Текст книги "Mentats of Dune"
Автор книги: Brian Herbert
Соавторы: Kevin Anderson
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 38 страниц)
Chapter 54 (How can you call my actions atrocities)
How can you call my actions atrocities, when I am merely responding to atrocities committed against me?
– MANFORD TORONDO, rebuttal to Imperial inquiry
After Anari Idaho rushed back from Arrakis, she spread the legless corpse in the main room of Manford’s home. The dark hair was matted with dried blood, the skin gray and blotchy. Half of the head had been blown away by the assassin’s projectile weapon.
“His body is not preserved,” Anari said. “We didn’t have time. I needed to get out of there as quickly as possible.”
Deacon Harian was both sickened and outraged at the attempted murder of the Butlerian leader. “A wise decision, Swordmaster. You could have been killed yourself.”
She turned to him with scorn, her face flushed. “I don’t care about me. I wanted to save him, to get away before too many people saw what happened. Before they saw him dead. That way, I could leave a question in the minds of witnesses.”
Manford Torondo looked down at the corpse of his look-alike. He felt light-headed and queasy, and furious. “The would-be assassin believes he killed me. Anyone who saw it firsthand would be certain. They’ll all think I am dead.”
“And when you return to public view, they will see it as a miracle,” Sister Woodra said.
Manford couldn’t tear his gaze away from the dead man. This double had willingly placed himself in danger, and Manford’s heart also pounded with gratitude for Anari’s foresight. If not for her intervention, he would have gone to that desert planet himself – and perished there. He had been too complacent about his safety, assuming that the hand of God would shield him, just as the chosen ships of EsconTran should have been blessed with safety. But God wasn’t always predictable, Manford was coming to realize, and the Butlerian leader still had much work to do with his followers.
“This man fulfilled his duty, and now he reaps his reward.” Sadly, at the moment Manford couldn’t even remember the double’s real name.
“We need to increase security around you, Leader Torondo,” Harian said. “Traitors could be lurking anywhere.”
Sister Woodra’s face pinched into a frown; it looked as if someone had sucked all the moisture out of her head. She shifted her glance to Anari. “Swordmaster, you must redouble your efforts to protect him.”
“I devote my entire existence to protecting this man.”
Woodra barely contained a sneer as she glanced at the corpse. “And see how effective you have been.”
“Very effective.” Insulted, Anari crossed her arms over her broad chest. “I identified the danger beforehand – and the true Manford still lives.”
Manford looked up from the corpse. “This is a good thing. There will be those who celebrate my death, and witnesses who swear they saw me slain. Therefore, I must reveal myself with great fanfare. I’ll show them all that God Himself protects me, that I cannot be killed.” He made up his mind, lifted his chin. “We shall travel to the Imperial Court, where I may be seen in the most prominent places. And I have decided to let Emperor Salvador do our work for us.”
Anari’s brow furrowed. “The last time you went to Salusa, the rampage festival … Prince Roderick’s innocent daughter was killed. The Corrinos will not easily forget that.”
“I won’t ask them to forget,” Manford said. “Arrakis is a den of thieves and murderers, but the Imperial capital on Salusa Secundus should be civilized enough. Salvador knows that if any harm befalls me in Zimia, my followers will rise up and burn the palace and the city to the ground.” He narrowed his gaze. “After the attempt on my life, it’s even more important to demonstrate that I am not afraid. Our remedial action on Baridge was only a first step. I must turn the screws, inflict pain, and coerce the Emperor to do what he must do. I will prime him like a weapon and aim him toward Arrakis.”
Manford drew a long breath. “I am convinced Josef Venport was behind the assassination attempt on Arrakis. He’s made no secret of the fact that he wants me dead, and now it’s our turn to inflict pain where it will hurt him the most – in his profits!”
Ellonda came into the room bearing a luncheon tray, and she nearly dropped the platter upon seeing the dead body that looked so much like Manford Torondo. “It’s horrible, just horrible!” The dishes clattered as the old woman searched for a place to set down the tray. “Do you need me to clean that up, sir?”
Manford shook his head. “Harian will take care of it. No one can know there is a body here. I must be seen as unharmed, perfectly healthy.”
As the serving woman set out the tray, unable to tear her gaze from the corpse, Manford turned to his companions. “When I get to Salusa, I will demand that Emperor Salvador seize all spice operations on Arrakis. We showed our power during the rampage festival, and he will do whatever we ask.”
“If the Imperium absorbs spice operations, there will be an advantage to the Emperor as well,” Sister Woodra pointed out. “Given the huge profits in the melange industry, that planet should be under Imperial control.”
