Текст книги "Mentats of Dune"
Автор книги: Brian Herbert
Соавторы: Kevin Anderson
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Текущая страница: 33 (всего у книги 38 страниц)
“I am not afraid of the truth,” Gilbertus said.
“Fear for the fate of your school, then,” she said. “Fear that Manford will destroy it because of your crimes.”
After a long, tense silence that seemed like a void, Gilbertus said, “Manford has promised he will not harm the school or my students. But perhaps you are right, Sister Woodra, perhaps I am still worried for their safety.”
“You are only worrying because of your true identity. You are the Gilbertus Albans from Corrin. You were the ward of the robot Erasmus. You are an enemy of humanity.”
“I am not an enemy of humanity,” he said, but pointedly did not deny the rest.
Manford stared. “This is not possible.” His gaze intensified, like a scalpel cutting away the Headmaster’s secrets, and he cut deep. “But I can see it is true.”
Gilbertus remained silent for a long moment, and then turned to the Butlerian leader with a solemn nod. “Yes, I am the man in the image, and I am more than one hundred eighty years old.”
Chapter 70 (Even an Emperor must)
Even an Emperor must earn respect before he is entitled to receive it.
– EMPEROR FAYKAN CORRINO I
When Taref arrived aboard the Imperial Barge, dressed in an approved maintenance uniform for servicing the FTL and Holtzman engines, the ghost of Manford Torondo accompanied him.
Not long ago, he had celebrated killing the Butlerian leader in Arrakis City, pleased to report his triumph to Directeur Venport. But afterward, Taref had suffered terrible, recurrent nightmares of the whizz-clack of the Maula pistol, the screams of the crowd, the legless body sprawled on the dusty street. Dead. The man’s skull had exploded, his blood and brains spraying in all directions.
Dead!
It was not possible that Manford could have survived. And yet he was back, and very much alive. The Butlerian leader said he was blessed by God and indestructible, and Taref had seen the proof of that claim. His entire view of the universe had shifted.
Life was hard and cheap in the desert, and Taref had been familiar with killing … though he had never done it in such a personal way before. Even all those people lost aboard the pilgrim ship and the other EsconTran spacefolders he had sent off into the depthless nowhere of the universe … those were just distant casualties. Now Directeur Venport wanted him to do the same thing to the Emperor’s ship. But this was personal, too – like killing Manford Torondo. Another important name and face, the leader of the Imperium, a man with so much power that he could simply annex the entire planet of Arrakis on a whim.
As the third son of a Naib, Taref had little status in his tribe, but he had always scorned status because it measured things he did not care about. Directeur Venport had offered him an escape from Arrakis – and now a return to it – which came with a price he was willing to pay. A price that was, in its own way, quite high. But one more mission and he would be free. Directeur Venport had promised to release him from any remaining obligations.
According to Venport’s orders, the Emperor of the Known Universe must be irrevocably lost on his journey home.
Taking his diagnostic tools, Taref worked in the engine room of the Imperial Barge with two other mechanics, workers from Arrakis City he had never seen before. They didn’t know about his special mission. Directeur Venport trusted only him, and he had impressed upon Taref how terribly dangerous, yet necessary, this mission was.
The ghost of Manford Torondo mocked him: “Once more you try to kill a great leader, and again you will fail, because God Himself does not wish it. You are a tool of God, not a tool of that evil man.”
“You cannot speak to me,” Taref muttered aloud. The hum of the resting engines drowned out his words. It was a large and complex engine compartment, crowded with both types of stardrives. The barge was practically empty, with the Emperor’s entourage gone as Taref spoke aloud in the emptiness. “You are not even truly dead.”
“Because you failed,” said the voice. It was not really a ghost, couldn’t be. It was just Taref’s conscience, his own imagination.
He went to the FTL and foldspace diagnostic panels, the latter of which looked similar to the EsconTran panels he had serviced and sabotaged on several ships at Junction Alpha. He ignored the voice as he selected his tools, made adjustments to one of the engine couplings, then altered a programming flow. Regardless of which engines the pilots chose to use when departing, the navigational calibration was now corrupted.
“I serve myself,” he said. “I make my own decisions.”
