Текст книги "Mentats of Dune"
Автор книги: Brian Herbert
Соавторы: Kevin Anderson
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Chapter 51 (A threat works only if the recipient believes)
A threat works only if the recipient believes you are willing to carry through with it.
– REVEREND MOTHER RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL
It was not a good time for the Mother Superior to die.
Prior to the crisis, Raquella had been quite healthy despite her advanced age, and now, only a year later, she felt decades older. Sorrow, despair, and the stress of rebuilding the Sisterhood school on a different planet would have taken its toll even on a much younger woman.
In order to maintain herself, she consumed frequent doses of melange supplied by VenHold, as well as other drugs, but they were rapidly becoming insufficient. Even melange only stretched her already-long life like a rubber band. Now her lifeline was almost to the breaking point.
Early each morning, locked in her private quarters, she went into a trance and analyzed her internal chemistry and cellular structure. With her skills and control as a Reverend Mother, she could observe each biological detail as if projected on a screen in her mind.
After analyzing the tiniest cellular nuances, Raquella used the information to determine what adjustments were necessary to sustain her for one more day. But tiny errors and failures had been mounting, and she’d been in crisis mode for a long time, just trying to stay alive. Her rate of decline was increasing, and she knew she could not maintain the biological façade for much longer. And the Sisterhood was still broken.
Raquella would have preferred to orchestrate her passing much differently. She had to save the Sisterhood, choose her successor. Otherwise there would be more turmoil, more arguments, maybe even further splits. Valya Harkonnen seemed the obvious candidate, but there was also Dorotea. Each woman had certain advantages, and obvious flaws. If only Raquella could combine the best of both, fuse the factions, heal them.
The other Sisters on Wallach IX didn’t notice the extent of the Mother Superior’s deterioration. They had seen the old woman for so long that they turned a blind eye to her mortality. Raquella’s followers didn’t know about the effort she expended just to keep standing upright. If she made the slightest slip, the house of cards that was her body would collapse. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep this up.
Now, on a bright morning under a clear sky, she walked out on the steep trail, climbing high Laojin Cliff as she often did. To demonstrate her health, Raquella continued to go for long walks. The wooded path was familiar to her, and she liked being high up, where she could look down at the cluster of buildings that constituted her new school.
Fielle accompanied her this morning, listening more than talking, as she often did. The large-boned Sister Mentat was in good shape and could actually walk faster, but was holding back. Raquella appreciated the company. She missed conversations with her dear friend Karee Marques, who had also been a Mentat, with the capacity to offer objective, well-reasoned advice.
Fielle was not an appropriate choice to become the next Mother Superior, but if Raquella were to die tomorrow – with Valya away on Ginaz for Swordmaster training, and Dorotea ensconced on Salusa Secundus – who would lead the Sisters? Raquella needed to decide on her successor.
Continuing to walk, the old woman remained silent, but her mind was not quiet; the rattling voices of Other Memory, dead Sisters from her bloodlines, clamored for her to join them. Raquella was not quite ready – but it had to be soon. She felt dread and anticipation.
They reached a sunny overlook on the steep trail, one of Raquella’s favorite spots. There they could sit on a flat stone and gaze out on the trees, lakes, and mountains of Wallach IX. A chill wind blew across the treetops and ruffled their robes.
Bundling up, the two sat for a long, contemplative moment. Fielle’s brown eyes were filled with compassion and concern. “Are you feeling well today, Mother Superior? You seem to be keeping something inside. Would you like to share it with me? I’ll do whatever I can to assist you.”
Raquella felt weary in every aged muscle and bone of her body. “It is no secret – I’m dying.”
The Sister Mentat did not react with denial; instead, she just gave a sad nod.
“Fielle, you are one of the most selfless people I’ve ever met, and I admire you for that.” Raquella smiled. “And for other fine traits. But you are so young, dear, so very young.”
“And I have much that I still want to learn from you. Is there any way I can help? For all of us, please find a way to keep going, Mother Superior.”
“The Sisterhood must keep going. I have already lived long past a normal lifetime, and I worry not for myself but for the future of this school, and these Sisters. I don’t want it all to die with me.”
