Mentats of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Gilbertus found it amusing. “And my mind is sharp. What more do I need to prepare?”

  Flustered, Anari shook her head. “You were raised among the demon machines. They made you strange.”

  She left the prisoner tent, and Gilbertus returned to his meditation. Curiously, he found that he was able to focus better than he ever had in his life, and he understood why. He needed to cram all of his important thoughts into very little time.

  * * *

  AFTER TRYING TO rescue Headmaster Albans, Draigo spent most of the darkness eluding the Butlerian hunters. They chased after noises in the swamps—but he hardly made any sound at all. The hunting parties shouted back and forth, so that he knew exactly where they were. Overanxious for revenge, they blundered along, and the Mentat easily eluded them.

  Still, he felt an emptiness in his chest. This wasn’t sport. The Headmaster’s life was on the line … and he had refused to be saved! If what Gilbertus said was true—that the Erasmus memory core still existed, and Anna Corrino needed to be rescued along with it—Directeur Venport would be very interested in both. Draigo had come to Lampadas in the hope of finding powerful allies against the barbarians. Even more important, he had promised his friend and mentor, Headmaster Albans, that he would keep Anna Corrino and the Erasmus core safe.

  It was nearly dawn by the time he circled back toward the besieged school complex. He made his way through the sangrove swamps, threading the safe path through the hazards.

  He was astonished when, out of the underbrush, Anna Corrino approached him, as if she expected to find him there. “You are Draigo Roget.” She seemed to be reciting a file. “You trained for five years at the Mentat School, and scored higher than any other Mentat candidate. You graduated and were released. You are allied with Venport Holdings. No one at the school knew the identity of your benefactor until you were later encountered at the Thonaris shipyards.”

  After listening to the young woman rattle off the résumé of his life, Draigo said, “I came here to rescue the Headmaster,part is past n

  but he refused to accompany me. Instead, he made me promise to find you and … a thinking machine.”

  Anna laughed. “Erasmus and Headmaster Albans discussed letting you in on the secret some time ago.” She paused as if listening to a voice had no idea who he really wast p mme only she could hear, then nodded to herself. “Erasmus says he wishes they had done it sooner. You would hav help to us.”

  “My ship can take you far from Lampadas, where you will be safe.”

  “Erasmus, too?” She self-consciously touched a bulge in her blouse. “Don’t take us to Salusa Secundus, though. Salvador will destroy Erasmus because he does whatever the Butlerians tell him to.”

  “I have no intention of letting that robot memory core come to harm, and I won’t let you become a hostage to the Butlerians either,” Draigo said. “You should no longer be a pawn, Anna Corrino. First you went to the Sisterhood, then to the Mentat School, and now the Butlerians want you. But Directeur Venport has an isolated place to keep you where you’ll be completely safe.”

  “No one can know,” Anna said. “Not about me, or about Erasmus.”

  “No one will know. I promised Headmaster Albans.”

  As dawn brightened the sky, Draigo led her and her precious package out of the swamps, away from the Mentat School, to his hidden ship.

  * * *

  THE SUNSHINE FELT bright and warm on Gilbertus’s face as the guards led him out of the prisoner tent. Lampadas had a yellow-white sun, and even though he had lived here for decades, the daylight still felt wrong to him. He’d been born under the bloated crimson sun of Corrin, a red giant whose light was so harsh that Erasmus had made him wear eye protection. Other slaves who worked outdoors went blind before they grew old … but in Erasmus’s pens few human captives ever grew old.

  Manford Torondo did Gilbertus a kindness by not binding his hands, and Anari Idaho did not manhandle him as he emerged into the central camp. Gilbertus showed no fear. He knew his students would be watching from the observation platforms, and he only hoped that the spectacle of his execution would provide enough of a distraction that Draigo could get Anna Corrino and Erasmus safely away.

  He had no idea what sort of plan Draigo might develop. That was out of his hands. Erasmus would also understand the danger they faced. But Anna Corrino … she was a wild card. Even so, Gilbertus had faith in all three of them.

