Navigators of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  On the transport from the landing field to the village, they asked about finding work, playing their role. Vor recognized one of the local storekeepers, but the man didn’t give Vor a second glance. “Work?” The grizzled storekeeper shrugged and gestured vaguely out of town. “Check at any orchard. Pickers are always needed at this time of year to bring in the buriak crop.”

  Buriak trees bore large, juicy fruit that was good to eat raw, and a smile came to Vor’s face as he remembered the taste. He and his beloved Mariella had managed a small orchard early in their marriage. “The Tulind family orchard is a few miles out of town. I hear they need a lot of laborers.”

  A woman brought a jacket up to the counter for purchase, and she joined in the conversation. “The Tulinds need pickers because they run that orchard like a police state, and there was a mass defection of workers last week.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a place we want to work,” Willem said.

  “Let their damned fruit rot on the trees.” The woman laid the jacket on the counter, brought out her money, and counted it. “There are plenty of better operators. Good people. The Urions are fine, except for the fact that they’ll try to convert you to their obscure religion.”

  “They’re Shohkers,” the shopkeeper said. “Refused to accept the Orange Catholic Bible that Emperor Jules imposed on the Imperium.”

  “Or, you might try the Atreides orchard,” the woman suggested. “They’re solid, honest people, and they feed their pickers well. Worker housing is basic, but adequate. It’s walking distance, less than an hour north of town on the main road. The owners are Geoff and Nobinia Atreides.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Vor said guardedly. “Thanks, I think we’ll try there first.”

  Vor had heard what he needed to know. Geoff was one of his great-grandsons, though they had barely met. If Vor and Willem could get hired there, it would be less risky than getting close to Vor’s actual sons, who might recognize him … which could put them in danger.

  Before leaving, Vor displayed an image of Tula Harkonnen, blonde and beautiful, like an angel, taken on the day of her wedding. The image did not show the blood on her hands or the poison in her heart. “Have you seen this woman? A stranger coming through? She would have arrived recently.”

  The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows and smiled. “No, I would have remembered her!”

  “She’s a wanted murderer,” Willem said coldly. “Ruthless and dangerous. Watch out for her. We have reason to believe she might be coming to Kepler.”

  Leaving the store, the two men set off on the main road. They had departed from Caladan after the horrific murder of Willem’s brother Orry. Even though Vor doubted the Harkonnens knew about this branch of his family, or that Tula would come here so soon to continue her deadly plans, he needed to make sure. Once he had satisfied himself that she wasn’t here, then he and Willem could go hunting for her.

  They headed up the road in the sunny autumn day, and Vor remembered how comfortably warm it usually was at this time of year. Buriak orchards on either side of the road were heavy with fruit—red, yellow, and pink varieties. His heart ached with memories, and he longed to just stay here and disappear. But that was not possible.

  Vor led the way down the long dirt driveway of the Atreides orchards, while Willem looked around at the strange sights. “This land used to be owned by my wife’s brother,” Vor said, reminding the young man of his other family. “Let’s see if we can fit in.”

  He saw half a dozen pickers working the trees, with portable lifts that elevated flat boxes for the fruit. An old farmhouse and several outbuildings sat at the end of the long driveway. Vor bent to pick up a bright pink buriak that had fallen to the ground. He took a knife from his belt, cut off the bruised part, and pared off a slice, which he passed to Willem before cutting another for himself. Vor savored the half-forgotten sweetness. “This is how life should be, simple, pleasurable, without hatred and warfare. It’s not an easy thing to attain.”

  Willem’s voice cracked as he spoke. “Orry and I had that on Caladan. The fishing, the rescue jobs. Life was normal there—until she came.” He plucked another fruit for himself and took out his own knife, but in his tense anger he seemed to be attacking the fruit more than peeling it.

