Текст книги "Mentats of Dune"
Автор книги: Brian Herbert
Соавторы: Kevin Anderson
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 38 страниц)
Chapter 48 (Evil is apparent to all)
Evil is apparent to all who have eyes to see, yet evil also has insidious roots that plunge deep out of sight, like those of a noxious weed that must be uprooted and destroyed wherever it tries to spread.
– MANFORD TORONDO, Lampadas rallies
After the uprising, Baridge was suitably chastened – Anari Idaho had seen to it, and she sent a report back to Manford. Even now, the faithful on Lampadas would be celebrating. And when she returned, she would tell Manford in person what she had discovered about Directeur Venport’s monstrous Navigators and the true reason for his stranglehold on spice.
Anari would have preferred to make a more drawn-out example of Deacon Kalifer, forcing him to endure a long trial and public humiliation before his execution. But the people had been too eager. The mayhem surrounding the deacon’s demise, as well as the spectacle of the mutant Navigator’s body, were satisfying enough.
Directeur Rolli Escon, who had kept himself sheltered from the violence, did not venture into the smoldering city until after the riots were over. Anari faced him in the town square in the shadow of the giant captured VenHold spacefolder. “Our people hold their beliefs in their hearts and are not afraid to act on them,” she said. “Baridge is a good lesson for all to see, a message from Leader Torondo, reminding all loyal planets of their pledge.”
Escon straightened, eager to show his dedication. “My ships will deliver the message everywhere Leader Torondo wishes.”
She indicated the ransacked spacefolder. “Have your foldspace pilots ensured that the captured vessel is ready for its journey to Lampadas?”
“We have to check the foldspace engines and repair some of the piloting controls.” Escon sounded uneasy. “Part of the control deck was torn apart. Your followers impaired some of the systems in their … enthusiasm.”
“They killed a mutated monster, and I myself destroyed computers there. We don’t need those things to fly a spaceship. The mind of man is holy.”
“Of course, Swordmaster.” He didn’t sound entirely certain.
The following afternoon, when the systems were pronounced ready, Anari watched the scattered crew board the seized VenHold vessel. Of the hundred followers that had come with her from Lampadas, she selected two Swordmaster comrades and five fervent Butlerians, along with one of Escon’s pilots, to send aboard the spacefolder back to Manford, where it would be added to his fleet.
Anari Idaho and Rolli Escon watched the massive ship lift off from the square. As the giant, angular shape hovered above the city, Anari and her avid followers chanted a loud prayer into the smoke-filled air. Then the pilot activated the foldspace engines, and the ship vanished with a thunderous boom.
* * *
ANARI REMAINED ON Baridge for several more days to continue the work, while the Butlerians hunted down enclaves of Machine Apologists, supporters of Deacon Kalifer, or anyone who simply didn’t seem passionate enough about Manford’s cause. Some nervous shopkeepers smashed their own businesses just to demonstrate their priorities and to avoid extreme retaliation.
At night the auroras blazed brighter, as if in a celestial celebration of the righteous victory. By daylight, the air of Baridge seemed to crackle, but Anari’s followers weren’t afraid of harmful solar radiation. God provided them with better protection than any technology could.
Rolli Escon prepared his own ship to return the Swordmaster to Lampadas. He claimed he was anxious to spread Manford’s message, although Anari suspected he merely wanted to get away from Baridge. But she, too, needed to get back to see Manford. She worried about him when she wasn’t there to protect him, and she had important news for him.
* * *
THE CAPTURED VENHOLD warship never arrived at Lampadas. Eventually, as days dragged out into a week after it was due, the conclusion grew inescapable: The seized spacefolder had vanished en route, as so many EsconTran vessels did. Anari was disappointed at the loss of the ship, which she considered a spoil of war, but she had other priorities.
When she arrived back at the capital city, she hoped for a private debriefing with Manford, and time to catch up with him, but the Butlerian leader wanted the rest of his inner circle to hear her report about Baridge. Manford called a meeting in his home, and the housekeeper, Ellonda, bustled around to prepare the main room, then attended the guests.