Manford’s presence found the comment amusing, and laughed inside Taref’s head. “No matter how strong you think you are, if you try to do something God does not wish, you will not succeed.”
Feeling a knot in his stomach, the young man reconsidered. He studied the engine control board, not wanting his conscience haunted by the Emperor’s ghost, in addition to the other one.
What did it all matter to him? What did a lowly desert man know, or care, about interplanetary politics? Before leaving his sietch, he’d never thought much about the Corrino Emperors, nor had he ever heard of Manford Torondo.
The Butlerian movement had nothing to do with the timeless ways of the desert, nor did Emperor Salvador and the politics of seizing the spice operations. Would Imperial control be any different from that of the offworld industrialists? Taref couldn’t understand Directeur Venport’s hunger for riches and power either. Once a person had everything, how could he keep wanting more?
Through all these thoughts, Taref decided he would no longer be a pawn, doing whatever he was ordered to do.
Anxious to get back to the purity of the desert, he packed up his tools, leaving his work only partially done, without the backup sabotage he customarily performed on each vessel. Even so, what he’d done should be enough to destroy the navigation system and send the ship careening wildly into deep space, with no way for the pilots to reach any inhabited world. Taref was the first to board the return shuttle. That was enough. He had one last message to send to Directeur Venport.
* * *
EMPEROR SALVADOR HAD made a string of poor decisions, and now he was asserting himself in a grand and irritating way. Josef could barely control his annoyance.
What might have been a simple expedition to the spice fields became an operation as complex and cumbersome as a planetary invasion. The preparations and sheer dithering made Josef want to scream, yet he maintained his smile through it all. It was one of the greatest challenges he had ever faced.
The Emperor had brought hundreds of people aboard his Imperial Barge, uprooting the Salusan court and hauling the bloated party to the desert planet. Josef hadn’t expected the Emperor to take most of them on the tour of the spice operations as well, but Salvador left only a handful of pouting functionaries behind on the barge, probably the ones who had displeased him somehow during the weeks-long journey to Arrakis.
In addition to the court functionaries and advisers, more than a hundred armed Imperial soldiers joined them to protect against desert bandits. “A wise decision, Sire,” Josef said. “This is an extensive spice operation, and while I have my own troops, your added force is always welcome.”
Salvador patted him on the shoulder. “Not to belittle your protective measures, Directeur, but my security team is superior.”
Yet from watching the Imperial guards for only a short time, Josef could see that they were not nearly as sophisticated as his own paramilitary fighters. “I’m sure you’re right, Sire.” And he thought for the thousandth time that Roderick would make a much better Emperor.
According to Cioba, the Sisterhood had identified a grave danger to civilization if this idiot were allowed to bear offspring, and they had surreptitiously sterilized him. But now Josef was in a position to solve the problem in a more permanent way and save the present as well as the future.
The desert expedition required a large overland shuttle, complete with refreshments and two young women who skillfully played balisets during the journey. The loaded shuttle flew across the expanse of dunes, bypassing Arrakis City and leaving no record of their passage, in accordance with Josef’s orders. In orbit, the barge’s skeleton crew remained in contact with the Imperial party, some clearly disappointed that they weren’t joining this merry adventure.
“This looks like an awful place,” Salvador mused as he stared out at the monotonous dunes.
Josef said, “We don’t value Arrakis for its beauty, Sire, but for its spice.”
A cross-shear from the fringe of a minor storm buffeted the shuttle, and the entourage gasped in sudden panic. With his face twisted in annoyance rather than concern, Salvador signaled the cockpit. “Pilot, use caution, or I’ll find someone more competent to handle the controls.”
The pilot meekly apologized and gave the small storm a wide berth, which further delayed their arrival at the spice operations. Fortunately, having anticipated the ponderous nature of the Emperor’s entourage, Josef had not dispatched the spice factory until the shuttle was already on its way. Timing was crucial. Harvesters could only work a melange vein for a limited time before a sandworm forced them to evacuate. Salvador Corrino probably expected the desert leviathans to accommodate his schedule.
Josef fashioned a false smile to make himself appear pleasant; the muscles of his face ached.
