In a slum at the center of the city he tracked down a pink brick building with patches of ivy on the exterior walls, a place called the Hospital for Incurable Diseases. Apparently, in the resettlement of Parmentier, Mohandas Suk and Raquella had established a hostel and research center; Vor had read about it in his brief summary.
If she was still alive, Raquella would be there.
Donning a breather, more to block out the stench than because it offered him protection, Vor strolled into the hospital’s cluttered reception area. Though the building was fairly new, it had been used hard and poorly maintained in recent weeks as hordes of hopeless patients swept in like an invading army.
After passing an unmanned admittance desk, he searched one floor after another. The medical wards were as crowded and miserable as the slave pens the robot Erasmus had once kept on Earth. People injured from an incomprehensible rash of ruptured tendons lay helpless like broken dolls; even the ones who had recovered from the symptoms of the disease remained unable to care for themselves or to assist any of the others who were sick or dying.
All the medical personnel wore breathing masks as well as transparent films over their eyes, like an airtight blindfold to protect against exposure through the wet membranes. A few of the doctors looked ill, despite their precautions. Vor wondered how long the Scourge’s incubation period was, how many days these medical practitioners could keep tending the sick before they themselves became terminal patients.
Repeatedly, he asked exhausted-looking nurses and doctors if they knew Raquella Berto-Anirul. When someone finally directed him to the sixth floor, he entered the noisome, hopeless ward and observed her from a distance. He tried to find echoes of her grandmother, though after so much time he didn’t remember Karida Julan too clearly.
Raquella looked strong as she moved quickly and efficiently from bed to bed. Her clearplaz breather and the transparent eye-protection film allowed Vor to see through to her face. Her cheekbones were hollow with shadows from lack of sleep and insufficient nutrition. She had an upturned nose and golden brown hair secured in a braided bun to keep it out of her way while she worked. Her figure was slender, and she had a graceful way of moving, almost like a dancer. Though her expression was dull and grim, it did not appear hopeless.
Raquella and a lean male doctor worked tirelessly in a ward of a hundred beds, each occupied by a sick or dying patient. Attendants removed corpses to make room for emaciated victims who had collapsed into a deadly fever coma.
Once, she happened to glance in his direction, and Vor saw that Raquella’s eyes were a striking shade of light blue. His own father, the notorious Agamemnon, had had pale blue eyes centuries ago when he was in human form, before he had transformed himself into a cymek….
Vor caught her gaze, and Raquella seemed surprised to see a healthy stranger standing in the ward. He stepped forward, opening his mouth to speak, when suddenly she recoiled in alarm. One of the patients sprang on Vor from behind and clawed at his breather mask, then fell on him pummeling him and spitting in his face. Fighting instinctively, Vor threw his attacker to one side. The wretch clutched a scrap of a banner that depicted Serena’s baby Manion, and he howled prayers, begging the Three Martyrs to save him, to save them all.
Vor pushed the screaming man away, and medical attendants took him swiftly to a diagnostic bed. Trying to regain his composure, he reseated the breather across his mouth and nose, but Raquella was already there, spraying him on the face and in the eyes.
“Antivirals,” she said in an edgy, businesslike voice. “Only partially effective, but we haven’t found anything better. I can’t tell if anything got into your mouth or eyes. The risk of infection is great.”
He thanked her, didn’t say that he believed he was immune, just looked at Raquella’s bright blue eyes. Vor couldn’t stop his smile.
It seemed an odd way to meet his granddaughter.
* * *
“VORIAN ATREIDES,” SAID Dr. Suk. In a small private office, he checked Vor quickly after the attack, though he had many patients in far worse shape. “The Vorian Atreides? You were a fool to come here.”
Suk’s skin was such an intense brown that it was almost black. He appeared to be around forty, with shallow creases on his face and large brown eyes, though he was impatient and harried. His boyish features, accented by a wild mane of black hair that he kept out of the way with a silver clasp, gave him the look of a grown-up child.