Fielle raised her voice. “We would never allow that, Mother Superior!”
“I have often said that emotions get in the way of our tasks, that love is a dangerous distraction, but maybe I was wrong about that, Fielle, because I’m buoyed by the love you show for me, and I appreciate it more than you can possibly realize. But among other Sisters who will outlive me – those here and others on Salusa Secundus – there is such enmity that I don’t see a way to bring them together. We are too fragmented.”
“There may be a way, Mother Superior. I have run Mentat projections.” Fielle rose to her feet and paced the promontory, as if it were an office. “Without you, there would likely be a civil war among the Sisters, a power struggle, perhaps even further Imperial intervention. Reverend Mother Valya could instigate it, or maybe Dorotea – but it would happen for certain. Each side would view your loss as a vacuum that must be filled.”
Raquella’s eyes burned with emotion. “Unless I fix it first. I have asked Dorotea to come here so I can speak with her, beg her … but I suspect she will not listen.”
Fielle sounded more optimistic now. “A crisis broke us apart, Mother Superior. It will require another crisis, not mere diplomacy, to bring us back together. My Mentat projection suggests a method to reunite the estranged factions, but I hesitate to tell you. It is perhaps too radical.”
“I need a solution, so give me the raw information. Let me decide.” She rose to her feet and stood with her arms folded across her chest, trying not to shiver in the breeze. “What do you have in mind?”
The younger woman avoided making eye contact, as if ashamed of what she was about to suggest. “They still love you, regardless of politics, Mother Superior. All the Sisters on Wallach IX do, and I am convinced Dorotea and her orthodox Sisters do as well. Use that.”
“How?”
“Demand that the factions put aside their differences and find common ground – now. You do not have the time to craft a gradual peace. If they fail to do so, then shock them into doing what they must. As has been proved time and again, never underestimate the power of a martyr.”
“You mean, threaten to kill myself?”
“You may have to do more than threaten. If logic doesn’t make them solve their differences, maybe guilt will.”
Raquella thought for a moment, and nodded. “Sister Arlett has already departed for Salusa Secundus with a message for Dorotea. I’ll dispatch a coded letter to Ginaz recalling Valya. I need them both here immediately, so I can give them my ultimatum. If they refuse…” She shrugged. “My life is at an end anyway. Maybe my death can accomplish one last thing.”
The pair began walking back down the trail, moving at the old woman’s pace. Raquella was slower than usual. Although now she had a glimmer of hope for the Sisterhood, she felt the deep fatigue of a long lifetime.
Chapter 52 (There is beauty in the eyes)
There is beauty in the eyes of the youth who dreams of a bright future.
– wisdom of the Ancients
Though Caladan was quiet and bucolic, it boasted an impressive Air Patrol Agency. The scattered fishing fleets, the occasional sea storms, and the creatures out in the deep oceans – all required the locals to be ready to mount a rapid and efficient rescue when necessary.
Vor smiled when he studied the history of the Caladan Air Patrol and their years of service. No one knew that the rescue organization had been established and funded well over a century ago through an anonymous foundation set up by Vorian Atreides. Yes, he still had many ties here.
Though they were still young, his great-great-grandsons Willem and Orry had made themselves important pilots in the Patrol. Both young men had a love of fast and dangerous flying in their blood, but Vor decided this was a much better profession than piloting warships against robot vessels in the Jihad.
After that long, late-night confession and conversation with Shander Atreides, Vor felt relieved. He rarely got a chance to shed so many secrets. Even so, from Shander’s raised eyebrows and uncertain chuckle, he wasn’t sure the wealthy old fisherman – actually Vor’s great-grandson – completely believed him. Shander was aware only that one of his ancestors had been a great war hero, as attested to by the statue in the town square; but that was far back in the days of the Jihad, and the fact meant little to their daily lives. Nevertheless, Shander accepted Vorian’s friendship, seeing him as a curiosity and a spinner of tales. Good company overall, regardless of his past.
