Crossing the line from friend to enemy takes only a small step. The opposite journey, however, is far more difficult.
—Zensunni wisdom of the desert
Although Lampadas was surrounded by the Half-Manford’s Butlerian warships, their defenses were as effective as using a frayed net to hold back the rain. Draigo Roget took passage aboard a small VenHold ship and spent much of the voyage in a Mentat trance, planning conversations with his mentor, imagining outcomes.
He did not want to admit that he was nervous about the prospect of facing the Headmaster. Their last encounter at the Thonaris shipyards had nearly killed him, but he didn’t think he had misjudged Gilbertus’s true mindset, despite his—reluctant?—cooperation with the Butlerians.
After arranging a return rendezvous with the spacefolder that remained in distant orbit, Draigo descended to the wild part of the continent in a small unmarked shuttle. Headmaster Albans would not be expecting him, and Draigo didn’t know what sort of reception he would receive. He needed to be cautious.
A handful of the Mentat trainees were loyal to Manford Torondo. Gilbertus had been forced to welcome zealous Butlerian students to keep the leader satisfied. Draigo was more than a match for them, but he could never count on outthinking Gilbertus Albans.
The Headmaster kept his emotions tightly reined, but Draigo thought he knew the man’s heart. The two of them had grown close during years of instruction, and he didn’t think their bond would ever be broken. Although the Mentat curriculum was designed to teach human candidates to think without computers, Gilbertus was no mindless barbarian. He was a reasonable man, and Draigo had to count on that.…
By the light of the Lampadas moon, he landed his shuttle on the edge of the sangrove swamp and set off on foot across the sodden wilderness, through tall grasses and thorny thickets. He carried weapons and a personal body shield, not because he expected to fight his way through the school, but to defend against swamp predators. Although he remained alert for nocturnal creatures, his primary focus was on the tall buildings and the new defensive walls.
He envisioned the tangled waterways woven through the marshes in the shallows of the lake and brought forth the perfect memory picture of a path used by the Mentats. The labyrinth of sluggish, shallow channels provided an additional obstacle to protect the walled school, but he had long ago memorized where the submerged stepping-stones were, only centimeters beneath the surface. By taking careful steps now, he splashed his way across, barely getting his feet wet—but if he should miss a step, he would plunge in, with little chance of scrambling back out before razorjaws swarmed him or a swamp dragon lunged out to pick him off.
Draigo took pride in the knowledge that he was the greatest student the Mentat school had ever produced, the Headmaster’s trusted protégé. Gilbertus had wanted him to remain behind and teach other Mentats, but Draigo had other obligations to Directeur Venport.
When he had been pitted against Gilbertus at the Thonaris shipyards, Draigo had lost. But surely the Headmaster regretted the senseless mayhem and all the deaths the Butlerians had caused. A Mentat must be rational, if not compassionate. A Mentat must revere efficiency over chaos. The frenzied mob that Manford had later unleashed on Zimia only reinforced how dangerous and uncontrolled the fanatics were.
A man such as Gilbertus Albans could not truly believe that savagery was preferable to civilization. The Headmaster could help bring sanity back to the Imperium … or so Draigo hoped, and that hope drove him onward.
After passing through the swamp obstacle course, he finally reached the imposing gates of the Mentat School. He scaled one of the high wooden barriers, crossed a suspended footbridge that creaked under his feet, and ducked into the connected buildings.
If nothing else, Draigo thought, the Headmaster would want to know about the flaws in his school’s defenses.
* * *
GILBERTUS ALBANS SLEPT little. The life-extension treatment he’d received long ago made his bodily processes more efficient, and thereby gave him additional hours to use his mind for important things.
The Headmaster regularly monitored the news that trickled in through the Butlerian censors, and did his best to obtain secondary sources as well, through coded reports that didn’t always say what Manford Torondo wanted others to hear.