He was surprised to receive a direct communication from his saboteur Taref, especially so close to the Imperial entourage. In fact, he had never expected to hear from Taref again, counting on the desert man to simply fade off into the dust and sand.
For security, the Emperor had private cubicles aboard the elaborate shuttle. Trying not to show his sweat, Josef took the communication off-line temporarily and smiled. “If you would excuse me, Sire? I have an urgent business matter.”
Salvador gave him an indulgent smile. “Of course, Directeur. Always crises! It comes with your position of responsibility. You must be so relieved to be done with all the pressures of the melange industry.”
Josef could not seal himself in the chamber quickly enough, and he demanded answers and reassurances from his Freeman operative. “Is it done? Where are you?”
The young Freeman sounded hesitant and sad. “I did not complete my task, Directeur. In fact, I refuse. I began to corrupt the ship’s nav-controls, but I will not have an Emperor’s spirit haunting me.” The desert man’s face looked haunted on the screen, his eyes hollow.
Josef felt chilled. “But you must! It is the only way—”
“I am done with this work, Directeur – and done with other worlds. It is in God’s hands now.” He terminated the transmission.
Josef wanted to scream. It was such a neat, simple, perfect plan – the Imperial Barge would simply vanish en route, along with the worthless Emperor and his worthless entourage, lost on their way back to Salusa. The spice industry, the future of Venport Holdings, Norma Cenva’s precious Navigators – everything depended on it.
The Emperor could not return to the palace. He could not be allowed to continue his blundering damage to civilization – no matter how much the solution cost.
As the shuttle continued to fly across the desert, Josef felt his face burning with anger. His thoughts churned, then focused, and soon he had another solution. A more expensive plan, harder to cover up, but effective nevertheless. He hated to spend so much – but if he did not find some way to take care of Salvador, VenHold would pay a much, much higher price.
Fortunately, he had operatives on all spice crews, people who were paid well for their services. He could get rid of the Emperor, but he had very little time to make the arrangements. Still in the private chamber, he sent out another urgent communication. By the time he emerged to rejoin Salvador and the rest of his contingent, Josef had calmed himself, and no one noticed a difference in his mood.
A dust plume was visible in the air as sand grains and fine particles were exhausted through the chimney-mouths of the mobile factory. Like a bloodstain, a rusty smear from a recent spice blow marked the dunes. The machinery scooped the top sandy layers into separation chambers, where centrifuges and filters did the first-cut processing to pull out the spice and eject the debris.
Salvador sat in his padded seat, peering through the expanded central observation window, while his functionaries gathered at smaller portholes on the sides. “What huge machinery!” one of them gasped.
Spotter aircraft flew high, keeping watch. Salvador’s own guards remained alert and wary, but Josef reassured them. “Those flyers are constantly on the alert for giant sandworms.”
“Your harvesting crew is creating an awful mess, isn’t it?” Salvador said. It wasn’t really a question.
Josef saw the churning scar the mobile spice factory was leaving as it scooped melange-saturated sand. “They’ve been at full production now for only about fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?” said one of the baliset players.
“Spice operations are a race against the worms,” Josef explained. “Sire, when these become Imperial operations, your workers will have to heed that as well.”
Salvador raised his eyebrows, but it was clear that he really didn’t care. “We intend to hire many of your own crew chiefs, and we’ll bring in Imperial geologists, industrial managers, planetologists. If you like, we may even retain you as a consultant.”
Josef wanted to strangle the condescending nobleman, but instead he chuckled. “Venport Holdings gives me plenty to occupy my time, Sire. My family has accomplished a great deal here over the generations, but spice harvesting is dirty and difficult work, with many losses as well as gains. Honestly, I won’t miss it in the least.”
Emperor Salvador seemed overly pleased with himself. “I love situations where everyone wins.”
The shuttle found a landing spot in a flattened area marked off between dunes. Josef had given instructions to the spice crew to get ready for a secret high-level inspection, telling them to prepare a landing area, since he didn’t think the Emperor’s pilot would be skilled enough to land on the factory’s upper deck.
The craft lurched from side to side as it set down, and the group made sounds of dismay. This time the pilot apologized for the rough landing before Salvador could scold him.
