Текст книги "Mentats of Dune"
Автор книги: Brian Herbert
Соавторы: Kevin Anderson
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 38 страниц)
Chapter 33 (There is no such thing as perfect security)
There is no such thing as perfect security. Any protection can be defeated.
– teaching of the Ginaz School for Swordmasters
Prince Roderick went on a brief hunting trip in the woods of the northern continent; he wanted time away from the city, the politics, and the memory of the rampage festival. Haditha had taken the other children to stay with her sister in a distant city, needing to find her own peace. Back in their quarters, Nantha’s belongings remained where they had always been, because Haditha couldn’t bear to pack them away, nor would she allow anyone else to do it.
The scar of their lost daughter would always be with them, but Roderick needed to find a way to function. Though he would never admit it aloud, he knew the Imperium depended on him. Salvador couldn’t rule by himself.
For his few days of escape out in the quiet forest, Roderick was accompanied by three friends, one of whom owned a small lodge. The simple accommodations were rugged enough that even a Butlerian would have found nothing to object to. After the mayhem in the streets, Roderick found the lodge relaxing. He cleared his mind and tried to think of nothing other than hunting Salusan pheasants and roasting them over a fire.
But he couldn’t forget the terrible loss of Nantha for long, or his duties to Salvador, and all too soon he had to return to the Imperial Palace. Despite the brief respite, his heart wasn’t healed.
Arriving back in Zimia, he encountered an immediate reminder of why he had left. In the large central square outside the Hall of Parliament, Grand Inquisitor Quemada and his Scalpel team were putting on a public demonstration while Imperial soldiers stood guard over the proceedings. The Emperor had decided that showing off the skills of his interrogators would be an excellent deterrent to crime. Roderick did not approve, considering Dorotea’s subtle Truthsayer skills much more effective … but his brother insisted on the show.
A boisterous crowd had gathered to watch, and Roderick felt a knot form in his stomach. The imposing, black-haired Quemada was already on his fourth victim.
After what had happened to poor Nantha, Roderick would have liked to see Manford Torondo undergo such an ordeal. All the violence he had sparked, all those innocent lives lost … He closed his eyes and imagined.
As a beefy woman in an Imperial army uniform led him toward the Emperor’s observation suite, she explained what was going on, assuming Roderick would want to know. “Four petty criminals so far, my Lord. The Grand Inquisitor’s team has subjected them to various forms of ‘coaxing.’ Ancient methods, but they are all quite effective. Entertaining, too.”
Glancing through a wide window, Roderick saw a portable strappado out in the plaza, along with a spiked chair, compression helmets, and a medieval rack. Far from being modern and streamlined, each item was a functional museum piece from distant history with a brutish design. It was to create an intimidating effect, Roderick knew. After intensive training at the Suk Medical School, the Scalpel practitioners could wring agony from their captives using nothing more than a pebble or a stylus.
Three men lay on the stone pavement off to one side, bleeding and trembling, having been released from the interrogation machinery after confessing to the inquisitor’s satisfaction. A fourth man was having his fingers and toes crushed one at a time, which made him scream horrendously; so far, though, he had not admitted anything.
Prince Roderick grimaced, not certain what he found more offensive – the barbaric display or the cheering of the crowd. He hurried up to the Emperor’s suite, hoping to talk sense into Salvador, to warn him against playing into the barbaric madness embraced by the Butlerians. Was his brother creating a culture in which vicious destruction became ordinary and expected?
Roderick thought that Directeur Josef Venport was fighting on the correct side of the divide – reason versus violence. Salvador would have to be strong to stand up to the swelling antitechnology movement, but he was deathly afraid of the Butlerians. Roderick would discuss the matter with him in private and advise the best course of action, seeking to bolster his courage and strengthen his resolve.
Quemada’s latest victim screamed and then slumped from the excruciating pain. Irritated that he hadn’t answered all the questions, the Grand Inquisitor called for another subject, to a rising swell of cheers. This seemed as mad as the Butlerian rampage festival. Emperor Salvador should have known better than to incite the crowds, which could so easily get out of control. Unable to bear more of the harsh scene, Roderick entered the suite.
