Текст книги "Mentats of Dune"
Автор книги: Brian Herbert
Соавторы: Kevin Anderson
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 38 страниц)
Chapter 21 (There is strength in numbers)
There is strength in numbers, a raw and primal power. But as a crowd grows and grows, its ability to reason diminishes.
– GILBERTUS ALBANS, Mentat School records
The rampage festival swelled out of hand through the evening, and fires burned in three parts of the city. In the midst of it all, Manford Torondo and his Swordmaster seemed complacent, as if they bore no responsibility for what was happening.
Roderick was dismayed to see that Imperial troops were completely ineffective at quelling the chaotic energy. Though numerous, the soldiers and the Zimia security force had no capable leadership, and the swift rush of violence took them by surprise; when they hesitated to fire upon the crowd, they were either shoved aside or trampled. The turbulence of a mob that had no coordinated goal dispersed the stationed troops.
Even the military officers did not know how to react to the unexpected storm of feral energy. Roderick had told his brother repeatedly that the Imperial Armed Forces needed better leaders and better organization; now, upon seeing how poorly the troops performed, he felt determined to crack down. First, though, this mindless vandalism had to be brought under control.
And this was a celebration, not even a mob driven by anger.
Roderick worried about his wife and children, who could be out there if they had come to watch the victory procession. But he could do nothing about it except to send messages for guards to find them. He knew his priority was to protect the Emperor. As the violence intensified, Roderick arranged for his brother to go into hiding in a private underground network of tunnels constructed centuries ago, during a time of frequent cymek raids. Empress Tabrina was taken to a different hiding place, because Salvador had no desire to be sealed up with her.
While mayhem continued in the city above, Roderick and a contingent of elite guards led Salvador through the puzzle box of combinations and security systems that allowed access to the secret tunnels. “They’re burning my city, Roderick!”
Roderick tried to keep his brother calm. “I have dispatched troops to protect important buildings and summoned soldiers from our orbiting battleships to impose order.” He knew, though, that the guards were in chaos, many of them unresponsive; he wouldn’t be surprised if some of them had been killed. Quite a few had certainly abandoned their posts. “It’s hard to strategize against a mob that has no logical plan.”
The Emperor paused at the steel sliding wall as a thought occurred to him. “And your family, Roderick? Have them brought down here where they’ll be protected.”
“I sent word, but they haven’t been found yet.” Roderick fought against the knot in his stomach, remembering how his children always loved the spectacle of a good parade. “As soon as I’m sure that you’re safe, I’ll get back out there and find them myself, if I have to.”
At first, Salvador didn’t want his brother to leave, but he steeled himself and gave a brave nod. “I’ll be fine. Go now – I am counting on you to save Zimia!”
Leaving the Emperor with guards in the deep tunnels, Roderick hurried back to an emergency command post in the palace. When he reached his secondary office, he was surprised to find Headmaster Albans there, offering to help. Roderick paused, suspecting a trick. Wasn’t Albans a known ally of Leader Torondo? But the Headmaster, normally a cool and logical man, looked shaken by the Butlerian violence. Seeing the expression on the bespectacled Mentat’s face, Roderick ushered him into the private room and closed the door.
They could hear the crowd noises from outside. By the light of distant fires visible through the office windows, he glimpsed a crude clay sculpture on his desk – he thought it was supposed to be a puppy – that Nantha had made for him. Roderick felt a new pang of fear and hoped that Haditha and their children were safely clear of the uproar by now.
He turned to the Mentat, barely controlling his anger at the unnecessary destruction. “You offered to help, Headmaster? If you know of a way to stop this violence, I am eager to hear it. Tell Leader Torondo to command them to stop, or has he gone into protective hiding?”
The Mentat frowned. “He is among his people – that makes him safe. But he will not tell them to stop … because I believe he fears they won’t listen.” He removed his round eyeglasses, cleaned them with a handkerchief, and put them back on. “Prince Roderick, I believe you are a man of honor, or I would not be here. If I suggest how you might end this rampage, you must promise never to reveal who offered the solution, not even to the Emperor – and especially not to Manford Torondo.”
“Why not?”
