The men didn’t argue further.
The sand and rocks had absorbed thermal energy during the day, and radiated warmth for the first several hours of darkness, but the desert air was so devoid of moisture that it retained little heat. Eventually, the night grew chilly.
The men sat around the rocky camp, wearing cloths over their mouths and noses to keep dust out. They relaxed by telling stories of powerful desert storms they had survived, narrow escapes from sandworm attacks, crew members they had known and lost, and loves they had left behind on other worlds.
Vorian listened, but kept his own stories to himself. He could have spent all night, every night, describing his harrowing escapades throughout the Jihad. He had fought in more battles and visited more planets than all these men combined. But he did not try to gain standing among the spice workers by bragging. Here on a spice crew, a man’s privacy was his privilege, and his past was his own, which he could choose to share, or not. Vor’s favorite moments were not the adventures anyway, but the peaceful years, the day-to-day life with women he had loved for decades, watching his children grow up and have families of their own.
Preferring to reminisce privately about what he had left behind, he lay back with his head against a rounded rock, staring into the quiet desert night as the conversation slowly faded. Vor had much to think about, but he had nothing left to prove in his long life.
The lines of the past can easily tangle and trip us. Whether or not we can see them, these threads of history bind us all.
—NORMA CENVA, “DISSERTATION ON THE STRUCTURE OF REALITY,” PAPER SUBMITTED TO TIO HOLTZMAN ON PORITRIN
Another Navigator-candidate had died, and Cioba was there to supervise the body’s removal from its sealed tank.
Two male VenHold workers—among those vetted through additional security procedures after the spy, Royce Fayed, infiltrated Kolhar—attached hoses and sealed the hookups to the tank, draining away the valuable melange gas. When the diagnostics flashed green, the silent men affixed breathing masks to their faces and undogged the entry hatch. They reached inside and wrestled with the floppy, half-dissolved corpse.
Cioba watched the operation, her dark eyes flashing, but she said nothing, having been through this routine many times before. Despite the failures, however, Navigator-candidates succeeded far more often than Cioba’s fellow Sisters of Rossak, who kept attempting to achieve their own mental breakthrough and become Reverend Mothers.
Three hundred Navigator-candidates in the last year, and seventy-eight failures—but only twelve deaths. Normally, the medical monitors detected when a volunteer’s systems began to shut down, and they could rescue and revive the partially mutated person before the onset of death. A half-transformed Navigator could never become a normal human again, but they could serve VenHold research nevertheless. Their still-living brains were in some ways damaged, but in other ways superior, and the scientists in Josef’s Denali research facility learned a great deal from studying them.
Their grunts muffled behind sealed face masks, the two workers hauled out the limp corpse and laid it on the ground. The skin was pale and flabby, the skull elongated and distorted as if someone had fashioned it out of clay, then dropped it from a height. The body looked as if it had been partially boiled. These remnants would become a dissection specimen.
Together, Cioba and Josef Venport made a strong team. Josef was a dedicated man, but he looked at the numbers of failures and successes, seeing the scores as a balance sheet without concerning himself with mental esoterica. Given her Sisterhood training, though, Cioba knew that some answers regarding the advancement of the human mind were not clear-cut.
While the workers hauled off the corpse to be packaged and shipped on the next supply vessel to the Denali labs, Cioba went to the top of the rise and stood before the chamber that held Norma Cenva, isolated in her thoughts. Though Norma was Josef’s great-grandmother, Cioba also had a strong connection to the strange woman, directly back to their ties on Rossak.
Norma had begun her exotic transformation even before the birth of Karee Marques, Cioba’s ancestor, and Norma had her own genetic ties to the psychic-powered women of Rossak; her mother, Zufa Cenva, had been one of the most powerful Sorceresses.
Now, when Norma acknowledged her arrival, Cioba spoke her thoughts immediately. The woman in the tank no longer understood pleasantries and chitchat. “You have changed yourself into something more than human, Norma. I trust you’re aware that the Sisters of Rossak, including the last few Sorceresses, are also attempting to enhance themselves through drug-induced traumas, near-death encounters. Do you think there are any similarities with the Navigator transformation?”
Norma paused for a long moment. “All key advancements occur through crisis and survival. Without stress and extreme challenge, one cannot meet her potential.”
Norma had gone through the same cycle herself, starting as a brilliant but malformed young woman from Rossak, enduring a lifetime of withering disapproval from her mother; then she’d been captured and tortured nearly to death by one of the cymek Titans, an ordeal from which she emerged with incredible mental powers. Likewise, only at the verge of death had Raquella been able to summon her potent hidden abilities; she had uplifted her entire being, becoming a far superior woman to the one she had been before.
“I lose track of how much time has passed,” Norma said from her tank. “You have made me think of Rossak.”
“My two daughters are there,” Cioba said. “Your own great-great-granddaughters.”
“Granddaughters…” Norma said. “Yes, it would be nice to see them.”
