Текст книги "Mentats of Dune"
Автор книги: Brian Herbert
Соавторы: Kevin Anderson
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 38 страниц)
Chapter 9 (A memory can be the most painful)
A memory can be the most painful punishment, and a Mentat is doomed to revisit each memory with the clarity of immediate experience.
– GILBERTUS ALBANS, Annals of the Mentat School (redacted as inappropriate)
Gilbertus closed the door of his office, withdrew an ornate old-fashioned key from his pocket, and turned it in the lock. He heard the satisfying click, but that was only superficial security. No one else at the school knew about his more sophisticated systems.
Even though the Headmaster asked not to be disturbed, he still applied a static seal around the door, threw additional hidden dead bolts, opaqued the window looking out on the marsh lake, and then activated white-noise reflectors, listening scramblers, and signal blockers against any sophisticated eavesdropping tools.
It was absurd to think that Manford Torondo, having condemned any technology more advanced than a medieval tool, would use surreptitious surveillance technology, but the Butlerian leader was a man of contradictions, situational ethics, and conditional morality. Although he railed against Josef Venport’s vast shipping empire, Manford traveled about the Imperium in advanced spacefolders, justifying space travel as a necessary evil in order for him to spread his important message. His followers had used advanced weaponry to destroy Venport’s gigantic shipyards at Thonaris, and he had forced Gilbertus to assist him in that operation. Manford was intelligent enough to see the contradictions in his own positions, but was so rabidly dedicated that he didn’t care.
Right now, Gilbertus did not want to take any chances. Only when he was convinced his office was secure – with physical barricades, as well as technological tricks he had learned while being raised among the thinking machines – did he feel safe.
Exhaling a long sigh, he worked secret controls on a cabinet, slid aside a false panel, deactivated another security system. Then he removed the most dangerous mind in the known universe – the memory core of the independent robot Erasmus, enslaver and torturer of millions of human beings.
Gilbertus’s mentor and friend.
The gelcircuitry sphere glowed a faint blue from its inner power source and simmering thoughts. “I’ve been waiting for you, my son.” Erasmus’s voice sounded small and tinny through the speakers. “I am bored.”
“You have the whole school to explore through your spy-eyes, Father. I know you observe every student and every conversation.”
“But I prefer my conversations with you.”
Long ago on Corrin, Erasmus had kept human slaves as experimental subjects, testing, prodding, torturing, and observing millions of them – and Gilbertus Albans had thought nothing of it. In those days Gilbertus had been a special case, a feral and uneducated young man, barely able to speak. Omnius, the computer evermind, had challenged Erasmus to prove the potential of humanity, and through tedious and unflagging indoctrination, the curious robot succeeded in converting that nameless wild boy into an exquisite human specimen.
That had changed Gilbertus forever, made him what he was today – and he knew it had changed Erasmus, too.
During the Battle of Corrin, Omnius had placed Gilbertus among other human hostages in booby-trapped orbiting containers. If the Army of the Jihad had opened fire on the machine stronghold, many thousands of innocent hostages would have been killed. Unable to tolerate the risk to his precious ward, Erasmus had left the thinking machines vulnerable so that he could save one small life – a completely irrational decision. A compassionate decision? Even Gilbertus only partially understood the reasons for the robot’s action, but he felt an intense devotion toward his beloved mentor.
Gilbertus had in turn rescued Erasmus. While the machine planet was overrun by the Army of the Jihad, he had smuggled out the robot’s memory core, which contained all that Erasmus was. Desperate, calling upon all the human skills he had, Gilbertus and a handful of other machine sympathizers escaped by mingling with the other refugees.…
Now, more than eight decades later, Gilbertus had built an entirely different life, created a new construct for himself, and never confessed his past.
“When will you let me begin experimenting on Anna Corrino?” Erasmus pressed. “She intrigues me.”
“Haven’t you done enough experiments on humans? You used to brag about it – hundreds of thousands of subjects.”
“But I have never seen a candidate as interesting as that young woman. Her mind is like an unsolvable puzzle, and I must solve it.”
“You once said I was your most fascinating subject,” Gilbertus teased. “Have you lost interest in me?”
The robot paused, as if to consider. “Are you jealous of my fascination with her? Tell me more about your emotions.”
