Sisterhood of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Dorotea sputtered in protest, but Salvador was clearly growing angry and impatient with her. “We’ve heard enough from you for today. I see this investigation will have to go much further than I expected.”

  Even though Raquella had made Dorotea look foolish, she did not feel safe. The Emperor had no proof, but he had suspicions. Maintaining her composure, she looked him in the eye and said, “You will have our full cooperation, Sire.”

  A worthy opponent is more satisfying than any financial reward.

  —GILBERTUS ALBANS, TACTICAL MANUAL, MENTAT SCHOOL OF LAMPADAS

  The explosions that ripped apart three of the Thonaris automated factories removed any doubt from Josef Venport’s mind. Even he had not expected the barbarians to be so bloodthirsty—ignorant, yes, but not so vicious.

  “Damn you and your stupid fear of what you don’t understand,” he whispered. It was all Josef could do to hold his shouts within. He wished Cioba could be there with him, but at the same time he felt relief that she was safe on Kolhar.

  Not long ago, when the scientist Ptolemy had come to Kolhar describing the Half-Manford’s murderous attack on his lab, Josef assumed he had exaggerated the extent of the violence; now he saw for himself that the Butlerians were rampaging mad dogs. They had not targeted the administration hub yet, but Josef did not expect any sympathy from the legless wonder.

  He turned to the Mentat beside him. “He killed dozens of my people who were operating the machines, destroyed those facilities. He won’t stop—you know that.”

  Observing the destruction, Draigo Roget’s eyes flicked back and forth as thoughts whirled through his mind. “That precipitous act was designed to force you to surrender. Their military force is far superior to our own.”

  On the comm, Manford’s voice scraped like wire bristles as he delivered his ultimatum. “We will destroy the remaining robotic factories if you do not capitulate in five minutes.”

  Venport muted the sound and whirled to face Draigo. “Give me an alternative, Mentat! I vow to you that I will not surrender these shipyards without a fight. Use your tactical knowledge. Use anything we have available, and find me a way to defeat Manford Torondo.”

  “That will be difficult, sir. We will be lucky to leave here with our lives.”

  Josef breathed in, exhaled, and stared intently out at the Thonaris complex and the looming barbarian fleet. “Then at least find me a way to hurt him.”

  * * *

  GILBERTUS HAD ALREADY memorized the positions of the various planetoids, the main facilities, the thirty armed VenHold patrol ships, the fifteen uncategorized VenHold vessels in the complex, and the group of vessels under construction. Using techniques that Erasmus had taught him a long time ago, he assembled a mental three-dimensional blueprint of the whole complex and then poked at it, trying to find flaws, imagining any way that a desperate, possibly suicidal opponent could use those game pieces to defend against the overwhelming Butlerian force. He didn’t expect Josef Venport to accept defeat easily.

  At the Mentat School, Gilbertus had played many tactical games like this with his best student, Draigo—thought experiments and practice sessions that were much like the games he and Erasmus had played on Corrin. Now that Manford Torondo had forced him to accompany the Butlerian fleet, the exercise seemed much more real to him. The firsthand experience gave him data that he had not previously possessed. Destroying these automated factories and the spacedocks with their half-assembled ships was not the same as accruing points in an academic, tallied score.

  Though he could never say such things aloud, especially in the presence of the Butlerians, he remembered with fondness the cool efficiency of robotic factories, the predictability of a steady output. As far as Gilbertus was concerned, his time with Erasmus had been calm and comforting, far different from the wild whipsaw of emotions displayed by the volatile Butlerians. Real human workers had just died in those explosions. It was all very unsettling. Manford had not even bothered to investigate what he intended to destroy.

  As the time ran out when Manford had promised to destroy the rest of the automated factories, an infuriated Josef Venport transmitted his concession, but Manford remained skeptical. He glanced at Gilbertus. “What is your assessment, Mentat? Is he trying to trick us, or is he truly defeated?”