Deacon Harian refused to sit, and Anari was happy to let the bald man stand there and be uncomfortable. Sister Woodra listened to the Swordmaster’s every word with narrowed eyes, assessing and analyzing her report for accuracy. Anari lifted her chin, ready to slaughter this haughty Sister if she so much as suggested that she was shading the truth.
Focused only on Manford, Anari described the mob uprising and the punitive actions she had taken. He approved of everything she’d done, as she knew he would. The only image she brought to show Manford – and the other curious onlookers, including the horrified old housekeeper – was of the humanoid Navigator.
“It’s a demon!” Deacon Harian said.
“Worse than that. It was human once,” Manford said. “This creature shows the vile pact Josef Venport made. Look what he has done to this poor being.” He touched his forehead, said reverently, “The mind of man is holy.”
Manford looked so disturbed that Anari wanted to hold and comfort him, and give him all of her strength, should he need it.
“Appalling,” Harian said. “How can they create such monsters?”
“It lived in a tank filled with concentrated melange gas,” Anari said. “No human could survive that much spice exposure, but the Navigator relied upon it, immersed himself in it. The VenHold ship was also carrying a cargo of spice from Arrakis. Half the Imperium is addicted to it, and I believe Deacon Kalifer was more interested in maintaining his access to melange than to any medical supplies. That was the bribe Venport used.”
“Spice is an insidious drug,” Manford said. “Even the Emperor uses it.”
Woodra looked intense, distracted. “I received a message from Reverend Mother Dorotea on Salusa Secundus. She has uncovered remarkable connections to Venport Holdings, including the secret but absolute control of spice production and distribution – right under the Emperor’s nose.”
Ellonda picked up the dishes, clattering cups on the tray and dithering about the room. Frowning at the noisy interruption, Anari said, “EsconTran can provide necessary commodities to our planets, but he can’t get supplies of melange. Combined Mercantiles has an exclusive arrangement with VenHold.”
Sister Woodra said, “Melange has seeped into many aspects of life throughout the Imperium. It is a popular additive to beverages and foods, a stimulant, and it’s said that those who consume it on a regular basis live longer, healthier lives. Other companies have tried harvesting spice on Arrakis, but Venport Holdings and Combined Mercantiles have a ruthless monopoly.”
She narrowed her gaze, looked at Manford. “Now we know that Venport needs spice – a lot of it – for his Navigators. And he has a great many Navigators. If we break that monopoly, we severely weaken him.”
Manford followed the argument, nodding slowly. “Then I must make a journey to Arrakis and convert those spice workers to our cause, deny Venport what he needs most.”
“It is too dangerous for you to travel there,” Anari said, putting her foot down.
He dismissed her concern. “All important battles are dangerous. But we must not fear.”
“You cannot go, Manford. We discussed this before – EsconTran’s safety record is too poor. We just lost another ship in foldspace. Until the navigational problems are solved, it’s too dangerous for you to travel.”
Manford admitted he was deeply troubled by the loss of the commandeered vessel. He shook his head. “It would have made a satisfying trophy, but it was a demon ship.”
“I destroyed the computers on board, Manford,” Anari said. “It should have been safe.”
“But you couldn’t destroy the taint of thinking machines. Maybe a hidden computer presence rose up from within the machinery and threw the vessel off course.”
Deacon Harian said, “So many EsconTran ships have disappeared. His company must be cursed.”
Anari couldn’t argue with that, but she drove home her main point. “Let me go to Arrakis first, to reconnoiter. I will be your eyes, and I will report back. You know you can trust me.”
Manford resisted. “They need to hear my words, see my face.”
“They can’t hear you or see you if you disappear into empty space!” She crossed her arms over her chest. Finally she said, in a small compromise, “Write your speech and rehearse it with your double. I’ll take him with me and carry him on my shoulders. The people will never notice the difference, but I’ll know you’re safe. With that confidence, I can do a better job.”
Manford’s shoulders slumped in acquiescence. “Very well, take my double to Arrakis and report back. It is critically important for us to learn how we can destroy all Venport operations there.”