  “And now Tula might be coming here, to hunt down more of my family.” Vor sectioned the rest of the fruit and ate it, then tossed the core away before cleaning his knife with a handkerchief. “You and I won’t see much of that sort of life for some time. Enjoy it while we can—but always stay alert.” He led his “nephew” toward the farmhouse.…

  The two visitors were hired with very few questions asked, and the foreman accepted their false names without any hesitation. He and Willem said they were from Alarkand, a far-off minor planet that none of these people had ever heard of. Vor had once fought a space battle near Alarkand during the Jihad, crushing a machine fleet that had concealed themselves in the asteroid field.

  Geoff and Nobinia Atreides lived in a large estate house with their children, some of whom were in their late teens. Vor could see from Geoff’s rough hands and ruddy, sun-weathered complexion that he worked in the orchards himself. Vor remained alert for news about his other descendants, who were scattered farther from the main town. Everyone seemed safe, normal, and content.

  As part of the picking crew, Vor and Willem each received a bed in the bunkhouse, and they began working on the next afternoon shift. All of the orchard workers were invited to dinner that evening in the estate house, where a long table was set up for everyone, including ten young children who were too small to work.

  “We send our boys and girls into the orchards when they turn eight.” Geoff Atreides chuckled. He had rough creases on his face. “And the more children we have, the better, since it’s hard to get enough pickers during the harvest season.” He glanced across the table at his daughter Kauree, who was several months pregnant. “Her husband Jacque is the orchard supervisor, and he’s busy outside now. He’ll eat later.”

  “I like large families,” Vor said. “Wish I had one myself.”

  While Willem looked sidelong at him, Vor ate in silence, suddenly nostalgic to think of the large family that he really had, here on this very world—and another one on Caladan so long ago. But he couldn’t allow himself to be part of either of them. Too many people would be in danger.

  Not long ago, his wife, Mariella, had been murdered by a pair of assassins who were searching for Vor. Those two had eventually tracked Vor down on Arrakis and killed his friend Griffin Harkonnen—after which the Harkonnens blamed Vor for the death, inflaming the blood feud that had already gone on for generations. Those assassins were gone, but other hunters had taken their place. It saddened him that there would always be hunters tracking him down.

  Soon he would turn the tables, and he and Willem would track Tula down to make her face justice.…

  As days passed quietly on Kepler, Vor and Willem worked in the orchards. While Vor remained at the farm most evenings, wanting to watch over his family, Willem would walk the short distance into town to visit various businesses, including an entertainment hall. He reported back to Vor that no one had seen any young woman answering to Tula’s description, but he had spread her image around so that all the people here would be on guard. Tula would not be able to slip in unnoticed.

  Vor was also interested in keeping up with his family here. In his cautious research, he learned that his son Clar owned a successful restaurant and roadhouse outside of town; his other son, Oren, managed a skytruck company with offices in several cities on Kepler. Some of the children of Clar or Oren came to the orchard on occasion, including Clar’s teenage daughter, Raiga.

  She had a pretty brunette friend named Opalla, and Willem flirted with her, took her out to dinner and dancing several times. Vor remembered when he had been young and aloof, with a girl in every port as he flew from planet to planet for the Army of the Jihad. Willem wasn’t serious about Opalla, and Vor knew the young man w
ould forget her soon enough as they moved on in their hunt for Tula Harkonnen.

  They decided to stay for two more weeks, until the next spacefolder arrived. Now that VenHold had suddenly withdrawn ships from commercial trade routes in a dispute with the new Emperor, there were far fewer transport options available, which greatly affected backwater planets such as Kepler. The secondary carriers were said to be less safe, but a non-VenHold ship was the only option they had. Vor wanted to see who disembarked, in case Tula Harkonnen happened to be one of the passengers, but if she wasn’t among the new arrivals, then they could go.

  Staying on Kepler was a pleasant thought, but if Tula truly didn’t know about the Atreides here, then his family was safe. And that meant Vor and Willem had to search elsewhere for the treacherous, violent Harkonnen.

  One should not enjoy revenge, even when it is justifiable and deserved.

  —PTOLEMY, personal records, post–cymek surgery

  After surrendering his biological body, Ptolemy grew accustomed to his new existence as a cymek. He had volunteered for this fate and did not regret the cost, not for a moment. For too much of his life he had felt weak and insignificant. But not anymore.

