Mentats of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Manford could feel that Anari was eager to begin the attack on Dove’s Haven, but she would never speak out of turn with others present. Anari only expressed her real opinions when they were alone, often as she massaged his aching shoulders, rubbed oils into his skin, or helped him into the bath. Although she could speak her mind there, he couldn’t recall her ever disagreeing with him unless it concerned his personal safety—in that, she was inflexible.

  Now, she merely muttered, “The mind of man is holy.” The nearby Swordmasters repeated the words in a low murmur.

  Manford straightened in the harness. “I accept your generous donation to our movement, Directeur Escon. The ships and fuel are most welcome.”

  The shipping magnate shuffled his feet, and Manford realized that he had not intended to donate all expenses. Even so, the Butlerian leader didn’t retract his acceptance of the offer.

  His gathered soldiers were restless in the cool darkness, holding cudgels, knives, and spears. Manford had not forbidden them from carrying projectile firearms, but this group wouldn’t need such weapons against the people of Dove’s Haven. Dawn would break soon, and they had to move forward.

  Yet Escon continued the conversation. “But … how many of my ships will be necessary, sir? I understood you already had vessels of your own, decommissioned ships from the Army of the Jihad—gifts to you from Emperor Salvador Corrino?”

  “Those are a hundred and forty warships, Directeur, and I require them for military matters, not to haul cargo or pilgrims. I keep only four here at Lampadas. The others have been dispersed as a show of strength to support planets that have taken my pledge. They serve as necessary reminders.”

  Escon cleared his throat and gathered his courage. “If I may, Leader Torondo—perhaps you would allow a special surcharge on every flight conducted for the worthy Butlerian cause? That would offset costs enough to maintain my ships and expand routes to support your holy work. Even better, if you were to publicly endorse EsconTran over my competitors, who might be secretly corrupted by the technology-lovers…”

  Anari shifted from one foot to the other, showing that she was weary of standing there.

  Manford’s brow furrowed as he considered the idea. “And what of your company’s safety record, Directeur? There have been reports of tragic accidents in your fleet, ships gone missing due to navigational errors.”

  Escon was too quickly dismissive. “We dare not use thinking machines, Leader Torondo, and so we do our best. Space travel has never been perfectly safe—nothing is. A rider can be killed on a horse, too.” He let out an awkward chuckle. “As a percentage of total space flights, our losses are minuscule.”

  “What are the figures, exactly?”,” Phillips saidch woman

  “I … I would have to review the data.” Escon brightened as an idea occurred to him. “By endorsing my company, you would demonstrate to all that God is on our side. Surely that alone will improve our safety record.”

  Manford could not argue with that. “Very well, the bargain is struck, and that concludes our business. I have other obligations here and now.” He faced forward and rested a hand lovingly on Anari Idaho’s close-cropped brown hair. “And once we finish this distasteful business at Dove’s Haven, we can be back to our normal work.”

  Dawn light seeped like a bloodstain into the sky. Manford’s followers were charged with adrenaline, the drug of righteousness. Directeur Escon seemed anxious to leave, but hung back awkwardly, not wanting to offend.

  A man in dark brown robes stepped up to Manford, ignoring the businessman. “Our first group has moved into the settlement, Leader Torondo. One of our fighters is stationed at the town bell, ready to awaken them all to bear witness.”

  “Thank you, Deacon Harian.”

  Manford’s grim and stony majordomo was a walking icon of implacability as well as an embodiment of Butlerian ideals. Harian’s grandparents had survived machine enslavement on the planet Corrin, and were among the many desperate refugees rescued from the Bridge of Hrethgir during the legendary final battle against Omnius.

  While Manford often prayed to small iconic paintings of the beautiful Rayna Butler, Deacon Harian preferred to immerse himself in historical records of Corrin, images taken during the hectic off-loading of the human hostages used as shields by the thinking machines—until the great war hero Vorian Atreides called Omnius’s bluff. The defeat of the machine worlds was worth any amount of human blood, innocent or otherwise.…

  Though Harian had no personal experience with thinking machines, his hatred of them was fundamental to his being. As a child, he had heard horrific stories from his grandparents and felt he was destined to join the Butlerian movement. He shaved his head and eyebrows in an imitation of beloved Rayna Butler, who had lost her hair during one of the Omnius-inflicted plagues.

