Navigators of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  “You’re talking about surrender,” Josef said.

  “I believe it is the only option. The question you must answer, Directeur, is whether or not you wish to be taken alive.” It was a flat, cool statement, but Draigo’s intent eyes burned into his.

  “I am not going to kill myself, Mentat. That would be an admission of complete failure.”

  “Such was my guess, sir, yet I regret to inform you that I have no reasonable projection in which Emperor Roderick allows you to live. The timing of your death may be the only part that is in your control.”

  Ice ran down Josef’s spine. “Go, Mentat—make your best deal. Save yourself and save something of my legacy … maybe the human race can use it after all, my innovation, my business models. You are an excellent negotiator.” He took a breath. “I thank you for your years of service.”

  With a brisk nod, Draigo left the admin chamber. Josef sealed the door behind him, although the lock would never withstand a concerted effort to break through. Silent and alone, he sat at Noffe’s old desk knowing this was the last remnant of his vast planetary commercial empire. He had been squeezed down to this, trapped and cornered.

  He heard pounding on the barricaded metal hatch of the office, and the hiss of thermal cutters as they began to burn through the sealed lock.

  His stomach clenched, and thunderous possibilities clamored around his head. He couldn’t think of any other way out, but knew these Imperial soldiers would capture him, and he would be disgraced, every last vestige of his legacy destroyed.

  And after all that, Roderick would put him to death, undoubtedly with a big celebratory event in the main square of Zimia.

  The barricaded office door began to collapse, glowing red, metal dripping down the wall. His mind started to go blank. The end was near, and he had nowhere to run. His entire future and past had focused down to this one moment.

  Suddenly, Norma Cenva’s tank appeared in the chamber, crushing the chair that had only recently held Draigo Roget. The armored vault knocked aside the furniture, collapsed a shelf in the small office.

  Josef showed no surprise or fear to see her there, did not even rise from his chair. He merely glared at her, his heart as heavy as stone. She had already shattered his last hope—what more did she want of him? To gloat? To explain herself in hopes that he would forgive her?

  His voice projected the deep weariness and disappointment he felt. “I did not believe you would ever do it, Grandmother, but you destroyed me.”

  His heart ached as he longed to see his beautiful wife once more, but he knew that was not possible. No, he was deluding himself. He had nothing, at least nothing that could save him. Neither his money nor his spice could do it.

  Now, for the first time, he finally felt defeated, with no way out. “I thought we shared a common dream,” he said to her. “I gave you everything you needed, I fought to pave a clear future for human civilization, to save the Imperium … and instead of defending me to the last, you betrayed me.” He smiled grimly. “You threw me to the Corrino lions.”

  Norma’s swollen head came close to the observation windowport. “I have not destroyed you, Josef, nor have I abandoned you. My prescience showed me possible paths of failure, but I chose the one that would save my Navigators … and you.”

  “You’re going to save me? Where will you take me, to Arrakis?” He lurched to his feet as he heard the clamor continuing through the connected laboratory domes. The cutting tools had almost opened the door. “You’d better be quick about it. This complex is overrun. Emperor Roderick will execute me. His soldiers will be here any moment, and his torturers will not be far behind.”

  Her voice was maddeningly steady. “There is no place in the universe for you to hide. No, I have a different solution.”

  “What are you saying?” He looked at the door, saw it caving in, heard the shouts of soldiers on the other side. “We’re running out of time!”

  Her voice came back to him as distant words, painfully slow. “Emperor Roderick made a solemn promise that he would protect all of my Navigators, that they would not be harmed. A new Spacing Guild is to be formed. The universe is ours.”

  “Good for you,” Josef said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “You got what you wanted. How does that help me?”

  “It is a significant loophole. Emperor Roderick gave me his word. It is for the best.” Spice gas vented from her tank, and a small hatch on the side disengaged from its seals. “You must become a Navigator, Josef.”