  “I cannot read his mind, but in my estimation of their facilities, ships, and defensive capabilities, Directeur Venport has no possible way to win this engagement. He is an intelligent man and I must assume that he will reach the same conclusion, so it is my assessment that his surrender is sincere and legitimate.”

  Unless he is irrational. Or possesses information we don’t have.

  But Gilbertus did not mention that. Manford Torondo already understood more about irrational behavior than any Mentat ever could.

  * * *

  IN A REMARKABLY short time, under Josef’s orders, Draigo managed to concoct an imaginative plan that took advantage of every possible scrap of material the Thonaris shipyards had to offer. Josef studied the plan and approved it immediately. “Good. If everything’s going to be destroyed anyway, I’d rather lose it while battling those thugs, than surrender and watch them dismantle everything.” He drew a deep breath, brushed down his mustache. “I want you to announce a full evacuation over the open channel. Make sure it sounds convincing. Then prepare the three ships.”

  Meanwhile, his actual instructions were encoded and sent over a private emergency channel to all loyal VenHold Spacing Fleet employees. Though he despised the Butlerian tyrant, he opened a communication line again. “All right, you butcher! I’m gathering the rest of my personnel for immediate evacuation. These are good people. Do you give your word they won’t be harmed?”

  Manford responded with a gaze as inhuman as any expression Josef had ever seen on a mutated Navigator’s face. “If they have committed crimes against the human soul, they will face retribution from another judge more terrible than myself.”

  Josef rolled his eyes before he remembered to maintain his defeated demeanor. “That wasn’t my question. Will they be safe?” From the screen, he couldn’t tell which of the many warships Manford was aboard.

  “Safe from us, yes. But this complex will be destroyed. Send your three evacuation ships over, and my people will complete our work here without unnecessary bloodshed.”

  Josef kept his face expressionless. He intended to cause some very necessary bloodshed. He cut off the comm so that his people could keep working in privacy.

  The three large evacuation ships launched fifteen minutes ahead of schedule and lumbered toward the Butlerian fleet.

  * * *

  THE EVACUATION VESSELS were large, refurbished robotic ships—probably an intentional insult from Josef Venport. Gilbertus recognized the design and knew how many passengers they could hold, though he didn’t reveal his source of information.

  “I am surprised Directeur Venport loaded them so quickly, since the personnel were scattered across the shipyards,” Gilbertus said, though he was afraid Manford would interpret his tone as admiration. “He runs a very efficient operation.”

  The Butlerian leader smiled. “His workers must be terrified. Fear of death makes a man move quickly.”

  Gilbertus frowned as he continued to study the ships, running calculations in his mind. “No … I don’t think that’s the explanation.” His sense of unease grew. “Please ask Directeur Venport for the total number of evacuating personnel.”

  Manford was puzzled but distracted. “What does it matter? We will hold them prisoner aboard their own ships. We can sort it out later.”

  “I need to know the number. This is important.”

  With a shrug, Manford nodded toward Anari Idaho, who opened the communication channel again. After a few moments, a flustered-looking Josef Venport appeared on the screen. “What do you want now? The three ships are already on their way over.”

  “My Mentat wants to know exactly how many personnel are evacuating.”

  “W
hy? The ships are on their way. Count heads when they get there. They contain everyone you haven’t already killed.”

  “He is quite insistent.”

  Gilbertus came into view beside Manford. “Why do you avoid the answer, Directeur Venport?”

  The man mumbled something disparaging about Mentats, then said, “Six thousand, two hundred, and eighty-three—but that count may not be accurate. I don’t know exactly how many you murdered when you blew up those three factories.” He abruptly terminated the transmission.

  Calculations raced through Gilbertus’s mind. Troubled, he turned to Manford. “That can’t be correct. He has not allowed enough time to move that many people. Something is not right here.”

  * * *

  FROM THE ADMIN-HUB of the Thonaris shipyards—which he had not, in fact, evacuated, despite his transmission—Josef watched the three large ships arrive in the midst of the barbarian fleet. The big vessels had been built by thinking machines, designed as warships to be operated by robots. The automated systems required no personnel, only a course.