  Harian reported now, “We are ready to attack those who have defied you, Leader Torondo.”

  Manford nodded. “Remember, this is not an attack, not a punishment.” He shifted position in his harness. “It is a lesson.”

  As the light of dawn began to break, Anari Idaho raised her sword, an action mirrored by her fellow Swordmasters. No longer needing to be silent, the hundred Butlerian followers let out a roar. Manford said, “Lead us, Anari.” She strode into the town, carrying him on her shoulders.

  The ruckus brought a few sleepy villagers out into the streets, where they stared at the oncoming throng. When they recognized the legless leader, a flicker of relief crossed their expressions—only to be replaced with fear.

  Harian’s designate rang the town’s bell. The front line of Swordmasters marched into the village square in precise ranks, while the unrestrained Butlerians surged forward, shouting and pounding on doors, waking everyone. Uneasy people came out, muttering, some sobbing.

  Anari reached the First Mayor’s home and hammered on the door with the pommel of her sword, but didn’t wait for an answer. Balancing Manford in the harness as if he were an oversize child, she administered a ferocious kick that smashed the lock. consequencesp m that As she shoved the door open, her fellow Swordmasters broke into the homes of the other two leaders and dragged the triumvirate outside.

  The three half-awake men wore nightclothes, stumbling forward and struggling to put on shirts, but their eyes widened as they grasped their predicament. High on Anari’s shoulders, Manford sat like a judge at his bench, pronouncing sentence.

  Two of the town mayors babbled excuses, while the third remained grimly silent. The silent one understood full well what he had done wrong, and knew that his actions could not be excused.

  Manford spoke in a gentle voice. “There is no need to fear. All of you are about to witness the swift glory of righteousness. The holy martyrs Saint Serena and Manion the Innocent are with us today.”

  “What is all this about, Leader Torondo?” asked one of the mayors.

  Manford just frowned. “My warships in orbit keep watch to protect the innocence of all loyal followers. We have detected small VenHold ships in this area, apparently spies or black-market supply runners. Dove’s Haven has purchased commodities from humanity’s greatest enemy.”

  “No, sir!” cried the talkative, whimpering town leader. His voice was almost a squeal.

  “People in this village have let themselves become addicted to spice, and their addiction is apparently stronger than their faith.”

  Several townspeople moaned. Deacon Harian emerged from the First Mayor’s home, while Butlerians ransacked the other two. The grim majordomo flaunted an unmarked package he had found. He tore it open and poured fragrant cinnamon-colored powder on the ground.

  “As the mayoral triumvirate of this town, you three are responsible for your people, duty-bound to prevent them from straying. But you have not done so. As leader of the Butlerians, I must accept the blame for my followers who make the wrong choices—and no punishment can be as great as the heartache I feel. For you three, the punishment will be clear and swift.”

  The Swordmasters
moved forward. Anari raised her own blade, and Manford whispered to her, “The silent one deserves our respect, so grant him a reward. Kill him first.”

  Anari did not give the First Mayor time to anticipate his death or fear the blow. She moved in such a blur that her sword decapitated him before he could flinch. His head and twitching body fell to the ground in opposite directions. The other two men wailed. Swordmasters killed them; they left the whining one for last.

  Manford looked down at the headless bodies in the center of the town. “Three people who made terrible mistakes—a small price to pay for a very important lesson.” Now he motioned the hundred waiting followers on his team to come forward.

  Can you feel it? The moment your ship begins to fold space, the danger increases by an order of magnitude. Will you survive the passage?

  —graffito scrawled in public corridor of VenHold ship

  Not all problems were epic in scope, and even a legendary figure suffered from painful, albeit minor, inconveniences.