In a broader sense, Vor wanted to reconnect with the tapestry of his family, his roots, and to apologize for the aloof way he had treated Leronica and their two sons … generations ago. Although no one on Caladan even remembered the slight, Vor needed to do it for himself.
His openness and candor surprised some on Caladan who heard his story, while others simply assumed he had a wild imagination. Vor didn’t mind; he intended to stay on beautiful Caladan for a while – for quite a while, in fact. Willem and Orry were strangers to him, but he could hardly wait to meet them.
On the third day after Vor arrived on Caladan, Shander Atreides offered to meet him for lunch to introduce him to the two young men, who were due back from a long patrol. At the last minute, Shander had to respond to an insistent customer, some kind of urgent repair order for fishing nets, and so Vor went to the landing-field café himself. He had faced greater challenges before.
Walking in, he felt tense but eager to meet Willem and Orry. Vor found them sitting at a table by a window that overlooked the Air Patrol field, where seaplanes took off and landed. He was startled when he caught his first glimpse of the two laughing young men. Even in their flight suits, they looked very much like the twins Estes and Kagin. He caught his breath, felt a pang, and then smiled as he stepped forward.
The brothers rose in unison to greet him; each shook his hand with a firm grip. Willem was taller than his older brother, with blond hair, while Orry’s was black like Vor’s. “I’m glad to finally meet you both,” Vor said.
They were polite, formal, although neither seemed to quite understand who he was. Willem said, “Uncle Shander told us you’re a surprise visitor. Some long-lost family member that we need to meet?”
Vor sat back, surprised. “He didn’t tell you my story?”
“We’ve been out on patrol for a week,” Orry said, “filling in at another airfield.”
“My name is Vorian Atreides.” He saw that they recognized the name but couldn’t quite place it. “I’m your great-great-grandfather. I spent a lot of time here on Caladan, long ago during the Jihad. I met a local woman named Leronica Tergiet, and we had twin sons. One of them was your great-grandfather.”
Willem and Orry blinked, then chuckled, but their laughter fell into silence when Vor continued to regard them with a serious expression. He explained the life-extension treatment he had received from his father, the cymek General Agamemnon. He was sure they must have been taught the history of the Jihad.
Orry said, “This is impossible. This really sounds impossible!”
Willem sat back at the table, looking skeptical. “We’ve heard of you, of course, at least the name. But … that’s all ancient history, and whatever you did all those centuries ago doesn’t affect us here. Not anymore.”
Vor frowned. “It’s been a very long time, but that doesn’t mean the past can’t find you here. I’d just like to get to know you both.”
Orry grinned. “I’ll bet he has some amazing stories.”
With a nod, Willem said, “As long as he pays for the meal.”
The boys showed no animosity toward him, just friendly curiosity. It appeared that any disappointment Estes and Kagin might have felt toward Vor had not lasted over the generations … unlike the bitterness House Harkonnen felt toward him. He could start fresh with these young men, earn their friendship without any preconceptions.
Their meals arrived, a local specialty of dark bread baked with meats, cheeses, and fresh vegetables.
“If you’re a member of the family, then you have to come to my wedding,” Orry said.
Willem explained, “My brother’s been in such a rush since meeting this girl – and he’s gone a little dizzy over her – but we can add an ancient war hero to the guest list.”
“Sounds like I arrived at just the right time. I’d love to attend.” Vor remembered all the family promises he’d broken in the past and vowed not to do it again. “When is it? Tell me about her.”
Once encouraged, Orry seemed unable to stop talking about his fiancée, while Willem just rolled his eyes. Orry had met a beautiful, charming young woman from an inland village, and they’d immediately felt sparks between them. “She swept me off my feet.”
“She knocked him off his feet.” Willem wore a long-suffering expression. “I’ve never seen him so love-struck. It happened so fast that no one’s had much of a chance to get to know her – except Orry, of course.” His tone was teasing.
“From the moment we met, we were two pieces that fit perfectly together,” Orry said, then turned to his brother. “Someday you’ll find a woman as perfect as … Well, almost as perfect, because there isn’t anyone to match her.”
