Navigators of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  “And they are perfectly content. I have no wish to draw them into Imperial politics. But one descendant from my Caladan line—a young man named Willem—has become especially important to me. Right now he is on Chusuk recovering from injuries, but I would like to arrange a place for him on Salusa Secundus. Give him a chance, Sire. He’s intelligent and pleasant, but he has suffered recent tragedies, partly because of me, and I’d like to make it up to him. I can deposit all the funds he needs to support himself, if you can find an opportunity for him at court? A respectable spot among the new arrivals?”

  Roderick seemed relieved that the request was not far more significant. He gave a quick wave. “I can’t remember the last time I had a problem so easily solved. Of course I grant your most reasonable request. The Imperium owes you much more than that, and my court could certainly use the qualities of an Atreides.”

  Vor thanked him. The inspection flyer completed its circuit as they looked down at the flooded areas, the recovery crews, the temporary shelters, the large refugee towns. Roderick smiled wistfully, as if thinking of Haditha down there in the thick of the efforts.

  When the craft finally headed back to Zimia, Roderick said, “I will dispatch more resources, so Haditha has everything she needs. In fact, if the Butlerians won’t help, maybe I should command some of the nobles to join the effort.”

  Vor smiled. “With the Butlerians I suspect you may be inviting more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “Many things are more trouble than they’re worth.” Roderick looked intently at him. “The Butlerians … Josef Venport—how would you deal with two extremes pulling my Imperium apart? If you were Emperor?”

  Vor sat back, smiled thinly. “That is precisely why I never wanted to be Emperor, Sire.”

  The Emperor’s shoulders fell slightly. “Manford Torondo and his followers are dangerous and destructive, yet they did save me from Venport’s siege. But now they won’t leave. Under other circumstances, I would ally myself with Venport Holdings, but that man murdered my brother and tried to overthrow my throne.” He shook his head. “Haditha wants me to negotiate with him, but how can I try to reach a resolution with someone like that? A murderer on one hand and a madman on the other.”

  Vor frowned. “Negotiations are often conducted between rivals. Which solution holds the best future for the Imperium?”

  “The solution that eliminates both extremes.”

  As the aircraft returned to the rooftop landing zone, the Emperor reiterated his promise to make a place for Willem. “Will you be here to introduce young Willem when he arrives? It would increase his standing if a Hero of the Jihad vouched for him in front of the other nobles and courtiers.”

  Vor did not look at the unobtrusive Truthsayer, but was aware that the woman was listening intently. “I’m afraid not, Sire. I doubt if I will ever see Willem again, in fact. I am about to undertake a dangerous mission, one that I must handle alone.” But Vor’s plan to lure the murderess, and perhaps her sister as well, all depended on whether Truthsayer Fielle reported to Mother Superior Valya … and he felt certain she would.

  “I need to go where the Harkonnens won’t find me. I’m sure you will understand, Sire, that I cannot discuss details even with you. I must vanish.”

  “You’ve earned the privilege,” Emperor Roderick said. “I wish you all the best.”

  Eventually, Vor would reveal his destination, but not in the manner anyone would expect, and not until the proper time. Secretly, he had hired two operatives to plant a rumor after his departure that he was on Corrin, when he was assured of already being there. Knowing that Fielle had Sisters in the palace and in the government buildings, he had set it up so that the rumor would begin in the Imperial Court, and from that talkative throng it would spread outward, so that Fielle would be sure to hear it.

  And as soon as the Emperor’s Truthsayer learned of the rumor, Valya Harkonnen would be informed soon afterward.

  Vor would be ready.…

  It is not wise to beg some people for mercy. It only makes them less likely to grant it.

  —“The Personality of a Madman,” critical article against Manford Torondo, redacted

  In his pavilion among the encamped Butlerians in the central plaza, Manford Torondo used his muscular arms to pull himself off his sleeping pallet. The night was still dark around him. If he pressed the issue, he was sure he could have forced the Emperor to grant him opulent visitor’s quarters in the Palace, but Manford was among his people out here. He could sense their energy all around him, their wild enthusiasm, their absolute devotion to him.