  We must understand evil if we are to fight it, but only evil can truly understand evil. That is the quandary our souls must face.

  —ANARI IDAHO, new leader of the Butlerian movement

  In the ruins of Empok, the surviving Butlerians began to pick up the pieces so they could rebuild, although it seemed an impossible task. Anari Idaho quickly silenced any expressions of hopelessness or despair, however. Her voice was harsh, her face stern as she bellowed to the throngs, “Challenges strengthen us. Our great Leader Torondo would never have given up! Every breath spent complaining is a breath that should be devoted to work. We have much to rebuild here—so rebuild!”

  Imperial teams came to Lampadas bearing supplies and workers, but Anari saw them for what they were: watchdogs, spies, and controllers. They meant to bottle up the movement on this planet. Her Butlerians were forced to tolerate the intrusion … for now. Until they grew stronger.

  By order of the Emperor, the fallen cymek walkers were turned into monuments, optimistic declarations that the strength of the human spirit—the power of bare hands and complete faith—was sufficient to bring down even titanic nightmares. The cymek preservation canisters had been smashed, and remnants of the evil disembodied brains had been stomped into organic pulp; all else was burned so that no vile residue could contaminate the faithful.

  Even defeated, though, these ominous wrecks made Anari shudder whenever she looked at them. Some Butlerians wanted to dump the components in the swamps near the Mentat School, but as much as she loathed what the machine monsters represented, she refused to do that. On this her feelings ran parallel with those of Emperor Roderick. From her standpoint, it was important for every Butlerian to see them and remember the horrors of unchecked technology … a message that humans must never become lax in their vigilance.

  The Imperial reconstruction crews worked at cross-purposes with the natives, razing the remnants of the old city. By strict Imperial command, the Butlerian mourners were forbidden to erect a monument at the site where Manford had fallen. Despite the increasing wails of grief from the people, the soldiers stood firm and drove off any protesters. Anari was offended, but could see no way to win that fight. Not yet. So she changed the rules and announced to the faithful, “Manford is not a place. He lives in my heart and everywhere, and all of you feel the same. Our monument for Manford is within our hearts, in the memories we hold of him.”

  While heavy Imperial machinery crushed the damaged buildings, covered up mass graves where countless lesser martyrs were laid to rest, and paved over portions of the Empok battleground, Anari led a group of the faithful to the battered warrior form that had been the Ptolemy cymek, the monster that had murdered Manford. Using simple tools, they disengaged one of the pincer claw-hands, still marked with Manford’s blood. Holy blood.

  Under cover of darkness, Anari had the grim relic smuggled back to Butlerian headquarters, where it sat, unwashed, for all to see. The dried bloodstains were a simple reminder of painful but necessary sacrifices, and she did not let them forget that Manford Torondo was only one of half a million martyrs who had fallen on that horrific day.

  Inside the headquarters building, the morning air was filled with the loud and chaotic sounds of construction work. Heavy haulers and small hand wagons carted away the residue of shattered buildings, thousands of tons of rubble. By Emperor Roderick’s order, they would build a new, simpler city.

  Because of the numerous threats against his life, Manford had always kept a body
double who could make public appearances in his stead. On that terrible day when the cymeks attacked Empok, Manford had refused to let the double serve his destiny, and now Anari resented this man who looked so much like Leader Torondo; he had failed utterly, for he remained alive while Manford was dead.

  Anari had failed in the same way.

  Now, the body double seemed too eager to fulfill his role again, and to broaden it. “I can become a new Manford Torondo,” he insisted. “Stronger than ever. The people will know I’ve returned. They will believe in me.”

  “Only the gullible ones will. It’s not a good idea.”

  He had come to her in Manford’s old administration offices—her offices now. She was annoyed that he had allowed himself to be seen, since the double’s very existence had always been a carefully kept secret. Seeing him had caused a few ecstatic and terrified followers to claim that Leader Torondo’s ghost had returned to guide them, a spirit from beyond who could offer the truth and wisdom that the Butlerians sorely needed right now.