Before Cioba could react, Norma Cenva’s tank began to shimmer, and a whirlwind surrounded them, a dizzying distortion. Cioba caught her breath, sucking in great gasps of air, struggling for her balance—then fighting against the altered, slightly higher gravity. She looked up and recognized the familiar cliff city, the expansive silvery-purple jungles that filled the fertile rift valleys, and the smoldering volcanoes that gave the horizon an ominous topography. Cioba tried to control her astonishment. They had appeared on an open observation balcony, one of the gathering places where the Reverend Mother would summon her acolytes … where Cioba had witnessed the funerals of more than a dozen young women who had not survived the testing through poison.
I’m back on Rossak! she thought.
Her heart swelled, and she longed to see Sabine and Candys, even Karee Marques, the grandmother who had been instrumental in raising and training Cioba through her own years of Sisterhood training. The parentage of many acolytes and Sisters was hidden, so that they could focus on training rather than family matters. However, due to her Sorceress lineage, Cioba had been treated differently.
Because Norma had whisked the two of them unceremoniously away from Kolhar, Cioba still wore the business outfit she wore during all VenHold operations, but now as she looked around, she reached up, removed her scarf, and loosened her tresses to let the long dark locks flow. At present, she looked very much like one of the powerful telepathic women whose minds had obliterated countless cymeks.
The arrival of Norma and her large tank was quickly noticed, and soon Sisters crowded to the gathering balcony. Cioba identified herself to those who didn’t recognize her immediately. Norma didn’t seem to understand or notice the fuss.
Cioba raised her voice. “We are here because Norma Cenva has offered to give advice on the Reverend Mother transformations. She may be able to draw parallels with the Navigators she helps create on Kolhar.”
Reverend Mother Raquella hurried up, accompanied by Karee Marques. Cioba’s grandmother was dressed in a white worksuit stained with patches of purple, red, and blue from the berries, leaves, and fungi she encountered when foraging in the lower levels of the jungle.
“Rossak has changed much … and little,” Norma said through her tank speakers.
Karee couldn’t stop smiling at Cioba. “You have met all expectations, Granddaughter. Many of our graduate Sisters hav
e gone on to join noble families as wives or advisers—but you have cemented the Sisterhood’s hold in the Imperium’s largest conglomerate.”
“Yes, it was an excellent business decision.” It had been a calculated choice between Reverend Mother Raquella and Josef Venport, but Cioba felt a real pride in her family and in the power and influence of Venport Holdings.
Cioba’s two young daughters hurried in, bursting with excitement but struggling to act with the sedate demeanor they had been taught. Cioba could not hide her joy. She widened her arms and pulled Sabine and Candys into an embrace.
“I know you’re both doing well. You will make the Reverend Mother and the whole Sisterhood proud.” With Sorceress genetics from both the Marques and Cenva bloodlines, not to mention the political influence of the Venport family, these girls had a superb future.
The Reverend Mother watched the interaction with a cool frown. Cioba noted that when Sister Dorotea joined the gathering, Raquella turned pointedly away from her. “We try not to encourage or remind our acolytes of their family ties,” the old woman said.
But Cioba faced her. “In many cases that is true, Reverend Mother, but these are the daughters and eventual heirs of Josef Venport, the granddaughters of Sorceresses. They are required to know who they are, and who they are expected to be.”
Surprising them, Norma Cenva spoke up through the speakerpatch, reminding them of the draconian Sorceress Zufa Cenva, who had heaped so much disappointment upon her own stunted daughter. “Sometimes not knowing your mother can be a great advantage.”
Most of the Imperium’s history lies ahead of us, beyond our view. But mark my words: I will be remembered.
—EMPEROR SALVADOR CORRINO, CORONATION SPEECH
Though Roderick was two years younger than his brother, he often felt like the more mature one.
He bit his tongue as he listened to Salvador stumble through a practice speech in one of the garden salons of the Imperial Palace. The prismatic doors were closed, and Roderick was the sole audience. He sat on a stiff divan facing his brother, hoping to offer advice.
After Manford Torondo’s appearance before the Landsraad Council, and continuing outbreaks of Butlerian fervor, Roderick had dusted off an anticomputer speech Emperor Jules had delivered more than once; he substituted simplified phrasings to better suit Salvador, rather than the more flowery language that their father had favored. Roderick was happy with how he’d updated the speech, but as he listened to his brother practicing, he noted Salvador’s tendency to slow his words and stumble over them, without using the proper timing or inflection.
“The defense against temptation ends at home, I mean, begins at…” Salvador looked back at the text, and shook his head. “I shall never be a great orator, Brother, so let’s set a simpler goal of not causing any further damage.”
“That was perfectly acceptable,” he lied, “but I’ve heard you do better. Even so, the people will understand your message. And it should serve to quell some of the Butlerian antics for the time being.”
Salvador seemed to see through the feeble effort to raise his spirits. He just shook his head in dismay and again studied the words on the holo-prompter.
* * *
AFTER HELPING HIS brother prepare, Roderick still had a great deal of work to do and no time to talk with his wife, Haditha. She had sent messages to him through servants, and now he hurried home to dress for the public speech. He didn’t even learn of an emergency involving Haditha until he entered the royal apartments.