Over the decades, Gilbertus had pondered recording his own memoirs for posterity. He wished he could go into his internal Memory Vault, recapture every detail, and leave an extensive record of everything he had done and experienced, not just his years as a slave of the thinking machines but also his later years among the humans, his peaceful existence as a farmer on bucolic Lectaire, his beautiful lost love Jewelia, and then his dedication to his Mentat School.
Yes, his life was a story worth telling. He had lived on Corrin for a century, then another eight decades among free humans. He was more qualified than any other living person to judge and compare the conflicting viewpoints. But he didn’t dare write down such dangerous facts. He shielded even thoughts about his background, because someone with special skills of observation might detect flickers of his true mindset.
Because he couldn’t sleep, Gilbertus was awake when an unexpected visitor arrived at his office. The Headmaster was working with the door closed, but had left the additional security systems deactivated. The Erasmus core remained hidden in its cabinet.
Gilbertus sat at his desk, reviewing the academic records of his trainees. Administrator Zendur had passed along his assessment of which ones were most qualified to go out into the Imperium and offer their Mentat abilities. When he looked up, he did not at all expect to see Draigo Roget entering the office.
Draigo wore a smile as he closed the door behind him. “Headmaster, I’ve missed our discussions. Despite everything, I never stopped thinking of you as a friend.”
Gilbertus struggled to suppress his astonished reaction. Another person might have sounded a security alarm, but he found himself fascinated. “You never cease to surprise me, Draigo—though I question your wisdom in coming to Lampadas. I was startled, but pleased, when you escaped certain defeat at Thonaris. You know the Butlerians put a price on your head?”
“Just as Directeur Venport has a price on Manford’s head. Those men would love+atch woman to kill each other. You won fairly at Thonaris, and I survived only because of unexpected assistance from Norma Cenva.”
“A Mentat must factor the unexpected into his projections,” Gilbertus said. “And your arrival this evening is most definitely unexpected.”
Draigo stepped closer to the desk and studied Gilbertus in silence. Because of the late hour and his solitude, Gilbertus had not bothered to apply the makeup he used to increase his apparent age. A mistake. Too late now. Draigo had already noticed something.
“I am healthy, although I probably consume more melange than I should,” Gilbertus said.
Draigo glanced at the pyramid chess board set up on a side table, and the antique clock on the wall. He took a seat and looked across the desk at the Headmaster. “You taught me everything I need to know, and I am training Mentats on my own, away from any Butlerian influence.”
Gilbertus paused to assess that revelation. “You’ve replicated my teaching methods for Josef Venport?”
“I train my Mentats for the future of humanity, but I’m not as skilled a teacher as you.” He sounded defensive. “Headmaster, we are engaged in a war of civilizations. As human computers, we can do what the thinking machines once did, but as humans we can’t fall into the same trap of hubris. You and I agree—we dare not let ourselves become too dependent on the technology that once enslaved us.” Draigo’s expression hardened. “Nor should we let ourselves fall into a pit of ignorance and destruction that harms everyone. In their own way, the Butlerians are as dangerous as the thinking machines were. They destroy human achievement and congratulate themselves while doing it.”
GilbeValya stood wi
There is no such thing as perfect security. Any protection can be de
feated.
—teaching of the Ginaz School for Swordmasters
Prince Roderick went on a brief hunting trip in the woods of the northern continent; he wanted time away from the city, the politics, and the memory of the rampage festival. Haditha had taken the other children to stay with her sister in a distant city, needing to find her own peace. Back in their quarters, Nantha’s belongings remained where they had always been, because Haditha couldn’t bear to pack them away, nor would she allow anyone else to do it.
The scar of their lost daughter would always be with them, but Roderick needed to find a way to function. Though he would never admit it aloud, he knew the Imperium depended on him. Salvador couldn’t rule by himself.
For his few days of escape out in the quiet forest, Roderick was accompanied by three friends, one of whom owned a small lodge. The simple accommodations were rugged enough that even a Butlerian would have found nothing to object to. After the mayhem in the streets, Roderick found the lodge relaxing. He cleared his mind and tried to think of nothing other than hunting Salusan pheasants and roasting them over a fire.