  Many of his panicked workers had clamored for a spot aboard the evacuation ships, and when he heard their whining complaints, Josef had half a mind to let them go aboard. But he remained firm and dispatched the evacuation ships. Empty.

  “The Half-Manford thinks that we all believe fundamentally the same as he does—it’s his blind spot. Time for him to have a rude awakening.”

  Draigo remained silent as he watched the three vessels close in. His voice was very small. “My confidence is diminished, sir, now that I know Gilbertus Albans is among our opponents.”

  Josef flashed him an impatient look. “Your teacher doesn’t even know you’re here.”

  “That may be the only advantage we have. The other components of the plan are ready. After a few moments I can make a more accurate projection and offer additional advice, as soon as—”

  Just then, the phony evacuation vessels exploded amongst the Butlerian battleships, and Josef let out a shrill whistle. The carefully synchronized self-destruct sequence was impressive. Crowded up against as many of the enemy as they could reach, the robotic vessels blossomed into shrapnel, incandescent gases, and clouds of fuel vapor. The shock wave tore apart nine of Manford’s ships, while molten chunks of hull metal damaged at least six more.

  “I wish we knew which one Manford uses as his flagship, but this is definitely a good start.” Josef grinned. “Commence the rest of the operation, before they have time to react.”

  We do not always choose our enemies or allies. Sometimes fate intervenes and makes the choice for us.

  —GRIFFIN HARKONNEN, LETTER TO LANKIVEIL

  The desert pilot flew them away from the sietch, saying little. Vorian felt mentally exhausted and saddened. Though never a man to give up, he saw little reason for optimism now. One of the Freemen had bound up the knife wound in his shoulder, but did a poor job of it, as if he didn’t expect Vor to live long enough to heal. Griffin’s cut arm was also bandaged.

  When the pilot dropped them off at the weather-monitoring station, he gave them a literjon of water. “Naib Sharnak says you overpaid by this much. Don’t waste it.” He flew off in the shuddering skimcraft, leaving them behind.

  Alone in the desert, stranded at the automated weather-monitoring station, the two men had to face each other with silence and the differing perspectives of their memories.

  The weather-monitoring station had been installed in a small bastion of rocks out in the middle of an empty basin, with only a few scattered rock islands dotting the undulating dunes as far as the eye could see.

  Vor broke open the station shelter, his mind focused on survival. Griffin waited near him, eagerness on his face. “Maybe there’ll be some emergency water supplies, too.”

  “Not water. Not here.”

  They did find a cache of hard ration cakes, which would keep them alive, provided they could summon a rescue within the next few days. Vor reconfigured the equipment in order to send a broad-spectrum burst signal, but the solar-powered station was far out in the desert—by design. Depending on the amount of static electricity, stirred-up dust and sand, and storms in their varying stages, transmissions were often degraded to incomprehensibility.

  Griffin insisted on sending repeated signals, transmitted each hour. Presently he emerged from the station’s equipment shed, wiping his hands. “I sent out the signal again, and someone is bound to come soon.”

  “If anyone is listening. Who can say how frequently these outposts are monitored?”

  “Someone’s got to be listening.”

  Vor didn’t argue. He had been on Arrakis longer than the young Harkonnen man and had seen more of the rigors and hardships. Griffin assumed that someone would mount a rescue operation out of pure altruism, because human beings were expected to help one another. Once, Vor had believed that as well, and if this were Kepler he would have no doubt.

  But this was Arrakis.

  At first, Vor thought he had little to say to Griffin Harkonnen, but the man pressed him for information about Xavier, and about Abulurd. They sat in the late-afternoon shade of the station shelter building.

  “It’s been a long time,” Vor said. “A lifetime, in fact. I moved to a different planet after knowing them, became a different person. I locked all those memories away.”

  “Then unlock them.”