Salvador received him with a warm smile that made him uncomfortable. The Emperor wore one of his assorted lavish military uniforms, this one crimson and white, with a golden lion on the lapel. “Ah, I’m so glad you joined me. I was about to go out on the balcony while I have my coffee. I have some fresh melange from Arrakis, if you want it.”
The loud cheers outside tightened the knot in Roderick’s stomach, making him think of Manford’s murderous mob as they rampaged through the city. “I’d rather stay inside, if you don’t mind. That reminds me of the tortures the thinking machines inflicted upon us. We’re supposed to be better than machines.”
Salvador looked disappointed by the comment. He stood at the window, gazing out at the crowd, then slumped casually on a sofa inside the office. “Have your way, then.” He motioned for a female aide to deliver the coffee service to a small sitting area on the right of his goldenwood desk.
Roderick said in a heavy voice, “You once told me you wanted justice to be an enduring legacy of your reign. What’s happening out there in the plaza is not justice.”
“The crowd seems to like the show. It’s a pressure release for them.” As Salvador spoke, the throng roared and cheered.
“But it’s adding fuel to flames. Once a crowd gets a taste for violence, they’ll burn down half the city and kill anyone who happens to be in the way, including little girls and their nannies.”
Salvador blinked. “Ah, of course! I’m sorry. I didn’t think how it would remind you of what happened to your daughter.”
“Everything reminds me of Nantha.” Roderick clenched his hands into fists at his sides as he struggled to maintain a professional demeanor. His brother needed him. He said, “There are other ways to get information, Sire. A Truthsayer could extract the answers far more efficiently – and reliably – than this torture. Those victims out there confess only because of the pain, not because they cannot hide their lies.”
Salvador sipped his coffee, added more melange. “My Grand Inquisitor serves his purpose, too. No one is going to cower in terror of a black-robed woman who simply stands there and listens in silence.”
“Nevertheless, by listening in silence, Sister Dorotea discovered the fraud perpetrated by House Péle.”
Salvador sniffed. “Quemada got more information out of Blanton Davido afterward.”
“And killed him in the process. Dorotea could have obtained the same information, and more, and we would have had a living hostage.”
“Or a convicted prisoner, headed for execution.”
Roderick did not want to disagree. “Either way, Omak Péle might not have been frightened into going renegade. I advise that we rely more on Sister Dorotea and her Truthsayers for interrogations, and avoid these public displays of cruelty.”
“What would be the fun in that?” Salvador muttered in a voice so quiet that Roderick barely heard him. Then he spoke louder. “Perhaps a challenge! We should test the two of them, have Sister Dorotea question Quemada with her methods … and then let my Grand Inquisitor question her in return.”
“He would kill her!”
Salvador waved a finger. “Not if he knows it would displease me.”
Roderick thought about Dorotea’s strength and focus; as a Reverend Mother, she had achieved a level of bodily control that Roderick could not begin to understand. Maybe his brother was right. He remained uneasy that Dorotea’s orthodox Sisters so openly sided with the violent Butlerians, but surely a Truthsayer’s interrogation had to be less barbaric than this.
The Emperor summoned his aide again, smiling at Roderick. “Let’s have a civilized demonstration of their respective abilities. We’ll serve tea and little spice cookies.”
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Sister Dorotea swept into the observation suite in her characteristic black robe, but her brown hair looked freshly cut; as always, she had a presence about her. She gave both the Emperor and Roderick curt nods, and then her unflinching gaze settled on Quemada, who sat in a straight-backed chair. The Grand Inquisitor looked very uncomfortable, only minimally cleaned up after his efforts in the square. Outside, at Roderick’s request, Imperial guards had dispersed the unhappy crowd. Maintenance workers were dismantling the props and spraying down the interrogation equipment.
Dorotea and Quemada had been told why they were summoned. Roderick noted that the Grand Inquisitor seemed oddly intimidated by the Truthsayer; he was obviously more comfortable asking questions than answering them.