Willem sighed. “I don’t believe in love at first sight.”
“I knew if I didn’t make my move quickly, you would have been after her,” Orry said, smiling. “And you know it, too.”
Willem gave an embarrassed chuckle. “You might be right.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Vor said. “And to spending more time with you two. Does the Air Patrol have room for another volunteer? I was a crack pilot once, and I’ve got experience – centuries’ worth, in fact.”
Willem seemed thrilled with the suggestion. “Want to go out with us after lunch? Our multiwing tiltplane can hold a third passenger – there’s even room for famous people.”
“I’d rather not be famous,” Vor said. “I prefer to be treated as an ordinary man for a change.”
Orry laughed. “We can do that. Most people won’t believe your war stories anyway. But they beat the wild tales our fishermen tell.”
They finished their meal, eager to head back to the airfield. As they left the café and walked out to the landing area, Willem said, “We can’t offer any combat missions against robot battleships, though. You might find it boring.”
“I’m perfectly happy with a boring mission. I risked my life enough times.” Vor had nothing to prove to anyone. He felt glad he had decided to make his way back to Caladan.
An alarm klaxon sounded from the airfield, and Willem and Orry looked at each other before bolting toward a patrol craft. “We’re on call,” Willem shouted as Vor hurried to keep up with them. “It’s an emergency.”
Orry jabbed his finger toward a long, thin aircraft that had a red light pulsing on top. “That’s our plane.” The craft had rotors and a complex arrangement of wings to operate as a helicopter, airplane, or watercraft. Vor had never flown that exact model before, but it looked similar to many he had used.
An attendant was refueling the tiltplane for immediate takeoff. He looked up at the trio running toward the craft, said, “A man’s been caught in an undertow taking him out to sea. Report came in from a woman harvesting anemones by Gable Cliff.” He closed the cap, rapped the side of the craft. “You’re ready to go. I ran through the checklist.”
The tiltplane’s cockpit was barely large enough to accommodate the three men; Vor crammed into a jump seat behind the two younger Atreides. From his days on Caladan, he recalled instances of dangerous riptides and unexpected currents near the shore. Any victim swept out to sea would not last long.
Willem took the controls, and as they taxied for takeoff, Orry went through his own quick checklist and adjusted his headset. “Report came in ten minutes ago, but the victim isn’t far. We might make it in time, if he’s a strong swimmer.”
“First we have to find him out in the big water,” Willem said, then glanced back at Vor. “Your extra set of eyes could come in handy.”
They soared over the high promontory of Gable Cliff and turned out to sea, dipping down to fly low over the waves. Another patrol plane joined them, and they spread out their search patterns. Whitecaps licked the rough sea, and a brisk breeze buffeted them. Vor leaned against the side windowport and pointed. “I see something at two o’clock.”
They circled back for a closer look, and a human figure came into view, a gray-haired man floating in the water. Operating the controls to shift the tiltplane’s wings, Willem hovered over the area while Orry worked his way to the back and pulled himself into a sling. Clipping his supports into place, he slid open the access door to a roar of wind and aircraft engines, then pushed himself out, pulling the rope taut as the sling lowered. Vor clipped himself into place with a safety harness and helped guide the rope down.
Even with the sharp breezes, Willem held the craft in perfect position. Orry rode down on the sling, and maneuvered into position until he could grab the floating man. Orry’s motions were urgent as he wrestled with the victim and strapped him into the sling. He kept shouting into the comm, but Vor could only hear the wind, engines, and static.
Willem’s face was pale and grim as he raised the winch, hauling both Orry and the victim back up to the open hold. Vor leaned out in his harness and reached down to guide them aboard.
Orry seemed to be crying as he clung to the dripping old man. Vor hauled them both inside and secured the sling. The victim slumped forward, facedown and motionless on the deck. Orry tore himself free of the harness, crawled over to the body, and rolled him over.
Vor grabbed the first-aid kit, but he could tell the man was dead – he had seen enough death in all his years. The old man’s eyes were open, his head smashed, his face badly swollen and bruised, almost unrecognizable. Almost. His heart sank.