  Anari angrily dispatched her own people to quash the rumors. She closed the curtains in the offices so that others could not glimpse him now.

  Propped up on cushions, seated like Manford in a chair designed to accommodate his legless form, the double looked at Anari with a fiery determination in his eyes. She didn’t know his original name, but his name didn’t really matter. He had pretended to be Manford for so long that without his physical resemblance to the charismatic leader, he was nothing.

  Deacon Harian—his forehead bandaged from a severe wound, and one eye blinded from the acid mists sprayed by the cymeks, his arm in a sling—was also in the office. Though he was just as determined to do something significant in the aftermath, he looked uneasily at the double. Anari would have to make the necessary decision, and she was perfectly willing to do so.

  The surrogate said, “We have an opportunity now. You need me!” His voice sounded strident. “I will make the Butlerians strong.”

  She looked at him closely, but his face was wrong. Yes, the features were similar, but this was not Manford. Anari knew the real Manford more intimately than any other person, and this ambitious creature was a far cry from the man he resembled.

  “You can use me,” said the double, and now his voice took on a whining edge. “As Manford Torondo, I will lead the Butlerians back to prominence, and we will be stronger than ever.”

  “Your role was to appear to be Manford Torondo.” Anari hardened her voice. “But you are not Manford. You were chosen for similarity of features and for your willingness to sacrifice part of your body, not because of any skill or charisma you possess.”

  Angry now, she stepped around the furniture that had once been Manford’s. She kept her long sword lying across the surface of the desk so she would never forget who she really was. “We do not need you. Your appearance would only cause confusion and raise questions.”

  “I should have been there to die for him, I know that,” mumbled the duplicate. “I tried, but Manford wouldn’t let me. He ordered me to stay away.”

  Anari reminded herself that Manford’s spirit carried on inside her, as well as inside his most loyal followers. That would have to be sufficient.

  The look-alike’s burning ambition disturbed her. It had been difficult enough to cover up and salvage the truth after so many witnesses in Arrakis City saw an earlier “Manford” shot in the head with a projectile pistol. Now, convincing the mass of followers that Leader Torondo still lived was impossible, since countless thousands had watched the real Manford ripped to pieces by the demon cymek.

  “The Butlerians will move forward under my leadership,” Anari said. “I will guide them myself, because I understand what Manford would have wanted. I know his true goals.” She had never wanted to lead the movement, but perhaps not wanting it was a criterion for the task. Anyone who desired a position of such great power might not be worthy to have it.

  The look-alike had a stubborn streak. “But I am trained! I am perfect for the job.”

  Anari corrected him. “You were taught how to read scripts. That is all.”

  “Don’t you see?” the look-alike said. “We can say it was a body double torn apart by the cymek, not the real Manford! I’ll become the real Manford!”

  “It’s not going to happen,” she said, glowering at him.

  With his one good eye, Deacon Harian regarded her, drank in the conversation, and saw where it was going. He gave her a slight nod.

  The double continued, openly whining now. “But I made so many sacrifices. I gave everything I had to the movement, even agreed to have my legs amputated.”

  “Yes,” Anari agreed, and picked up her sword. “And now you must make one more sacrifice. You are no longer needed.” She strode closer to him and raised the blade.

  He looked at her with terrified eyes and tried to scramble away, but without his legs he was not nearly as nimble as Manford had been.

  Just as she swung the blade in a classic arc, she looked at the man’s face and felt a disquieting shiver of recognition, for it almost seemed as if she were killing Manford. But Anari had already been responsible for his death once, and this man was just a pale, irritating imitation.

  Her sword cleanly sliced off the duplicate’s head, just as she had decapitated Headmaster Albans in front of the Mentat School. She took no great satisfaction in the task. With Manford dead and an empty hole in her soul, Anari doubted if she would ever feel real satisfaction again.