Even in the enclosed office, the air stank of harsh disinfectants. Vor didn’t want to talk about his life-extension treatment. “I will either survive… or not.”
“The same can be said of all of us. The Scourge gives us an even chance of living or dying.” Suk shook Vor’s hand in his own gloved grip, then he squeezed Raquella’s hand, a warm gesture that implied how close they had been for a long time. The crisis of the plague would have thrown many people together in desperation, but Suk and Raquella had already been a team.
After Suk hurried off, already intent on other duties, Raquella turned to Vor, giving him an appraising look. “What is the Supreme Commander of the Jihad doing on Parmentier, without a bodyguard?”
“I’ve taken a leave to attend to personal matters— to meet you.”
The weeks of fighting the epidemic had left her with little capacity to experience any emotions. “And why is that?”
“I was a friend of your grandmother Karida,” Vor admitted. “A very good friend, but I let her down. I lost her. I found out a long time ago that we had a daughter, but I lost track of her until very recently. A daughter named Helmina, who was your mother.”
Raquella stared at him with wide-open eyes, then seemed to comprehend all at once. “You’re not that soldier, the one my grandmother loved? But— “
He gave a faint, embarrassed smile. “Karida was a beautiful woman, and I’m deeply sorry she’s gone. I wish I had done a lot of things differently, but I’m not the same person I was then. That’s why I came here to find you.”
“My grandmother thought you had died in the Jihad.” Her brows knitted over her clear blue eyes. “The name she gave me was not Vorian Atreides.”
“For security reasons, I had to use aliases. Because of my high rank.”
“And other reasons, perhaps? Because you never intended to return?”
“The Jihad is an uncertain master. I couldn’t make promises. I…” His voice trailed off. He didn’t want to tell lies, or even distort the truth.
The thoughts were peculiar to Vor. He had been a free spirit during most of his long life, and the idea of family had always frightened him because of the chains and limits it suggested. But in spite of his lack of closeness with Estes and Kagin, he had come to realize that a family also opened up limitless possibilities for love.
“My grandfather looks as young as I do.” Raquella seemed interested, but she was so overwhelmed by the epidemic that her reactions were dulled. “I would like to study you, take genetic samples, prove our blood connections— but that can’t be my priority right now. Not with all this. And during such a crisis, it seems to me that a personal visit to track down an illegitimate granddaughter is rather… self-indulgent.”
Vor gave her a wry smile. “I have lived through eight decades of the Jihad, and there is always ‘such a crisis.’ Now that I see what’s happening here, I’m glad I didn’t wait.” He grasped her hand with both of his. “Come back with me to Salusa Secundus. You can deliver your summary and message to the Parliament. We’ll get the best medical teams in the League to work on a cure, send all possible aid back to this planet.”
She cut him off. “If you truly believe I am the granddaughter of the great Vorian Atreides, then you can’t possibly imagine I would leave when there is so much for me to do, so many people to help?” She raised her eyebrows, and he felt his heart swell. He had, of course, expected no other answer.
Raquella turned, fixing him with her bright, intelligent gaze. “And I wouldn’t risk spreading the plague. However, Supr
eme Commander, if you insist on going back to Salusa, then tell the League what we face here. We need doctors, medical equipment, disease researchers.”
He nodded. “If this epidemic was truly engineered by the thinking machines, then I don’t doubt that Omnius has launched plague canisters to more worlds than Parmentier. The rest of the League must be warned.”
Uneasy, Raquella pulled away and stood up. “I will give you all of our records and test results. The plague is out of control here, an RNA retrovirus. Hundreds of thousands of people have died in a short time, with over a forty percent direct mortality rate, not to mention all the deaths from derivative causes like infections, dehydration, organ failure, and so on. We can treat the symptoms, try to make the patients comfortable, but so far nothing eradicates the virus.”
“Is there any chance for a cure?”