His wife was already gone, and the glum chief of staff told him about a confrontation between Haditha and her personal secretary, Sister Perianna, a nosy and humorless woman who had also been trained on Rossak (though Roderick did not find her at all comparable to Sister Dorotea). Apparently, Perianna had left her position on short notice and was no longer welcome at the Palace.
Right now, though, Roderick could not worry about a domestic squabble. Haditha was able to handle her own household staff. He barely had time to dress for the evening, grab a quick platter of bread and cold meats, before he had to leave for the Hall of Parliament. He hoped Salvador had practiced the speech a few more times.
He found Haditha already waiting for him in the private box they shared on one side of the central stage in the cavernous open hall. With long, curly auburn hair and patrician features, she resembled portraits Roderick had seen of her late grand-uncle, a military figure in the Jihad, but with more delicate features and darker eyes. She wore a black lace gown with a pearl necklace; her hair was held in place with a ruby-studded barrette.
As Roderick sat down, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Today has been quite a rush.” He was attired in a tuxedo with tails in preparation for a society party to be held after the speech. His stomach churned from the food he had downed so quickly.
From her intense, flashing eyes, he could tell Haditha was upset. “Today has been a disaster. Perianna is gone—and good riddance.”
He could see the deep hurt on his wife’s face, and assumed this was more than just an argument with her personal secretary. “What happened?”
“For weeks now, I have been noticing small details … some of my possessions moved, drawers not quite closed the same way I left them, documents a little straighter, a stylus out of place on my writing desk—and on yours.”
“My writing desk? Was anything taken?”
“Not that I could tell. Perianna is the only one who had access, but she denied everything when I asked her. Today, though, I saw her slip out of my private study. I hid, so she didn’t know I’d caught her—and when I asked her later, Perianna claimed she had never gone there, which I knew was a lie. So I exposed her. She made a great show of indignation, insisted that I search her quarters and all her possessions if I thought she was a thief.”
Roderick narrowed his eyes, feeling a growing concern. “And did you?”
“I had to, once she’d pushed me to it. Of course, we didn’t find anything—as she must have known.” Haditha’s eyes flashed with anger. “Perianna said she could no longer serve me properly if I didn’t trust her, and she resigned from my service. I let her go.”
Roderick felt cold. The departed servant had been trained in the Sisterhood, and he knew from Dorotea’s openly demonstrated skills that Perianna could well have memorized anything she saw, without carrying physical evidence. “Maybe we should have held her for further interrogation.”
“That’s what I realized—but too late, and she was already gone. She’s departed from Salusa.”
Roderick clenched his jaw. He knew that his wife kept no dangerous state secrets in her private chambers, so Perianna wouldn’t have found anything critical. Even if she’d caught a glimpse of his own private journal, it contained only a few personal entries about his family, nothing politically significant. And there was no proof of her spying, but he still felt a sinking sensation in his already roiling stomach.
Emperor Salvador emerged on the stage below, walking toward the podium. The brothers each wore implanted transceivers, so that Roderick could provide comments to Salvador, if necessary. When Roderick kept the transceiver switched off so he could think about what his wife had told him, Salvador flashed an uneasy glance up at the box.
“It’s probably nothing,” Roderick said, and then turned his focus on the Emperor’s speech. He squeezed his earlobe to turn on the transceiver, and noticed Salvador’s expression of great relief before he took to the podium.
Theories change as new data comes to light. Facts, however, do not change—nor do my principles. That is why I am suspicious of theories of any kind.
—MANFORD TORONDO, ADDRESS TO THE BUTLERIANS ON LAMPADAS
The intellectual environment on Zenith fostered innovation and scientific creativity, and the planet prided itself on being an oasis for discovery and progress. Researchers such as Ptolemy and his partner, Dr. Elchan, received funding from an interplanetary pool of grant money that was readily
dispensed to anyone who had a feasible idea and a concrete plan for implementation.
Ptolemy came from a large family, three sisters and two brothers, all of whom were successful researchers in various fields, each with an independent laboratory and staff of technicians. They had friendly competitions to see which of them could boast the most beneficial discoveries, and even though Ptolemy had little enough time to keep up with all the technical publications in his own specific field, he made the effort to read every paper his brothers and sisters published.
Zenan scientific teams worked with the clear understanding that when discoveries proved pragmatic and lucrative, a significant share of the profits went back into the pool to be made available for the next group of scientists with interesting ideas. Advancements were offered for development to other worlds in the Imperium. Even with such openness and generosity, the economy of Zenith thrived.
Working for the past decade at his rural laboratory estate, Ptolemy was both pleased and proud of what he and Dr. Elchan had accomplished. So far, two of their discoveries had been highly profitable, and three others moderately so. The lab building and residence was surrounded by twenty acres of rolling grassland dotted with stands of trees. Ptolemy supervised a staff of a dozen technicians, lab assistants, and domestic workers. It was an environment conducive to creativity and intellectual development.
He enjoyed Zenith’s collegial atmosphere so much that he had volunteered to serve a term as the planet’s representative to the Landsraad League. It was a family tradition to do one’s civic duty. Never in his life had he doubted that he and his dedicated partner were doing good work.
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