Navigators of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Roon had served on the staff of Commanding General Odmo Saxby, where he’d seen firsthand what a fool Saxby was, but he had never reported his superior (although perhaps he should have). Finally, Saxby’s incompetence came to the attention of the new Emperor, and Roderick had ordered sweeping changes. Now, it was Roon’s turn to lead. He had earned this opportunity.

  The surprise strike force was a significant portion of the Imperial space military, in order to guarantee victory and take down the man who had assassinated Salvador Corrino. But the logistics of gathering, preparing, and loading so many ships aboard the gigantic carrier had delayed the launch for more than a day. Mechanical issues, checklist irregularities, personnel reassignments. But it all had to be done properly. General Roon would have only one chance, and he wouldn’t let Roderick down.

  As the carrier moved out of Salusan orbit, his technicians had gone over the Holtzman diagnostics, studying the space-navigation panels. Since they did not have the use of a Navigator, the course to the Kolhar system had been calculated and recalculated. Just to be safe.

  When Roon finally gave the order, reality folded around the carrier, and they plunged into a shortcut through dimensionally uncharted space.

  Every Imperial warship in the hold was loaded with advanced weapons, crewed with highly trained soldiers, the best in the fleet. Pilots of space fightercraft had climbed into cockpits; large destroyers were prepared to drop out of the carrier’s hold immediately upon arrival. This strike force would smash through any defenses Venport had managed to mount.

  One chance. Roon tightened his fist.

  The foldspace passage did not take long, but seemed to take forever. He transmitted to all ships, all soldiers. “Prepare for arrival. This will be quite a surprise.”

  The engine pitch changed, while lines and streaks of color around the spacefolder slowed in their fantastic flow.

  Roon stared ahead through the wide windowport as the carrier snapped back into normal space again. He expected to see the planet below, a defensive ring of VenHold ships taken off guard, scrambling to prepare their defense.

  Instead, the bridge deck was filled with blazing light, raging ionized gases, stellar fire. “Navigation error!” someone yelled.

  The carrier’s course was only fractionally off, a tiny mistake on a cosmic scale—but enough to drop the warship into the broiling fringes of Kolhar’s sun.

  The First Nav Officer shouted, but Vinson Roon could see nothing at all because the searing light had rendered him blind, along with everyone else on the flight deck. There was no time for further screaming or whimpering.

  Coronal loops swirled up and around; fiery convection cells churned plasma below. The foldspace carrier vaporized instantly, taking with it a hundred grand battleships.

  * * *

  ONE OF THE VenHold picket ships patrolling the Kolhar system detected a flash in the extended sensor net. Long-distance imagers caught what appeared to be a large foldspace carrier emerging in the fringes of the star, but coronal activity and the glare of radiation obscured details.

  Directeur Venport had already departed for Arrakis, leaving Cioba as manager in his absence, and she reviewed the inconclusive images. She dispatched several picket ships to patrol closer to the sun, searching for any sign of an Imperial attack force that might be hiding within the stellar glare.

  But they found nothing—no foldspace carrier, no ships, no wreckage. Nevertheless, they continued patrols and remained vigilant.

  Many primary forces influence events in the universe: physical constants, gravitational forces, the laws of thermodynamics, elemental interactions, quantum mechanics. But I have learned that there are also less quantifiable forces that are unpredictable and destructive. These forces include human emotions.

  —ERASMUS, Laboratory Journals

  Flying back to Denali from the Lampadas proof-of-concept raid, Draigo Roget scanned the domes concealed beneath the dark, poisonous atmosphere. So much brainpower down there, so many innovations, so much destructive weaponry being assembled under Directeur Venport’s patronage.

  Draigo would feel more satisfied if the cymeks had found and killed Manford Torondo. Although that had not been the full objective of the mission, it would have been a welcome accomplishment. Even so, the three monstrous walkers had caused a breathtaking amount of destruction in a limited time and then departed before any Butlerian warships could find Draigo’s shielded ship. In that regard, success was complete.