“Manford is demonstrating the power he can unleash. He’s doing it to frighten the Emperor, and I suspect it won’t be long before he makes even more extreme demands.” He lowered his voice. “If he learns I worked with you to quell the violence, he would kill me, and his followers would raze my school on Lampadas.”
Roderick narrowed his gaze, not understanding the Mentat’s motivations. This man had just performed before the court, defeating a combat mek in a game to stroke Butlerian pride. And Manford had commanded the festival – wasn’t this what Gilbertus wanted? But Roderick’s primary responsibility was to restore peace and stability in Zimia. “I will hold your advice in confidence, Mentat. How do we extinguish this mob?”
“The violence will die down in the night as people return to their homes, but some Butlerians plan to incite another rampage early tomorrow morning.”
Roderick felt a flush of new anger. “Which followers, and where are they? We need to arrest them.”
“You will never find them.” Gilbertus shook his head. “No, this requires a different tactic, a trap. You must choose three outlying towns you are willing to sacrifice. I will initiate a rumor that stockpiles of preserved thinking machines are being kept in those towns – perhaps hidden by Directeur Venport himself. That is sure to drive the mob into an even greater fervor.”
The Mentat used his fingers to tick off the sequence of events. “That allows you to lure the Butlerians out of central Zimia. They will flood to the chosen villages, and the journey itself may drain their exuberance. Then you can set up security perimeters with your troops and bottle the Butlerians in those three towns.”
Roderick frowned. “I don’t like it. The mobs will ransack the target villages.”
Screams and explosions could be heard outside. A column of fire rose into the night.
“But they will be away from Zimia.” The Headmaster shrugged. “We cannot always find a solution that we like.”
* * *
THE REPORTS OF destruction throughout Zimia forced Roderick to cut his losses. The Mentat was right. Studying maps, he selected three underpopulated and easily defensible towns, and gave his decision to the Headmaster.
Gilbertus Albans slipped out among the Butlerians and initiated a cascade of rumors, suggesting that computers and robots were secretly stored in those three outlying villages. Roderick felt anguished about the welfare of the citizens there, but he needed to protect the capital. He dispatched urgent messages ahead of the mobs, hoping to convince the targeted townspeople to flee while they still had time.
Well after midnight, as the rampage began to die down in the heart of Zimia, Manford Torondo heard the rumors himself. Reacting quickly, he sent teams of his supporters to punish the accused towns. After making his announcement, Manford summoned his Mentat and Swordmaster to join him, and departed from Salusa Secundus, turning his back on the mayhem he had caused. Roderick felt that the man was slipping away to hide from the consequences of what he had done.
At last, though, Roderick had a chance to snuff out the uprising. With Manford gone, his followers were confused but still keyed up. Roderick rushed Imperial troops to surround the three scapegoat towns and bottle up the most vehement Butlerians – and he told the troops to be ruthless. Just before dawn, the crisis began to wind down.
Red-eyed and exhausted, Roderick sent a message to his brother, giving him the good news, although Salvador was cautious, suggesting that he remain in isolation a while longer, just to be certain. Roderick didn’t argue with him, for now, but he knew that when day broke, the people would want to be reassured that their Emperor had survived. In the interim, Roderick was the Emperor’s proxy and dealt with the response throughout Zimia. He spoke in public, looking calm and steady, a firm bastion in this crisis. Roderick Corrino was what they needed to see.
As dawn arrived, cleanup operations began in the capital city; fires were put out, “revelers” arrested, and field hospitals set up where Suk doctors triaged the injured. Numerous bodies – Butlerians, Zimia police, Imperial troops, innocent bystanders, and even children – were discovered in the rubble around the central plaza. Many of the victims had simply come out to see the parade and were swept up in the mayhem. The bodies were brought to a central holding area to be processed and identified.
Roderick felt so weary and wrung out that he indulged in a cup of bitter spice coffee, and the stimulant gave him a needed boost. At last he received the welcome news that Haditha and his children had been taken to a place of safety, but right now he had no chance to go home to them.
By midmorning, Roderick felt that the worst had been brought under control, and he began to feel a hint of calm. Then a haggard-looking Haditha burst into his office in the Hall of Parliament, pulling ahead of a distraught-looking guard. Roderick rushed to greet her with an embrace, knowing how frightened and exhausted she must be.