But he couldn’t forget the terrible loss of Nantha for long, or his duties to Salvador, and all too soon he had to return to the Imperial Palace. Despite the brief respite, his heart wasn’t healed.
Arriving back in Zimia, he encountered an immediate reminder of why Laboratory Journals
A boisterous crowd had gathered to watch, and Roderick felt a knot form in his stomach. The imposing, black-haired Quemada was already on his fourth victim.
After what had happened to poor Nantha, Roderick would have liked to see Manford Torondo undergo such an ordeal. All the violence he had sparked, all those innocent lives lost … He closed his eyes and imagined.
As a beefy woman in an Imperial army uniform led him toward the Emperor’s observation suite, she explained what was going on, assuming Roderick would want to know. “Four petty criminals so far, my Lord. The Grand Inquisitor’s team has subjected them to various forms of ‘coaxing.’ Ancient methods, but they are all quite effective. Entertaining, too.”
Glancing through a wide window, Roderick saw a portable strappado out in the plaza, along with a spiked chair, compression helmets, and a medieval rack. Far from being modern and streamlined, each item was a functional museum piece from distant history with a brutish design. It was to create an intimidating effect, Roderick knew. After intensive training at the Suk Medical School, the Scalpel practitioners could wring agony from their captives using nothing more than a pebble or a stylus.
Three men lay on the stone pavement off to one side, bleeding and trembling, having been released from the interrogation machinery after confessing to the inquisitor’s satisfaction. A fourth man was having his fingers and toes crushed one at a time, which made him scream horrendously; so far, though, he had not admitted anything.
Prince Roderick grimaced, not certain what he found more offensive—the barbaric display or the cheering of the crowd. He hurried up to the Emperor’s suite, hoping to talk sense into Salvador, to warn him against playing into the barbaric madness embraced by the Butlerians. Was his brother creating a culture in which vicious destruction became ordinary and expected?&#p>
Roderick thought that Directeur Josef Venport was fighting on the correct side of the divide—reason versus violence. Salvador would have to be strong to stand up to the swelling antitechnology movement, but he was deathly afraid of the Butlerians. Roderick would discuss the matter with him in private and advise the best course of action, seeking to bolster his courage and strengthen his resolve.
Quemada’s latest victim screamed and then slumped from the excruciating pain. Irritated that he hadn’t answered all the questions, the Grand Inquisitor called for another subject, to a rising swell of cheers. This seemed as mad as the Butlerian rampage festival. Emperor Salvador should have known better than to incite the crowds, which could so easily get out of control. Unable to bear more of the harsh scene, Roderick entered the suite.
Salvador received him with a warm smile that made him uncomfortable. The Emperor wore one of his assorted lavish military uniforms, this one crimson and white, with a golden lion on the lapel. “Ah, I’m so glad you joined me. I was about to go out on the balcony while I have my coffee. I have some fresh melange from Arrakis, if you want it.”
The loud cheers outside tightened the knot in Roderick’s stomach, mak+O s womaning him think of Manford’s murderous mob as they rampaged through the city. “I’d rather stay inside, if you don’t mind. That reminds me of the tortures the thinking machines inflicted upon us. We’re supposed to be better than machines.”
Salvador looked disappointed by the comment. He stood at the window, gazing out at the crowd, then slumped casually on a sofa inside the office. “Have your way, then.” He motioned for a female aide to deliver the coffee service to a small sitting area on the right of his goldenwood desk.
Roderick said in a heavy voice, “You once told me you wanted justice to be an enduring legacy of your reign. What’s happening out there in the plaza is not justice.”
“The crowd seems to like the show. It’s a pressure release for them.” As Salvador spoke, the throng roared and cheered.
“But it’s adding fuel to flames. Once a crowd gets a taste for violence, they’ll burn down half the city and kill anyone who happens to be in the way, including little girls and their nannies.”