  The two cymek walkers were stored in the cargo hold, with their brain canisters detached. Two of the Navigator brains hung in silent contemplation, possibly dreaming of pathways among the stars, places they might have flown if they had become real Navigators.

  Meanwhile, Ptolemy’s brain conversed with him, providing insightful conversation. Draigo and the obsessed scientist had a great deal in common. Both wanted to defeat the Butlerian threat, although Ptolemy’s need to kill Manford Torondo and his followers was so bright and focused it was like a star that would burn out too soon.

  As their ship dropped through Denali’s swirling green-gray clouds into darkness, Ptolemy mused, “We should have stayed longer, and continued the hunt for Torondo. He is an evil man.”

  “We showed the Butlerians that they are helpless against even three of our new cymeks—and we are building a hundred more. When we launch our full attack, Lampadas is doomed.”

  “But Manford still lives.” Ptolemy sounded bitter.

  “And he will be terrified of us now.”

  The disembodied scientist seemed to take heart from that. Draigo did not mention, though, that he had run extensive Mentat projections; he was concerned that instead of making them cower in fear, this attack would undoubtedly cause Manford to take more personal security precautions, and might provoke the barbarians into even more rampant violence. The forces of sanity and reason had to be ready for it.

  Draigo landed the ship, stabilized it, and powered off the engines. Nearby, the bright blisters of habitation domes glowed in the hazy gloom. As he completed the shutdown procedures in the cockpit, automated arms lifted Ptolemy’s preservation canister and installed him in the stored cymek walker body, which was lowered through the bottom hatch. Before long, the other Navigator cymeks joined Ptolemy, and the three walkers strode across the landing field.

  Draigo extended the cumbersome connecting tube so that he could pass from the ship into the habitation domes. Through sealed windows, he watched a dozen armored walkers approach from across the landscape to meet the arrivals. Soon enough, he knew, there would be more than a hundred such warrior machines to unleash upon the Butlerian stronghold.

  Draigo entered the laboratory dome, prepared to deliver his report. All the Denali scientists shared the goal of saving humanity from the dark age that the fanatics desired. In the briefing room, Administrator Noffe’s brain canister rested on a stand, connected to observation apparatus. The Erasmus memory core waited inside a small display case outfitted with external sensors so that he could see and hear. Lovely Anna Corrino, anxious to be part of any decision or debate that involved Erasmus, remained close to the gelsphere, as if to guard it with her life. Two Tlulaxa biological researchers were already present. Immediately behind Draigo, a whirring cart rolled in, carrying Ptolemy’s brain canister, now disengaged from his cymek body outside the dome.

  Draigo shook his head slightly as he looked at the group: a robot memory core, a pair of cymek brain canisters, exiled biological researchers, and a mentally damaged woman. What a bizarre and unorthodox audience this was! But they were all fighting against the same enemy that threatened the future of civilization.

  Draigo proudly presented his report, playing images of the Lampadas strike and the havoc recorded by the three cymek marauders. “Our attack was quite effective. The Butlerians will remember this night for some time to come.”

  “Total assessment of damage?” asked Administrator Noffe from his tank.

  “Seventy-eight dwellings and nine commerci
al buildings destroyed, with another thirty-seven homes burning at the time the cymeks withdrew. Eight hundred sixty-two confirmed fatalities—primarily bystanders, collateral damage.”

  “Not collateral damage!” Ptolemy protested. “They were all targets.”

  “And Manford Torondo?” asked Erasmus. “Is he dead? Finally?”

  “Manford is an evil man,” said Anna Corrino.

  Draigo delivered the disappointing news. “We destroyed his cottage, but were unable to locate him. He escaped, and in that technological wasteland we had no means of tracking his whereabouts.”

  “You couldn’t find a legless man?” asked Noffe.

  Ptolemy added defensively, “We should return to Lampadas immediately with a larger force. Primitive Butlerian weapons are no match for our cymek bodies—we just proved that, so the people there pose no threat. We can scour the entire planet and make sure he is killed.”

  Erasmus spoke in a coolly reserved voice, “That is not likely the most efficient means of destroying the Butlerian leader.”