She looked up at the sound of shouts coming from one of the crowded wards, then sighed. “Not with our facilities here. We don’t have the supplies or personnel to tend everyone. Whenever he can spare a moment, Mohandas does laboratory work, researching the course of the Scourge. We don’t see the usual pattern of viral progress. It builds up in the liver, which was quite unexpected. We discovered that aspect only days ago. A cure is not— ” She caught herself. “We can always hope.”
Vor thought of his youth spent as a trustee of the thinking machines, blind to all the harm they were causing. “I should have guessed long ago that the thinking machines might try something like this. Omnius… or, more likely, Erasmus.” After a moment’s hesitation, Vor pulled off the breather. “What you’ve accomplished here, and all the impossible things you’re attempting— it’s most noble.”
Raquella’s blue eyes shone with a new intensity. “Thank you… Grandfather.”
Vor took a deep breath. “I’m very proud of you, Raquella. More than I can ever express.”
“I’m not used to people saying that.” She seemed to feel a shy pleasure. “Especially when I see all around me every patient I’ve failed to save, and all the broken ones who will never completely recover. Even once this has passed, a large segment of the population will remain crippled for life.”
He took her shoulders, stared intently into her face. “Nevertheless, I am very proud of you. I should have found you long before this.”
“Thank you for caring enough to find me now.” Obviously uncomfortable, she spoke with a new urgency. “Now, if you can indeed get away from Parmentier, then leave right now. I pray that you have not contracted the disease, and that you arrive safely on Salusa. Be very cautious. If… if you are infected, the incubation period is short enough that you’ll show symptoms long before you reach the nearest League World. However, if you manifest any sign of the disease, don’t risk— “
“I know, Raquella. But even if the quarantine here was imposed in time, and never broken, I fear that Omnius dispatched plague canisters to other targets as well. Machines rely on redundancy.” He saw Raquella wince as the realization hit home. “If that is the case, then all your quarantine efforts might not save humanity. Warning them and sharing what you and Dr. Suk have learned so far may do more to protect them than any quarantine could.”
“Hurry, then. We’ll both fight this plague as best we can.”
Vor reboarded the Dream Voyager and set coordinates for home. He easily evaded the barely manned barricade stations and feared that some infected people might have done so as well. Sadness enveloped him as he lifted away from Parmentier, and he hoped he would see Raquella again.
In memory, he saw the fleeting expression of pleasure she had shown when he’d said he was proud of her. That moment, so ephemeral but beautiful, had been worth the entire trip.
But now he had another duty to perform for humanity.
If we allow ourselves to become too human, to admit the weakness of love and compassion at the time when it is most dangerous, then we create a vulnerability by which the thinking machines can destroy us utterly. Yes, human beings have hearts and souls which the demon machines do not, but we cannot allow these things to be the cause of our extinction.
— QUENTIN BUTLER,
letter to his son Faykan
After returning home from the liberation of Honru, Quentin Butler went to spend time with Wandra in the City of Introspection. His wife was unresponsive and silent, as always, but the weathered primero liked to just sit beside her, comforting her with his presence and drawing comfort from hers. Staring at Wandra’s face, he could still see the beauty, shadows of the good times. He spoke aloud, talking softly about what he had done on his recent mission, telling her about visiting Rikov’s family on Parmentier.
Unfortunately, Quentin had barely an hour with her before a fresh-faced young quinto found him. The Jihad officer hurried into the beautifully graveled and landscaped grounds of the religious retreat. An old metaphysical scholar in a voluminous purple shirt guided the visitor along, moving much too slowly for the young officer’s sense of urgency.
“Primero Butler! We’ve just received a communiqué from Parmentier. The governor dispatched a ship with an urgent message weeks ago. It’s a warning!”
Quentin squeezed Wandra’s limp hand and stood, straightening his back and immediately turning his attention toward duty. “A warning from Rikov? Let me see this messenger.”
“You can’t, Primero. I mean, he hasn’t come down to Salusa. The messenger remains in orbit transmitting, but he refuses to leave his ship. He’s afraid he’ll infect us all.”