The party emerged wearing no protective clothing of any sort. They weren’t going to stay here long, and they could always retreat to the Imperial shuttle if the heat and dust grew too uncomfortable.
A yellow glare reflected off the dunes. Several functionaries coughed in the swirling dust. Salvador blinked in the bright light. “The smell of spice is … suffocating,” he said, then laughed. “I never imagined a person could smell too much spice!”
The factory crew chief, Baren Okarr, came forward to meet them. A weathered, squat man with a dust-encrusted face, Okarr showed little deference for the Imperial Presence. His pleasantries were cursory. “I have a quota to meet, Sire.” He nodded to Josef. “Directeur, our operations are at full capacity. We hope to have another half hour of harvesting time before a worm comes.”
“Will we see a worm?” asked Salvador.
“Oh, you’ll see one,” Josef said, “no doubt about that.”
“But how close is it now?” asked a functionary.
“The vibrations of the factory will attract at least one,” Josef explained. “It just depends on how far we are into the worm’s territory, and where the monster is when it detects us.” The entourage seemed nervous, so Josef urged them to hurry. “The crew chief will take you inside the factory for a tour, but it has to be quick. I want you to see the harvesting and processing.” He gestured for the people to move forward, smiling and nodding, while he lagged behind. Even without the pounding machinery, the clumsy footsteps of a hundred people would have attracted a sandworm.
As the others chattered with nervous excitement, Josef slipped a focused limpet detonator into his palm and casually approached the shuttle hull, tossing the limpet up against the near engine socket, where it adhered. The placement didn’t need to be accurate – the focused charge would do enough damage to the engines that the pilot would never take off again.
Inside the spice harvester, the operational noise was deafening, the smells offensive, the grit everywhere. Emperor Salvador kept his hands close at his sides, reluctant to touch anything. He frowned at the unavoidable brown-orange stains that marked his fine garments. Dirty desert crewmen rushed up and down the corridors, brushing past the visitors, hurrying about their tasks.
“This is an active operation, Sire,” Josef said. “Every person has a duty, and very little time to do it in. If one person misses a deadline, then the rest of the operation fails – as you can see, this is a huge undertaking.”
Salvador was struggling with his own discomfort. “Now I see why melange is so expensive.”
The crew chief led them up to the main operations deck, where twelve men and women sat at their stations, shouting into radio links. They remained in contact with the spotters and ground crews, and with the dune rollers that mapped out the expanse of visible melange, sending probes down into the sand. The pounding racket and miasmic odors made the operation unpleasant, and Josef knew the pampered Emperor Salvador would not tolerate it much longer. He felt tense.
Finally, at the central communication station, a dusty older woman looked up at him. “Directeur, there’s a message for you.”
His heart leapt with relief. “Excuse me, Sire. I’ve been expecting an urgent communication. I’ll deal with it quickly, and then we can continue your tour.”
“But what about the sandworm?” said Salvador.
“No sign of one yet. Don’t worry.” Josef hurried away from the control deck, ostensibly to an office compartment. Instead, he climbed a metal ladder and opened a hatch to the roof of the factory, where he kept a small escape flyer on the upper deck. All around him, dust and sand blew, while mechanical scoops hammered into the dunes, sending an irresistible summons to any sandworm in the vicinity.
Minutes later, he sealed himself into the escape flyer’s cockpit, activated the engines, and transmitted to the two spotter craft that had sent him the message. He’d given the spotters strict instructions, and a promise of huge rewards – enough for each man to retire – if they contacted him first, privately.
“We’ve got distant wormsign, Directeur, but have not informed the factory yet.”
“Excellent. And have the carryalls been withdrawn?”
“Yes, sir. Are you sure you wish to do this?”
Josef thought about Emperor Salvador and how the ponderous, dallying fool had decided to take over these vast spice operations on a whim. “I’m positive.”
He took off in the flyer, leaving the Emperor and his entourage vulnerable, along with (sadly) a qualified and experienced crew. And all that expensive equipment. VenHold was contributing both blood and treasure to this operation, but it was worth the cost.
With the remote-control device in his pocket, he triggered the focused limpet detonator he had planted, which exploded in a small puff, crippling the Emperor’s shuttle. Then he opened the comm line again to the two spotter pilots. “Good enough. Go ahead and make your announcement.”