  Deacon Harian and Sister Woodra stood at the edge of a cleared area in full view of the walled school complex. Gilbertus looked up, although the sun dazzled his eyes. He saw figures up on the school walls and observation decks.

  The Butlerians had brought out a special chair from the headquarters tent, and Manford Torondo sat upon it, looking like a king on a little throne.

  Gilbertus halted before the Butlerian leader, who had been propped up so that their eyes were at the same level. Manford said, “Even though I am saddened by your behavior and I feel betrayed by you, Gilbertus Albans, I still see the Headmaster of this school and the Mentat who helped me accomplish good things for the Butlerian cause.”

  Gilbertus raised his chin. “And I deeply regret having done any of them. I erred in trying to protect myself rather than standing up for my principles. I should have openly defied you long ago. You are wrong.”

  Hearing this, the Butlerians went into a barely suppressed fury. Gilbertus had promised himself he would make a statement, but he also had to be careful, because this mob could cause inconceivable damage to the school, not just to him. had no idea who he really wast p mme“You’ll have me as your spectacle, but I remind you of your oath. You will save my school.”

  “I will save your school,” Manford said. “I’ll save the Mentats from themselves. They will continue their training, but they’ll be reeducated. Mentats need to understand that their entire purpose is to supersede computers, not emulate them.”

  Gilbertus remained stony, realizing that was the best promise he would get. He knew Manford would alter the terms however he wished, and would make whatever justifications he needed.

  He was not afraid of Manford’s attempts at indoctrination, since he had trained his students how to think, rather than to blindly follow any doctrine. Gilbertus had given his cherished students the method, and their minds were tools that the Butlerians could not take away, short of killing them. The next Mene been a great

  Sand flows through my veins, dust fills my lungs, and the taste of spice lingers in my mouth. The desert is inside me and cannot be washed away.

  —desert hymn

  He discarded everything from offworld before returning to the desert. He felt like a prodigal son with no family to receive him. Taref had no place to go, not on Arrakis, not anywhere.

  Thanks to the largesse of Directeur Venport, he could have bought himself the finest home in Arrakis City and a tanker of water to fill his household cistern. He could have traveled to Caladan, as he’d once fantasized … but that dream had crumbled into ashes, and he wondered why it had ever seemed important.

  In his galactic journeys he had felt rain and sleet on his skin, and although those were wondrous experiences, Taref could not measure them against watching a yellow sunrise spill across the dunes, or the smell of raw melange from a fresh spice blow so pungent that it made him want to pull out his nose-plugs and inhale the desert’s bounty deep into his lungs.

  Taref didn’t want to return to his sietch, though, at least not in defeat. He had ideas but didn’t know what to do with them. The desert would help him find himself.

  He considered his modified distilling suit, the one VenHold had given him with sophisticated “improvements.” It was comfortable and functioned efficiently, but it smelled wrong, felt wrong. He stripped off the suit, intending to dispose of it, but realized he had only offworlder clothes with him, which would not let him survive in the desert. Instead, he sold the suit to a blue-eyed vendor, who immediately saw its value. Taref accepted the man’s first offer, caring
only that he had enough money to trade for an old but serviceable distilling suit. He should have thought of that before throwing away the money that Venport gave him, scattering coins in the street and watching scavengers rush in to retrieve them.

  He carefully looked over the offered distilling suit before accepting it from the vendor. No true Freeman would ever surrender a good stillsuit, so this one must have come from the body of a dead man. Taref studied the fittings and seams and discovered where a knife puncture to the kidney area had been cleaned and repaired. Such things happened all the time. No desert dweller would let a suit go to waste, but would fix and reuse it. Taref donned the garment, fitted it to his body, and pronounced it acceptable. Then he left the vendor’s shop and discarded his offworld clothes. They were worthless to him.

  Though Directeur Venport had covered up the assassination of Emperor Salvador Corrino, Taref felt the stain of his own actions on his conscience. The Imperial Barge had escaped—but it would likely be lost, since he had sabotaged its navigation systems. He remembered, though, that he had not taken the time to finish his work, upset by Manford’s ghost. Still, what he +“, but impenetrablehad done should be more than enough to make certain the barge was never seen again.