But when he held her, she pulled back with a terrible expression on her face, her entire body shaking so hard she could not speak. A wan-looking guard who had accompanied her stood awkwardly nearby.
“Nantha!” Haditha finally cried, and the name sounded raw, as if torn from her throat. She could form no other words.
Roderick took her by the shoulders and stared at her grief-stricken expression. Beside her, the guard mumbled, “We received word that the bodies of your youngest daughter and her nanny were found among the wreckage. Apparently they were trampled.…”
Roderick couldn’t believe what he had heard. “But I received a report that my family was safe!”
The guard looked away. “Apparently, they didn’t account for all your children, Prince. There was much confusion.”
“Nantha wanted to see the parade!” Haditha sobbed. “She begged her nanny, and they went out together. I didn’t think anything of it. And all night, I hoped – I hoped.…”
Of course Nantha would have gone out to the parade, Roderick realized with a sick despair. The seven-year-old girl had always liked the colors and pageantry. He could imagine Nantha tugging the nanny’s arm, pleading, laughing, and the nanny would have relented. And why not? They had seen many parades together.
Haditha’s moans cut through to his heart. Roderick could not focus his eyes, so he closed them. His head pounded, his eyes burned. He spoke to the guard. “And our other children?”
“Safe, my Lord.”
He recalled how Manford had rushed away, as if fleeing. What if the Butlerian leader had learned the terrible news, and departed before he could be arrested? Roderick clenched his fists. Manford Torondo could not flee swiftly enough, or go far enough away to avoid retribution. He had caused this, provoking the rampage, igniting the fires of violence. Why? To flex his muscles in front of Salvador? The Butlerians had always been dangerous, fanatical, uncontrollable, and Salvador had been too weak to stand up to them … conceding, pretending, backing down one small step at a time.
Manford Torondo had caused the riots to prove a point. And Nantha had died. Many people had died. Collateral damage.
“I will find a way to stop that man. His followers have caused too much damage, too much pain. Manford Torondo cannot create and unleash a mob, then turn his back on the consequences. The blood is on his hands.”
Haditha looked up at her husband with the saddest face he could imagine. “That won’t bring our baby back.”
He held her, rocking her, and found that he was weeping as well. “No, it won’t.” Roderick thought of what a sweet girl Nantha had been, how she always wanted to know where her father was, how she liked to play in his office and pretend to sign important documents with him. Not long ago, when he was holding her hand and standing with Salvador and Tabrina, Nantha had whispered to him, “Can I be Empress someday?”
He’d smiled and said, “Every person can dream.”
Now, all of Nantha Corrino’s dreams had been erased forever.
Flanked by three elite guards, Emperor Salvador strode into his brother’s office, looking disheveled and harried, but more confident. He did not seem to know about Nantha’s death. He grinned and said, “Roderick, there you are! Come with me – we must show the people that this painful crisis is over. Everything will be all right now.”
Chapter 22 (If you strike me, I will strike you harder)
If you strike me, I will strike you harder. If you hate me, I will hate you more. You cannot win.
– GENERAL AGAMEMNON, A Time for Titans
Though Denali’s atmosphere was poisonous, Ptolemy felt safe here. It was the Butlerians who made him nervous. They were more dangerous than any planet.
He made his way across the bleak, deadly landscape, riding inside the cab of his specially adapted walker, his arms and legs connected to modified thoughtrodes that let him control the complex machine systems. But working the systems manually was a chore, and Ptolemy envied the nimble new cymeks.
Installed in their preservation tanks and connected to a network of thoughtrodes, the proto-Navigator brains easily adapted to the powerful walker forms he had given them. Ptolemy was particularly impressed by the agility and intensity of two former mercenary officers who had left their service to volunteer for Navigator conversion, Hok Evander and Adem Garl. Now they were among the most aggressive of the walker-brains.
Eight of the installed brains used old walkers salvaged from the ruins of the previous cymek base here, but other Navigator brains rode in new mechanical bodies built by Denali engineers. The enhanced walkers would be more than sufficient against any weapons the barbarians were likely to use.