  After the drop-pods landed in the darkness outside the capital city on Lampadas, Ptolemy activated his mechanical legs. The precision thoughtrodes that he himself had developed were efficient and accurate. The sensations were different, but his bodily control was precise and so much more versatile, and the integral weapons he controlled were like extensions of himself. For weeks, he had practiced for this moment out in Denali’s poisonous atmosphere, and now it was time.

  Joined by his Navigator cymeks Adem Garl and Rikon Po, Ptolemy stepped away from the open drop-pod, and the three behemoths marched together toward the nearby dwellings and commercial buildings. Each step was a loud thump that shook the landscape and buildings. Though launched at night, this was not a stealth operation—far from it—but one meant to cause the maximum terror and mayhem.

  Ptolemy’s enhanced optics discerned locals emerging from their dwellings, staring in horror and despair, and he intended to increase their suffering. It was what these misguided people deserved.

  Manford Torondo was the true evil behind the movement, but his mindless followers also had blood on their hands. Butlerian mobs destroyed advancements that would help others, denied medical technology to the sick and injured, and simply burned anything they did not like.

  He flinched at the memory of his friend Dr. Elchan’s dying screams, and in doing so he involuntarily ignited one of his fire cannons. The belching spear of flame set one of the nearby dwellings ablaze. Seeing the results of that accident, he opened fire with great gusto, and leveled the home. They were just beginning their mayhem.

  He and his fellow cymeks marched forward. The other two walkers launched projectiles, wrecking storehouses, smashing primitive vehicles, and mowing down people as they fled. The attacking force had to cause as much damage as possible in a limited time, before they were recalled to Draigo’s stealth-shielded ship.

  Ptolemy used his internal systems to scan the landscape and orient himself. The drop-point had been imprecise, but the cymeks knew exactly where Leader Torondo lived. His cottage was undefended. Ptolemy adjusted course, and the two other Nav-cymeks charged alongside him, blasting indiscriminately. They made their way to Manford’s residence.

  His audio amplifiers picked up frightened shouts as Butlerians tried to escape; others stood their ground, holding up laughable and ineffective implements—clubs, spears, old-style projectile weapons—but even sophisticated armaments could not have damaged the shielded bodies of the new war machines.

  The three cymeks stomped on victims as if they were insects and kept moving forward. According to Directeur Venport, their goal was not planetary conquest, but a demonstration attack with the objective of causing as much mayhem and destruction as possible. Ptolemy’s personal goal was to find and kill the Butlerian leader. If not tonight, then they would return with a much larger force when it was time for the full assault.

  Ptolemy believed they could accomplish the entire objective with only three cymeks, though. In fact, he would consider it a matter of pride if he could do so.

  Others might look on him as a monster, might see this action as the slaughter of countless innocents … but to him, none of these victims were innocent. He knew what they had done, or what they had allowed to happen, in the name of their fanaticism.

  As his mechanical body approached Manford’s cottage, his conscious mind drifted back to his wonderful laboratory on Zenith. He and Elchan had worked on developing innovative cybernetic technology, meaning to help those who had lost limbs—people like Manford Torondo. They had created replacement arms and legs that an invalid could use just like natural limbs. But when he and Elchan had offered a new set of legs to the crippled Butlerian leader—simply because they wanted to help—the madman had destroyed the offering and sent his fanatical mob to ransack the Zenith laboratory and burn Elchan alive.

  Manford had claimed he was teaching Ptolemy a lesson. Even though those fires had long since burned out, Ptolemy remembered his friend’s dying screams. And his hatred remained as bright as ever.…

  When the three cymeks reached Manford’s home, Butlerian followers rushed forward to stand as useless guards and shields. They were defiant, determined, and ridiculously impotent.

  The Navigator cymeks paused to assess the situation, but Ptolemy activated his flame cannon and roasted the would-be defenders alive, reducing them to insignificance, just like Elchan … though their deaths were much swifter.

