Текст книги "Mentats of Dune"
Автор книги: Brian Herbert
Соавторы: Kevin Anderson
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 38 страниц)
Chapter 44 (Every person has a powerful urge to return home)
Every person has a powerful urge to return home. We go there to find meaning in our lives, even if our memories of home are filled with sadness.
– VORIAN ATREIDES, private journals
Lankiveil was behind him now, and sometimes Vorian Atreides wondered how many miles – how many light-years – he had traveled during his long lifetime. Then again, maybe he didn’t want to know. It would just be a number, and the memories of all those places, all those journeys, mattered more than the distances traveled.
After arranging to provide the financial lifeline House Harkonnen needed to solidify its position, Vor had traveled again, wandering from place to place. He bought his own passage, called no attention to himself, and made his way across the Imperium in a slow hopscotch until he finally found himself back on beautiful Caladan. Though he had taken his time to get there, even now he wasn’t sure he felt ready to be back. Caladan …
Vor had endured more than two centuries of being uprooted and moving on, of leaving people he cared about, watching Time steal away his wives, lovers, children, grandchildren, and friends. Out of self-defense, he tried not to let himself grow too close to anyone, yet out of his own humanity, he often failed. Sometimes he left loved ones of his own volition, but too often events forced him to leave – such as when he departed from Mariella and their family on Kepler. And so many decades ago, he had left Caladan as well.
Over the years there had been wars, politics, and death – far too much death. Through it all, Vorian Atreides was still alive. For the first time, he was going in the opposite direction, heading back to a place where he’d known love once, and where he still felt deep roots, despite the long time away.
The blue gem of the ocean world of Caladan beckoned him from the windowports of the shuttle that took him down from orbit. Through the veil of clouds, Vor identified the major continents. He remembered his life there with Leronica and their two sons. Estes and Kagin had never been close to their father, resented his remote and aloof lifestyle. He had chosen to give his life to the endless Jihad, rather than settling down in a small house on the seashore. Leronica understood that, but Estes and Kagin never had. They were all long dead now, but Vor thought of the grandchildren he’d never met, and the great-grandchildren, an entire extended Atreides lineage on Caladan. It made him sad that he wasn’t part of it.
Once, he had been happy on Caladan, at least as happy as he’d been on Kepler. He hoped he could recapture some of that now. Most people’s lives were too short to atone for all the things they regretted, but Vorian Atreides had a lot more time than other people, and he wanted to spend it making up for what he’d done wrong. He doubted the Harkonnens would ever hold anything but hateful thoughts toward him, and he could live with that – it was a price he had to pay. He had helped them, though, whether or not they ever knew it.
Now he was on a new mission, going back over a different portion of his past. He had never met any of his remaining family on Caladan. Perhaps he could reclaim a family here.
* * *
THE MOMENT HE saw Caladan’s rocky shoreline and grassy headlands, it all felt comfortable and familiar. As he made his way along a foot-worn path to the fishing village where he had spent so many years, this place seemed right to him. He needed to be here, needed to take care of matters that were long overdue.
The path ran along the top of a rugged cliff, with the ocean sprawling toward the horizon. Carrying a duffel bag of belongings, Vor paused to inhale the salty air. The blue-green sea looked like a placid lake, but in the distance he saw fast-moving clouds on the leading edge of a weather front.
More than a century ago, while on a scouting mission for the Jihad, he’d met Leronica in a tavern and was smitten by her playful personality and beauty. He could never forget her heart-shaped face, dancing brown eyes, or how he had picked her out in the crowd of locals. She had shone like a candle in the dark.…
Now, with a wistful sigh, he continued into town, pausing for a moment to look at a statue on the outskirts, depicting him as Supreme Commander of the Army of the Jihad in a heroic pose, gazing into the distance. But there were inaccuracies in the statue. The uniform was all wrong, and the face didn’t look like Vorian at all, with a nose that was too broad, a chin too prominent. It was also a statue of an older man, not the man in his apparent thirties who led the human military forces to victory against the oppressive machines.
As he reached the main street that ran along the water, Vor saw fishing boats heading back to port ahead of the storm. He watched crews secure the boats and off-load their gear and cargoes, assisted by townspeople who rushed to the water’s edge to help.
A pair of grizzled fishermen made their way along the main dock and onto a cobblestone street where Vor stood, watching. He hailed them. “I’m new in town. Can you recommend a place to stay?”