“Not jealous – just protective. Anna Corrino must remain safe under my care. Any harm to her will bring down Imperial wrath on the Mentat School – and I’m quite familiar with your experiments, Father. A huge percentage of your subjects did not survive.” He walked to a decorative table next to his reading chair, bent over, and set up the pieces for their usual game of pyramid chess.
“I promise to be careful,” the robot insisted.
“No. I can’t risk the Emperor’s sister. I already walk a fine line with the Butlerians when I teach students your techniques without appearing to be a machine sympathizer.”
The robot was in a more talkative mood than usual. “Yes, I recognize the growing shadow of suspicion. Your crude attempts to make yourself look older are beginning to strain belief, and the years are adding up. You knew the time would come to leave this school. You need a new identity, a new life. We should leave Lampadas – it is too dangerous here.”
“I know.…” Feeling sad, Gilbertus looked at the gelsphere, which seemed so small and fragile on its stand, so impotent in comparison with the magnificent robot that once ruled Corrin, strutting about in bright plush robes.
Erasmus was persistent. “And you must find me another robot body. A better one than last time. I need to be mobile again so I can defend myself … so that I can explore and learn. That is my raison d’être.”
Gilbertus set up the chess pieces and made his first move, knowing Erasmus was watching him through spy-eyes in the room. “I don’t have any robot bodies to work with. The Butlerians forced me to destroy all my teaching specimens. You know that – you observed it.”
“Yes, I did. And you appeared to enjoy the mayhem.”
“It was a carefully studied expression, necessary to fool Manford Torondo and his followers. Don’t sulk.”
“Perhaps you can bring in more Tlulaxa students. They can grow a synthetic biological body to accept my memory core. Now, that would be interesting.”
Gilbertus said in a quieter voice, “I do want to help you, Father, out of gratitude for all the help you’ve given me. But we have to be more cautious now than ever. In light of the news I heard today, the danger is much increased.” He knew the robot would be tantalized.
“What news? I have monitored all student and instructor conversations.”
“I didn’t release this information to the students or the faculty, but rumors are sure to spread soon enough.” He waited for Erasmus to signal his next move on the pyramid chessboard, then dutifully moved the game piece. “One of the old machine sympathizers from Corrin was discovered in hiding, a human slave-pen manager named Horus Rakka.”
“I remember him,” Erasmus said. “An adequate employee who kept the subjects in line. He slaughtered many, but no more than the other slavemasters.”
“Well, it turns out that he escaped from Corrin, as we did. The notorious Horus Rakka changed his name and lived a new life in exile, pretending to be someone else for all this time.”
“Corrin was overrun eighty-four standard years ago,” Erasmus said. “I don’t have accurate birth records for all my human helpers, but Rakka was approximately thirty years old back then. He would be a very old man now.”
“Yes, he was old when the Butlerians found him – old and frail. But they executed him nevertheless, burned him alive in a public spectacle. This discovery only increases the Butlerian fervor, and they will keep hunting until the last ‘machine apologist’ is found – and that could be me.”
Erasmus’s voice carried an edge of uneasiness. “You must not let them find you, or me.”
“Horus Rakka lived an unobtrusive life. No one paid attention to him – and yet he was still discovered. I, on the other hand, have become prominent, and there is always a risk that someone will recognize me. At one time, I might have led a happy life in obscurity, but it’s too late for that now.”
Erasmus took offense at the idea. “I did not create you to hide your potential. You were destined for greatness. I made you that way.”
“I understand that, and I have followed the path you wanted for me, founding this great school and teaching humans to organize thoughts the way machines do – that is a legacy I share with you. With all your care, advice, and attention you have treated me like a son, have shown love toward me.”
The robot found this amusing. “Perhaps I have shown what you think is love, but I have only been able to experience a rough equivalent of the emotion. There is still a great deal I do not grasp about human love, the feelings of a father for a child, or of a mother, and the reciprocal feelings of a child toward its parents. These are things I might never understand, because I can never be a real biological father to a child, with the emotional connectivity it involves.”
Looking up from the chess game that held neither player’s interest, Gilbertus turned from the robot’s memory core, while his mind journeyed far away, entering a Mentat trance.