Salvador gestured impatiently. “Very well, let’s get on with it.”
“Considering the likely results of Quemada’s handiwork, Sister Dorotea will go first,” Roderick said.
Dorotea stood tall and stared at the Grand Inquisitor, not saying anything, not asking anything. As moments passed, Quemada grew increasingly red-faced and indignant. Several times his mouth quivered as if he were about to say something, but he clamped his lips shut. He held Dorotea’s gaze, undoubtedly imagining what he would inflict on her when he got his turn.
Finally, the Emperor lost patience. “Ask him what you’re supposed to ask.”
“He is already speaking to me without words, Sire.” She paused for a moment longer, then stepped closer to Quemada. “We both seek the truth. Why do you need so much violence to ply your trade? Your training from the Suk School should be sufficient to inflict pain without resorting to physical damage or death. Are you unskilled, or do you enjoy hurting people? Is that why you look forward to going to work every day?”
Quemada half rose, but forced himself to sit back down. “I do only what is necessary.”
“Necessary?” She leaned forward like a bird that had spotted a bright shiny object. “Many of your subjects die under questioning – a great many. Yet a skilled Suk practitioner should be able to keep even the most grievously injured victim alive. Why do you find it necessary to kill them? Is it intentional?”
“I obtain the information the Emperor requires.”
“But he doesn’t require you to kill them. In fact, their deaths are often inconvenient. Blanton Davido should not have died so quickly under your questioning.” She watched him like a specimen under high magnification.
“I derive the truth the Emperor needs.”
Dorotea drew back, catching her breath. “Ah, but I see much more than that, more than just the enjoyment of inflicting pain. I did not recognize that you were being pragmatic, and I apologize for thinking you were a sadist – that’s not it at all. This is a practical matter, isn’t it? I see now that you find the victims useful in secret ways. And profitable.” Her eyes flicked back and forth, and Roderick noticed a changing demeanor in the Grand Inquisitor as she continued to speak. “When someone dies during questioning, the Emperor doesn’t ask what you do with the bodies afterward.” She turned to Salvador. “Do you, Sire?”
He was confused. “Of course not.”
Roderick had not expected this at all.
Dorotea continued to press Quemada. “You and your Scalpel assistants dispose of the bodies personally. Is there some reason you want them? How do you benefit from corpses? You kill specific people … or you let them die, because…” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re after their organs?”
“No, I – uh, I—” Thick beads of perspiration had formed on Quemada’s forehead and upper lip, and his entire body was shaking. He seemed to be dissolving before their eyes.
“Tell us!” Dorotea’s eyes were dark, penetrating, and almost hypnotic.
Suddenly, as if her importunate voice had broken him, Quemada began to babble. “There are those who purchase organs on the black market, Tlulaxa researchers, even Suk transplant physicians. When a person dies under questioning, my Scalpel team is there to remove the organs. No waste, and others benefit.” Perspiration poured from him. “It is not forbidden! I’ve done nothing illegal.”
“But you have a financial incentive in letting them die.”
Quemada glanced at a horrified Salvador with eyes that burned with guilt, shame, and a rage that he could not conceal.
Dorotea stepped back, looking exhausted. She turned to the Emperor. “I can tell he is keeping other secrets, Sire, but I trust that was a sufficient demonstration?”
Roderick said in a mild voice, “You’ll notice, brother, that Sister Dorotea determined that information in only a few minutes, without even touching the man, without so much as one crushed finger or ripped-away nail. And he is still alive for you to treat as you wish. I’d say the Truthsayer’s methods are far superior.”
Salvador trembled with excitement. “You certainly made your point, brother. And if my Grand Inquisitor is hiding even more from me, we shall learn exactly what it is. It’s only fitting, however, that his own Scalpel practitioners extract the information from him. In public.”
The Grand Inquisitor writhed and pleaded. “Ask Empress Tabrina what you want to know. Get the truth out of her!”
Salvador raised his eyebrows, then turned to Roderick, even more pleased. “Oh, we will.”