Manford conceded the point. He was surprised at how calm and controlled he sounded, even as a great storm raged inside him. He couldn’t erase the image of Josef Venport from his mind. “Venport tried to kill me! We will go to Salusa Secundus, and I will file my formal complaint with the Emperor.” He glanced at Anari. “And this time you won’t talk me out of traveling. I am not a coward, and I need to go there in person.”
“What if Roderick Corrino orders you arrested and makes you pay for the death of his daughter?” Anari asked.
“I wield far more power than the Emperor’s brother does. If he were to arrest and accuse me, he would unleash a storm he could never control.” He smiled. “No, he will not do that.”
Deacon Harian cleared his throat. “Your second body double has been ready for more than a year, just in case. We had to search several planets until we found a satisfactory look-alike. He still needs to have the final surgery, of course.”
Manford nodded. “Let me see him and thank him before his metamorphosis.”
As Ellonda scurried away, uncomfortable to be near the dead body, Sister Woodra scowled after her.
Harian summoned the volunteer from town; the other look-alike had been kept behind closed doors where others couldn’t see him. The man entered now, with short dark hair, squarish face, handsome features – objectively five years younger than the real Butlerian leader, but his features were similar. From a distance, as a showpiece, he would look sufficiently like Manford Torondo.
The volunteer glanced at the corpse, drawing conclusions, then focused his gaze on the Butlerian leader. “I have been summoned by truth and destiny. I am ready.”
“Know that I appreciate your sacrifice,” Manford said. “I had no choice about my legs … but you do. And you still made the right decision, the courageous decision.”
“This is no sacrifice, Leader Torondo. It is one small way that I can help save us all.”
Harian stepped close to the volunteer. “The surgeon is ready. You should undergo the procedure as soon as possible. Your recovery might take a few weeks, and there’s no telling when we might need you.”
“I’m ready now,” the man said.
Manford wanted to apologize in advance for the pain this volunteer was about to suffer, both mental and physical. But pain was a very human thing. Pain separated mankind from the thinking machines. Pain was a blessing. He would have to remind the volunteer of that, after his legs were amputated.
* * *
MANFORD’S ANGER FESTERED as they waited for an EsconTran ship that would take them to Salusa. Josef Venport ordered my assassination!
Unable to resist, he dipped into the Erasmus journal again, pondering the nature of evil. The independent robot was fundamentally damned, with no possibility of redemption, but Venport was a human being, and he had chosen his own evil. Manford was still horrified by the robot’s thought patterns, but he learned from the appalling “medical” studies that read like a textbook in sadism. He made notes of certain torture procedures developed by Erasmus that he would like to use on Josef Venport, then locked away the vile journal, afraid someone might find it and become seduced by the evil robot’s thoughts.
But that was distraction and fantasy. He had a more important case to make. Manford took time to outline and write the speech he would deliver to Emperor Salvador Corrino. His threat could be subtle. Everyone at the Imperial Court was aware of how much damage a Butlerian mob could inflict. Manford Torondo could either control them or unleash them. Emperor Salvador couldn’t possibly say no to his demands.
Yes, Venport was going to pay dearly.
At his desk, Manford looked up as Deacon Harian barged in with Anari beside him, her face dark with anger. They hauled a struggling old woman between them – Ellonda, whose modest dress had been torn. Her hair was loose, her eyes wild.
Confused, Manford asked, “What are you doing to her?”
Sister Woodra appeared behind them in the doorway. “I detected dissonant notes in this woman’s voice, flinches in her expression, moisture on her forehead and palms. I watched her, questioned her.” Woodra paused. “She is a spy for Venport Holdings.”
Manford nearly lost his balance on the padded chair. “Impossible! She has been with me for years.”
“It is proven, Leader Torondo,” Harian said. “After we brought back the body of your double, she slipped away to send a transmission to another operative here on Lampadas. She revealed our plans! That’s when we caught her. She has been reporting your moves to Josef Venport for some time now.”
“She has tended me, cooked my meals, been in my house. Venport wants me dead – surely she could have found some opportunity to kill me. This makes no sense.”
Anari lifted her chin. “I taste all your meals for poison, Manford. I watch over you and make certain no assassin would ever have such an opportunity.”
“But you were away on Arrakis with my body double. You are not with me every moment.”
“Perhaps Ellonda simply didn’t have the resolve,” said Harian. “Not everyone has the spine to commit murder.” He made it sound like an insult.
The panicked woman struggled to break free. “None of this is true, sir! I’ve always served you faithfully. I am loyal to the Butlerian cause – you know that!”
Sister Woodra said, “Lies continue to drip from her lips.”
Manford felt gooseflesh on his skin. “Even I can hear it in her voice.” He watched as Ellonda slumped, knowing it was hopeless to say anything more.