Inside the meticulously organized compartments of his brain, the Headmaster had created a very special private sanctuary. He called it his Memory Vault, a place where he stored his experiences from his early years as a free human after escaping Corrin.
Gilbertus had lived under a false identity for his first two decades of freedom, convincing others that he was a normal human being. He looked like a healthy young man of thirty, and he maintained his body as if it were a precision machine, just as he maintained his mind. He made his way to the remote planet Lectaire, where he decided he wanted to be a farmer. He was hired on as help, learning that agriculture in practice was different from the theory he had studied.
Now whenever Gilbertus entered his Memory Vault, he relived times with the farmer’s family, the neighbors, their summer festivals and harvest feasts, their winter prayers and spring celebrations. It was the first time Gilbertus had ever interacted in human society. He studied the people of Lectaire, he learned, he imitated. Soon enough, living among people became second nature to him, and he found that he liked his neighbors, enjoyed social interaction.
The realization surprised him, because Erasmus had always said that free humans were unruly, uncivilized, and disorganized, with squalid and unsatisfying lives. Despite his mentor’s teachings, he found that the people of Lectaire had warm hearts, and a societal machinery that let them function in ways a thinking machine would never grasp.
Gilbertus spent seven years among them, working on farms, living a quiet life. While continuing to protect the robot’s hidden memory core – and ready to kill anyone who happened to discover it – he let himself fit in. He met a young woman named Jewelia and discovered love – a thing that Erasmus had never been able to teach him. In such matters, he was forced to learn for himself.
And he learned about heartache. Jewelia had loved him, but eventually she married someone else, leaving him heartbroken and struggling to understand. His secret robot mentor could offer no comfort other than to suggest in a cavalier way that Gilbertus eliminate the rival suitor. Gilbertus didn’t understand his own feelings very well, but the independent robot understood them even less.
Instead, Gilbertus locked away every memory of Jewelia, every conversation, every moment they’d spent together, each tender kiss and embrace, preserving those experiences as an immeasurable treasure.
Gilbertus had departed Lectaire, following the robot’s grandiose dreams and encouragement to form a school that would surreptitiously teach thinking-machine techniques. Erasmus also convinced him to reclaim his original name of Gilbertus Albans, which few people had known even on Corrin, and had likely forgotten long ago.…
Similarly, Horus Rakka had tried to disappear in a normal, unobtrusive life, before his discovery and execution. But Gilbertus had given up any opportunity to be ordinary, accepting the greater calling that Erasmus cultivated within him.
Now, as he emerged from his Memory Vault, he realized that Erasmus had continued speaking, not recognizing the telltale physical signs that indicated his ward had gone into a Mentat trance. “We must develop an escape plan,” the robot said, “so we can leave Lampadas the moment there is danger. Our very existence may depend on being fully prepared.”
Gilbertus reoriented himself to the present. “I already have a private emergency aircraft in the school’s secure hangar. I can fly away if necessary.”
The robot paused. “We should take Anna Corrino with us when we go.”
“I still won’t allow you to perform experiments on her.”
“Nevertheless, I will be watching her carefully.”
A chime sounded at the locked office door, despite Gilbertus’s explicit instructions not to be disturbed. In a flurry of movement, he sealed away the dangerous memory core and concealed the cabinet behind books. He activated the speaker system, but did not unlock the doors. “I requested privacy.”
It was Alys Carroll, one of his stern female trainees, a Butlerian recruit he had been forced to accept in order to stay in Manford’s good graces. “You received a summons, Headmaster. You need to depart immediately.”
Alys had an abrasive personality; worse, she did not realize it, or perhaps didn’t care. “A summons from the Emperor?” Gilbertus unsealed the security systems, then used his old-fashioned key to unlock and open the door.
Alys stood before him. “Leader Torondo orders that you come to his headquarters.” She said Manford’s name as if he were as important as the Emperor. And Gilbertus realized that, to her, the Butlerian leader might even be on a higher level than that.
With a forced, polite smile, the Headmaster said, “I shall depart as soon as possible.”
“Immediately,” she repeated.
Chapter 10 (Some people look up into the night)
Some people look up into the night and are awed by the stars they see. I will not be satisfied until my ships fly to all those star systems.