It was Shander Atreides.
The hatch closed and the tiltplane flew over the water as Willem raced back toward shore.
Orry was sobbing as he tried to resuscitate his uncle, and Vor helped, even though he knew it was useless. Still, he had to let the young man do what he needed to do. Shander had raised the boys.
“It looks like somebody beat him,” Willem said, his voice breaking.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Vor said. Shander’s death was clearly not an accident.
Chapter 53 (In hand-to-hand combat)
In hand-to-hand combat, even the most formidable opponent can be defeated. You must find an inner calm and visualize the path to victory.
– JOOL NORET, the first Swordmaster
For weeks, Valya trained hard at the Ginaz School, learning what she could from the Swordmasters, adding their specialized knowledge to the already lethal fighting arsenal she possessed.
Despite his challenge to her on the first day of instruction, Master Placido took a liking to Valya. He gave her a great deal of personal attention, both during the classes and outside them, making himself available for questions and additional demonstrations. “One must be open to receive wisdom from any source at any time,” he said, which reminded Valya of Sisterhood instruction.
The instructor was attracted to her, but she calmly, firmly, put him out of her mind. With the Other Memories awakened inside her, she had more recollections of sexual encounters than she could possibly review.
And she had other priorities.
As dusk settled over the archipelago on Ginaz, she practiced alone on a rocky expanse outside the simple open-air student dormitory with its palm-frond roof. Fighting against imaginary opponents that she saw vividly in her mind, Valya ran through a combination of her Lankiveil sessions with Griffin, the Sisterhood training she had undergone on Rossak, and the skills she had learned at the Swordmaster school.
She drew her short practice sword and attacked with ferocity. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Placido watching. In his arms he carried a long case. He observed her in silence, waiting for her to pause and catch her breath.
He finally asked, “Would you like a real opponent? I could give you a more advanced lesson than you’ve had before.”
During their sparring and instruction, she had noticed Placido observing her techniques, seeing what he could draw from her, because Valya’s fighting methods were quite different from those that the legendary Jool Noret had developed for his Swordmasters. The instructor had given her brief demonstrations with foil, épée, and saber swords, and even once with a stiletto.
At the moment, though, Valya wanted solitude so she could perfect her moves, increasing her speed, angles of attack, and precision. The Swordmaster would only distract her, but he continued to press. Trying to ignore him, Valya centered her concentration, using her skills as a Reverend Mother to control her pulse, her metabolism, her muscular movement … and her temper.
But he was not going to leave. Exasperated, Valya turned toward Master Placido and extended her short sword, then pointed it at a slight angle upward, awaiting his approach.
Grinning, he set down the case and knelt to open it, revealing four long swords. “No training blade tonight. Select your weapon from these.”
She tossed aside her dull practice sword and stepped forward. With a nod, she studied the offered blades, picked each one up for a brief test, and then selected the dueling sword that had the least ornamentation on the hilt, but the best balance.
“Ah, I have won many duels with that fine weapon,” Placido said. “Even killed an intruder with it when he broke into our headquarters on the main island. That was a year ago.” With a confident smile, the teacher selected one of the other swords and swished it through the air with a sharp, whisking sound.
“Shall we don masks and vests?” she asked. “It is tradition.”
“Not tonight.” He swished his sword again. “I am paying you a compliment.”
She understood. “You believe that I can protect myself.”
He smiled. “And I also believe you can restrain yourself from harming me.”
Valya considered her answer. “Perhaps I’ll do so.”
“Your techniques are still rough, and you have a great deal to learn. Becoming a Swordmaster requires years of instruction.”
“And there is a great deal I could teach you.” She gave him a hard stare. “But I don’t have time for that.”
He began the attack, and she countered with an easy defensive move. Aware of her own relative inexperience with these weapons, Valya knew better than to press an attack against a master, so instead she concentrated on a series of parries to stop every blow he made. Placido lunged and thrust, using moves that she had not seen before. Even so, she countered him each time.
From past experience, she knew he would grow increasingly aggressive as the engagement continued, providing her with more difficult challenges. She kept herself calm. Her goal was to hold him off for as long as she could.