Today, Ptolemy accompanied the new walkers. They were breathtaking! With improved thoughtrode sensors, his shiny cymeks danced across the rugged landscape like mechanical spiders. In contrast, the older salvaged walkers had a ponderous gait, as if the brains had to work harder to move their unwieldy systems. Walker bodies were interchangeable, and brain canisters could be transferred from a walker machine into a flyer or a manipulator body as needed. Ptolemy wanted his new Navigator Titans to learn how to use every possible form.
He preferred the burly, intimidating walkers, though. There was something satisfying about imagining them approaching their targets in an inexorable phalanx that made the victims feel the terror of what was going to happen to them. Yes, he wanted Manford Torondo to know what was coming for him.
Away from the protected lab domes, Ptolemy rode inside a pressurized life-support cab installed in one of the old walkers. This allowed him to walk alongside his new creations in the poisonous atmosphere, looking for ways to improve them. If he ever became a cymek himself, Ptolemy would not need to worry about life-support systems anymore. He would go wherever he wished, in any environment, and he would fear nothing.
Directeur Venport had already seen Ptolemy’s reports. Perhaps the Directeur would want to become a cymek, and then he could guide the new Titans. Ptolemy did not see himself as a leader and had no wish to become like the despot Agamemnon. He had not, in fact, wanted any part of the role he now had – but the barbarians had forced him into it by destroying his life, his lab, his friend.
Now, Ptolemy tried to keep up with the exuberant Navigator cymeks as they strutted across the terrain. Their multiple legs moved with remarkable ease, and they practiced ripping huge boulders from the ground and hurling them as far as possible. Due to the caustic mists, Ptolemy could not even see where they landed.
Inside his older machine, he struggled to keep up with the new-model cymeks as they thundered over the rocky ground. He worked his arms, linked to the controls, but the walker limbs were not analogous, and he occasionally became tangled, feeling clumsy. His other machines were so graceful.
Practicing their fighting abilities, they grappled with one another to test strength and reflexes, warrior arm against warrior arm. He identified each of them by unique light panels on their bodies. One walker, operated by the brain of the female Xinshop, sprang to a high outcropping, but failed to gain sufficient height. Before she could tumble down, however, rockets erupted from the body’s rear thrusters, lifting the new cymek to safety on top of the rocks. Once stabilized, Xinshop raised a pair of grappling arms as if in triumph.
Ptolemy liked Xinshop’s willingness to serve. She had been among the first of the failed Navigators to embrace her new possibilities as a cymek. Each time he spoke with her, he envisioned what Xinshop used to look like before he’d met her, when she had been a radiant young woman volunteering for the VenHold Spacing Fleet. Sometimes Ptolemy even imagined that they might be together as a couple, both of them cymeks. But before that happened, he had a lot of work to do getting his mechanized force together, refining systems. That was his priority.
He also liked the reemerging personality of Yabido Onel, who was bounding across the rugged landscape in the foreground. For a long time Yabido had refused to say much through the speakerpatch, except for his desire to die because he had failed as a Navigator candidate. But after Ptolemy showed him what he could achieve as a cymek, he had felt renewed hope and determination, which expressed itself as bright energy patterns in his brain.
Ptolemy could still see the glow of research domes. Although his expanding Titan project had siphoned some of Denali’s most talented engineers and support staff, Administrator Noffe was still developing weaponry in independent programs, such as scrambler pulses that could boil human brains, in much the way the Sorceresses of Rossak had killed the old cymeks. One research team created small mechanical “crickets” that could skitter into enemy ships and ignite volatile fuel storage chambers.
Ptolemy’s fellow researchers had their own reasons to dislike the fanatics, but he believed his program would be the one that guaranteed victory against Manford Torondo. A marching horde of new Titans powered by proto-Navigator brains would strike fear into any populace.
As he trudged along in his repaired walker, far from the research domes, Ptolemy noticed two amber warning lights on the control board inside the cab. His life-support systems were losing power due to a leak in a coupling, eroded by the caustic atmosphere. And he was trapped in his small chamber.
He ran an estimate and realized that he barely had time to hurry back to the shielded complex. No safety margin.