  And soon he would call them to action.

  Even with so many thousands of his followers crowded together, Manford felt alone now that Anari Idaho was gone. Following Manford’s command, she had traveled with Lord Udorum Pondi in a Butlerian spacefolder, to inspect and quietly retrieve the secret atomics from his planet. When she came back with the unexpected treasure, Manford knew exactly what he was going to do with it.

  In the meantime, though, he felt incomplete without her.

  Although he could have summoned hundreds of eager helpers, Manford was capable of getting around on his own. He slid onto a custom mobile chair that his aides had placed here for him. Rolling the chair forward, he parted the pavilion curtains and looked out into the starry Salusan night. The capital city blazed and bustled even in the hours before dawn, but most of his followers were quietly asleep in the camp.

  Around him Manford could see the Imperial gardens, coiffed trees and colorful flowers, statues of Jihad heroes lining the wide main path. Manford respected those champions who fought against the thinking machines. If only he could have been alive in those glorious days, when the enemies of humanity had been obvious to all.…

  At the head of the plaza, far more prominent even than the statue of Emperor Faykan Corrino, towered the Three Martyrs—the most important icons of humanity’s freedom: the religious leader Iblis Ginjo, Serena Butler, and her martyred child, the baby whose murder had sparked the entire war.

  Looking at those legendary figures, Manford recalled the many planets his Butlerian followers had stormed. So many populations were yet to be saved from their own temptations, and Manford would press and press until they capitulated. For their own good.

  As soon as Josef Venport was disposed of—oh, Manford could not wait to use his unexpected stockpile of atomics!—the rest of the Imperium would fall neatly in line. Then his sacred work would finally be done.

  Along with Anari, Manford’s most trusted military advisers were developing plans to smash Kolhar. He was certain that Emperor Roderick would be delighted to hear of this, and would give his blessing, no doubt secretly hoping the Butlerians would be decimated as well. Roderick Corrino’s true feelings were not well concealed.

  Manford had decided that the Emperor didn’t need to know about the forbidden atomics. Roderick’s approval was not necessary.

  But Manford also had to convince the Emperor to ease the resentment he and his family felt toward the Butlerians. At least his Truthsayer had verified that Manford was innocent in the matter of Anna Corrino, but Roderick would still not forgive him for the accidental death of his young daughter.

  But that would change very soon. Manford had concocted a way to honor little Nantha, something that the Imperial family would appreciate.

  The Butlerian leader remained awake and alert for hours, enjoying the quiet peace of his own convictions while his hordes of followers slept. Inside the pavilion, without Anari to scold him, he surreptitiously reread parts of the Erasmus journals that he kept hidden. After he finished, he locked away the volumes again, then watched the dawn light suffuse the sky.…

  Deacon Harian entered his pavilion with a breakfast tray and Manford’s favorite pungent tea. The bald man was surprised to see Manford up. “Are you troubled? Did you get enough sleep?”

  “Enough. I am just anxious for our unveiling today. The Emperor will be so pleased.”

  Harian
frowned. “Will he?”

  “He’d better.”

  As the camp stirred and people emerged, Manford sent out a crier to call for the Emperor’s attention. Imperial guards emerged from the Palace, looked curiously at the activity, and retreated inside, no doubt to report to Roderick.

  Manford relaxed and finished his tea. Harian had already rallied the dozen burly followers he would take with him.

  Out in the sculpture gardens, a team of Butlerian workers struggled on the main path, carrying two heavy loads that were covered in scarlet and gold cloths. Manford smiled to himself. Roderick Corrino and his wife would be thrilled when they saw the extraordinary gift he had commissioned from his artisans, as a gesture of peace.

  Curious gardeners, site functionaries, and half a dozen Imperial guards hurried to stop Manford’s followers, but the workers moved forward anyway to deposit their enormous burdens, paying the guards no heed. The encamped Butlerian followers drew together.