Anari said, “Shall I interrogate her, find out why she turned against the truth?”
Manford just shook his head, warring with his emotions, fighting back the rage he wanted to unleash. “What does it matter why? Her reasons would be incomprehensible to us. Did you capture the other operative?”
“Yes,” Deacon Harian said, “but Ellonda transmitted a broad message packet. We don’t know how many others might be involved.”
Manford felt a slow boil. “Interrogation is one thing, punishment something else entirely.” He thought of the exhaustive, sickening records the robot Erasmus had left behind, the myriad experiments and imaginative tortures. Perhaps he should put some of them into practice now. “I will provide instructions, Deacon Harian. I have some … ideas.” He angrily gestured for the wailing woman to be dragged away. Then he drew a deep breath.
“Meanwhile, I need to plan my immediate departure to Salusa Secundus. We must finish this.” He shook his head. “The crisis is upon us, and there can be no further doubts about loyalty to our cause. I have to know who is with me, who is against me. Everyone must choose a side – publicly. No one can be neutral. Our entire population will reaffirm their loyalty to me, or face death.”
“We should require individual oaths, Leader Torondo,” Harian suggested. “Not just communities and planets promising general allegiance. Each person must swear before a trusted official that they believe technology is evil.” His voice gained vehemence. “Any advanced machinery, electronics, or other insidious devices must be discarded on pain of death.”
Worked up by the deacon’s vehemence, Manford took a deep breath. He did not look at the squirming Ellonda as she was pulled out the door. How many more like her were hidden among the faithful? He intended to root them out.
“Agreed. Anari and Sister Woodra will accompany me to Salusa, but while I am gone, Deacon Harian, you will institute a new planet-wide oath to be sworn by all individuals. No exceptions, no excuses on any grounds. Everyone must declare allegiance to me.” He let out a long sigh, looked at Woodra. “If only we had enough Truthsayers to test every person who claims to be my ally.”
Chapter 55 (We are human not because of our physical form)
We are human not because of our physical form, but because of our underlying nature. Even when fitted with a machine body, a man may have a heart and soul … but not always. People made of flesh can be monsters, too.
– PTOLEMY, Laboratory Sketches
Yes, it was time for his Titans.
Ptolemy felt exhilarated by his increasing successes, beginning with the dramatic (though costly) demonstration on Arrakis, followed by the glorious eradication of the cowering savages on Lectaire. Dr. Elchan would have been pleased, he knew it.
Energized by Ptolemy’s work, other Denali researchers redoubled their efforts to create imaginative weapons for use against the Butlerians. In one noteworthy example, Dr. Uli Westpher was ready to ship his first “crickets”—thumb-sized devices programmed to skitter across a landing field. The small machines could slip through the tiniest crannies of external engine ports, where they dismantled fuel lines and spilled volatile chemicals. Then the crickets would scritch their roughened mechanical legs together until they struck a spark and ignited the fuel. The crickets were too small and too fast to be seen, and even a small package of them could cause immense devastation to an EsconTran shipyard.
Meanwhile, Ptolemy continued to modify his work to improve thoughtrode linkages with machine systems, assisted by Administrator Noffe, who brought his Tlulaxa sensibilities to the work.
A new group of Tlulaxa specialists had been brought to Denali, continuing research that the Butlerians had forbidden. While other engineers built immense mechanical walker bodies, the Tlulaxa team grew biological body parts, reinforced with flowmetal enhancements. Soon enough, they would be able to grow entire replacement bodies – but humanitarian work was not their main priority … not until after Manford Torondo’s barbarians were defeated.
Ptolemy found the Tlulaxa work interesting, although he thought the basic human body was already too weak. He himself had been too weak to stand against the raving hordes that destroyed his facility and killed Elchan. If he were going to accept a new body, Ptolemy never wanted to feel weak again. He wanted something powerful and impressive.…
When a shipment arrived from Kolhar bearing the medically sustained brains of ten more failed Navigators, Ptolemy was glad to have new candidates for his expanding ranks of Titans. The other proto-Navigator brains available to him were already ensconced in preservation canisters, so they could be installed into any cymek walker. Now he had even more specimens to work with.
When the cargo ship was ready on the loading dock, workers carried the Navigator brains on suspensor pallets, and Ptolemy sent them to his laboratory. The ship also brought two of VenHold’s private Suk doctors, specialists who had extracted the brains from the spice-saturated bodies on Kolhar. They had come to Denali to observe Ptolemy’s work firsthand.