  Then the three cymeks fell upon Manford’s home.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS she saw and heard the demon cymeks approaching, Anari Idaho knew they had come for Manford. Even her intimidating sword would not be effective against the titanic machines. Her priority was to save Manford.

  Without a word of warning or cry for help, she grabbed him in his room, raced to the open window, and lowered him to the ground outside. After she dove through, she snatched him up and bounded away into the darkness. Holding him in her muscular arms, she practically leaped across the landscape.

  Behind them, the cymeks were getting closer, their path obvious from the explosions, the fires, the screams.

  “Where are you taking me?” Manford protested. “Those are my people being massacred!”

  “They are giving their lives so you can escape. If we’re cornered, I will defend you as long as I can.”

  She glared back at the towering machines, remembering when she had slain combat meks as a game during her Swordmaster training on Ginaz. In that controlled exercise, it had taken a team of well-trained warriors to bring down even the smallest war machine.

  She was alone now, and there were three of the things.

  Gasping for breath, Anari ran across the surrounding grain fields. It was late in the harvest season and many fields had only a stubble of stems and straw. No place to hide. Ahead, she spotted five shadowy heaps of hay piled up for livestock. The hay would have its own internal heat, maybe enough to mask Manford’s thermal signature. Maybe. She couldn’t run far enough, and no normal hiding place would be proof against the cymeks. That was her best chance right now.

  She reached the nearest haystack. “In here, Manford.”

  He flailed. “How can I hide? I’ll be found too easily.”

  “You’ll be unseen. The natural heat inside should mask you.” She moved loose hay aside and stuffed his legless body into the pile. “Stay here and don’t move. Wait for me to come back for you.”

  He nodded, obeying Anari because he believed in her. He must realize they had little chance otherwise.

  After securing him, Anari watched the cymeks use a flame weapon to incinerate a group of brave defenders near Manford’s cottage. Raising her sword, Anari ran toward them, intending to fight to the death; she also hoped to draw their attention away from Manford’s hiding place. She longed to stand in front of
those machines and give up her life for the sacred fight, but she could not leave Manford unprotected. She had to survive.

  As she ran, Anari watched the cymeks fall upon the cottage, tearing down the fieldstone walls and ripping off the roof as if they were peeling a boiled egg. Articulated metal arms reached in and grasped a black-robed woman, who screamed and flailed. Sister Woodra. One of the cymeks held her up in the air, lifted a second clawed metal arm, and ripped her in two, like tearing apart a doll. Satisfied, the machine demon tossed the two parts of her ragged, bloody corpse in different directions.

  The monsters leveled Manford’s home, but failed to find him there. Impatient and furious, they marched across the landscape, launching more explosions, causing more destruction.

  Screaming in rage, Anari ran after them, brandishing her sword, but the cymeks moved in the other direction, wrecking clusters of homes, setting more buildings on fire. Though outraged and weeping, she took solace in the fact that they were going away from Manford’s hiding place.

  An hour later, leaving a swath of destruction behind them, the cymeks returned to their drop-pods and launched themselves into the sky, like fiery meteors in reverse.

  In the aftermath, Anari stood helpless, holding her sword. She couldn’t guess how many hundreds—thousands?—had been slain this night, and she grieved for them. Nevertheless, she felt a steely joy in knowing that she had saved Manford. At least he was still alive!

  She ran back to retrieve him from his concealment, already considering their retaliation against the vile Josef Venport.

  Though loyalty is an admirable quality, it is often misplaced.

  —DIRECTEUR JOSEF VENPORT, private consultation with Draigo Roget

  Preoccupied with building up Kolhar’s defenses, Josef had allowed his grasp on Arrakis spice production to slip. Norma was agitated and needed him to accompany her to the desert planet, where he could crack down on the chaos and restore the melange-harvesting operations.

  Before he could head off to Arrakis, though, Josef needed to take care of one more item of business. He shuttled up to the large foldspace carrier in orbit, which served as a detention vessel holding the Imperial battle group he had taken hostage.