“Infect us? What’s happening?”
“And that’s not everything, sir— already news is coming from other League Worlds!”
While the quinto spluttered an explanation, Quentin grabbed his arm and ushered him away from the grounds. Behind them, the scholar stared with a placid expression on his deeply etched face. Then the old man tugged down on loose folds of his purple shirt, and spoke to silent Wandra as if she might be a receptive audience for his esoteric ideas.
* * *
WEARING AN UNEASY frown, Quentin watched as the Jihad Council played Rikov’s recorded message. Images transmitted by the harried scout from his orbiting ship showed the epidemic spreading through Niubbe and across Parmentier’s countryside, people already lying dead or dying in the streets, hospital wards filled far beyond capacity— and this was weeks ago, at the beginning of the epidemic.
“This news is already out-of-date,” said Grand Patriarch Xander Boro-Ginjo. “Maybe they’ve found a cure by now. Who knows what’s happened in the meantime?”
Quentin said, “I was there myself when the first projectiles exploded in Parmentier’s atmosphere. At the time, none of us knew what Omnius was up to. Now Rikov’s bottled up with that disease.”
“Who can ever know what Omnius is up to?” asked the Interim Viceroy. Brevin O’Kukovich often made comments that meant absolutely nothing.
Quentin ignored the politician. “If the thinking machines have developed a biological scourge, we must always be on guard. We can destroy incoming plague canisters out in space, but once the disease is dispersed into the atmosphere, not even rigorous quarantines and medical measures will be completely effective. There’s no guarantee.”
Though he’d had little time before the emergency session could convene, Quentin had gathered reports from recently arrived ships. He had also dispatched Faykan to increase space perimeter patrols in the vicinity of Salusa Secundus, expanding the sensor network to detect incoming projectiles. Normally, it would have been nearly impossible to spot such small objects among the clutter of debris that dusted the system, but because the Army of the Jihad had accurate recordings of the first torpedoes at Parmentier, they could compare signatures and sift out false signals.
“We have to verify this news,” said the Interim Viceroy. “We will have to take well-considered action.”
Quentin stood. With Supreme Commander Atreides gone— ironically, to Parmentier— he was in temporary command. “We will have to take immediate action! If Rikov’s inter
pretation is correct, then we haven’t a moment to lose. With interstellar commerce and the exchanges of peoples and material throughout the League Worlds and Unallied Planets, an epidemic could cause unprecedented damage to the human race— “
His secure comline signaled, and Quentin accepted the message. Faykan’s voice came over the small speaker, clear enough for the Council members to hear. “Primero, your suspicions were correct. Exactly as you predicted, we discovered an incoming cluster of canisters like the ones that impacted at Parmentier.”
Quentin looked knowingly at the other men and women sitting around the Council table. “And did you intercept them?”
“Yes, sir.”
One of the Council members suggested, “We should keep one of them intact so that we can study it, perhaps learn what Omnius is doing.”
Cutting in, Faykan said, “We have destroyed them all, so as not to risk accidental contamination.”
“Excellent work,” his father said. “Maintain your close surveillance. Because Salusa is the most important target in the League, Omnius is sure to send more than one salvo of canisters.”
Faykan signed off, and Quentin looked around the table. “Who doubts that Omnius has already dispatched more torpedoes to other League Worlds? We’ve got to stop them, get the word out before the plague spreads farther.”
“Exactly how do you propose to do that?” asked Interim Viceroy O’Kukovich.
Decisively, Quentin rattled off his plan. “Disperse the Army of the Jihad as widely and swiftly as possible. Send scouts with warnings and prepare for quarantines. The urgency may even warrant the use of spacefolder ships,” he said as an afterthought. “We might lose as many as one in ten, but if we fail to prepare and guard our other planets, we may lose entire populations.”
“This is all, uh, rather drastic,” said O’Kukovich in an uncertain voice, looking around at the others for confirmation.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 11