  Vorian’s infected toenail rubbed the inside of his boot and made it difficult for him to walk on the sand. When not irritated by the discomfort, he actually found it ironic. It certainly gave him a different perspective: Vorian Atreides, renowned Hero of the Jihad, the warrior who had lived for more than two centuries, suffering from a very human frailty.

  He didn’t feel much like a towering legend as he accompanied his captain along the dust-blown road from the perimeter spaceport to Arrakis City. Of course, Captain Marius Phillips had no idea who he really was, though Vor made no attempt to hide his appearance.

  Vor had dark hair, a narrow face, and gray eyes; he was tall and lean, in striking contrast with his squat, short-legged companion. At first glance, he and Captain Phillips looked as different as two men could be, but Vor had a talent for finding common ground with others. He genuinely liked the trader captain and admired him for his calm ways and easy administration of the Nalgan Shipping vessel.

  After landing, the pair had donned traditional distilling suits to recapture and recycle their bodily fluids in the crisp aridity of Arrakis. Phillips fidgeted and fiddled with his suit. “I hate this desert planet.”

  Since Vor had worn a stillsuit before, he stopped to help Phillips set the filter tube at his mouth and adjust the fittings around the neck. “This is the way we did it when I was on a spice crew here.”

  When the adjustments were complete, the other man gave his gruff thanks. Phillips had been here on numerous business trips, but never learned much about the local ways. “That’s tolerable, at least,” he said, adjusting the polymer fabric on his chest. “I’d never come to this godforsaken place if not for the spice profits. And I’d never work for Nalgan Shipping if one of the larger companies would have me.”

  The men resumed walking as a hot breeze blew in from the desert. “This is an unpleasant place,” Vor agreed, trying to ignore his sore foot so that Phillips wouldn’t notice his limp. “Fit only for native Freemen and giant worms.” He had told the captain few details about his past or his background. This planet held many rough memories for him.

  This is where Griffin Harkonnen died. I couldn’t save him.

  The captain took a liking to Vor during their months of traveling together, and had already made him second in command over a small crew that had a high turnover due to Nalgan Shipping’s low wages. No one on the cargo ship knew Vor’s true identity, his place in the context of history. He wanted no more fame, no grand responsibilities observation windowal impenetrable, shedding his past entirely, like an old skin. To ensure his privacy, he traveled under the surname Kepler—the planet where he’d lived and raised a family, until a year ago.

  Vor’s physical appearance had changed little in more than eight decades since the Battle of Corrin, but military images had faded from everyday memory. If anyone compared his face to old records, they might note the resemblance, but who would guess he could be the real Vorian Atreides? Here, he was just another man in the crowd, an average worker—which was the way he preferred it. He’d had enough of glory and expectations.

  Even during the long, bloody Jihad, Vor had never reveled in the victories, the glory, and the acclaim. The war had brought endless slaughter, tragedies, and heartaches. He had done his duty, more than could be expected of any man, and had seen the downfall of the thinking machines. But after it was over, Vor had no use for the corruption of politics—the backstabbing, scheming, and lack of ethics. He’d had his fill of war and purported noblemen; the life of a common man suited him better. He was more comfortable in obscurity.

  Not long ago, he had been content on out-of-the-way Kepler, until he was forced to go to Salusa Secundus and beg the Emperor to provide protection for his adopted world. As part of that bargain, he agreed to leave his wife and family and swore to stay out of Imperial politics, and out of the public eye. Leaving his family was painful but inevitable, because Vor did not age—while his wife and children did. The same thing had happened before with another wife and family on the ocean world of Caladan. He always had to move away from the inevitable march of time.

  After giving his promise to Emperor Salvador, Vor joined a spice crew on Arrakis, trying to vanish into anonymity. But even here his past haunted and pursued him. There was Griffin Harkonnen, a dedicated but unprepared young man who blamed Vorian Atreides for the downfall of his noble house. Young Griffin never should have left the family holdings on Lankiveil, but he had tied himself into knots of honor, and then died on Arrakis, caught in the blowback of someone else’s revenge. Trying to do the honorable thing, Vor sent the young man’s body back to his family.

