he had wanted only solitude and peace. Now he had more work to do. He slipped out at night after checking to be sure that all of his people were safe and secure.
* * *
HE ACCOMPANIED THE freed slaves to the spaceport, wanting to watch with his own eyes as they boarded, so he could know they were on their way. He felt grimly satisfied.
The spaceport was in turmoil from a bad accident the night before, but most of the fires on the field had been extinguished. The trio of slaver ships that had preyed on Kepler had filed departure papers and lifted off shortly after sunset, their cargo holds empty and ready to be refilled. Unfortunately, due to bizarre and simultaneous engine malfunctions and an improper explosive mix of fuel, all three ships then exploded in the sky above New Starda. An appalling freak accident.
Vor had been there, alone, to observe. As the people on the ground stared, aghast, he was the only one smiling.…
Now, one of the last to board the transport ship, Bonda cradled the dog, already adoring it. Vor turned to her, lowered his voice. “Tell your mother I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She blinked in surprise. “What? You’re not coming with us? We need you on Kepler!”
Her husband Tir stood beside her. “What if more slavers come?”
“That’s exactly what I hope to prevent. I have something else to do before I can come home. Maybe it’ll keep Kepler safe.”
“But … where are you going?” Bonda asked. The dog wriggled in her arms and licked her cheek.
“To Salusa Secundus,” he said. “I intend to speak to the Emperor himself.”
The only good machine is a dead machine.
—MANFORD TORONDO, EXCERPT FROM A SPEECH ON LAMPADAS
Zimia had many prominent memorials made from the wreckage of cymek warrior forms, but the Emperor had to post constant guards to prevent them from being vandalized by the Butlerians. Even though such displays celebrated the defeat of the machines, the antitechnology movement wanted to erase all vestiges … all “temptations,” as they called them.
Although the Jihad had been won a century ago, Roderick Corrino understood the public’s continuing need to vent its anger, and so he convinced his brother to create a formalized event, a pressure release. Each month, champions from the people were allowed to attack some representation of the onerous machines. Salvador loved the idea, and each “rampage festival” grew more popular than the last.
Now, Roderick rode with his sullen sister in a coach drawn by two roan Salusan stallions. The latest spectacle would take place on the outskirts of Zimia, between the white spires of the capital city and the rolling hills where nobles maintained their estates, vineyards, and orchards.
It was midday, and the gathering crowd was in a festive mood. Citizens had set up picnic areas in a wide perimeter around the thinking-machine relics that were the subject of today’s rampage: a small robotic scout ship and the shell of a plague capsule that had been launched by Omnius. Neither one of the objects had originally fallen here, but were among many that had been salvaged after the war and warehoused for these monthly celebrations. Considering the scope of the Synchronized Worlds, machine remnants were not difficult to find, more than enough to keep holding the popular rampage festivals for many years to come.
Already, gleeful children were bouncing rocks off the metallic objects, making loud clangs. Soon it would be the turn of the adults, to do even more damage.
Inside the coach, Roderick sat cool and professional, a dutiful representative of the Imperial Court, but Anna did not seem to be in the mood for festivities. Throughout the procession from the Palace, the girl had been crying about Hirondo Nef, begging Roderick to help her find him (which, of course, he would not do). She was so delicate, so sheltered, so easily bruised; Roderick was torn between toughening her by allowing
her to be hurt, and continuing to protect her from heartache.
“Hirondo’s dead!” she said. “I just know it! Salvador had him murdered!”
The coach jolted to a stop, and Roderick placed an arm around his trembling sister, consoling her as best he could. “Our brother wouldn’t do that. I promise, he’s just reassigned the man to a safe place where he can start a new life—and you can, too. We’re trying to protect you.”
Roderick had, in fact, prevented Salvador from having the chef killed on the spot. He had intervened just in time and put the young man under arrest, primarily for his own safety. Then, taking his own brother aside, Roderick advised, “An Emperor can’t help but have blood on his hands, but you should never kill when you don’t have to.” Fortunately, Salvador had listened to him, as he usually did. Nef was sent away, reassigned to one of the noble estates outside the city, where he would never take advantage of Anna again.
His sister looked up at him, her small blue eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to be protected—I want my Hirondo!”
Roderick hated to see such pain on his sister’s face. It seemed Anna didn’t even remember that she’d been just as smitten with a young guard four months earlier. She had such a need for acceptance and love that her emotions were like a high-pressure hose, uninhibited and uncontrolled.
“I’m so sorry you’re hurt, Anna.”
“Do you know where Hirondo is? I love him—I need to see him.”
“The Emperor does not consider him appropriate for you. Hirondo should have known better than to put you in such a position. It’s an unfortunate fact of life, but you need to find someone of your own station. We are Corrinos, and certain things are expected of us.”
He and Salvador would have to discuss marrying her off soon. It shouldn’t be difficult to find some nobleman whom she could love just as overwhelmingly. Unless she decided to be contrary for the sake of being that way.
She wiped tears from her cheeks. “Am I not entitled to love? On his deathbed, our father said he wanted us all to marry well.”
Sisterhood of Dune Page 11