“With or without vermin?” said the older one, a gray-bearded man with a dark knit cap. His companion, a tall man in a heavy sweater, laughed.
“Preferably without,” Vor answered with a ready grin.
“Then don’t stay anyplace around here.”
“Try Ackley’s Inn,” the taller man suggested. “It’s clean enough, and old Ackley makes a great fish stew. Good kelpbeer, too. We’re heading that way ourselves if you’re anxious to buy a round.”
“Not anxious, but willing – if it comes with some conversation?”
Vor accompanied them to an old, freshly painted building with a wooden sign swaying in gusts of wind. After checking into a small room on the second floor, he returned to the main hall to join the two fishermen at a corner table, buying them the promised round of beer.
“New to the coast, or new to Caladan?” asked the bearded man, whose name was Engelo. He had a smoky voice, and quickly finished off his pint.
“Neither, just haven’t been back here in a long time. I’m traveling around, looking for distant relatives. Do either of you know of any Atreides?”
“Atreides?” asked the tall man, Danson. “I know a fisherman named Shander Atreides, and he has a couple of young men living with him – nephews I hear, though I’m not sure what their names are. Both boys work for the Air Patrol Agency, doing search-and-rescue missions at sea.”
Engelo sipped his beer. “Shander Atreides lives up the coast a couple of kilometers, big house on a private cove. His nephews are Willem and Orry – Danson knows that, but he pretends to be stupid.”
Danson sniffed, taking some offense, then chuckled. “The Atreides family has money, earned it in the fishing business after some distant relative sent them a financial stake to get started.”
“The money came from the most famous hero of the Jihad,” Engelo said. “Vorian Atreides.”
Vor concealed his smile. He liked hearing that his money went to good use.
“Shander’s a good man, runs a business mending nets now – likes to keep busy, even though he invested well. He took the two boys in after their parents were killed in a hurricane.”
Danson picked up the story, as if to prove he wasn’t really stupid. “The tragedy happened eleven or twelve years ago. Willem just turned eighteen, and Orry is twenty – but Willem’s the one who looks older and acts older. Nice, polite young men, both of them. I hear Orry’s due to get married soon, a whirlwind romance with a girl from inland.”
“Thanks.” Pleased that he already had a lead to follow, Vor paid and left a half-finished beer on the table. He was anxious to meet his relatives. Shander, Willem, and Orry were undoubtedly descended from Estes or Kagin. He felt ashamed that he didn’t know any details of their lives. But that would change.
Engelo called out to him, “Say, you never told us your name.”
Vor acted as if he hadn’t heard as he strode up the stairway to his rented room. He had used one of his aliases when checking in, but intended to reveal who he truly was to his own descendants, and then word would surely spread. He was caught between desiring to hold on to the anonymity he’d enjoyed for so long and wanting to reunite with his family on Caladan.
Sitting in his room, he thought of how much history had passed since he’d last visited this planet – and how little had changed here. He opened the window to let in the cool breezes and gazed out at the rugged village. Long ago he’d had many fine years here – hauling in the fresh catch, sharing good times with family and friends, surviving storms at sea. Living life. It seemed like so long ago, partly a dream. As time passed, his recollections faded. In Vor’s overfull memory, the faces were dim, but at least the personalities were brighter. He missed all those people he’d known here, but they were long, long gone.
He heard a sharp rap at the door of his room, and felt his pulse quicken. He was alert for danger, wondering if someone had hunted him down. Or maybe it was just the innkeeper with an innocuous question. He opened the door, smiling as if to greet an old friend he’d been expecting, but ready for anything.
An older man stood before him; he wore stained work clothes and tied his shaggy gray hair in a ponytail. Something about him looked familiar … perhaps the patrician nose or the deeply set gray eyes with a sparkle of impish intelligence.
“I’m Shander Atreides,” he said. “The innkeeper sent a message that you were asking about me. I don’t know why I’d be interesting enough for you to buy rounds of kelpbeer for the information, though.…”
They went down to the bar, and Vor couldn’t stop smiling. “I’ll buy a second round if you’ll talk with me a while longer. I have a story to tell you, though I doubt you’ll believe it.”
“I’ve heard plenty of unbelievable stories,” Shander said. “But I’ll take that kelpbeer.”
The two men spent hours at their table chatting, trying to sort out the complicated web of their relationship. Vor attempted to trace the generations, following Shander’s parents and grandparents back to Vor’s own son Kagin, and learning that Willem and Orry were from the line that descended from Estes.