Chapter 34 (History often distorts through a lens of fear)
History often distorts through a lens of fear. After disregarding the bombastic nonsense about General Agamemnon and the original Titans, I realize that those cymeks could have been great, if hubris had not destroyed them.
– PTOLEMY, Denali Laboratory Journals
The shimmer of sunlight on dunes dazzled Ptolemy as he emerged from the landing vehicle. Yes, these wastelands of Arrakis would make an excellent testing bed for his new cymeks.
As Ptolemy had requested, their private VenHold craft had landed out in the open desert, bypassing the main spaceport so there would be no record of its presence. The Mentats at the Combined Mercantiles headquarters had made all the necessary arrangements. Directeur Venport intended to keep this work secret for now, but when Ptolemy finally unleashed the cymeks against Manford Torondo’s savages, everyone would tremble before these gigantic machines.
He felt a chill that the desert heat could not dispel. His mind filled with a wishful vision of the hateful rabble leader whimpering in terror as he watched the nightmarish mechanical walkers smashing his panicked barbarians and tossing their shattered bodies like bloody dolls.
He coughed, then attempted to cover the sound, not wanting to appear weak in front of the Directeur. Ptolemy’s lungs had not stopped aching and burning since his exposure to Denali’s atmosphere. The research facility’s doctors had performed a deep scan, verifying that he had suffered significant pulmonary scarring. They assured him that with treatment, he could regain his health. But his work was all that mattered to him, and he could not take time for the extensive cellular restructuring the treatment would require.
Inside the domed medical facility, Administrator Noffe had taken care of him for weeks, making sure his friend ate regularly and took his medication. Although Ptolemy did not like the way the inhalant dulled his thoughts, the pain had an even more adverse effect, distracting him from what he needed to do.…
Their craft rested on a safe ridge of rock that overlooked an ocean of dunes, where the test would take place. As wind whipped sand around, Ptolemy stood with the others, but alone with his thoughts, ignoring the conversation around him. He wished Elchan were there, but his friend could no longer speak to him, because he’d been murdered by the Butlerians.
“It takes a powerful weapon to pierce the armor of ignorance,” Ptolemy muttered.
“What did you say?” Directeur Venport turned from talking with his Mentat, Draigo Roget, who had accompanied them at the last minute. Venport had been preoccupied with business since his recent address to the Landsraad, but he was eager to witness the new cymek demonstration.
Ptolemy gave him a stiff smile. “Sorry, sir. I was distracted by minutiae. This is an important day for me.” He struggled to subdue another fit of coughing. This arid air exacerbated the pain in his damaged lungs.
“An important day for all of us,” said Draigo Roget.
Ptolemy paid little attention to broader politics in the Imperium; he focused only on his part of the game. He had been involved with the design of the new cymeks, modifying the mobility systems, neural linkages, and thoughtrode controls, including sensors implanted in his own body. With this enhanced connectivity, the new Titans were much improved from the old enemies of humanity. These cymeks with proto-Navigator brains could have torn General Agamemnon to shreds!
For much too long, Ptolemy had felt small and insignificant, powerless in the face of difficult events. With his new cymeks, he had changed. He felt mighty just thinking about his army. Technically, it was Directeur Venport’s army, but Ptolemy knew these cymeks better than anyone else did; no other person had his love for each mechanical walker, and for the disembodied, mutated brains that operated them.
Directeur Venport waited while a team of workers emerged from the shuttle to set up observation chairs so that he, Ptolemy, and the Mentat could watch the show.
Before the test began, Ptolemy explained, “Denali is a harsh place for humans, but cymek systems can withstand the poisonous air. Here on Arrakis, the extreme environment poses different challenges – the aridity, sand, static electricity, and uncertain ground.”
“And the sandworms,” Draigo added.
“We agree it’s a good place to test,” Venport said. “Now launch your cymeks. I want to see them in action. Give me your commentary as we watch.”