The worthless Emperor might as well know what was coming.
Chapter 71 (When the weak become powerful)
When the weak become powerful, their former oppressors will tremble in fear.
– Orange Catholic Bible
At first, the visiting Suk doctors were afraid to do what was necessary, but Ptolemy would not let them avoid their responsibilities. They were the only ones who could help Noffe. The scientist commanded them, bullied them, and hovered beside them inside the Denali surgical center as they completed the work. This was not, after all, much different from what they had done many times before to extract and preserve the brains from dying Navigator bodies.
For the first week after the surgery, Ptolemy rarely left the preservation tank that held the administrator’s brain, and the thoughtrodes functioned exactly as he expected. He connected the speakerpatch first, along with the conversion software that translated Noffe’s panicked thoughts into words.
Initially, the responses were jumbled gibberish, but Ptolemy had infinite patience. He spoke calmly, giving explanations so that his disoriented friend wouldn’t be so lost and frightened. The input sensors converted his softly spoken words into comprehensible pulses so that Noffe’s disembodied brain could understand him.
Finally, as Noffe calmed himself enough to focus on a single thought, he kept expressing, “Dark … too dark … too dark.”
Ptolemy leaned closer to the tank. “That’s because you have no eyes, my friend. Those will come next – optic threads to give you a visual clarity beyond anything your human eyes could ever have. After you adjust, you will be able to see all parts of the spectrum, and vast distances. Imagine the clarity. You will focus and see things no one else has ever seen! I envy you, in a way.”
In the speakerpatch, Noffe’s voice fumbled, tried several times, and then finally said, “Don’t envy me.…”
Several days later, once the optic sensors were installed and Noffe could “see” the laboratory around him, the administrator changed his dreary, disoriented gloom to optimistic marveling. Most importantly, he could now discern Ptolemy nearby, which he found reassuring; Noffe said he could even read an expression of concern and wonder on his friend’s face. Ptolemy responded with increasing excitement. “I’ll do everything to make this the best experience for you that it can possibly be, I promise.”
Noffe’s thinking was not as adept as an enhanced proto-Navigator brain, but with a week of practice he was able to control his thoughts and communicate clearly through the speakerpatch. Before long, he accepted and even embraced his new situation. “My old body was imperfect and weak, in need of repairs.”
Ptolemy fell into a fit of coughing. Despite his own treatments, his scarred lungs felt as if he had inhaled embers that refused to be extinguished. The visiting Suk doctors had treated Ptolemy’s damaged lungs, mitigating the worst symptoms, but even with the best medical attention, he would degenerate. “My body needs repairs as well.”
Noffe seemed eager. “When might I have one of the new walker bodies?”
Ptolemy was glad to consider the possibilities. “One step at a time, my good friend. I’ve trained many failed Navigators, but their minds are more adaptable than yours. I don’t want to rush you.”
“I am excited about this, very anxious,” Noffe said. “Don’t wait too long.”
Ptolemy let out a wistful sigh and tried to make a joke, but then squeezed stinging tears out of his eyes and struggled to hide his pain from Noffe’s new high-acuity sensors. “You’ll have all the time you could possibly wish,” Ptolemy finally managed. “Some of the Titans lived for thousands of years.”
“You should join me,” Noffe said. “I would hate to have humanity lose your insights … and I’d hate to lose you as a friend.”
Ptolemy had been thinking the same thing, daydreaming but not willing to succumb to the temptation. Even before his lungs were damaged, he had often looked longingly at the new cymek walkers, marveling at the strength of their mechanical arms and their protected body systems that allowed them to survive in the harshest environments … and gave them the ability to face hundreds of screaming barbarians.
“I have considered it, Noffe – many times.”
* * *
TO START WITH, Ptolemy installed Noffe’s brain canister in one of the smaller, old-model cymek walkers. The administrator reveled in being able to move about, and he gingerly tested his mechanical legs, growing more comfortable as he walked on them with increasing strength and balance.
In the meantime, Ptolemy’s own modified walker had been repaired, the life-support systems checked, and the enclosed full-body cab reinforced against leakages or malfunctions. He rode inside, sheltered and safe. Though he still felt uneasy about how close he’d come to death because of a simple mechanical failure, he didn’t want to miss the experience.