Chapter 49 (I am an educated, rational businessman)
I am an educated, rational businessman, not prone to emotional outbursts, and yet I despise the Butlerians with every fiber of my being. I hate them more than any apparatus can measure.
– DIRECTEUR JOSEF VENPORT, to his wife, Cioba
When the news about Baridge reached Kolhar, Josef couldn’t find an appropriate outlet for his disgust and outrage. The murder of more than a hundred VenHold employees and forty Suk cancer doctors, the destruction of cargo shuttles as well as a massive spacefolder … and the slaughter of a priceless Navigator, Royce Fayed!
In his office tower overlooking the spaceport, Josef met with Cioba, who had let her long hair down so that it trailed past her waist. Draigo Roget wore a stony expression that did not entirely mask his inner anger.
“I have no words for this.” Josef prowled about with unreleased rage. “The thinking machines were our enemies, but at least they were comprehensible. Who can explain this? This!” He hammered his hand down on another report that glowed up on his desk screen. “After the rampage festival in Zimia, I expected Emperor Salvador to crack down on the Butlerians … but again, they launch their barbaric insanity on another planet. Against me—with impunity!”
This had gone far beyond profits and power. As Norma Cenva had warned, it was now a war of civilizations. Josef struggled to understand the Half-Manford’s fanaticism. How did he get all those people to follow him blindly, questioning nothing he said? Josef had watched video recordings of the leader’s speeches, dissected his demeanor, the way he spoke – and the man was not that charismatic. Aside from having no legs, Manford seemed rather ordinary, which made his mass appeal even more baffling.
Draigo spoke up, his normally flat voice uneven, an indication of how unsettled he was. “Manford Torondo sent out a call, and his planets are reaffirming their commitments to honor their pledges. He also sent a delegation to Salusa Secundus to insist that Emperor Salvador take aggressive action against you: new tariffs and restrictions on VenHold trade.”
Josef frowned. “Emperor Salvador is as ineffective as he is indecisive, a ruler who does nothing but collect fees and sit in pompous glory on his throne. The Imperium is being torn apart between pro– and antitechnology supporters, and he does his best to appease two sides while making no movement at all.” He let out a scornful noise. “Like a trained monkey, balancing on a ball.” His heart pounded, and the ache in his skull grew greater. “If the Emperor won’t impose punishment, then it falls to us. We have resources. We can do something.”
“The first planet to issue a statement reaffirming the oath to Manford is a small backwater world called Lectaire,” Draigo pointed out.
“Never heard of Lectaire. Does it have any economic significance? Is it even on our trade routes?”
“It’s a small agricultural world with minimal resources, no strategic importance, population under a million. Two primary cities, numerous scattered farms. No defenses whatsoever. VenHold ships have serviced Lectaire over the years, though not on a regular basis, since it isn’t cost-effective. Lately, the planet has been on our embargo list.” The Mentat blinked. “Other companies have recently made several runs there, but on the whole Lectaire is insignificant.”
Josef sat down, still trying to control his anger. “It is significant because it is the first planet to reaffirm the Half-Manford’s manifesto. We can’t let these fanatics have any victory at all. They can dance around their cave fires, but they must not be allowed to think that they’ve won.”
“Royce Fayed was a valuable asset,” Cioba said. “Norma Cenva was close to him. She’ll want to help us.”
Josef considered his options. A direct military strike against Lectaire or any other Butlerian world would certainly be traced back to him. Even if the Imperial Space Fleet and House Corrino were seemingly ineffective, he didn’t want to provoke outright war or nudge Salvador into making the wrong decision.
But he had a weapon that no one in the Imperium knew about: All of the new cymeks from Denali, guided by the brains of failed Navigators. He could give Ptolemy the opportunity for a real demonstration.
Josef realized he was smiling for the first time since the news had arrived. “The cymeks were impressive on Arrakis. They won’t have any trouble against a small farming world. We will leave no evidence behind of what hit Lectaire, and no trace of the human settlements there. It’ll be just like the Time of Titans – except this time we have a just cause.”