  Manford called for attendants to carry his chair up to a raised platform, from which he had a good vantage of the sculpture garden. He looked up at the Palace balcony, waiting for Roderick to emerge.

  In a gruff voice, Deacon Harian commanded the work teams, guiding them as they erected one of the heavy objects beside the Three Martyrs. They removed the covering cloth to reveal a sturdy block of carved stone. A pedestal. Using serviceable pulleys and a great deal of sweat and straining, the workers wrestled the stand into position. Manford’s stoneworkers had cut the pieces to fit tightly against the existing monument, because this new statue definitely belonged beside the Three Martyrs.

  By the time the stone pedestal was in place, Emperor Roderick emerged on the high balcony, joined by Haditha, who had returned from the flood zone. Normally, his appearance would have been greeted with cheers, but today the people in the plaza were intent on the activity below.

  Manford signaled, and Harian directed his helpers to position the second, much larger object, using an intricate network of ropes and pulleys and twenty muscular workers. Somehow, the concealing fabric remained in place; Manford did not want the Emperor and Empress to see the glorious object … not yet.

  When the pieces were in place, Harian turned back, waiting for the final signal. Manford glanced at the Palace balcony. Emperor Roderick was not smiling, but that would soon change.

  One of the Butlerians raised a long trumpet to his lips, and four others joined him in a stirring fanfare from the glorious Jihad. When the music faded, Manford spoke into a concealed voice amplifier, so that his words boomed out. “When tragedy occurs, those responsible must acknowledge it and atone. Let us always remember those who gave their lives for a more perfect world.” He raised his hands. “Emperor Roderick Corrino and Empress Haditha, please accept this gift from me and my followers. With your help, we will keep humanity safe for the future and preserve our sacred, collective soul. ‘The mind of man is holy.’”

  In a roaring response, his thousands of followers intoned, “‘The mind of man is holy.’”

  Manford was brimming with so much emotion that he had to blink back the tears. He felt hope, pride, and deep satisfaction.

  At his signal, the workers pulled away the concealing fabric to reveal an impressive new statue of a young girl in a royal dress and the tiara of a princess of the realm. Her face was achingly sweet and innocent. “There have been many martyrs in our struggle, but this one we must never forget. Together, we acknowledge and revere your beautiful fallen daughter Nantha Corrino!”

  The crowd burst out in resounding applause, and Manford felt proud of what he had done.

  On the high balcony of the Palace, Roderick stood like a statue himself, while Haditha grabbed his arm for balance as she reeled. Manford knew she must be overcome with love and appreciation.

  This was his best way to show remorse for what had happened to the helpless girl, who had been caught in a Butlerian rampage festival. This grand gesture would make everything right.

  From the balcony the Emperor stared, rendered speechless—presumably with gratitude. He held his wife as the other children joined them on the balcony to see what the fuss was about.

  Throngs of people were streaming toward the gardens from all sides to view the new statue in its place beside Iblis, Serena, and baby Manion. Manford shouted into the voice amplifier, “Let there be Four Martyrs now! We will erect similar statues to little Nantha across the Imperium, so that everyone can know of the innocent blood that was spilled to save the soul of humanity. Nantha Corrino will live forever in the hearts of all good people.”

  The Emperor and Empress pulled their children back inside from the balcony, and Manford watched them, puzzled by their strange and unexpected reaction. But it didn’t really matter, because his followers had already picked up the celebration. They would mark this day with the importance it deserved.

  * * *

  AFTER THEY STAGGERED back inside, holding each other, Roderick and Haditha slumped onto an antique Gustavian bench. They could still hear the maddening cheers outside. Roderick tried to be strong as he held his wife, but he trembled as much as she did.

  Prince Javicco was distressed and confused. “Why would he make a statue of Nantha? Didn’t that man kill her?”

  “Yes, Javicco,” Roderick said. “He killed your sister … and now he thinks this will make us forget.”

  Haditha wept quietly, pressing her face against the side of his neck. The other children gathered around the bench. Of his own initiative, young Javicco closed the balcony door, but they could still hear the mobs celebrating … mobs just like the one that had killed Nantha.