  Ptolemy seemed agitated. “Manford Torondo has caused all of us too much pain. We have more than a dozen cymeks ready to go and countless more in the final stages. Why wait?”

  Draigo narrowed his gaze, calculating. “We all know why you hate Manford so much, Ptolemy. I hate him as well. He executed my Headmaster, and I saw firsthand what he did to the Mentat School. I will never forgive him for that.”

  The Erasmus core throbbed with pale blue light. “I have been analyzing my experiences and … my feelings about the execution of Gilbertus ever since we escaped from Lampadas. I believe I now understand what a human parent feels upon the loss of a child, because Gilbertus Albans was in effect my son. I am also beginning to understand revenge and hatred as more than just theoretical concepts. It has been a most disturbing, but enlightening experience.” Anna hovered over the gelsphere, adjusted his sensors. The robot core continued, “I can help you design new weapons. I will ensure we have the means to eradicate that man we all despise.”

  Anna moved about the chamber, fidgeting with her hands. Her gaze flicked back and forth in agitation, as if she wanted to hide. “So much hatred!”

  “Yes,” Draigo said with a firm nod. “And we shall put it to good use.”

  An injury to a man’s pride may inflict more pain than a wound to his body.

  —HEADMASTER GILBERTUS ALBANS, Mentat axiom

  Though badly shaken by the cymek attack that had nearly killed him, Manford Torondo took advantage of the aftermath. He had never seen such an infusion of energy as when his outraged followers howled for revenge. Human energy. And he could use that.

  In a blood-red dawn following the attack, the stunned Butlerians worked together with shovels and bucket brigades to extinguish the spreading fires. Manford’s faithful rescued the injured and gathered the bodies of the slain. One crew recovered the mangled remains of Sister Woodra and gave her a proper burial, which Manford supervised.

  As more reports streamed in, Manford struggled with disbelief. This was his home on Lampadas, his stronghold and sanctuary! He hadn’t felt so vulnerable since an assassin in Arrakis City had shot one of his body doubles. God had protected him then—as He had done again during this cymek assault. Manford’s current body double, a legless man with features similar to his own, waited to perform the same duty, if called upon. But there had been no time during the cymek attack.

  In his office in the heart of the city, Manford was trembling as he listened to the damage and casualty summaries delivered by his deputy, Deacon Harian. The bald deacon was a perfect follower, willing to do anything for the Butlerian movement without remorse or hesitation. Incensed by the cymek attack, Harian had been like a cocked, spring-fired weapon waiting to be released.

  Even before the fires were extinguished, Harian shouted, “We must retaliate, Leader Torondo! Let me take our ships to Kolhar immediately to hit Venport. We will attack the heart of his stronghold, just as he struck us.”

  Manford considered this, then refused. “That is exactly how our enemy will expect us to respond: Last night’s attack may have been meant to provoke us. The Directeur will have defenses we cannot break through. Even the Emperor is afraid to strike him on Kolhar.”

  “Our holy army is stronger and more dedicated than the Imperial forces,” Harian insisted. “Our followers are willing to die for you. Give us the order, beloved Leader. We will destroy that monster, whatever the cost.”

  “You will all die in the attempt,” Manford said.

  Harian lifted his chin. “Then we will all become martyrs.”

  Manford knew the value of martyrs, but he still shook his head as he sat propped up behind his desk. “That would be a reckless waste of lives.” How he longed to unleash these people, to throw them at the enemy by the hundreds of thousands, by the millions—but Directeur Venport also had fighters, as well as advanced weapons and warships, and Manford didn’t wish to squander his people that way. “We will strike at a time of my choosing—when we are fully assured of victory. We will not be drawn into a trap.”

  As word of the cowardly cymek attack spread across Lampadas, more Butlerians came to Empok. Deacon Harian dispatched messages across the Imperium to other Butlerian-held planets, spreading and exaggerating the news, which would arouse countless more followers—and, in so doing, would strengthen the Butlerian movement.