An armored cubical chamber gently dropped onto the sands at the base of the rocky ridge. Ptolemy had not wanted the cargo pod to land in the middle of the dunes, because the thump of its impact might attract a sandworm before he was ready. When he sent a signal from his remote, the pod walls separated and folded down like the petals of a flower.
Seven of the numerous new cymeks rose into ready positions on mechanical legs. These were the best and brightest, the ones selected for this demonstration. Standing high off the ground, all had high-powered engines, impenetrable armor film, and a suite of devastating weapons.
“These walker bodies comprise speed and agility as well as brute force.” Ptolemy lowered his voice, suddenly shy. “I’ve done my best to make them indestructible.”
“We’ll see about that,” Directeur Venport said.
The big machines marched away from the open cargo pod, testing the viscosity of the sand, analyzing the slope of the dunes. Ptolemy knew what the encased brains were thinking, since he had programmed the sensors himself. He had provided the proto-Navigators with all known data about Arrakis, including questionable accounts of the huge sandworms.
The black-garbed Mentat stood beside his observation seat, unable to relax. Draigo stared out at the sands where the heavy cymek walkers trudged along. “The vibrations of their feet could draw a worm. Are they ready for it?”
“The brains have been briefed, and the walkers are fully armed.”
Venport sat back in his chair, shading his eyes, watching the heavy machines tread across the dunes. After they assessed the terrain, they moved with greater agility. Demonstrating their systems, the two foremost walkers bounded to another dune, then another, in what looked like a graceful insect mating dance.
The Directeur remarked, “Our spice operations have been plagued by bandits and saboteurs. I could station a cymek guardian near each spice factory. That would be enough to thwart the desert people – and the giant sandworms. That should keep our equipment safe.”
“We don’t know yet if these new Titans are a match for the sandworms,” Draigo said.
Venport leaned forward. “We’ll see soon enough.”
The cymeks lined up along a sinuous whaleback dune and directed their weapon arms out into the deep golden sea. Sand crystals sparkled in the sunlight, as if the planet itself were awake. One after another, the cymeks fired their integrated weapons. Explosive artillery shells blasted from segmented arms, streams of acid shot out in thin jets that turned the sand into bubbling glass, a lasbeam carved a smoking hole into a distant dune, and a jet of flame arced out like a solar flare.
Ptolemy’s eyes shone, and he almost forgot about the searing pain in his lungs. “These Titans will eradicate Manford Torondo and his Butlerians.” He spoke into the comm circuit. “Phase Two – it’s time to be more aggressive.”
The seven cymeks scuttled down to a packed basin where their vibrations would penetrate deeper beneath the surface. Raising their thick piston legs, they stomped down like pile drivers, hammering in an irresistible summons.
“According to unverified reports,” Draigo said, as if lecturing trainees back at Kolhar, “the Freemen use clockwork syncopated thumping devices, even simple percussion instruments, to summon a worm. They claim it always works, but I doubt they’d report any failures.”
“I doubt everything about their superstitious stories,” Venport said, “but I’ll try to keep an open mind.”
Ptolemy watched his awesome walkers, recalling the ancient archival images he had seen of old battles, particularly the ones of Ajax, the most brutal of the original cymeks. As Ptolemy thought of the malicious destruction the Titans had caused in comparison with the ignorant destruction of the Butlerians, his own anger – perhaps leaking through the thoughtrodes in his brain – seemed to agitate the Navigator cymeks. One of them, Hok Evander, launched a wild artillery projectile up into the air, and it came down not far away, creating a smoking crater.
When no worm responded, Draigo said, “It is rumored that the creatures are highly territorial, and it’s possible we are in a contested zone among the sandworms, a neutral area. The nearest creature may be far away.”
Venport frowned, and Ptolemy felt impatience as well. He said, “According to reports, the activation of a shield is a certain way to draw a monster worm, though it’s dangerous and drives the beast into a frenzy.”
“Bring on the frenzy, then,” the Directeur said, “if you’re confident these cymeks can handle it.”
Ptolemy looked at the seven machines and sent another signal. “Phase Three.”
The Titans stood at high alert, and then each of the large machines switched on a Holtzman shield.