  He learned that Directeur Venport had purged the records of the Arrakis City spaceport and the orbital tracking systems. Everyone back on Salusa Secundus would be mystified when the opulent Imperial Barge vanished en route—another tragic loss, like so many other ships that had been lost recently, due to the dangers of galactic travel.…

  Taref also wanted to vanish. The desert would enfold and caress him, in spite of its dangers, which were at least familiar to him. Maybe he would die, and maybe he would be saved, but he needed to find out one way or the other.

  He left the city behind, along with its ways that were nearly as alien to him as those of Venport Holdings. Taref had his stillsuit, a literjon of water, spice, and food. A man of the desert required nothing more.

  As a dreamer, he’d once led a difficult life in the sietch, estranged from his father and brothers and from many of the other Freemen. They only wanted to keep doing things as they’d done them for centuries, never daring to extend their experiences beyond a parochial comfort zone.

  Yes, Taref had seen things far away from that life, and learned from his experiences. He had dreamed, but had come to realize he’d beenon Harian glar

  When I gaze up into the night sky, I see as many opportunities as there are stars.

  —DIRECTEUR JOSEF VENPORT, excerpt from a speech to business associates

  Making his way across the small Caladan spaceport, Vorian Atreides hardly noticed anyone around him, did not hear the noise of conversation or the engines outside as the occasional shuttle arrived and departed. It was early evening, and he was alone after a long day of last-minute preparations.

  Tragedy seemed to follow him like a shadow. He had to leave beautiful Caladan, again.

  Vor felt scarred inside, as if he had been broken and improperly healed. A dark fear lingered in his heart—not for himself, but for everyone in his extended family. Any member of his bloodline was in danger, because the Harkonnens blamed him for the fall of Abulurd decades ago, and Griffin’s death on Arrakis only last year. They would seek vengeance on any Atreides they could find.

  Tula Harkonnen had vanished, but records showed that a small cruiser had been stolen from the Caladan spaceport right after Orry’s murder, and after she had attacked Vor in his room at the inn. He didn’t know where the murderous Harkonnen girl was going, but Tula had slipped away, leaving a trail of blood that someday he might be able to follow.

  She’d left a bloody message of vendetta, and Vor had sent an urgent warning to anyone who claimed Atreides lineage on Caladan. Yet he could not stay there and risk them further, so he made it known that he was leaving. He would go any form of advanced technologyanal impenetrable back to Kepler, despite the Emperor’s proscription—a promise that had been forced on Vor out of Salvador’s pique. But Vor would risk Imperial ire to protect his dispersed family. Maybe they were in danger, too.

  He didn’t know how many of his descendants he could locate. Back during the early years of the Jihad, when he was a young officer traveling from star system to star system, he’d had lovers on many different planets. Vor sent an urgent message to the banking representative on Kolhar who had helped him arrange discreet financial transactions over the years, including the recent infusion of wealth to Lankiveil. The bank had contacts across the Imperium, and Vor ordered a detailed research report on all possible Atreides descendants.

  We will never forget, Tula Harkonnen had written. And then she had disappeared from Caladan.

  Did all of House Harkonnen seek the vendetta? How far had the poison spread? Griffin had come after Vor, too. While working with Vergyl Harkonnen on Lankiveil, Vor had been invited into his home, shared his food. But even though he had secretly rescued the family from financial ruin, they would not embrace him if they ever learned who he was. Believing that Vorian Atreides had harmed innocents in their family, they would take revenge on innocents in his extended family.

  Xavier Harkonnen had been Vor’s sworn enemy before Serena Butler’s Jihad, then became his closest friend after Vor switched sides. Decades later, Xavier’s grandson Abulurd had been like a son to Vorian, his military protégé, until the young man’s cowardly disgrace. Even though Vor had saved Abulurd from execution, sending him into exile instead, the Harkonnens did not consider that a favor.