– DIRECTEUR JOSEF VENPORT, VenHold internal memo
In the past year, Josef Venport had transformed his headquarters planet into a veritable fortress. The conflict with the Butlerians was an undeclared war, but a war nevertheless. He saw it as a struggle for the future of humanity – and he was the person to be in charge of it.
A time of crisis demanded a great leader, such as Serena Butler, who had launched her Jihad against thinking machines, or Faykan Butler, who led the final victory on Corrin, or even Jules Corrino, who quelled the CET riots after the release of the incendiary Orange Catholic Bible.
Emperor Salvador, though, was not such a person. As the Half-Manford tried to plunge human society back into barbarism, and Josef fought to preserve civilization, the Emperor was caught like a melon in a vise, doing nothing and easily crushed.
Josef had to pay lip service to the throne, so that he did not provoke any outright Imperial resistance while he gathered his own allies. Much of Salvador’s fleet was carried aboard VenHold haulers, but Josef could not count on those soldiers to defend his interests if the Emperor refused to take sides.
In times like these, he wished Prince Roderick were the leader instead of Salvador. But for an accident of birth …
Since Kolhar served as the headquarters of Venport Holdings and the creation ground for mutant Navigators, Josef could not allow the planet to be vulnerable. He had to protect himself, and he certainly had the means to do so.
In the centuries-long war against the thinking machines, many human worlds had been protected by planetary shields originally created by Norma Cenva. Now, Josef also used those types of shields to protect his groundside industrial bases and construction docks in orbit – to protect them against the Butlerians. Dedicated VenHold warships, many of which were salvaged from old robotic vessels, patrolled space around Kolhar. His defenses would strike without hesitation if any barbarians tested Venport defenses. Josef had installed ground weaponry and deployed a picket line of patrol ships as well as a network of surveillance sensors throughout the system.
The planet should be secure, but when it came to the antitech fanatics, nothing was certain.
At the Thonaris shipyards, Josef had let his guard down and underestimated the Half-Manford’s violence and savage stupidity, and he had nearly lost everything. He would never make that mistake again. Josef knew that Kolhar would be a primary target if the barbarians ever organized themselves. Oh, he could disintegrate hordes of the savages, but more would keep coming. He had explicitly told his employees and allies that he would not be disappointed if someone just assassinated Manford Torondo. Without their charismatic demagogue to lead them, the chattering monkeys would disperse and find some other idiotic superstition to believe in.
From Kolhar’s high admin-tower, the Directeur surveyed his bustling shipyards, landing fields, and assorted industries. The way to achieve victory was through civilization and efficiency. “You never lose when you bet on human nature,” he had once told Cioba. “Take advantage of greed and the universal desire for easy living. That’s the deep flaw in the Butlerian thesis: The Half-Manford expects people to choose deprivation and suffering over their own comfort and well-being? It can never last.”
Though he knew he was right, Josef was sorely disappointed that the rest of the Imperium was taking so long to reach the same conclusion. Many planets had taken the Butlerian pledge, so Venport Holdings cut them off. When they grew desperate, Josef offered them a perfectly reasonable solution – admit that they preferred civilized society over primitive squalor, and he would reopen galactic commerce with them. As simple as that. He had slipped his own ships to outlying towns on Lampadas, taking a cold satisfaction in tempting those people right under the nose of the Butlerian leader.
But he underestimated human stubbornness. They were taking much too long to break under the pressure.
The communication system transmitted a message into his office. “The spice hauler just arrived from Arrakis, Directeur. With your permission, we will open the planetary shields to allow for passage.”
“Permission granted. Direct the ship to Landing Zone Twelve. I’ll take a groundcar and meet Draigo myself.” He tidied his desk and retrieved a jacket before heading out into the chill air.
Draigo Roget would be bringing a full assessment of the Combined Mercantiles spice-harvesting operations. Draigo was the most talented graduate of the Mentat School and an invaluable employee of Venport Holdings.
As soon as Josef had learned of the school, he’d seen the potential of the so-called human computers. Not only did Mentats possess tremendous analytical and predictive abilities, they could calculate with the speed of thinking machines, while retaining more of their humanity than the mutated Navigators did. Therefore, he wanted to use Mentats to enhance his own business interests.