With his lungs still scarred from exposure to Denali’s caustic atmosphere, Ptolemy coughed while greeting them. “I’m grateful for the assistance and advice from graduates of the Suk School. My new thoughtrodes are adaptive, easily connected to the living tissue of an aware brain. Our work is far superior to—” He had to fight back an intense fit of coughing, then wiped away an embarrassing smear of blood from his lips. The guest doctors fussed over him, but Ptolemy brushed them aside. “I already have my diagnosis. It’s not relevant to our discussion here.” And he pushed on.
Inside his main development chamber, he was proud to show the Kolhar team his preservation tanks and test beds, while assistants prepared the new Navigator brains. Ptolemy was well practiced in how to install them into his cymek walkers, but he was always creating and testing new modifications in an effort to perfect the advanced machine bodies. His special Titans might not be powerful enough to fight an Arrakis sandworm alone, but they were sufficient to slaughter any number of Butlerian cowards.
And that, Ptolemy knew, would be good enough.
* * *
INSIDE THE HANGAR dome, Administrator Noffe took a detailed inventory to ensure that the proper demonstration models were aboard the shuttle for transfer back to Kolhar. Directeur Venport would be eager to see the latest creations from his captive scientists.
In the years since his rescue after a Butlerian purge, Noffe had worked here, hoping to advance human capabilities and help bolster civilization against antitechnology phobia. He wanted the Imperium to grow, colonies to expand, humans to live longer and achieve greater things. Years ago on Thalim, Noffe had regarded the blight of Butlerian ignorance as a troublesome, distant thing … until the barbarians surged onto his world, ransacked his laboratory, and marked him for death because of his “unacceptable investigations.”
Uneducated, superstitious fools! How were they better qualified to choose the future than he was?
Admittedly, the Tlulaxa people had committed crimes during the long Jihad, selling black-market organs, falsifying death records, experimenting with clones. Yes, his people had cringed with racial guilt for many years, but after Directeur Venport rescued him, Noffe cast aside that guilt. He and other Tlulaxa researchers could accomplish tremendous things – and here on Denali, they had done just that. Noffe knew that once these technological miracles were delivered to VenHold, the future of humanity was in good hands. So long as the Butlerians did not win. And those savages must not be allowed to win.
Now, as Noffe supervised the activity from inside the shuttle’s cargo hold, workers loaded carefully packed prototypes along with new explosive mixtures and pulse scramblers that could incapacitate a barbarian army. The administrator made a notation of each crate as it was loaded; in the manifest he included a personal message that explained each of the new deliveries. Directeur Venport always demanded reports.
When Noffe studied the crate containing the first hundred of Dr. Westpher’s mechanical crickets, though, he found damage on the bottom, a small crack that had been … enlarged? He saw a tiny form dart into the shadows of the cargo hold, disappearing between the crates. Then three others scuttled after it. Squinting, he bent down, saw movement – and knew what it was.
He yelled to the workers in the bay. “Some of Westpher’s mechanical crickets have escaped! We need to clean them up here.”
On the other side of the hangar, he heard a man shout, “There’s a fuel spill under the shuttle – the lines are leaking. Get a repair tech right now!”
Noffe glanced into the shadows, where the crickets had vanished. “Fuel spill?” He hurried down the ramp. “If that’s a fuel spill, we’d better—”
A tiny robotic insect skittered into the puddle of volatile fuel. Noffe watched in horror while the cricket rubbed its back legs together as it was programmed to do, striking, striking, striking – until a spark appeared.
The spark became a wall of flame that engulfed Noffe and hurled him backward.
* * *
IN THE INFIRMARY dome, when Ptolemy saw the charred Noffe, the blackened and oozing red wounds that made his friend’s flesh look like badly cooked meat, he couldn’t stop thinking about how Dr. Elchan had burned alive.
Somehow, Noffe clung to life – at least for now.
The visiting Suk doctors worked desperately, using all of their techniques, pumped him full of fluids, connected him to life-support machines. Though awash with drugs in a medical coma, Noffe writhed in tremendous pain.
Ptolemy hovered in the infirmary, but could do nothing to help the doctors. He had studied science and engineering, but was no medical expert. Once again he felt so powerless! Even with all of Ptolemy’s accomplishments, like the titanic machine walkers he had built, he couldn’t help another friend in his time of terrible need.
Overcome with emotion, he touched Noffe to reassure him he was there – and even in his coma, the burned man recoiled in pain.
“We can do very little to help him,” said one of the doctors.
But Ptolemy had been considering possibilities. Previously, he had delayed taking the next step, but now he had no choice.
He coughed, and his lungs burned. He controlled the spasms with shallow breaths until he could form words again. He looked down at the bandaged, suffering patient. “There is one more thing we can do – and I need you to help me.”