Even after revealing his true identity to Shander, Vor felt a sense of serenity about his confession. The old fisherman laughed and refused to believe him at first, but as Vor told more and more stories, long into the night, Shander began to change his mind.
“You’re really Vorian Atreides?” he said, with a slight slur of his words. “The Vorian Atreides?”
“That I am. Pay no attention to the face on that statue outside of town. The details aren’t quite accurate.”
“I never thought about it, just assumed the features were right. I have to admit, you do look a lot more like me than that statue does.”
Reaching across the table, Vor clasped the fisherman’s muscular arm. “We’re Atreides through and through, both of us.”
Shander’s gaze sharpened. “I believe you’re telling the truth.”
“Usually I don’t tell anyone who I am. I’ve been working at various jobs around the Imperium under assumed names, even checked into this inn under another name.”
“And you need to check out of this inn,” Shander said. “Come stay with me and the boys in my house. We have plenty of room.”
“Not yet.” Vor shook his head in determination. “I don’t want to intrude, and besides, I’m an independent sort. I can be difficult to get along with.”
“Aw, you’re just saying that, Vor. I never met a man I liked more than you, and I can tell that right off.”
Vor grinned. “Give me time, and I’ll wear on you. Thanks for the generous offer, but no, I’ll stay in the inn for now. I’ve got plenty of money. You know I do, because I sent you the stake to get your fishing business started.”
“That was decades ago!”
Vor just nodded.
“Then my house is really yours. Or at least, you hold a mortgage on it.”
“No, Shander, you earned the house. Any money I have is for my family, and that includes you. If things work out for me here, I’ll build my own place. But first let’s see how things go.”
Chapter 45 (I keep my eyes open and observe)
I keep my eyes open and observe. And when I peer into hearts and souls, I see evil much more often than I see good – because I know exactly what to look for.
– SISTER WOODRA, Truthsayer to Manford Torondo
By the time the VenHold supply ship arrived at Baridge, ending the embargo to wild cheering and applause, Anari Idaho was already there, lying in wait with her faithful Butlerians.
Anari and a hundred volunteers had arrived a full day earlier on the EsconTran ship, rushing to Baridge before Venport Holdings could deliver a bloated cargo of rewards and bribes for the weak-willed. She came unobtrusively, telling her Butlerian fighters to remain quiet. They wore normal Baridge clothing, filtering fabrics that provided some protection from the solar radiation.
During the VenHold embargo, Manford had maintained his contacts with Baridge residents who were dedicated to his cause. Much of the planetary population remained true to their pledge, even though the weak deacons allowed themselves to be tempted by Venport. Anari knew who the loyal ones were, and she moved surreptitiously throughout the city, organizing them to bolster the force she had brought with her. She did not make contact with the turncoat Deacon Kalifer, whom she despised for having been seduced by the temptation of imported luxuries.
The locals were pleased to see Anari, glad someone was there to tell them how they were supposed to react, now that their own leaders had broken under pressure. Yes, the people of Baridge needed medical salves and cancer treatments due to the upswing in the solar cycle, but above anything else they needed faith.
Her first night on Baridge, Anari met in secret with a core group of true followers. They talked under the open sky, because night was the safest time to venture outside, when the radiation flux was diminished. Overhead, the auroras looked like silent scarves of fire, shimmering colors draped across the darkness.
Many of the faithful showed her the skin lesions they had suffered after VenHold criminally cut off their medical supplies; some displayed cancerous growths on their faces, noses, and arms, which they wore like badges of honor. Seeing what these people were enduring, Anari admired them for not listening to the silky promises of Josef Venport and his lapdog Suk doctors.
Anari spoke with an intensity that demanded attention. “I wish God would just force everyone to do the right thing, and then we wouldn’t need to be so vigilant.” She shook her head. “It’s both the gift and the curse of humanity that we are allowed to make our own decisions – even wrong ones. And Deacon Kalifer made the wrong one here, which forces us to do the right thing and punish him. More importantly, we have to ruin Venport Holdings. If we cut out the serpent’s tongue, then weak men like Deacon Kalifer will not hear tempting words. Thus, we save others from their own folly.”
“We could kidnap Deacon Kalifer now,” said the local leader of Manford’s dedicated followers. “That would prevent him from accepting the VenHold shipment.”