With this in mind, Josef had selected a young man named Draigo Roget and planted him in the Mentat School on Lampadas, giving him a false past. His plan was to have Draigo learn Mentat techniques so he could return to Kolhar and teach other candidates. Josef needed as many as he could get.
Guiding the groundcar himself, Josef drove across the busy landing zone, weaving his way among cargo containers and refueling trucks. He could smell the hot metal, fumes, and stressed polymers. The Directeur was not a man who sat in his office and let others handle the work (although he might have preferred that, if he could be confident everyone would perform up to his standards). But he had few people he could truly count on. His wife, Cioba, was one of them; Draigo Roget was another.
As he parked outside Landing Zone 12, he watched the spice hauler descend through the gray sky, noting its design. VenHold spacecraft came from many ship architects and manufacturers. He had gathered every salvageable robot ship he could find; he had purchased (or stolen) ships from defunct or weak transportation companies; and he was in the process of constructing as many new spacefolders as his industries could produce. His aim was to drive all rivals out of business, just as he had done with spice poachers on Arrakis.
In order to remain in the Emperor’s good graces, VenHold foldspace haulers transported battleships from the Imperial Armed Forces. The Imperial military had their own Holtzman engines that could fold space, but VenHold ships were much more reliable, and Josef charged very little for the service.
There were other space transportation carriers throughout the Imperium, but the rival vessels used archaic navigation technology, hurtling through foldspace with the blind hope that they would not encounter a navigational hazard. Josef had a monopoly on prescient Navigators, and as a specialized backup and closely guarded secret, many VenHold ships also used navigation computers.
Flatbed groundcars rolled up to the landed spice hauler, which steamed in Kolhar’s chill air. Cargo doors unfolded, and workers emerged with loads of packaged spice. The factory-ship reeked of melange, and Josef drew a deep breath. He used the stuff only occasionally; he didn’t need it, since he was invigorated enough by the skyrocketing profits from selling spice.
Draigo Roget walked down the ramp, scanning the crowd until he spotted the Directeur. A dark-haired man wearing a black outfit, the Mentat had the demeanor of a stealthy shadow; his darting eyes drank in more details than a normal human could absorb.
He stopped before Josef with a confident expression, forgoing pleasantries. “Directeur Venport, our operations on Arrakis are sound. I reviewed all records with Mentat focus and completed an audit more thorough than any Imperial inspector could conduct. There is no detectable link. As far as anyone can determine, there is no connection between Venport Holdings and Combined Mercantiles.”
“And spice production?” Josef asked. “Our priority is to fulfill the requirements of our Navigators first, and then sell any surplus melange to worlds that side with us against the Butlerians.”
Draigo showed no reaction. “You realize that the populations on many of the embargoed planets are addicted, Directeur?”
“Exactly, and if they simply renounce their support for the Half-Manford, they can resume interplanetary commerce. I’ll provide all the spice they like, but first they must choose. It’s a matter of priorities and allegiances.” He shook his head. “I thought this nonsense would be over long before now.”
The Mentat gave a cool, noncommittal nod. “It is difficult to overcome the legacy of thousands of years of machine oppression in a generation or two. We can’t underestimate the deep pain and horror some people experience when reminded of their enslavement.”
Josef shook his head. He still didn’t understand it.
From any other operative, he would have expected formal documents listing amounts of spice produced and shipped, and losses due to storms, sandworm attack, or sabotage. Draigo, however, simply recited everything from memory. As the flow of numbers continued, Josef held up a hand. “Highlights only, please. Others can attend to the minutiae later.”
Draigo shifted his report to a summary. “This hauler carries sufficient spice for the proto-Navigators currently undergoing metamorphosis, and it will supply many of the Navigators already in service. Forty-three percent of this shipment can be sold to other customers to generate profits for continued spice production.”
Josef led Draigo to the groundcar. “Come with me to the Navigator field. We’ll tell Norma.”
As he guided the humming groundcar away from the landing zone operations, Josef said, “As soon as Baridge or one of the other barbarian planets changes sides, a flood of others will follow suit. We just need one to set the process in motion. Nobody wants to be the first, but I’ll keep tempting them.” He frowned. “If I promise them spice as a reward, however, we have to make certain we actually have plentiful stockpiles of melange. I cannot renege on a promise.”