  As the throbbing heat pressed around them, Vor could see the anticipation on the young man’s face. He dug deep in his recollections, trying to overcome the obstacle of Abulurd’s betrayal at the Bridge of Hrethgir … and found that, farther in the past, he still had fond recollections of Griffin’s great-grandfather.

  He could have lied to the young man and fabricated stories to paint a falsely rosy picture of his ancestor, but he wouldn’t do that. Vor had gone too far and learned too much to make such compromises; he was beyond lies now. But he did talk about how he and Abulurd had fought together against the piranha mites that Omnius had unleashed on Salusa Secundus; how Abulurd had chosen to keep his Harkonnen name even when the rest of his family called themselves Butlers; how Vorian had promised to help clear the name of Xavier Harkonnen from the unfair disgrace that history had heaped upon him.

  “And what about Xavier?” Griffin asked. “What do you remember about him?”

  A small smile crept across his face. “When we first met, we were enemies.”

  “Like us.”

  “I have many stories about Xavier, good stories.…”

  * * *

  INSIDE THE WEATHER-monitoring station the following afternoon, Vor glanced at the barometric traces and wind patterns the sensors had collected, but the meteorological data did him little good. In addition to the few supplies and tools, he found a mechanical projectile weapon—a spring-loaded Maula pistol—though he wasn’t sure what the gun was for. To drive off bandits, perhaps? His personal shield would protect him against projectiles, but few desert men wore them. He kept the pistol without telling Griffin what he’d discovered.

  Griffin shouted for him to come outside. “A rescue ship is coming! Someone got our signal!”

  Vor emerged from the stiflingly hot shelter into the dusty heat, and saw the young man pointing into the whitish sky. A flying craft with loud engines circled low again, changed course, and dropped down for a landing.

  “We’ll be safe soon.” Griffin waved his arms, then called back over his shoulder. “You need to get medical attention for your shoulder—if it gets infected, you could lose some of the use of your arm.”

  The irony of the statement amused Vor. “You were trying to kill me yesterday, and suddenly you’re worried about my dexterity?”

  Griffin turned to Vor with a grim smile. “Now who’s holding a grudge?”

  After hearing the young man talk about Lankiveil, his plans for expansion of the whale-fur industry, the recent disastrous loss of his uncle and an entire shipment of fur, Vor had decided he might like to visit the planet one day, if permitted to do so
. He even considered investing some of his funds into Harkonnen enterprises, strictly as a silent partner. But thus far, he had mentioned none of that. It was not the proper time.

  Griffin’s biggest concern now was how to tell his sister Valya that the need for revenge had been resolved, even if not in the manner she had demanded. The young man hoped that she would accept what he had to say, and he had been working on the way to put it to her.

  The rescue craft landed with a burst of exhaust and a backwash roar of engines. In the sheltered bowl surrounded by rocky ridges, Griffin ran toward it, waving his hands to attract attention, though the pilot had surely seen him.

  Vor wondered who had intercepted their signal, and how much the rescue would cost them. Griffin probably assumed it would be free; Vor supposed the young man had no money, but Vor could obtain his own funds through the VenHold planetary bank.

  The engines on the rescue craft died. The hatch cracked open and slid aside. Vor saw two figures inside as Griffin bounded up the ramp, laughing.

  Hyla was the first to emerge. Though Vor shouted a warning, Griffin didn’t have a chance.

  The young man didn’t know her. She reached out to seize him by the neck, and his eyes bulged out, astonished. She lifted him off the ground, as he struggled to no effect.

  Andros emerged from the ship beside his sister, looked dismissively at Griffin, then at Vor. “Is this someone special to you?”

  “No, but—”

  Hyla’s gaze didn’t waver from Vor’s as she twisted her wrist in an offhand gesture and snapped Griffin’s neck, then tossed him aside like an old doll. He sprawled on the sand, twitching.

  Vor cried out, “You didn’t have to do that!”

  Hyla laughed, a rasping squeal like an unoiled hinge. “What does it matter? We came for you, Brother.”

  Andros said, “We have a choice to make. Either we let you join us, so the three of us can recreate the great works of the Titans together, or…”