Without delay, he worked the controls and turned his walker around while transmitting a distress signal to his Titans. With a jittering gait, he tried to hobble across the landscape, but he was too anxious, which made him uncoordinated. His arms twitched inside the linkages, the thoughtrode signals scrambled.
He didn’t want to die out here, not with his work incomplete.
A hose snapped and began to leak fuel onto the ground outside. Warning lights flashed across the cab controls. Now Ptolemy realized he could not possibly make it back. Unable to control the mechanical legs, he stumbled, and went down.
Moments later, two burly Titans – the pair of mercenaries Hok Evander and Adem Garl – appeared on either side and grasped his smaller cymek body with their mechanical claws. They raised his walker form off the ground like two metal crabs lifting their little brother. With an eerily coordinated gait, the Navigator cymeks bounded across the rugged rocks toward the glowing domes.
Another leak, and Ptolemy’s life-support system failed entirely. The caustic gases seeping into the systems would eat away more seals.
His comm system was still active, and he transmitted an emergency alert to the base. The rest of the Navigator Titans rushed back toward the facility like a coordinated rescue team, so that when Ptolemy arrived at the main dome’s airlock door, they could assist.
Through the swirling mists, Ptolemy made out the dome just ahead, but he could also smell the acrid vapors leaking into the life-support cab, beginning to poison him. The chamber integrity had failed in five separate areas. His eyes burned from the acid fumes, but somehow (delirium?) it didn’t feel as painful as the burning tears that had streamed down his face after he saw Dr. Elchan roasted alive in the lab.
Having received Ptolemy’s emergency transmission, Administrator Noffe appeared on the screen. “Ready to receive you. You’re going to be safe.”
“It’ll be close.” Ptolemy coughed, and each breath seared like heated glass dust washed down with acid. He coughed again, and a splatter of blood appeared on the control screen in front of his face.
Alarmed, Administrator Noffe shouted commands to the two cymeks carrying Ptolemy’s walker. They hauled him to the wide-open door of the hangar dome and roughly tossed the twitching, failing walker body inside. Using nimble claw hands, they operated the airlock controls.
Sealed in his cab, Ptolemy coughed uncontrollably. He breathed in a blistering-hot chemical mist. With a roar of loud wind, the air exchangers inside the dome began to suck away the contaminated atmosphere, venting it outside. Even before the green light winked on, Ptolemy disengaged the cab’s hatch and popped it open. He couldn’t wait any longer. How could the air within the hangar dome be deadlier than what he was struggling to breathe inside the life-support capsule? He yanked his arms free from the control linkages, crawled out of the cab, and collapsed onto the cold metal floor, retching, gasping, and coughing in a raw throat.
Thankfully, each breath felt a little cleaner than the previous one. Wind rushed around him as fresh oxygen poured into the enclosed area, but his lungs seemed to be filled with caustic blood.
Finally, a smaller airlock from the interior tube opened, and a frantic Noffe ran toward him. “Doctors are on their way.” He bent next to Ptolemy, helping him to his feet.
Ptolemy could barely see through his burning eyes, but he didn’t think he was severely injured. Or maybe he was deluding himself. “That wouldn’t have happened if I were a cymek.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if you were more careful,” Noffe retorted. “You shouldn’t have gone so far in an old walker like that.”
Somehow Ptolemy managed to smile, grating out his words. “Did you see … the Navigator walkers respond? Analyzed the emergency … rescued me. Passed the first test admirably.”
“Yes, they performed better than you did. We almost lost you!”
More thoughts were forming in Ptolemy’s head. “Directeur Venport needs to know how competent the new Titans are. Even this hazardous environment is not the most extreme place in which our cymeks could find themselves fighting.”
He kept talking even as medical personnel busily checked him over. They placed a mask on his face and dispensed some kind of analgesic mist into his lungs. Before long, Ptolemy could breathe better, and he pulled the mask aside, continuing to chatter to Noffe. “We have to conduct a more dramatic test for Directeur Venport – and I’ve thought of just the place to do it. We will take them to Arrakis.”
“You should rest and heal first,” Noffe said. “I’m worried about you.”
“I’m worried about other things – I can rest while I make the important arrangements.”