“No, he is beyond saving,” Anari said. “Better that we spread the word among the faithful. I brought a hundred fighters, but we’ll need a thousand more to accomplish our goal.”
The local leader had a purplish, S-shaped lesion under his left eye. He squinted. “What do you have in mind?”
“I want to set a trap for that ship.”
* * *
SINCE THE FIRST Butlerian planet to renounce Manford’s antitechnology pledge was an important milestone, Directeur Venport wanted the cargo ship to arrive with tremendous fanfare. Everyone had to see Deacon Harian tear up the agreement and “rejoin civilized society.”
Sealed in an onboard tank, the Navigator – Royce Fayed – interacted closely with the crew that operated the foldspace engines. Their skill was precise enough that the VenHold ship emerged in the sky directly over the city, as if by magic, with a thunder of displaced air.
The sigil of the VenHold Spacing Fleet was prominent on the hull. As the ship lowered itself toward the vast city square, people streamed out of the way to create a landing zone. Large cargo doors opened and smaller ships flew out to disperse across the city with medical supplies, luxury items, and melange.
Anari watched, her jaw aching from clenched teeth.
Deacon Kalifer had set up tall speakers for the event, and now he appeared at the head of the crowd to welcome the VenHold spacefolder. Anari observed the man as he mounted a speaking platform, and she hated him for his weakness. Ignorant people could be forgiven their mistakes, but Kalifer was a Butlerian deacon, indoctrinated in the truth, a man who knew the dangers and delusions of technology, yet he had still changed his allegiance and gone over to the enemy. Anari couldn’t understand why. Did his soul mean so little to him?
Kalifer’s voice resonated through the speakers. “I hear your cries of pain. I know how you suffer.”
Anari felt icy inside. What did this man know of suffering? He still looked pudgy and pale. Every day when she cared for Manford, she witnessed the leader’s resolve to continue fighting despite his cruel injuries, despite the loss of his legs. She thought of the many hundreds of thousands—millions—of people who would line up to give their lives for him.
The turncoat deacon raised his hands. “I did what was necessary to save us. I obtained the supplies we so desperately need, and now Baridge will survive and thrive. I reaffirm that we will never use thinking machines – but that doesn’t mean we have to return to medieval squalor. Manford Torondo asks too much. Thanks to this agreement, we can all be happy, healthy, and productive. We will create our own new golden age.”
As the smaller cargo ships opened their doors and VenHold workers dumped out crates of much-needed supplies, the people cheered, though Anari heard an undertone of uneasiness. Not everyone here was convinced. More than a thousand of Manford’s faithful were surreptitiously sprinkled throughout the crowd, awaiting her signal.
Under the shimmering sky, drenched with solar radiation that filtered through the planet’s weak magnetic field, Anari’s vision blurred. When she stared at Deacon Kalifer, an image seemed to appear before her, obscuring the deacon. The vision was of an ethereal-looking, hairless woman, the legendary founder of the Butlerian movement, Rayna Butler. She had pale skin, white robes, and a voice that sounded like beautiful music. “Anari Idaho, you know what to do. Do not let this man destroy what so many people have suffered for, what I suffered for – and died for. Manford knows, and you know Manford. Save me. Save my dream!”
Anari’s throat had gone dry, and she gasped as the image shimmered. “Rayna? Rayna Butler?”
But the image faded, and she saw only Deacon Kalifer on the platform, grinning smugly, announcing a festival to celebrate the happy times that had come to Baridge again. He told the people they should rejoice that their days of deprivation were over. “Enough suffering!” he shouted, to pockets of cheering and applause.
The Swordmaster pulled a red banner from her jacket and raised it high, so that it waved in the breeze. One of the nearby Butlerians saw her and also raised a red banner. As crimson cloths fluttered through the crowd, it looked like a spreading fire. Then her people surged forward with a mounting roar.
Although this was not a coordinated attack, the mob knew what to do. Anari raced along with them, pushed others out of the way. She had her rugged body and fighting skills, and the faithful who ran with her had their own collective ferocity.
The Butlerians swarmed the landed VenHold ship, overrunning the workers who were still unloading the cargo. They smashed the crates, scattered the contents on the ground, and stormed aboard the vessel to continue the orgy of destruction. Victims screamed; some of the attackers laughed.
Anari had plenty of volunteers to trigger the violence, and as soon as the riot began, more in the crowd joined in, unable to resist the tide. Perhaps they were showing their true feelings, or perhaps they simply did not want to be seen as an enemy and fall victim to mob violence. Either way, they were fighting on the correct side.