  Their daughter represented only one drop of all the innocent blood the fanatics had spilled, and Manford Torondo had made a terrible mistake by reopening that wound.

  Worse, the damned Butlerian leader had placed the Emperor in an untenable position. Roderick could hardly demand that the statue of his daughter be removed. Yet each time he looked out from his balcony, he would see the larger-than-life stone figure of his little girl, a constant and painful reminder of their loss. Did Manford think that would make the pain go away?

  As Haditha continued her quiet sobbing, Roderick struggled with how to respond to this debacle. He couldn’t refuse to acknowledge the statue, but he couldn’t embrace the vile Butlerian leader over it, either. In every direction, more and more damage was being done.

  Finally, he rose to his feet and took his wife’s hand, both of them heartbroken as he kissed her gently. The taste of salt tears was on her lips. “I will destroy him,” Roderick said. “This I swear to you.”

  She nodded. They both knew that Roderick couldn’t just evict Manford and his followers from Zimia or the potentially violent mobs would turn on him, even in the capital city. When the Butlerians had saved the planet from the VenHold siege, Roderick had unwittingly fallen into a partnership with the fanatics.

  But the Emperor had to be stronger than all the others.

  “Your brother allowed the Butlerians to dictate his decisions,” Haditha said, “and he let Josef Venport expand his power base far beyond that of anyone else in the Imperium. But you’re a more skilled Emperor than Salvador ever was.” She squeezed his hand. “You should have been born first.”

  Even though he knew this was true, he would not admit it. “My darling, the universe does not function on wishes. I need to rule with what I have.” He went over to the closed balcony doors while Haditha gathered Javicco and the girls. “I will find a way to have the statue moved, so that we aren’t forced to see it every day. I don’t want to remember Nantha that way.”

  “Announce that you will move it to a more public place,” Haditha suggested. “We can form a school in our daughter’s honor, and the statue can be a monument in front.”

  Roderick smiled at the possibility. “I knew you would find a way, my love.”

  His thoughts wandered into regrets. If he had forced the issue earlier and convinced Salvador to abdicate, maybe he could have kept the Bu
tlerians from mayhem. Then the riots would not have happened, and Nantha would not have been killed. Nor would the millions of other innocents who fell victim to Butlerian purges on so many planets. But that was all hindsight.

  The universe does not function on wishes.

  With the exception of independent robots such as myself, thinking machines do as they are programmed to do, which makes them efficient and predictable. Human beings often require additional incentive. I am investigating the concept of gratitude.

  —ERASMUS, New Laboratory Journals

  Ready to finish preparations for the Lampadas attack, Draigo returned to Denali with many responsibilities—projections to follow, prototypes to study and evaluate. He would ensure that all was ready when Directeur Venport gave the word.

  For convenience he had moved into Noffe’s old office, which the Tlulaxa administrator no longer needed since becoming a cymek. Although most of the projections were already in his mind, he reviewed Ptolemy’s plans and concurred with the details. The well-armed ships of the VenHold Spacing Fleet and the big army of new cymeks should easily be sufficient to overrun the enemy. The barbarian fleet was old but nevertheless impressive, and after the siege of Salusa, they would no doubt feel cocky and overconfident.

  Josef Venport was also overconfident, however, and Draigo needed to make certain the numbers added up.

  Walking with unsteady steps, like a newborn animal trying to acquire a sense of balance, Erasmus arrived at the door hatch of Noffe’s former office, leaning heavily all the way on Anna Corrino’s arm. She held him up more than seemed absolutely necessary. He was still learning the precise functionality of his new body. “I must speak with you, Mentat. I have something to offer.”

  Anna nodded, as if extremely proud of him.

  Since the cells from Erasmus’s clone body had originated from Headmaster Albans, the features naturally looked familiar to Draigo, and he could not suppress an uncomfortable shiver. But this body, animated by the robot’s mind, had an entirely different affect. The man might look very similar to Headmaster Albans, but they were not at all the same person.