* * *
EVEN ISOLATED ON Denali, Ptolemy reviewed reports of the latest atrocities committed by the Butlerians. He didn’t need further incentive to despise the savages. He still had nightmares of Dr. Elchan’s screams, and of the calm, even amused expression on Manford Torondo’s face when he watched Elchan roasted alive.…
Though seven of his best cymeks were lost on Arrakis, Ptolemy had been building his army all along. And they were ready to be sent into action.
The enormous robot walkers trudged across Denali’s bleak landscape, impervious to the corrosive atmosphere. Still building up the new group, he’d installed many more failed Navigator brains into canisters, connected the thoughtrodes to the engines and motivators of new walkers. These cymek candidates were still practicing their reactions and learning how to unite their brains with their new artificial bodies.
And they were terrifying.
When plotting revenge, some people could wait for years and years, arranging tiny pieces in such a way as to set up an enemy for complete downfall. Josef Venport was not such a man. He felt gravely insulted by Butlerian tactics. The business interests of Venport Holdings had been hurt by destructive mobs, and a Navigator had been murdered. Josef demanded a swift and devastating retaliation. Like a viper that had been stepped on, he struck back immediately.
Ptolemy was pleased to be Josef Venport’s fangs.
A VenHold hauler came to Denali to retrieve the cymek assault force. To demonstrate the importance of the mission, Norma Cenva herself guided the spacefolder.
Ptolemy worked with Administrator Noffe to load eighteen of his best cymek attackers aboard, for secret transport to Lectaire. Though he knew they would perform well, Ptolemy insisted on going along. He wanted to observe his shining examples under real conditions, a genuine victory rather than the proof of concept.
Noffe looked very proud as Ptolemy prepared to board the shuttle. “We have already accomplished tremendous things, my friend.” The pale blotches on Noffe’s skin were more prominent when he flushed with excitement. “But be careful. I want you to return safely – we still have a lot of work to do together.”
“The cymeks will protect me from the barbarians,” Ptolemy said. “And after this mission, we’ll have fewer barbarians to worry about.”
He had begun as a pure researcher, a man of science and ideas. On the planet Zenith he had devoted his life to research projects, discovering new methods to help humanity after the Jihad. He had never been bloodthirsty, never imagined harming another human being.
But such pacifism had been burned out of him by the fires that consumed his research laboratory … and his friend.
As the spacefolder traveled to Lectaire, Norma Cenva remained alone up on the pilot deck. When they reached orbit over the bucolic planet, Norma finally contacted him and also sent her message to the new cymeks. With her vastly expanded intellect, she seemed more in tune with the failed Navigator brains than with Ptolemy. Out of deference, it seemed, she included him.
“I understand the causality of revenge,” Norma said. “Butlerian ignorance harms our future.” Her warbling voice hesitated, and then she added, “This sad mindset killed Royce Fayed.”
Ptolemy spoke to the Navigator brains as well as to Norma, although he doubted they needed encouragement. He had tremendous faith in his creations. “We will punish them. Butlerian superstitions can’t protect them from superior weapons and superior minds.”
Norma said with great portent, “Ignorance is a powerful armor against the truth.”
The eighteen walkers dropped down in landing pods that split open upon impact. They landed near the main town just as dusk was deepening. The new Titans emerged from the landers like spiders from eggs, with their claws extended, cannon arms telescoped into firing positions, and flame jets fully primed. Each combat body had a different configuration, because Ptolemy wanted to test a variety of designs.
First, the walkers descended upon Lectaire’s primary farming and market city, where the natives didn’t know how to react, except with terror. These towering cymek walkers were the embodiment of their worst nightmares.
Ptolemy did not bother with any recorded warning or explanation. There would be no survivors here, and he would be careful to leave no evidence behind that might identify the attacker. The new Titans charged through the town, and weapons fire from their bodies and arms exploded buildings and mowed down fleeing villagers.