Salvador blinked. “Ah, of course! I’m sorry. I didn’t think how it would remind you of what happened to your daughter.”
“Everything reminds me of Nantha.” Roderick clenched his hands into fists at his sides as he struggled to maintain a professional demeanor. His brother needed him. He said, “There are other ways to get information, Sire. A Truthsayer could extract the answers far more efficiently—and reliably—than this torture. Those victims out there confess only because of the pain, not because they cannot hide their lies.”
Salvador sipped his coffee, added more melange. “My Grand Inquisitor serves his purpose, too. No one is going to cower in terror of a black-robed woman who simply stands there and listens in silence.”
“Nevertheless, by listening in silence, Sister Dorotea discovered the fraud perpetrated by House Péle.”
Salvador sniffed. “Quemada got more information out of Blanton Davido afterward.”
“And killed him in the process. Dorotea could have obtained the same information, and more, and we would have had a living hostage.”
“Or a convicted prisoner, headed for execution.”
Roderick did not want to disagree. “Either way, Omak Péle might not have been frightened into going renegade. I advise that we rely more on Sister Dorotea and her Truthsayers for interrogations, and avoid these public displays of cruelty.”
“What would be the fun in that?” Salvador muttered in a voice so quiet that Roderick barely heard him. Then he spoke louder. “Perhaps a challenge! We should test the two of them, have Sister Dorotea question Quemada with her methods … and then let my Grand Inquisitor question her in return.”
“He would kill her!”
Salvador waved a finger. “Not if he knows it would displease me.”
Roderick thought about Dorotea’s strength and focus; as a Reverend Mother, she had achieved a level of bodily control that Roderick could not begin to understand. Maybe his brother was right. He remained uneasy that Dorotea’s orthodox Sisters so openly sided with the violent Butlerians, but surely a Truthsayer’s interrogation had to be less barbaric than this.
The Emperor summoned his aide again, smiling at Roderick. “Let’s Laboratory Journals
civilized demonstration of their respective abilities. We’ll serve tea and little spice cookies.”
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Sister Dorotea swept into the observation suite in her characteristic black robe, but her brown hair looked freshly cut; as always, she had a presence about her. She gave both the Emperor and Roderick curt nods, and then her unflinching gaze set
tled on Quemada, who sat in a straight-backed chair. The Grand Inquisitor looked very uncomfortable, only minimally cleaned up after his efforts in the square. Outside, at Roderick’s request, Imperial guards had dispersed the unhappy crowd. Maintenance workers were dismantling the props and spraying down the interrogation equipment.
Dorotea and Quemada had been told why they were summoned. Roderick noted that the Grand Inquisitor seemed oddly intimidated by the Truthsayer; he was obviously more comfortable asking questions than answering them.
Salvador gestured impatiently. “Very well, let’s get on with it.”
“Considering the likely results of Quemada’s handiwork, Sister Dorotea will go first,” Roderick said.
Dorotea stood tall and stared at the Grand Inquisitor, not saying anything, not asking anything. As moments passed, Quemada grew increasingly red-faced and indignant. Several times his mouth quivered as if he were about to say something, but he clamped his lips shut. He held Dorotea’s gaze, undoubtedly imagining what he would inflict on her when he got his turn.
Finally, the Emperor lost patience. “Ask him what you’re supposed to ask.”
“He is already speaking to me without words, Sire.” She paused for a moment longer, then stepped closer to Quemada. “We both seek the truth. Why do you need so much violence to ply your trade? Your training from the Suk School should be sufficient to inflict pain without resorting to physical damage or death. Are you unskilled, or do you enjoy hurting people? Is that why you look forward to going to work every day?”
Quemada half rose, but forced himself to sit back down. “I do only what is necessary.”
“Necessary?” She leaned forward like a bird that had spotted a bright shiny object. “Many of your subjects die under questioning—a great many. Yet a skilled Suk practitioner should be able to keep even the most grievously injured victim alive. Why do you find it necessary to kill them? Is it intentional?”
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