Ptolemy accompanied Noffe across the rough Denali terrain. Because he had practiced frequently in his manual-drive walker, Ptolemy was more comfortable moving the artificial legs, but Noffe quickly familiarized himself with the systems. Thoughtrodes linked his mind to the walker mechanisms, and he soon adjusted to a new rhythm as he moved across the ground.
“With my sensor eyes, I can see all the way to the horizon – even through this mist,” Noffe transmitted. He bounded forward, using sharp claws to scuttle up a rock face that was dappled with alien lichen. His simulated voice exuded pure joy. “I can switch to different portions of the spectrum, find zones of transparency, and I can see so much more than I used to! And my hearing – with a slight adjustment I could hear a pebble fall kilometers away. In fact, I think I hear…” Swiveling his optic turret to face the west, he added, “Somewhere beyond those hills – ah, yes, it is the wind whistling through rocks.”
Ptolemy worked the controls of his primitive walker, clomping along with a rocking gait, but he soon fell behind. “This is like dancing, my friend!” Noffe said. “I’m so limber now. I could never run this fast or jump this high before.”
Ptolemy switched off the transmitter inside his life-support chamber when another coughing fit washed over him. He didn’t want Noffe to hear him over the intercom. He had so many things to finish, so many ideas to pursue, so much to accomplish for Directeur Venport.
“Freedom, strength, and immortality,” Noffe crowed. “We’d better keep this procedure a secret, or the entire human race will clamor to become cymeks.”
New Titans with Navigator brains marched over the nearby terrain, performing exercises with their superior machine bodies. They were almost ready for battle. Ptolemy badly wanted to participate in the upcoming fight, but he had always been too fearful and queasy for personal combat. He remembered how shocked and impotent he had been when Anari Idaho used her sword to butcher the new bioengineered legs he had given Manford Torondo as a gift, and how he’d been too weak to stop the burning of Dr. Elchan.
With a Titan body of his own, Ptolemy could fight the barbarians, and he could still think at a very high level, could still perform advanced research. He would no longer be plagued by a maddening cough and chronic pain. He would no longer be weak in any sense of the word.
When he activated the transmitter again, Ptolemy weighed his words, then said, “You’ve convinced me. I have no reservations – I know now that it’s possible.”
“You’ll join me?” Noffe sounded delighted through the speakerpatch. His voice was a reasonable imitation of the administrator’s original voice.
Ptolemy swung his walker around and began the march back toward the glowing domes, working the legs in perfect sequence. At the research facility, the framework of a new landing chamber was still under construction after the explosion that had nearly killed Noffe. Unhindered by the poisonous atmosphere, a team of cymeks performed the work, making significant progress. They would have the dome rebuilt within days, and space transportation would resume as before. Then the Suk doctors would return to Kolhar.
Ptolemy had to act soon.
“I’m tired of being insignificant,” he said. “I have lost too much already due to the frailty of human bodies and the brevity of human lives. I want to join you, Noffe – I want to take part in the upcoming fight … and I want to be alive afterward, so that I know how it all ends.”
A strange sound came back over the comm speaker, and Ptolemy knew that Noffe was learning how to laugh with his thoughts. “We’ll be there together.”
Ptolemy increased his pace until they reached the airlock of the remaining access dome. Noffe chose to stay outside, saying that he wished to continue his explorations. “I can map portions of Denali that my human eyes have never seen, even though I’ve been administrator here for years.”
Using the manual controls, Ptolemy lumbered his immense mechanical body through the access door and sealed the dome behind him. After the air had been exchanged, he stepped out of the life-support cab and fought down another racking spasm of coughs. He had no second thoughts, no doubts, only determination.
He marched into the infirmary, where Suk doctors were tending to a technician who had a minor chemical burn. They looked very bored. Ptolemy presented himself and said, “Now that you have practiced, now that you are experts, there is another surgery I need you to perform.”
The doctors didn’t understand what he was asking at first, until he crossed his arms over his small chest. “You’ll need to become proficient at preparing new cymeks from human volunteers. This will be only one of many such surgeries.”