Unfortunately, the people got to Deacon Kalifer before Anari could reach him. He tried to fight them off, but his efforts proved useless as they beat him unconscious. They hacked off his legs in a twisted parody of Manford, then dragged him through the streets. He died of blood loss in a matter of minutes.
Across the city, the newly arrived supplies and ships were being destroyed. Deacon Kalifer and his entire government council were slain. Any citizen who tried to stop the mob from ransacking buildings also became a target. It was a necessary cleansing, since too many citizens of Baridge had forgotten the truth, forgotten who they really were.
Anari led the charge into the main VenHold spacefolder. The larger vessel was a former robot battleship, full of sharp lines and intimidating angles that were designed to trigger instinctive fear. Anari had been aboard such vessels before, when she and Manford destroyed any derelict thinking-machine ship they found.
Bloody corpses in VenHold uniforms lay in the corridors. Anari kept shouting commands even though her voice went hoarse. She knew how to find the control deck of the old robot ship, and led some followers there, while others spread out through the decks, looking for frightened crewmembers to kill.
She wished Directeur Escon could see the glory of these devout followers doing their holy work, but maybe it didn’t matter. The shipping magnate was weak and made too many excuses; he remained aboard his own ship in orbit, not wanting to go down to the surface of Baridge until the matter had been resolved. Anari didn’t really need him for this work.
After the Swordmaster gained some control over her wild anger, she realized that Manford could incorporate this vessel into his defense fleet – with the expanding conflict, he needed to gather all the ships he could. She issued orders to be passed among the swarming Butlerians: Capture or kill any traitors found aboard, but inflict no more damage on the ship. “Leader Torondo requires it,” she said, and that was enough reason. In a matter of minutes, her followers mitigated their violence, although their continued shouts and howls sounded like war cries as they ransacked cabins and corridors.
Anari and a group of wild-eyed fighters reached the control deck. Two human pilots gave up without a fight, but she refused to accept their surrender, and slashed them to pieces herself.
When the bodies of the VenHold pilots were dragged away from the controls, she realized to her horror that computers were part of the navigation systems. It was like discovering a nest of scorpions. Even though she had advised the others not to cause further damage, she told them to smash the navigation calculators anyway. No sane person could have any use for those.
She heard a shrill yell. “Swordmaster! It’s a monster!”
Two of her followers gestured toward a lift platform. When she reached the higher deck, she found a plaz chamber filled with orange-brown gas and a creature inside with an enlarged head, amphibious eyes, and webbed fingers. Its arms and legs hinted that it might once have been human. It had to be one of VenHold’s mysterious Navigators, the prescient things that guided the ships.
“You must stop!” said a voice through the speakers. “You have caused enough damage. You do not understand.”
Anari did not wish to hear any of this, had no tolerance for computers or monsters. She found the tank’s hatch and released it, thinking she would climb inside and slay the twisted Navigator. But the internal pressure was explosive, and rich melange gas boiled out. The creature in the tank flailed, and his words were filled with alarm. “Stop! You will never comprehend the secrets!”
He spoke more words, but she stopped herself from hearing them by smashing the speakerpatch. Together with the others, she hammered at the tank until the plaz wall shattered. More gas spilled out, reeking of spice. Spice …
She watched the creature inside gasping, weakening. This VenHold ship had been loaded with melange, a gift for the weak people of Baridge. The Navigator thrived on spice, and now it seemed to suffocate without it.
She knew that Venport Holdings had been heavily involved with spice production on Arrakis. The clue felt like an irritating pebble in her shoe. Did Josef Venport depend on spice to create these horrendous monsters? The humanoid thing gasped, sucking in useless breaths, but its words were incomprehensible. It seemed to be pleading, trying to explain something.
Anari turned away. “Pull that creature out and drag it through the streets so all can see what sort of monstrosity allies itself with Josef Venport.”
Coughing, her eyes stinging from the pungent spice gas, Anari watched them draw the slippery-skinned figure out of the tank, not caring that the jagged edges tore through its flesh. The creature would not live long, but its body would serve a purpose.
Manford would be pleased at what Anari had accomplished – and what she had discovered. The existence of this deformed thing changed everything. If Josef Venport’s Spacing Fleet required great supplies of melange to keep functioning, then maybe she would have to take a trip to Arrakis.…