  The experience had made Vor want to disappear more than ever. Because of his bitter memories here, he disliked Arrakis far more than Captain Phillips could ever realize. He felt uneasy now as they entered the main city.

  The captain nodded toward Vor’s limp. “Sore foot? Did you injure yourself on the ship?”

  “I’ll tough it out.” He preferred to let the man draw his own conclusions; an infected toenail seemed too trivial.

  Arrakis City was a hardscrabble frontier town with weathered homes and dusty, unpaved streets. Vor was familiar with the seedy hangouts and the more colorful, eccentric locals, though he doubted anyone would remember him from his days as a nondescript worker on a spice crew. The denizens were rough men and women, as unforgiving as the environment. They all had their own reasons for coming here, and most didn’t care to share their stories. Vor fit in well among them.

  He and the captain waited on the main street at the appointed place. “I want you to meet my regular contact,” Phillips said. “If you learn how to negotiate the right deals, then I can make you my proxy.” He grinned. “And I’d be able to stay aboard ship. You can have the sand to yourself.”

  Combined Mercantiles managed spice operations on Arrakis and ruthlessly defended their monopoly. Most of the spice was shipped via Venport Holdings spacefoldersem; text-decoration : none; line-height : 1.2 s woman, but bribes could be paid and special dispensations acquired for a small company such as Nalgan Shipping, which distributed melange at exorbitant cost to niche markets on distant planets. Captain Phillips worked with an “expediter” who could dodge the restrictions and red tape to let them fill their ship with high-grade spice.

  Vor and the captain waited awkwardly in the shadows under an awning, and ten minutes after the appointed time, a man in a dusty desert robe shuffled toward them. The wind kicked up around him.

  “I am very busy,” said Qimmit, the spice merchant, as if annoyed at them for his own lateness. “Many buyers for my spice today. I agreed to meet with you, but I make no promises. I hope you make this worth my while.”

  “My ship is ready to take the usual full cargo,” Phillips said. “Same terms as before.” He introduced the man to Vor, saying, “Qimmit and I have done business for years.”

  “Today’s price has changed out of necessity, my friend,” Qimmit said, with an exaggerated expression of grief. Though
the stillsuit hood covered most of his head, he had a scar on his chin and another over his left eyebrow. His spice-addicted blue eyes did not focus on Captain Phillips as he spoke, which made him appear disingenuous to Vor.

  Phillips bristled. “Out of necessity? What do you mean?”

  “The hazards of doing business on Arrakis. Combined Mercantiles just destroyed another spice-poaching operation, killed a hundred men. They defend their hold on spice, so the bribes required to get a load of melange for any shipper other than VenHold … well, my friend, they are costly. Worms have swallowed three harvesters in the past month alone, and sandstorms are more frequent than ever. That leads to increased maintenance and replacement costs for equipment. I have no choice but to charge you an additional fifteen percent.” He gave a conciliatory smile. “You are my friend, so I charge you much less than others.”

  Vorian observed the interaction without comment.

  “Nalgan Shipping is a small company and can’t afford such an increase,” Phillips said. “There are always worms on Arrakis, and storms, and high maintenance costs.”

  “And always Combined Mercantiles—but the company is stronger now than before. And more ruthless.”

  Never underestimate the power of revenge sounded defensive. al impenetrable as a motivating factor in human society.

  —Mentat observation and warning

  Valya Harkonnen realized she had done a cruel thing to her parents after returning to Lankiveil. Perhaps they would never forgive her … but she did not seek forgiveness. She never had. Her goals were beyond such concerns.

  Even so, she wondered if she would ever see her ancestral home again. Lankiveil was a cold, isolated, unwelcoming place, not at all a world worthy of noble House Harkonnen. By rights her family should have lived on the Imperial capital of Salusa Secundus, not in exile on an out-of-the way planet few people wanted to visit. Someday, she would help her family earn back the glory it deserved.