In his observation room aboard the spacecraft, the screens were arrayed like the interlocked facets of an insect’s eye. The new Titans had visual and auditory pickups, and they transmitted the screams, crackling flames, and explosions. Ptolemy reveled in the murderous destruction for a while, then finally became numb. He muted the sounds, although he continued to watch the screens in fascination.
Carefully coordinated with the help of their superior Navigator brains, the eighteen Titans annihilated everything in the town, then spread to the outskirts, where they laid waste to surrounding farms.
Up in orbit, Norma Cenva’s ship deployed sensors to watch for any incoming ships, but Lectaire was rarely visited. Ptolemy knew the cymeks would have as much time as they needed.
“Magnificent,” he whispered, watching the impressive forms obliterate agricultural fields, farm buildings, storage silos. The mayhem was quite thorough.
From orbit they were mapping and targeting the location of every small settlement on the sparsely populated planet. Ptolemy had developed the methodical plan, though he was sure the Navigator cymeks would do an excellent tactical job. According to his best projections, they would complete the punitive scouring of Lectaire in seven days or less.
It was going to be a long but gratifying week.
Chapter 50 (Symbols are powerful motivators of human behavior)
Symbols are powerful motivators of human behavior. And symbols can be destroyed.
– DIRECTOR JOSEF VENPORT, “Memo on Extrapolations of Business and Power”
Turning his back on the sietch that did not want him, Taref worked his way across the desert back to Arrakis City.
The week-long trek was arduous, and the desert austere and uncomfortable, but he endured the deprivation. When he reached the city, he would find other Freemen who had left their sietches, Freemen who might be tempted to join him. He vowed to himself he would not return to Directeur Venport empty-handed.
If he’d been able to recruit eager volunteers from the sietch itself, Taref would have summoned a sandworm to transport them swiftly across the open dunes. He would have stood tall atop the head of the monster, feeling the sun and grit on his face.
At the moment, though, he had no cause to celebrate. He didn’t care about the father and brothers he’d left behind; he’d known that they would sneer at the idea, because they were ignorant and closed-minded. He had been reminded of how squalid and backward his tribe was, and yet the glorious promises and shining visions he had once believed in now also tasted like dust.
When he and his friends had left poverty behind, they’d been so excited for the opportunity, especially him. Taref tried to take comfort from the fact that Shurko had lived more in his brief months working for VenHold than he would have experienced in a lifetime out in the desert. Surely his friend had seen and enjoyed some wonders on his travels.
Knowing what Kolhar, Junction Alpha, and all those other run-down spaceport worlds were like, should he bother to go back at all? If Taref were to vanish here, Directeur Venport and Draigo Roget would chalk up his loss to an unspecified desert hazard. He could easily find a way to survive, even here on Arrakis, maybe joining another spice crew.
But he didn’t want to do that, didn’t want to hide. No, Taref would go back to Directeur Venport, because he had promised. With the authorization he carried, he could have flown to Kolhar on the next spice hauler, but first he had to do what he had agreed to do. He would find volunteers, somehow.…
On the way to Arrakis City, Taref was surprised at how the desert environment now grated on him as much as the backward desert mindset did. His stillsuit was scuffed and dusty, but it still looked different with its obvious offworld modifications. He had a few coins, a Maula pistol, his stillsuit, a desert cloak, and his VenHold ID. His demeanor was no longer that of a furtive, ever-wary sand dweller. Reaching the city, he noticed the people regarding him as if he were an outcast here, too.
For a while Taref observed the spaceport operations, watching the vessels load up with melange and take off from the landing field. Before, when he’d worked on spice crews, Taref had never given much thought to where all that spice went after the haulers departed from Arrakis. Now he knew so much more. Seeing a small freighter take off, he remembered dreaming about those romantic, far-off places – Salusa Secundus, or Poritrin, or the ocean-drenched world of Caladan, a planet he still hadn’t seen. Surely there were other people here willing to leave.