“You have excellent natural instincts,” he said with a tight smile, “an ability to adapt to gambits I know you’ve never seen before.” She noticed uncharacteristic perspiration on his forehead. “Tell me truthfully, Valya – were you ever instructed by a Swordmaster before you came here?”
“No, but I observed.” As a Reverend Mother, she carried memories of other women in her past, and some had been skilled fighters. She drew upon their subconscious reflexes as a secret resource. He didn’t need to know about that.
She realized that half a dozen Swordmaster students had emerged from the dormitory and gathered to watch. Valya blocked them out and focused her attention on Master Placido.
He gave her a thin smile. “Now let us see how you react to my next series of moves.”
The teacher barely had the words out when he thrust his blade toward the left side of Valya’s chest and then swooped the point up, just enough to nick her cheek and create a tiny spot of blood. She was amazed at his precision, and just as amazed that he had slipped through her defenses so easily.
She sliced viciously in an attempt to throw him off-balance, but he ducked under her response, then surprised her again by springing into a roll and bounding up with the tip of the blade just under her chin. If he had not exhibited perfect restraint, he could have killed her. Of equal concern, if she had not moved exactly as he expected, he could also have killed her by accident.
Placido filled the brief moment of her realization by switching his sword to the other hand, then followed through with a series of seemingly unrelated moves. She defended herself, using techniques she and Griffin had developed, forcing Placido to react, while she made no attempt to cut him. She used all her concentration, all her focus, and held him at bay with a composite-parry defense that surprised and delighted him.
Valya needed to do something he would not anticipate. She veered to her right and away, opening the distance between them. He began a flèche move, darting toward her with a running attack, blade extended. His eyes gleamed.
Though he had surprised her moments ago, she was getting to know his emotions, his mindset. She had not only been studying his fighting methods and sword techniques, she had also been studying him, attempting to take his complete measure so that she could use her developing power of manipulative voice against him. She remembered commanding Sister Olivia and the other women down in the Rossak cenote when they retrieved the hidden computers. Valya called upon that knowledge now, focusing it into a remarkable new weapon. Her voice.
As he charged toward her, Valya stood her ground and said in a compelling, throaty articulation that summoned a core of command, “Halt!”
Master Placido froze as if she had felled him with a club. The tip of his extended blade stopped a hand’s-breadth from her chest. She drew tremendous satisfaction from seeing the gleam in his eyes replaced by shock. He stood there, paralyzed.
Smiling, Valya said with all the force she could put into her voice, “Do not move.” She walked around him, as if he’d become a statue.
His eyes twitched as he tried to follow her movements. She took a step back and moved her blade around his frozen weapon. Her pulse pounded, adrenaline flowed, and a part of her wanted to kill this man. She touched the flecks of blood from the small cuts he had dealt her.
Instead of killing Placido, though, she used the edge of her sword to draw a thin red line across his brow. Not a deep wound, but enough to leave a fine white scar to remind him of his defeat.
The students watching were aghast.
Valya slid her dueling sword back into its scabbard. “During a real fight, even an instant’s hesitation would have proved fatal.”
She could see him struggling, and finally after several seconds he began to fight off the compulsion. He gasped, touched the flow of blood on his forehead. “How did you do that?”
She answered him with no more than a secretive smile. She didn’t fully understand the new technique herself, but it might well be as dangerous a fighting method as the best skill with a sword.
Valya turned her back on him and strode calmly toward the dormitory.
* * *
AS SHE PASSED through the school grounds, the rest of the students regarded her with awe. She could hear whispers and could read even more from their flickers of glances, a sudden turning away.
At dawn, a courier from the main island arrived, rushing to the student dormitory with a message for her – from Wallach IX. She felt a sudden dread. Had Mother Superior Raquella died? Perhaps she should not have come here to Ginaz after all.
She unsealed the letter to read a coded message hidden in the arrangement of the characters, and saw that the note itself came from Raquella. So, the old woman was still alive:
Return to Wallach IX immediately. I can wait no longer. I must announce my successor.