  Josef Venport had made a grave mistake by attacking here.

  Manford kept his public reaction hard and cold, not allowing even Anari Idaho to see how much the disaster affected him. Not only had Venport struck him here—here on Lampadas!—the man had used cymek nightmares from the past. Venport no longer even bothered to hide his alliance with the thinking machines. The collusion was right there for all to see. Manford had hated Josef Venport for a long time, but this appalled him.

  Overly protective now, Anari refused to let him out of her sight. The Swordmaster had not slept in two days. Her face looked haggard, her eyes shadowed; she carried her sword, ready to face an army of cymeks single-handedly. She had always vowed to lay down her life for his, but the giant walkers proved that even she wasn’t equipped to defend him.

  “This is a blessing. We have been shown that we are not sufficiently prepared,” she said. Her stony façade did not completely cover her fear, and Manford knew her well enough to see it. “We survived, and now we can reassess our defenses on Lampadas. Our people are not strong enough to fight those machine monsters—and Venport will send more of them against us. This time it was three; next time it could be thirty, or three hundred.”

  Manford clung to what he knew was true. “Don’t underestimate us, either, Anari. Our followers have a weapon that Venport cannot comprehend.” He gestured for her to strap on the harness so he could ride on her shoulders. “Come outside. Let me show you.” She did as he instructed.

  He had called a rally to reassure his followers, and throngs filled the city, countless people swarming into the open spaces in Empok. Now, as Anari carried him out of the office building and down the street to the raised speaking platform, he drank in the vast, astonishing, and intimidating sea of faces. Riding tall on her shoulders, he felt strength and confidence swell within her.

  When the Butlerians spotted him, the roar sounded loud enough to crack the sky. Anari had to anchor herself against the outcry—jubilation that Manford had survived, mixed with outrage at what their enemy had dared. Manford allowed himself a smile, knowing he could channel the people’s energy with a single word, a slight gesture. At his slightest whim, the Butlerians could become a devastating army, and he just needed to aim them properly.

  As he and Anari stood on the platform at the center of the storm of cheers, Manford no longer felt weak; he felt invincible. When the waves of applause went on and on, he leaned down, placed his lips close to Anari’s ear. “This is what Venport doesn’t understand—what he and his machine lovers will never have. The love these people have for me is real; it is not artificial.�
��

  He raised his hands to call for silence, and the noise faded away like a rumbling, diminishing thunderstorm. Manford had not planned this speech ahead of time, but the words came anyway. He knew what his people needed to hear, and inspiration did not fail him now.

  We live in a legendary time. History will prove this.

  —RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL, founding Mother Superior of the Sisterhood

  Proud, determined, and fully in control of the Sisterhood, Valya gazed across the women she had summoned to the central grounds of the school complex. Reverend Mothers, Sisters, and young Acolytes all waited to hear her in the chill morning air, standing at attention on an expanse of brittle, blue-green grass. Clouds gathered overhead, threatening snow rather than rain, and the women struggled not to shiver.

  Valya stood on a mound, waiting for a male technician to finish adjusting the voice-amplification equipment. Though the Sisterhood trained only women, the school complex hired offworld men to work on construction, maintenance, and low-skill technical duties.

  The exercise field was encircled by prefabricated buildings with pitched metal roofs, structures provided by Josef Venport when he had transported the women here after their exile from Rossak. Lately, workmen had been upgrading the prefab buildings. With added insulation and reinforced walls, the buildings were acceptable, though sterile and utilitarian. Valya wanted to keep them as a reminder of the Sisterhood’s hard times, when they were in the depths of despair and barely hanging on. Those times were in the past, now that she was Mother Superior. The Sisterhood no longer needed to rely on a generous benefactor.

  On the opposite side of the field, a pair of three-story buildings with sturdy stone walls and red tile roofs were under construction—imposing, permanent structures, because Valya intended her Sisterhood to last for millennia. The school was one of many projects in her long-term plan, one that included not only the expansion of the order, but the redemption of her own family. For Valya, the two were not mutually exclusive. She fully intended to achieve both.