He watched the freighter ascend into the lemon-colored sky, and decided he had put off his work for too long. He would convince others to join him, promising them wonders that he now doubted existed. He would find young men or women with sparkling eyes turned toward the skies imagining a far better life elsewhere. Taref would tell them everything they wanted to hear, everything he had wanted to hear.…
Then a miracle occurred in the streets.
A muscular female Swordmaster strode through Arrakis City with the stump of a man riding on her shoulders. They were accompanied by an entourage of defiant, disheveled followers, each wearing the badge of a machine gear clenched in a symbolic fist – the badge of the Butlerians.
Taref stared. This was the Butlerian leader, the man whom Directeur Venport loathed, the fanatic who had caused such turmoil … the man Venport wanted dead, by any means.
He knew immediately what he had to do.
Although he had no personal interest in politics, he owed his loyalty to Josef Venport, and Venport wanted to cut off the head of the barbarian monster that was destroying humanity’s future. The Directeur’s enemies were Taref’s enemies.
Manford rode high on Anari Idaho’s shoulders, a perfect target above the throngs around them. Taref could never fight the Swordmaster, not even with a precious wormtooth dagger, but he did know that none of the Butlerians would be wearing a body shield. They abhorred technology, foolishly expecting their faith to protect them.
Taref didn’t make a plan, didn’t think about his possible escape. He merely reacted. He already had the blood of many thousands on his hands from the spaceships he had sabotaged. This one man, though, counted for more than all of them together.
Taref drew his Maula pistol, aimed, and fired.
The projectile struck Manford in the head, shattered his skull, and splattered brains and blood over his shocked supporters. The Butlerian leader jerked backward, his legless form knocked out of the padded leather socket that secured him to the Swordmaster’s shoulders.
A sudden startled hush fell on the streets. All eyes had been watching the marching Butlerians. The Maula pistol had made only a whizzing clack from its spring-loaded mechanism.
Manford tumbled to the ground, twitching but obviously dead. The Swordmaster wailed.
Taref dropped the weapon and melted back into the crowd. Though numbed by the knowledge of what he had done, he forced himself to keep moving. Fortunately, his dusty desert garb looked commonplace in the streets. He heard gasps. People reacted with shock and dismay, and he glanced from face to face, mimicking their horror as he pretended to search for the source of the danger.
The Swordmaster scooped up the legless body and bounded away, carrying Manford Torondo like a limp doll. Other Butlerians screamed, but they could not find who had shot their leader. Some of the offworlders even gave water for the dead, as tears streamed down their dusty cheeks.
Taref didn’t stay to watch, but slipped under a sheltered overhang, and then away. He knew Directeur Venport would reward him for this one act far more than if he had brought a hundred avid recruits.
He decided to use the VenHold line of credit for a nice meal and a room after all. Then he would depart on the next spacefolder.
* * *
ON KOLHAR, WHEN Taref reported to the administrative towers without his promised volunteers, Directeur Venport’s face soured in disappointment. “No one else wishes to join our cause? You could not convince any of your desert people?”
Taref could barely contain himself. “You might not need any more volunteers, ever again.” He blurted out, “I assassinated Manford Torondo on Arrakis!”
That claim seemed to freeze time itself. Draigo Roget turned to him, his dark eyebrows raised in disbelief. The Directeur straightened behind his desk. “What?”
Taref was breathing quickly. “I saw him and his Swordmaster in Arrakis City. I don’t know why they were there, but I remembered your orders. I had a Maula pistol, so I shot the Butlerian leader in the head. I saw him fall. He’s dead, Directeur Venport.”
Josef looked at Draigo, struggling to conceal elation behind his thick mustache. “Is he telling the truth, Mentat?”
“I am not a Truthsayer, sir, but I will verify the facts as soon as possible.”
“I saw it with my own eyes, Directeur,” Taref insisted. “Half of his head was blown away, his brains splashed on the people around him and the dirt of the street. He’s dead – no question about it.”
Venport began to chuckle. “If you’re right, this almost makes up for the Baridge debacle. Without their pathetic half-leader, the barbarians will scatter like rodents.” Directeur Venport stepped over to Taref in a single stride and clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulders. “Good work.”