  Still, she had to perform her duty for the human race, in Manford’s memory.

  Deacon Harian stood, accepting her decision. “Yes, it is better if you become the face of the Butlerians now. They don’t need any further confusion.”

  She called in the bearers who had carried the legless man into the office and told them to take away the garbage. Deacon Harian followed them out. He gave her a quick glance, and Anari read his expression, knowing he would take care of the bearers as well, removing the last witnesses.

  Yes, it was time to move on.

  Manford had left her with a very heavy burden. She felt uncomfortable occupying this place that had been his sanctuary after the initial cymek attack killed Sister Woodra and destroyed his cottage. She didn’t feel right usurping everything that had been Leader Torondo’s, but she had to do it for the sake of the movement, for the sake of Manford and Rayna. If she didn’t do this, the Butlerians would fall apart, and the efforts of those great and inspirational leaders would have been for naught.

  Their space fleet had been almost completely destroyed in the battle, and the remaining ships had been seized by Emperor Roderick for his own fight against Directeur Venport. Anari suspected the Butlerians would never get their warships back again. Without access to space transportation, she and all of Manford’s followers were mostly stranded on Lampadas, but that was fine for now. They could rebuild here and grow stronger … no matter how long it took.

  Though she did not fully understand such things, she’d been told that Roderick had confiscated Butlerian financial assets on other planets to add to the Imperial coffers, claiming the movement’s money as repayment of the debt incurred by this horrific war. These followers had already given everything of themselves, and hundreds of thousands had sacrificed their lives in the last battle.

  Money was the least of their concerns, though. They would persevere. With massive numbers, they would persevere.

  Alone in the haunted office, Anari began to look around, and discovered that one of the cabinets by Manford’s desk was locked. She was aware he had kept secrets, but she knew what those secrets were anyway. And she realized what must be inside that cabinet. Her pulse quickened.

  She used a tool to break the lock and pry open the cabinet door. Inside, she found three thick books that had long ago been taken from the devastated ruins of Corrin … laboratory journals written by the vile robot Erasmus.

  Her skin crawled. She touched the top volume and quickly withdrew her fingers as if burned. B
ut the journal called out to her like a hypnotic serpent, and she took it out and placed it on the desk. This book was evil, filled with poisonous thoughts. Part of her knew that she should immediately burn all three volumes, destroying those words so that the insidious writings would be erased forever.

  But she paused, weighed down by confusion and doubt. Anari knew that Manford had secretly read these books. He had pored over them when he locked himself in his room, believing that Anari did not know. But she kept such a close watch on her beloved leader that very little escaped her notice.

  Manford had found something worthwhile in these dangerous writings, something important. He had once told Anari that he intended to understand the evil of the oppressors of humanity.

  She opened the first volume and began to read, finding dark chronicles of violent experiments, tortures of captive humans, psychological manipulations, all part of the robot’s attempt to comprehend human emotions and motivations, although a demon could never grasp the human soul.

  Anari’s brow furrowed as she kept reading, page after page.

  And yet …

  Manford had made numerous notes in the margins, his own thoughts, responses, arguments refuting the robot’s claims. And sometimes, appallingly, he actually agreed with Erasmus.

  Anari closed the book and put it on top of the others. She would study the writings later, page by page, but she promised herself that she would not let them taint her. She would use the journals of Erasmus for her own purposes, just as Manford had. Yes, that was what she would do.

  In a supreme irony, she and her reborn Butlerians would—through Erasmus—ensure that demon technology would never again run rampant in human civilization.

  In desperation we may agree to pay any price.

  Only later do we learn the true cost.

  —MENTAT PEARTEN, new Lampadas school archives

  Denali was overrun, at last. The Imperial Armed Forces had suffered many casualties against the cymek stragglers and the corroded combat meks, but they had brought down the last of the battle machines before securing the entire domed facility. Now it was time to take care of loose ends.