  Generations later, Griffin Harkonnen hunted Vor down, intending to kill him. Now his sister Tula expanded the bloodshed, murdering Atreides descendants who had never even met Vor until recently. With Shander and Orry dead, Willem was the next likely target—and now Willem had sworn vengeance against the Harkonnen murderers. Vorian foresaw a spiraling cycle of bloodshed and retaliation. When would it ever end?

  In the spaceport building, he watched through a large viewing window as his designated shuttle set down in a pool of light and prepared to release its passengers. He had spent hours with a distraught Willem, confessing the chain of events that had led to the murders. What had seemed like distant and esoteric family history was now painfully relevant.

  When Vor offered to remain on Caladan, to help stand guard over Willem and other Atreides cousins, the young man resented the suggestion. “If Harkonnens come to Caladan, I will kill them myself … but if you leave here, maybe they’ll hunt you instead. So go far away, and I’ll keep myself safe.”

  It felt like a crushing weight on Vorian’s shoulders. Willem, too, blamed him.

  And so Vor had booked passage on the next outbound spacefolder, wherever it was headed. At the first opportunity he would transfer to another route and make his way to Kepler, warn his family there. After that … he didn’t know where he would go, but it couldn’t be anywhere that would expose his family to additional attention.

  Now, in the reflection of the spaceport’s plaz window, he saw a tall, thin figure approach from behind. Vor didn’t need to turn in order to recognize him; he felt his pulse speed up as he wondered what Willem was doing here. “You shouldn’t have come here.” Vor looked sidelong at him. “I told you it isn’t safe to be seen with me.” had no idea who he really wasal s woman

  Willem looked ready to argue. “I’ve decided to go with you. I’m strong, I can fly ships, I can fight. I can help you find the Harkonnens.” He held up a ticket for Vor to see.

  “I’m not hunting Harkonnens. I’m going to warn the rest of my family, who are your distant cousins. I don’t need my”—stress blocked Vor’s mind for a moment, and finally he finished the calculations—“great-great-great-grandson with me, looking for vengeance. There are things I need to do, quickly and efficiently.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Willem said, “For years I served in the Air Patrol, so I know how to handle myself in a crisis. I can be cool, and I am not out for blood. But with Orry dead, and Uncle Shander … and my parents, there’s
not much left for me on Caladan. I can stay behind, alone, and be reminded every day. Or I can go with you.”

  Vor met the young man’s urgent gaze, saw a hint of Leronica there, from across the generations. And he saw a bit of himself, too. Something in Willem’s demeanor reminded him of his own cocky determination when he’d been a young officer, the confidence and certainty in his own abilities.

  Vorian Atreides had come to Caladan to regain a grounding in his life, to find his family and reestablish a long-lost connection. That connection was not about a place, but about the bonds of blood. “I’ll let you convince me, then,” he said with a small smile. “But I won’t have a loose cannon at my side seeking revenge.”

  Willem’s eyes shone with gratitude. The shuttle up to the spacefolder was ready to be boarded. “I’m levelheaded. But if a Harkonnen tries to kill me or you, I’ll kill them first.”

  Vor said, “I can accept that.” Together, they boarded the shuttle.

  How do we measure the loss of Salvador Corrino? Is it a blow to the Imperium, or do the people actually benefit from his demise? The answer rests in large part on the shoulders of his brother, our newly seated Emperor.

  —“anonymous” pundit (name known, but withheld)

  The Imperial Barge had vanished somewhere in the vast emptiness, and the ache left a hole in Roderick’s chest. As the weeks passed and no word came, he could not escape the grim conclusion. Salvador was gone!

  After being pressed for answers, Directeur Josef Venport said that the Emperor and his entourage had inspected the spice-harvesting operations and then departed as scheduled. An Imperial investigation team descended upon the Arrakis spaceport, but found only a notation in the log that the barge had departed on its slow, safe journey with old-fashioned FTL engines.

  The mechanics and engineers who had checked the opulent barge before its departure from Salusa faced intense scrutiny, but their records were impeccable. The spacecraft had passed all routine safety tests. Under interrogation by a Truthsayer, the Arrakis City+e, but impenetrable maintenance crew revealed nothing other than a routine servicing.