“I have already seen to that, Directeur. I diverted some profits into the construction and deployment of more spice-harvesting machines. Combined Mercantiles is hiring offworld crews and paying high wages. Our best workers come from the free people of the desert. They are well seasoned to work out in the deep dunes, but they are emotionally volatile, especially the young men. Some of them try to sabotage our equipment.”
“Why? Do they resent offworlders for some reason?”
“It is more a rite of passage, I believe.”
“Then it needs to be stopped. Arrest the saboteurs, bring them to justice, make them pay for the damage they cause.”
“They’re impossible to catch, Directeur. And even if we arrested and made an example of several young men, the other tribes would band together against us. We cannot afford that.” He paused, raising his dark eyebrows. “I have another suggestion.”
“A Mentat projection?”
“Just an idea.”
“I’m still interested.”
“Recruit them, sir. Get them to work for VenHold. I could disseminate word among the disaffected young people: If any of them wants an opportunity, we’ll take them away from the desert and show them the universe. What bored young Freeman from a backward desert village wouldn’t jump at the chance?”
“What use could we possibly have for uneducated nomadic primitives?”
“They’ve already proved their skill in sabotaging our equipment. We could train them and turn them loose aboard some of your competitors’ ships.”
“We already have saboteurs who have infiltrated EsconTran. That’s one reason their safety record is so abysmal,” Josef said.
“I believe that properly trained Freemen might be even more effective. And we need only to offer the right ones a chance to go offworld. They will become loyal to us.”
Josef brushed his fingers down his thick mustache. “Yes, my Mentat. I like that idea. Recruit some Freemen to add to our sabotage teams already at work.”
They reached the flatlands beyond the outskirts of the city. Weedy fields were dotted with plaz chambers in which Navigator volunteers spent their days saturated in spice while undergoing high-level mathematical instruction that only Navigators could comprehend. Though Norma Cenva often guided VenHold ships to continue her exploration of the universe, she could also fold space with her own mind without even needing Holtzman engines. No other Navigator came close to matching her abilities.
A monitor crew drained spice gas out of a plaz tank for recycling. Two hazard-suited workers climbed into the chamber to remove the body of a failed Navigator. The flaccid, distorted form flopped out onto a suspensor-borne stretcher. The body still twitched; the mouth hung slack; the eyes were gray, blind, covered with a caul. Josef preferred to retrieve these failures before they died, since their still-living brains could be sent off to his secret research facility on Denali. Even failed Navigator brains were highly useful for experiments.
Leaving the groundcar at the edge of the field, he and Draigo passed among the tanks. A remarkable number of candidates were undergoing the extreme physical and mental transformation. Josef didn’t know where all the volunteers came from, nor did he bother to ask. Even forcibly transformed Navigators – such as Royce Fayed – were grateful once the mysteries of the universe unfolded in front of them.
His great-grandmother’s tank rested on top of a small rise. Other VenHold workers, revering Norma Cenva, had built a structure that looked like a temple. Sensing their arrival, Norma drifted close to a curved plaz wall and peered out at them. Her appearance would have startled most people – hairless, with large eyes and an amphibious look – but Josef had known her like this all his life.
“A ship has brought spice, Grandmother – enough for all our current Navigators.”
Norma’s response was a long time coming, as if she had to adapt and customize her thoughts so that mere humans could understand. “I know. I saw it.”
“We hope to increase spice production to create many more Navigators. We also want more melange sales to entice those planets that refuse to accept civilization. It is our best leverage.”
“A terrible war. But critical for human civilization,” Norma said. “In spice visions I see truth. The Butlerian threat spreads like disease.”
“Don’t worry, we will defeat them,” Josef said.
“You will try. My prescience shows possible futures, but not always imminent events. Far from now, Butlerians will likely win. People will fear technology for millennia. Tyrants will change civilization. Worse tyrants will arise.”
Josef felt a hollowness in his heart. “We understand how important this conflict is, Grandmother. We are fighting for the soul of humanity, for the very future of our way of life. We will not give up.” He grew angry as he thought of the superstitious fools. “I will grind those barbarians under my heel.”
Draigo interrupted, speaking with Mentat calm. “Norma, you have foreseen, but isn’t your prescience uncertain?”
